Trekking the rainforest in Bali
As we walked out of the airport, warm humid air enveloped us like a hug, and so did the warm ocean water hours later. For a moment or two I forgot where my skin ended, and the rest of the world began. Philosophically, there may be no such line. Practically, it was the line that absorbed half the bottle of sunscreen that week.
Our trip had a distinct structure. On the first week we were celebrating my brother’s wedding, complete with a barefoot dinner on the beach, deeply thoughtful vows, and a giant turtle crawling out of the ocean just before midnight - straight into our cosy conversation circle in the sand. I am pretty sure no one has arranged the appearance of the turtle, but here it was, the highlight of entertainment, the blessing of the ocean. A blessing well-deserved.
Before we knew it, the ceremonial magic was over, the turtle crawled back into the waves and it was time for us to explore a whole other side of the island, and the experiences that it had to offer. We packed ourselves into a car and headed to the North West of Bali.
When we arrived to the ecolodge, shiny with sweat, the storms started pouring with more and more enthusiasm. Marco observed that while in week one sunscreen was our limited resource, jungle-grade mosquito spray was bound to take that place by week two. And so it did. We quickly learned that our hut was quite simple, our bathroom did not even have glass for windows, just these beautifully ornamented holes in the stone wall, covered with wooden shutters, leaving beautifully big gaps for all sorts of beings to crawl in. And they did not hesitate to do so. We saw geckos crossing the wall when brushing teeth, massive bees flying around hanging towels, a snail circling the shampoo bottle, and, Marco’s favourite, a fist-sized spider welcoming us in the toilet, quite literally.
The first sightings were the most exciting, as most (but far from all) firsts are. As we took an exploratory walk to get to know the jungle surrounding us, Marco suddenly exclaimed "Look, a butterfly!" and pointed to this massive Unidentified Flying Object fluttering through the branches of cacao trees. I argued it's a bird - there's no way butterflies of this size exist. He argued it's a butterfly. While we argued, the gentle UFO approached us more closely, and, indeed, it was a butterfly. A massive, larger-than-a-fist butterfly. As we walked, we stumbled upon a rice paddy, flooded by the recent rainfall. Later that night we heard a frog right next to our porch, staying mostly quiet, but echoing almost every phrase that we uttered. So we started talking to the frog, relying mostly on yes-no questions, as he struggled to elaborate otherwise. We had an excellent conversation. After that night, the frog never returned. Maybe the appreciation was onesided.
We fell asleep with a mosquito net hugging our bed, having tumbled around in the darkness to brush our teeth. We decided that given the abundance of insects (and the velocity with which they devour me), turning the light on at night may not be the wisest idea, especially knowing how freely they can access our house through those insect-friendly glassless bathroom windows. I got used to sweeping the toilet seat with my palm before sitting, just in case the gecko living in our bathroom decided to chill on the seat for a bit. Got to be respectful, even in the darkness. Especially in the darkness.
Next morning, we kicked off our day just after sunrise, in a spacious bamboo treehouse lined with Tibetan prayer flags. I did some light yoga, catching a sight of squirrels jumping from a palm tree to a palm tree, while Marco was watching birds, checking them off a long list of local animals provided by the ecolodge.
"Look" was the word of the day(s).
At breakfast we were presented with fruit harvested from this land. Pieces of papaya, snake fruit and passion fruit, with a proud red (edible!) bloom of hibiscus perched on top. Coffee from this soil traveled down our veins, palm sugar seeped into a rice toast. Short plump bananas swam in a coconut milk oatmeal. All from around here. How can you not feel connected to the land around you, when it so readily becomes a part of you, just to repeat the cycle again, and again. There was so much beauty with the sunlight falling on my fruit, the jungle view unfolding behind Marco, ahead of me. I kept thinking that I could just stay in these jungly mountains writing, until the end of time.
