The Solo Traveler

I always believed that the spirit domain and all those things we call supernatural were part of the natural world.

Bumps in the night we hadn't yet come to understand.

A parallel dimension is usually concealed from view by a shroud of the unknown or held at bay by a wall of taboo and fear.

We all have glimpses of the other side: a burst of creativity, a brilliant idea, a moment of profound clarity, a "feeling" that prompts us to action, or a stunning "coincidence."

So common are these occurrences that most of us think little about them.

Besides light bulbs burning out and the occasional bad internet connection, there were no further complaints from my guests about negative energy flow.

Mostly, things seemed to run well. I could only assume, then. I was the intended target of the unexplained incidents with increasing frequency.

At first, it was little things dismissed.

The keys to my scooter disappeared, only to turn up back on the table where I always left them.

Well, I was getting a little absent-minded.

Sometimes, when going to brush my teeth in the morning, I would find my toothbrush lying on the left side of the sink. I am right-handed and always leave it on the right side. So I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.

Like the E string on my guitar plucked itself at 2 a.m. The first couple of times I heard it. I thought I was dreaming or had misinterpreted what I'd heard.

When these minor disturbances occurred they became more difficult to explain.

Soon, the nighttime activity increased. And, along with it I was once again plagued by restless dreams. It was sometimes hard to define the boundaries between sleeping and waking.

Often during the night, I would hear the windows rattling. I assumed it was the wind, but once the rattling was so loud that it woke me from a sound sleep.

When I got up to investigate I discovered that the night was calm, without so much as a whisper of air to stir the palm leaves.

I checked the windows and found them all closed. I sat for a while in the dark. I fought the unsettled feelings before returning to bed. I tried to put the incident out of my mind.

The following night I was awakened by what sounded like voices coming from outside.

I thought that it was revelers at a nearby resort.

The voices seemed to get closer and louder, but I couldn't make out any words. I ran out to the patio to see what was going on. To my surprise, the voices fell silent and there were no lights. No other evidence of activity at the resort or neighboring villas.

I suspected that I wasn't alone.

A few nights passed without incident, then again awakened in the night, this time by the sound of something crashing. I ran to the kitchen still half asleep.

I reached to turn on the light, expecting to find that some nocturnal rodent had breached the walls. In the dim light of the moon that poured through the window, I saw the shattered fragments of a coffee mug.

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I detected some vague movement. Not like that of a small animal as I had expected. More like the movement of a large curtain rippling in an evening breeze.

When I turned to see what it was, there was nothing there. I cleaned up the mess on the floor as best I could in the near darkness and then, puzzled and annoyed, I returned to bed.

Sleep escaped me.

Replaying in my mind the almost daily episodes of unexplained goings-on I reminded myself that invisible entities had been my companions at some level ever since I'd arrived in Bali.

There was a different feel about the more recent experiences. I decided that my unwelcome co-occupants. Whoever or whatever they may be had overstayed their welcome.

The incessant disruptions, believing I had better uses for my time and energies.

Wayan, my guest house helper, had often referred to spirits.

I confided in him about my recent experiences. Asked his opinion of the situation and if he could offer any advice about how to deal with it.

He seemed to shrug it off with only a suggestion to meditate. I thought it odd that he offered so little input. He had always seemed attuned to the realm of spirit.

I told him I would try that. I couldn't help feeling he was holding something back. A feeling was reinforced by his avoiding eye contact whenever I approached the subject.

"Wake up, Bro," Wayan shouted as he shook my shoulders. "You are fighting in your sleep."

I awoke from my afternoon groggy nap rubbing the back of my neck. Wayan reminded me it was time for my foot massage therapy with the village healer, Sapar.

I had dislocated my toe earlier by stomping around the house. I thought my toe had healed, but it became worse.

Sapar was a Balinese, metaphysical chiropractor. If I asked him, he could analyze my chakras or read my palm like the other healers that entertained tourists.

He was a dedicated local village healer and practiced his art as a God’s given talent. Not for profit.

Wrapped in his healer clothes were a reddish-orange sarong, black-and-white udeng, and white shirt. He was 30-something; narrow, with sturdy legs, and a brown, thick chest. He bore a confident expression and spoke with a strong voice.

He was sitting upright with his bare feet on a straw mat inside his family's temple.

Within arm's reach was a bamboo plate filled with herbs, tiny bells, holy water, and burning incense sticks. Putu, his young and refined wife, sat nearby like a nurse assistant and looked on.

Sapar bowed his head and displayed a full set of white teeth.

"Selamat sore," (good afternoon) I greeted Sapar and sat down in front of him in the late afternoon sun.

He immediately had a close look at my foot and relayed to Wayan that I was late to return for my therapy session. I could tell by the look in his brown, experienced eyes he was scolding me.

He went to work on my foot and I braced myself for the torture test. With both hands, he rubbed in scented oil. Next, he pulled and pushed my toe along the joint.

After several minutes of excruciating pain, he gave the diagnosis. The cuneiform bone behind the big toe joint was swollen and raging with the residue of an out-of-control bad spirit.

Instead of sitting there and crying like a baby, I thought to tell Sapar about the demon(s) that inhabited my villa. The question was handed to Wayan like a soccer ball. He translated the words and gave the question a lateral pass on to Sapar.

