My First Week in Bali

May 10th, 2024

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

Tears fell over a gray Brooklyn this morning.  I stirred to the sound of water droplets leaking through my bedroom’s ceiling. In my first waking moment, today’s unprecedented significance flooded my awareness.  Going back to sleep was out of the question, but I laid in Savasana, softly embraced by my pillows and comforters.  I thanked my bed for all the nights it’s cradled me.  From the yoga nidra of my corpse pose, I watched my mind frolic between past, present, and future.  

Memories of yesterday lingered, and one particular vignette left a pit in my stomach: eighteen hours before, I’d tightly embraced my girlfriend as we shared our final kisses outside her front door.  Her tears wet the tip of my nose as mine glazed her cheek.   Our relationship began after I’d decided on today’s date for my flight, but the foresight of this heartbreak hardly lessened our pain.  Through whispers of “it’s gonna be okay” and “I’m so excited for you”, I questioned my decision to forsake the only home I’d ever known.  Somehow, my bravery and optimism prevailed.  The despair I felt as she walked up the stairs to her apartment, alone, motivated me to take my voyage by the reins and make it worthwhile.  

For months, we shared the bed that I woke up in this morning.  As I rose from meditation and lifted the covers off my body, I recalled all the mornings we began with making this bed, spreading the blanket over the mattress from opposite sides of its wooden frame.   These were my final moments in the home I’d made over the past two years.  I lived in the rental unit beneath my family’s brownstone, luckily possessing the freedom to toggle between independence and familiar embrace with but a flight of stairs between the two extremes.  Ascending to my family’s living room, I found my mom, dad, sister, and dog waiting to say their goodbyes.  My mom slipped me a handwritten note and burst into tears.  I hugged my sister tight before she left for school.  Minutes later, she sent me this text from the L train:

“love you so much you’re about to take bali by storm!!you always remind me to follow my dreams and do things that are scary or might bring uncomfortable change. never loose that bravery it’s contagious. you’re truly one of a kind and i’m infinitely lucky to have you as my brother. i can’t wait to reunite and have a sibling slumber party, im sure i’ll need some grounding and def lots of that bravery of yours. have the best time, call all the time, enjoy and take in every moment. eyes watering on the train and i’m trying not to fuck up my makeup. such big things in your future!!! i can’t wait for our upcoming trip, and our later trip to japan, and probably one day a trip to the moon (we have a tendency to dream big)”

I lamented the tears my girlfriend, mom, and sister cried, but I was inexpressibly thankful for their willingness to let me go, difficult as it was.  Although their eyes longed for me to stay, their words and actions embodied pure validation and encouragement.  Later, at gate A6 in JFK Airport Terminal 4, my phone buzzed as I received more inspiring texts from my lawyer, 

“My man!!!! Have a blessed, safe and FULFILLING TRIP!!!!! Keep me posted on your experience whenever the spirit moves you to  connect.   I won’t be with you in person, but I’m definitely riding along with you in spirit. Having done something similar to this at your age..I know how important it was to my own personal journey. I love you, Etai!!! You’re an amazing human being.  Go GET IT!!!!”

my friend, Jaswiry, 

“I hope u have the safest flight! I hope you know how much light and healing you bring to people by just being your exact self. I’m so excited for u and everything ur gonna experience :’) ok bye sappy message over SAFE FLIGHT!!!!!”

and my friend, Amaya:

“Im so happy for you Etai. Be in no rush to return. Live life the way its supposed to be lived not in this cog machine being another disposable soul to these vampires. Im rooting for you everyday and so so proud of you for taking this step to change your life forever. It takes a lot of guts and the universe will reward you every step of the way. Good luck and stay safe.”

I know these texts were written to assure me that I’m making the right decision.  But, in all their love and compassion, they left me feeling tethered to all the people I love.  New York City, my only home, has been so kind and generous to me.  The thought of leaving the safe orbit of my city’s community scares me.  

