The Men of Tomorrow

011Yesterday, on my walk home from town, I passed an art gallery that was readying itself for an opening. I hadn’t yet had a chance to drop by on my near-daily walks up and down Jalan Sanggingan’s main drag (northern reaches of Ubud, a short drive away). But all the hoopla, the music and – but of course! a red carpet – caught my attention. It seemed like the right time to pop in for a visit… at Artomorrow.

What struck me at the outset was that the artists were all easily029 identifiable because they were all dressed up in identical black t-shirts. But then I noticed that, of the participating artists, the gender scale tilted heavily towards males; I only spotted three women in the gathering crowd.

Being the only foreigner in their midst, I was certainly odd woman out. I could feel their eyes scanning me, and detected their muffled voices. Once their initial shock wore off, a few artists – sporting beards, goatees, dangling earrings, leather shoulder bags – smiled and welcomed me.

018Then I began to slip off my sandals, with the intention of respecting the custom of walking in bare feet indoors. Quickly, a few men approached and urged me to keep them on. As uncomfortable as I felt, I obliged and sauntered in quietly. Everyone else was in bare feet…026

What struck me once inside was how the men (yes, only the men) were seated in a circle on the floor of the gallery, nearly all of them blowing smoke; but the cigarettes were quickly put out as soon as the organizer called them to quiet and prayer. There they sat, in stillness and with eyes closed, as the central figure intoned an incomprehensible prayer.

030During the time that they congregated and prayed, I tip-toed around the space, noting the vast range of styles and materials used. Sure there were a few images that reminded me of the many drawings and paintings that I’ve seen displayed in galleries all over town; traditional works of classically-trained and stylistically homogeneous artisans.022

But there were some startling surprises also…

It dawned on me that this was just the 2nd time I’d attended an opening in or around Ubud, where the displayed artworks marked a stark departure from the classical Balinese style of painting. Nearly everything about them – subject matter, brushstrokes, brightness, intensity of feeling – seemed to betray what the Balinese (and other Indonesians, because surely there were a few non-Balinese among them) have created, re-created, marketed, hawked and established as their signature style over decades.

It seemed to me that these (mostly male) artists – or more precisely, their paint brushes – were merely channeling and manifesting on canvas, an attitude of irreverence; as well as the energy, spirit and dreams of a youth, future and country (most certainly, an island) in transition.











Thank-You-Words-MultiLingual-CloudAs I feel that I’m on the brink of embarking on a few projects and continuing with others, I can’t overstate the importance of seeking out information, guidance and support from others; especially those who’ve racked up months’ or years’ worth more experience than I. It’s so true that, despite all the research I might do, it’s that encouragement and insight from others that’s made all the difference. And so, I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly – at least in the blogosphere sense – express my gratitude for their input.

Partly because of these pending plans, I invested in a new camera before I returned to Bali. Thanks to my friend’s explanations and clarifications, I bought the same apparatus as he. I figured he knew what he was talking about (and getting), given that he’s spent a lifetime behind a lens – as a filmmaker first, and then as a photographer (or, more precisely, a “photo-collager.”) It’s been such a treat to play with this new camera, even without studying a manual, just flipping dials and turning features on and off.

Then I was faced with the burning digital question that many of us writers-cum-creative spirits contend with at some point: PC or not PC? In other words, is it time to migrate to a Mac?


Credit: Montreal Gazette (my hometown paper ;)

Whether due to issues of familiarity (personally I’ve always had a PC, and I’m almost blindly accustomed to working with it); budget or reluctance to join the Apple-generation, I’ve discovered that individuals tend to have their preferences. They might stay firmly loyal to one or the other, but as I’ve learned, some will make the leap – or in some instances, double-dip (!), in other words, have one of each. Those who own a PC AND a Mac will extol the virtues of one or the other, largely depending on the kind of work they’re doing.

And so, my hat goes off and I deeply bow to a ‘fiver’ of photographers whose blogs I’ve been following, and who (in the past week or so), have shared so generously of their time. Their insight, questions, comments and advice was enlightening, thought-provoking, and immeasurable.

