‘Do we just text 118 118?’
‘Where in the yellow pages would you even look for one?’
I tweet to see if anyone can help but Balinese priests don’t hang in the twitterverse apparently.
Richard, John and I are in the back of a van touring the back lanes of Bali. We’re talking priests because we need one urgently. Not for the last rites or anything. No one’s dying (well not unless you want to get all philosophical about it). And anyway, we’re not talking the Catholic kind of priest. We’re talking the Balinese kind. The kind that come in the dead of night and tell you whether your land is haunted.
We need to know whether the land we’re looking at buying is inhabited by evil spirits, the type that might make Lula’s head spin around 360 degrees or burn our house to the ground for larks. It’s called a Karma Inspeksi. It’s the equivalent of getting a survey done in the UK to check for subsidence. A priest comes along just like in the Exorcist and he tells you if there are evil spirits haunting the land who might cause subsidence, thus doing away with the need for an actual survey.
It’s like we’re in Challenge Anneka. We pull out our blackberries and laptops and start strategising. Who do we know that might know a priest? We email and call all our Balinese contacts. Eventually I get an email back – it says this:
I know priest. He has very clear sense and can heal people as well. He can do some predictions as well. He burnt his temples when he was grade 11 and was in jail because of it. He did not want to be a priest.
But now he returns to be priest.
Crazy young priest, by the way…
Needless to say, we’re parking that guy for the moment. Until we need someone who can commit arson. We found another priest. Turns out that when you start asking it’s like rent-a-priest around here. We got three in half an hour. Not even Anneka could have managed that one.
So tomorrow it’s all set. In the dead of night, John, Rich and I are meeting our chosen spiritual surveyor on the land for our Karma Inspeksi. I’m wondering if there will be chicken bones, slaughtered goats and a Ouija board involved.
I swear Quentin Tarantino couldn’t write this shit.