Bali and Life - May 2025

BALI AND LIFE

MAY 2025

We’re in a place I dreamed of returning to and was not convinced we would ever get back to, given the last four life altering - and terrifying - years.

We are in Beautiful Bali, the Island of the Gods. Across the ocean from Lombok, an island I came to 28 years ago with nine Australian teenagers, for three – also life altering – months. I was the trainer and fund raiser for World Youth International for twenty years – and this particular ‘gig’ was to train these beautiful ‘kids’ in leadership. But that is a story for another time.

I have returned many, many times. Twice yearly, with Dianne McCann and Robert Matthews, and my Beloved, as their assistants on the Tantra for Couples programme for a decade or more. But that is also a story for another time.

Now we are here to rest and relax and recover from the almost fatal injuries of the recent past.

And much has changed. Not only Bali. And Lombok, where I have just spent three beautiful days with my Muslim Family, who adopted me all those years ago, whom I visit [almost} every time we visit Bali.

Cancer changes everything. Stage 4 in particular. Surgeries, emergencies, terrifying nights and beside prayer filled days, appointments, PET scans, MRI’s, ultrasounds, blood tests, doctors decrees, and finally, thank you God, the acceptance into a clinical trial. The best the world has to offer, it turns out, with our amazing Professor Georgina Long, world expert on Melanoma and Australian of the Year, with her medical partner, Professor Richard Scolyer. Who himself, shortly after, was diagnosed with the most serious of cancers, ??????, and underwent a similar clinical trial created by Prof Long.

Life changes too, when we sold our beloved riverside home - a decision made because of repeated flooding. Buying another and moving, and then deciding to sell that home as it flooded even more seriously. All in the space of two years. We bought a home, outside of the flood zone, and completely gutted and renovated it, within a six month time frame. All this occurred during Covid when shortages made the stress of rebuilding even more challenging. And all self inflicted, with our decisions made to decrease flood stress. Our son eloped to Africa with his beautiful bride, and no guests. And then - I developed depression. Me. The happiest person in the room.

Lombok was wonderful. I spent three days with my Muslim Family who treat me as one would a precious piece of china, greeting me with the reverence deserving of the Queen. Their devotion to me is a humbling experience, and I am always so very moved. Ari apologises for his English which has deteriorated since I was last here, as he has had no practise. And it is remarkable how quickly his understanding returns. He hangs on to every word I speak with rapt attention, asking me to coach his vocabulary, how to say certain things, to correct his pronunciation. Our bond has predictably grown deeper over these decades, and what was inappropriate and unable to be understood in discussion back then, is eagerly addressed now. Politics and the detestable Donald Trump, The Quoran, the economy, homosexuality, dogs – haram (forbidden) for Muslims, food, the differences in our lives. He is an extremely generous and kind man, he answers the call to prayer five times a day and rises at 2.30 am to pray in his living room. The Quoran teaches generosity, and this man is incredibly generous. To the man who works for him from 6 am to 7 pm each day, seven days a week – with food and a loan for buy a motor bike, helps with his children’s education, and much more.

Eni, his wife, whom I met as a new bride 28years ago, is far more forthcoming now – ‘now so shy’ as Ari explains. She still calls me “Ms. Sandra” – after all this time – and Ari says kindly to her “Eni, Sandra is our Family, it is OK to call her “Sandra”. It is difficult for her to drop old habits, but over these three days, she does. I have seldom seen her without her Jilbab – now at 66, I see her hair is as grey as mine. She works like a demon. Eni rises at 4 am to start cooking – not only for her Husband and Very Honourable Guest, me, but for her sister Atti, who is 58 and suffered a stroke five years ago, and spends her life lying on a low bed. She cannot speak, walk, or move, apart from one arm. Her eyes are blank, and nobody knows if she is still ‘in there’. She wears the Jilbab as she lays there. Eni prepares meals and goes twice a day to Atti’s simple home, a five minute walk away – the home she and her six siblings were born in. She changes Atti, carries her to the bathroom with the help of one of her sisters - who is mentally disabled - and a neighbour, then bathes her, dresses her, and carries her back to bed, where she interminably slowly feeds her teaspoons of puréed bean sprout juice. This is a twice daily ritual performed with such aching love and patience.

