My Bali Guest House

My Bali Guest House

I gave up on a plan to reverse course and reinvent myself back in the States. So I focused on the present time and place — life in “The Bud” (Ubud, Bali).

Guest accommodation is a popular way foreigners earn extra income on the island. This is the kind of place I first rented, and the idea appealed to me. I began to search for a suitable place where I could create my own guest house. Soon enough, I found a two-story bungalow that I could rent for one year.

Armed with a new sense of purpose. I named my new place “Siddharlo’s Guest House.” In honor of the prince who became the Buddha, Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. I hung out a new sign under the Bali sun: Siddharlo’s Guest House.

Siddharlo’s Guest House was more like a fifth-dimensional train station for aliens. Located about 10 minutes by motorbike from Ubud’s spiritual, arts, and trinket center. My villa was easier to find than most, past the only resort with a big swimming pool and down a well-paved driveway.

The drive from town to my villa was an adventure in itself. The road. With all its twists and turns. Was bordered on either side by a wide array of visual imagery. Rice fields. Villas are under construction. Ancient Hindu temples, botanical gardens, and an authentic Kundalini yoga ashram. Driving along the narrow, congested road was like navigating an obstacle course. Dogs and more dogs, ducks, cars, motorbikes, and people.

I dreamed about a resort or a guest house business. I thought that people who owned these types of places had it made. It was a way to sustain yourself while doing something you enjoyed.

With the possibility of even making a little extra money. I would have chosen to go eco-friendly. A self-sustainable dwelling. Operating off the grid using solar power. Rainwater, and recycled gray water, which would leave only a minimal ecological footprint.

Until I had a better understanding of the local tourist accommodation business. And accrued resources to buy my land on which to build it. The idea is on hold. So, Siddharlo’s was a practice run — the first step in self-sufficiency on the island. And in moving toward the realization of that dream.

I describe the structure I chose for my guesthouse as an Indo/European-style villa. Built in the late ’90s. Constructed of painted brick and concrete, and already showed signs of wear. The sinks, toilets and ceramic tile were damaged and in dire need of replacement. Doors and windows did not fit or function in their frames, and part of the patio was sinking. The entire place needed renovation.

The use of space in the typical Balinese home is an architectural oddity. By American standards. Most bedrooms are quite small, while a bathroom can accommodate a king-sized bed.

The house had no living room area or office space. I found a villa with a large indoor kitchen. Most Balinese houses have either a tiny indoor kitchen. Or an open kitchen located outside. My kitchen consisted of a countertop. A sink with only cold running water, a refrigerator, and a camping stove powered by a tank of natural gas. I added a microwave and an electric oven.

One feature needed no fixing: the view. The spacious patio overlooked an expansive garden. Coconut trees and tropical flora in a myriad of sizes, shapes, and colors. In the early morning, a veil of mist lay across the garden. Creating an enchanting and inspiring ambiance. Intoxicating fragrances floated on the jungle breeze.

Despite the villa’s drawbacks, or because of them, the rent was affordable. I still had enough money to make necessary repairs and to create a pleasant retreat for guests.

The guest quarters offered a private entrance to a single spacious room. The space could accommodate two people. I brought in a queen-sized bed, new bamboo furniture, and Balinese art. The private, modern bath had hot and cold running water and came equipped with a shower and tub. A balcony, overlooking the garden, doubled as a kitchenette.

Along with free wifi. I also set up services including transportation. Bike rentals. Laundry cleaning. Massage, clean drinking water, delivery of meals and organic vegetables, and tour guides.

Finally, I created a roadside sign, and I employed a local Balinese man, Wayan as my assistant. By shimmying up the coconut trees to retrieve coconuts for my guests. Wayan added an entertaining touch. I took photos of the villa, set up a website with online booking, and opened Siddharlo’s.

After all the preparation. I remained uncertain about whether I possessed enough knowledge and skill. The demands of a cross-section of international travelers are unknown.

How would my past business and social experiences serve me in this venture? I wanted to connect with my guests, befriend them and hear what they had to say.

I wanted to use my artistic knowledge and be sensitive to my guests’ creative needs. I wanted to be unobtrusive. Smiling presence and provide a harmonious environment. And foster a sense of well-being. A place where they could unroll their yoga mat, have a veggie shake, sing a song or two, and tell me their stories.

My fears turned out to be unfounded and I soon began hosting guests from all corners of the globe. Many of my guests were free-spirited young people who had traveled the world for years. I enjoyed the entire parade of colorful characters, and some stood out more than others.

