travelswithalice

March 30, 2015

Bangkok

Grand Club Bangkok.

It's a lovely lounge, simple, elegant, quiet. Random thoughts on recent massage:

Following therapist through poolside garden to treatment room thinking that's not a good word, treatment. What's wrong with calling it a massage room anyway? Stone steps flat smooth pebbles. Foot bath in shiny metal bowl. Maybe stone better? But shiny equals clean so ok. Green tea cream lovely on tired feet. Soft Thai music birdsong then thunder, rain: great combination for relaxing body and mind, muscles and brain.

Is the Oriental Spa still a cut above?

The following day's massage makes it official: no pressing need to cross over to the Oriental Spa. My therapist, Ta, gave me the best Thai massage I've ever had.

Yet another massage: a foot massage in the mall next door. The woman at the door didn't look interested; sitting on a bench, hand dipping into a plastic bag of dried something that she chewed on continuously. Turned out to be the masseuse. Not the gentlest creature, my therapist. Is she even called that? She tossed two towels on a recliner covered with a permanent looking hard wearing corduroy then propped up a pillow sheathed in a dark velour type cover. My foot got in the way as she pushed aside a stool. Not a good omen I said as Stuart and I exchanged worried smiles. To be fair, massage turned out alright, not great but alright. It was of course far removed from the previous day's experience. I may have been unjustly suspicious of the sheets, the towels, the foot tub, even the water. And the hand that I had watched dipping into her plastic bag of dried goodies maybe?

Labels: Bangkok, Grand Hyatt, Thai massage

posted by Alice Dimalanta Jones # March 30, 2015

March 08, 2015

The Real Housewives of Singapore in Villa Champuhan

A river runs through it. Actually, two rivers join at a point above it. So the town elders called this curve in the waterline "Champuhan," the place where three rivers meet.

And it is at this dreamy spot on the banks of the Yeh Penet, that ten friends have come together to celebrate friendship, life, and all things beautiful.

Located on the west coast of Bali, 45 minutes from Denpasar airport and 25 minutes from the shopping and dining district of Seminyak, Villa Champuhan is the enchanting Bali home of Singapore friend Dolly and her husband Dean. My iPhone pictures don't do justice to this place, so I've appropriated some official photos from Villa Champuhan's website: (http://villachampuhan.com)

Lorna's moving to London soon. This warrants a party. So, party we did. Over four days in March, this nature reserve, this contemplative retreat, this haven of peace became a virtual pleasure palace for us girlfriends.

We arrived at noon, piled our luggage into a waiting van, piled ourselves into two SUVs, and proceeded to lunch at Chandi.

This marked the start of four days of feasting on fabulous food and drink that could seriously rival Anthony Bourdain's food travelogues. Métis... Ku De Ta... Mama san... Sardine...

But ultimately and most especially, at Villa Champuhan. Breakfasts on the river bale, dinners in Dolly's dining room. Elegantly and deliciously served by Comang, Gungun, and Kadet.

There were massages, scrubs, milk baths, hair spas. Outdoor and indoor. In house and out.

There were birthday sparklers...

...and martinis and mojitos by the sea.

There was mahjong.

There were endless photo shoots.

And then there was the shopping. A virtual orgy of acquisition. Clothes, trinkets, home decor, bracelets, beads, necklaces, tassels. Bags, snake and non-snake, but mostly snake. At boutique shops and market stalls.

Our final evening in Bali was reserved for chilling at the villa. The full moon was the Mini-Moon of 2015 when the moon was at the farthest point from earth. And as it was pool night, us girls were as far away as we could get from clients, meetings, groceries, deadlines, and all things profitable, useful, and boring.

Time to leave. On the drive to the airport, we stopped briefly as grotesque monster heads blocking our way obligingly moved to the roadside. These are the ogoh-ogoh for the Nyepi festival. It's at least two weeks before the new moon appears but the town folk are already getting ready. Nyepi is the Hindu new year, the island's most lavish annual celebration. It coincides with the new moon of March or April. This year it occurs on March 21.

Putu, our driver and default local guide, ably aided by translator Nellie, explained that it has all to do with the Hindu belief that the world is ruled by the opposing forces of good and evil. Good magic and bad magic, good spirit and bad, black and white. The third day of the six-day religious festival is reserved for prayer, fasting, meditation, introspection, and rebirth. Under the watchful eyes of the pecalang who patrol the streets in day and night shifts, all in Bali abide by a set of local rules centered on the doctrine of The Four Prohibitions: no fire, no travel, no activity, no entertainment. And in party-central Bali, a day of profound silence and absolute abstinence, meaning no lights, no music, and no road traffic has to be ushered in and out by every manner of noise-making. Gongs, bells, firecrackers, whistles, bashing of pots and pans, and parades of vanquished evil spirits. Hence, the monster heads.

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On the flight back to Singapore, more pictures.