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The breasts of Bali: An update

Abandoned souvenir painting shop, Ubud, Bali (photo by Isham Cook, 2019).

 

And our women would have to cover their breasts as if they were whores…
Vicki Baum, Love and Death in Bali

 

If you wonder what years of living in Bali — as opposed to Elizabeth Gilbert’s four months of Eat, Pray, Love fame — might do for the soul, long-time expat Diana Darling has bequeathed to us the delightful novel, The Painted Alphabet (Editions Didier Millet, 1992), a lush reimagining of the Dukuh Siladri folktale, from which I highlight the following quotation. Sent packing by her parents to be brought up by the witch Dayu Datu, the naughty eight-year old Ni Klinyar is provided with an assemblage of gifts to bear to her new guardian:

Four sacks of raw rice, a black rooster, three batik sarongs, two thousand Chinese coins, several loops of cotton string (black, red, and plain white), a young yellow coconut and various other implements of Balinese ritual, plus several more unusual items — a size 32AA brassiere, a bottle of nail polish remover, and a Japanese-Indonesian dictionary. (ch. 7)

We have here in this odd collection of incommensurables an example of the Borges-style list — referring to the master Argentine writer’s penchant for leavening his tales with bits of surrealism. Lest you assume such invention be confined to the world of fiction, we find another such list of curiosities in Colin McPhee’s memoir of Bali during the early 1930s, A House in Bali (Pickle Partners, 1946). An earthquake has released evil spirits and his improperly protected house becomes haunted. He seeks out a priest. There is nothing intentionally playful about the list of sacrificial offerings the priest in all seriousness demands he assemble if the purification is to be successful:

For this you will slaughter one young bull, one goose, one goat, one dog with a three-colored hide, one duck with similar markings, one young male pig, one chicken with feathers growing the wrong way, five hens of five different colors, and twenty-five ducks. You will also need six hundred duck eggs, six hundred bananas, and five thousand Chinese cash. The offerings prepared in advance will include two roast pigs, ten roast chickens, ten roast ducks, five baskets of rice, flowers and cakes, and five skeins of thread in the five colors. (ch. “Ida Bagus Gede expels the demons”)

Bali’s deeply entrenched Hinduism, imbued with an even older indigenous polytheism, has given rise to one of the most mystically inclined of societies. The religious routine is thickly laid on everywhere: the dance you are compelled to perform to avoid stepping on the palm leaf tray offerings scattered on every sidewalk, the ubiquitous split stone gates of street-front gardens signifying the parting of the material world, the shops that close for weeks as the owner attends a relative’s cremation ceremony, the houses that can’t be bought or built and the shops that can’t open without an elaborate ceremony to appease the local spirits, and so on.

Hindu-inspired art (early 18th c.), Klungkung Palace, Semarapura, Bali.

But when I consider the equally strange superstitions of my own land and how much of the population is stuck in a magical apprehension of the world, including a disturbing number of university students I have taught, I don’t find Bali so alien. I refer to people who believe the earth was created 6,000 years ago and is flat, the dinosaurs were wiped out not by an asteroid but lack of space on Noah’s Ark, an embryo is a person, nuclear war is desirable as it will hasten the Rapture, the first female Presidential candidate to win the popular vote ran a pedophile ring out of a pizza restaurant, and the sight of a woman breastfeeding her child in public is offensive. I am continually shocked in particular by the last item in this basket of bizarrables. With every fresh news report of a hapless nursing mother being harassed in public or even arrested, I seem to be encountering it for the first time, so astonishing and inexplicable is this taboo. We can lay the blame at the feet of one outraged Calvinist pastor from Boston named Hiram Bingham who in 1819, with the backing of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, charged off to Hawai’i and almost singlehandedly succeeded in forcing the native women to don Mother Hubbards, upon reports they went topless.

