(Revised and updated Nov. 26, 2010)

Grounded in Jakarta

I sat stunned, seriously pondering the possibility of being denied passage from Jakarta to Bali. My problem was not new news.

Officials warned me in Hong Kong that the only sheet left for stamping in my passport was the U.S. Government sheet. Waving my passport in the air, the immigration clerk explained that stamping this page was impossible.

Nor could the U.S. Government add more pages to my passport. They had done that, multiple times, up to the legal limit.

A Time for Bureaucratic Immigration Sweet Talk

Reality was, I could be sent home from Jakarta to America on the first plane out. My partner and I huddled, discussing what to do next, as our Balinese getaway hung in a state of delicate balance.

D shook his head, incredulous over our situation and properly annoyed with me and my casual attitude about bureaucratic procedures.

“Is it about money?” D asked me. My partner was an investment banker, and just about anything could be fixed with money.

“I don’t know,” I murmured. “He could be totally affronted, and we go to jail in Indonesia. It’s not a pretty thought … jail in Jakarta.” (Rereading this post on Aug. 24, 2009, I could have been caned.)

“You stay here. I’ll deal with him alone.”

Watching D confer with the immigration officer in hushed tones, I was happy not to be in charge for once. I’m an expert at getting myself out of jams, but here in Jakarta, I was convinced that only a man could get me out of the country.

Amankila Bali: Scene of My Niskala Spirits Unveiling

$100 later, a setting sun and hypnotic, mysterious Bali hugged our tired bodies and frazzled spirits. It was evening when we arrived at Amankila. Our exquisite, Indian-Ocean paradise was alive with demure dancing girls, flickering lights and the charming, gracious warmth of the Balinese people.

Watching the young hotel staff members struggling to move four weeks of luggage up the endless steps to our villa, I wanted to become someone else. My tendency to overpack and be prepared for any fashion emergency turned me into a symbol of conspicuous consumption, American style.

Favorites slideshow: see credits and individual links at end of Journal.

Amankila, one of several jewels in the Aman Resorts group, was exactly as promised, and my appreciation for our escape increased with each forward motion upwards into the night. Finally, we reached our oasis of solitude, at the very top of the steep hill. It had an expansive, majestic view I would not appreciate until morning.

As night settled in, deception reigned. The invisible life forces called Niksala danced around me, hatching a tiny plot, incubating an inspiring, personalized, au natural welcome to Bali. Perhaps I was targeted by these spirits; they knew I was ripe for Smart Sensuality makeover.

Amankila in BaliNatural Alignment

The Balinese have a unique understanding of nature and human’s reciprocal relationship with all living things — seen and unseen. The result is a deeply sensual, Balinese environment and lifestyle, one that balances the rational with the sensual.

Maintaining the delicate tension between the Sekala (the visible world) and the Niskala (the often capricious, unseen life forces at work in everyday existence) is expressed in numerous exotic, organic Balinese rituals.

Writing in Bali: Sekala & Niskala, Fred Eiseman explains the nature and purpose of these ceremonies,

…Hindu-Balinese philosophy conceives of the universe, and all within it, as an equilibrium between good and bad forces. Neither can be eliminated, but ugly things can occur when nothing is done to maintain balance so that the negative forces get the upper hand. Religious ceremonies maintain the balance. The lovely offerings you see are for the positive forces, but just as much effort and attention is given to their negative counterparts, though this is not apparent to the casual visitor.

These daily rituals consist of beautifully crafted trays of palm leaves, flower petals, fruit, and rice offerings. An important daily ritual at Amankila involved leaving incense and a hibiscus flower on an altar next to each villa’s doorway, early morning and evening.

Balinese temple via Flickr’s myudistiraBoundless Reflections

Waking up my first morning in Bali, I languished in daybreak, celebrating the refined simplicity of our enchanting, temporary home. No work called me that day, leaving my imagination free to wander, quenching my voluptuous appetite for new adventure, while resting in our intimate Shangrila-La.

D would sleep until 10 at the earliest. It was not even 6am … what would I do for amusement, without waking him?