Quite frankly, I don’t know where else I could have found such a group of well-informed folks. I’m indebted to each and every one of them for, without their seasoned advice, I’d surely still be floundering and flailing about; whereas, now – thanks to the compass I’ve been gifted by them all – I just need to figure out what will work best for me.

And so, without further adieu, I take my lens-cap off to each of them (too hot here for a hat!), and invite you (readers) to visit this abridged blog-roll and find inspiration in their photography, skills and talent:

Leanne Cole Photography

Joel Singer

Janice Meyers Foreman

Robin S. Kent

Michael Fiveson

As it happens, I was asked to help a friend out just yesterday; she turned to me with, of all things, questions about blogging ;) I was only happy to help. Go on, blog / help / advice it forward…



Tracks Of Our Fears

Tracks-poster-Mia-Wasikowska-2014-325x468I wouldn’t dare compare my own walking adventure on the Camino last year to that which an Australian woman undertook nearly forty years ago. But while watching the movie titled Tracks last night – a film based on a travel memoir of the same name, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of kinship with the protagonist and author Robyn Davidson.


In the mid-70’s, Robyn set out on a solo walk with four camels and her beloved dog, with the intention of traversing nearly 2,000 miles – from Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean. When asked why she wanted to take on such an arduous, risky and isolated trek, there were as many reasons as there were none; “why not?” was one of her replies.


Over the course of the evening, while I watched the actress Mia Wasikowska walk in Robyn’s footsteps, tracing her route for a film that has been said to convey only a partial reading of the original trek, I found myself drawing parallels. Even when I had no intention of doing so.


I could identify with many of Robyn’s gnawing sentiments and fears, and through the voiceovers (even if dramatized for effect) I could empathize with her interior sadness, agitation and occasionally, joy. The tug between a desire for privacy and solitude – essential for reflection and introspection; and the inescapable need also for human contact, communication and touch – I could almost smell the urges. An almost unstoppable restlessness, coupled with an overwhelming thirst for comfort and grounding.



Credit: National Geographic Magazine

Could I have hoped to extricate myself from those still raw memories of traveling through days of blistering heat in Mongolia – not by camel, but by shaky van, on horse, and by foot? Is it any wonder that I felt a sense of envy towards Robyn, learning that four camels carried her gear for more than six months – whereas I was abandoned by two donkeys and a dog after the first week, with whom I communicated more easily than with their homo sapiens replacement?


These thoughts and others riddled my brain throughout the viewing of the film. I was sorry that I’d not seen the film nor read Robyn’s memoir before her appearance at the Ubud Writer’s Festival earlier this month. My mind was racing anew, with questions that I’m quite certain other attendees at her panel session would have found bizarre or irrelevant. Such as the ones that I badly wanted to ask every time the camera zoomed in on a pair flimsy sandals, fording brush and sand dunes: Did you really manage to walk the entire distance in the same pair? What about blisters? Tendonitis?

Having undertaken a two-month long, solo (sort of…) walk across Spain, sometimes with four-legged creatures at my side, I felt an almost inexplicable affinity with Robyn; as if I’ve been made privy to an unspoken dialect, one shared between those who’ve endured long periods of walking and solitary times in nature. If our paths should cross one day, I’ll pose the questions that still mystify me – and ponder aloud whether it just might also be a… (ahem) Virgo thing.


It’s time for me to back-track now. I’ll seek out Robyn’s memoir to examine the first-person account of her experience, which I hope will steer me towards a deeper appreciation and understanding of how the desert, her indomitable spirit and perseverance helped quench the last embers of her fears.


My Two-Winged Visitor

I was drying off after my morning shower when I spotted something fluttering by in my peripheral vision. I glanced around and nearly missed it, so erratically it was flying about. A small white moth, I might not have noticed it had it not been for a couple of black dots marking its delicate wings. The tiny creature otherwise blended in seamlessly with the white-painted walls of the bathroom.