Two decades later a young American sailor on a whaling ship sailed into a tropical paradise some 4,000 kilometers to the south whose population were the ancestors of the Hawai’ians, the island of Nuku Heva in the Marquesas. Before dropping anchor they were surrounded by scores of swimming naked beauties. Their only nod to modesty was the wrapping of a sash around their hips as they climbed aboard. They then lay supine on the deck, awaiting intercourse with the stunned crew, and we don’t mean spoken intercourse. The sailor wrote up his experiences on the island after jumping ship and turned it into a book, Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life, which became a bestseller in both the US and the UK. The author, Herman Melville, knew of the events in Hawai’i and was thus able to appreciate his pristine setting before French missionaries in the succeeding decades would proceed to corrupt these islanders as well and achieve the prime objective of Christian missionaries the world over — the veiling, and hence the sexualization, of the breasts, along with other grand civilizing influences: “Let the once smiling and populous Hawaii islands, with their now diseased, starving, and dying natives, answer the question. The missionaries may seek to disguise the matter as they will, but the facts are incontrovertible; and the devoutest Christian who visits that group with an unbiased mind, must go away mournfully asking — ‘Are these, alas! the fruits of twenty-five years of enlightening?'” (ch. 17).

Ancient erotic sculpture, Monkey Forest, Ubud, Bali.

By the time the great Paul Gauguin set foot on the sister island of Hiva Oa in the Marquesas, six decades after Melville, the female natives had long buttoned up, as they had throughout Polynesia, including Tahiti, where the artist had just spent the greater part of a decade. This may come as a surprise given the plethora of olive-skinned nudes in his paintings. He had to coax them out of their clothes. He regularly invited schoolgirls in their teens and older, anyone he could manage, to his house to view his paintings. Above the entrance he had displayed, the story goes, a desperate appeal to female passersby, a sign in French, Maison du Jouir or “House of Pleasure,” a double entendre for “orgasm.” Strategically tacked on a wall of his studio were pornographic postcards he had acquired in Europe. Whenever one of his visitors gazed curiously at the erotic photos, for they had never seen the like, she would feel his hand creeping onto her buttocks as he propositioned her to pose for him. Most couldn’t surmount their disgust at the oozing syphilitic sores on his legs, barely hidden by his sole article of clothing, a Polynesian wrap around his hips. Gauguin has thus been reduced in our present politically enlightened era to a caricature more repulsive than pathetic (e.g. Ian Littlewood’s Sultry Climates: Travel and Sex (J. Murray, 2001)), not wholly without justification, as he evidently made the move from Tahiti, where he was notorious, to the backwater of the Marquesas where there would still be fresh women who didn’t know he was diseased.

You suppose I’m being ironic in referring to Gauguin as “great,” but in fact I am not. A closer examination of the facts reveals a more complex and nuanced situation. To begin with, syphilis was extremely widespread, having coursed around the world like wildfire since first appearing in Europe three centuries earlier. By the close of the Elizabethan era in England alone, virtually every sexually active adult and many congenitally infected children were afflicted (for more gory details see my Shakespeare sex and violence starter kit). Gauguin would not have been the only Polynesian resident to have the disease. On the contrary, Europeans stood as good a chance of being infected by native islanders, who first received the bacterium from Spanish explorers, than infecting them. Its general virulence had somewhat abated by the nineteenth century, but your beloved Ludwig van Beethoven, Franz Schubert, Charles Baudelaire, Abraham Lincoln, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Leo Tolstoy, Friedrich Nietzsche, Oscar Wilde and many others, are known or suspected to have been ravaged by it. There was of course no cure until the discovery of antibiotics. But being a syphilitic carrier was not necessarily regarded as a question of sexual morality, or of morality at all, but simply as an unfortunate and pretty much inexorable medical scourge; being spared the pox only increased your chances of succumbing to tuberculosis, typhoid, smallpox, cholera, etc. As for his reasons for moving to the Marquesas, those islands still maintained a Maori tradition of facial tattooing that had fascinated him for years. On Tahiti it was his souring relations with the Catholic bishop, the gendarmes, and the enemies accumulated by his political rabble-rousing, more than the rapidly receding prospect of fresh bodies, which finally gave him the excuse he needed to make the leap (for the definitive biography, see David Sweetman, Gauguin: A Life (Simon & Schuster, 1995)).

