Karen Abrahamson – Page 2 – Mystery, fantasy and romance at the dangerous ends of the earth

What to consider when considering a tour:

By Karen Abrahamson | March 26, 2019

Recently a friend and I took a tour in India. Now first of all, a disclaimer from me: I am not a tour kind of person. I prefer to travel on my own in most situations, however I have done tours in the past that were some of my most memorable travels for all the right reasons.

The India trip left me and my travel companion thinking that there was more that we should have done to do due diligence before booking the tour. The following list of questions/considerations is intended to help travelers to gather complete information before booking a tour so that you aren’t surprised along the way. These questions are in no particular order.

Is this a tour provided by a large company or a small one-person operation or something in between? Large tour operators are more likely to have many resources on the ground in your destination, but are less likely to have the flexibility to shift itineraries to meet your preferences. Small operators offer flexibility, but also may not have the network and knowledgeable guides that you want.
How many times has the guide led this tour? Is he/she from the country in question? What are the guide’s credentials (e.g. do they have training in the culture/history/natural history and geography of where you are going? In other words can you ask them the name of a local tree is and get an answer instead of a shrug.)
Ask whether the guide usually caters to a particular clientele, such as seniors, women, men, LGBTQ? Consider whether the guide’s experience could conflict with what you expect on a tour. For example, if the tour guide has mainly dealt with Seniors, but you enjoy high levels of physical activity. Be clear about your expectations and make that clear to your guide before the trip.
Does the guide/operator use local guides at certain destinations? When was the last time they were in touch with the local guides? Do they have a backup should the intended local guide not be available? Are the local guides affiliated with an established local company that can be easily contacted?
If you can speak to the tour guide, ask them to tell you about the culture that you’ll be traveling in. Get a sense of whether the guide respects or even likes the local people.
If you can speak to the guide, ask them about visiting a historical site. How will this be handled? Will they:
- shepherd you through like a flock of sheep,
- go in with you and be available for questions and to ensure that you see everything, or
- will they send you in and stay outside to do the newspaper crossword puzzle?

Consider what you want from your guide.

Ask what types of restaurants you will eat in and what meal times will be kept. Will there be three meals a day at regular times, or will it be catch as catch can between breakfast and dinner? Consider your meal requirements and discuss with the tour operator/guide whether they can be accommodated.
What types of transportation will be used? Consider that in less developed countries overnight trains, even in first class sleeper cars, may not provide comfortable sleeping accommodation. If these are very long trips, how will meals be accommodated while on the train?
What types of hotels will you stay in? Will they be in areas where you will feel comfortable going out walking? If not, will the hotel be such that you will be comfortable staying in the hotel? E.g. is there a pool or something else to do and are the rooms clean and large enough to feel comfortable rather than cell-like. Be clear about what you need, because if you expect 5 star and only get 2 or 3 star (or expect 3 star and get one star or no star) accommodation, you won’t be happy. Ask whether the guide has stayed in these hotels before.
Ask what will be done if you arrive at accommodation and it is clearly unacceptable (e.g. the room has bugs.)
Consider how many days are spent in travel versus in individual locations. Is there enough time to see the location and to settle in a hotel, or are you forever going to have bed-head from sleeping on railway cars or buses?
If something falls through – e.g. a location is closed – does the tour have a backup plan for activities?
Before the tour, ask whether there is openness to adjustments to the itinerary. Is the guide willing to research possible changes and present choices to the client? For example, are there alternative ways to accomplish transportation? Do you have to do a round-trip boating trip, that then requires a driver to take you to the next destination, or could the boat actually take you to the next destination instead of returning to its point of origin?
Are there any identified or potential extra costs? For example, would the boat trip to the new destination cost extra? If there is an extra guide for the trip, is there any additional cost for that additional guide? Clarify that all costs are included in the price agreed to at the start of the trip other than the tips for the workers and guide(s).
If the guide is going to make recommendations regarding shops or products, what knowledge does the guide have of that type of shop or product? For example, if recommending a tailor shop, does the guide know enough about sewing to judge whether a bespoke item is well made or even sufficiently finished (e.g. no raw edges inside, not so poorly measured and cut that they have pieced together portions of the garment and tried to hide it?)
Consider past reviews of the guide or contact past users to ask about appropriateness of guide language and conduct such as inappropriate sexual comments, respect for country’s culture, consumption of clients’ alcohol, consuming illegal substances, respect for restaurant/hotel workers, drivers etc.
Ask whether there will be consultation with all clients about changes in itinerary.
Ask for guidance about appropriate tips for the variety of people who will help you along the way, including drivers, hotel staff and subsidiary guides. Gain a sense of whether there will be any suggestion/expectation of patronage (e.g. special support like immigration assistance or money) for guides/workers along the way and whether this is condoned by the company.
Recognize that you will not see everything or do everything that you want to during a tour. There is never enough time.
Be prepared to be exhausted at the end of a tour. A tour excels at cramming a lot into a short time. Don’t expect to be rested, but do expect to your head to be filled with a tremendous number of adventures.

Bali Style: confusing reflections

By Karen Abrahamson | February 24, 2019

Mount Agung and Mount Batur in the early morning. Agung’s plume of brown smoke hangs in the air. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

In Bali the worldview is a trifle different than in the west. It’s based on the island’s geography and Hindu beliefs and leads to some interesting contradictions that I’m struggling to deal with.