Guest One

Jaguar X arrived at my villa at the appointed time. Seeing her up close for the first time. Her striking presence — tall, fit, ebony-skinned, beaded, braided, and smiling. Topping off her image was an exaggerated crown of black braided hair. Full of bright pink and yellow string. Which seemed to ensnare moonbeams before falling from her shoulders. Draping her slender body to the waist like a cape of light. The statuesque cat woman stood in my doorway and surveyed the space.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” JX queried through an American southern drawl, half-smile.

We couldn’t have been standing there for more than a few seconds. I felt flush with embarrassment and checked to make sure my jaw wasn’t hanging open.

“Yes, of course. Come in,” I said.

I helped her carry in luggage and several hula hoops. Her cat-paw feet floated across the floor as she appeared to hover in fluid silence to the chair I held out for her. After pouring us each a cup of tea, I joined her at the table and we began to exchange stories. JX began by telling me that she was in her late 30s, unmarried, had no children, and was self-employed.

“My mom kicked me off the couch and my brother was getting on my back,” she explained. “I have an idea for a goddess empowerment retreat.”

This was her eighth sojourn to Bali in as many years. JX continued to return. She felt certain that in Bali. Among those she considered evolved consciousness, she could develop her hoop tribe. JX had already sold many retreat tickets, had a huge following, and was a role model for the New Age entrepreneur.

JX took a sip of her tea and continued. “I am part of the Hoop Love Tribe.”

“Can you tell me what you mean by the Hoop Love Tribe?” I asked.

JX paused for a moment as though collecting her thoughts. I suspected that she’d never asked to explain it before. She searched for an explanation that a mortal could understand.

“The Hoop Love Tribe is at one with universal goddess energy. The body of the goddess is translucent. Pulsating with complex systems of glowing energy that is visible to those who have sight. Or what you might call a clairvoyant. She is not a person, but pure awareness. A goddess is about the integration of body, mind, and spirit. Into a single spectrum of light and consciousness.”

JX sat back in her chair and twisted a long strand of her hair into a knot. Three of her long fingers were adorned with onyx stone rings embedded in silver. I sensed that she placed some significance on the rings. Other than feminine adornment. Searching my memory for symbolism that might reveal the rings’ secrets. I recalled that onyx has the power to align its wearer with higher consciousness. Conjur wise judgment, deflect grief, and repel the negative vibrations of others.

Silver is considered a mirror of the soul. A conduit connecting the physical and astral bodies. Thus enhancing intuition, and was akin to the moon and feminine energy. The number three was harmony and balance; a synthesis of opposing forces. I was feeling a little hip having remembered that bit of trivia.

She caught me eyeing a satchel.

“I see that you’re curious about what’s in my luggage?” JX said.

“Yes, I suppose I was,” I replied. I felt somewhat nosey.

As JX removed a set of bronze bowls from her satchel, she told me that they were Tibetan singing bowls. She traveled to Tibet to buy them. JX was arranging the bowls. I noticed in her open bag what appeared to be a deck of cards bearing an intricate etching of an angel.

Several books, and a small silk pouch tied with a golden string. Detecting my interest she told me that if I needed divine guidance, she could give me an Angel Card reading. JX went on to say that she also could read love auras. And how that might be helpful if I was seeking romance or having trouble with relationships.

“And what does a thing like that cost?” I asked. I tried to maintain a respectful level of composure, but when she told me her fees, I couldn’t help but react.

“Do you realize that that is enough to provide for a family of four for a month here?” I asked. What JX charged for a 45-minute session of reading one’s “love aura,” whatever the heck that was. Her fee was more than what Wayan earned in a month.

I became somewhat concerned about what I have gotten myself into.

As though reading my mind. JX said with a soft smile, “There is no charge for a healing session with the bowls, but I do appreciate a small donation.”

JX directed me to lie face down on my bed and relax. Then proceeded to explain how the bowls worked by resonating with the body’s seven chakras.

Student and practitioner of yoga and meditation techniques rooted in Eastern tradition. I knew about chakras and understood their significance in healing and spiritual practices. I also knew that they have a basis in early anatomy.

Corresponding with the five major complexes of nerves along the spinal column. And the two major parts of the brain. Associated with lower and higher functioning. I didn’t know a great deal about the singing bowls. Other than that their use as musical instruments dated back to Tibetan monasteries. Around the 8th Century AD. where their use to begin and end daily meditations. I had heard them on relaxation discs and found the deep resonance produced by the bowls to be very soothing.

JX placed a bowl at each chakra point. She explained how each resonated in a certain key. Or harmonic tone, that corresponded with the natural frequency of the associated chakra.

“The bowls can detect the source or location in the body where there is illness or injury. There is a blockage of the energy flow through the chakra associated with that function or part of the body. The blockage causes an audible modification in the tone of the bowl’s vibration.”

JX continued to explain recording the session is a more reliable way. Discerning the subtle dissonance than trying to gauge by ear alone.