Sapar thought about it for a moment.

Without looking up from my foot, he said to Wayan as he pulled on each of my little toes, "little demon."

Amused, but not convinced he knew what he was talking about, I told him to go on.

"You lose something?" he probed. "I have lost many things," I told him.

"The demon feeding on your sense of loss is like a suckerfish," he said through Wayan.

"How so?" I asked.

"I sense you are lonely. You look for an answer like a dog chasing its tail."

He gave my foot a vice-grip squeeze, "You feel that?"

"Yes," I screamed.

"The demon in your villa has entered your body through the sole of your foot. It will make a nest in your mind like a rat," he counseled

"Do you have a spell for my demon?" I said, intrigued.

"Give it a name. Call it out before you sleep. Before meditation and bathing, evoke its name and call it out."

"How do I know what name to call it?" I said.

From his medicine tray, he gave me a handful of what looked like tea leaves.

"Sprinkle the plant over your toes every day."

Sapar and Wayan went back and forth in the translation.

"The demon has left your foot and made its home in your mind." He pointed at my head. "I give you blessings and the herbs will help."

He chopped off the top of one yellowish-orange-colored coconut and poured out its milk into a bowl.

He cupped his hand into the bowl and chanted; the coconut milk sprinkled over my toe. "Foot not better in three days. Come back. The demon is your battle."

I thanked Sapar along with a small donation for his work and limped back to the motorbike.

That night I lay in bed and thought about what to name my demon.

I sprinkled the leaves over my feet and went to sleep.

For the next couple of weeks, I devoted extra time and energy to the demon.

During my daily meditation, I visualized a shield of bright light covering my villa and garden. When this seemed to have no effect, I realized that I'd gotten a little ahead of myself.

My next tactic was to figure out how to get them/it to leave.

I should create a hostile spiritual environment, so to speak. I didn't want to run off any good spirits hanging around.

I realized I was not well equipped for such a battle. I recalled my quest and thought about how no one can equip me for encounters with the unknown. Some things are only learned through experience.

I needed to call out its name, I shouted. "I'm lonely!" After I said that the bumps in the night stopped.

My toe was healed.

The Solo Traveler (Part 2)

Geckos.

Spiders.

Cockroaches.

Frogs.

All manner of night jungle creatures.

When the sun rose they scurried back to the dark safety of their daytime hideout.

The rats thundered across my bamboo ceiling like a herd of stampeding buffalo.

Now silent.

For the time being, I switched off the bed fan and headed to my outdoor kitchen to boil water for coffee.

While the kettle worked up to a whistle, I swept last night's bat poop off the patio furniture and settled into contemplation of my "one-way ticket" refugee status.

The silence of the Bali jungle seemed to resonate from the deep waters of the soul.

I sat listening hoping to discern a clue, a sign, or any answer at all lying below the mist that might tell me what to do.

I knew I had to avoid dwelling on "what ifs," to ponder instead the more immediate and relevant question: what now?

I survived the expat challenge for three years. But now the outside world had caught up with me.

It felt as if every belief I'd ever had about who I was, who and what I wanted to be, and where I wanted to go, came together at that moment.

The pain of the past and thoughts of all I loved pulled at my heart in flashbacks.

Flash! I saw my daughter. Flash! I saw my old house. Flash! I was on an airplane going home…but there was no home to go back to.

Most mornings as I drank my coffee, an elderly woman called Nenek (grandmother) came by to bless my home.

She had an ageless quality about her.

A broken, toothy smile set in a face turned leathery brown from many years' exposure to the tropical sun.

Nenek had a hunched back that gave her bare feet a slow but purposeful walk. She carried herself with dignity and grace.

On a small bamboo leaf plate, her bony hands bore flowers, incense, and holy water.

The Gods, who would give a blessing upon my home and protect it from evil spirits.

Before recorded time, Nenek's ancestors had made this blessing on the homes entrusted to their families.

I came to look forward to her visit.

The contentment that her blessing brought to my dwelling, helped to ground me in this strange new world.

Loosening the attachment to my lost home and bringing some closure to that chapter of my life.

The early morning mist that had risen from the valley's floor and swirled all around me was now vapor.

The heat of the day arrived.

I rested my foot on the table in front of me to inspect last night's latest foot injury, which appeared to be a sprained toe. Nothing new. I had sprained my toe three times.

It hadn't stopped raining at "Camp Paradise" for three months.

As the last hazy glow of the obscured afternoon sun faded into twilight I bid the day farewell.

A song or two on my guitar; a ritual that had become my custom.

It seemed funny how fingers danced over metal and wood, discovered friends, entertained strangers, and filled the void with dreams, hope, and love.

Thoughts of whether I should stay or go tumbled around inside my paradox; I knew there was only one option. Counting raindrops alone in the jungle wasn't the answer.

By losing the worldly possessions that had bound me to my old life, I was becoming like my amphibious visitors.

Undergoing a metamorphosis from that which I had been into what I would become again.

Again, again, again, and again.

This and more stories now available in print and ebook: SOLO — 10 Years in Bali on Amazon.com.