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One of the strangest things I experienced while travelling in the East (and anywhere in the world) was borne through one of my favourite American authors, Liz Gilbert (full name Elizabeth Gilbert – I call her Liz ’cause I like to pretend she’s my friend;)

When I arrived in Ubud, the Balinese town in which part of Liz’s memoir Eat Pray Love is based, I decided to visit the traditional healer about whom she’d written so much in her bestseller. Wayan was easy to track down as she is rather famous amongst Westerners who loved the book and who are intrigued by her magic. A short walk away from where I stayed, I found the humble double-garage-sized shop in which she works with her young male assistant, Putu.

Outside there is a big green sign that has ‘Wayan Eat Pray Love’ boldly printed across it, as if the memoir’s title were her surname and she were the eponymous hero of the book. It is fitting, as her identity has become so enmeshed with the phenomenon of those pages and that film, that her clientele has since become predominantly foreigners. Her various therapies are listed on the signboard – from body reading and energy healing to aura cleansing and the removal of bad spirits. Below the sign she has a proud display of magazine articles about her practice, pictures of herself and Liz, and some more detailed descriptions of her healing methods – which apparently can cure what normal doctors and lengthy stays in hospitals cannot.

I’ve always been a big believer in alternative medicine but the days that followed my introduction to Wayan left me wide-eyed and wondering. One of the weirdest weeks of my life began in her smoky incense-infused shop, lined with its glass cabinets displaying pictures of different bodily organs and poorly spelled labels and large plastic canisters filled with holy water. I started with a body reading. She inspected my legs and arms and ‘pace’ and ‘falms’ (the Balinese seem to swap some of their f’s and p’s) and gave me a pretty accurate account of my health; I was impressed.

She pinpointed my physical issues such as bloating and stiff neck muscles along with some personality traits like: I used to eat a lot of sweets but don’t anymore; my mind jumps all the time as I often think of five or six different things simultaneously (‘monkey mind’); and I make money easily but spend it very easily too… I started nodding sheepishly before I realized that I think I see where this is going… she slapped me with a bill so big I literally burst out laughing, thinking it must be a joke! But Wayan is serious about her abilities and the quality of her healing.

I was sitting in a cloud of incense and scepticism when a lovely Danish girl popped into the shop to pick up some more muti for herself. I asked her loads of questions and she said that Wayan had made a big difference to her health. She encouraged me to bargain (as one does in Bali) and find a suitable amount with which Wayan could work. So I negotiated a much lower price (which I thought was still a lot of money for a bunch of treatments that hadn’t been properly explained to me), but what the hell… I’ll try to let go of my need to have everything methodically outlined and I’ll just dive into this experience. If nothing else, maybe I can write a book about it one day;)

My ‘Complite Fackage’ began with a body scrub on one of the two basic beds that she has at the back of her shop. I lay there in my panties with a sarong barely covering my nipples whilst Wayan’s assistant Putu vigorously scrubbed my entire body with a concoction of yellow oil and mud and herbs and what looked like little bits of chopped fruit. I was told to close my eyes and concentrate. A large, heavy rock was placed on my stomach and rotated with pressure in a clockwise motion; slimy dark green leaves were crammed between all my toes. A glass bottle of boiling hot water was repeatedly rolled across my throat, armpits and stomach as I winced at the heat and hoped I wouldn’t come out with second-degree burns. Whenever I opened my eyes I was reminded to close them and concentrate. (Concentrate on what, I thought. The discomfort? The humiliation? The chagrin that I was getting both less and more than I had bargained for?). More pain followed in the form of a hard wooden instrument that was pressed sharply into my toes and then scraped across my neck. I felt like I was in some kind of archaic torture chamber, especially when Wayan held me by my head and Putu grabbed my feet and I was stretched from both ends, “por make back straight.”