Now, my Emirates flight to Bali via Dubai is high above the clouds and tears.  I’m gradually remembering why I decided to leave home on a one-way ticket for several months of solo travel throughout Asia.  If I feel so profoundly connected to the people who have seen me blossom throughout my young life, then I’m destined to connect with people from drastically different walks of life as I further grow and soak up their environments.  I hope to form bonds that follow me for life, irregardless of changing geography.   I hope to learn something from these foreign countries that I can use to improve my native city.  I hope to get lost before finding my way back home.  

I have no fear of returning to America, but I remain determined to see this journey through until my spirit redirects me towards regression westward.  I’ve been blessed with a loving family eagerly awaiting my return, and I owe it to them to cultivate an abundance of stories to share.  

Tomorrow, I’ll land in Denpasar, where my friend, Raja, will be picking me up from the airport.  He’s graciously invited me to stay in his home for three weeks and show me around his hometown, the lush island of Bali.  Indonesia is the diving board off which my spontaneous pilgrimage will erupt.  I’ll be planning minimally and honoring instinctual impulse.  

For now, I’m on a plane.  It’s customary to dread these treacherous winged-tin-can flights, but I’m sincerely enjoying the isolated incubation of this suspended limbo.  The tears have momentarily passed. 

May 12th, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia 

At dusk, I waded through a rocky stream, stripped to my swim trunks.  Before me thundered an immortal waterfall, sixty feet tall.  Misty droplets ricocheted into the air perpetually, a response to the eternal splash of the fall’s turbulent white-water foot.  Looking up at the sky, I saw the water beads ascend and levitate in the air like vibrating pranic energy particles, joyfully protesting the inherent gravity of the water cycle.  Looking ahead towards the waterfall, my eyes stung from the cool moisture of the high-pressure splash.  

So, I closed my eyes and held my arms up to receive my purifying shower.  I listened to the frequency of the falls.  The roaring sound of water breaking against water was so effortlessly powerful.  Generations upon generations of our ancestors traipsed to this same waterfall before me — and heard the same sound.  It has sustained, uninterrupted, for as long as I can imagine.  

My every immersion in nature has left me feeling comforting smallness.  I came from the earth and I will one day return to it.  The minuscule free-will that I possess in this lifetime is of no consequence to any waterfall, jungle, or island.  Even the greatest blunder in human history, the Anthropocene and its resultant climate change, will not stifle nature, for change is a constant, natural function of our world.  

I saw no autonomous instigator of the waterfall’s violent strength, only the way of nature.  Remembering that I’m of the same nature empowered me to surrender to my personal flow.  One day before, I’d been in rainy Brooklyn, lamenting my departure from comfort.  Showered by the mist, I couldn’t have asked for a better first day abroad.  My compulsion towards exploration prompted this crashing aquatic catalyst of gratitude and reflection.  Humbled, I thanked my flow.  I felt truly aligned with my purpose. 

May 13th, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia 

My host in Bali is Raja Dava, a dear friend and inspiration of mine.  He was born and raised here in Indonesia, but our paths first crossed when he traveled to the United States and saw my band open for The 1975 on their 2019 tour.  Although we didn’t meet face to face that night, my music stayed with him when he left the concert and returned to Bali.  

Once back home, he defied all odds by founding a massively successful 3D-animation studio: before Raja exited his teens, he oversaw a company with twenty employees, signing contracts to produce content for several media corporations.  

The next time he visited my hometown of New York City was to attend a party celebrating the release of Ice Spice’s debut album, for which he’d created the cover art.  Taking advantage of his fleeting trip, Raja reached out to my band mate, Sawyer, expressing his adoration of our music and asking to hang out through an Instagram DM.  The two of them met up one night at Roberta’s Pizzeria in Williamsburg, hitting it off instantly.  A few days later, Sawyer brought Raja to my basement recording studio in Bushwick, where I formally met him; I was immediately calmed, impressed, and warmed by his presence.  I recall noticing that he carried tremendous grace, humility, and maturity, especially for a nineteen-year-old.  Sawyer and I played him the album we were working on, Younger Than I Was Before, which he generously validated and praised.  He fit into the environment of the studio perfectly, but unfortunately had to fly back to Bali the day after his studio visit.  I lamented saying goodbye to my new friend, but Raja promised to return to New York once the weather got warmer.  

