Nobal Glomad

I’m perched semi-lotus’d at Bali Buddha, the brilliant mung bean eatery on most Ubud visitors’ munch list. I look around and realise I’m outnumbered by a collective of semi-cloned thirty-ish to forty something women. They sit alone, shoulders draped in layers of freshly haggled sarongs and retreat daywear with bleach-free shoulder bags by their sides. Long manes of hair glow from 4hr morning coconut treatments.

Post their Yin Yoga class, super green smoothies clasped in one hand, carbon neutral hemp diaries and hibiscus pink encased iPhones in the other running hot with conversation like “I’ve found this great space for my next Salsa Chakra enlightened self retreat… uh huh… yep…yep… this trip has meant truly awesome enlightenment for me too… totally… yes… TOTALLY!” Others are engrossed in SMS or journaling with distancing looks of ‘I’m here on my journey. I own this journey. No one can take this discovery from me. And you… yes you… man with penis… don’t even think about talking to me. You’re an appendix to the human condition. We are Eat Pray Love’d women… hear our silent roar.’

Zipping along Monkey Forest Road, Ubud central on my $3/day, apparently recently serviced Vespa it becomes clear the dynamic of this once quieter Bali destination has noticeably changed since my month-long stay just under a year ago. Sardine packed buses cram pot-holed streets, day trippers from Kuta sporting bum-bags, hair braids and Bintang singlets bargain for pirate release DVDs, timber Buddhas and wood carved key-ring penises (wrong). There’s an unrelenting traffic jam of bike, car, bus and exhaust purge, and a new Starbucks has emerged like a chain store’d cancer on the main drag.

A walk through Penestanan, just out of Ubud to the small Javanese Joglo that was my temporary abode last year shows fast-tracked development of 6 new villas engulfing the little house. Gone is the green serenity of the surrounding fields. None of this villa-fication is purpose built for local life improvement. Everything new is designed for captivated ex-pats who’ve purchased their slice of the Bali dream.

How things have changed.

This is a world removed from the streetscape described by Australian Janet De Neefe in her autobiographical ‘Fragrant Rice’.  Upon arrival to Ubud just over 20 years ago, she was one of the pioneering Westerners to marry a local and settle. She talks of a sleepy town in 1985. “There were mainly Vespa motorbikes, a few Holden cars and old Dutch bicycles on the road. Late in the day farmers would walk along the main street with their precious cows in tow or a herd of noisy ducks obediently following the farmer’s white flag.” Back then village life spilled out onto the sidewalks and more rice paddies than buildings graced the landscape.

Is the current Indonesian government doing anything to contain the mass Westernisation of their prettier parts? No. Not right now. Money talks and Westerners are cash-abundant. The financial reap of a rice paddy isn’t a surface scratch when compared to the immediate return from selling a plot to whitey for his sea-changing mansion build. The concept of wealth for the Balinese is still new. They’re not street-wise in the matters of dollar management and often it is swiftly squandered away on a new car or motorbike. Do lessons need to be taught? If the current state of growth continues then yes it does, and unfortunately it’s up to a less than committed to the task government to lead the way. It is  equally the responsibility of more educated ex-pats to bring their educated planning and community experience to Bali… seeking to integrate rather than isolate themselves from local life.

In 2003, Elizabeth Gilbert took to the self-discovering global road of Italy, India and Bali. Italy, her ‘Eat’, was all about abundance filled with twirls of al dente pasta, slabs of prosciutto’d thin base, standing room enotecas, vanilla napoleons and language immersion. India, her ‘Pray’ was to connect with her guru, to meditate through the mental mush of a failed marriage and say hello to inner peace and her God. Finally, ‘Love’ was the return to Ketut, her Ubud medicine man and original trip inspiration, to study with him, improve his English, but equally importantly and unexpectedly meet the love of her life. This encounter lead to the spark for her next book Commitment, a far less inspiring read. Minus the colour and journey of Eat Pray Love Gilbert seems to overthink and convolute her search for the meaning of Marriage… a side note but a recent regretful read that needs mentioning.

Gilbert writes with enlightened testosterone. Prior to embarking on her 12 months of best selling self-discovery, the meat of her journalistic talent was sought by the likes of GQ and Gentlemen’s Quarterlies to write for hairy chested blokes about cars, bikes and being a decent part-time caring other in a relationship.

I am the last to criticise her journey and success. I’ve read Eat Pray Love, twice, with several passages earmarked. I love Gilbert’s perceptive, inquisitive quirk. Like a first release album or directing debut there is no expectation from an audience in the millions. There’s no bestseller pressure to re-perform. It’s fueled by honesty and desire for something better post her divorce, which emptied her bank and asset accounts. We all know extreme upheaval is often the perfect spark for transformation, inspiration and personal development.

Today, after the late 2010 release of Julia Robert’s and Javier Bardem’s somewhat lollified Hollywood romanticism of Gilbert’s journey, thousands of self-empowerment seeking women, particularly American women, aspire to their own pasta smooch n’ pray discovery. And why not. In principle it’s a magic journey. A statement of questioning one’s assumed path of not good enough mediocrity. Someone has shown it’s ok to step off the beaten track and find your own journey. (Another side note: Don’t ever Google Gilbert’s real life partner… it will ruin your rugged Español Bardem fantasy)

The problem is there’s a large contingent who don’t seem to connect to the fundamental principle of Gilbert’s passage. There’s a YouTube video of ‘Meet and greet the author’ whereby a bunch of bookish over made-up American women gather in a faux-timbered lounge room with Gilbert. The focus of their discussion is either that of “This is my story… hear MY story!” or “Which Ashram did you go to Elizabeth?” She explains her book is not so much about which Ashram has an air conditioned prayer room, it’s about discovering your ride. It could be trekking the Himalayas, it may mean gender realignment, perhaps handing in your toothpaste capping resignation and going back to study microsurgery. It’s about finding your torch and running with it. This is your life and it’s not good enough to just accept unhappiness.

I’m not sure her message clicked. Go ahead and Google ‘Eat Pray Love Tours’ (cue the cringe). You’ll find a cool 9,180,000 results to scroll through. There’s luxury resorts across several countries offering ready-in-a-week love-packaged trips with group visits to medicine men, massages, spas, channeling sessions, infinity pools, tourist temple sunset visits and hocus pocus potion packed lunches with vanilla yoga options to safely stretch those travel insured loins.

None of this is Gilbert’s fault. American mainstream culture is ridiculously influenced by everything seen, read, endorsed and listened to. Consider the Oprah Winfrey visit to Sydney late last year. Fully aware of its impact on local tourism the Australian government jumped at the opportunity, lighting up our renowned Harbour Bridge with her red insignia ‘O’ and giving her centre stage at the Opera House. Whether it’s an Anthony Robbins’ motivational book tour or Charlie Sheen on a sell-out ‘apparently nutball’ cross-state tour, the US audience latches onto a torch of hope and leadership… the infamous land of opportunity.

It’s perfectly understandable for Gilbert to have chosen Bali as her final destination. I too now on my fourth visit, just like the ladies who vegan lunch, am a victim captivated by Bali’s allure of spirituality, ceremony, family values, her natural manicured magnificence and lush tropical climate.

I just hope these ‘seekers’ find their happiness whilst being equally focused on appreciating the real untouched Bali. A culture that is in essence poor. One that nurtures a simple existence of giving and receiving from the land. A culture that has little to do with yoga retreats, spas and an eternal quest for more answers. A culture that is always very welcoming and hopefully is not destroyed and blandified in the space of a few years by the power of the Western dollar.