094It’s both a risk and blessing to be living in a place with a partly-outdoor bathroom. It’s not completely plein air or open to the sky – as many bathrooms are in Bali – in the sense that it has four walls, a roof and a couple of panes of glass inserted here and there. However, there are openings large enough for all matter of creatures to fly, crawl or slither in.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been visited by mosquitoes, flies, ants, geckos, spiders, dragonflies and one daring cockroach which, given the utter absence of malodorous garbage and leftovers in my quarters, took me by completely surprise. How audacious and unnerving!

I’ve also recently learned that the droppings I find every morning in the corner of the bathroom counter (as do all other residents of this complex) are a nocturnal gift of a flock of birds. I tried employing preventive strategies a few times before I went to sleep, but they outsmarted me – evidently not put off by my amateurish efforts, or simply balked at my soapy mixture so in need were they of a nightly nesting (and pooping) ground.

But I’ve yet to be visited by a butterfly or moth. And this morning I was. I stood there, still dripping wet, watching its aerial acrobatics. It bumped against the walls many times, then fluttered away, as if confused by the hardness of this foreign and unnatural material. It blocked its way out.

The moth continued to fly about, up to the light – where it was again blocked by a pane of glass. It stayed there a few moments, perhaps hoping that the glass would give way to sky. Then it sailed downwards, on a diagonal path, and I imagined it surveying the bathroom as it did so, thoroughly puzzled. Surely it had found its way in, so now where was the exit?099

Tip-toeing quickly into the bedroom, I picked up my camera. When I returned to the bathroom, I stood still. The moth fluttered, in slightly uncertain swerves, towards me. Then, when it nearly touched my arm, sensing perhaps the warmth of my skin, it quickly dove out of sight.

Moments later, inching its way up again towards the light, it circled around at a higher height, and un-sticking itself from the long string of a cobweb, it flew out.

It was a marvelous sight to behold, one that I was grateful to have witnessed. But bittersweet as well, because there’s no denying that we’ve uprooted them and moved into their quarters. It’s no wonder these creatures are paying me a visit; they’re merely returning home.

Grade School Drop-In

Don’t be surprised if one day, when you are living far, oh so far, very far indeed from your birthplace and hometown, you digress briefly into  detour, almost unexpectedly drawn back to your roots.

It could happen, for example, when a slightly older friend with whom you happen to share the same hometown, cultural background and favored foods, ruminates about his (female) cousin. He mentions her maiden name, then married.

Neither rings a bell.

Then, because we’ve also established that this cousin and I were neighbors (she grew up around the corner); and, by the way, that she was a teacher at my elementary school, across the street, he will gently ask if you might not anyway remember her, despite our differences in age.

Still no sound of bells ringing. Nothing clicks.

But then you return home and that familiar niggling feeling pokes you in the psyche. You’ll suddenly recall scanning a pile of photos from your childhood album this past summer. So naturally you do what a person with a sharply spiked curiosity does; flip open your lapIMG_5127top and skim through the bunch of them.

Something about a quirky image from grade school will stop you in your skimming-tracks. Not because of the spunky girl in bangs looking up at you; dolled up in a home-made Raggedy Ann costume, with make-up caked on and a smile spread across her face. Nope. It’ll happen because your immediate recall will extend only to the teacher on the left… ah, that was Mrs Z.

But you draw a complete blank when it comes to identifying the young and trendily-dressed hipster on the right.

It’s a long shot, sure. But you just need to know. So you send it by attachment to your friend. Could that woman be your cousin?


And then, later that very same day, the teacher who once decked herself out in shiny faux-leather leather duds will send her cousin this. And the sight of it, the buoyancy of smiling happy faces, childhood friends unseen for decades, will bring you (perhaps altogether expectantly) to the very cusp of tears.

Susan and class2

The Continuing Saga of the Great Bali Bagel Experiment

Ok, so let me start right off with a full disclosure: Not-So-Great is more like it. At least that was the general consensus of this last round; said consensus consisting of two friends, both of whom gave my latest trial a quick & painful two-thumbs down.

I was disheartened and disappointed. But not dissuaded. I just know that I’m onto something…

The way I see it that it’s the third phase in my ongoing experimentation. For some, the world is their oyster; for me, the world is currently my BageLaboratorIMG_3279y.