Though indisputably a lecher, as male artists often are, the sad sex advertisement Gauguin affixed to his house entrance can be reevaluated as well. The wooden placard was actually a carving, an impressive frieze of three-dimensional figures and words, which would only have been legible to those who had approached the house closely and were literate in French. There was also a vertical pair of equally beautiful carvings along the sides of the entrance reading “Be mysterious” and “Be happy being in love,” and two more laterally placed along the entrance floor. All five panels were rescued upon his death in 1903 and are displayed at the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Three years later in 1906, a major retrospective of several hundred of Gauguin’s works were exhibited at the Salon d’Automne, with a younger generation of painters present including Pablo Picasso, Henri Matisse, Raoul Dufy and André Derain. It was one of the founding events of Modernism. All were blown away by the riot of unencountered colors, the free play of forms, the pursuit of non-Western artistic media, the frank sexuality, and the striking idea of abiding in a culture on the opposite side of the planet for artistic inspiration. Gauguin’s and several Cezanne retrospectives around the same time were the two decisive influences on the world’s most famous modern painting, Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon of 1907.

Picture of traditional Bali scene hanging in my guesthouse in Ubud, Bali.

And so began the cult of Western expat artists venturing to distant Oriental utopias for inspiration. Matisse had to see for himself where Gauguin’s colors came from and visited Tahiti in 1930, though he stayed for only two months. Next was Swiss artist Theo Meier who arrived in 1932. He stayed for longer but was disabused by the reality of the place, far more arid and priggish than Gauguin’s paintings had led him to believe. Two years later Meier to set sail for another location known for its naked maidens. He had heard rumors of an expat painter, the German Walter Spies, who had been in Bali since 1927 and was assembling an enviable cast of friends in his own “studio of the tropics” (Gauguin’s phrase) in Ubud, already an established artists’ enclave on the island.

In the Western imaginary all tropical paradises are essentially the same place, though Bali is as far from Tahiti to the east as it is from Istanbul, Turkey, to the west. Bali, however, delivered the goods: the native women really did go about topless, and not only when breastfeeding or bathing in the river but in all their daily activities; the exceptions were upper-class women who bore their status in their apparel, and formal or ceremonial dress worn at court and by dancers and theatrical performers. What made Bali special is that it was the last of the island paradises to cover up. As Claude Lévi-Strauss quipped in Tristes Tropiques, “the tropics are not so much exotic as out of date.” It was the first decree and personal obsession of the dour nationalist Bagus Sutèja when he became governor of the island in 1958. It’s significant that it was no longer the missionaries but a homegrown leader whose sexual propriety was shaped by Western puritanical morality, despite or rather because of his leftist ideology (in Thailand it was the Hitler-admiring dictator Plaek Pibulsonggram who put a stop to that country’s toplessness in 1939). It didn’t happen right away; there was much resistance evidently, as female natives struggled to understand the reason for having to confine their chest. During my stay in Ubud, my hired driver, in his forties and too young to know firsthand, seemed think women had all covered up by the 1970s. It was probably a bit earlier than that, before the tourist boom. In any case it’s ironic that this transpired in the freewheeling ’60s, when back in the 1930s Bali’s tourist industry actively promoted its bare-breasted women (Adrian Vickers, Bali: A Paradise Created (Tuttle, 2012)).

1930s travel poster by the Netherlands’ Travellers Official Information Bureau, printed in Adrian Vickers, Bali: A Paradise Created. Vickers’ publisher used this poster for the book’s cover but covered up the woman’s breasts.

I should add that Western society had long had a fairly relaxed attitude toward the breasts — until the anomaly of the Victorian era. Throughout Europe in the sixteenth through eighteenth centuries (earlier than that the historical evidence is more obscure), women were free to display their nipples in public, though there was an etiquette to it. Unmarried women were given more leeway. The “virgin” Queen Elizabeth was hence free to expose her breasts around Court and regularly did so. Lower-class women who could not afford the “extreme décolletage” variety of bodice untied their chemise instead to casually let their breasts peek out. You can find countless European paintings from the time of tavern scenes with wandering hands on improperly secured bosoms. Meanwhile upper-class women sitting for portraits could display one nipple to signal they were betrothed, both nipples if they were a mistress. With this historical evidence in mind, being upset at the contemporary “nip slip” on live American TV is merely a function of petty Victorian morality, prosecuted more fanatically in the US than it ever was in England. And if it does apply to you, you can always visit more museums. But alas in our era what the missionaries dreamed of but could not achieve is fast coming to pass through technology: the rapid dwindling of toplessness and nudity at beaches the world over, even where it is perfectly legal to disrobe, due to the ubiquitous presence of CCTV cameras, cellphones and facial-recognition systems. It could be that in the future the only place you’ll be able to find women going about topless anymore will be the scattered jungles and hill tribes where covering up never quite penetrated: I saw one bathing herself by the road in northern Laos as my bus passed by.

