I am really conflicted about all the penis action in Bali. First, we have numerous statues, like this one, that seem to insinuate the Balinese are quite proud of their-ahem!-manhood. I mean, people, somebody bothered to sculpt and then BRONZE this baby, whose unofficial title is "Save a Horse, Ride a Cockboy". (Or, "On the Good Ship, Do-Lollypop).

Also, on the cheaper side of things, you have penis key rings, penis bottle openers, penis pipes, penis lamps, all carved from teak wood. And the sizes, like the above sculpture, are quite staggering. One might think one had wandered into a Doc Johnson shop, or a Long-Dong-Silver video.

But then you've got reality, or what one could only deduce as reality. If you've read Eat Pray Love then you know that Wayan, Liz's Balinese herbalist friend, referred to the male schlongage as "a banana". And she wasn't just being cute. Today at the market my buddy Jaq finally summoned up the courage to ask about the rows and rows of penis shaped items. "What are those?" she asked all innocent-like, like they could possibly rare Balinese sundials or some kind of strange wind instrument. "That banana!" the woman said with a huge grin.

So imagine my surprise when I check into my new room at the Bali Niksoma and waiting for me on the terrace is a rather beautiful plate of fruit, two bananas posing innocently next to a pomegranate and pineapple. I submit for your review a photograph of said bananas. Now you tell me, if the Balinese male member is being referred to as a banana, and this is the average size of a banana in Bali, what's up with the gargantuan penis statues? If life isn't imitating art, is art imitating...wishful thinking? Someone have a little fruit envy? Can we say overcompensation? One does wonder at the truth behind the banana. Let's just say if you wanna save a horse and ride a Balinese cowboy, you better make it a double. Just to be safe.

I found her! Oh yes I did! "Stop the car!" I shrieked as we drove by her today, afraid I was only seeing a mirage induced from motion sickness and vinyl seats under an unforgiving sun. But there she was, a Balinese version of Baba Yaga, or so I deemed her.

Those of you who know me have heard me rave of Baba Yaga, a Russian fairy tale that features a brave young girl and a shrewd, capricious witch of dark and dangerous power. I used to be turned off by her warty grotesqueness, but now I embrace her fully. She's moved into my psyche where she's helped me become wise, cunning, comfortable with wrinkles (sorta) and impatient with bullshit.

The sixty-something year old shop keepers (brothers, I'm assuming) at this antique store must have thought I'd lost my mind to want photos of her. And I didn't stop there. I posed with her and asked them to snap a shot of us together. They muttered something to each other under their breath which I am sure equated to "Crazy White Woman." But I don't care. Sagging boobs and aging skin, I'm getting closer to Baba Yaga every day. How delish I can pose with her now, at 40. Think of this as the "before" photo. Maybe I'll be back in forty years for the "after" photo. One can hope.

The clothes! The face! The headgear! The accessories! IS SHE NOT TO DIE FOR??? Is it just me or am I destined to want to bring home all things hugely over-the-top and utterly impractical?

Dude. How happy am I right now? The only other time I've had a rose petal bath following a luhur body scrub was in Santa Fe and they asked me for my left eyeball as payment.  Silas and I had to save up for a year to afford the romantic dual treatment and an overnight stay at The Madeline Bed and Breakfast, then save up another year to deal with the guilt we were sure would ensue after spending a small fortune on nothing but sumptuous romance.

But no guilt today! Even at the fairly ritzy Bali Niksoma, my current digs, the price for a two hour treatment, complete with massage, rose petal milk bath, ginger cookies and green tea is a mere 50.00 US dollars. I can hardly eat lunch in Santa Fe for that amount. It's too bad flights are so expensive to Bali. But if you can find the bucks or a sugar daddy or a hot pilot eager to share his frequent flier miles, being here is good for the soul. And the skin. It's just what the doctor ordered after living in dry Taos at 8000 feet where one is likely to end up looking like Phyllis Diller by dinnertime.