The Balinese recognize the compass points of north, south, east and west, but they also have a unique take to their geography, namely that all good things come from the mountainous heights, while evil/badness comes from the ocean. I don’t quite understand this belief given they enjoy the bountiful seafood harvest of the coast, not to mention the planeloads of tourists who come to bask in the sand and sun. As for the mountains, at this moment Mount Agung seems perilously close to a major eruption—so much so that they’ve evacuated a number of villages from the mountain’s slopes. Agung even burped just two days ago!

I’ve also been struck by the environmental attitudes of the people on the island. On the one hand there is this genuine appreciation for the beautiful island they have inherited and the island has initiated efforts like the recycling of plastics (they ship them to Indonesia for recycling.) In the city of Ubud they’ve even been trying to eradicate single use plastic bags. On the other hand, the rivers near even the most holy of temples are filled with refuse.

One of Bali’s many waterfalls. This one near Ubud. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

We talked about this this morning and wondered whether it was a result of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. After all, in Bali job sites advertise jobs earning an average of 400,000 rupiah a month—that’s less than $40 US. When your focus is on earning enough to feed and educate your children (they have to pay for schooling here, not to mention for all medical care), maybe environmental issues aren’t at the top of your awareness.

Roasting the coffee beans the old way at a Lowak coffee plantation. They say the animals who eat (and poop) the beans are wild, but the sad creatures we saw at this place looked drugged. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

There’s also the question of animal care. We’ve seen a number of philanthropic organizations for dogs and cats and frankly the cats and dogs we’ve seen have seemed healthy overall—probably due to those efforts and those of animal owners. I’ve been told that the Hindu beliefs recognize the souls in all plants and animals, and that the belief is that animals killed for food/sacrifice are blessed because they gave up their lives and will therefore be born human in their next life. All nice to hear.

And yet—the other day a small Bali Komodo lizard about 18 inches long surprised me by the pool—or I surprised it. The poor thing ended up in the pool and when I called someone to help it out, their response was to try to kill it. I don’t understand why—I mean I understand that in the old days the large ones (think as large as your leg) could steal and eat village chickens, but this was a small creature.

And then there’s the questions about tourists. On the one hand, Bali is a beautiful island that has benefited from its tropical mystique and the rich foreign dollars that have flowed into the country. My question is what are they losing in return? The rice paddies are being turned under to build tourist villas and more and more people are leaving the villages for places like Ubud. Talking to people it’s interesting that many are openly discussing how to retain the ‘Balineseness’ of their island in the face of pressures from many sources, like the fact that Indonesian has been the language of choice of higher learning, and the challenge of marketing their culture yet retaining the culture’s authenticity.

This scenic area of rice paddies is mostly left fallow and when you arrive you are far more likely to see tourists frolicking in giant swings, or zip lining over the valley than you are likely to see farmers in the fields. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

One of the things the Balinese have done well is to foster the retention of their art forms. Dance schools thrive and many girls and boys study dance at least for a while. Villages exist that focus on painting, silver smithing, stone carving, gamelan making, and woodcarving, amongst others.

A priest at Tirta Empul rings his tinkling bell in a call to prayer. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

And yet, again, to my western eye there is a dark side. When I ask staff of one of the teak shops or carving studios where the teak comes from, they tell me not from Bali. No, they want to save their jungles. Instead, it comes from places like Sumatra or Borneo—places I know are suffering from deforestation and environmental degradation, impacting endangered species like elephants and orangutans.

So, I’m leaving Bali with mixed feelings. I love the people and so much about the culture and how the place where I’m staying has made me feel like part of the family, but I’m clearly a foreigner with foreign questions, concerns and definitely a different worldview. Visitors who have been coming to Bali over the years say the place has changed in so many ways, from the changes brought by Indonesia’s attempt at democracy, to the growth in the tourist industry and the increase in traffic congestion.

Early morning traffic coming home from the Ubud market. This motorcyclist is taking home the small woven baskets for offerings in addition to fruit and vegetables. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

If I return (and the sadness I feel at leaving suggests that I might) it will be interesting to see how the Balinese solve these dilemmas.

Inevitably, whatever is done, will be in a unique Balinese style.

Lovely Tana Lot temple is one of the guardian sea temples along the coast. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Bedtime, Barongs and Celebrating Bali Culture

By Karen Abrahamson | February 23, 2019

A young peacock dancer at the temple festival. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

It’s February 23 and it’s the day after the birthday of the temple around the corner—thank goodness. I don’t have to go running out for photos of the events. Maybe tonight we can even get a full night’s sleep.

This temple happens to have a congregation of over a thousand families, the largest in the Ubud area. It’s a big deal. For the past five days throngs of people have brought offerings to the temple—think platters and bowls stacked with pineapple, papaya, mangosteen, oranges and even the exotic (to Bali) apple, pear or grape. Flowers, rice, bread, even packaged foods are placed in decorative heaps in beautifully woven, hand painted, gilt and even beaded bowls and carried on women’s heads to the temple where they are stacked until after prayers and then taken home again—where they are eaten by the family who brought them.

The bathing ghats at holy Tirta Empul. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The processions are a lovely part of Balinese culture, one I’ve already written about here, but there are many more lovely parts of this island. First of all, there are the numerous temples so that there seems to be one around every corner. Some are locked off to foreigners, but many have opened their doors—at least partially. Take for example, the lovely water temple, Tirta Empul, that offers Balinese and foreigner alike the opportunity to cleanse themselves in purified water from holy springs as well as the chance to cleanse their minds in the quiet corners listening to the priest’s bells that act as a focus to prayers.