And so, let me rewind to a couple of months ago when I dove into phase two. I was on the other side of the world, in Montreal, uncontested global headquarters of the best bagels in the world (if you’re a New Yorker, I apologize for raising your wrath, but c’mon!)

Off to the bagel bakery I went, carrying little baggies into which I’d stored my secret ingredients. Only when I arrived at the undisclosed location did I realize that I’d imprecisely labeled the bags, leaving me slightly miffed and puzzled about the now-unrecognizable contents therein. But never mind that, I carried on.

Max the Manager and Kanga the Baker invited me into their bagel-making lair with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.IMG_3280-001 Perhaps my arrival before dawn helped quash their outright nixing of the idea, and imbued them with a sense of sympathy and readiness to assist.

As if we were about to embark on an adventurous caper – all while Max continued to serve bleary-eyed coffee-hungry customers – Kanga and I huddled, schemed and planned. Using an oversized butcher’s knife (or one that looked just as intimidating), he sliced off a long chunk of dough.. and I went to work while Kanga rolled dough and supervised my sophomoric attempts.

Once my clothes were thoroughly covered with doughy dust and my hands reeking of smells foreign to that bakery (but not , I suppose to the bakers themselves), I was done. Kanga loaded the bagels – looking oddly more like hot cross buns – onto the long paddle and slid them into the fire-burning brick oven. (They remind me of my dragon-boating days, those paddles, aw shucks, how I miss them…)

In the end, the supposed bagels lookIMG_3282ed nothing like bagels (except, perhaps, for the microscopic holes that were barely distinguishable in the center of two rolls). And, except for one tropical species that turned out surprisingly well, on the whole I confess they were duds. But boy was I grateful to the baker-men…

The family duly and supportively bit into little morsels, then offered wan smiles and the metaphorical pat on my back. Better luck next time was the underlying message. And so, the experiment went dormant in Montreal (I’ll do better for/with Kanga next time!) while I regrouped, debriefed and assessed the damage.

It was time to head for other shores, other flavors, other heating elements. I thought I might fare better with bagels in Bali. Ha. Famous last thoughts.

And so it was that I found myself in a kitchen from where two chefs are known to churn out one gastronomic feast after another. Even breakfasts are finger-licking delicious. Imagine my timidity in requesting that they conspire to assist me and my hobbling experiment in bagel-making. But agree they did. And off went Made to buy the ingredients.226-001

So once where I had Max and Kanga… here I was beholden to Made (pron. Mah-day) and Widi (pron. Wee-Dee, who isn’t kitchen staff but loves to get his hands dirty when given the chance), who rolled up their sleeves and did their utmost to humor me. Especially when I pulled out two recipes that slightly differed; Made anticipated problems from the outset, but I persevered.

Never mind that their unilingual exchanges (in Basa Bali no less, the one language that I don’t understand) served only to render me even more self-conscious about my clearly pathetic bagel-baking skills. But my exuberance and willingness to mess up over and over again, seemed to win them over. Ok, maybe not win them over, but at least keep them from running to th227-001e rice fields.

Made made many corrections. Widi gently tried urging me to use less egg, modify here and there. Still, I persevered. (Read: stood my ground).

But of course they were right. And of course I ought to have yielded to Made’s professional wisdom. But the recipes had worked for the authors/paperback cooks, so why not for me? Then again, how was I possibly deserving of their continued patience and help? Makasih Made, Matur Susksma Widi.

Turns out that there are a whole host of reasons why not for me: For one there’s the wok instead of the pot, and the spatula instead of a slotted spoon. Then, of course, no brick oven in sight. But the biggy, no doubt, is this: Ingredients.

Differences abound; flour is different here, water is different here, sugar, ovens, eggs and everything is different here. Then go ahead and introduce even more new elements into a recipe – most of which have not been tried in such combinations, hence will naturally require adjustments; a recipe that you’re so utterly remote from replicating to a “T” and you inevitably start asking yourself.. What Was I Thinking??228-001

You’d think I was Desperately Seeking Disaster.