And yet we were more ambitious than just sitting and writing. We set out on a walk, and as we reached the main road, a figure showed up on the horizon and started running toward us at great speed, wagging its tale. Enter Ginger. We called him Ginger as his fur was colourful, with bright gingery hazel patches shining from afar. Also, ginger - the plant - grew nearby. Convenient. Ginger greeted us as our best friend ever and set out to walk with us. He somehow knew that we were heading to the temple, and he knew the path to it better than we did. We called him our freelance local guide, as he was all those things - and more. Ginger, we quickly learned, was a dog that reigned havoc wherever he went. We would be walking, he would be disappearing for a second, all would fall quiet, and then, suddenly, all chickens, dogs and other living beings in sight (and out of it) would explode into a noisy chaos. On the road, he barked at other people with passion. Then he would look at us quietly wagging his tail. He seemed to be protecting us from other dogs too, and dogs were abundant on this path, every village house having at least one and using it as a visitor alarm bell. Ginger followed us back to the ecolodge, sniffing a dog-god carved in limestone, then jumping straight onto the most sacred part of the shrine. No one minded. Then he came to our hut and laid down by our doorstep, protecting us even when resting. I found a clay ashtray, washed it and filled it with water. He drank. He allowed some cuddles. Then he left.
There were storms in the forecast. Don't be intimidated by the forecasts, they said. Warriors look at challenges and give them a wink, the Tibetan prayer flags echoed. And yet the rain started falling the very same day. We swam in the pond moments before a storm decided to knock on our proverbial door. The rain poured with eagerness uncommon for May. We started measuring its strength by how loudly we had to shout in order to make ourselves heard through it.
With our phones turned off and storms washing away every afternoon, soon enough life got deliciously simple. I realised that ants can become very interesting very fast - finally understanding Thoreau fully. I watched them as the most engaging tv show. Trying to lift pieces of food, to carry wounded friends. Once we spotted an ant exiting our hut, carrying out pieces of sand and other dirt. A cleaning ant. Quite impressive, really. Once you step back, you realise that everyone is just doing their own thing, as best they can. Ants. Geckos. Dogs. People.
The next day we went to the rainforest with a local freelance guide. Not Ginger - this time we were joined by Pak Wayan, a local villager who was just as eager to introduce us to his land. As we entered the rainforest, he pointed out bright, almost unnaturally blue berries. He rubbed away their flesh with his thumb, showing a beautiful seed full of intricate ridges, like a tiny walnut. I had heard that rudraksha seeds are used for making holy beads, and are hard to come by. I picked up a few more. Our guide found a ripe cacao fruit and opened it up to offer us its dark bitter seeds, covered in white soft sweet and sour flesh. He pointed out fig trees, which, at first, I was excited to recognise, but then he told us that there are about 30 species of them in this forest, so I dropped this futile quest. Some of them don't even bother to have branches and grow fruit straight on their trunks. We could hear monkeys playing further away from the forest path, avoiding people, but as we got quiet, we could observe a few of them, having just finished their breakfast consisting of coffee berries. Our guide asked us to be constantly attentive, pointing out dragon flies and butterflies, even a Tree Nymph - one of the largest butterflies in the region, fluttering like a piece of paper in the wind due to its exceptionally thin and delicate wings.
To up the levels of thrill, Pak Wayan asked us to leave the rainforest path and dove straight into the jungle, walking ahead of Marco and I armed with his mechete, cutting the snake fruit stems covered with sharp needles. The plants were astonishing: pandan trees forming structures akin to tipi tents, pineapple flowers - red and white - shaping themselves into fruit. Ficus trees, vanilla trees, bright blue morning glory, ginger, cloves, avocado trees. Wild orchids. Fern everywhere. Of course, rain was on the forecast. And needless to say, we got showered with rain in the rainforest. Which, Marco said, is an experience in itself. Our guide cut wide taro leaves, one each, to carry as improvised umbrellas. On our way back, we spotted an animated bundle of dogs, and of course, Ginger soon emerged out of it with great energy. Our guide introduced us to his friend and his dog. The latter showed no sign of affection - or of remembering us, for that matter.
But fear not, our Ginger saga was not over abruptly, because the day after he spotted us from even further down the road, running and pausing, as if not believing that his buddies passed the loyalty test and returned. He greeted us jumping, with a two-legged stand, which left muddy marks on my light clothes, but dirt from Ginger? What an honour. And so it went. Day after day. One day Ginger led us to an Indonesian food degustation. We tasted red and yellow cacao seeds and 80% chocolate made out of them, sweetened with palm sugar. We tried three types of local coffees, the local earthy Robusta coffee of dark roast and two Arabicas of lighter roast, tasting of lemon and apple. We tried the nectar of snake fruit, and a palm sugar syrup that they called vegan honey. We tried actual honey as well, over ten varieties of citrusy, smoky, creamy and even savoury flavours, depending on where it was gathered. Having laced my lips with all the Indonesian sweets, the bees seemed to be following me more eagerly.
