Wrong sarong
(Sitting down for a rest in Ubud: Bali, Indonesia)
The Balinese are very spiritual folk and it seemed as if many people visited a temple daily. There were many scattered throughout Ubud, I imagine we saw well over twenty in an area that might hold (at a push) three churches in Britain. We noticed that even on arrival at the hotel, our guide to the room had two little white petals resting atop his ears, just tucked over the top, like little skull caps on either ear. We then began to detect a male trend for this, or an entire frangipani flower poised behind one ear; these were worn in conjunction with a black and white chequered sarong and a yellow sash tied at the waist. Many of the statues around the temples – a little like the one here – were dressed exactly the same, with sarongs wound around them and a yellow sash holding their dress together.
Ying took this picture of me just after we had visited a temple in Ubud. It was a hot, humid day, even very early on and being a lady, I had to alter my dress to enter sacred ground. Men can cover themselves from waist to knee with a sarong, but women are required to wear theirs to ankle length, as well as cover their arms. I had a scarf for my torso and up to the wrist, but under my floor length sarong and the suddenly heavy shawl, I was beginning to feel rather lightheaded in the temple grounds, not to mention the fact that I began to perspire profusely, wrapped as I was like an oven ready bird. We were told that a small festival celebration was taking place in a particular temple, so we borrowed our extra clothing from the hotel reception, tied ourselves up and wandered inside. I could have borne the heat and humidity under my wrappings if there had been more to see, but aside from the stunning exterior of the temple buildings, which I admired from the shade they cast, there was very little worship or celebration occurring. I darted out before I ended up completely soaking my double clothing layer – I jest not – I shimmied across the courtyard, a few inches at a time. The sarong is tied so tightly that I was restricted to geisha-like movements of the legs.
It was here that I stopped to rest, fatigued by a mere quarter of an hour in full regalia. The women of Bali often wear light, long sleeved tops made of thin cotton, often with practically transparent sleeves, obviously so they can bear the heat that I could not. The edges of the pavement were little jungles in themselves, as you can see. It is a far cry from the land and flora I am accustomed to – the foliage exudes a vibrancy that I have scarcely ever seen, not in Kew gardens, Singapore, Thailand or anywhere. To me, Bali will always feel more wild and more green.
– Today Rosie is doing all sorts of things in Glasgow, Scotland –