“Once the problem area is isolated. More emphasis can be placed on that chakra,” JX said. She described how the bowls also could unblock the flow of energy. They seek to self-correct any dissonance in their tonal quality.

For the next 30 minutes or so, JX moved around and across my body. Striking each bowl in turn. Allowing the vibrations of the bowls to resonate into and throughout my body.

JX remarked that my heart was very strong; one of the strongest she’d heard. But advised that the bowls had detected blockages in my lower three chakras.

She instructed me to remain very still. Keeping my eyes closed and my mind empty of thought. Allow the bowls to work. JX added that the residual vibrations would continue to move through the body. With healing energy for several minutes following the last strike of the bowls. I expected the energy would stay. Circulate the chakras, for as long as needed, but I suppose it depended on the healer.

When I opened my eyes a short while later, I felt very relaxed. It became clear that there had been no improvement in my physical symptoms. When I turned to ask her if more sessions were required, I realized that she had vanished into the other room. Like fading into the trees on an afternoon breeze, along with the vibrations of her bowls.

I wasn’t upset, or even especially surprised, that my Bali belly still held me captive. I was a bad patient? What I got was another in a sequence of strange afternoons on what I’d come to refer to as “Fantasy Island.” The outcome was too bad as there are true healers among us, but they tend to not charge an arm and a leg being aware of Spirit.

I wished her well.

JX’s retreat turned out to be one of the most successful in Bali.

Guest Two

My next guest, “the doctor,” was a first-time visitor to the island. The middle-aged man’s stocky build. Rosy cheeks and big, bushy eyebrows reminded me of Grumpy the dwarf in Snow White. I chuckled to myself as I pictured him lumbering through the airport. Toting an ax instead of a single suitcase. His large, square face was accented by thick, black-rimmed glasses. Which gave him a stern and bookish appearance. I asked about his flight and if he was experiencing any jet lag.

“No….no jet lag,” he said. He brushed his short, stiff brown hair off of his perspiring forehead. “I take special herbs to combat motion fatigue.”

On the drive from the airport. I learned that he had been a practicing physician in his native Russia. Before emigrating to the United States a decade ago. He had arrived in New York with only USD 20 to his name. He later relocated, settling in Los Angeles. He established and operated a clinic as an acupuncturist, herbalist, and holistic healer. I asked what had brought him to Bali? He replied in his heavy accent. “I was curious what all the hype healing on Bali was all about and wanted to find out for myself.”

Once we arrived back at my villa. The doctor inspected his room with such attention to detail that I wondered if he’d like a magnifying glass? He bounced on the sofa. Opened and closed the refrigerator. Checked the water pressure. Looked under and behind every nook and cranny of the room. All the while making grunts, hurumphs, hmmmms, and nods of acceptability or disapproval.

He seemed to find everything in order. Well, almost everything. He stood staring at the bed and rubbing his chin as if it had spoken to him, then asked if I had two wires. I asked what he needed the wires for? He told me that he practiced the art of dowsing. As well as teaching it to others. Thus adding to his ever-increasing resume of professed skills and talents. Dowsing, also known as “divination” is a method of locating underground water. It is also employed for locating metals, ore, oil, and even gravesites. What the doctor was looking for were signs of problematic energy flow.

I provided the wires and watched as he bent them together and passed them over, under, and around the bed. After completing the ritual there were several veins of negative energy in the area. He was insistent that the bed moved to another part of the room.

I aimed to build a reputation for excellent hospitality. And do whatever I could to assure the comfort and well-being of my guests. Even if it meant going the extra mile, a philosophy that the doctor would put to the test over the next few weeks. I could see no real necessity in doing so, I acquiesced to his demands and moved the bed to a location more to his liking.

His petulance was only equaled by his miserliness. On his first morning as my guest, he presented me with a list of his expectations.

Posted on the booking website what amenities were and were not included. The doctor chose to ignore me and leaned on me to act as his tour guide.

Transportation manager and dating service, all at no extra cost. If that wasn’t presumptuous enough.

He acted as though my kitchen was his internet cafe, using my computer of course.

The doctor grumbled and complained about the cost of everything. A motorbike ride. Clothing. And haggling with the local merchants over even a few cents more than what he thought he should pay.

Comparing Bali with India and saying how much cheaper things were there. His attitude about money seemed odd to me for a man who had lived behind the Iron Curtain. Who, even now, lived in subsidized housing that he described as an apartment the size of a shoebox.

He was shopping for a wife and offering unsolicited medical services. His practice seemed to cover everything from hypnosis and past life regression therapy.

Dietary analysis and marriage counseling.

