shopping for silver

Mom has a thing for bags... And brooches... Well, and flower seeds and gardening. She tried to resist my offer to buy her something from Bali, but then she said, "Well, if you INSIST, then a silver brooch," to which I replied, "But Mom, I bought you a silver brooch when I came to Bali two years ago and you never wore it!"

"Says who? I wear it often! The thing is, it the pin was bent, so I'm worried it'll break," she said.

So off we went to Ubud, where silver jewelry (the highest quality in Bali) abound. If you're looking for silver jewelry or silver artisans, Bali and Yogyakarta (central Java) are famous for silver. The designs and the craftsmanship are exquisite (this was the word I kept muttering when I saw the silver collections).

Our search began in several artisan shops in an area called Celuk. They sell exquisite jewelry from rings, brooches, hair pins, to earrings, and bracelets and bangles, and decorations made of silver and or gold. We went to one artisan shop and there was this exquisite (see, I keep repeating that word) brooch. The price tag was around USD 600. The seller saw that we were locals, so he gave us USD 300. When we were about to leave, he gave us USD 100.

We went to other artisan shops, including one called UC Silver. Their collections are beautiful, but too crazy contemporary. Too modern for my taste. I was looking for something more local, more traditional, more Indonesian, and definitely not that expensive (Ruby encrusted brooch for USD 1,200? Really? I guess they have to pay for the billboards, the shops, the personal assistants for shoppers (yes, kidding I am not), the display, the decor, and the renovation for the new parking lot).

Then we began our search to smaller silver boutiques in Ubud, and I found the perfect brooch for Mom. Strangely, it was at CV Utami, the store where I bought Mom her first silver brooch.

Isn't it just exquisite? I couldn't find a cat, so I chose a peacock. Hopefully it'll remind her of my tattoo and give her subliminal messages to allow me to get more ink.

Finally, we had lunch at Tutma, a cozy open-air restaurant in Ubud. I had Vegetarian Platter (seriously overpriced and not even tasty) and iced tea (which had an icky aftertaste), and Cinnamon Roll (this one is crazy good. It was big and warm, picture attached). 

fabric frenzy

Whenever I'm in Bali, I always go to Jalan Sulawesi / Pasar Badung. It's an area that sells all kinds of imaginable fabrics: Batik, solid satin, charmeuse, taffeta, velvet, stretch velvet, organza, to Balinese golden ceremonial and traditional cloths.

I felt I needed more pantaloons, so my boyfriend drove me to Jalan Sulawesi. I've been looking for either charmeuse or stretch print velvet, but I found better ones.

As I was paying for the two Indian print fabrics (I had a hard time deciding which color, they were all so beautiful, but I only had a budget for two prints), my eyes brought me to another section and I found it: print taffeta. The fabric was soft and drapey, the motif was perfect, and the color... I tried my best to take photos, but I just couldn't capture the color.

When the fabric was cut and the roll was placed back to the section, I still couldn't take my eyes off of it. I guess it meant I really loved it. It's the top one in the picture on the left. It's ridiculously cheap: only about USD 4 per meter! The Indian prints are even half the price.

dining in bali

When I went to Bali last year, my boyfriend took me to a vegan restaurant called Deity of Miracle. We had a few lunches there, and most often than not, we were the only customers there. It was a big, big restaurant with two seating sections: the upper floor had tables and chairs while the garden offered several patios where diners can lounge.

Yesterday evening, we went there again. To my surprise, Deity of Miracle was still open for business. I helped myself to a plate of Sweet & Sour Mushroom (pure and epic deliciousness) and Bean & Tempe.

My tummy had never been happier.

So please, for the sake of this restaurant (that always seems to be empty), please eat here.

coffee time

 If you're in Bali, if you're a coffee or tea drinker, if you love Indonesian coffee and tea, if you're looking for cakes, or free and fast Wi-Fi, visit Coffee Revolution. It's my little coffee shop in Kerobokan. 

At Coffee Revolution, we believe in serving you authentic Indonesian coffee and tea, acquired directly from local coffee and tea farmers. The beans and leaves are processed manually, with love, so every cup tastes slightly different and unique, not generic the way one gets when one drinks machine-processed coffee or tea. 

Also, there are delicious cakes and fresh pastries, bagels and croissants (it's all-day breakfast, Baby!) and free Wi-Fi. Trust me, the Wi-Fi is free and fast. I'm using it right now!