Offerings at Tirta Empul. In the morning, women place individual baskets at places that are significant to them. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.eremony

Probably the first moment of ceremony that I stumbled over in Bali was a small woven basket with flowers blossoms, a bit of fruit, rice and incense left in a doorway that I literally stumbled over as I went out one morning. These bits of beauty are everywhere, placed there daily usually by a housewife carrying a wicker tray of such things. They stop at shrines or seemingly nondescript places or at gates or doorways and quietly light an incense stick, place it in the basket of blooms and place the whole thing at the doorway. A single exquisite flower bloom held in the point of their fingers as they say a short prayer and then the blossom is placed in the basket, too. And then the woman moves on to the next spot they wish to make offering to. Each day the pavement is littered with flowers and each morning they are swept up and replaced with the same quiet attention to recognizing the precious places around them. It’s a lovely recognition of the sacred in all places.

The birthday of the local temple wasn’t quite so quiet. First came the processions down the street. They are special for this temple because of the stature and age of the temple. Each one is a procession from another temple that has a relationship with this one. Some arrive from close by, but others come by truck from far away and form their procession a few miles away. Each one brings with them their good and evil demons and, more importantly, their holy barong.

A woman’s orchestra at the temple. Apparently they are a newer phenomenon from over the past ten years. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

A barong is an important Bali spirit. My local informants couldn’t really say where the barong came from, though they think the roots could be in the Chinese dragon, but I wonder if it might have a heritage in the now extinct Balinese tiger, because the creatures have fur coats (some striped) and vaguely cat-like features and when they dance, their movements remind me of cats, too. Either way, there is power in the barong and they reside in various temples. Some barong have ancestral relationships with the neighbourhood temple and so they have been brought from very far away.

A barong taking a rest during his dance. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Which brings me to the sleepless nights.

Barongs don’t travel alone and they don’t travel silently. Every barong travels with his own orchestra of flutes and drums and—wait for it—gongs. These are pie plate sized and worn like a xylophone, or two – three feet across and carried by two men, or even three gongs on a cart that is wheeled along with the gong player seated in the middle. It’s a regular cacophony of drums and gongs—lovely to listen to except at 3 am.

Tiny warrior bunnies doing the rabbit dance. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

So the temple ceremonies took place over three days and the barong processions occurred where and when the temple priests decided. That meant traffic havoc for Ubud because the three main roads in the town would have to shut down. Each evening at the temple, there was a performance, the first night of dancers and orchestras, the second of dancers, orchestras and a stage barong (as opposed to the holy temple barong.) Each of these sessions was wonderful, with the dance and the music and I stayed taking photos until 9 or 10 pm, but the performances went on long into the wee hours after I got home and of course sound travels…

Young dancers waiting to perform on the first night of the temple ceremonies. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The third night was the finale: a public performance of dance and barong dancing using the true temple barong. At 8:30 the first of the dancers danced and then the first barong performed—a halting dance of a great beast cautiously treading through the land. The dance ended and they brought out the second barong who was every bit as cautious.

Okay. I’d seen the holy barong dance.

A lovely temple fan dancer. Apparently performers vie for the right to perform at the temple. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Okay, I’d seen the holy Barong–I thought. But I was tired and the performance was, I must admit, a little underwhelming. So I decided to call it a night and went home. Only to be disturbed as I was falling asleep by the horrible sounds of beast roars and narrated screaming.

Clearly, I had gone home at the wrong time. Clearly the barong had come upon a warrior and the battle had been begun. There was music and more roaring but I must have been very tired because I finally fell asleep—only to be woken a second time at about 3 am by the sound of drums and music in the street.

I tracked it from my bed: Approaching from the temple eastward and drawing even with my guest house gate and then heading westward down the street.

The sound of a vanquished barong headed home.

For all I love the Bali culture, I appreciated that I could finally sleep in peace.

A young dancer preparing for her dance on night two. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The Lesson of Rice

By Karen Abrahamson | February 20, 2019

The rice fields of Sideman, Bali. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Bali is a place built on rice (and tourism, but we’ll leave the tourism for the moment.) I’m staying in Ubud, one of the main tourist towns in Bali (the one made famous by Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love.) It’s a busy place with a perennial traffic jam and stores that run the gamut from a fruit stall on the corner and cheap restaurants in people’s homes, to couture clothing stores, starred eateries that require a reservation, and Starbucks on the corner. It’s also the kind of place that you can come around the corner and find a rice paddy between two rows of houses and where all the tourist maps include trails through the extensive paddies around the town.

A rice field just outside Ubud with a shrine to Dewi Sri. The structure in the distance is one of the increasing number of tourist villas encroaching on the rice fields. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Rice is everywhere: from on your dinner plate, in the innumerable small offerings to the spirits found pretty much everywhere, and even on people’s foreheads when they leave the temple. It comes in colors like white, brown, red and black and I’ve discovered that from amongst that rainbow, I enjoy rice far more here I ever thought I would as I grew up eating the insipid Uncle Ben’s. Yeah, sure, I cook basmati at home, but even basmati is tasteless compared to what I’ve eaten here.

But more than learning to appreciate the nutty flavor of whole red rice, or the sweet goodness of black rice for breakfast, being here has brought me closer to a different understanding of rice in the world. I suppose it’s more of a metaphor.

