by Andrew Pacholyk MS L.Ac.
~ Peacefulmind.com
(excerpt from Andrew Pacholyk’s memoir, Barefoot: A Surfer’s View of the Universe)
Bali was a lush green island in the Indonesian archipelago. Known for its beautiful temples, beaches, and rain forests, it had a reputation for surfing, diving, and nightlife.
By February in Asia, the Lunar New Year was the biggest holiday tradition of all. People would travel hundreds of miles to return home from which ever part of the world they were in to share the New Year with family and friends. Universities would close, business would go on break for 10 days, and the entire Far East would shut down in honor of Lunar celebrations.
With the show on hiatus, it was our golden opportunity to go to Bali to celebrate the Year of the Ox. The word was out backstage that we were going to Bali, and 10 of us were on a plane to Kuta Beach, Bali’s biggest and most energetic spot on the island.
Also known as the Isle of the Gods, Bali’s untrodden forests and pristine water seemed already threatened by the hand of man. In no time, this fantasy island would surely become a major tourist trap, overdeveloped and polluted. Its patchwork of rice paddies and black sandy beaches were its unique trademarks.
Surfing Bali was a dream come true. Katu had a wide, sandy white beach that most of the island life centered around. Just like Malibu in California, the beach produced long stretches of waves that would roll in, one after the other.
At dawn patrol you would find 10 or 15 surfers in the water. By 10 am the number would double. By mid-afternoon, the surf crowd tripled. I would meet surfers from all over the world. They were all drawn to Bali, one way or another. The rituals of the California surfer seemed to mirror the same love and respect for nature I would see in every surfer I encountered in these faraway lands. It’s as if the mental appreciation was an ingrained calling with the love for the sea as a common thread.
This beach had a sandy bottom, with no coral, making it the perfect hang 10 spot for surfers to relish. You would see locals come to the beach early morning to do blessing rituals, placing flowers, candles, or incense afloat in the beautiful water. The town, although a tourist haven, had a strong spiritual sense to it. Just looking around and admiring the tropical paradise gave the impression that God was present through his gift of nature.
I would spend most of the days surfing, while my cast mates spent their time swimming, shopping, or eating. I was grateful that there was not a “no surfing” clause in my contract. It gave me the freedom to really enjoy the moments without the fear of knowing I was going behind the producer’s back. The nightlife in Bali was an imaginative side show of tenacious drunks, party girls looking for the next club to take over, or the endless stream of crazies flowing down the main strip. Although it was fun to be a part of, it really wasn’t much different than the parade of tourist clamoring through Venice Beach on a Saturday.
I would often take my board to the beach and find a rock to sit on, watching the moon play on the constant rotation of waves coming in from the swells that were being pushed across the Indian Ocean. I wondered what the guys were doing back in California? I wished I could share these waves with my cousin and the gang. They would love it here.
Balinese Hinduism was a form of Hinduism practiced by the majority of Bali’s population. Partial to the island people who made their home here, the indigenous rituals and practices became woven into their Hindu beliefs. They recognized that every element in nature truly reflected an omnipresence within it. Spirit lived in every rock and tree, wind and water, earth and mountain. Their reverence and respect for the whole of nature was awe-inspiring.
Aside from the majority of Balinese Hindus, there was a large population of Chinese immigrants whose rituals and traditions seemed to become incorporated into that of the locals. This Sino-Balinese blend of faiths embraced their original beliefs yet honored the mixture of Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, Taoism, and Confucianism, harmonizing it with the other spiritual practices. This panoply was a far cry from the one-track mind of the Catholic diocese I grew up in.
Vihara Dharmayana, was a Buddhist temple where you could find peace and serenity from the mayhem and party revelers not that far beyond the main strip. The open-air temple was a series of red archways leading into altars of worship to Buddha, stacked high with plates of oranges and flowers as offerings. The air was ladened with fragrant incense. This hidden gem was engulfed in red paper lanterns and leis of fresh flowers in preparation for the day’s New Year celebration.
“Gong Xi Fa Chai,” a monk greeted me with Happy New Year, bowing his head with humility. I quickly repeated the phrase back, mirroring his actions. He handed me four golden pieces of paper and asked, “Is this enough for your family?” It registered in my brain that these were like blessings or wishes. One for each member of those most dear in your life. He extended his hand out towards a large, red furnace where I saw others tossing their golden papers into the flames. He offered me to do the same. Even though I did not really know or understand the tradition, it felt wonderful to partake in the ritual.
The Year of the Ox was upon us. The quiet temple, usually at peace among the jungle setting, was starting to fill with spiritual revelers hoping to start their New Year off right. Soon after, four boys set up drums that were three times their size. Beating a rhythmic pattern, they tempted the lion out from its lair to dance the dance of celebration. Out of one of the temple rooms pounced a large yellow and red lion’s head, helmed by two boys. One commandeering the front of the giant head and mouth while the other boy, maneuvered the back of the massive mask, dressed in the feet of the lion. The Chinese New Year Festival had begun!
Behind them slithered ten men manipulating a 50-foot dragon that would precisely weave up and down, mimicking the movement of the great serpent as he frolicked and danced for the now, massive crowd, that had assembled. Children, dressed all in red, stared in absolute wonder as their parents pushed them forwards in order to catch sight of the rollicking dragon. This little island in the middle of the Bali Sea, at the tip of the Indonesian archipelago was exploding with the celebration of a New Year. It was one of the most meaningful observances of new beginnings I had ever experienced.