After the treatment I was told to go shower. I pulled the leaves out from between my toes and, clutching my sarong along with my dignity, tip-toed barefoot and oily across the muddy herb-covered floor into a tiny tiled cubicle which had only a toilet and a big bucket of water that had been heated on the stove. I was given a bright orange heart-shaped plastic cup that looked like a child’s toy to use for my shower. As I scooped the warm leafy water over my body I giggled at the ridiculousness of this scene, not knowing that things were only going to get weirder…

Wayan gave me little packets of powders to drink, pills to swallow and leaves to chew. Certain leaves had to be massaged before I could eat them. Some powders had to be mixed with hot water before being rubbed over my body and left overnight. With a sense of surrender and childlike optimism I diligently counted, massaged and ate the leaves and applied the wet powdery gunk to my skin while burning her medicinal incense and humming along to Enya playing on my iPhone.

Lunch, anyone?

The next day Wayan took me to see ‘Grandfather.’ Apparently I had many evil spirits inhabiting my body, which were the cause of the long-standing tension and stiffness in my neck and shoulders. These evil spirits needed to be removed and Grandfather was the man for the job. We drove quite far out of town, past rice fields and over rivers to a rural area to find the home where this ritual would take place. A weathered man with white hair and a wrinkled face, wearing a dirty vest and sarong, cupped my outstretched hand in both of his and shook it vigorously as he gave me a wide toothless grin. He led me into his temple and onto a low wooden bed covered with a straw mat. I sat with my back to him as he pressed his holy knife into my neck and shoulders with such force that I writhed in pain. Whenever I cried out in agony he would shriek with a delighted “Jaaaaa!” as the evil spirits were being exorcised one by one.

This holy knife made its way across every muscle of my body until Grandfather was satisfied that all the spirits had been released. His hands, too, made their way across much of my body as I wondered whether the cupping of my breasts was really a necessary means by which to assess potential problem areas. (My best friend Liv would later text back to me her favourite photo that she says always cheers her up and sends her into hysterics about the time I was once molested by a dirty old man in Indonesia…) At least the quick, gentle groping of his hands was better than the slow, sharp stabbing of his knife.

Errrrm….

The smile before the skewering…

After this painfully amusing and possibly absurd encounter we ended with a prayer ritual that involved the usual trio of incense, flowers and holy water. With a bemused smile I replayed what had just happened and thought, “Holy hell Tess, what… the… F… am I actually doing here?!” But then shrugged as if in response to myself, “When in Bali…”

I returned to Wayan’s shop on the third day to have a final treatment with another healer that she’d called in. I walked through the curtain at the back to find a dainty, nearly naked grey-haired Canadian woman emerge from a thick cloud of incense, looking relaxed and amused as she asked where her clothes were. I chuckled to myself and thought, “What is it that keeps bringing all of us Westerners back to this craziness? What kind of spell are we under?” And then I dutifully lay down on the bed to allow the next healer to work his magic on me. This middle-aged, bespectacled man had talons for fingernails, which he used to extract what looked like tiny specks of sand from my stomach. Apparently these were the bad spirits that Grandfather had released from my body but which had not yet been washed off, so Ajik was here to complete the work…

Spirits removed, I hopped off the bed to walk home and eat the rest of my leaves.

My final healing experience was in the form of an annual Hindu ceremony to which Wayan took me and my new Belgian friend Cindy (who had returned to Bali specifically to see Wayan as she had worked wonders for her own health in the past. She taught me the French expression ‘lâcher prise,’ which means to let go – something you learn to do when dealing with Wayan and her wacky ways). We were the only white people at this large Hindu temple where we witnessed a beautiful gathering of a warm-hearted people and were invited to join in their prayers. I loved this experience; I felt like I got to be involved in something to which most tourists in Bali would never have access. I felt privileged to be so immersed in another culture and religion where I was welcomed with open arms. I have a lot of love and respect for the Balinese people and for what I’ve seen of the Hindu religion; for an island on which I always felt safe.

I think I’m a fairly open-minded person and I made the decision to give Wayan the benefit of the doubt with this whole experience. I can’t say that I had a life-changing epiphany as far as my health is concerned but I can’t say that it didn’t affect me either. I feel more vital and alive now than I have in a long time.

