Quarter Year

I totally lost it. I jumped up and scared the dog away. Mike laughed and I shot him a look of death. “That happy dog licked you!” he said. “Shut up!” I yelled. I instantly rubbed Purell all over my arm. The skin was not broken from this offensive lick, but the rabies’ symptoms started immediately. I stared at the spot and of course it started to redden. It burned, some shooting pains radiated the area of the assault. It was all in my mind, of course. The Purell probably added to the problem, but I was convinced I had rabies.

We were staying on a sailboat in Koh Samui at the time and I was trying to keep my fears in check around our hosts. By the time we got off the sailboat a week later, I was living on borrowed time. I had read that there were only a few reported cases where somebody lived with rabies for more than a few days, a week tops, but I was obviously one of those freak cases and so I prepared for death.

Mike was so good to me and only made fun of me a little. We headed to Bangkok on an overnight train and for whatever reason I decided it was a good idea to read Tuesdays with Morey, a book about a man dealing with his eminent death. I could totally relate. I spent the entire night crying and planning for my death away from my loved ones. I called my mother and told her I had rabies and that I was probably going to die (not the first time I had called her with this claim, sorry Mom).

When we got to Bangkok, Mike took me to the hospital to get treated. I think he was relieved to put an end to my nonsense, but, I walked in to the office and straight-faced, asked about the chances that I had rabies. I explained the situation to the doctor and she just looked at me like I was an idiot.

Was the skin broken? No. Was the dog angry? No. She was confused.

She paused for a minute and leaned back in her chair, trying to figure out the best way to give me the bad news. “People aren’t stupid,” she said, “They aren’t going to let a rabid dog run around biting people. And, the dog clearly didn’t have rabies.”

Oh. Mike was vindicated. He had been trying to tell me this for weeks.

When we decided to come back to Southeast Asia, I was expecting more fear, but surprisingly I have changed. I didn’t get one booster vaccine and forgot to pick up my travelers diarrhea pills from the doctor before I left.

When I got diarrhea almost immediately after arriving and it didn’t stop until, well, it is ongoing actually, I realized this meant I can eat whatever I wanted. I obviously already have something, so even if I got something else, one thing will eat the other thing and I would deal with it when I got home. It actually opened up my options, like the tasty veggies that have been sitting out for days that carry a 100% chance of sickness, or the mystery street meat and chicken balls that taste good, but occasionally have a bit of something else in them.

On the day we left for Munduk, Mike noticed a large burn on his inner arm at the joint. He remembered rubbing it when he had lime juice on it and it stung even more. He was a little nervous and asked a few people what they thought it was. I thought it was probably from where he carried his helmet when he wasn’t wearing it, and he confirmed that it was in the right location for that.

We got to Munduk and I noticed that my arm now had a burn on it too. It didn’t look exactly the same, so I thought maybe mine was from where I had forgotten to put on sunscreen on the ride up to the mountains. I was convinced that that was my issue, completely separate from Mike’s.

Fred and Raini asked if we burned easily. They are both dark and I’m sure think of us as light weights because we are so pale, but no, I don’t burn like this. Not even when I work outside all day. So if it wasn’t a sunburn, what was it? The burns were in a weird shape and they were huge. Mine were streaks, they could have been liquid. Fred mentioned that brake fluid could take the paint off cars. Where had we gotten in contact with break fluid!?!?! What would happen to our arms?

For 2 days the burns got worse. They darkened and started swelling. This time Mike was the one getting nervous. We had no idea what it was, so we had to suspect everything. We were lucky that it was on our arms and not our faces. For this reason, we couldn’t trust any of our creams or ointments or any mixture. We were planning to go back to Ubud eventually, but realized that since we did not know what the culprit was, we couldn’t do anything that we had done before.

Mike started to question why we had come to a third world country. All of the horror stories that we had heard were rushing in to our thoughts. Could someone had thrown acid on us? Is this a disease we didn’t know about and hadn’t prepared for? Was this what leprosy looked like?

With no real answers, we were left to wait and worry. After about three days, it had stopped getting worse and peaked out as a series of dark red streaks for me and a large red patch for Mike.

On day 4 I put my hand on my wound and realized that it matched. It was a hand print, the darkest areas where the thumb and forefinger had sat for a moment, then 4 streaks for the 4 fingers that had touched my arm. Mike’s hand roughly fit as well, so we knew it had to be chemical, but which one. On day 6, mine started to blister and Mike’s had already begun to peel.

Even though it was healing, we still didn’t know what had caused it, which was the worst part. We went through all the events of the day in question. Mike kept going back to the lime. I remembered squeezing some lime into a coconut that morning, had it reacted with one of the lotions that I had put on to burn me? I remembered using lemon juice in my hair as a kid, trying to lighten it. We started thinking that if it could bleach hair, would it have a similar effect on skin? We went to the internet with this and Googled, “lime burn sun” and it popped up with an answer we were satisfied with. Apparently it is common, the easy term is Margarita Burn. Apparently, when lime sits on your skin while you are in the sun it intensifies the burn. I probably had second or third degree burns from this. I was only in the sun for an hour without lotion and it was filtered mostly.

That fucking lime burned my skin!

We breathed a sigh of relief and laughed at all of the things that had gone through our heads, but the thoughts are unavoidable. When you are in a new place with so much time to think, you think the worst.

