Contents
Coming unstuck
Eat, Pray, LIES
Are you there, goddess? Its me, Becky
A series of unfortunate encounters
Those who cant do teaching
Selamat datang
Special occasion essentials
Sacred Spice and the Yog-Off
An Ecstatic Movement
Island of the dogs
Exploring Islam Lite
A bit of energy surgery
The Yobud Pros
The Green School and a lesson in fruit
Serendipity and the dolphin cartel
Naamastayyyy
Ubud Writers and Readers Festival
Araknophobia
How do you doodle-do?
The burp that was more than a burp
EARTHQUAKE!!!
Om not so sure
The only white Mangku in the village
K9 terrorism
SeminYUK and the last goodbye
Facing the fear
Shakes on a plane
Bali: why bother?
Water, water, everywhere!
Trouble in paradise
People dont choose Bali
Villa Kitty
Underwater balloons and the broken boat
Mule jewels
Ill have a big Maca please
Black magic and the Village Voldemort
Naked jungle yoga and The Carpenters
Singa-poor
Death of the alarm-cock
The final kirtan
Shake n Pack
The monkey and the mermaid
Day 1 at the ashram: Finding Yourself Advanced
Day 2 at the ashram: The King and I
Day 3 at the ashram: Balis Most Haunted
Day 4 at the ashram: Its all part of the Process
Day 5 at the ashram: Soul Control
This land is my land, this land is your land
A modern day Mother Teresa
Plucked chickens and the Poo Shop
An ocean of emotion
Ho ho ho, but enough about me
A lesson in spitting and swallowing
Ghost hunting on Gili T
If it aint broke, dont bring it here
Biorocks and eco-efforts
Monsoon blues
Pure intensity
Mending hearts and other motors
Condiments and my long lost family
Love in the land of Amed
An interesting Twitter account
Jamu or not to Jamu
Happy Galungan
Natures Children
How would you like your eggs?
Sharks and other players in Candi Dasa
Not so spiritually minded
A Valentine farewell
Another suitcase in another hall
Travelling at the speed of Dubai
Wanted: One Bacardi with Mexican hat
Where everybody knows your name
Becky Wicks was born in 1979 in England and has since lived and worked in New York, Dubai, Bali and Sydney. Shes the author of Burqalicious: The Dubai Diaries , a true account of the madness in the Middle East, and Balilicious: The Bali Diaries . Becky is currently working on Latinalicious: The South American Diaries between learning the tango and testing various bottles of Malbec for research purposes.
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HarperCollins Publishers
First published in Australia in 2012
This edition published in 2012
by HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty Limited
ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au
Copyright Rebecca Wicks 2012
The right of Rebecca Wicks to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000 .
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968 , no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
HarperCollins Publishers
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National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Wicks, Rebecca.
Balilicious : the Bali diaries / Becky Wicks.
ISBN: 978 0 7322 9515 8 (pbk.)
ISBN: 978 1 7430 9548 5 (epub)
Wicks, Rebecca Anecdotes.
Women travelers Indonesia Bali (Province) Diaries.
Bali (Indonesia : Province) Description and travel.
910.4
Photographs courtesy of Rebecca Wicks
Cover design by Natalie Winter
Cover images by shutterstock.com
For Ubud,
and everyone who stepped into
my world on this journey.
Out in the Dutch East Indies, a week east of Singapore, a night east of Java, and just south of the equator lies the little island of Bali.
Hickman Powell, 1930
Out in Indonesia, two-and-a-half hours east of Singapore on AirAsia, six hours and 25 minutes from Sydney on JetStar, lies the largest tourist destination in the country. Bali.
Becky Wicks, 2012
Six months in Bali doesnt sound like a long time in which to write a book, but I guess when you plant yourself in one of the most mystical islands on Earth you never know what might pop up! I never dreamed Id be shaking on an ashram, lugging guitars and books up a mountain, hanging with the Bali Nine, hunting witches, diving shipwrecks, watching teens be possessed by wild animals, getting my unmentionables steamed in an ancient pre-wedding rituallet alone appreciating a linen-filled wardrobe.
Obviously there are a million more things still left to explore and uncover. Bali is a complex island of luscious layers and Ive only skimmed the surface. But what follows is a taste of an experience that will stay with me all my life.
As well as talking to hundreds of people, Ive also spent many hours in the Ubud Pondok Pekak library (libraries still exist!) and our global library, Google, so all cultural facts have been checked and are correct to the very best of my knowledge. Sorry for any errors!
There are too many people to thank, as Balis unquestionable magic has worked on many occasions to bring the most helpful, insightful, knowledgable and bloody brilliant people into my path throughout the writing of this book. But Ill start with my friends: Bob Supernant, Paul Barker, Jen Baxter, Susan Berg, Trevor, Cat Wheeler/Ibu Kat, Wayan (Number 9), Putu, Sumeena and Sandesh Gupta, Elizabeth Henzell, Chara Love, Joanna Witt, Budhi, Siddhartha Hewison, Made Surya and Bar Luna. And yes, you can be friends with a bar (thanks for the coconut killers).
Thanks also to Margaret Gee, Jeanne Ryckmans and to my friends from afar who either came to experience part of this journey with me or have supported me from their various corners: Mum, Dad, Tracy, Dacey, Gaby, Pip, Russ and River.
And thanks of course and with all my heart to Bali, for the magic.
I hope you like my story.
Becky x
Coming unstuck
I just had a cry. I feel so silly because it was one of those huffn-puff, stand in the middle of the room, put your head in your hands and let it all out kind of breakdowns, which are always embarrassing. I embarrassed myself and I was the only one who witnessed it. I still made it to the mirror though.
Sometimes when I cry I like to look in the mirror because I dont really cry all that often and I like to see what I look like when I do. Is that weird? I think it might be weirdbut in a way I like to remember lifes mini tragedies as turning points, visible only in the private tears on my face and the spit on my lips, rivers of mascara landing on a quivering chin. I think its the real me, somehow; the bare bones of me, the part I never show. Its like reminding myself who I am.