In 1937 Walter Spies moved to the remote countryside of Iseh, near Bali’s Mount Agung volcano, to escape his hectic socializing and concentrate on his painting. When Spies later moved back to Ubud, Theo Meier took over the idyllic house. Over the next two decades Meier netted scores of female lovers and several wives — and nude models. He subsequently moved to Thailand to explore the female landscape there, until his death in 1982. His paintings are now worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. This curious lineage of artists inheriting each other’s houses continued when American expat Daniel P. Reid took over Meier’s house in Chiang Mai in 1990. Reid was a classic hippie out of 1960s Berkeley who subsisted on LSD, opium and whatever else he could get his hands on while vagabonding around the Middle East and India; this was followed by years in Taiwan where he claims to have slept with over 2,000 women, and finally Thailand, by which time he had acquired an expertise in Chinese medicine and sexual Taoism, all delightfully recounted in his memoir, Shots from the Hip (Earnshaw Books, 2019).

Spies himself had little predilection for female nudes; he preferred naturalistic settings for his art and teenage boys for his bedchamber. Inspired by the jungle scenes of Henri Rousseau, his paintings were so gorgeous they profoundly influenced native Bali artists and now fetch over a million dollars at auction. But he was unceremoniously deported from Bali in 1938 for pederasty and died a day out of port when his ship was bombed by the Japanese.

Spies’ 1930s circle also included the anthropologists Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson, the novelist Vicki Baum, and the Canadian composer Colin McPhee and his wife Jane Belo, one of Mead’s proteges. McPhee’s A House in Bali, cited at the outset of this essay, is a charming but enigmatic memoir of his Bali years. There is a great deal of scene painting and memorable detail on the local culture, but almost nothing about women or their breasts; nor does his wife merit a single mention in the entire book, though she was with him every day. McPhee regularly employs “I” and only occasionally “we”; the reader unaware that he was married would assume “we” refers to the author and his servants (the book does include a photo of one of his cooks, the girl Rantun, but again none of his wife). That McPhee was in fact gay partly accounts for this, though it seems he was somewhat of a closeted one, or at least he chose to be more circumspect that Spies; there are references to the mundane activity of bathing in a nearby creek with one of his male servants and nothing else.

Colin McPhee’s private cook, the girl Rantun, as photographed in his memoir, A House in Bali.

The narrative takes on greater clarity when one realizes McPhee’s real passion was not people but the strange, lush music of the Balinese orchestra known as the gamelan. He travelled widely around the countryside investigating every gamelan he could find (practically every village possessed one), lavishing particular attention on the best musicians and composers, in order to extract their music out of them, transcribe it, and work the exotic sounds into his own compositions. This music was his true love object, which he pursued with the relentlessness of an obsessive lover, and he sought to convey its effect to the reader in flights of erotically charged prose:

There was something dark and secret about their ancient craft, for they had to do with metal, cold mysterious product of the underworld, charged with magic power. For centuries they manufactured from the same substance the instruments of both music and death, the resonant gongs, the spears and thin-edged krises. In their craft the elements of life and death were strangely united. For a gong when struck can (or once could) dispel the demons, bring rain, wind; or give, when bathed in, health and strength. And music, which is the most ecstatic voice of life, rang from the bronze keys even as they were hammered out in the forges, over fires that had burned from time immemorial. (pt 3, “The Gamelan of Semara”)

Vicki Baum, Austrian author of the bestseller Grand Hotel (1929), turned her 1935 Ubud sojourn into the historical novel Love and Death in Bali (Tuttle, 1937), which recounts the 1906 Puputan massacre. Here the breasts are not treated with any special attention, except where their prominence merits mention: “The habit of carrying loads on their heads gave them an erect carriage and a rhythmic step, and their breasts and shoulders were at once soft and muscular” (ch. “Raka”). Elsewhere, the breasts serve to reveal the character of those reacting to them, such as the villager Pak’s feelings about his wife, “how ugly [she] was with her untidy hair and hanging breasts” (ch. “The Bad Time”). The breasts are never sexualized, and appropriately so, of course, as the public female physiognomy was considered the most prosaic of sights. At the same time, Baum’s novel is largely devoid of love and passion, despite its title; there is no obsession of any sort, let alone sexual, or anything on the scale of McPhee’s gamelan. Her scene painting and dialogue is workmanlike and often flat. The book’s main redeeming feature is the fascination of its sustained dramatic irony, as the protagonists, several Balinese families, comprehend all too slowly how the chain of events that began with a few fishermen grabbing some flotsam from a wrecked Chinese trading ship will result in a Dutch naval invasion of the island and the slaughter of a thousand of their countrymen.