As a new day rolled in, we set out to walk the local snake fruit plantations, catching hidden views of rice paddies. We stumbled upon a restaurant for lunch, a humble space with breathtaking views of the jungle. A man started talking to us, and only mid-conversation we realised that he is the owner of the restaurant. Simon said he hates people but gets along with Balinese well, as they are quite similar to his fellow Brits - never saying what they actually mean, talking in circles and staying polite at all cost. Later I call him out for talking in circles. Simon came to this Balinese village 15 years ago, at first teaching English, then turning to creating farmsteads, after the local community leaders asked him to bring in more visitors. He recently opened a jungle restaurant because, he said, it is surprisingly hard to find Balinese food in Bali, so he set out to serve local food in traditional ways. Even more surprisingly, he said that these jungle villages have not changed too much in the past decade - although that cannot be said about more popular places in the South. He told us about the Indonesian language, and the local Balinese languages, explaining how straightforward the former is - with no tenses or genders to mind. The latter though can be much more difficult, as locals tend to skip the first syllable or two, so there is no way to even look up the word in a dictionary as you have no clue how it starts. While he spoke (and he did speak quite a bit for a self-identified introvert), a dog grabbed my palm with both paws and started to lick it until I patted him. The dogs in this island are the most social creatures in the universe. While the dog was demanding cuddles, Simon told us a story about a local cacao farmer who has never tasted chocolate in her life - so he brought her some from the airport, the typical sugary fix, and she devoured the whole chocolate bar at once. He said it smiling, but it's quite common for the farmers here to grow the cacao and to export it - since processing does not usually happen locally, they don't get to try the finished product. We learned that it is the case with quite a few products other than cacao, including honey, cashew butter and other local delicacies.
We kept learning. One rainy afternoon we were taught how to carve limestone by Pak Ketut, a self-taught carving master emanating quiet determination. He used to be a farmer, but once, when climbing a mountain, he had gotten injured and he was no longer able to walk - therefore, he was no longer able to be a farmer, so he had to find other ways to live. Having lost his legs, his vocation, and even his family, he built a beautiful new life learning a new craft, marrying a new wife and having to sons. He gave us a block of wet limestone. I turned it into a tortoise. Marco turned his into a frog. As I hammered bits of limestone away, I was joined by Ollie, a bright six year-old Dutch-Australian boy, who was quite critical of my stone carving skills, but was otherwise the kindest kid I have ever met. He told me what he learned on a farm, and all about his jiu-jitsu skills, and then gifted me a passion fruit. The next day we learned to make traditional teas and pastes for healing illnesses. Our teacher told us that her grandma used to make this paste out of turmeric, rice and candle nut every single day, rubbing it into her body, rubbing it into her grandkids body. We wondered if anyone has time for it these days. We decided that barely anyone does. We drank a butterfly pea flower tea that shifted from blue to purple to pink, as if affected by alchemy - alchemy being lime and honey.
As our last day came to a close, thoughts started to click into places. I was in a home of Ibu Putu, a massage therapist. I could hear dogs barking outside, her kids running around in the yard, while she tried to find painful points on my back (successfully so). She told me she had been a masseuse for a decade. I kept thinking of all these people I met, who learned a skill aiming to help - to guide, to teach, to heal - and now were practicing the skill, focused on doing as well as they could, helping as much as they could. I get so stuck worrying about right path, licenses to be obtained, and while that matters, that is not the only way, or at least not the only track worth exploring. That dedicated expertise charmed me and reminded me of what matters - learning, applying, sharing. Delivering real, tangible value to a human being in front of you. Fittingly, the most beautiful wish comes from Ollie's mother Caroline, just before we say our goodbyes - don't think too much. Act from the heart. That is my intention, my goal, and the echo of the trip that keeps coming back to me weeks later, having safely reached home.