Bali might be a Hindu island in a Muslim nation, but Bali’s animistic roots are never more evident than in their relationship with rice. Central to the Hindu faith is that God has many manifestations, not just the Trimurti of Vishnu (the creator), Brahma (the maintainer) and Shiva (the destroyer.) God also manifests in the person of Dewi Sri, the rice mother, who receives offerings in shrines built in every rice field. Some shrines are only small wicker platforms built above the rice. Others are more complete structures, but their purpose is the same—to give thanks to the rice mother for the harvest to come. Small offerings of rice, a flower and perhaps incense are left daily to Devi Sri.

Bali’s volcanoes, the abode of all that is good and from whereto water runs to the rice fields. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

I suppose it’s not surprising that the farmers believe they need the help of the spirits/gods in order to have good harvests. Rice farming is back-breaking work. First the rice is planted in a nursery spot, usually at the corner of the field. Preparing the rice paddies involves plowing, loosening of the soil of the flooded paddy, and then flattening of the soil in preparation for planting. Bali has only recently transitioned from bullocks pulling plows to hand-pushed rototiller machines. Talk about back-breaking.

Planting the rice near Ubud. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

When the young plants are old enough, they are manually uprooted, separated, and replanted in the prepared rice paddies. Think of spending days and days under the unrelenting sun planting individual plants exactly a hand-span apart in rows so perfect, you’d think they’d been laid out on a grid. More backbreaking. Gradually, the plants mature, and then the harvest takes place with old fashioned scythes. It’s no wonder that young people want to leave the farms for opportunities in the cities or in places like Ubud.

Fields near the ancient temple/palace of Tirta Ganga. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Walking the rice trails, one is struck first by the intense green color, by the egrets dotting the fields and the calls of smaller song birds that accompany the music of water. There is water everywhere, standing in sky-reflecting paddies, running down ditches between the fields and gushing down channels built to guarantee that all farmers’ fields share in the gift of water. In Bali there is a rice farmers’ water cooperative that manages this sharing. They have a governance structure and their purpose is sharing the wealth nature gives them—so much so that their water system is recognized by Unesco World Heritage. There’s even a museum to rice and the water management system, though when I visited it was rather abandoned looking. The information was there, though, when I looked past the cobwebs.

Paddies near the mountains on Antosari Road. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

All of this has led to my new appreciation of rice. Like life, it is a gift of the gods. It is also the product of heavy labor by many, many people.

As the Balinese do when they place their offerings to Dewi Sri on the bamboo platforms at the edge of the fields, I want to think about the manifestation of the God and the labor it took to provide EVERY SINGLE GRAIN OF RICE on my plate.

And be thankful.

Egret in a still-fallow rice paddy. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

(Yes, I know that in North America big Agro companies provide our rice with little of the labor that I’m seeing in Bali, but from now on I’m going to be more conscious about where my rice comes from. Surely it can only be beneficial to eat food grown with the intention of being in harmony with nature, instead of food grown as a product of genetic manipulation! No wonder North American food is largely tasteless.)

Carrying fodder home from around the rice fields near Tirta Ganga. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Lost in Bali

By Karen Abrahamson | February 16, 2019

At one of our guesthouses. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

We’ve been in Bali ten days now and it has been a wonderful lesson in exploration—both sensory and experiential. For instance, at the moment I’m in my bed listening to a thundering downpour and the quintessential sound of gamelan music played for a Balinese shadow puppet show.

But not every experience has been quite so mesmerizing. At least they haven’t all been quite so easy to enjoy. Take for instance my first experience at my current guesthouse in the tourist mecca of Ubud. Ubud sits on the lower slopes of Bali’s central mountains and is a mecca for artists from around the world. Think wood and stone carving, silver smithing, weaving, painting and just about anything else you can imagine. We arrived at this guesthouse and our host knew of my interest in photography, so he immediately told me that there was a temple ceremony occurring that afternoon at a local community—come see him at three pm and he’d arrange for me to attend.

I showed up with camera in tow and the only way to get there was via motorcycle—him driving and me on the back. Let me just say that my distrust of motorcycles goes way back to my teenaged years and age and wisdom has only confirmed that opinion.

The temple musicians waiting for the ceremony to finish. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

But it was a temple ceremony and I was new to Ubud. Who knew whether I’d get such a chance again. So I slung my leg over the motorbike behind him and drove—sans helmet because he didn’t want to have to carry an extra helmet back—to somewhere in Bali.

And he dropped me off.

Yes, I had his email and phone number on Whatsapp. Yes, I knew the name of the guesthouse and generally where it was in Ubud. But that was all. And oh, yes, I know how to say hello and thank you in Balinese.

But there was this temple ceremony, that it turned out I couldn’t attend because I didn’t have a proper sarong…

Youngsters mesmerized by the musical instruments and the fathers trying to keep them in tow. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The ceremony gates. So close, yet so far. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

So I hung around outside with the parents with unruly children and the Balinese marching band (think gongs, conches for blowing, and lots and lots of drums.) Luckily, the Balinese are big on processions, because after what sounded from outside the walls like a lovely ceremony, the dignitaries left (would you believe it was the royal family of Ubud?) and were followed by a flood of people.