And yet – this man and woman, who worked tirelessly with me in the World Youth International Teenage Programme I led here 28 years ago, and who have both now retired from important Government roles – are still very much at work in the community. Ari told me with some pride shortly after I arrived that Eni was leading a group of women in an ‘Association’, and fund raising to build a small school for 58 preschoolers in a tiny village not far from Tenek Tepong, where they live. A very noble project. I asked Ari who owns the land they are building on, and fail to understand his response. The next morning, Ari, Eni, Soo, one of the committee members and I are driven by Mr. Ri, Ari’s driver (Ari feels at 73 it is not safe for him to drive any more – what a sensible man) to the yet to be completed pre school.

This is a TOTALLY JOYFUL two hours – which is both a revelation and a nostalgic yearning once more for my two decades of dedicated service to World Youth International. A time when I travelled in Australia, Indonesia, Nepal and Africa to support our work for children in need, a time when I was surrounded by children, teenagers, teachers and our staff, a ‘family’ doing important work which I was totally passionate about. The reason I got out of bed every day. Work that I was born to do, to ‘be of service’ to mankind, and to make a difference.

I am proud to say I did.

And I am swept back to those times, and my heart expands and tears well for the memories and the moments and the history and the love I always gave and experienced in return. I surrender to the children, their sweet and trusting faces, their heads bowed as they clamour around me, holding my hand and bowing their heads to touch it, in the Muslim tradition of honoured greeting. Their teachers stand by, glowing with pride, some of their Mothers hover nervously in the background. Meeting me, a white woman wearing Western clothing, is quite an intimidating process.

Some of the children are herded into a room where the roof is yet to be completed, and a troupe of beautiful little girls wait for their music, and they wave their fans in preparation for the dance to begin. A teacher comes to me and requests that I dance with them. Of course I do, with as much grace as I can muster, these little girls are deserving of someone to complement their skills. It must be 40 degrees and 80% humidity. I am wet with sweat. The dance is five minutes long – at least! A round of enthusiastic applause and I gratefully take my seat.

Now it is the boys turn to dance, and each is armed with a horse between their legs. I prepare to watch, when another request from the boys arrives, will I please dance with the boys? Despite having no horse I rise to the occasion, and do my best to improvise one with these ten dear little souls, enthusiastically riding around the room, to clamorous and energetic music. I am exhausted and complete, divinely, absolutely satisfied and at home with these children, doing EXACTLY this.

The teachers are laughing and happy and somewhat disbelieving when Ari tells them in a grave voice – “Ms. Sandra is 75 years old!”

We gather for more hugging and blessings and photos and laughter, and regretfully it is time for us to leave. It is almost.lunch time and Ari must respond to the Call to Prayer and the Mothers must get their children home for a rest. A barrage of motor bikes depart, and somewhat tearfully, so do we.

On the ride home, Ari takes my hand and says uncertainly “Sandra – I wish to tell you something I didn’t say to you before. I don’t know why. I was uncertain. I must tell the truth. Now I think I must tell you.” I wish you could hear his heavily accented English as he says this. I wonder what is to come. He appears a little embarrassed or possibly even ashamed when he says “Eni and I bought this seven acres about ten years ago, it was just a field. And now Eni has begun this project to build this school with donations from our community.” Joy and gratitude surge through me yet I am not surprised. This IS who this couple are. I am extremely touched and moved and so very pleased to hear this, and so grateful to them for being who they are in the world.

I would love for you to have the same appreciation for who this Muslim community is, and the love and generosity and commitment and work to educate these beautiful children.

I am so glad I was here today, to witness this place and to experience community and love and passion – and to make a contribution, both lovingly and financially.

Thank you so much Ari and Eni, for the people you are, and for loving me and teaching me and blessing our world.

MOTHERS DAY 11TH MAY 2025

Today, we woke up in our big white curtained four poster bed, with the fan working hard above us and the air conditioning going full ball. Sweating. I rose and leapt naked into the small pool just outside of the sliding glass doors and felt the slippery cool water cool my body. I hoped for a cup of tea. The kettle is located somewhat curiously, outside in the Bure, with the tea and coffee. The water is inside, so it’s a fairly complex process especially if raining. But my Beloved rose to the occasion. He- somewhat guiltily said “I don’t have a Mothers Day card.” He knows my joy in the written word and a commemorative card. (I have boxes of them saved from 61 years of relationship).