My initial doubt and scepticism diminished after two of my friends witnessed an Australian girl’s voice change to a deep masculine growl as Wayan exorcised a demon that was occupying her body. What if these traditional healers actually are tapping into some ancient wisdom? Who am I to judge these things, with my westernized mind that is partial to science and what we label as ‘logic’? Just because that is the way I’ve been educated doesn’t mean I’m any closer to the truth than these people are. I’ve come to realize that wanting proof and explanations for everything leaves little space for magic; for feeling and believing and trusting in the unknown. And in the end I think it doesn’t matter what you believe, because whatever That is, It will become your World and your Truth.

Wayan asked me to write about her healing powers on the internet, “por to open peoples’ eyes.” My eyes were certainly opened. So if you ever find yourself in Ubud and you need healing, I’d recommend you visit her – you’re guaranteed to lose some money and gain some invaluable experiences. I am grateful for my crazy days and healing experiences with Wayan, even if sometimes they seemed pucking fotty.

Thanks Liz;)

In the Balinese culture it is literally a foreign concept for a woman to be unmarried. I love the inquisitiveness of the Balinese ladies as they ask the usual questions:
“Where you from?”
“How long you stay?”
And then the one they’ve actually been wanting to ask:
“Are you married?”
Me: “No.”
I always love their reactions as I get to witness a wide range of emotions spread across their faces. I’m not sure how to describe it better than as a wonderful cocktail of shock and concern coupled with longing and delight, as if they cannot fathom being unmarried but at the same time just imagined a fantastical life story in which they were free and travelling around the world on their own adventures… 

I wish I could frame the look of wonderment on their faces.

Ubud: home of hippies and all things alternative. I arrived here two and a half weeks ago and still haven’t left; there is some kind of galvanizing magic in the air. On my first evening here I went straight to the famed Yoga Barn – a studio with a fitting name for me, I think;)

I walk into this Bohemian utopia of tie dyed harem pants and crop tops in what looks like a tropical film set location; the plants are so big and so green and glossy they almost don’t seem real. I sit down to take it all in, on a tall chair twice the size of me with an elaborate cream-coloured back that looks like a dreamcatcher and reminds me of a prop from Alice in Wonderland. I had to descend a series of cobbled pathways and wooden staircases to reach this oasis-like dreamland, and I feel a bit like Alice indeed.

Filled with curiosity I sit and observe the activity on the wide wooden floor of this amphitheatre, where yogis are busying themselves whilst waiting for their next class. I see men with gorgeously toned muscles dance to the tune in their heads and throw ribbon-covered instruments through the air, catching them again with grace and precision. I see couples practicing elevated partner-yoga moves: the guy with his back on the ground and the girl effortlessly floating in the air with her pelvis balancing on his raised feet; her arms stretched out like a bird in flight. I look around and realize that I’ve never seen so many chiseled bodies, tattoos or man-buns in my life!

I’m excited to join the Ecstatic Dance class that I’ve heard about but the concept of which I haven’t quite grasped… I naively ask the woman selling tickets if she’ll be teaching the class, not realizing that this is not your normal dance class. This is… something… else. No teacher, just the most elegantly beautiful Asian woman with an American accent standing behind a silver laptop. A dreamcatcher sticker covers the Apple logo and the DJ introduces herself as Sophie Sôfrēē. I smile.

Over a hundred and fifty barefoot people sit on the wooden floor of the elevated studio, which is open to thenight sky on three sides. Lanterns glow with soft light and we’re asked to close our eyes, take a deep breath and connect with our souls. Then sigh and let go of any sound that comes out – I try not to laugh as I hear birds coo, wolves howl and even chimps hoot all around me. We’re told to feel the energy rise in our base chakra and people start to twist their bodies in spiral motions while slowly rising to their feet. It feels primal and creative and it feels good.

The music sounds like something from ancient times, with an intoxicating tribal beat to it. Everyone is here: every age and shape; topless guys in board shorts or Buddha pants; bald and dreadlocked and shaved heads; girls and guys in neon patterned electro funk tights with glitter on their faces; even some timid-looking first timers in normal workout gear (like me). Everyone interprets the music in their own way and dances in their own style. Some are swaying with spirit fingers; others look like they’re at a rave; a few are even intertwined with each other on the floor. You can be whoever you want to be and movehowever you like to move. I sense that there’s no judgement here, each person is invited to express themselves however they choose. It’s so freeing and beautiful to witness. Like the DJ said: we are all just stardust, moving to the rhythm of life.

