The first day of autumn

Today is the first day of autumn. I love autumn’s cooler nights. I love the way the angle of the sun changes and it starts to hit different places in my house. The quality of light alters as well. The sky seems bluer than it does at other times of year. No doubt there’s a scientific reason for this but I’m not concerned to discover it. Trees start to colour their leaves red, orange and yellow before discarding them in a brown skirt around their trunk. No less joy than I recall as a child is had walking through piles of leaves when I don’t have to sweep them up. Sweeping them out with my feet and legs, noisily crunching them underfoot is still a delight.

I’m enjoying the library at school and taking advantage of the new range of books at my disposal. I’ve started on my ‘to read’ list.

I devoured Lily Brett’s ‘Lola Bensky’ and even looked for more in the library. Margaret Attwood’s ‘Cat’s Eye’ I read because I’d heard of her for many years though had never read any of her books. Robert Dessaix I had also heard of but could get past the first few pages of ‘Night Letters’. Perhaps when my bedside piles of books withers down somewhat I’ll try something else of his.

Right now I’m the middle of Marina Keegan ‘The Opposite of Loneliness’ which is a collection of essays and stories from a young American writer who died young a few years ago. I like her work so far -earnest without being pappy and definitely relatable.

 A recurrent theme I’m finding is that I enjoy writers who keep things simple for me as a reader. By no means am I suggesting that it is simple to write such simplicity though. There are no words that I need to check the meaning of, no tricky action to follow that my ‘dyslexia’ would trip me up with. Word use is concise, efficient yet still eloquent. This is something to aim for myself.

no latte for Lily

Short Fiction 

Lily was wiping down the tables, her regulation green cleaning cloth was the standard Starbucks green to match her shirt and peaked cap. The wide arc of her reach she was sure was only spreading the germs across the table rather than actually removing them. Who really knew what was in the label-less spray bottle they were issued with.

Her manager, Howie, may have been outwardly enthusiastic for all procedures Starbuckian but surely no person was actually like that. Perhaps he was an automaton, she daydreamed, installed by the Head Office hierarchy to brainwash the employees. She wondered if his bed linen at home was also Starbuck green. Did he dream of matcha green tea lattes or mocha frappes with a caramel twist?

“Lily...LILY!”

She roused herself from her mental tangent to see Howie tapping his watch in her direction. She glanced up at the omnipresent clock behind the till and was grateful to see that her time was up. It was a job she had to keep reminding herself to be grateful for. It wasn’t glamorous and it wasn’t even engaging most of the time but it did mean that she could pay the rent to do the things that she wanted to do.

At high school when the careers counsellor was doing the rounds with her class, Lily had foolishly said that she didn’t actually want a career. Such talk wasn’t acceptable at the private girls’ school that her father worked 6 days and 1 night in order to send her to. Lily had only wanted to practice her art. She never bothered to think about the fact that this world required an income in order to navigate it successfully.

Apron swiftly removed as she ducked behind the counter and into the staff room, she clocked out, hat thrown in her locker and well-loved denim jacket thrown over her shirt to disguise her uniform. She had a date. A coffee date of all things. Lily didn’t even drink coffee. She wasn’t exactly thrilled that Mr. Potential had chosen this Starbucks as their meeting point but she always let her dates choose the meeting place and she would privately judge them as they did so. Perhaps they could grab a quick takeaway and go for a walk. The sunshine of an autumn afternoon was always her favourite time to walk. The quality of light was so crisp that it made colours seem richer and more distinct than any other time of year. The sky never looked as blue as it did on an autumn afternoon.

She took a couch near the front door, sinking down into the soft pleather cushions and dug out her phone to send Mr. Potential a text letting him know she was there. No response. Okay, she waited a minute. ‘Who these days doesn’t have the phone glued to their hand?’ she thought.

She wondered about a follow up text to let him know she was on the first couch in on the right but thought better of it. ‘Don’t want to appear too eager’ she decided. A bit of Facebook browsing to take her mind of it. Seven minutes later, she glanced up at the clock behind the till just in case her phone clock was wrong. It wasn’t. It never was.