I plan on going back to the rose petal bath before I head for home (which is comin' up in a few days!). Wanna come with me? Oh the things I do for you! Come on, then. I'll be your vicarious luxury spa bitch. It's a sacrifice but I'll muddle through somehow.

"Maestro" is typically a term I reserve for Silas, for numerous reasons, only one of which being he's hella good with musical compositions. Let's just say he knows his way around a good score. Ahem. Anyway, "maestro" is what they call Wayan Winten, and deservedly so. I saw these sculptures by the side of the road as our touring van was driving into Ubud the other day and about birthed a small bovine right there in the van. Being in mixed company I decided to stave off the birthing pangs and return later when I could fully devote my attention to the new baby cow-of-delight.

 Days later I hired a driver and paid a visit to Wayan's studio. If you like romantic sculpture, it's a paradise of staggering proportion. I submit these photos as both proof and pleasure. And before you ask, the calf and I are doing fine.

Moo.

His studio! Taken from across the street. Yes, I almost became Balinese street pizza to get this shot!

His home. Yup, his H O M E. (Two doors down the street from his studio).

And just to give you an idea of the monumental proportions of these babies, this chick's paws (every one of them) are bigger than my head.

I didn't just have a cow, I had a Holy Hindu Brahma Cow!

As I've mentioned before, Bintang is the local beer. Typically I'm not a beer enthusiast, but given the temperatures, humidity and the excessive effort it takes to do things each day like breathe, I've taken to the shiny, green Bintang bottle like a calf to the teet. Mmmmm.

And I've noticed a curious thing. The Balinese are big on worship and offerings, as each family has their own temple, all the stores on the streets have their own temple, and each village has a community temple. One literally cannot walk more than 14 paces and without running into a temple. So yesterday, while I was once again in drench-mode, I found myself holding up the Bintang to my own temples, tto quicken the chill out, dude.

And it dawned on me that this could be a new form of meditation, a new kind of offering at the temple. It so worked for me that I've coined a new word to describe it:

zen - tang (adj): a meditative state of oneness through the employment of shade and Balinese beer

For those tourists who've yet to visit Bali, or who need expert advice on how to reverentially achieve a higher (and yes, cooler) state of being, here's a step-by-step guide:

Step One: Position yourself in shade--the most holy of holy places in Bali. Cry out to the Higher Power in your sweat-drenched despair. Admit your utter desperation and sun-parched defeat while bringing the sacred, cold Bintang vessel to the temple. Of your head.

Step Two: Feel the joy of the cold offering summoning up states of ecstacy.  Release all resistance, settling into the oneness.

Step Three:Drink deep from the chalice and enter the peaceful state of Zentang.

Step Four:  Repeat until you are one with all things and continue thy journey unhindered by whiney, mournful, sweat-infested complaints.

Remember the mystic who said:

There is not try there is only do.

In Bali:

There is no try, there is only drink.

Yoda would have loved it here.

So last night as we're driving home from Ulu Watu, I turn to Jaq and say, "How do you feel about elephants?" She looks at me like it's a trick question. "I...like?...elephants?"

I laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not asking you to go on safari with me, but I did read there's an elephant rescue park 20 minutes from here. Wanna go ride an elephant tomorrow?"

Good thing she wasn't driving or she'd have hit the brakes. "Get out! Are you kidding me? We can meet Dumbo?"

Needless to say we made a play date. I grew up in Orlando and aside from Peter Pan's Flying Ship and Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, the Flying Dumbo ride was my favorite. Today I got a chance to ride, pet and kiss him. I hope he was as happy as we were. I'm guessing the sugar cane helped in that department.

Sugar for sugar. Seems fair.

Seriously, I haven't been so happy since I was kissed by a sea lion.

I can't believe our luck, either, for baby Dumbo was born on March 15th, 2009, one week to the day before we arrived. So we got to watch little Dumbo eat, snuggle with mom, and finally pass out when the fun got to be too much. Just like a puppy, one moment she's playing and exploring, and the next she's passed out. Hard. Dig the baby pics!