Balinese gamelan music CD. Traditional Balinese dancers do not go topless, but you can’t fault the marketing savvy of this cover’s designer.

The Japanese occupation of Bali put an end to the first tourist wave (Theo Meier lingered on until 1955), and it wasn’t until the 1970s, after decades of poverty, the devastating 1963 eruption of Mount Agung, and a protracted and vicious anti-Communist purge, that things started to pick up again. The island today has become particularly popular with Western female tourists and expats, including some long-established ones such as the aforementioned Diana Darling and an intriguing Canadian woman, Cat Wheeler, who has been living in Ubud off and on since the 1980s. I suppose what attracts foreign women to Bali more than other tropical paradises is its freedom from the Muslim restrictiveness of surrounding Indonesia, the absence of a blatant Thailand-style sex tourism scene, and a reputation for being a peaceful place where harassment of women is relatively scarce. Wheeler has written an eccentric yet not unenjoyable book, Bali Daze: Freefall Off the Tourist Trail (Tokay Press, 2013). As expected, the book is free of a single reference to Bali’s old reputation for its topless natives. She does have this to say:

In warm climates and cultures that are deeply social, the public water supply has been a traditional meeting place. The pragmatic Balinese take this a step further by taking off their clothes and jumping in….Yet Balinese women consider the bikini top and tiny pair of shorts that some western women wear around Ubud unacceptably immodest. (p. 81)

Wheeler too does not seem all that much interested in people, much less things like love and relationships. Her descriptions of her life center around her garden. The unflinching focus on her fish, birds, and insects, and her dogs, begins to feel claustrophobic, if not self-indulgent, and reminds one of McPhee’s preoccupation with his gamelan music. Readers noticed this absence of the human dimension, as Wheeler wittily acknowledged in her follow-up book, Retired, Rewired: Living Without Adult Supervision in Bali (CV. Bayu Graphic, 2016): “If I wrote about the expats in Ubud, I’d have to leave town” (p. 16). Yet oddly, like McPhee, she does succeed in sexing-up her material in subtle ways, as if every Western writer on Bali cannot help but eroticize the island somehow, as when she writes of “copulating frogs” and the sex life of cucumbers. I have nothing against nature writing — will one day get around to Edward O. Wilson’s Naturalist and Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which have been sitting on my shelf for ages — but I was hoping to be more enlightened about the Balinese today.

Idealized contemporary nudes photographed by J. P. Navicet, Navicet Arts Gallery, Ubud, Bali.

I gave one more book a shot, Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestselling Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia (Penguin, 2006). The last third recounts her stay in Bali in 2004. A memoir largely about her own career and relationship crises, the three countries are never more than an exotic backdrop to her internal psychodrama. The elderly Balinese healer she hangs out with, Ketut, indulges the attractive American woman and for her spiritual benefit mouths platitudes like, “Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clean away dirty energy” (ch. 77). The whole book teeters on the edge of banality. But there is one interesting development which threatens to thrust the narrative in an entirely different direction, one protruding thread the pulling out of which would cause the whole thing to unravel. It’s a great example of a book that deconstructs itself. Early on in her stay Gilbert runs through the usual capsule history, and there is a sole reference to Bali’s age-old toplessness: “Margaret Mead…despite all the naked breasts, wisely called Balinese civilization on what it truly was, a society as prim as Victorian England: ‘Not an ounce of free libido in the whole culture'” (ch. 80). Gilbert’s source for this Mead quote is Adrian Vickers’ Bali: A Paradise Created, and what Mead actually says is even more overtly snobbish: “‘Not an ounce of free intelligence or free libido in the whole culture'” (p. 169). This was after all a rather insular group of Western intellectuals who had few close interactions with locals, apart from Spies himself who spoke the language. In spite of Mead’s groundbreaking work on indigenous sexuality in Samoa, it’s an honest comment which merely reflects her status as outsider.