She checked Messenger, her emails and all the other apps she used but there was no message from whom she was now beginning to call Mr. Not -so –potential.

‘Who chooses Starbucks as a place for a first date anyway’ she thought.

Almost half an hour had passed and she was sick of the inquiring looks from her co-workers she decided to step outside. They knew she was single and dating but she didn’t anyone else judging her dates. Her mother was bad enough, asking too many questions, expecting each new suitor to be the white knight to save Lily from this eternal hell of low paid work. Lily wasn’t looking for a white knight. She fancied a co-conspirator. Someone to join her own adventures, someone to nourish her, someone to tend to her wounds, someone who would turn up to a coffee date on time for starters.

One more text to Mr. Not-so-potential ‘so, hi. Just checking that it was today we were going to meet?’

Nothing. No response. She wasn’t just being stood up physically but she was also being stood up digitally. She checked his profile on the dating website. She typed in his moniker – nothing. No profile appeared. That was odd.

She walked up to the corner and back down again. The sun had started to drift down pushing its rays through the leaves of the trees. Shafts of yellow, orange and red danced in the gentle breeze. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, doing up the buttons to keep in her warmth. Melbourne autumn days definitely provided a taste of all four seasons in the one day. Layers were her sartorial friend.

‘One more trip to the corner and then I’m out of here’ she thought.

The day was cooling quickly as she walked the dozen or so paces to the corner. She loitered. She turned and looked down both footpaths but Mr. Not-so-potential was nowhere to be seen. She dug her phone out of her back pocket, its blank screen giving her nothing.

‘Forty minutes. An eternity.’ she decided. She threw her phone in her bag disgusted at its lack of help and walked off towards her flat. ‘Stuff him’ she thought. ‘Mr. Absolutely-no-potential just lost his chance!’

Dreaming a reality - draft 2

Dreaming a reality

Six months or so after I separated from my husband, his father died. He had been ill for about 18 months with mesothelioma so his death was not unexpected. What was unexpected was being banned from his funeral by my mother in law. This man I had known for 16 years and was grandfather to my daughters. This man who I had accidentally walked in on whilst he was showering because he’d forgotten to lock the bathroom door. This man who had never said a harsh word to me. This was the man I was not allowed to say goodbye to.

My in laws were British if that helps explain some things. Ironically my new partner hails from England but his parents are so much warmer and friendlier than ‘being British’ might presume. My ex in-laws were cool and formal to begin with and things rarely changed went up from there. Both my own family and theirs had two daughters and two sons but they couldn’t have been more different. Upon arrival at my siblings’ or parents’ house, you were greeted in the driveway, escorted inside, your parcels taken from your hands to be replaced immediately by a drink and something to eat.  Our impromptu drop-ins were greeted with a smile, a cup of tea and an offer to stay for a meal. I couldn’t imagine any of my family moving further than an hour’s drive from one another let alone half across the world as my in laws had done – twice.

When I left my husband, I’d not moved very far at all from the marital home. I had read research that linked close geographical proximity to the ease of separation for the children. In fact, we had even done some joint counselling when we first separated to put in place strategies for making it smooth for our young daughters. Being brutally honest, I never meant to leave my husband permanently. I wanted some space and time apart so that I could hopefully rediscover what it was about him that attracted me in the first place. Domestic routine had clouded my eyes. I wanted to date him.  I longed for the simple experience of seeing him across the street and wanting to call out to him. I wanted there to be things I looked forward to tell him about my day. I wanted to be excited. I didn’t think it was too much to ask.

The small rented house I had moved into was in the next street. Without fences, the children could easily come and go between the houses. The fall of the land mean that neither house looked out directly onto the other so some privacy and distance could be had. This was the first time I’d ever rented a house in my life. I was in my early thirties and living on my own, albeit with two young children half of the time, for the very first time.

