We’ve been neglecting the blog for reasons both technical and physical—our camera broke only a few days into our Bali week and then a deep tiredness overcame us. It was time to unplug for a rest.

(We are catching up with entries about our further adventures in Bali, our two days in Hong Kong, our time in Sweden and travel to London …)

The first Sunday in Bali, and the day after our first venture into Ubud, we spent in quiet reading and writing at the villa, watching the clouds shift to reveal Mt Batur in the distance. That night, we enjoyed a lovely dinner of grilled fish with sauce sembal, a tomato-based chili-spiced sauce for the fish and accompanying rice and vegetables prepared by Nyoman, the cook.

We awoke to a pool of water near the front door, the result of a malfunctioning air conditioner, which was to be repaired while out of the rooms, and then set out early Monday for the long ride into the Klungkung region of Bali, considered the traditional center of power and the location of one of the most sacred temples—Besakih. A complex of temples developed over many centuries, Pura Besakih is dedicated to the triumvirate of Hindu gods—Siwa, Wishna, and Brahma. Each of these three major deities has a large temple and an additional nineteen temples complete the complex.

That day the traffic was unusually heavy and it took nearly three hours to reach Besakih. But we had lengthened the journey further by asking Wayan, the driver, if we could visit his village in the Klungkung area, a side-trip he was more than happy to take with us. Leaving the more densely populated regions surrounding Denpasar, we drove along the southeastern coast and then turned inward and headed north passing through an area dense with rice fields. The lush green vegetation was interrupted by small villages, each with its own now familiar maze of temples, houses, storefront cafes and small craft businesses.

Just beyond the border of Klungkung, Wayan turned off the main road and made his way through a small village, greeted on the road by cousins and other relatives and friends who recognized him. As we continued out of the village, the road narrowed until it became a narrow dirt lane winding into the hills and ending perched at a vista point above the village where we had a view through the fields to the sea beyond. As we got out of the car we heard a group of children singing. A summer camp of kids had traveled from Denpasar to the countryside for a day’s walk in the rice fields and forests above them.

The children were as curious about us as we were about them and while they sang traditional songs, several turned to us, hoping we’d snap their photo. We obliged and then walked along the path to the well-hidden temple that had served Wayan’s family for three generations. The children followed us and we stopped at the steps of the temple to take a group portrait.

At the point in the road where we had parked the van, Wayan’s cousin was working in the peanut patch nearby. "Have you tried fresh coconut juice," he asked in perfect English, which he had learned from spending several years in Australia. When we told him we hadn’t had the pleasure of that experience he gestured us toward the rear of his plot and shimmied up a tree to retrieve the fresh fruit. Nearby, a pot of peanuts was boiling and a few minutes later we were enjoying a snack of fresh peanuts and coconut juice.

Back in the car, we drove the remainder of the way to Besakih. After stopping for tickets, Wayan thought he might avoid the road that led to the much touristed main entry, but a guard stopped him and, after confiscating his license (which was later returned for a bribe), insisted Wayan drive us on the ordinary road to the main gate.

We had been warned that it was essential to take a guide into the temple and at the very moment we presented our tickets to another guard at the front entrance, a young man offered to lead us into the temple. Haggling over the price was merely the opening gambit in an unending series of entreaties by itinerant traders to purchase some trinket or passing mopeds whose drivers offered to ride us uphill or from our guide himself who attempted to renegotiate the agreed price of the tour. It wasn’t long before we realized that this holiest of places had been transformed into a zone of commercialized exchange.

As we entered the complex we saw dozens of tourists, who wandered with and without guides, among the maze of temples. But there were dozens more ragged and mangy dogs than tourists. From time to time, groups of worshippers entered one temple or another and, as we climbed to various levels of the complex, the guide explained which rituals were being observed.

The guardian statues at temple entrances usually are sheathed in black and white fabric, symbolizing the balance of the forces of good and evil. At one entrance, we noticed the statues were covered in red and our guide explained that in this one spot it was possible for people of any belief to enter and make an offering. We did, half-knowing we would be beseeched for more cash at the end of the "prayer."

Nearing the penultimate level, our guide explained that the seventh and highest level was the holiest in Hindu traditions. Ironically, above and behind this most sacred level we saw another—a level dedicated to selling more trinkets, including giant carved penises, whose symbolism in the Hindu pantheon we were at a loss to comprehend.

Finally, we paid the guide—more than we had promised but he still seemed dissatisfied—and left this "sacred space" with the disturbing realization that globalization and its discontents had altered the relationship between the sacred and the profane along Bali’s cosmological axis.
Had we really expected it to be otherwise?

Perhaps our thinking had troubled the gods. Vishna’s revenge: after snapping our last photo at Besakih the shutter on our little Nikon digital camera wouldn’t budge. That ended picture-taking in Bali...for now.