I assure you that my days of bagel-experimenting are nowhere near over. Even though I’m light years away from clinching the recipe, I have that quietly niggling feeling that I mustn’t give up, that I need to tweak, study and adjust some more – and, yes, fail with enthusiasm yet again – because I seem to be onto something. Others seem to think so too.

And so, as I count my doughy blessings, and continue to express thanks for all the crazy hands-on help, the BageLaboratory paddles (or spatulas) still lie in wait… ;)

A Rest from the Fest(s)

DSC00378Barely touched down in Bali, I was greeted (surprise!) by a couple of Ubudian friends at the airport (not there just for me), driven to a friend’s sparkling new home, had my bags carried down a few flights of steps to the equally new and sparkling new guesthouse, and splayed my sorry, aching and jet-lagged butt ‘n body across the ironed white sheets (and Dutch bolster), when it was time to pick myself up and get into gear.DSC00108

I had been (unintentionally) delinquent, having missed the volunteers’ orientation session for this year’s rendition of the annual Ubud Writers and Readers Festival (by a mere 5 hours). With no time to waste – and a body groaning for more rest – I high-tailed it to ‘base-camp’ which was, mercifully, a stone’s throw away, across the street. Yippee.

There I loaded up on badges, program book, t-shirt, more swag and info. And then the first day rolled right into the second, then the third and finally, the last day. By the end, I told a friend they’d woven themselves into a mush of vaguely held memories, permeated by writers of every ilk; poets, novelists, travel writers, social commentators, comic book writers and artists, childrens’ book authors and even a slightly overexcited Canadian-born-turned-Indonesian-speaking-DSC00149sensation and You-Tuber.

The Festival had barely wrapped up when a months-long temple festival, at Pura Gunung Lebah, at the confluence of Ubud’s two rivers (Campuhan), reached its peak. After months of renovationDSC00161s and reconstruction, the temple was ready for public viewing and many a high priests’ blessing.

It was a day of ceremony where Balinese Hindus flocked into town from all over the island, arriving through the gates in their finest, to gasp and gawk – as I did – at the magnificence; breathtaking and completely over-the-top ornamentation, floral arrangements and offerings; a total of 70 opulently decorated Barong creations (king of the protector spirits, and lion-like in appearance) each one decked out in dozens of freshly-plucked frangipani buds; mythological figures chiseled out of lava stone; towering structures comprised of brilliantly colored rice and grains; umbrellas created out of various materials – cloth, yarn or pigs’ entrails.

It was a sight to behold. As I’d ventured to the temple in the early-morning hours, long before the crowds, high priests, musicians, dancers, Royal family and VIPs arrived, I unwittingly managed to be one of the few ‘tamu’ (foreigners) taking photos before we were all forcibly exiled to the outer perimeter of the temple.. from where very little could be seen.DSC00202










By mid-day, I was festivaled out. Removing my sarong and sash, heading further into traffic-choked town, I passed many celebrants crossing my path, on their way down to the temple. I reached a point where I stopped and looked around, then realized that I couldn’t wait to get away from the madding crowds. I just needed a BIG break from it all.

DSC00128I returned to a sanctuary that was even more remote from town. It was up among the hills, jungles and rice fields. Despite the occasional bits of business that I had to grapple with; and despite the sounds of construction from the opposite ridge, on the whole I basked in quiet, many a sunrise, an eclipse and the warmth and company of two friends and their dogs.DSC00129

I swam in the shadow of Buddha, walked the ridge, descended into the valley to spot the bodhi tree, and snapped photos of green stalks against the sunrise. I sunk into a massage by a pony-tailed Balinese biker while hearing porcine neighbors oink with gusto, and spent the better part of a day watching home movies and avant-garde films.

I feasted on daily salads, risotto, pancakes, tarragon chicken, pizza and wine; then was lulled to sleep by the sounds of tinkling and muffled drums – thanks to the gamelan troupe practicing in the nearby temple well into the night.

Hard to know what tomorrow will bring. But after being thoroughly fested out… a rest like this was custom-made, a la Balinaise.