Meanwhile, Gilbert befriends another healer named Wayan who runs a “Traditional Balinese Healing Center,” where she seeks help for a bruised leg from a bicycle accident. The healer is an attractive female in her thirties with a spunky personality and a pronounced sexual sense of humor. Her business, however, barely brings in enough to pay the rent. Gilbert takes pity on her and launches a campaign among her friends back home to fund enough money so Wayan can buy a small house for herself and her daughter. She manages to raise $18,000, but the story takes an unexpected turn when Wayan inexplicably delays the purchase, using various excuses — this month or that plot of land wasn’t spiritually propitious, etc. — only to ask for another $22,000. Gilbert suspects she’s being scammed but her newly acquired Brazilian boyfriend and Bali expat Felipe reassures her this is the normal way the Balinese negotiate. Wayan does finally acquire the house and it turns out well in the end, though the movie version of Eat, Pray, Love elides these complications in the interest of conciseness.

The movie also makes Wayan look much older to downplay her sexuality, employing an actress in her fifties, and there is obviously no reference to the true nature of Wayan’s job:

Then, to our lurid fascination, she described the different massages she does for men’s impotent bananas, how she grips around the base of the thing and kind of shakes it around for about an hour to encourage the blood to flow, while incanting special prayers….But that’s not all Wayan can do. Also, she told us, she is sometimes called upon to be a teacher of sex for a couple who are either struggling with impotence or frigidity, or who are having trouble making a baby. She has to draw magic pictures on their bedsheets and explain to them which sexual positions are appropriate for which time of the month….Sometimes Wayan has to actually be there in the room with the copulating couple, explaining just how hard and fast this must be done….But then Wayan confides something extremely interesting. She said that if a couple is not having any luck conceiving a child, she will examine both the man and the woman to determine who is, as they say, to blame. (ch. 100)

If he’s to blame, she spares him loss of face by announcing it’s actually his wife who has the problem and needs to be treated by her alone. In these sex therapy sessions, Wayan invites young males around the neighborhood to come and satisfy and even impregnate the wife, unbeknownst to the husband yet reassuring him of his virility when she gets pregnant. I guess I have to give Gilbert her due for not excising this content, content which contradicts everything the book stands for, as this side of Wayan’s personality threatens to undo the integrity of the narrative even as it renders her character more three-dimensional. Gilbert had to choose between maintaining a genteel façade of New Agey propriety for her largely female audience or doing the opposite, scandalizing it by presenting a Balinese woman who is considerably more compelling and sexual than Gilbert herself. A more incisive female author (no male author could get away with it these days) would have exploited this extraordinary window into the sexual practices of one Balinese woman and devoted the entire book to Wayan, and joined her life as participant observer, business partner, co-conspirator or even lover. So much for the Victorian primness of Balinese women.

Benignly erotic souvenir paintings appealing to potential buyers, including Western tourists of more prim sensibilities (Ubud, Bali).

I am cognizant of the awkward connotations of the words “exploit” and “exploitation,” now that politically progressive scholarship has trickled down into common discourse in the form of a more “critical” awareness. In our current, seemingly enlightened era, it is taken for granted that to entertain any sort of promiscuous motive while sojourning in the Third World is anathema and disqualifies the traveler from educated society. If I may briefly characterize the postcolonial conception, we have finally overcome and outgrown a millennium-long regime of Western imperialism, beginning with the Crusades (and going back further to the origins of patriarchy), directed against darker-skinned peoples who because they were readily depicted as physically “Other,” as alien and savage, were thus deserving of conquest. Conquest and control in turn feminized and sexualized whole cultures, constructing them as “virgin territory” ripe for exploitation. These enabling conditions for the first wave of global sex tourism allowed notables such as Pierre Loti and Paul Gauguin to freely range over distant locales on a whim and set up shop wherever they pleased, and basically “let France do with the territories what they would have wished to do with its women” and treat “the Orient as if it were the harem of the West” (Irvin C. Schick, The Erotic Margin: Sexuality and Spatiality in Alterist Discourse (Verso, 1999), p. 116). Or as Littlewood puts it, “tourism can be used to buy the sexual privileges of a former age” (Sultry Climates, p. 167).

