That night, I lay in my bed, like all the days before — years before — scanning through scenes of my life both imagined and real. I would pick them apart, over-analyzing, trying to decipher meaning until all that was left were incoherent shreds that confused me, destined to keep me awake pondering my life, for the rest of my life. Except that night was different. That night, under my mosquito net, they all sorted themselves out. The answers were so simple; so obvious, I could not believe I had never thought of them before! This continued for a good 15 to 20 minutes until, try as I might, I could not find anything else to dissect or worry about. Bali had worked its magic, and I understood how so many souls could come here and never want to leave. I felt lighter, peaceful, and excited about the future — whatever that might be — and fell asleep knowing that everything would work out.

A few days later, after an easy morning of white water rafting, I started on my walk toward Ketut’s home. Following Yeva’s directions, I walked further than I thought I should. I passed the guesthouses, restaurants and tourist shops, stopping occasionally to photograph the leaves on trees, feral dogs missing fur, and cats with broken tails. I walked until it became quiet leaving only the sporadic zip of motorbikes buzzing in my ears and the heavy smell of exhaust under my nose. I passed fields, homes and shops meant solely for locals, the line between the shoulder and street blurring until asphalt was my only option. I stepped over trash, around bikes, and smiled at the occasional passerby greeting me with a Balinese “Oom Swastiatsu,” which I timidly returned, until finally, I saw the tiny modest white sign. It read “KETUT LIYER, PAINTER AND WOOD CAVING.” I smiled at the misspelling and turned left onto a dirt alley, following the thin black arrow painted on the sign.

When I arrived at the medicine man’s home, a short, busy man told me Ketut had many seekers that morning and had forgotten to eat. I thumbed through an architectural paper, preparing for jam karet (rubber time, or the Balinese phenomenon that slows the clock, rendering time a useless measurement) as he ate. I was in a compound of sorts, comprised of typical orange and gray stoned buildings which appeared to be a collection of galleries to display paintings and small homes. In the middle of the courtyard, stood a square structure with a raised floor, a ceiling, and only two walls. Inside was a large, raised bed and entertainment center. The contrast of old and new was jarring. Before I had time to question it, Ketut came out and greeted me. “Very nice to meet you,” he said, smiling his famous almost toothless smile. He led me out of the heat onto the woven bamboo mat laid across his porch, told me to wait, and then retreated inside. I heard gas, moans, and smelled excrement in a few minutes. I worried about him touching my hands afterward during the reading, but told myself to just go with the flow.

Before my reading, he asked the ready-made modern Balinese question if I had read Eat, Pray, Love and then proudly told me he was good friends with Elizabeth Gilbert, and that she wrote about him in the book. He pushed aside the binders and letters littering the floor of the porch, reaching for a padded manila envelope. I noticed the return address belonged to the famed writer herself, and wondered if she knew he kept this lying around. He withdrew a hardcover copy of the book, chin high, beaming and asked me to read the inscription out loud. “Ketut not so good at reading, please read this to me.” I felt awkward, as if I were publicizing a secret letter, and confused as to why he wanted me to read this aloud, but I obliged. When I finished, he opened the book to several bookmarked pages and had me read the passages written about him while he sat cross-legged, chin still up, and smiling with eyes closed. It was as if he was hearing the words for the first time, a circumstance that was not true because as Yeva would later tell me, he requested the same of her. With each sentence I read, the sense of exploitation crept over me like a shameful cloud. However, admittedly, it was hard to tell who or what was being used in the situation. Was I taking advantage of an aging medicine man (whom I later discovered had lost admiration among people, claiming his skills were lost after treating so many tourists)? Was he exploiting himself by playing into the hopes and wallets of soul-searching copycat tourists? Did Gilbert unintentionally exploit Ketut, or even the whole of Ubud, by writing her novel in the first place? There was no denying that parts of Ubud itself, as well as the characters in the book, seemed to be playing up to their image painted in the book, forgetting who or what they really were. My mind raced as I finished the passages, and I made a conscious effort to turn it off as Ketut began my reading.

“Everything is good,” he said reading my palm. “You have a good karma and good luck.” Then he smiled wide and told me, “You are good girl who can follow the good path.” Following the messages spelled out in my palm lines, he told me I’d live to be 100 and be married twice, if I so chose; my first marriage would be good, but my second would be better — if I decided to do another. He continued by saying that my heart and head lines are strong and long and that I am very smart. “Your artistic line is strong, can do many things well, will be successful at them all.” I asked for examples of my success, and he offered his wisdom by stating, “If you do writing, you published,” which I thought was interesting both because I want to be a writer and because, after the success of Eat, Pray, Love, I had no doubt many aspiring writers continuously visit him. He also told me my luck and money lines cross each other, which is good, and that I will have two kids.

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