I dance around the room dropping my inhibitions with each step. I twirl and shake and stomp and curtsy, I do ballet moves and hip-hop moves and other moves that probably can’t be classified as any style whatsoever. I don’t know what I’m doing, but it’s silly and it’s fun and it’s rapturous and I love it! This is my idea of (healthy) Friday night clubbing!

After an hour and a half of dancing whole-heartedly, sweating profusely and downing water like I haven’t had any in days, we all collapse to the ground in a big circle and start to sing songs along to guitar strumming. We raise our spirit fingers up to Grandfather Sky and down to Mother Earth and end off with a collective bowed “Namasté.” I think to myself, namasté right near this here Barn for a while;)

I return on Sunday to attend a special class for World Yoga Day, where we do 108 sun salutations non-stop. In contrast to the wildness of the free form dancing, this is hard. The repetitiveness of it takes strength, focus and discipline. Theyoga teacher tells us that to make it easier, we can turn the corners of our lips upwards on each side. (Throughout our yoga classes we’re given succinct and profound reminders for our practice and for life: Smile. Drop the drama. Perpetually clear your mental palette.)

As my body sweats and strains my mind wanders and I decide that this would be a good day to turn vegan. I’ve been semi-vegetarian for twenty years but if I’m going to take it to the next level, I might as well start here. Ubud caters for vegans like no other place I’ve been – you hardly even have to try. There are ample organic / raw / vegan cafés with menus so comprehensive I can’t decide what on Earth to order! It’s a Mecca for foodies, yogis, dancers, creatives… I feel like I’ve found my Heaven on Earth. After finishing a grueling ninety minutes of sun salutations, I walk out to find a fresh coconut and a plate of vegan delights.

I love that I can walk into any restaurant and always find other girls like me, relishing their healthy bites of food between reading, writing, sketching or even meditating. Today a girl and I kept catching each other’s eye across the table until I realized she was making a drawing of me busily writing. We had a brief exchange of me asking questions and her nodding or pointing at something, as I learnt that she was in her seventh day of ten days of silence. I’ve met so many interesting people on such beautiful journeys and I just love this place. I feel at home in this magical energy vortex. The specialness of it all is palpable in the collective Om’s and Shanti’s of each gathering, where frequencies are raised and alchemy occurs. It’s like poetry for your senses and I feel like I could just stay down this rabbit hole forever…

Learning to surf in Bali was one of my best life decisions. We were lucky to have Luca as our coach: a charismatic Kiwi whose energy filled the big van that we all piled into at seven every morning, sleepy-faced but excited for the day’s waves.

On our first day of lessons I wade into the warm waters of the Indian Ocean with my board and I feel like I’m being hugged by the sea… I don’t think I’ve ever tried to surf sans wetsuit in South Africa and this! is! Heavenly!

Paddling out has never been my strong point and the waves have their way with me from the start. Luca tries to teach me to Turtle Roll, where you flip yourself and the board upside down just before the white water hits you; then back up again once the wave has passed over so you end up neatly back on top of the board. Quick and sleek and elegant, like a turtle. That’s what you’re supposed to do. I don’t do that. I think my version is called the Spluttering Land Animal Roll and can be described as a clumsy mess of flailing limbs being sucked into a crash of white water that thrashes my body around and leaves me gasping for air as I emerge like flotsam from the wave – not on top of my board, clearly.

It’s rough out there folks.

I’m in an abusive relationship with my board…

I ask Luca if there is a less ridiculous way to navigate these things and he shows me how to use my weight at the back of the board to float it over the (smaller) waves. Ahh, that’s better. It feels similar to sitting a rearing horse and I much prefer that to the other option of being bucked off and dragged by the stirrups.

We surfed in three different locations over the week but my favourite spot was on a reef at Sanur. We went out there in a rustic boat that’s essentially a big canoe with cylindrical wooden support beams attached to the sides and a sheet of shadecloth above our heads; our surfboards stacked at the front.