Surely enough, the following August, Raja moved to New York City for a five-month stay.  I was overjoyed by his return.  We spent loads of time together that summer, forging a close friendship built on mutual trust and respect.  I taught him to CitiBike and he taught me to rollerskate.  We sat on the astroturf of Maria Hernandez park and devoured an enormous takeout sushi platter.  We went out to an opulent French-style luncheon with the matriarch of my yoga studio, Tricia Donegan.  We wandered the blazing concrete streets of the city summer for countless hours, and spent even more time making music and hanging out in my basement.  Raja even created the album cover and merch graphic for Younger Than I Was Before.  Throughout all the days we spent together, he frequently encouraged me, with gentle hospitality, to visit him in Bali.  I always replied with my assurance that our time together in Bali would inevitably come, I just couldn’t say when.  

His regression from New York back to Indonesia this past December coincided with my first voyage to Asia: I flew to Nepal in hopes of earning my Yoga Teacher Certification at Pokhara Yoga School.  Nepal stole my heart, completely shifting my perspective, trajectory, and value system.  I could have stayed there forever if not for my obligations back home.  Upon arriving back in Brooklyn with my Yoga Alliance 200-Hour YTT Diploma, I vowed to return to Asia once my teaching job ended in May, and I knew right away where my first stop needed to be.  Raja was beyond thrilled when I told him that I planned on coming to Bali: I was doubly delighted, for my excitement towards further immersion in unfamiliar cultures was compounded with my desire to reconnect with my foreign friend.  

This morning, Raja and I reclined on his couch and giggled endlessly as he took me on a digital tour of his baby photos, pre-teen Tumblr posts, and earliest 3D models.  I revere and admire his effortless mastery.  The same artistic craft that was merely his hobby a few years ago has empowered him to buy his mom a brand-new car.  Every creator should be so lucky.  Being in his presence encourages me to honor my passions and treat my loved ones with grace.  The past two days I’ve spent with him have grounded and inspired me immensely.  

Staying in the house with Raja and I are Diane and Jenna.  Diane’s boyfriend is my best friend, Skivon Hardy.  Skivon met Raja in my basement this summer and introduced him to Diane shortly after.  The three of them were inseparable throughout the months of September and October while my band was on tour.  Diane, a first-generation Korean-American, is extremely comfortable traveling throughout Asia.  Therefore, she naturally jumped at Raja’s invitation to visit Bali, even inviting her childhood bestie, Jenna, to meet us on the island.  

This evening, while Raja was at work, Diane, Jenna, and I drove to Petitenget Beach in Canggu and watched the sun set beneath the horizon line of the ocean.  We celebrated our evasion of the Western crowd as we looked around at the Indonesian families sitting beside us on the sand.  The affluent spoils of the tourism industry may provide momentarily-therapeutic indulgence, but the greatest gifts of travel are found off the beaten path.  Areas oriented towards Balinese locals reveal the trust, honor, hospitality, and collectivism of this society.  

On any of New York City’s chaotic beaches, we never would have left our bags unattended in the sand while we swam in the ocean, but here we felt sheer faith in the social code of non-stealing and readily vamoosed from our belongings.  Back home, I’ve never been able to let my guard down so fully.  

As a native New Yorker, I’m often jaded by the selfish apathy of the individualist society I was raised in, but Diane reminded me to be grateful: although individualism drives us away from our loved ones and towards materialist fixations, it creates a surprisingly open-minded and accepting society.  In New York City, people are free to express their identities boundlessly, as long as they don’t encroach on their surroundings. The strictly Korean household that Diane was raised in had far less tolerance for divergent identities.  Hearing Diane describe her mom’s disapproval of her younger sister’s yearning to play rock music on electric bass instead of classical violin reminded me of all the times I was directed towards the women’s bathroom in Nepal solely because I have long hair.  Even in Israel, the relatively-Westernized country my parents are from, I’ve been called “gay” and received confused remarks about my outfits from extended-family members. 

