Chasing Amy-Lou

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia;

Today, dear readers, was my last day in Ubud, my last day in Bali, and the last official day of my travels in South East Asia and the end of an incredible 13 months away from home.

I hadn’t really had chance to think about the end of my trip (mainly because I didn’t want to) and now that it was upon me, I still hadn’t thought about it. Not really. Of course, I’d done all the necessary packing and printing of tickets etc etc, but mentally, nah, I was totally unprepared.

In true form then, instead of spending the day contemplating my existence over this last year, I spent the day doing pretty much what I’d been doing for the last couple of weeks – I sunbathed in the morning, went for a walk around Ubud Market, attended a yoga class, and then treated myself to a couple of glasses of wine.

Just before lunch I decided to go and see D (my very own Ketut Liyer) one more time. I wanted to thank her for her words of wisdom and her kindness while listening to me and my problems; I wanted to thank her for helping me and for comforting me – me – a complete stranger, a nobody. I also wanted to tell her about the progress I’d made, mentally and emotionally, over the last week, particularly regarding the subject of love, something we had discussed at length. However, on arriving at Warung Mulih Teko, D was nowhere to be seen. I found out from one of her neighbours that she’d gone to the Waterfalls that day with her grandson and would only be back later in the afternoon – with a yoga class to attend at 5:30 it wasn’t really possible for me to stick around and wait for her.

Feeling deflated at not being able to thank this fantastic woman, I instead enjoyed some of the food on offer in her home, and left her a heartfelt letter, wrapped in a 20,000 IDR note which I left in the box on the counter in order to pay for my meal. I told her neighbour that I’d left a message along with my money and if she wouldn’t mind, could she please let D know I’d been to see her. Now, I wasn’t expecting D to remember exactly who I was, for she saw a number of people every day – transients coming to her with problems and ailments and this and that, but I hoped that by leaving a message of gratitude and a note about how she’d helped me would at least lend for some kind of memory jog. Plus, it would give her something physical to keep, a token of my appreciation.

As I trundled the 2kms back into town, praying that she’d find my note, I noticed the stunning array of Indonesian flags adourning almost every Warung and house along the way. I’d first noticed the prolific abundance of Indonesian flags when I’d gone cycling to the beach while in Canggu. Taking it to be just plain old patriotism I naturally thought nothing of it, believing it to be admirable, a sense of pride for Indonesian culture (not like in Britain where flying the Union Jack or the St George’s Cross could be seen as contempt, nationalistic and wait for it, even racist – yeah, go figure…). However, the reason behind the plethora of flags was not because Indonesians and Balinese believed in and wanted to replicate the stoic pride of say, citizens of the USA, it was because 17th August (tomorrow) was Indonesian Independence Day.

Heading back to the hostel then, I witnessed what I thought must’ve been some premature Independence Day celebrations. There were hundreds of people on Ubud Main Street, chanting and playing music, there were a dozen or so men carrying aloft of their shoulders what looked to be some kind of religious shrine, there were police escorts and security men with whistles ushering tourists to the safety of the pavements – it all looked very grand to me and I assumed the 72nd anniversary celebrations had started early. It wasn’t until that evening, when I sat sipping on a Sauv Blanc in a place called Rococo not far from my hostel that I discovered the actual reasons behind the crowds that afternoon.

My ignorance and naivety had gotten the better of me, and as we all know, assuming always makes an ASS out of U and ME, for what my waitress told me was that the celebrations were nothing to do with Indonesian Independence Day, they were in fact part of a funeral procession for an elder member of an Ubud family. I was astonished. To say that I felt foolish for thinking the procession had been something else made me blush. However, it also made me think; the way the Balinese liked to honour the dead was not through mourning or grieving in the way we do in the west, but through celebration and song. It was a very interesting thing to witness, and despite my initial embarrassment at not realising what was happening, I felt humbled to have seen something so different to what I, as a westerner was used to.

This evening’s yoga class was one of the best I’d had so far on my trip (coincidental that it should be my final one) – it was a Vinyasa flow class and was a lot more challenging than the other classes I’d been to thus far. Last time I was in Ubud I’d taken part in Ashtanga yoga – a more dynamic form of yoga which had really pushed my body and its flexibility to its limits. Participating in Vinyasa flow tonight though had reminded me just how much I loved the fast-paced, strenuous side to this calming practice. I ended the class on a high and leaving the studio to go grab some food, I realised I was going to miss it. Yoga back home was expensive (especially if you wanted decent, challenging yoga, and not just something put on by the local leisure centre that catered for grannies and those of lesser flexibility. No offence) and at 50,000 IRP (5 AUD/3 GBP) a class, Saraswarti Yoga had been my favourite place to practice in the whole of my time here. I’d recommend anyone considering doing yoga in Ubud to check this place out. Yoga Barn (the original and one of the first established yoga studios in Ubud) had a more extensive program, it was more popular and the time schedule was more accommodating, but it was less intimate and more expensive (almost triple the cost of Saraswarti). Saraswarti, for me, had been perfect, and I hoped that when I returned to Ubud (for I knew I would do in the future) it would still be operating and would still be maintaining its present values.

My final day in Bali had been lovely. I’d done things my way, and I’d ended the evening in the way I’d always wanted to end it – with wine. Tomorrow was going to be hard. Going home was going to be hard. In the middle of May, and especially after the terrorist attack that occurred in Manchester, I’d been ready to return to England – I’d been relishing it actually; I had yearned to be back in the North West. But a lot had happened since 23rd May 2017. My emotions and my feelings had been put through a turbulent mill, I’d met people I didn’t want to let go of, and I’d done things I’d wanted to continue doing; and although Bali had definitely helped me in a lot of ways, I still harboured some unresolved internal conflicts.

It’s been almost three months since that fateful day in Manchester, it’s been over two months since I left Australia, but those months have felt like a lifetime, and to say I was confused about having to go home was an understatement. However, for the time being I put it to the back of my mind. I didn’t want to think about it – I’d done too much thinking of late and it was time to relax my fragile brain. Tomorrow was another day, and tonight, Ubud was mine.