I’ve never surfed a reef break before and I find myself experiencing a kind of ecstasy at catching these long rolling waves that seem to go on forever before they gently collapse into still water at waist height. Riding a wave for that length of time in a setting like this is awesome, in the classical sense of the word. What look like Indonesian pirate ships dot the ocean to our left; temples stand proud on the land ahead. The blue expanse of ocean is warm and the waves are small and inviting. It is mystical and magical and many times I close my eyes in a prayer of thanks for this experience.

I catch the longest wave I’ve ever ridden in my life and feel like the Queen of the Sea. My board eventually starts to sink and I dive into the water, coming up with a stupid grin on my face and a bursting heart. I’m not one to swear much but with a loud laugh I blurt out, to no one in particular, “Fuck that’s fun!!!” The next wave slams the board into my teeth and the following one slaps me on my butt as I try to stand, like the sea has a sense of humour. But nothing can take away the frisson, that pure playful joy that makes me squeal the way my horse would when he was fresh in the ring.

I float on my board and take in this view and think, “I’m surfing in Indofrigginesia!”

By the last day there are only two girls left standing in the surf group. I’m feeling tired so I grab hold of Luca’s leg rope and let him drag me out there. Somehow he manages to paddle twice as fast as I usually do even with me hanging onto him. At one point my friend Katja grabs onto Luca’s leash and I grab onto hers to form a train, so this skinny New Zealander with a sense of humour says “Luckily I’m built like Arnold Schwarzenegger” and paddles two deadweight bodies out through the waves! Daywan, an even skinnier Indonesian surfer with shoulder-length black hair stays behind me and helps me catch waves by pushing forward on my feet to create a burst of momentum at the crucial time. I’m enjoying this last day;)

As I try to catch a bigger wave on the backline I finally manage to do a turtle roll, but this one’s unintended. It happens at the wrong time and in the wrong direction and I’m tossed around and put through another washing machine cycle of swirling salt water and foam that cleans out my sinuses and pulls down my bikini. Luca says not to worry ’cause Indi (the team photographer) will be sure to get that shot;)

Like anything in life, learning to surf takes practice and repetition and you’re going to fall – a lot. Luca says something profound about not trying too hard to paddle out too fast because if you just relax and take your time, you’ll suddenly look around and find yourself right where you need to be for the wave. Sound life advice shared right there as we bob around on our boards. My surf guru.

I love this. If I hadn’t ridden horses my whole life I’d surely have ridden waves instead. Sick barrels bro! Or something like that…

Bali is known as the Island of the Gods… a place of healing, transformation and manifestation. This week I joined a yoga retreat with a group of extraordinary women from all over Earth, ranging from age seventeen to forty-seven.

We started our week with a yoga class on the grass under a kite-filled evening sky, surrounded by lush vegetation, melodic birdsong and gecko calls that sound just like their name: “ge-ckooo!” When we hear them we’re reminded that we are speaking and living our truth.

I love Bali. I feel kind of at home here, which is probably thanks to all the tours that one of my best friends, Kristin, gave me of the East in the past few years.

I’ve spent a couple of days exploring Seminyak and Canggu on the south coast of this beautiful island. The beaches glisten with what looks like specks of silver glitter in the dark sand. The balmy air has a lingering smell of incense from the Balinese’ daily offering to the gods, which lends to the magical feel of this place.

The streets are packed with too many cars and motorbikes, yet somehow everybody seems to navigate calmly, like they’ve accepted that the journey will be a slow one. There’s as much yielding as there is hooting and I sense a quiet connection beneath the busyness and noise. Whole families are piled onto a single scooter; no helmets on their heads and young children perched behind the handlebars on their fathers’ laps and babies held in their mothers’ arms as they ride side-saddle at the back. Even barefoot tourists clutch surfboards while balancing on the back of a taxi bike. It’s chaotic and idyllic and it’s perfect.

Every second person on the street is a man offering a ride… “Taksi?” …or a woman offering a cheap but incredible massage. The people are generally very friendly and polite; I feel quite safe here. I find it amusing when the curious locals ask me if I’m travelling alone and the shocked look on their faces when I say I am, as though they anticipated the answer but still can’t quite believe it.

I’m not sure if I can believe it – that I’m actually here, fulfilling a long-held desire to travel to a place that provides so much nourishment for body, mind and spirit.