Soon I had managed to secure some part time work and as it turned out I was working the day of my father in law’s funeral. Serendipity was in my corner that day, as the carport at my new accommodation   fell down crushing the unpacked boxes and detritus from moving that had been left underneath. If I wasn’t working that day then I certainly would have been home, car parked in the carport as it wasn’t as if I had anything else to attend – like say a funeral.

My two primary school aged daughters had free choice as whether or not to attend the funeral.  Although it was a scheduled school day, they had been sat down and explained what was going to happen, who was going to be there and what their options were. They had been sheltered from their grand-dad’s illness until it was impossible to keep the secret any longer. We had wanted them to continue to have positive interactions with their grandfather rather than be worried about every little cough. They were both still young and this was the first death of a close family member that had really any significant impact on them.

Separating from my husband was one of the hardest things I had ever done, so this was a time of heightened stress for all of us. I endeavoured mostly just to get through each day whilst shielding from daughters from how strung out I truly felt. I wasn’t sure what normality meant anymore. I mention this because, with hindsight, I can see that small things had an amplified impact on me emotionally. The day of the funeral came and went and I did what I usually did – went about my life in a numbed state. The next day came and went, then another day and another day as they have a habit of doing.

 I don’t recall precisely the first time it happened. I was most likely running errands at the local shopping strip.  I was going about my business with my head down, a habit I had recently developed to avoid making eye contact which would lead to unwanted conversations. This was a dangerous place. I might run into other school mums who would adopt the concerned face whilst asking ‘how are you...really?’ nodding with their head to the side to indicate sincerity all the while hoping for some sign of a break down to gossip about later at the school gate.

Further ahead on the street, portions of beige or grey clothing and balding head were glimpsed through moving bodies. Immediately, I knew logically that it couldn’t be my father -in-law as he had been buried months before. That didn’t stop me pushing past people trying to get a closer look. If I could just get closer, then I’d know. Stepping left and right, two paces ahead, then stop, wait, now to the left. It was like playing a three dimensional game of hop-scotch to no avail. I stopped in my tracks, breathing heavily. At only five foot tall, it’s hard to locate people in a crowd and I’d lost him.

What made me think it was David?  It’d odd how little can be seen of someone we know so well for us to recognise them. It’s not just what their hair colour is, or the style of clothes they wear or even their gait. I’m curious about the idea of doppelgangers. If there is someone or multiple some ones like me out there in the world, do they walk like me? Talk like me? Laugh like me? Or only look physically like me? Maybe there’s a punk me, a nerd me and a hipster me. That’s quite a comforting thought really. Seeing David’s doppelganger in the same suburbs was too coincidental surely.

This would happen a few months later and months again after that. I kept trailing the Davids I saw, going into shops I had never been into and down streets I’d never walked. I began to get used to it and no longer found it strangely confusing. I began to just smile to myself knowing that I was seeing something no one else could see. In fact, I think I began to find it mildly comforting. Maybe we don’t disappear into thin air when we die after all.

 Life went on and ‘us little three family’ as I began to call us got on with things. School, work, newly formed habits of how we spent our time filled out lives. Six months down the track, we moved out of the temporary rental property and into our own proper home. I’d come to realise my pipedream of wanting to date my husband was something that only I had wanted. He didn’t want to date me. He wanted to still be married to me in the same manner it had previously been. He couldn’t see the need for change. One year on with divorce formalising things and life started to develop its own rhythm.

It was probably five or so years later than I had the dream. I have always loved my wild and crazy dreams though I’ve always felt I’m really the only one who finds them interesting. Dreams are like illnesses, few people really care enough to want to know the details.

 In my dream, I was in a crowded public place. It may have been a small town festival in a park or field somewhere. It’s one of those places that feel familiar even though I can’t tell you exactly where the place is. There were many people surrounding me and him, though he was at the same time separate from them. Slowly I approached, as I had done so many times in real life, though this time I was confident it was him.