But what we did have was a booking made the day before to The Sunshine Spa, a place he had visited twice whilst I was in Lombok for three days. A ‘Sunshine Adam and Eve’ three hour package for predictably, couples. For the princely sum of Aus $160 we were to receive a 5 minute foot wash, a 60 minute Balinese massage, a 40 body scrub and body mask, 20 minutes of reflexology, a 25 minute facial, with 15 minutes allocated for a flower bath and ginger and lemon tea plus biscuits, and a 15 minute sauna.

I was absolutely up for this. Gerald and I had done something similar in Bali years ago, which was absolutely blissful, but he remained somewhat sceptical about this experience. However, having braved a flower bath all those years ago, he was ready for a challenge. But, he said, what kind of man has a FACIAL? And what IS reflexology, anyway? Don’t even ASK about the ‘mask’. But he courageously submitted.

Ari was his masseuse. Anu was mine. He stripped and clad himself in thin sheer black paper knickers – back and front shaped exactly the same – which looked way too small to me to contain his additional male bits, but luckily the room was candlelit and dark. He surrendered to the humility of it all with good humour, even an embarrassed laugh, all in the name of Happy Mothers Day, Sandra. He’s a generous man and a good sport, My Beloved!

And as it happens, he LOVED the experience, swearing his skin felt like a baby’s bottom after the body scrub and flower bath. Two and a half years ago, Professor Georgina Long grimly told us we could expect around nine months to live. And here we are, in Bali, having a facial together.

Thank you all for your prayers. And thank you to our extraordinary medical practitioners and brand new clinical trial which has made this possible.

JIMBARAN

We took a cab to the famous Jimbaran Beach late afternoon yesterday, for the legendary Sunset Seafood Spectacular. We’ve done this many times over the decades we’ve been coming here, and its always An Event. The last time we were here, pre Covid, we met a man seated at the next table, whose entire body, including scalp, face, eyelids, fingers, toes and all the parts inbetween (admittedly I didn’t see ALL of them, but he assured me it was so!) were tattooed. The passing parade is invariably interesting – with lots of locals walking their dogs, kids splashing in the waves, in front of a mercury coloured dead calm ocean. There are several restaurants all located on the sand, and all seafood. You can select your own fresh fish and crustaceans from large tanks for grilling. You sit at the tables with your shoeless feet in the sand, eating indescribably delicious seafood and watch the sun slip below the silver sea, as children play on the shore, people from all corners of the earth share meals, lovers walk holding hands, and musicians wander from table to table. The band leader asked if we were honeymooners, perhaps as a joke. I said yes – then told him we have been married for 56 years. His beamed, his face lit up in disbelief and delight. He asked if he could play a song for us and asked for Elvis. They chose “Love Me Tender” and he invited us to get up and dance. We did, stumbling around in the sand, so happy and grinning like teenagers, to the amusement – and sweet looks – of our fellow diners.

What an evening! How very, very grateful I am to be here with My Beloved. We were living in Zambia in 1964 when that 16 year old boy, Jebs (aka Gerald), asked that 14 year old girl to be his girlfriend 61 years ago - she said yes - how could we have ever have imagined this scene?

Was this a stroke of incredibly good fortune? Were we wise beyond our years? How have we made this work for all these decades? Particularly as we have been separated twice, once for two years and the second time, for almost five years. (For bad behaviour – two affairs - on my part.)

Now we are now in the last chapter/s of our lives. This is not morose, this is reality speaking. Our age – we are now 75 and 77 - definitely gives one the clarity to see the end of the runway. My parents died in their mid eighties, as did Gerald’s Dad, and his Mom died early from cancer, aged 52.

Stage 4 cancer makes one excruciatingly aware of life. And death. There is an ever present and always unwelcome guest in our lives. Seldom acknowledged, but always lurking.

FEAR.

It is hard to make friends with fear. There is no antidote. Well meaning friends who have not faced the big C kindly offer what occurs as platitudes. You’re strong. You can do this. You will beat this.