The procession begins! Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Women with offerings. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

And the men with their offerings. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

And the requisite gongs. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

I ran up the road to get a better view and what followed was a village procession. The photos in this post tell the tale. A non-marching band. Children dressed up like princesses. Women carrying offerings on their heads and men carrying even larger offerings on platforms. And all the people in their finest sarongs and sashes. They marched up the road with so much laughter and friendship that I was swept along—until they reached another temple and I was shut out again.

The procession. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Darned no sarong.

And then I had to figure out how to get home…

From somewhere in Bali.

With offering boxes and flowers in their hair. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

P.S.

(Yes, after realizing that my Whatsapp messages were being routed via North America so there was a time lag, I finally contacted my wonderful host by phone and he sent his son to rescue me. So I am no longer lost.)

‘Salam’, or Bali ‘Hi!’

By Karen Abrahamson | February 7, 2019

The Jimbaran beach at sunset as we enjoyed our meal. Image copyright Karen Abrahamson

We’ve been in Bali since February 4^thand the first word I have learned is ‘Salam’, or ‘hello.’ I swear we are both still recovering from our Indian sojourn, which seems odd to me given basically all our travel arrangements were made for us. But then again, when there are issues the stress can wear you down and our trip through India was not without issues. But that’s another story.

For the moment, we are in Bali and trying to sink into the Balinese culture and balance.

We spent the first few days in a place called Jimbaran that is on the coast, south of the major city of Denpasar and the tourist haven of Kuta. We arrived and both of us were overwhelmed by the beauty of our residence. We had a room with sliding glass doors onto a balcony and small plunge pool overlooking the Balinese beach of Jimbaran. It took us a few days to realize that we were right above the Four Seasons resort at less than a quarter of the cost and we were staying in a heritage building owned by an architect who was committed to maintaining the jewel that he had.

A ten-minute walk downhill had us on the sweeping crescent of Jimbaran Beach where I collected shells and, in the evening, we went to a dinner of barbequed, squid, clams, fish, prawns and lobster for about $30.00 each. The seafood, with the addition of rice and water spinach was to die for and as an added bonus we were treated to a spectacular sunset. I’m told that every sunset is just as good.

Elder braiding the small bracelets that indicate that you’ve been to this holy place. Image copyright Karen Abrahamson.

We visited one of the three key ocean temples in Bali, this one called Ulu Watu. We intended to watch the sunset and the sunset Kacek dance. Unfortunately, you can’t actually do both, or at least you can’t watch the sunset over Ulu Watu because the temple is in the wrong direction from where they hold the dance, so the dance won out. While the dancers wear the ornate costumes that you might associate with Bali, the dance itself is actually quite original—at least at Ulu Watu.

The performance begins with about thirty men who come into the performance area chanting, to settle around a tall, wooden candelabra-type stand that has small flames lit on each of its arms. They chant and then, one by one, the dancers entered telling the story of Rama and Sita out of the Ramayana. The difference I saw in this dance compared to the dancers from the performance I wrote about in Kochi, was that these dancers seemed to move in utter, perfected, slow-motion.

The graceful Sita at Ulu Watu. Image copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Except for Hanuman.

The mischievous white monkey god was up to his tricks from the moment he entered the story, leaping into the story from on top of the gate, and climbing up among the audience, stealing hats and glasses and picking imaginary nits out of people’s hair.

Anyway, the performance was wonderful, Sita was rescued, the evil Ravana was vanquished, and everyone except Ravana lived happily ever after—except for us, because traffic leaving the temple made us endure a trip home that was well over an hour long.

Ulu Watu high above the waves on its clifftop perch at sunset. Image, copyright Karen Abrahamson.

But it was a good introduction to Bali. We’re both impressed, not least of all by the driving. Though there are a lot of cars and motorbikes on the road it’s not the bone-jarring, psyche-scarring, free-for-all we survived in India. Instead, here traffic more or less obeys the traffic lanes and vehicles will actually stop for a pedestrian.

That brings me to the second Balinese word/phase I’m trying to remember: terima kasih, or thank you! Terima kasih for these past few days, Bali.

Ulu Watu at the sunset hour. Image copyright Karen Abrahamson.

India at the Close

By Karen Abrahamson | February 3, 2019

Temple rooftops at Sri Rangnam. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

We spent our last week in India on the move. From Kanya Kumari we headed north again, toward our arrival spot of Chennai and Mamalapurum. We broke up our train trip halfway through at a city named Trichy to visit the Sri Rangnam temple, one of the largest temples in southern India—and probably the country. Sri Rangnam is 156 acres and has seven concentric enclosures and 21 magnificent towers (gopuram.) The temple is a world heritage site that has been restored. According to the signs, they had to dig it out from underneath modern structures and have the modern structures removed.

Trichy—at least the part where we stayed and the parts around the temple, seemed like a working man’s city. There were hotels and there were tourist groups, but mostly it was low structures and local bazaars and markets and the people who lived and worked there. A surprise I had in Trichy was the number of Moslem women who had taken the veil. Full burka’s were far more common than the other places we had visited in Southern India which could indicate a higher Moslem population or a more conservative one.

Of course, the sense of Trichy being a working man’s city could be a result of taking local buses around the city instead of rented cars. The busses were an experience in and of themselves. Think of J.K. Rowling’s ‘night bus’ in the Harry Potter series that changes shape to fit between other busses as it careens around the city. The Trichy buses can careen just the same way. Inside, the women sit on the right side of the bus, the men on the left. When no seats are left, people just cram inside.

