The sounds of Ubud

It always takes me a while to notice the details. I would be a useless crime scene witness. Unless you tell me to observe the details for a specific reason or point them out to me, I don’t see them until I’ve absorbed the general atmosphere and have made space in my head to become aware of the parts that make up the whole.

But once I’ve landed somewhere and have managed to quieten the busy-ness in my head, I start appreciating the details. And so I’ve started hearing Ubud. More specifically, I have constructed an audio map of the area around my homestay. For almost three weeks now, I have been living in a room that’s part of a typical Balinese family compound. Wayan is the head of the family. He’s the firstborn, hence this name. In Bali, children are generally given a name based on birth order: Wayan for the firstborn, Made or Kadek for the second born, Nyoman or Komang for the third born, Ketut for the fourth born, and the fifth would be “Wayan Balik”, meaning as much as “Wayan Again.”

So Wayan and his wife, Nyoman, live with his parents and almost two-year-old daughter in this traditional walled compound. Four separate structures make up what would be below one roof in a standard European house. The main family’s living quarters left of the entrance, the kitchen behind it, the grand-parents’ living quarters right of the entrance and the guest rooms in the back. The alleys between the buildings are narrow, mostly used as parking space for motorbikes (the owners’) and a bike (mine) and the grey wall around the compound is decorated with stones and plants.

When I first moved in here, it felt a bit oppressing, as I was coming from a homestay with a magnificent wide view over the paddy fields. But now it feels cozy, homey almost. And in my head, I’ve mapped the sounds. What was once just noise is now part of a familiar daily routine.

It starts around 6.30 am in the morning. I hear somebody removing the protective cover of a motorbike, and if it rained that night, the early riser shakes off the water before folding it. I hear the metallic gate of the compound open, the starting of the engine and the driving off towards the main road. I think it’s grandpa going to work. Not much later, Inten, the little two year old, is already wobbling around the compound. She’s usually happily nattering away and it is impossible to not hear the squeaky shoes she is wearing. I hear Nyoman rummaging in the kitchen and grandma talking to her granddaughter.

And then there is the ever-present sound of the Sampat, the broom made of stems of dried coconut leaves. I used to associate this object with mischief. I remember during my younger years, when my brother or I would be naughty, my mom would threaten to spank us with this broom, made of thin straws and hardly scary. On the very rare occasions that I was spanked (I was such a good girl really…), I think I had to make an effort not to giggle. Unless it’s a trick of my mind trying to cover up a deeply rooted childhood trauma of course… But now the memory of this broom will forever be linked to Ubud and the sound of locals sweeping the streets, the sidewalks, the alleyways and the gardens, lightly bent forward, one arm behind the back, the other one sweeping leaves and offerings into piles ready for pick up. Next time you’re in Bali, pay attention and you will hear it everywhere, the swishing sound of the Sampat . It’s one of those sounds that blends into the environment so naturally that you only hear it if you purposely single it out.

The rest of the day is filled with other household sounds. Grandma’s mostly, since Wayan and Nyoman have full time jobs elsewhere. So while mom and dad are working, it’s usually granny taking care of the little one and preparing my breakfast after I come back from my morning practice. The rest of the time, she is often busy weaving small offering baskets, the little square ones you can’t avoid but trample every second step you take here in town. While surfing on Facebook or nibbling my raw cashew nuts, I can hear the rustling of the coconut palm leaves, as she folds them with endless patience until she has a whole hamper full of offering baskets. Grandma is also a seamstress. A beautiful antique sewing machine is displayed on the porch of her veranda. I’ve never actually seen her sow, but sometimes, while I’m reading in my room or eating my breakfast behind the wooden folding screen on my porch, I can hear the undeniable sound of the aah-they-don’t-make-them-like-that-anymore machine.

Of course, the audio representation of Ubud would not be complete without the dogs, the cats, the chickens, the rooster, the geckos, the mosquitoes, the crickets and, when close to a paddy field, the frogs and the ducks. Unfortunately, drizzle with intermittent heavy rain fall have also become part of the natural sounds effects lately.

It took me a while, but I’ve finally absorbed the sounds of Ubud and made the details part of my active memory.

It almost feels like home now, but for the absence of a warm breath next to me in bed and the Italian resonance I’ve grown so attached to over the past four years.

Happy birthday babe, you should hear me come home soon.