Allow me to re-post the following (originally posted in 2006), as I think it is much
a propos for this string. My apologies to those of you who already saw it.
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Here is my wife's winning entry in Bali Discovery Tours' 2002 "Dream Bali Holiday" contest. The contest ran for 16 weeks, with one entry per week selected as a finalist. They had people writing from all over the world, and Marsha's entry was selected the 16th week as the weekly finalist, and on the 17th week, the judging panel selected her entry as the contest winner.
My contribution to the winning entry took the form of badgering her to get her act together, and actually write something.
Jack Daniels was an extremely gracious host, by the way, having organized a once-in-a-lifetime visit to Bali for us. Marsha got her "15 minutes of fame" in a way that I'll never forget.
The text is reproduced with permission from
http://www.balidiscovery.com
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My Dream Holiday in Bali, by Marsha L. Browne
When we dream, our memories come alive. My dream holiday in Bali encompasses all my senses, enriches my spirit, and carries me to the Navel of the World.
I see Ibu's glorious smile as we arrive unannounced at her home. I see the colors shift subtly following dawn, the sacred mountain Agung revealing itself in the clearing mists, shy as a new lover. I watch the clouds catch fire as the sun sets into the ocean, beyond the fishing boats dotting the lagoon.
I hear the music of a gamelan drifting across the fields, beyond the Monkey Forest. I hear the bell in the priest's uplifted hand ringing as he prays, calling down blessings to the worshippers in the temple. My ears fill with the clamor of children who run up the road shrieking, "Hallo! Hallo!" Their friendly little arms wave furiously as we drive by. I fall asleep to the lullaby of croaking frogs, barking dogs, and the hollow knocking of the kulkul, reassuring me that all is well in the village.
I touch a butterfly's brilliant wing as it lights on my arm. The boy who leads the ducks to the rice fields, singing softly to himself as he sways the beribboned staff, has cheeks as soft as feathers. The sun's heat warms my bones, and when it rains, the gentle slide of raindrops sluice down my face as I make my way to the bungalow.
I smell wood fires, coconut oil, and cooking herbs; clove cigarettes, mixed with flowers and sea breezes. The flowers, a riot and profusion of aroma and color, grow in every available inch of ground that does not already produce rice, vegetables, coconuts, bananas, or other delicious fruit.
I hunger for the tastes of babi guling, lawar, and brem, spicy and rich upon my tongue.
Everything is golden on Bali. The golden beach at Kuta, where waves crest and break like a shower of coins. The golden carp, lazing in the lotus ponds. The golden umbrellas lining the climb to Pura Besakih, where gods rest upon gilt thrones. The golden-skinned Balinese, whose natural beauty and grace leaves me breathless with admiration.
In my dream holiday, there is a midnight sky. The Southern Cross hovers above the horizon, the star clusters glinting silver, red, and gold, like jewels at the throats of deities. They pulse at the galaxy's heart, shining down on Pulau Dewata, Bali, Island of the Gods.
My senses tell me what my heart already knows -- when I dream of Bali, I dream of paradise.
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