Schick’s study is highly informative and can be recommended for its exhaustive research into the colonialist mindset and the inseparable female Other over the centuries. But while for the most part objective and analytical in tone, the author can’t refrain from a moralistic condemnation of the contemporary traveler, as when he writes, “Southeast Asian countries, especially Thailand and the Philippines, have become the new ‘sex capitals’ to which Europeans and Americans flock….to purchase partners with whom to indulge in pedophilia and other illicit practices” (pp. 118-9). A reductive portrayal indeed. Pedophiles have certainly been known to seek out teenagers or children in the Third World in the belief they can more easily get away with it. However, they constitute a minute fraction of the larger population of tourists from developed countries. American child predators with more than a few operative brain cells especially have reason to refrain from even considering the idea. The United States has the most punitive child sex laws in the world, and any American caught engaging in such activities abroad is subject to US law. Law enforcement in most of these tourist destinations happily cooperate with their American counterparts. International pedophiles are carefully tracked, prosecuted when caught, and splashed all over the national media before imprisonment and subsequent deportation back home, where more imprisonment awaits them in the grim US penal system.

As I write elsewhere (Massage and the Writer: Essays on Asian Massage), the adult sex business is undeniably vast and Southeast Asia is a hot destination for it. But it’s not so easy to ascertain who participates and who doesn’t. There is obvious prostitution in well-known haunts above all in Thailand and the Philippines. But what about your average “massage therapy” establishment which serves clientele of both sexes? The female customer emerges from her treatment exquisitely satisfied, while the male customer who is treated by the same masseuse an hour later gets a bit of erotic teasing or even a happy ending. This is the vast gray area of the global sex industry today, that is if “sex” is the right word, since there is no clear definition of what constitutes the sexual act in many instances. (By “adult” sex business I refer to adults seeking erotic services from other adults who plainly appear over the age of eighteen. The vast majority of masseuses in Southeast Asia fall into this category. In the event you are concerned about not being able to tell a masseuse’s age, there are many to choose from who are in their forties and fifties.)

Bali is not presently known as a destination offering much in the way of red light entertainment, yet its massage scene, as expected, falls in this gray area as well. I tried out a number of massage shops in Ubud, Canggu and Kuta on my recent stay there. Most of the massages were humdrum and disappointing, in terms of the masseuses’ sheer lack of massage training and skill, with one exception, a shop in a moderately upscale bungalow-style hotel off a busy street in Ubud, which I took my wife to. She chose a spa treatment involving milk and lavender baths followed by a massage by the proprietor, an enticing woman in her late thirties who would have been a perfect Wayan for the Eat, Pray, Love movie.

As for my own “four-hands” massage, the owner assigned me two masseuses who arrived a few minutes later by moped. I was already face down on the table when they arrived, and I tried to guess what they looked like from the feel of their hands on my body. The one working my upper body was noticeably lacking in technique and a letdown from the start, but the one working my legs had excellent technique and was far more thorough. Her strong fingers slipped under my underpants (unlike Thailand naked massage here is proscribed) and dug perilously close to the erogenous zones around my ass and inner thighs. When I turned over I was able to size them up. The bad masseuse was somewhere in her thirties, dressed in a blue silk kebaya and very pretty. The good masseuse was around fifty, wearing eyeglasses, slacks and a T-shirt, fat and ordinary looking. I dismissed the former but had some difficulty in conveying to the latter, who spoke no English, that I wanted her for another half hour. The boss interrupted my wife’s massage and came to the rescue with her limited English. Upon resuming, this fabulous discovery of a masseuse proceeded to work her hands further down the lower belly and pubic region before lifting my erect member out my underwear and applying similar techniques to it. With only a few minutes left and perhaps uneasy at my wife’s presence on the other side of the partition, she refrained from bringing me to release. That was fine and I kept her card.

With female toplessness long banned in Bali, I will probably be asked at this point, why does the topic even matter? But it does seem to matter, in the copious iconography of the female breasts all around me, the framed photos of topless rural women placed in guesthouses and restaurants to conjure up an atmosphere, the plethora of nude paintings in the many souvenir shops and galleries, the lore and mystique of this past on display in bookshops, the voluptuous Hindu naked goddess sculptures scattered along the streets. It’s everywhere and it is nowhere, exiled to a nostalgia for a time that predates our en-masse arrival.

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Related:
Massage diary: Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam
Massaging the Yin-Yang in Pattaya
Japanese voyeur massage: Theories
The breast etiquette project

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