Outside the main temple gates. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The Sri Rangnam temple is as massive as a small city. It has six concentric walls, the outer wall hosting houses and businesses. Near the main gopuram (gateway tower) the businesses are focused on visitors to the temple with flower-sellers and other religious paraphernalia, but leave the main entrance street behind and you come to almost deserted streets where goats and cows make themselves comfortable and houses stand quiet waiting for residents to return home.

Old worshippers at the temple. Photo Copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The gopuram are painted in many colors, but the temples beneath them aren’t. Instead, within the fourth gopuram there are ornately carved columned galleries that give relief from the sun. Everywhere are men and women who have made puja today, the men mostly clad in white dhoti (white sarongs folded up around their legs) with white streaks across their foreheads, the women in sari’s with red and yellow tikka between their eyes. There are families with children and beggars sleeping or selling flowers amongst the columns, but from the rooftops you can see across the gopuram to the rest of the city.

We came around a corner and there was music. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

From Trichy, we caught another train and spent eight hours jouncing and bouncing our way back to Chennai, so I left the train with a backache. We abandoned our guide at the train station and headed out on our own to a hotel of our choice in a place called Poe’s Garden. I’m not sure where the area gets its name, but surely it can’t be related to Edgar Allan. The place is filled with pleasant houses and—gardens. Not a single pit or pendulum in sight. The traffic noise barely reaches the place where we’re staying and from our current roof top garden we can only see tree tops and water lilies and the pigeons that come to drink at the lily pool.

It’s a good thing, too. I’m tired. So is my travelling companion and this a pleasant place to slowly withdraw from the frenetic pace we’ve been living on this twenty-nine-day tour of southern India. Twenty years ago, I travelled in India for three months and fell in love with the country. After this trip, I’m far more ambivalent. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s just the fatigue talking, or maybe it’s the fact that this was a tour that didn’t allow the freedom to travel the way I like to. As it was, I felt like I was watching a movie through a blindfold that would be stripped away for moments so that I could catch a glimpse of something marvellous, but never fully comprehend what I was seeing.

But then, perhaps that’s India. I don’t think it is possible to fully comprehend all its nuances.

Tonight, we catch a flight to Kuala Lumpur and on to Bali. Our first guesthouse is also supposed to be in a garden, this one with views of the ocean.

The columned halls of Sri Rangnam. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Temple Sunset (and Sunrise)

By Karen Abrahamson | January 30, 2019

The Gandhi Memorial in Kenya Kumari at sunset. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

From the memorable streets of Fort Kochi with its shoreline of fishing nets we kept heading south, further into the contradictions that are southern India. We finally stopped at the seaside resort town of Varkala Beach (not to be confused with Varkala town.) It’s a town that seems to only know sunsets given it faces west over the Arabian Sea.

Varkala Beach sits on the top of cliffs that run above a golden crescent of beach. A path runs along the clifftop and is lined with tourist shops so that when you are out for a walk you can admire the scenery or shop for jewelry or clothing. The clothing is typical Indian hippy fare, while the jewelry is Ladakhi or Tibetan. There’s actually a large community of Tibetans here and when you chat with them they get quite miffed at the Kashmiri traders who have set up shop selling Tibetan knock-offs.

Boats on the beach near Varkala. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The other amenity offered by the clifftops are coffee shops—with real espresso and lattes! Funny how after a few weeks of travelling, the taste of real coffee and muesli with fresh fruit in the morning was more like ambrosia than any Indian food offering. Chilling in the morning sipping a latte and listening to Van Morrison or Indian chanting while watching the blue waves and the fishermen out catching the evening meal was, well, it was relaxing after the previous weeks of running.

We finally made it down the long set of stairs to the beach and dipped our toes back into real India again—and the Arabian Sea. At the far end of the beach, nearer Varkala Town sits a newer temple that celebrates the fact that, beyond the tourists flocking to the sunshine on the cliffs, people have been coming here for generations to venerate their ancestors. They come in long processions crossing from the village over the sand, carrying offerings on their heads. As they near the water, they turn backwards and shuffle down to the shore before tossing the offering backward off their heads. On the sand are ranks of sadhus with the sand brushed clean and flat before them and small flames burning in brass platters. The supplicants kneel in the sand before them and are given tasks they must perform to receive absolution. I watched for a while, raw desperation burned in too many gazes.

Pilgrims making their final approach to the sea at Varkala Beach. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

It brought home once more just how much Hinduism flows in the blood and the distance between the cliffs and the beach.

From Varkala we kept going south and found our way to Kanya Kumari or Cape Cormorin. Kanya Kumari is a fishing town and also a religious destination for it sits at the farthest southern point of India. If you look left from the point you are looking at the Bay of Bengal out toward Sri Lanka. Look right and you are looking at the Arabian Sea. Look south and you are looking across the Indian Ocean all the way to Antarctica. Kanya Kumari is actually named after the virgin (Kanya) goddess named Kumari who supposedly singlehandedly slayed demons and brought freedom to world. Her temple sits at the southernmost point and people come from all over to watch the sunset and sunrise from this holy place.