We serve 100% Indonesian coffee from all over Indonesia: Aceh, Mandheling, Toraja, and Papua, as well as a variety of teas (peppermint, lemongrass, Javanese tea, and green tea). 

good news

My latest blog entry was in February 2012. Amazing. I have to remember to post my mediocrity writing to the blog just so you guys can understand why I'm going to just focus on dancing. 

Now on to the better things. 

A few years back, when I was still in college, I had a crazy idea. On November 30 that year, I made 100 HIV red ribbons using superglue and double tape and distributed them around campus the following day. My knowledge of HIV/AIDS is very limited, but I know that I want to live to 100 years old and a day and to be able to do so, I must not play around, and by playing around I mean having unprotected sex or any kind of sex with someone else. 

Even until now, I firmly believe that the safest form of sex is masturbation. That is if you're not into asphyxiation or extreme masochism or scat. Also, I believe that if I were just slightly any cuter, or with better skin and less scars, I'd be such a slut that I'd go spread my love (and legs) around town, contract VD and STD and die before 30. So, in a way, I guess it's good to be ugly? 

Anyway, I'm in Bali right now, visiting my boyfriend. When he and I got together three years ago, we decided to do HIV test. Unfortunately, in Jakarta, one needs to have a doctor's recommendation letter before one gets tested (I guess this is for consultation purposes or whatnot). It was too much of a fuss for us, so we didn't do it. 

Then, a couple of weeks ago, my boyfriend said he started getting headaches and decided to get his blood checked, for cholesterol level and such, and while he was at it, for HIV. The doctor who did the test was a friend of his, and so he didn't need any recommendation letter. My boyfriend's HIV status was said to be "non-reactive" (that means "negative"). 

Yesterday, I got myself checked and guess what? 

My result came out as "non-reactive" too. 

So, yay!

Here's my take on Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love".
Found in Ubud, Bali. 

it's that time again

Well, hello there, Suitcase.

As much as I'm excited to be in California, Jakarta is still my home. I'm looking forward to driving my car, being caught in the traffic jam, practicing and dancing with my troupemates, rehearsing our upcoming dance recital, seeing my family and my cats, and inhaling the pollution.

Still, I have to sort the stuff I'm packing inside the Samsonite. I have to start bringing things home since I only have four more chances, including this one, and when I leave the USA for good, I don't want to leave anything behind.

Well, here's to travelling transcontinental Economy Class.

i take that back

Remember when I said I didn't want to have more tattoos?

Well, I take that back. Ha! Talk about mental instability.

Contrary to what people say (that the pain of getting inked is addictive), it is actually not the pain, but the art and the end result that have made me yearn for more permanent body adornment. Only this time, I'm thinking of getting something smaller and on a less painful place.

I'm thinking of getting a rose... I still have to do my Bast head and Bell Jar, though. The Bell Jar is small while Bast is rather big... I guess I have to prioritize.

That being said, it is already two weeks since I got inked and my tattoo is still healing. It's not scabbing but it's been flaky and really itchy.

I'm going to dance this Sunday and I'll be wearing my new, backless costumes to really show off my tattoo.

the strolling dancer

It was a hot day, as if Denpasar was under a giant magnifying glass that multiplied the sun's rays exponentially. My boyfriend and I drove out of the house to take care of his work. The AC in the car was blowing cool air, surrounding us in some sort of cooling cocoon that protected us from the outside heat. On the way out, we saw someone walking.

"Isn't that a traditional artist?" my boyfriend asked. The true meaning of "artist" has somehow lost its gritty and unglamorous definition. Justin Bieber is an artist. Those who has one hit song and can jet around the world is an artist.

I looked at the person walking outside our car. He was wearing a traditional Javanese suit from head to toe. The traditional suit is, indeed, a suit: a shirt, a jacket, a sarong draped around the hips covering the lower body all the way to the ankle, a headdress called blangkon (blung-kohn), and traditional slippers. Anyone who could walk under the heat in that costume really earned my respect.

What amazed me even more was the fact that he wore full-blown make-up (the way traditional Javanese artists do when performing). The color of his decorated facial skin contrasted the worn-out and sun-burnt skin on his hands that poked out of the long sleeves of his jacket. His make-up could hide his real age, but you could tell the things he'd gone through by looking at his wrinkly hands that clutched a wooden box.

"Is that a Balinese suit?" I asked my boyfriend, unsure of my own knowledge.

"No. That's Javanese," he replied.

