After feeling out the erratic rules of the road over the last week, I decided it was time to hop on a motorbike and do some exploring outside Ubud. Joined by some new friends in the hostel and a last-minute hostel owner turned tour guide for the day, we set off into the jungle, in search of rice terraces, temples, and crappy coffee. If I’d previously felt as though I was right where I needed to be, the feeling was validated as soon as we began carving the roads through lush forests, waving local children, volcanic panoramas, and traditional rice farming in action.

Exploring the rice fields was not only beautiful, but mesmerizing as well. The soft sounds of breeze blowing, rice sifting, and sickles swinging had me treading lightly so as not to disturb a holy ritual that’s been happening for centuries. Looking out over terraces carved onto the steep hillside while I sipped on coffee literally brewed from a small creature’s feces (Luwak coffee, it’s a thing) had me again wondering how I’d gotten here. The holy pools of the grand temple complex held a solemn horde of worshippers and westerners cleansing themselves in the fountains of the holy pool’s waters.

After our final stop at a secluded beach across the island, we headed back to Ubud, sun setting in the distance as the haze from burn piles reflected an orange tint on the lush green of the jungle forests. 5 years ago, I sat in a similar position, chasing the sun as I ventured through the hills of Tuscany with a couple new friends and a Vespa. This time around, hill towns were replaced by cliff sides, grapevines by rice fields, Chianti by Luwak, and the Gregorian chanting of the monastery by the holy pools of the Hindu temple.

Just the same two-step with a little twist.

After crossing into the world of yogis, I quickly realized the array of classes and sessions on tap was far more than just your average yoga studio. I glossed over the schedule, passing Vinyasa, gong meditations, and laughter sessions, until my eyes fell on the crown jewel: Ecstatic Dance.

Not to toot my own horn here, but I can cut a rug (or yoga mat) with the best of them. So, learning that there was going to be an hour and a half session of freestyle dancing to every kind of music from tribal to hip-hop, where the only rule was that you couldn’t speak to anyone, had me juiced (fresh pressed, if you were wondering). No bar, no drugs (not that I noticed at least), just me, myself, and a dance floor in the middle of a jungle. And about 100 other people, but they were an afterthought.

I danced like I was the star in a Macklemore music video. Non-stop, no inhibitions, for nearly 2 hours. By the end of the night, my shorts looked and felt like I’d just showered in them, and my tank top was long gone; it was weighing me down anyways. In the few moments that I came out of my zone, I looked around to see people in their own worlds, some slowly bobbing back and forth, some racing around in circles, some holding crazy yoga poses, and some bending, contorting, and flowing like I’d never seen.

Somewhere between Kendrick Lamar and the hand-holding emotional release outburst exercise to wrap up the night, I was properly perplexed by what was happening around me.

Where in the hell was I? Who knows, who cares really?

What I do know is that I challenged myself to a dance off…and won.

As I made my way to Ubud, a kind of free-spirit Mecca in central Bali, I was mildly anxious about what I was about to get myself into. Ubud’s popularity with tourists has sky-rocketed since it was a part of the Eat, Pray, Love craze however long ago. I’m not sure if Ubud was the eat, the pray, or the love portion of the book, but suffice to say there’s plenty of room for all three in the area. While many of the rice terraces have turned to day spas and guest-houses, Ubud retains its charm flawlessly, where luxury, health, and peace can be found down nearly every alley. Well, maybe not on Monkey Forest road, there’s nothing peaceful about little monkeys trying to steal your stuff.

Anyways, my plan upon arrival in Ubud was to, for the first time in my life, take a yoga class. If ever I was going to do it, this would be the place. Being the manly man I pretend to be, I’d never stepped foot in a yoga studio, hell, even on a yoga mat. Not my thing. I’ve always been more comfortable on a basketball court or baseball field, tight hamstrings and all. Nothing a little IcyHot can’t fix. Now was the time, however, to do one of those uncomfortable things I always preach to my friends about doing.

The first day I chickened out, opting instead to explore the endless shops, juice bars, organic eateries, temples, and monkey habitats. I did end the day with a nice massage, and an exfoliating body scrub that wiped off the 3 months of filth I’d built up on the trails in New Zealand. Baby Steps. Day 2 was judgement day. I showed up to the Intro to Yoga class and was the only one there for 10 minutes. Please no. Little by little, a handful of people trickled in, making for a little less awkward first time. I laughed to myself as I was coached through the Ohms and breath exercises, the internal searching, and the salutations to our closest star. It wasn’t a laugh directed towards the practice, but simply an acknowledgement that I was there, fully participating in something I shunned for so long. My favorite pose was one of the warriors, naturally, and, I must admit, I did feel pretty damn good afterwards, though I expected not to be able to walk in the coming days from the contorting my body had to endure. While I won’t be turning into a yogi anytime soon, perhaps I may succumb to my sister’s prodding to join in on some yoga after I return.

Walking around town, I couldn’t help but be in an utterly peaceful state, still riding the high from Bingin Beach, reinforced by the bodily nourishment in Ubud.

Namaste

Boarding my late night flight to Bali, my internals were sending messages typically reserved for flights that originate in my home country. I’ve been away for nearly 3 months now, yet I felt as though a trip was just beginning. Australia and New Zealand had come as second nature, a lifestyle I’d grown accustomed to, if not bored with. Now was the time to shed the West as it were, with all the culture that goes along with it. It also marked a leap into the unknown, as up to this point, I had semi-planned the general activities I partook in throughout Aus and New Zealand. From here on in, whenever that may be, I’m flying by the seat of my pants, making it up as I go, the way it ought to be.

I arrived to the cliff above my bungalow at 3am, with seemingly clear directions from my driver on how I would navigate down to the beach and my much-needed bed. Head lamp secured, I made my way down the treacherous steps, following my left-right-right instructions until I came upon an extra fork that wasn’t in the game plan. I chose to go right.

I chose wrong.

Dripping with sweat, shoes now filled with sand, I found the beach, but not my bed. Dogs barking at my light, a midnight toker on a balcony nearby provided no help in locating my dwelling place. Some backtracking and more attention to detail resulted in locating the 12-point font sign that pointed left at the final fork. Forty-five minutes after I arrived, I was finally in bed.

Waking up the next morning, looking out from the deck onto the secluded stretch of sand below, famous surf breaks in the distance, I surveyed the scene of bungalows dotted along the cliffs. Wouldn’t you know it, the midnight toker’s deck was literally next door to mine. Suksama (Thanks) Bru!

My 3 days in Bingin Beach were a perfect vacation inception (vacation within a vacation), as I spent my days with some morning laps along the shore, fresh coconuts and fruits for breakfast, afternoon lounging on the deck after some delicious nasi goreng, evening temple runs, and nightly Bintangs on the beach. What intrigued me most about the whole experience was how natural it all felt. This wasn’t resort living or pre-packaged tourist catering. It was simply living. Even the young workers spent their mornings trimming vegetables on the decks, soaking up the sun, before setting up tables in the sand for the nightly fish frys, with plenty of cigarette and swim breaks scattered between. Every pilgrimage I took down to the water was greeted with a “Hey Boss” and a smile. A secret to living has been unlocked in these parts, of that I’m certain. After all the excitement of beginning a new series of adventures, I’d only just arrived in Bingin and began to wonder why I needed to leave.

Fickle is the mind of a traveler...