It was one of those golden autumn afternoons with the sun low in the sky. “David?” I asked as I reached out for his shoulder, though I already knew it was him. He turned to face me. The sun was behind him, its glare making it difficult to discern any facial features. I moved around so I could clearly see his face. The fading sun formed a corona around his head.

He was smiling at me with that warm smile he always had. He was looking down towards me taller than he really was in life. He didn’t say anything to me. That’s not what this dream was about. He looked the same as he always had for the 17 years that I knew him. His photo-reactive glasses half tinted in the setting sun, a small breeze lifting his comb-over in an almost comical way. His short sleeve business shirt that he wore over his white sensible singlet.

I started with what I knew I was here to say.

“David, I just want to thank you for all that you’ve done for me and my daughters. I am so glad that I had a chance to know you. You were a fabulous grandfather to the girls and they are better for knowing you. I am better for having known you. Thank you”

There. It was done. I turned and walked away. I had had my chance to say what I needed to.

I awoke with a smile on my face and a calm start to my day. Rarely did I ever wake early and refreshed in the mornings but that day I did. 

Never again did I see my father in law in the street. I didn’t need to.

Aurora

It was an item on his bucket list. She was just a passenger along for the ride. He was travelling to the States for work and decided to extend the trip to take advantage of the great Aurora season.  The best time of the month at the best time of the year and they could be in one of the most likely spots on earth to experience it. Far out in the depths of the Yukon Territory they’d be many miles from the nearest town or neighbours. “It’d be a shame not go” he said

Minus 21 degrees was going to be a little colder than she was used to or in fact had ever felt before. He had measured them up and organised the snow gear complete with boots to be there waiting for them. She never fitted into standard clothes easily. She was short and what was politely termed curvaceous. The jacket sleeves reached down passed her knees and the legs were bunched up over her boots that she found it difficult to walk. Of course, out there, there wasn’t really anything to walk to.

Plentiful supplies of booze and food were purchased from town to see them through their five days at the cabin. Dropped off by a large SUV, it would return a week later to pick them up. They had their phones in case of emergencies. Deep wide tyre tracks were all that was left as the truck has disappeared through the black, spiky forest. Expanses of endless white fields merged with the snow covered mountain ranges in the far distance. Soft pinks and lilacs filled the sky as the sun set on their first evening in the log cabin.

Retreating inside, he poured liberal amounts of wine whilst she put out a platter of cheese, meats and bread to nibble on. No stereo system to fill the silence, they resorted to cable TV as their soundtrack for the evening. Food Network shows on repeat would amuse at first, only to grate in the coming days.

Before they left Australia, they had embarked upon their first counselling session together. It was at her insistence. He couldn’t see any problem. She didn’t want things to go on like this.

They’d met through friends at a club, like many do, and things were light and fun to begin with. They knew they had their differences. She had kids. He didn’t want any of his own. He’d lived alone for eight years. She’d dated for the last five. They had a great time together going out with friends for dinner, drinks and parties. She long ago learnt not to bother planning a future too firmly as things never worked out that way. The only thing he planned ahead was holidays. She loved getting away though always looked forward to returning home. He put off returning to reality as long as he could.

Sitting there on the simple wooden chairs in their tiny cabin, with their wet snow gear draped on whatever spare surface could be found  ‘Bobby Flay’s BBQ Bonanza’ rolled on into ‘Cut-throat Kitchen’ marathons. The small tinny TV blared at them, images flickering with the camera zooming in and out trying to create drama from a piece of grilling meat. Outside the darkness rolled in, blanketing the sparse forest surrounding their quaint little cabin.

It was only recently that things had started to turn sour. It was the little things. It usually is. He wanted to go out and some nights she wanted to stay in. She worked weekends. On Friday nights, he’d start drinking the moment he arrived home from work even when they had a big night out planned. His glass would never empty and he’d put on dance music so loud that the neighbours started to complain. It was his Friday night, he said. He was allowed to let his hair down, not that he actually had any. Often she gave in and they went out, dressed to the nines.

