It is a simple fact that one cannot avoid becoming wet when swimming. Thus it should not matter if one swims in sunshine or rain.
After one day of brilliant sunshine, the monsoon rolled over to our little beach. Gone was the golden sand and turquoise sea. Instead we had rain, and more rain; for a month to come should we choose to stay for so long. With the heavy, gray waves rolling in, lifting up sand and silt so the water was muddled, beach life was quite different. For instance, the seawater was warmed than the rain water, which made it more pleasant to be in the water than out of it on the beach.
What a lovely surprise to discover that monsoon rains are also the best times to beach-comb. Strange flotsam and jetsam floated towards us in the water. Styrofoam in a plastic bag (who puts styrofoam in a plastic bag??), toothbrushes, whole logs, flipflops, and a coconut, oval-shaped like Wilson the American football’s little brother.
When the rains ceded at night, the frogs came out. Hundreds of them. We sat, surrounded by their love recitals, in the beach bar. When the waiter brought out our martinis (nice and dirty), the wind picked up. Five minutes later, the rain squalls were spraying water even into the back of the bar, where we had escaped. The wind tousled our hair and the rain wet our faces as we continued to enjoy our martinis, now more aptly renamed Mai-Thai-phoons.
As I enjoyed my refill of olive brine and rainwater, I could not help but laugh at the bartenders’ dream job: one moment to protect all equipment, paper, and furniture textiles from the rain; and next one knew, to already run out to dress up the chairs and sun loungers for the 15 minutes the rain withheld its wetness. To be repeated, ad nauseam.
The frogs had it much easier. When it rains, swim in the rainwater. When it doesn’t rain, serenade to your nearest lovely mate.
(Langkawi, Malaysia; September 2016)
It was dark upon arrival on Langkawi. My checked-in backpack was slathered in oil. Ants had mysteriously infested our rental car and seemed to crawl in endless streams from its seams like a sequel to Hitchcock’s “The Birds”. My Malaysian friend drove into the jungle, without hesitation. We arrived on a pitch-black parking lot, entered a huge, empty hotel lobby, checked in, and hurried to get some sleep. I really had little idea where I had got to.
(Langkawi, Malaysia; September 2016)
Greetings from the fattest place of the Earth – or rather, from the stratosphere some 35,000 feet above it. After missing this goal both in Brazil and in Kenya, I am finally checking off one of my 
One more snake fruit before I board a plane and fly off this little lovely island. Everybody in this premier lounge is nicely dressed and carrying suitcases – and I came stomping in with a backpack, an old plastic bag, harem pants, and sandals. I have the highest elite tier of my airline alliance but right now I think my appearance here is a good joke.
6 pm and the sun has disappeared into the jungle. The night cicadas have relieved their afternoon colleagues from the concert shift. While I sit in a luxurious open-air lounge, sipping on my sunset drink, I cannot help but feel something I can only describe as “colonial”. We arrived here from busy Ubud where we stayed at a little homestay B&B, rode around on motorbikes with locals, and ate simple food for about one quarter of the prices here. But “here” is a resort in the cool woods, where 4 bellboys fussed about our arrival and luggage, whisked us onto couches for welcome drinks and registration, and then showed us the way down to the spa – using an elevator in the jungle.
I cannot help but wonder what the Balinese think of this ridiculous opulence. Indonesia gained its independence from the Netherlands in the 1940s, right after World War II. I understand that here it is difficult for a resident foreigner to own anything; everything has to be held in the name of a Balinese partner. It makes much sense. With the invasion of the Westerners who, like me, fall in love with Bali and want to stay, they would quickly outnumber the Balinese themselves and their capital, in practice reversing the sovereignty of the Balinese and their claim on their island and administration.
(Maya Ubud resort, Bali, Indonesia; September 2016)
My yoga friend and I checked in to paradise. She is swimming lazily around in the infinity pool overlooking a river. The cicadas are playing, and the river, too. Swallows hunt for bugs between the trees in the sun. I might give the Balinese Jamu health tonic another chance to become a friend of mine.
Yesterday night at a Tibetan bowl meditation session we conducted a heart-opening exercise, offering up all the pain and anxiety in us and replacing it with something positive. Letting the first thing that enters be acknowledged. I gathered all the hurt and the memories and the anxiety from every limb and vein and tried to push them out of my body if only for a second. From somewhere deep within me, the word that floated up to fill that vacuum space was “health”. Health of the body and of the mind. If the mind is ill, the body suffers, too. I realized I wanted to become healthy, in every possible way.
Some time ago my body put a stop to both a beloved hobby as well as an activity my mind was pushing my body to do. I used to run 10-12 km every other day for years, until my knees literally told me to stop running, according to my ayurvedic doctor. I ran them out some time ago and needed surgery in one knee. No running anymore, possibly never.
(Maya Ubud resort, Bali, Indonesia; September 2016)
Ubud means green smoothie and light reading before an evening meditation class – every day if I like. And getting up with the sun. It took me 5 years’ worth of summer holidays and a Balinese ayurvedic doctor to understand that my natural tendency is to sleep too much. In today’s busy Western world, we tend to sleep late during the weekends when we can. I thought it was beneficial to catch up on sleep properly during weekends. But the dear doctor I consulted told me that with a pitta-kapha constitution I need to restrict my sleep to 8 hours, 9 hours maximum. And that the best sleep I can get is before midnight – to wake up at 6.30 am, right after dawn.
(Ubud, Bali, Indonesia; August 2016)
One hot day we decided enough is enough. Enough heat, enough dust, enough bustle. Two of us hopped into a taxi, and one of us dared a crazy scooter taxi ride out, all the way through the rice paddies and into the jungle. Because (and this is a secret), there is a little patch of heaven hidden in the jungle. Like this:
We threw ourselves down into a hanging bed – and to our delight they had sparkling wine on the menu. What a rare treat on Bali! And so were the lovely superfood salads. And so was the stretching and pummeling also called a “Balinese massage”. 
The fish swam in their little pond. We swam in our bigger pond, where the water spilled down over the edge, and the jungle crept close.
Not until sunset, when the lanterns in the trees were lit, did we get dressed and return to Ubud. And if you cannot muster the strength to leave this patch of heaven (we nearly didn’t), you can dine overlooking the jungle, and check into a room of your own. Yes please. Next time!
(Junglefish spa, Ubud, Bali, Indonesia; August 2016)
This blue marble 