BALI - HI

                                             PARADISE

Healing at NOKU

In my profession I heal people.   With learned skills, clinical practice, words, soft understanding, and guidance - it encouraged me to continually help those in need more and more.  Naturally accumulative problems takes my energy levels down, sometimes unknowingly low.  And until I came to Noku Beach Resort in Bali for a beach holiday, and tried Reiki and Sound healing I soon realized my shortcomings.  

Modern Science vs  Ancient beliefs; well, it was time I opened my eyes and accept what science sometimes looks at disdainfully.  My skepticism with a hint of sarcasm and quiet tone of derisory contempt attitude was not only rude but inexcusable.

I had no idea what to expect.  The two and a half hours had such a profound effect on me that my skepticism and sarcastic attitude showed up my ignorance and stupidity which brought me down to humility.   The shallow me began to understand how vibrations and energy can begin to heal many diseases.

If you have not heard of it, Reiki is a Japanese technique for stress reduction and relaxation that also promotes healing. It is administered by "laying on hands" and is based on the idea that an unseen "life force energy" flows through us and is what causes us to be alive. If one's "life force energy" is low, then we are more likely to get sick or feel stress, and if it is high, we are more capable of being happy and healthy.

The session of two an half hours of oil massage unlike any other massage I am used to;  Stefany's healing hands directed at the spinal chord, where nerve tissues are formed.   From the base of the neck to the coccyx, Stefany enabled the nerve fibres that coil up to stretch out.  Modern living, fast-paced technology of one-button pushing results, expanding all possibilities to its limits;  culminated in my unbalanced Chakras.  Stefany managed to lay bare the nerve fibres and connect them through vibrations.

Towards the end of  the hour long oil massage, Stefany produced the Spa’s  small hand-hammered copper bowl with a mallet used for Chakra balancing, sound therapy and meditation.  Lying on my tummy, head down, eyes closed, unaware of my surroundings; all seemed to be in tune with the world, as I sank into a meditative state.  Until Stefany used the mallet to gently hit the side of the bowl producing a sound that made me jump as if I had an electric shock.   Trembling from the  top of my brain to the very tips of my toes, my whole body shook.  Goose bumps appeared leaving me electrified by my own un-synched unbalanced chakras.   As quick as it jolted me, I was  suddenly  in unison with the vibrations.  I was following the sound as she moved the mallet to the edge of the bowl, the vibrations went deeper  to a depth of  an audible vortex, sending me into a parallel state of consciousness.  I  became part of that vibration seemingly entering an abyss of time, space, or perhaps the universe.  Hard to grasp let alone voice out.

Healing finished, I walked out of the spa winding my way through the house;  gliding into the sunset, the sea breeze engulfing my lungs,  the harmony I felt with the universe was magnified.  Could I, a writer, with the sway of words find enough phraseology to influence the non-believer?  

The mystical energy of Noku Beach House, the constant sound of waves breaking on the shore; peace found where meditation didn't quite.



I was shown a space, perhaps fleetingly, where I can be in tune with the vibrations that heal.
 

There lies the mystique of Noku Beach House

BEHIND THE BACK - DOOR

I always like to know the back-door of every opening, entrance or establishment. I possess not a salacious mind but always an inquisitive one.  Before I continue, try to keep a clean mind as you scroll through my thoughts but judge me not.

My magic carpet ride ranges from a Cessna to a Concorde, an Airbus to the triple 777.  It has always baffled me the smooth operation of each flight  besides the pilot’s skill, the cabin crew denotes the tone of atmosphere.  

The immaculate well groomed purser of  “as smooth as silk” over two days gave a wedge of light in what goes on behind the crisp uniform and the infamous smile.

The service industry 30.000 ft up  perhaps plays an important role than those on firm land.  Why?  The accentuation of events played up there can go wrong  demonstrating why Pursers contribute the calm, despite a calamity happening a few rows behind. They are a different breed from the norm.

Cruising speed heading west, food served, lights dimmed, everyone settled into their movie of choice, the rhythmic engine humming, beckoning sleep, a commotion develops at the back of the plane.   A woman, bleeding profusely from her legs high  above Uzbekistan rings for help.   Trained for this emergency,  does not necessary mean sharp instant reaction.   There is normally lack of oxygen for purposes of flying at high altitude; the reactionary time slows down and cabin crew look to the Purser who ranks above them.  Only one bag of saline solution in the First Aid kit, he instructs cabin crew to administer, calls if there is a medical doctor on board.  Lying on a prepared plastic sheet, it is required to shout out and repeat every medication used intravenously for purposes of insurance; while he informs the pilot of the dire situation with the need to land at the nearest airport.  The pregnant passenger is in and out of consciousness.  An airport found, she was medi-vac  to the nearest hospital and the journey continues minus two passengers.   Drinks trolley commences, situation at even level.

