When the banging started, I just thought some building work was going on. By the time my Better Half got back from the shop, he was greeted by my inquisitive face peering down the stairwell, trying to figure out where the racket was coming from. Once the shouting began, like a bargain Sherlock Holmes purchased on Temu, I finally deduced the problem. Our neighbour was trapped in his bathroom.
We are in a guest house in Ubud, the cultural hub of Bali, in Indonesia. The pavements are a ninja assault course, and the traffic is dreadful, but otherwise, this is a marvellous place to visit. Around 30km inland, although popular with tourists, Ubud maintains a more traditional Balinese vibe than the busy south coast resorts of Kuta, Seminyak, and Canggu. Town streets contain western-friendly warungs, cafes, spas, and modestly priced homestay accommodation through ornately-carved wooden doorways. Shops sell locally made arts and crafts, while on the outskirts are rice fields, waterfalls, and a Sacred Monkey Forest.
Our homestay is at the end of a 30-metre-long pebble-stoned walkway, which, after the first few steps, magically takes you away from the traffic noise and bustle of Hanoman Street. It is a peaceful oasis with giant leafed monstera plants, frangipani trees, and a stone fishpond. The immaculate incense-scented garden is full of wildlife, the sound of bird noise, and a nice Japanese man currently pounding on a bathroom door with such force I’m starting to think he’s in there with rabid dog.
The four-studio apartment building is on two floors, and we’re on the top. Each studio has sliding patio doors to enter. We find our neighbour’s patio doors locked, with the keys dangling on the inside, blatantly mocking us through the glass. So after failing to get passed door number 1, the lovely landlady’s lovely assistant goes to fetch a locksmith.
We shout through gaps in the door frame for him not to panic, and that we’re going to get him out. He can’t hear us, so he continues to panic and ram the bathroom door. Our downstairs neighbour glides up gracefully, as she’s into yoga, and that’s how she moves. She also shouts through gaps in the door frame for him not to panic, and that we’re going to get him out. He can’t hear her either, so he continues to panic and ram the door. She sends positive energy through both sets of doors while we wait for the locksmith.
Founded by revered Hindu priest, Rsi Markandeya in the 8th century, many visitors come to Ubud for its renowned holistic heritage. While on a legendary journey, the venerated sage Markandeya was drawn to an area at the meeting point of two rivers. Discovering a unique spiritual energy and abundance of medicinal plants, he named the place Ubad, the Balinese word for medicine. First a sanctuary, then temples, and a water distribution system to enable rice-growing were built, and a thriving community emerged. Ubud became famous for medication, wellness, and spirituality.
Yoga and healing are a big thing here, from locals providing sessions in their gardens, to luxury retreats. I’d probably still be doing it myself if I hadn’t popped a disc overstretching my cobra a few years ago. Our rescue team yoga friend seems very nice. She’s from Australia, and I didn’t catch her name, but she looks to me like a Melanie.
Nowadays, many Westerners have jumped on the wellness bandwagon, particularly since Julia Roberts came here to Eat, Pray, and Love in 2010. Lamp-posts are covered in laminated flyers advertising courses for kundalini awakening, invoking your inner god/goddess/shaman, visceral lengthening, advice from a 24-year-old life coach, and how to become a certified clairvoyant hypnotist. But I’m not about to rain on anyone’s crystal sound bath, whatever floats your well-being boat.
Lovely landlady’s teenage daughter joins us on the balcony. With no opening window or other way out than to break down the door, we try shouting again, to no avail. He still can’t hear us, is still panicking, and ramming the door with such force, I’m starting to think he’s in there with a raging baboon. His last bang shook the small shrine on the front wall so much that it knocked the incense sticks off onto the floor.
The incense is part of a ceremonial offering to the gods. They are placed on top of small woven leaf trays, called canang sari, with coloured petals, crackers, and tokens, which are then flicked with holy spring water from a frangipani flower. The canang are usually made by the lady of the house, and it takes an hour to put 50 of them together, which are then placed in temples, home entrances, shop doorways, pavements, and even cars and bikes. This daily ritual is to show gratitude and maintain the peaceful balance between humans, nature, and the divine.
Melanie is currently concerned about the tense energy around the patio doors. She attempts to cleanse it and waves her arms while flicking her fingers. Her hands inadvertently flap about in front of my Better Half’s face. He didn’t even flinch, though I think she sensed an atmospheric drop, and instead moved away to give me a helpful tutorial on how to breathe in stressful situations.
Tourism began in Ubud in the 1930s while the island was still under Dutch colonial rule. An artistic renaissance, encouraged by resident artists Walter Spies and Rudolf Bonnet, attracted anthropologists, musicians, and literary celebrities of the time, such as H.G. Wells, Charlie Chaplin, and Noel Coward. Traditional Balinese arts and crafts were adapted to make exquisite souvenirs for the influx of international customers. Local artisans, silversmiths, bone and wood carvers, and fabric designers created and sold at the art markets, much as they still do today. The array of work is amazing, and there are workshops to learn batik, painting, and jewellery-making, with the added bonus that the Balinese are far too nice to laugh at your efforts.
The locksmith arrives!
And thank heavens, because the force he’s throwing himself against that door, I’m starting to think he’s stuck in there with a claustrophobic tiger. I gently usher the lovely landlady’s teenage daughter to one side, because her first experience of seeing a naked man doesn’t need to be a frenzied, soaped-up 60-year-old Japanese tourist.
The first lock is broken off with huge pliers, and we all shout as the patio doors slide open. He finally hears us, much to the relief of the bathroom door, which now has a large crack in it. The locksmith goes to work on the offending lock, while Better Half and I go to sit back on our side of the balcony, as it’s now a little crowded in the room, and my next experience of seeing a naked man doesn’t need to be a frenzied, soaped-up 60-year-old Japanese tourist.
The traumatised gentleman is released from his ceramic cell and wrapped in a towel, with emotional support Melanie on hand, sharing her breathing tutorial and grounding techniques through Google Translate. Our lovely landlady gives him a cold beer, and we all celebrate his newfound freedom.
So, how do you rescue a Japanese man from a bathroom in Ubud?
-When there’s no window to climb through, you call a locksmith.
-If you find yourself on the wrong side of the bathroom door, shout and bang, but try not to panic.
-Squeeze shower gel, or something oily, in the stuck part of the door to loosen it.
-If you insist on leaving the keys in the lock of the outer door, arm yourself with a klaxon and enough food for three days. Take your phone in with you, and a locksmith, and thoroughly check the bathing area for baboons before entering.
Join me next time when I’ll be explaining how to extract $400 from someone looking to harmonise their inner child using quantum bloc realignment and a bamboo jaw harp.