"What's a Javanese traditional artist doing in Bali?" I asked again. I honestly didn't know. Bali is rich with its own art, culture and tradition. It already has many dances. These dances are one of the reasons why people flock to the island. Of course, nowadays it's almost about the sun, sand, surf, and sex (and tattoo), but people still ask to see shows of Kecak and Barong dances. It just baffled me that a Javanese artist would go against the current. To me, he looked like fish out of water, like he didn't belong.

My boyfriend shrugged.

"Does he get any audience?"

My boyfriend shrugged again.

I got lost in my own train of thoughts. I could identify myself with him, the strolling dancer. We are both males, we wear make-up and costume. When I had gigs in places where I had to change and do my make-up in the toilet or had to dance in front of indifferent crowd or with inadequate sound system, I bitched a lot. This strolling dancer was walking in his full regalia, under the sun, on stony paths (literally and perhaps figuratively), carrying his own music. I mean, imagine walking on a hot, rough surface, wearing thin slippers.

My mouth clamped shut for a while. Then my boyfriend said, "We should've given him a lift."

I felt pity for a split second but replied, "Hmm... well, he could be a strolling dancer carrying a stereo set inside his wooden box... Or, he could also be a loon with knives and weapons inside that box."

My boyfriend looked at me. "Wow, you've become as paranoid as Americans," was his reply.

I cringed.

I don't want to be that heartless. I don't want to be like those who took naked pictures of me spread-eagled for the purpose of making sure I didn't carry anything dangerous on the plane. I don't want to be like the obnoxiously rude immigrant officers, who were obviously of Chinese descendants, at SFO. I don't want to be like the people of Westboro Baptist Church, or like Mel Gibson. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be like Osama bin Laden either, but you get the point.

Later on, as I'm writing this entry, another thought ran across my mind. Bali has a significant portion of Javanese people living here. Those people may benefit from the strolling dancer's artistry.

I pray, for his sake and mine, that his walk under today's scorching sun was not unfruitful, and that his walk was a walk, tired but relentless, a determined walk and not a wandering.

it hurts like a mutha: let the healing begin

I need to tell you how painful the tattoo process was. At least to me.

A couple of my friends told me that getting their tattoo was a breeze. I didn't believe them, obviously. I'm afraid of needles (the medicinal one, I love sewing, on the other hand) and so aside from the Abdomen Ultrasonography (USG), I also dreaded getting my blood taken during last year's medical check-up.

I've read many websites for tattoo virgins (first-timers), the fears of getting inked, the aftercare, etc. Now it's time for me to share my own story.

First, I gotta tell y'all: it hurts. It *#$&@#!(* HURTS. There were moments when I felt like I almost fainted from the pain. Call me a wuss, call me hypersensitive. I don't care. It was so painful that I almost told Froggy, the tattoo artist, to stop for a while, but I held myself and had the job completed in approximately one hour. It felt like a knife happily slicing my back. I remember the needle drilling into the skin of my back - the worst moment was when the vibration of the drilling machine reverberated all over my skin.

So, yeah. The slicing sensation was dreadful.

Also, despite my boyfriend saying that he didn't see any blood, I felt Froggy repeatedly wiped something away from my back. I've seen YouTube videos and I know that the act of wiping must have something to do with blood.

When the tattoo was done and I was shaking from the pain (yup, I really was shaking from the pain), it was covered with Saran and I was told to take it off after one hour. The place was out of tattoo aftercare lotion but the front desk guy told us that we could buy an ointment called Bepanthen (an antiseptic). A friend told me to purchase Bioplacenton. So off we go to the nearest drug store to buy the two of them.

"Do you have Bepanthen?" my boyfriend asked the lady behind the counter.

"Yes, yes we do," she replied and turned to her friend, "Could you pass me Bepanthen?" her friend quickly walked to the shelf to retrieve the ointment.

"Bepanthen is good for rashes and skin irritation, it is also used for tattoo aftercare," said the countergirl's friend.

"How could you tell I just got a tattoo?" I jokingly asked. The friend didn't say anything. She just stood there, poker-faced, looking at my boyfriend as if I weren't there.

Oh, well. At least the ointment works (I'm using Bepanthen). I think. So far there has been no blood. Now I have to make sure that there's no scabbing.

After all, I don't want to have a polka-dotted tattoo. I mean, it's not that it's going to look awful, I also don't think I can afford (financially, physically, and psychically) getting a touch-up.

ADDENDUM: I also read somewhere that you should treat a new tattoo like a third-degree burn. That is: no swimming, no bath-tubbing, absolutely no sea water (unless you're a hardcore masochist). When we finally arrived home, my boyfriend gently peeled off the Saran wrap, washed his hands, rubbed his palms with alcohol, and washed the wound with soft cotton balls dipped in warm water. Finally, he generously applied the Bepanthen ointment.