As a couple who have accomplished much – and I say that without any ‘tickets’ on us – who are both equipped with many skills and life experience – these are meaningless words. I want to scream at you, and say – you have no fucking idea. I’m sorry if I sound unkind. There have been a rare and precious few, who have just cried with us. Held our hands and hearts and expressed their sorrow at our ‘roll of the dice’ experience and pain. And offered the most practical and loving acts of service. People who have offered the most generous gift of all – their time – to love and support us, without a single expectation. And surprisingly, some dear friends who have been so confronted by our vulnerability – I think because we were always the strong? - that they were unable to show up. Yet the joy of completely unexpected support from unexpected sources continues to flow. I thank you all. Each of you taught me many things, about how to be a friend and how to support and life and love – and myself. I hope I never let you down when you need me.

The question remains. How have we gotten through all we have had to traverse? Lots and lots of incredibly happy years, blessed by love and family and friends, good health and good ‘luck’. And years when we suffered homesickness, longed for familiarity and family and friends. And several years when we’ve been stalked by suffering and fear and pain. And also great bravery and courage and a passionate commitment to life.

Gerald is an African Warrior. And I have had to step up and be his Bride.

It’s a testament to love. To life. And to each other.

Thank you, My Beloved. You have always been – and always will be - my True North and My Rock.

I love you. Today for the first time ever – I noticed that my engagement ring, bought in Salisbury, Southern Rhodesia, is designed in the shape of ‘infinity’.

How could we have never known this before??

SANDALS

We were last in Bali before Covid, six years ago, when the supremely wise and unique couple Diane McCann and Robert Matthews ran their last Tantra for Couples Programme on this exquisite island. Heartbreakingly, just a few days after our return home, Robert died of a heart attack, an event which to this day, still brings me to tears. We had been unaccountably blessed to be their assistants for the previous twelve years and twice a year our pilgrimage to Sanur to support them in leading life changing programmes for couples was always a much anticipated and happy journey. What a gift and a joy it has been for us. For a few years after Robert’s way too early death, Diane and Gerald led the programme with me as their assistant. We led two more there before Covid struck and international travel was prohibited, when we had to continue doing so in Adelaide – and then Covid stopped that as well. It was a huge pair of shoes for Gerald to fill – yet he took it on, in the same courageous way he has always tackled life – full tilt. That is a story which deserves more time for telling, so I will wait.

And not long after that, Gerald was diagnosed with Stage 4 melanoma cancer. Which is also another story which remains still, to painful to recall and to write here, right now. If ever.

But it is interesting I said Gerald had ‘a huge pair of shoes to fill’ after Robert died - as I now have a story about shoes to tell you.

Six years ago, I bought six pairs of sandals in Bali, which may seem a tad excessive – but I have worn them literally to ‘pieces’ – I have even had them repaired at Aus$40 a pop, to gain more life out of my purchase. They were hand made, for the princely sum of Aus$30 a pair. I decided to treat myself to some new sandals.

I found a shop called Benny’s in Nusa Dua, which is not where I bought my previous ones – that was Sanur – but the sandals were almost identical and the array off colours and patterns suited me.

“I love you Sandra.” My darling husband has just repaired this keyboard, and left this message for me.

And – each pair is leather and hand made. I ask the price. For the ones on the shelf, ready made – Rp350,000 – the equivalent of Aus$35. A pair of black ones fit me perfectly. A knock off of Hermes, I realise, when he tells me the name of the style. I would like another pair in another colour, they feel so comfortable. For them to be made specifically for me in my chosen colour raises the price to Rp600,000 (Aus$60). He opens a dusty plastic bag of remnants of leather, ‘samples, and I choose an off white. Then a red.

I am delightedly ashamed to say I select seven pairs in different colours. Johnny, the friendly salesman, gives me a ‘good price for volume’ at Aus$50 a pair. They will be ready in five days.

The next day I return and purchase two pairs of ballet slippers, one in a multi colour python which Johnny, calls ‘peethon’. And another in black peethon. Gerald empties his wallet – literally – and gives it to Johnny to make him an identical new one, for Aus$35. And then is persuaded by me to buy a very smart pair of black sandals to replace the plastic snow shoes – aka thongs - he has been wearing, which I am sure are going to trip him up as they flap around his narrow, peculiar shaped feet.

We now have nine pairs of handmade sandals and shoes to transport home. For the princely sum of Aus$525. I congratulate and console myself on this Imelda extravagance, knowing that over the last six years, I have only bought three pair of shoes and my original Bali sandals are worn out.