 It was only when they were at the club that he became sullen. His chin never inches from a drink; he’d look over the glass watching her. She was a social butterfly and loved the chance to meet new people or catch up with old friends. Middle suburban mum during the week, this was her chance to transform.

She smiled. People bought her drinks and admired her outfits. She preened and spun for her admirers. He leaned against the bar in the corner and scowled. Occasionally he tried the same act but he came off more like an inebriated bumblebee.

 That was when his sulking would really kick in. How come she got the attention and he didn’t. He tried flirting with other women. Many times, people would ask her what he was on. Once his dance moves were enthusiastic and earnest. Now she just felt pity.

Naturally the best viewing hours for the Aurora Borealis would be in the middle of the night. She said that she’d turn in and he promised to wake her if there was anything to see. Solar flares had been active these last few days so things looked promising. The wine bottle clanked in the sink as he reached for a second one. Lights were turned off and he methodically donned his snow gear before stepping out into the black moon-less night. He sat in his chair and hunkered down to wait and watch.

She tossed and turned on the too firm bed. She stretched out to use its full width. Her mind tossed and turned also as she thought back over the last few days. Busy with the machinations of travel, they’d not fought or discussed their counselling session the previous week. She didn’t know if this was a promising sign or not.

As they were passing through town earlier that day she recalled seeing a paddleboat stuck in the frozen Klondike River. Klondike was a name she’d heard of but without context, it had meant nothing. Stuck in winter ice, the historical wooden boat hadn’t gone anywhere in a long time and wasn’t going anywhere soon.

Not long after they arrived in town, they’d found a saloon bar to perch in with a tasting paddle of local beers and the Super Bowl beamed in  live. “Go 49’ers!” they both shouted echoing the raucous rooting of the local clientele. Whitehorse, Canada was as foreign to her as suburban Melbourne would have felt to their new found bar mates. She played along anyway. She knew how to do that.

Unable to easily drift into slumber land thanks to her active mind, she put on her snow boots by the door and threw a thick warm blanket around her. One step into the dry crunchy snow and despite her layers she feels too exposed.

 “Anything yet?” she asks, knowing the answer would be negative. He shakes his head as he looks up at her. She sits on the edge of his chair, his arms not moving to make any more room for her. He fills his glass with more wine but offers her none. It’s that kind of quiet that is deafening in its heavy solid silence.

“I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t be out there either” she thinks when she realises she can’t hear the sounds of any wildlife. She stays only a few minutes and turns to go inside the sanctuary of the lighted warm cabin when she can bear the frigidity no longer. “Too cold. Too quiet. Too still.” she thinks.

“At least there shouldn’t be any tantrums tonight” she says hopefully out loud to no one but herself. Those nights they would return to his place after too many drinks at a club and he would start in. All she would want to do is sleep and all he would do is rage at her for her lack of attention. It seemed he would rather wait until things had gone too far before he said anything. She never knew when a night was going to turn pear-shaped. She never saw any warning signs. At least with her children, she had learnt to recognise the tells beforehand.

She only realises that she was asleep when he shouts from the open door  “Come quickly!” Groggy, she puts on her thick puffy jacket, grabs a scarf and beanie and threads her feet into the boots just inside the door. Turning the light off to enhance the view, she walks away from the veranda to maximise the view of the sky. Turning this way and that, she’s not sure exactly what she’s looking for. She’s seen photos of the Northern lights and knows they’re large wispy green waves of light. Do they move? Do they only last momentarily like lightning? There are some stories she’d read about eerie noises accompanying the lights. She can’t see anything. She can’t hear anything.

At last, he has put down his glass and takes her shoulders in his hands. He turns her slightly and points low towards the horizon. “There” he says quietly. Leaning against him, he rests his cold chin on her bed-warmed hair and without speaking they watch the ribbons of pale green light dance languidly in the sky. In the morning he will show her his photos of the evening.

All she can think is – “some realities delight and some disappoint.”