It's day two now and although I can still feel the pain at times, it's greatly subsided.

Again, I hope scabs won't appear.

it hurts like a mutha

"Mom, I never, ever want to be tattooed, ever again."

Message sent to Mom.

Thirty seconds later: Incoming call: Mom.

"So did you or did you not get a tattoo?"

"I did, and I'm never going to get another one!" I said, that made Mom laughed really loud. It was not just an amused laughter, it was triumphant, filled with victory.

"I told you. How big is it anyway?"

"Eighteen centimeters (that's about eight inches)." UPDATE: apparently, the tattoo is 23 cm (about nine inches).

"Okay, well, it's good to know that you've had enough."

Then the phone conversation ended.

I always backtrack, and I'm going to backtrack this post yet again, because I just think I should blog about it after writing my conversation with Mom. This one is with my boyfriend.

"So, the picture doesn't have orange or red, while the real eye peacock feather has that red and orange and yellow hue. You have to make sure I get those colors. I don't want the tattoo to be too bluish," I told my boyfriend.

"What? I thought you were going to come too."

It took me about five seconds to realize that he was joking.

"Geez. Since it's my skin, of course I have to be there, duh? But I can't see behind my back, can I? I need you to tell the tattooist to make sure he gets the colors right."

In the end, my boyfriend did play a significant role in taking the pictures, cleaning the new ink when we're home, and applying the antiseptic lotion.

Froggy, the guy who did my tattoo at Bali Ink was supernice, superfunny, superartistic, and superprofessional. There was almost zero drop of blood.

Every time I saw people walking with their tattoos, my scar pounds mercilessly on my back and I feel that stinging sensation from the piece of jewel I will never ever see with my own eyes.

It hurts like a mutha and I'm scarred for life now. Literally. But at least it's a pretty scar. A pretty, peacock-feather-shaped scar.

even heroes need holidays

And I'm not a hero! So I'm entitled to more holidays!

I arrived in Jakarta on 21 June 2011 and flew to Bali on the 27th.

On the first day of my arrival in Bali, my boyfriend and I went to La Ota for some porridge - that's how we always start my trip in Bali. Then we headed to Bali Ink to set up an appointment for my first (and most probably my last) tattoo. How do I know it's going to be my last? Well, when I was in San Francisco, suddenly Mom sent me an SMS message telling me that she had heard of my plan to get a tattoo. She pleaded (basically told me) to not get one. I replied to her that I'd discuss the plan when I got home.

On the eve of the flight to Bali as I was packing my suitcase, this conversation ensued.

"Mom, why can't I have a tattoo? Are you concerned about the cleanliness and hygiene of the place?"

"Yes, I'm worried about that," she said.

"But they have clean and new needles and stuff. They'll show you the new needles, just like they do at the facialist," I replied, referring to the dermatologist where we usually go to. Then I realized I had made a weak preposition, and so I added, "Or like the clinics and hospitals where they always have new needles and sterilized equipment."

I showed her the designs: the cats, the bell jar, the mandala, and finally the peacock feather at the back of the neck.

"That one is pretty," she said, pointing at the peacock feather.

"It is! And I want it."

"Why can't you have it for a temporary tattoo? And anyway, it will hurt, won't it?"

"Yes! But that's the essence of getting a tattoo: a painful commitment for a thing of beauty that will last forever!" actually as I was saying this, I was involuntarily reminded about the pain that I'd have to endure (around 90 minutes - the front-desk person at Bali Ink said). I think I flinched a bit.

"This one," I said, pointing at the bell jar design, "I made a promise to myself that if I were accepted at a school I wanted, I'd get it." The bell jar design was inspired by Sylvia Plath's one and only novel.

"Well, okay... but you have to choose. I want you to only get one tattoo. That's it!"

"One... full body?"

"No, just one tattoo. And I prefer you get the smallest," she sternly said.

"Gosh. How did you find out I was getting tattoos anyway?" I asked. I had remained silent about the whole thing. My plan was to silently get my tattoos done and then came home with them.

"I read about them," she replied with her usual poker face.

"From where?"

"The newspapers..." she replied. I almost giggled but also maintained a serious air - I was in the middle of a business proposal, not unlike when I asked for an Acer Ferrari laptop seven years ago.

"Oh, well. I'll get the peacock, then" I said decidedly.

And here I am, in Bali, anxiously waiting for two more days and reading about tattoo aftercare.

Sigh.