However, one aspect of collectivism that I acutely admire is its emphasis on community and family.  In America, it’s highly uncommon to continue living with parents after graduation, while in collectivist cultures, many children live under the same roof as their parents for life.  American mothers are allotted a criminally insufficient amount of maternity-leave but nonetheless bear the entire burden of parenting, while, in other parts of the world, children are consistently raised by entire villages.  I have fourteen first cousins, several aunts and uncles, and three surviving grandparents who all live in the same tiny region of Israel — they’ve always gathered weekly for vibrant Shabbat meals around a huge table,  but my immediate family in Brooklyn only found the bandwidth to organize consistent family dinners within the past few months. 

Both approaches are evidently flawed, but is one better than the other?  I don’t believe so, and I am thankful to be experiencing a combination of both.  No regrets or qualms about the way I was raised cross my mind.

May my current voyage throughout Asia continue contrasting my upbringing.  May I continue being inspired, challenged and stimulated by my friends here.  May I return to New York evolved, informed, and nurtured.  

May 14th, 2024

Tampaksiring, Bali, Indonesia 

The omnipresent force of water continues following me around Bali.  On Sunday I showered before a waterfall, yesterday I bathed in the Indian Ocean, and today I engaged in Melukat — a Hindu ritual which cleanses one’s mind, body, and spirit under purifying fountains of natural-spring water — at Tirta Empul Temple in the Tampaksiring region.  As I repeatedly bowed my head, soaking my neck and curls under fountain after fountain, I washed away all the regret, fear, and worry I’d unconsciously carried across the globe.  Every time I rose back upright, letting the fountain pour over the sensory organs of my face and head, I invited gratitude and rebirth.  

Under the fountains with me was a mixture of Balinese veterans of the ceremony and tourist first-timers.  Each Hindu Bali-native that bowed to the fountains followed an intricately specific pattern of actions, clasping their palms in prayer, splashing their face with their hands, cupping their fingers to pour water into their mouths, and spitting it back out.  My attempts to mimic their disciplined routine failed: although I succeeded at an accurate re-enactment of their gestures, my movements were devoid of the symbolic understanding they possessed.  So, while maintaining respect and poise towards tradition, I worshiped and honored the sacred fountains according to my individual instincts.  Permitting myself this freedom enabled me to forego obstructive rules while honestly honoring the values of mindfulness for which the rules were first created.  The temple attendants and Hindu pilgrims were warmly hospitable towards my adaptation.  I was thankful that they’d opened the temple doors for me.  

My communion under the fountains solidified a truth I’d pondered this morning: I am in Bali as a visitor, and I could never experience this land as locals do.  On this island, I marvel at the food’s affordability and the weather’s temperance while natives stay occupied by the careers, families, and communities they must navigate and uphold.  My tourist visa cannot reveal the wide array of factors that create this place I perceive as paradise.  As such, I’m motivated to reward the citizenry keeping Bali afloat while pushing myself beyond the comforts of plush vacation.  Relatively speaking, my position in Bali is a privileged one.  I shall not abuse my power.  I shall generously give my smiles, words, and Rupees to the ever-deserving autochthonous population.  I shall leave the island a bit better than I found it.  

Back home in New York City, I’ve found myself on the other side of this dynamic countless times.  After I graduated high school, most of the peers I befriended were transplants attending university in my metropolis.  I was shocked by their ability — which, living with my family, I did not share — to afford rent in this congested, affluent city.  I was shocked by their sensitivity to the brash stimuli characterizing New York which I’d long since gone numb to.  Above all, I was shocked that they had another faraway home to seek refuge in whenever the unforgiving concrete jungle tested their limits.  I’d never had that ability.  

This freedom to hit the “eject” button at any time gives transplants license to bilk accountability and consequences.  As a result, some treat the Big Apple like their playground, a sprawling theme park comprised only of trendy nightclubs and eateries.  Every holiday season, my collegiate friends would recede homeward.  Wandering the cold, lonely, and stagnant streets left me frustrated.  What gave them the privilege to change their scenery while I stewed in the harsh realism of the brick city?  Which impractical fantasy were they hoping to embody in this so-called dreamland once they returned?  When would this hopeless pursuit burn them out and cause them to flee permanently?  