Musings on my first formal education class in over 20 years

Frustration and a small degree of amusement that I couldn’t get into my Mac to work. I opened it up and didn’t even know where the power switch was located. Eventually I found the close screen button in the corner. Scrolling up and down the page with two fingers was shown to me at the end of the session. Could’ve used that earlier.  The lad sitting along from me fielded my simple questions with no hint of annoyance.

“Why do you keep putting the windows at full screen ?” he asks.

 “So I can see what I’m writing” I say.

For not the first time that morning, I think maybe I should go get my eyes tested during the week.

I don’t exactly need hand-holding but it would have been helpful if the admin had spelled out precisely what format the password needed to be in to be accepted. Computers tend to be fairly black and white. They like their 1’s and 0’s in the absolute correct order.

So I’m in and I’m hoping to have a browse around this thing at my leisure. Although the machines must remain at school (and I signed a declaration to such effect) I think next week after class I’ll hang in the library and do my homework. Both me and the slim silver Mac need to get to know each other.

Ommmmming

Seated on our green cotton bolsters in the yoga shala or yoga room, the goddesses are assembled in a circle ready for our group meditation. Loose light clothing and the obligatory mosquito repellent to scent my ankles and neck and I’m ready to send love and good vibes to my compadres. Laura, our yoga goddess, looks calm and relaxed in her stretch leggings and loose singlet. Pale blonde hair pulled back off her face, she is the epitome of a yoga teacher. Tall and slim her lithe limbs appear so at home in poses that confuse and elude me though she continues to encourage us “no matter what body turned up for you on the mat this morning.” This morning to finish off our week’s retreat, we have an OM circle. This mantra chanting is supposed to provide vibrational healing both mentally and emotionally.

Laura explains how the session will run with a short personal meditation then the OM circle with the use of mala beads. Mala beads are a string of 108 beads and a central ‘sumeru’ or summit bead.  Essentially the string of beads is a tool to keep the mind on the meditation practice. Made from woods, seeds or crystals, the beads are held in the right hand, rotating them around the circle but never across the summit bead. As to why there are 108 beads on a string of mala beads? Well, there are no doubt 108 answers to this question, most playing with the mathematics of the numerals and how they intersect with the universe.

We each will chant ‘OM’ as a group 108 times. At each interval of 5, one goddess will lay down in the centre of the circle face up with arms outstretched palms upwards. Each will experience the circle differently. No expectations and no pre-conceptions .Focussing on my breath and centring my mind, I get better at the whole omming thing as the chant progresses. When I’m tapped gently on the knee, it’s my turn in the centre. I feel the cool hard floorboards beneath me. Across my skin I sense the breeze from the fan or as I like to think of it the breath of the divine Goddess blowing her healing energy into my abdomen. The work of Papa Bagus yesterday is supported by the Goddess circle this morning. There’s no pain in my intestinal region only a strong awareness of this area.

When we’ve reached the final bead, we are lead through a short prayer and an awakening ritual ready to prepare us for the day ahead. Hands together palms touching at heart centre and gently rub them together to warm then place over our closed eyes, let the early morning light filter in as I slowly blink my eyes open. Stretching the limbs and we all wander over the few paces to our breakfast table.

Platters of brightly coloured tropical fruits are offered up each morning for our viewing and consuming pleasure. Dragonfuit of such a strong shade of fuchsia with tiny black seeds that it looks like a child coloured it in. Snake fruit with scaly brown skin and an off white fibrous perfumed flesh. Mango is less creamy and sweet than I’m used and slightly astringent. Papaya perfectly ripe and not the least bit funky. Mangosteen is a delight once you cut through the thick skin and reveal its sweet white flesh. There are also the tastiest eggs poached or scrambled as you like, seedy brown bread and juices in new combinations each day.

Sitting here at the table, I think about how I’m going to miss having a selection of tasty healthy foods prepared freshly for me at each meal. There will be no limitless spa treatments at my disposal. I, personally, will miss Yeni’s strong fingers tracing the muscles of my back.  My white cotton sheets won’t be changed each day with the corner turned down and a small inspirational affirmation card on my pillow. The lyrical sounds of the housekeeping staff talking to each in Balinese will no longer be a soundtrack to my afternoons lazing on the couches in the lounge.