Lying in bed — naked as always — I remembered our walk to the very top of the hill. On the other side of the door was an outside living room … a deep futon-like divan … and a private swimming pool.

The promise of warm, silky water washed over my conscious mind.

My Loretta Young Moment

As a child, I always loved watching Loretta Young come through the doorway to her show. I was a Midwestern girl, born in a town of 1000 people, but by seven years old, I was obsessed with New York, boogie woogie, and floaty cocktail dresses. It even seems that Loretta and I shared the same hairdo back then.

It was my firm intention to unlock the door of my small-town life … flinging it wide open.

My love affair with Manhattan began with those big-circle poodle skirts my mother made for me. I have no idea how I became this precocious, talented but cheeky child, now a grownup woman, and neither does my poor mother who still believes they switched babies on her in the maternity ward.

Decades later, I lay naked in Bali, faced with an opportunity for my own Loretta Young moment.

These wooden doors were made for opening wide … my unconscious impulses said “now”.

Collision of Spirits

Hit by a pleasure rush, I did not hear the Niskala jumping up and down near the bed. Fired like a rocket ship leaving its launch pad, my endorphins propelled me out of bed, towards the doorway.

Loretta flung open her doors, twirling into the room with her silky skirts in a whirlwind of soft fabrics. My Amankila doors required sliding, not allowing as dramatic an entrance but at least I would appear as a goddess of nature.

Grasping the handles with intense jubilation and wellbeing, I greeted the Balinese sun gods without restraint.

Instantly the script failed. “Cut” called my inner director, as a small scream and enormous “Oh God!” ricocheted into the silent morning air. The voice was mine.

Placing hibisicus and incense onto my “monkey altar”, the young Balinese man looked at my face … the very naked, desirable and delicious Mrs. M … now horrified to be living out the “caught naked in public” nightmare that haunts the dreams of American woman. (Not sure about French, Italian or Brazilian women’s dreams.)

Hardly A Mrs Robinson Moment

A worship altar in front of a Kuta shop in Bali via Flickr’s Enthusiastic AmateurThere was no Mrs. Robinson moment; no flirtatious smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. Standing six inches from me, we were frozen solid in my hormonal rush.

The young man bowed his head immediately, while I retreated back into the bedroom, leaving him alone to reset the cosmic balance undone by this cacophonous throng of laughing Niskala, now jumping up and down outside my bedroom in silent, comic rapture.

Humbled by the erotic arrogance of my Bali-morning debut, I laughed quietly in the bathroom, long after the young man finished setting up our altar. Uncharacteristically measured in my movements, now safely covered by a bath sheet, I peaked my head around the open doorway.

Inching my way to the pool, I paused to honor the spirits guarding our doorway. I so adore hibiscus. Taking full measure of Amankila, I was astounded at the beauty of the triple pool below me.

Regaining my composure and confidence, I immersed myself in this liquid dream state … decompressing in the private waters of my spiritual rejuvenation.

Gazing at Gung Batur, I chasticized myself for being careless. And yet this disorder fuels me somehow, sapping me far less than it propels me. Certain personalities handle stress well, and I am one of those humans.

Indeed my tension-filled airport departure to Bali and my busted Loretta Young impersonation were metaphors for my life … my incredibly imperfect life, which is never as I plan it.

It’s a luxurious privilege to drift in the warm waters of Gunung Batur, and all that it symbolizes.

In fact, Bali’s seduction of me was total and complete … and not experienced again until my arrival in Marrakesh, several years later.

Amankila in BaliStill Travelling

Have I made it to the Milky Way?

Not yet, but I’m not done traveling. As Robert Frost wrote … I have miles and miles to go, before I sleep … and countless new doors to fling open … clothes on … and clothes off.

Today it was John Hardy’s TED Talk about his Green School in Bali that launched me back into this reconsideration of the importance of Niskala spirits in our modern lives. Anne of Carversville has come a long way since I wrote this post in April 2008.

We are striving towards an editorial philosophy that the Niskala spirits will stamp ‘approved’. Perhaps we own the concept of Smart Sensuality to them and Bali… but then again, there is Marrakesh.

Love, Anne