Then again, here I am in Bali.  Admittedly, I also hit the eject button.

May 15th, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia

Tonight, while slurping my peanut soba noodles at Canggu’s most bourgeois beach club, I looked up at a moon I’d never seen before.  The narrow C-shape of the silver crescent which I’d witnessed countless times from my homeland had been revolved, taking on a U-shape that resembled the bowl holding my noodles.   This Balinese moon, with its two horns pointing heavenward, appears skewed due to the island’s proximity to our planet’s equator; observing this sobered me as I came to terms with my geographical displacement.  

I felt intrusive frustration rising up within me as my eyes darted around between tables cluttered with empty glasses that once held overpriced cocktails: I’d traversed so many latitudes that even the moon bore a different angle, and yet I was still engaging in expensive opulence that reeked of elitist New York City materialism.  Since arriving here, I’ve felt most aligned during immersion in nature and distance from crowds.  

But, before letting this feeling fester, I held it caringly and released it into the sky.  Studying yoga philosophy has given me the mindfulness to distrust and transmute low-vibrational emotions.  This mental purgation reminded me that I was exactly where I needed to be.  Looking around my beachside table, I saw Raja, Diane, and Jenna, and their sweet faces grounded me in gratitude.  Gazing out at the lapping waves crashing onto the nearby shore, it dawned on me that escaping nature is truly impossible.  Even the most industrialized and commercialized ecosystems are honest expressions of the same universe that gave us snowy mountains and sandy beaches.  

Today taught me to relinquish any expectations or judgments of how I spend my time.  As frequently as I yearn to embody the wild freedom of Tarzan or George of the Jungle, I’m a multiplicitous being with consistent self-expression within any environment.  

In fact, I spent all morning and afternoon in front of my laptop screen, which would usually leave me drained, but I felt elated.  My screen-binge was incited by my determination to finish my latest music-production credit: I was hired by a playwright to re-orchestrate a song from her musical so that it can be included in an animated-film adaptation of the show.  I felt no shame neglecting the palm trees and pristine beaches around me in favor of creative expression.  My client validated this decision when she texted me enthusiastic praisings of my completed work in all-caps.  Behind a desk, secluded from the nature and culture which I’d traveled all this way for, I still felt aligned.  

Wherever I go, whatever I do, there I am.  I’m learning to accept this reality and recline contentedly in the undying shelter of my nomadic spirit.  

May 16th, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia 

The beachside villa which Raja has rented for the four of us to occupy this month is designed around a tranquil swimming pool at its center.  The pool is bordered by a smooth, brutalist, concrete deck which serves as the open-air passageway between our two bedrooms (Raja and I share one room, Diane and Jenna share the other) and our living-dining-kitchen area.  Each of these interior ground-floor spaces ditch walls in favor of sliding-glass doors that, when opened, unify the entire villa under warm, billowing island air.  Above the bedroom shared by Raja and I lies a study chamber which we’ve converted into a pop-up recording studio; the musical gear that Raja’s brought from his permanent home’s studio, matched with my minimal travel setup, creates an inspiring workspace in which I’ve already completed a few projects.  The windows of the study face the shady patch of pool-deck on which I unroll my yoga mat at the top of each morning.  Around the villa’s grounds, its designers have implemented horticultural installations of bamboo shoots, palm trees, and countless other tropical plants which I cannot identify.  The cherry-on-top, however, is the koi pond, buzzing with a dozen colorful fish, that guards the front door to the villa.  

As I write this, I sit in a woven chair, facing the koi pond under the U-shaped moon.  Today was a joyous day.  We parasailed for the first time in our lives, our feet dangling hundreds of feet above the ocean as we looked over the horizon at the Earth’s curve.  We waded in the shallows of the beachwater for what felt like hours, digging for the prettiest shells and rocks in the smooth sand.  We sat fifty feet from the shoreline, at a grand wooden dinner table planted in sand, and feasted on an array of clams, crabs, squid, shrimp, and fish.  We even ran around the beach tossing an American football — an activity which I never enjoyed back home but today relished — until the sun set. 