Good thing I’m looking forward to going home.

Papa Bagus

The small studio is half hidden under more vines and bamboo and I open the French doors and part the cheesecloth curtains to the side. I don’t really know what I’m in for but being open-minded I’m pretty up for whatever might come my way. I’m here for a consultation with a traditional Balinese healer. The other night Kat’s testimony was so compelling that I implored Adriana to see if the healer can find a time to fit me in. A short solid man not much older than myself, though I’m really only guessing, greets me. Softly spoken, his English is much better than my Indonesian. Pak Bagus, or Papa Bagus as the retreat managers refer to him, is dressed simply in a once-white t-shirt and blue batik print shorts with the standard bare feet.

“Why are you here?” he asks simply.  I choose not to dwell on the more philosophical sides of the question but briefly tell him about my diverticulitis last week. Basic words and some hand gesturing later he nods and directs me to lie down. I place my iced water on the side table, untie my sarong and lay face down on the massage table. He places his hands on my back at different intervals and blows gently upon my skin. Soon the pummelling and kneading begin. Without any massage oil, his hands soon warm up even more from the friction of his movements. Over the next two hours, I am alternatively poked and prodded, stroked and manipulated sometimes to the point of discomfort. I can’t decide whether he’s trying to work the bad stuff out or work the good stuff in.

Occasionally I draw in a quick breath when he works on a painful spot. He’s quick to explain that my outer thigh muscles are tender because they correlate to my stomach infection. “Big infection” he repeats time and again. These spots have been tender for quite some time and I know our body bits are all inter-connected but it’s reassuring when these things are reinforced. I roll over at the requested time and the procedure is repeated. Muscles are held first, breath blown then long firm strokes followed up by massage and manipulation with oil. For the first time in my experience, all the massages I am receiving in Bali my stomach is getting its fair share of attention. Papa Bagus is no exception.

I’m glad of this as his ministrations certainly ease some of the tension in my belly. He closes his eyes and his lubed up hands explore, press and release sections of my abdomen. “You tell me if pain” he says and I nod enthusiastically. As he holds firmly in the certain spots just above my pubic line, I feel sharp twinges on my lower left side. I tell him straight away. He nods but doesn’t really let up the pressure. This happens a few more times and I wonder why I’m supposed to mention the pain. Most likely as a distraction technique, he asks me about my family – children, husband and so on. I answer without going into too much confusing detail. He tells me about an Australian group he was dealing with last week and I interject with “It’s my first time in Bali actually.”

“Why?!” he exclaims.  I quickly apologise and explain that I was never interested in the beach and Bintang style of holiday and I didn’t understand what else this island had to offer. I make sure he understands that I recognise my folly and will endeavour in the future to dispel this belief amongst anyone I meet. I wax lyrical about Ubud and its stunning natural beauty, the artisans we’ve seen, the friendly generosity of the people we’ve encountered and the incredible food we’ve eaten. I hope I’ve convinced him that this will not be my last visit to Bali.

Like a rotisserie chicken, I’m oiled and turned, seasoned with spices and turned again. Meanwhile he expounds on his unique skills set “Astrology, astronomy, massage, healer, ceremony “. He pauses for no doubt dramatic effect “magic..”. I leave this last one in the air.

When my time has elapsed, I slowly sit up and find my sarong. Straightening my dishevelled underwear he adds a few last minute prescriptions. “Massage. You need massage in Melbourne. Who can do that?” I reassure him that there are plenty of places I can get massages. He also does his best to explain that I need to work on my gut bacteria. This actually isn’t news to me as I’ve been suffering the last few years every now and then especially with fermented products. Digestively speaking, I’m definitely still very much a work in progress.

I thank him, palms pressed firmly together in front of my chest fingers skyward as is the custom. I slink off back to my room before I have to encounter anyone.