The other one is life or eros, which is related with sex, procreation, love, pleasure, survival etc.  So catching a passenger hell bent to be a mile high club member, going at it in full view of other passengers, or a raucous rhythmic banging emanating from the toilet door, my purser of “life solution guru” goes about it ever so gently; ever so understanding but also proof of his ethics, he handles it well.   The wet towel distributed before lights-on time, conveniently affected two purposes: humiliation and embarrassment with something to wipe off that shameful indignity.   

Throughout his 25 years service, the turbulence, electrical storm, engines failing, the  face of death  staring at him, often for an hour until the plane lands. To foster one of the two great principles that rule the human's psyche: death or thanatos (according to Freud's theories). What goes through his mind?

All the wrongs; asking forgiveness; praying; and acceptance evade the mind, engine noise straining against the wind, swaying, dropping altitude, making you wish it would stop or descend immediately. It seems his time had come. But the almighty said it was not so. Each bumpy ride exceeds others, becomes the norm, shrugs his shoulders and continues to perform the task of calmness and reassurance.  You think it's easy?   It takes every gut, every sinew in your body, every resistance to perfect that “being in control” at all times.   He has perfected the cool poker face expression and we, the passengers, feel better.

Today, retirement takes him into training the new generation of cabin crew.  Underneath the facial lines, when he cracks a smile, that calm exterior belies the effects of near misses; jet lag; constantly upright, solving complaints; wrong eating times; colleague politics; company politics; general wear and tear;  with the unspoken passenger death on flights.  All these show in moments of solitude. 

With every future take-off, the roar of the engine, the max speed needed for lift-off, the climb noise everyone is accustomed will leave me in awe of those that make this job a coveted employment.

The back-door of all things does have its charm, if you only let yourself be open to learn.

  

GIRLS AND PEARLS

I, the difficult child, then still living at home, under parental rules and bylaws, had saved enough money over a year’s work in an advertising firm.  Single and always ready to mingle I made the decision to spend all my savings with an equally naughty friend, for a mischievous 3 day trip to Hong Kong.  Judging the situation, my clever mommy took me shopping and I ended up buying my first long double string of pearls, with a diamond and ruby clasp.  Resulting in an empty bank account, the Hong Kong trip never materialized, and the poor Etonian left without a racy weekend partner, simply disappeared from my life.  The pearl necklace, stayed the test of time and forever adorned my décolletage.  My mother had won the game and I developed cognitive memory association with pearls and pleasure.

From expensive Mikimotos to Harry Winston’s finest pearls, it has enhanced  my days of jeans and a T-shirt ensemble for an expensive look or go naked with a strand or two to complete the wild night.

The latest acquisition, a present, does the trick for both classic and wild.  These giant Baroque  Polynesian Pearl, glean in the moonlight with golden hues. 

www.pacificpearls.com

 Unique 20 golden pearls strung on silk with a magnetic clasp does things for a women that few can.  It elevates the mood, enhances the outfit, you would think a woman designer was behind this clever Polynesian collection of Pacific Pearls.  In fact this entrepreneurial spirit came from a father and son team.  The father a globe trotting CEO perfect in his knowledge of branding; combining with his son, whose  multi-cultured metrosexual male sees traditional beauty and boldly transforms it to a kickass,  jet-set, stylish, uncompromising  statement. 

It takes a man’s eye, a touch of sensuality to perfect beauty.

Tonight I strut, on a red carpet event, but sure in the knowledge that stripped off of that Valentino gown, my Baroque Polynesian pearls stays and enhances what is to come in the late evening.

THE BRIDGE OF FAITH

Take  One

Once upon a time there were two teen-age girls, both foreigners in the land of Jinnah.  They played, they teased, they both grew up together in a special playground of diplomat’s elite.

They parted ways with adventures ahead, amassed experiences, and eventually settled in different lands continually labeled as expatriates.  Their families grown, it seemed and deemed that the childhood playmate in a distant time was lost forever.

Until the advent of social media, the group admin for unknown reasons, invited me to re-connect with long-lost  ex-catholic convent school girls who hop-scotched in the playground at the  heart of an Islamic enclave. 

Yes, we were challenged then.

As I scrolled down the myriad of hundreds of daily text messages; some read - some passed me by until the city of Melbourne stood out. This is where my friend lives.

                      

and

I was going there.