When we arrived in the evening our helpful driver first took us to sunset point which sits out of town and offers lovely views of the sunset, but not of the reason we were there – Kanya Kumari. So we returned into town and ventured down into the pilgrim’s bazaar that surrounds the temple with children’s clothing, cashew nuts and dried fruit, flowers and religious offerings, before coming down near the water. There are beggars caught like flotsam in the corners holding out mangled hands. There are candy floss and popcorn hawkers and men selling cheap jewelry. There’s a white horse ready for people to ride and to have their photo taken. But most of all there were the pilgrims and sari’s tied in a mandapa (a pillared covered stone gazebo-type structure) that flapped in the wind. As the sun set, there was a collective sigh from the people and then everyone began to move, leaving the shoreline.

Sunset from the mandapa at Kanya Kumari’s temple. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The next morning, we were up early to see the sunrise at the temple. The moon was about half full, but there are times of the year when you can see the sun rise and the full moon set at the same time over three different oceans. We had been told to expect the temple to be less crowded, but our informant was wrong. We arrived about fifteen minutes before sunrise and already the temple areas were thronged and bathers filled the ocean ghats.

Off shore of Kanya Kumari are two small islands. One has a temple memorial built to Hindu apostle Vivekananda who took his preaching far beyond India. The other island holds a 133 ft. statue of the Tamil poet Thiruvalluver whose most famous work was 133 stanzas—thus the height of the statue. He looks back toward Tamil India. The clouds that had formed above Sri Lanka turned a ghostly pink along the edges as the sunrise neared. The crowd was restive, people jostling for pictures—selfies of themselves with the sunrise. Gradually, the sun rose and sprayed columns of light above the temple and statue. It was as if everyone held their breath. Then the sun poked its brazen orange head above the cloud and everyone exhaled.

Around us the throngs began singing a soft hymn to Kanya Kumari.

Sunrise over the islands off Kanya Kumari. Imagine the singing. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

And then the sacred moment was over. The sun was hot and blinding. The bathers bathed in the ghats. The people took their photos and the white horse began giving pony rides to pilgrim’s children.

We left, but I find myself caught between two memories of the place. The sublime moment of the sunrise voices, and the voices I heard afterward—the mewling sounds of the disfigured and maimed beggars placed in the corners of the temple calling out for money.

As I said—the south. A place of ongoing contradictions.

Varkala Boats at Sunrise. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Old Kochi and Eye (I?)

By Karen Abrahamson | January 26, 2019

Houseboats on the Kerala backwaters. Copyright Karen Abrahamson.

I’m not quite sure what to write about Fort Kochi. No critiques. I really liked the place. It’s photogenic as heck. Located a little over halfway down the coast of Kerala state, like Goa the area has had layers upon layers of foreign influence. There were the Arab traders who came for the spice. Then the Portuguese, then the Dutch and then the English. Each, I suppose, brought their own addition to the place. The Portuguese increased the spice trade to Europe and brought Christianity and Catholicism here so you find Cathedrals on almost every corner. The Dutch brought trade and a ‘Dutch’ overlay to the old Keralan palace. The English apparently brought laundry services.

Yes, laundry.

In the heart of old Fort Kochi you find the Dhobykama, which literally means laundry family. During the British Raj the English imported laundry workers from Tamil Nadu state because, apparently, they knew how to do laundry properly. All these years later, there are six families left and we spoke to a gentleman who was tenth generation and proudly told how both his children have gone onto university. From what he showed us of his pristine shirts, sheets and dhotis (sarongs that men wear here) he could do my laundry anytime. They were the whitest, best pressed items I’ve ever seen. Move over western dry cleaning. Of course, the Dhobykama may be a dying breed.

Chinese fishing net at sunset. Copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The Old Fort Kochi beach front is an amazing amalgam of old and new. A walk in the morning takes you past fishermen casting nets in the surf, fishing boats seeking the tuna leaping just off shore, joggers (ever seen a woman jog in a sari?), old men talking, tourists photo-gawking, even a ‘muscle beach’ corner where the young men have their weights set up to pump iron. Best of all are the ancient Chinese fishing nets (see the photos.) These huge contraptions were brought by the Chinese when they were still trading with Kerala back before Columbus stumbled upon America. They are huge nets draped on poles and cantilevered with ropes of rocks. They dip into the water and then back up, with their load of fish, and are absolutely one of the most photogenic fishing items I’ve ever seen. They are an iconic part of Kerala and one of the emblems of Fort Kochi.

Keralan dancer. Copyright Karen Abrahamson.

While we were in Kochi we went to see a Keralan dance troupe. These troupes exist in many places in the state and are an attempt to reclaim an ancient Royal Keralan dance form that disappeared when the royal house fell on hard times during the colonial era. The new dance was created in the 1700s and is called Kerala Kathakali. The dancers (all male) wear elaborate costumes and face paint to recreate figures out of ancient tales like the Ramayana. The first part of their performance was acquainting a tourist audience with the amazing eye and hand movements (Mudras.) The eyes are held wide open and dart one way and another in a way that had had the audience chuckling. For some of the characters they place a seed powder in the eyes which turns the whites of the eyes red. With the mudras and the eye movements, these characters are able to hold entire conversations. It was amazing to watch—and exhausting.

Life along the Keralan backwaters. Copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Sadly, we left Fort Kochi the next morning, leaving the scent of spice and the sound of the ocean behind for the supposed quiet of the Kerala backwaters. You see, Kerala has innumerable inland waterways that run between rice fields and the narrow dikes that hold the homes of people. Old men fish. Children go to school by boat. People live by the water, bathe in it, wash their dishes in it and drink it. Sadly, the water is green with algae and scummed with the diesel of the 1500 plus tourist boats that ply the supposed backwaters. Needless to say, so many engines means it’s not that peaceful and at night, moored next to a party boat it was even less so. But regardless of the downsides, I was busy with my camera. So much so, I probably looked a lot like those dancers with my eyes darting everywhere.

