What is Brandon Still Doing in Bali?

"Chk-chk-chk-chk---vroooooom". And I'm off. I slide open the gate of the Tropical Bali Hotel, where my hosts, Mikael and Brama, have created the most tranquil, relaxing accommodation I have experienced, and speed up the dirt lane past the rice paddy on my pink rented scooter. If I turn left, I could head down past the cafes and the rooster traders (they trade cock-fighting roosters daily) toward the beach (oh, and don't be fooled...a "cafe", in Bali, is basically a brothel), but now I turn right. I approach the final bend before hitting the main road (the "by-pass"), and stop to drop off a few recyclable cans for Comanx's mother at the warung, and sit for a few minutes with a couple of local farmers. When I arrive, Comanx's 5 year-old sister, Dia, jumps into my arms, gives me a big hug, draws back and grins. Old man "M" soon stops by and tries to haggle me into staying at his guesthouse again and offers me the services of one of several young girls that he "represents". Many men make such a sales pitch to me. Suddenly, old man "M" tosses into the grass the coffee Comanx's mother had just poured for him. He's upset because he thinks she discourages me from accepting his offers (she doesn't have to). I hop back onto the scooter, Dia jumps up onto my lap to avoid the walk home, and we pull up to the light at the by-pass.

Once each day I turn left and make the 15km journey to the town of Sanur to eat at my favorite warung serving traditional Indonesian, "Warung Lumentu". It's spicy as hell and only 7,000 rupiah (70 cents) for a full plate of food. The family that runs it is from Java and is Muslim, but they didn't act irritated when I mistakenly greeted them by saying: "Om suas dias tu", which is a traditional Balinese Hindu greeting. Now I stick with "hello", which works. Yesterday, I think they overcharged me by $0.08 and I was really irritated, even after comparing the price to what I used to pay for a meal in NYC.

If I turn right, I could head north into the mountains. One hour north is the small, tourist town of Ubud. Despite the number of acres of rice paddies that still exist in Ubud, the economics are dominated by villas that rent for up to thousands of dollars per night, high-end shops and resort spas (including a Four Seasons). On the way to Ubud is Horizon Glassworks, where my Californian friend Ron skillfully creates beautiful glasswork to the sounds of Clapton for export all over the world. He wears a bandanna, sun glasses, black converse all-stars and a clove cigarette between his lips, and his tattooed, shirtless torso sways to the music as he passionately molds the fiery glass. A middle-aged man, he stumbled into a hot-shop 8 years ago, fell in love with the art, and only after enrolling in a glass-blowing school learned from his father that his great-grandfather was a glass blower in Martins Ferry, Ohio. How's that for destiny?

If I ride 2 hours north along the coast I can get in another dive with the eels, grouper, barracuda, puffer and trigger fish that inhabit the shipwreck at Tulamben, where a Japanese torpedo took out the U.S.S. Liberty in WWII. Or if I follow the central route for another hour past Ubud I'll arrive the mountain town of Kintamani, where, every day, it's sunny from 6am-10am, cloudy from 10am-3pm and rainy from 3pm-6am. My friend Sadiana lives there with his parents who were rice farmers. He commutes to the south to work at the hotel and sends money home as is the Balinese tradition. From 1994-1998, the volcano next to Sadiana's home, Mount Batur, erupted. He said ash rained on his home for four years and he could see lava flowing from it every night.

Today, however, I'm going straight. I wait for the light to turn green, dodge the traffic turning right onto the by-pass, and Dia and I cruise 2km before turning left at the grove of trees. We wind around on the narrow concrete passages, dodging holes in the road and other scooterists. Finally, we turn left and wind our way to the family home, nestled up against the village rice paddy, corn field and flower garden. The kids are catching crabs in the stream that separates the home from the fields, and they run over, kiss my hand, and ask to see my camera. I walk into the open-air home, greet Comanx's 28 year-old brother and sister-in-law, Made and Putu, who are working at the manually operated sewing machine, and sit down on the tile floor, where Made joins me.

Comanx walks in. She looks stunning in her orange, sequin covered ceremonial outfit. She disappears for a moment, then returns with my outfit. I strip down to my boxer briefs and Made wraps and secures a red sarong around my waist. I put on a tan button-down and a traditional hat, and have a neighbor snap a photo (the first time around she took one of herself). "Let's go, B", Comanx says, and we hop on the scooter and head for the mountains. We leave early so she can make offerings to the gods at four different temples around the village prior to making the journey to the "holy spring". By the time we leave Denpasar, Bali's largest city, it's dark. We begin winding our way into the mountains; a convoy of scooters - males driving, females in their traditional dresses, sitting sideways on the backs. After an hour, we arrive, and follow Comanx's family down a path into the jungle. We approach a stone structure...inside, there is a large pool of water with 14 fountain heads pouring into it and 200+ shivering people crammed together, sharing body heat. Following Comanx's father's lead, I take off my shirt, and, holding Dia in one arm, lower myself into the water. We wait in line for each of the fountains, under which I do my best to perform the ritual I've been instructed to imitate. "Don't forget Dia", Comanx reminds me, so I dip the 5-year-old's head under each fountain three times. The Balinese seem baffled by my presence, more so that I'm holding Dia, and yet even more so by the fact that I'm not shivering in water that must have been at least 75 or 80 degrees.

There's a young local man who's livid that I spend time with Comanx. He has informed me (via text to Comanx's phone) that he is doing black magic against me. I haven't yet responded to inform him that I'm doing a bit of white magic every morning in retaliation (I would welcome any tips). Just in case, I've been working out with Steve, a retired member of, and hand-to-hand combat instructor for, the British Special Forces, an ex-bodyguard for the Sultan of Brunei, and a judo competitor at the '88 Olympics in Seoul (my interest in training isn't really related to Mr. Black Magic, but it sounds good). I haven't been in great shape since my wrestling days in high school, and it feels good to get tossed around a bit. Today, after opening up a can of whoop-ass on me for awhile, Steve wanted to demonstrate how to defend against knife attacks and close-range gunfire. I informed him that we can skip that part...I don't anticipate ever needing it, but after witnessing his split-second acrobatics in disarming me despite my resistance, I changed my mind.