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But
Bali
is
a
fairly
simple
place
to
navigate
.
It
’
s
not
like
I
’
ve
landed
in
the
middle
of
the
Sudan
with
no
idea
of
what
to
do
next
.
This
is
an
island
approximately
the
size
of
Delaware
and
it
’
s
a
popular
tourist
destination
.
The
whole
place
has
arranged
itself
to
help
you
,
the
Westerner
with
the
credit
cards
,
get
around
with
ease
.
English
is
spoken
here
widely
and
happily
.
(
Which
makes
me
feel
guiltily
relieved
.
My
brain
synapses
are
so
overloaded
by
my
efforts
to
learn
modern
Italian
and
ancient
Sanskrit
during
these
last
few
months
that
I
just
can
’
t
take
on
the
task
of
trying
to
learn
Indonesian
or
,
even
more
difficult
,
Balinese
-
a
language
more
complex
than
Martian
.
)
It
’
s
really
no
trouble
being
here
.
You
can
change
your
money
at
the
airport
,
find
a
taxi
with
a
nice
driver
who
will
suggest
to
you
a
lovely
hotel
-
none
of
this
is
hard
to
arrange
.
And
since
the
tourism
industry
collapsed
in
the
wake
of
the
terrorist
bombing
here
two
years
ago
(
which
happened
a
few
weeks
after
I
’
d
left
Bali
the
first
time
)
,
it
’
s
even
easier
to
get
around
now
;
everyone
is
desperate
to
help
you
,
desperate
for
work
.
So
I
take
a
taxi
to
the
town
of
Ubud
,
which
seems
like
a
good
place
to
start
my
journey
.
I
check
into
a
small
and
pretty
hotel
there
on
the
fabulously
named
Monkey
Forest
Road
.
The
hotel
has
a
sweet
swimming
pool
and
a
garden
crammed
with
tropical
flowers
with
blossoms
bigger
than
volleyballs
(
tended
to
by
a
highly
organized
team
of
hummingbirds
and
butter
-
flies
)
.
The
staff
is
Balinese
,
which
means
they
automatically
start
adoring
you
and
complimenting
you
on
your
beauty
as
soon
as
you
walk
in
.
The
room
has
a
view
of
the
tropical
treetops
and
there
’
s
a
breakfast
included
every
morning
with
piles
of
fresh
tropical
fruit
.
In
short
,
it
’
s
one
of
the
nicest
places
I
’
ve
ever
stayed
and
it
’
s
costing
me
less
than
ten
dollars
a
day
.
It
’
s
good
to
be
back
.
Ubud
is
in
the
center
of
Bali
,
located
in
the
mountains
,
surrounded
by
terraced
rice
paddies
and
innumerable
Hindu
temples
,
with
rivers
that
cut
fast
through
deep
canyons
of
jungle
and
volcanoes
visible
on
the
horizon
.
Ubud
has
long
been
considered
the
cultural
hub
of
the
island
,
the
place
where
traditional
Balinese
painting
,
dance
,
carving
,
and
religious
ceremonies
thrive
.
It
isn
’
t
near
any
beaches
,
so
the
tourists
who
come
to
Ubud
are
a
self
-
selecting
and
rather
classy
crowd
;
they
would
prefer
to
see
an
ancient
temple
ceremony
than
to
drink
pina
coladas
in
the
surf
.
Regardless
of
what
happens
with
my
medicine
man
prophecy
,
this
could
be
a
lovely
place
to
live
for
a
while
.
The
town
is
sort
of
like
a
small
Pacific
version
of
Santa
Fe
,
only
with
monkeys
walking
around
and
Balinese
families
in
traditional
dress
all
over
the
place
.
There
are
good
restaurants
and
nice
little
bookstores
.
I
could
feasibly
spend
my
whole
time
here
in
Ubud
doing
what
nice
divorced
American
women
have
been
doing
with
their
time
ever
since
the
invention
of
the
YWCA
-
signing
up
for
one
class
after
another
:
batik
,
drumming
,
jewelry
-
making
,
pottery
,
traditional
Indonesian
dance
and
cooking
…
Right
across
the
road
from
my
hotel
there
’
s
even
something
called
"
The
Meditation
Shop
"
-
a
small
storefront
with
a
sign
advertising
open
meditation
sessions
every
night
from
6
:
00
to
7
:
00
.
May
peace
prevail
on
earth
,
reads
the
sign
.
I
’
m
all
for
it
.
By
the
time
I
unpack
my
bags
it
’
s
still
early
afternoon
,
so
I
decide
to
take
myself
for
a
walk
,
get
reoriented
to
this
town
I
haven
’
t
seen
in
two
years
.
And
then
I
’
ll
try
to
figure
out
how
to
start
finding
my
medicine
man
.
I
imagine
this
will
be
a
difficult
task
,
might
take
days
or
even
weeks
.
I
’
m
not
sure
where
to
start
with
my
search
,
so
I
stop
at
the
front
desk
on
my
way
out
and
ask
Mario
if
he
can
help
me
.
Mario
is
one
of
the
guys
who
work
at
this
hotel
.
I
already
made
friends
with
him
when
I
checked
in
,
largely
on
account
of
his
name
.
Not
too
long
ago
I
was
traveling
in
a
country
where
many
men
were
named
Mario
,
but
not
one
of
them
was
a
small
,
muscular
,
energetic
Balinese
fellow
wearing
a
silk
sarong
and
a
flower
behind
his
ear
.
So
I
had
to
ask
,
"
Is
your
name
really
Mario
?
That
doesn
’
t
sound
very
Indonesian
.
"
"
Not
my
real
name
,
"
he
said
.
"
My
real
name
is
Nyoman
.
"
Ah
-
I
should
have
known
.
I
should
have
known
that
I
would
have
a
25
percent
chance
of
guessing
Mario
’
s
real
name
.
In
Bali
,
if
I
may
digress
,
there
are
only
four
names
that
the
majority
of
the
population
give
to
their
children
,
regardless
of
whether
the
baby
is
a
boy
or
a
girl
.
The
names
are
Wayan
(
pronounced
"
Why
-
Ann
"
)
,
Made
(
"
mah
-
DAY
"
)
,
Nyoman
and
Ketut
.
Translated
,
these
names
mean
simply
First
,
Second
,
Third
and
Fourth
,
and
they
connote
birth
order
.
If
you
have
a
fifth
child
,
you
start
the
name
cycle
all
over
again
,
so
that
the
fifth
child
is
really
known
as
something
like
:
"
Wayan
to
the
Second
Power
.
"
And
so
forth
.
If
you
have
twins
,
you
name
them
in
the
order
they
came
out
.
Because
there
are
basically
only
four
names
in
Bali
(
higher
-
caste
elites
have
their
own
selection
of
names
)
it
’
s
totally
possible
(
indeed
,
quite
common
)
that
two
Wayans
would
marry
each
other
.
And
then
their
firstborn
would
be
named
,
of
course
:
Wayan
.