A scurry of text messages exchanged and miraculously before long, I was sitting across the sofa sipping a cuppucino with my school mate; desperately trying to encapsulate 50 years into two hours.   You would think it would have been an impossible task; between bites of sushi and slurps of coffee; the heartbreaks, the success, the incredible role of motherhood; and the façade of our characters stripped bare. In that moment  we stood still at fourteen, understanding in the receiving and giving of our friendship so long ago and still very intact, strong and immovable.

I have learned something valuable today.

Take-two

Once upon a time two little girls of Asian disposition in the land of durian and chopsticks could not be in more contrast when questioned, answered in polite British Queen’s English to a confused native of anyone’s land.  They were the products of elite diplomats; determined that the children must immerse  in culture, language and history of the old established British Empire they admired.

Well, they did not realize in parenting these two girls in the pink cloud of the hoity-toity world of Britain, we slowly but surely lost our heritage, deeming it ineffectual in our chosen daily life.

Our meeting in Melbourne over wine, beer and excitement united what we thought, felt and left unsaid.  However difficult the road our parents paved the way,  however scrambled, misfired or plain afterthought; we emerged strong, with a solid core, a love of realism and a struggle worth fighting for.  I saw in her, reflections of myself and now no longer feel alone.

I have learned another valuable lesson today.

LUNCH IN RHEIMS

 

One of the simplest meals but exquisite was had, this past long weekend, in Rheims.  My host, an elegant attractive European celeb, circa Mitterrand years, welcomed me to his villa in the Rheims Champagne area of France.

Apple orchard surround the graveled road leading to the villa, a small fountain is the main center; the scenery could have taken me back a century ago, delivered to the door from a horse carriage instead of this rented Audi SUV. My favorite Lilly of the Valley sprouted in large potted vessels either side of the wooden door, the apple blossoms triggered a few sneezes announcing the arrival of spring.

Dining alfresco, we walked through the villa to the back of the garden to a  setting that was devoid  of today’s  frenzied city life.  Outside temperature only slightly cool, the best cuvee of Perrier-Jouët poured, bubbles rising to the top, whizzing closely at the rim of the tulip glass. 

The first sip made all my world’s heavy baggage seem to have suddenly lessened in load; the mortgage-worry far into the distance; the health or mortality issues no longer exists; I was soaking in the ambience that settled my spirit, balancing the importance of life, sweet sorrows mingling with victorious conquests; sharing a friendship whose world I wish to belong.  ………. Only briefly.

Freshly baked baguettes wrapped in checkered linen served with steaming home made chicken soup.  Un-French?  Not, at all.  Shredded chicken swimming in real stock with leeks, potatoes, carrots and celery sprinkled with chopped parsley, warmed and sustained me immediately. Not moderately hungry but ravenous, I waited patiently as most French people partake lunch stylishly late.   The fresh Baguette buttered on its own was delicious enough but eaten together with this nourishing soup, I began to peel layers of facade I might have brought along with me, and we started on subjects of the dilemma of either Macron or Le Penn winning, changing the backdrop of France.

The French housekeeper, wearing a flowered apron securely wrapped around her waist brought in the second course.  Ouefs Jeanette came in the largish hot caste-iron skillet placed in the middle of the table.  More baguette, more Perrier-Jouët poured, slightly heady, I realized how easy it was to let go.  Ouefs Jeanette, (a dozen or so it seemed) on a much higher level than the American version of deviled eggs, are delicately fried in sizzling butter, lavishly sprinkled with finely chopped spring onions and fresh oregano. To eat the French way; after finishing the eggs, break a chunk of bread and wipe the skillet clean, the herb butter soaking onto the baguette made me greedier.  Drizzled with dressing over spinach and bacon salad, I was fast losing  my guard.  

More Perrier-Jouët, interspersed with Evian, I consumed with great appetite on my food and couldn't get enough of this man's philosophy and  French politics;  Macron’s much older wife; on whether this kind of union applied in my Oriental society.  My oh-so tall European host, oblivious to Napoleon’s Complex of my Oriental male species, whose smallness fights for full control over his several subservient young partners, should ask such a question.    In his full sexy French accent, arguing what constitutes masculinity “small, big is not the problem, it is how you apply.”   

With that last remark, he pops open another bottle, this time its Piper-Heidsieck Rare pairing with the villa’s own garden fruit compote of blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, topped with crushed almond meringues and fresh cream.   Two hours into lunch, two bottles of Champagne between two people, we are now ready to devour Trump and his 100 days of office and of course his controversial immigrant laws having had two immigrant wives.

By 4:00pm (my usual pseudo-Anglophile tea time with crumpets) I had only just tucked into a soft aged Brie, a slice of Comte and grapes and downing my eighth glass of bubbles, it is time to take a sip of Expresso so that I can jump in my Audi, turn on the Nav-Guide and slowly but cautiously drive back to my Hôtel.  My demeanor has turn European, my accent becoming Franco/Anglaise and my Oriental disposition tucked back somewhere in the corner not seen.