I know. I saw our boat driver laughing.

Small boats and rice fields along the Keralan backwaters. Copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Goin’ Nowhere in Goa

By Karen Abrahamson | January 22, 2019

We’ve been in Goa for three days and I am really not sure what to tell you other than my impressions of the place have all changed. First of all, I have to admit a certain ignorance of Goa. I knew it had been a Portuguese holding (until 1961) and I knew it had a lot of history in the spice trade, first trading with the Arabs, and then, after Vasco de Gama circumnavigated Africa, with the Portuguese and Europeans. I had even realized that Goa was a state in Southern India.

Colva Beach. A haven for sun seekers from around the world, but not peaceful! Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

What I didn’t realize was that there is no city named Goa. Instead the main commercial area is called Vasco de Gama, and the heart of the state is a small city called Panaji. There is Old Goa, but it is mainly a park of lawns set amongst the trees filled with –count ‘em—four churches/cathedrals. We wandered Old Goa in the heat of the day amongst too many tourists. I ducked out to go down to the river (I’m not a huge cathedral fan) and then wandered past a lovely old archway that had once been the entry to the Sultan’s Palace before the Portuguese arrived. From Old Goa we visited Panaji which, unlike the cathedrals, is a bustling town where people live and frequent a vibrant market for fish caught from the river and the ocean, vegetables and stacks of fruit and kaju (cashew) vendors who also sell almonds, pistachios and dried fruit. Yum. There are plenty of small market stalls selling everything from the ubiquitous plastic shoe or thong, to caskets and undertaker services.

At the old Panaji market. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The neighbourhoods are old here and full of cock-eyed streets lined with brightly colored houses. We drove through to a scenic point that wasn’t that scenic and then went back to our hotel. I’d intended to return the next day to photograph the lovely streets, but the next day we decided to avoid the heat and the hour+ drive to Panaji. So instead we arranged to visit a couple of old Goan mansions closer to Colva (the beach town where we were staying.)

Half of the Bragancia Mansion and its gardens. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Turns out it was a treat. The Bragancia house has to be Olympic sized figure skating rink in length. It has lovely Juliet balconies lining the front and the place, though showing its approximate 250 years of age, is gently being restored by the owners who are direct descendants of the Bragancias. One of the Bragancia sons toured us around a blue painted ballroom and lovely gallery filled with rosewood furniture, chandeliers, paintings and portraits, and a pair of chairs that were a gift from the Portuguese king. There was even a pair of palanquins used to carry the husband and wife when they left the house. The family was Goan, but were wealthy landowners and were actually gifted with a coat of arms from Portugal.

The Bragancia House blue ballroom with the chairs given as gifts by the Portuguese King at the end of the room. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

The second home, the Fernandes House was more run down, but far more fun. Again, the home is still owned by the Fernandes family and the youngest son, Ranjeev toured us around. He had an infectious enthusiasm for his home, that had a similar design to Bragancia though it was about half the size in length. The fun side was Ranjeev pointing out old bullet holes in the walls and taking us through a secret passage that led from a ladies dressing room to the basement and out to the river so the family could escape attack. It was lovely and sad and I donated 500 rupees to help the restoration cause.

From there we visited Chandagahr (sic) hill and the temple at the top. The hazy air prevented any views of the ocean or the old mansions at the foot of the hill, but it was cool and breezy and the sun was setting. Back at the foot of the hill the green rice paddies glimmered between the trees in the amber air.

The other thing I learned about Goa is that I can’t figure it out. I didn’t see any thriving commercial centre like in Chennai or Mysuru. Instead, the 115,000 people of Panaji live sleepily amongst the trees. So did the people around the beach town of Colva and in the city around the main train station. I kept wondering whether Goa was sinking into forest dotage, or just growing out of the jungle foliage. I still haven’t figured it out, but last night driving to the train station I settled on syncretisation. The animistic tribes held Goa first and this was ploughed under by Hindu kings who accepted local practices, but placed their own beliefs above the old religions. The Islamic sultans who destroyed the Hindu empires did much the same, practicing tolerance of Hindu worshipers. And then the Portuguese came and Catholicism. So now Goa is largely a Christian place with cathedrals so frequent you could trip over them though Muslims and Hindus still are here. There are convent schools and places of education dedicated to Jesus etc. so I suppose you could say that Christianity is the latest ‘winner’.

But not totally.

Last night as we rode to the train station alongside the road there was Hindu shrine with garlands draped over the god image and a brass bell that was rung and a small fire to bring light into the world. A hundred feet farther back down the road we’d passed a non-descript stone Christian cross draped in similar floral garlands so that it appears that far older cultural practices are being woven into Goan Christianity today.

Marigold garlands at the Old Goa Basilica. Photo copyright Karen Abrahamson.

Postscript:

My favorite sign from my time in Goa: All Goan Toddy Tappers Association. It doesn’t refer to tap dancing, but to tapping the toddy palms to get the sweetness of their blossoms. From this comes chaggery sugar and a powerful liquer. That was something else I learned about Goa in my short stay and non-exploration—it’s the most liberal minded place about alcohol of any of the places we’ve visited in India.