No one was safe from diagnosis and treatment. One day the doctor told Wayan that due to complications from smoking cigarettes. He would not live past the age of 40. His treatment plan for Wayan involved a session of hypnosis and acupuncture. Wayan was trying to be a good sport about it, but when he saw the box full of small needles, he was having none of it.

He mumbled something about black magic and found an excuse to make a fast retreat. The doctor’s attention then focused on Wayan’s wife. He diagnosed her with marital insecurities and prescribed several hours of mental dowsing. Finally, he addressed my chronic stomach problems. Naming improper diet as the culprit. Snatching a bag of chips from my hand to make his point. I had to laugh when he read the ingredients contained bad ingredients. He prescribed herbs and nutritional supplements. Many of which would be unavailable anywhere on the island.

After 22 days, it came time for the doctor to return home. As he prepared for his departure, I asked him what he thought of Bali. He said that he loved the Balinese temples. Impressed with the unique spirituality and architecture of the indigenous people. But the pseudo-spiritual healing businesses he viewed with disdain.

“If I wanted to experience the trendy New Age scene with an overinflated price tag, I wouldn’t need to come to Bali. There’s plenty of that in L.A.”

I asked him if he would return to the island. He laughed and said, “You never know.” We took pictures together, shook hands, and wished each other health, love, and clarity.

“Good luck with the wife search,” I bid him farewell.

Guest Three

Nazareno and Lisa were two of my youngest guests. Gone from dawn to dusk, and I enjoyed the “their paradise is where I am” attitude. Both turned 30 years old in “The Bud” and had been backpacking Asia since they were 20.

He was from Uruguay and her, Sweden. Both were yoga teachers. Marriage was a discussion point but not planned in their immediate future. Luckily for them, a local yoga shop contracted them to lead a “couples’ yoga.” Unfortunately, the customers were few and far between. Because Ubud is saturated with yoga instructors. Thus, they asked to lower their rent. It beckoned the question, how do they manage to survive their pack backing lifestyle?

It was unusual for me to meet young people who globe trotted the world in the name of spirituality. Most people of their generation only wanted money.

The two vegetarians wanted harmony and balance for the mind and body, not a mortgage and a fancy car. They were poster material with Lisa’s yoga perfect figure. Bright Swedish blonde hair, turquoise-colored eyes, and a sun-healthy, freckled face. She was mature beyond her years and it gave her a magnetic attraction I found to be radiantly alive.

Nazareno was the guy I always wanted to be. He loved life with a bungee jumper’s conviction. His yoga and PADI certified body chiseled. A six-pack stomach and metal pipe arms sporting beach burned tattoos. On top of his outdoorsman body was a cover boy handsome face that caused the local maids to giggle. Yet, he was unpretentious and comfortable with himself. His aura and smile pulled you in with an infectious likeability.

No people, I thought, could be this happy and content. How to get such inner peace?

I was jealous and regretted why I had not shaved my head and become a Zen monk when I was their age. I could have absolved myself from my worldly possessions. Rather than being robbed of them. Should’ve, could’ve and what-ifs twisted my thoughts into a pretzel. Senseless clouded exasperation.

“I am sorry to see you go,” I said.

“We like it here, but a friend is willing to take us in for nothing. I hope you understand,” Lisa explained.

“Would you like to try the yellow coconut water?” I asked them. “The water inside them is sacred and used for ceremonial purposes. I was also told the water cleansed the intestines.”

“I would love to try it,” Lisa answered in plain English as if she had lived her entire life in Minnesota.

Wayan shimmied up a tree and cut down six coconuts. He then took a hatchet and cut the top off. We poured the refreshing coconut water into three glasses.

“Yummy!” Nazareno’s eyebrows lifted as he emptied his glass.

“There’s plenty more, so help yourselves.” I made a toast. “Here’s to your 10 years traveling on the dharma triangle: India, Thailand, and Bali.”

Lisa and Nazareno both raised their glasses in a toast.

“How are your yoga classes going?” I queried.

“Slow…” Nazareno answered.

“Do you know how to design a website?” Lisa asked.

“Yes, I can help you with that,” I offered. “Are you looking to promote yourself?”

“We were thinking of our studio. Not sure where or how yet. But that is our direction,” Nazareno explained, in his Spanish-tinged accent.

“Nazareno, I have been curious about one thing. How have you managed to live so long abroad? Do you get money from your parents?” I asked.

“My parents have no money, amigo,” he laughed. “One time I worked for a year at a car rental agency in Amsterdam and saved.”

They zipped up their packs. Nazareno pushed a pair of complimentary yoga class passes into my hand. “Stop by, amigo.”

“I’d like you to have these as a token of our gratitude for your hospitality,” Lisa said and handed me two yoga mats. “We’ll come back and say hi.”

I was sorry to see them go…but they all come and go. Being transcendental was part of their nature.

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