But the supreme highlight of my day, a victor in a field of fierce competition, was the moment when a dragonfly joined me during my outdoor shower this morning.  I had to stop scrubbing my body to admire its beauty.  The dichotomy of its rapid wing-flaps against its hovering mid-air stillness evoked a feeling of past-life connection within me.  It was as if the stoic insect was summoned by a higher power to offer me a pause of still reflection at the dawn of a kinetic day.  I wish that dragonfly could comprehend the smile it brought to my face and the warmth it brought to my heart.  But since it can’t, I’m forced to remember the apathetic neutrality of nature.  Today, that apathy is a comfort, a sign to relax and surrender.  Tomorrow morning, as I empty my mind during sitting meditation, I’ll evoke the memory of this dragonfly and emulate its calm objectivity.  

May 17th, 2024

Seminyak, Bali, Indonesia 

Indeed, I evoked the image of yesterday’s dragonfly as I sat in lotus meditation on my yoga mat by the pool this morning.  Over the past six days, practicing asana, pranayama, and dharana right after waking up has been a centering act of self-study.  Back home, I’m accustomed to joining group yoga classes led by an instructor, but being so far from my usual studio (Fierce Grace NYC) is providing a serendipitous opportunity to deepen my independent practice.  Although the presence of a teacher exposes me to new techniques and perspectives, my slow and silent mornings here doing yoga alone by the pool have allowed me to set my own pace in a way that only solitude would permit.  I take my time with each shape, breathing into its stretch, switching only once I honestly feel like I’ve gone to my limit.  I improvise my sequences, tailoring every session based on the changing signals my body sends me from day to day.  

Today’s bespoke flow was limited to seated meditation and breathwork; I omitted movement from my self-practice because, instead, I attended Snana Yoga’s group class shortly after waking up.  Snana is a stunning yoga studio in the Seminyak neighborhood of Denpasar, situated towards the rear of a traditional-style Balinese house made of open-air, elevated-platform rooms.  

The class was an enriching breath of fresh air, desirably contrasting the New York City yoga culture which I’m used to: while so many American yoga classes focus on easeful relaxation and wellness, this class was taught with the intention to reverse-engineer rewarding pain.  That pursuit of comfort through difficulty represents my favorite thing about Desa, the local teacher who led the class: she pushed me.  Literally, she gave generous physical adjustments, using her hands to send me further into each stretch, thereby intensifying my sensations and testing my equanimity.  The United States being the land of liability-paranoia, most American studios have banned their teachers from practicing physical adjustments on their pupils.  It’s a shame that my peers back home miss out on being pushed simply because their studios’ owners are trained to prioritize the prevention of corporate-legal catastrophe.  That lack of trust doesn’t seem to be a factor here in Bali.  As a result, Balinese culture breeds yoga shalas that tread much closer to yoga’s original ancient lineage.

I plan to immerse myself deeper in this lineage while I’m in Asia.  Yogic wisdom holds the antidote for so many ailments of our modern world.  The leaders of my generation tend to put enormous pressure, value, and blame on the establishment institutions of our society; to me, while that extroverted activism has merit, it inadvertently is used as escapism from underlying inner turmoil that yoga addresses.  Call me radical, but I believe that if a coalition of Gen-Z yogis united to spread the wisdom of yoga far and wide — to the oppressors and the oppressed alike — then the stiff knot of our world would begin to soften and detangle.  Most people where I’m from conflate yoga with stretching or fitness, but its underlying philosophy provides the roadmap for a life of empathy, bliss, and health.  

I’m just scratching the surface, though.  

I’m pulling a thread and watching an entire woven blanket gradually unravel.  If I keep pulling, perhaps I’ll be left with a lump of yarn that I can knit into a sturdier quilt.  

May I collect the yogic recipes of necessary remedies and bring them back home to heal my croaking city. 

Love,

Etai