À bientôt..............until dinner.

MY FIRST TIME

Against the mist of spring hinting cherry blossoms in the atmosphere; the scent of spices and sound of prayers from nearby mosques; the snow capped Alborz mountain majestically overlooking the metropolis of Tehran, you could hear a pin drop in the room. 

A Persian boy, called Parviz, tall Indo-Aryan, with fiercely penetrating eyes, pouring mint tea persuading me to bite into a Rose Rahat Lokum.   The Arabic version of Lokum comes from  “Halkum or Al-Halkum” meaning “Throat comfort”.  From Persia it is a ‘mouthful’ or ‘morsel’ An Iranian would say it is a  Persian Delight; a Turk would say it is a Turkish Delight;   so diplomacy rules, today with Parviz, it is definitely Persian Delight.

Centuries old, this sweet, served with mounds of powdered sugar is made with cornstarch, sugar & lemon but most delectable flavor of all is the Rose Water. 

Now my Thai mother of ancient traditions told me never to be fed by a man; it is unbecoming; but reverse this, to feed a man in the sanction of love, is to be cherished.

Parviz, love?  Absolutely not.   Penetrable eyes; hits right in the gut, by which time mother’s teaching flew into the Alborz range never to haunt my balancing act of classiness versus wantonness.

My adopted Iranian aunty warned me that any Persian concoction with a hint of Rose Water must be taken with caution for you lose all sense of control.  Aunty was right.

Rose Water – heady - most emphatically yes. But she never told me about Lokum, the soft chewy, sticky sweet, gooey to the tongue, requiring saliva to melt the cubes, opening up taste buds you never knew you had.

I am now in the land of hot chillies and spices, of curries and papaya salad; Mongolian extract not of the Arabic persuasion populate the land. So Lokum is from a distant past until a friend of half century old, on his way to yet another Mongolian populace, brought Fortnum & Mason’s  Rose Water flavored Lokum as a present.  

My eyes lit up, if only he knew, the Persian episode allowed me to choose the most sensible life path. Yet as I sit against the backdrop of memories,  my friend has been a part of my life and has watched me grow from a young girl, barely out of her teens bewitching his friend to a life long partnership. 

An ode to friendship via Rose scented Lokum -  your first time will never be the same.

VICTORY DRINK

 The elixir of life; the celebratory tonic; the Greek’s love potion; the seduction of bubbles leads to no other than Champagne.  Mention of the word offers many emotions, from conquering love to applauding victory.

From the first sip of Moët, victorious over the loss of my virginity; Charles Heidsieck Brut Réserve drunk atop Tehran Hilton’s bar, celebrating Pahlavi’s now forgotten dynasty; Pierrer Jouët sipped at my wedding; Veuve Clicquot over dinner under the Paris night sky after a romantic meandering through Pont Neuf crossing Jardin des Tuileries back to an inviting four poster bed at the George V;  GH Mumm at the Christening of our first born in an English countryside;  Tattenger imbibed at the no-longer Windows of World, now Ground-Zero as we glided down Trump Tower from a helicopter ride touring Manhattan; Nicolas Feuillatte Brut Rosé bubbled our lips when daughter was born in Micronesia; and back to Moët for our baby boy’s Christening in quaint and quirky Cheshire.

Seduction, sexual adventures leading up to procreation unashamedly points to my life’s journey with Champagne but do try to focus not on my sexual overtures but the brilliant Champagne propaganda evoking these emotions so that the victory over love, the toppling of empires and the enslaving of great minds do so by having these bubbles dance on your tongue, tantalizing your taste buds, promising and fantasizing those unreachable goals magically landing at your feet.

Bubble in coupe glasses or flute glasses.  Which one shows your lack of style or your chic elegance?  Champagne glasses of old known as the ‘coupe’ has a wide and shallow bowl.  Legend has it that the ‘coupe’ glass was molded from Marie Antoinette’s left breast, as she wanted her court to toast her health by drinking from glasses shaped like her bosom.   Sex and champagne seems always to go hand in hand even from ‘let them it cake’ days.

The Champagne Flute is tall, thin bowl with a long sophisticated stem encapsulating those fizzy bubbles with elegance.  It allows the bubbles to congregate and quickly rise to the top of the glass.  The first sip explodes and as it washes down, magical fantasies slowly conjure the mind and so many desires readily unfold.

With your next drop of Champagne celebrating whatever victory, remember it gulp by gulp as the sophistication and luxurious moment takes you wantonly into another realm.

                                                                  Saluté