Author Archive
These Things Happened!
Swaying palm tree gateway, sweet motorbike parking attendants with a warm welcome, a stunning, grassy, rambling location, chain smoking ticket takers (hehehe), an official heart hugger, more volunteers than seemed reasonable, Zebra Yoga Pants For Men (best paired with a Captain America headscarf), Leather Arm Bands For Women, sternum tattoos, white people with dreadlocks, Balinese people with dreadlocks, visible nipples, the dreaded food ticket conundrum, two dudes who vaguely resembled Fabio, two others who could pass for Anderson Cooper, Whitwell Wisdom, Paradise Energy, Prem, Global Healing Chants, playtime in the pool area, West African Dance Bliss.
Dispatches From Arma 2.0
After the national nightmare that was a virgin mojito, George was pleased to be sipping actual alcohol, in the form of a tasty margarita, on what amounted to multi-culti night at the Arma. Not just the crowd, which was more robust, wild, and ready to party than the night before and peppered with folks from at least a dozen countries. Last night was multi-culti night because of the headliners.
Dispatches From Arma…
We’d heard good things about Los Pinguos, and caught a sliver of their set at Potato Head last weekend, so we were pretty excited to get a full dose of the Argentinean heirs to the Gypsy Kings’ throne. That’s a compliment, by the way. And if you say you don’t like the Gypsy Kings, y’alls some lying motherfuckers. Come on, who doesn’t love Hotel California en espanol. Does The Big Lebowski mean nothing to you?
Still Shining
It was almost nine years ago when I first met Mark Whitwell in a penthouse apartment in the Strange Clown Building on Main and Rose in Venice Beach. He was the darling of some obscure Hollywood heads and the subject of a story for Spa Magazine that I’d been assigned to write.
Laid back and chill as the Cheshire Cat, with a wide grin and his linen shirt buttoned only halfway to bare his beads, his long hair drain back into a long pony tail it was easier to buy him as the next big deal in yoga (which he wasn’t quite yet) than it was to digest him as an actual corporate refugee who ditched his high paying gig in NZ to become the almost, maybe, not yet, next big thing in yoga.
West Africa Comes to Bali
What draws me to the Bali Spirit Festival year after year is the chance to learn from some of the best – be it in dance, yoga, music or meditation.
Olivier Tarpaga, a Dancer-Choreographer, Musician-Composer and Storyteller from Burkina Faso, West Africa, fits the bill.I made my way over to the Pavilion for what was billed as an “intensive African Dance class”.
Olivier Tarpage, Artistic Director of Dafra Dance Project, introduced himself and had us line up in rows surrounded by lots of space. He briefed us on the history of West African music (that’s “West”, with musical and dance forms distinctly different from Nigeria, and other regions of Africa). Today, we would focus on a dance form called “Take”. Off to the side, under the sauna-like tent of the Pavilion, several members of the Dafra Kura Band leaned into their drums.I made my way over to the Pavilion for what was billed as an “intensive African Dance class”.
Olivier Tarpage, Artistic Director of Dafra Dance Project, introduced himself and had us line up in rows surrounded by lots of space. He briefed us on the history of West African music (that’s “West”, with musical and dance forms distinctly different from Nigeria, and other regions of Africa). Today, we would focus on a dance form called “Take”. Off to the side, under the sauna-like tent of the Pavilion, several members of the Dafra Kura Band leaned into their drums.
The Anti-Yogi’s Guide To Ubud
A few relevant facts about Ubud, our beloved home away from whatever: Ubud has changed quite radically in the past 5 years. Tourism has skyrocketed, rice fields are getting paved over at alarming rates, easy credit access has led to more cars and motorbikes on the road, and the expat demographic has gone through its own shift.
Once there were two cliques. The Yogis and The Drunks – with a few of us migrating between the two clans like buzzed or blissed-out diplomats. In 2004, there were far more Drunks than Yogis (I’d say something like 70-30 in favor of the marinati), but thanks to a massive Drunk die-off, in 2011 there are nearly 80% Yogis. Within this Yogi group are the Raw People (note the clear eyes and grayish teeth), the Yuppie Om-ers (to which I’m guessing a fair number of the festival attendees belong), the Hipster Yogis (see: young attractive women with svelte, firm figures, loud voices and a penchant for wearing yoga pants at all times, and 30-ish men who wear vests sans shirt and smell like Jesus), and the Leather-Feathers – a spectacularly cringe-worthy sub clan who dance to horrific House music and wear absurdist Jack Sparrow gear, lesbian haircuts (I’m talking about the men), and only mingle with one another.
In 2004, if you’d told me that we would be at 80% Yogis, 20% Drunks, I’d probably suggest that this was a good thing. Now, I’m not so sure. Does this mean I’ve metamorphisized from self-hating Jew to self-loathing yogi? Perhaps. Or does it simply mean that I believe in a few simple truths that I wish we all shared?