This morning, Raini woke up with some blisters on her lips. They look like burns, which make sense because she remembers sitting in the sun (after eating lime!) and thinking her lips would burn. Even though she remembers the thoughts, she is still freaking out a little. It doesn’t look that bad to us, you can barely tell, but for her, it it all consuming. She didn’t even come down to breakfast because it was so “bad”. It really is nothing, the rest of us can see that there is nothing that she can do except wait for her lips to heal. It won’t happen again if she wears protection, but she’s already made an appointment with the doctor.

The first is universal: young men, 14-20 years old. A young man (and especially a group of young men) is more likely to make fun of us than to smile, wave or say hello. This is the way it is all over the world, but Bali seems to have its young men in check pretty well with its very rigid expectations regarding social inclusion. As annoying as they might be to us, they don’t seem destructive, and there are plenty of really nice young men.

The other group is surprising: old women, over 60. Ninety percent of the time an old woman will not only refuse to smile at us, but will look away in disgust. I have no idea whether it’s because we’re white, I’m male or because I’m a white male, or if it’s something else from their own lives that is causing some bitterness, but they’re just cold toward us most of the time.

Everyone else – kids, young women, middle-aged men & women, and old men – is enthusiastic to see us driving down the road or stopping in at their shop.

We’re loving riding through the smaller villages in the mountains which seem to never get Western visitors. They smell like burn piles and fruit, the kids are usually running around barefoot, the people are relaxing in the shade or working on small projects in their courtyard. Even the poorest people here seems to have land that supports rice paddies or fruit trees. There’s no lack of food here, which I imagine could actually keep a place from developing since there’s no benefit to locking it up and forcing others to pay for it.

Before sunrise the next morning we arrive at the beautiful lake – it supports some primitive docks and a few simple shelters on stilts about a hundred yards out, serving what purpose we’re not sure. Even at dawn a fisherman was returning, quietly beaching his dugout on the flat, grassy shore and carrying his catch home to the village.

The mysterious structures in the lake

We took pictures as the sun rose over an eastern ridge and sprayed soft light, through clouds, onto the bamboo docks. We tried to catch the docks as silhouettes. We tried to capture a ground mist as it drifted over the shore where the lake’s edge blurred with grasses. We tried to capture ghostly fishing nets that hung on posts to stay dry overnight.

Eventually, as the town awoke, we tried to capture a man and his two young sons going out to fish in a double-hulled dugout, the younger one so small that his brother had to carry him piggyback through a foot of water to the boat. Dad used his oar to push them through the grasses, then he paddled the boys just 20 yards offshore to where they would fish.

Men began to trickle out of the village after this – a man with his son, a young boy by himself, an older man alone. All were heading out onto the water to catch their food.

The dock

I found out this village is called Limpah and it’s associated with the small mountain hamlet of Munduk, where we were staying. I asked a guy we met if the lives of people in Limpah were different than the lives of people in Munduk and he didn’t really understand the question at first, then said, “no.” I suppose it was a weird question to ask in the first place, I’m not sure what kind of answer I expected.

The town

Sorry to bring this up in a travel email, but I have to share it:

That night I watched a documentary about fishing in Senegal. I’ll spare you most details, but there was one sequence that changed my understanding of our relationship with the third world. Because European waters are over-fished, European vessels now fish in West Africa. In Senegal, a fisherman can no longer earn a living because a European vessel is depleting the fish stocks. To support his family, the man is forced to immigrate to Milan, Italy. The documentary finds him working a factory’s midnight shift. He says, “Of course I’d rather be home fishing with my sons. But there’s no fish left, so I have to come to Europe to earn money to send home.” In a nearby market, restaurants buy fish from Senegal. I imagine an Italian couple ordering the fish and complaining about the surging population of Senegalese immigrants.

First world consumers are buying away the primary source of protein for areas of the third world because it tastes good. Literally starving people.

(A picture says a thousand words: Click here.)

Back here in Bali, we ask a lady if it’s ok to swim in a waterfall and she says, “No.”
“Is it dirty?”
“No, it’s too cold.” Azure and I laugh at this a little, as the cold water would be fine for us. Remembering the perfect little village in the mountains, Azure asks if we can swim in the lakes.
“No,” she says. “It’s dirty.” She explains that the nearby vegetable farms’ runoff includes chemical fertilizer and pesticides.
“But people eat fish from the lake?” I ask.
“Yes.”

So that’s the situation. I look at the Senegalese man and that photo essay and wonder how I could justify eating fish. Then I hear about vegetable farms poisoning lakes and fish (and the toxins they’re putting directly on the food) and wonder whether I could even justify being a vegetarian in Indonesia.

Anybody can tell you how much I love tuna sandwiches, but there still seems to be no politically responsible option other than local, organic, vegetarian.

The temple that punctuates the town.

There are a lot of holy trees wrapped in the checkered sarongs, a lot of religious sites established at the site of large trees, and a lot of shrines placed inside the tangled roots of banyans.

Related post: Recoleta Cemetery

I started looking into how to find him and what times were best for him –I had been waking up around 6am and didn’t want to barge in when the man was still sleeping. I wasn’t finding answers to those questions, but I was finding a lot of people saying, “make sure you have time to wait in line for hours,” “he says the same thing to everyone,” “he will say that you will live to be 104 years old and to not drive so fast.“ Maybe I didn’t want to go.

But, what could I expect? The book had been a bestseller! And not only that, its target audience was the masses of middle aged women who were looking for the same (re)discovery of who they were and what they were doing in this world. Looking for validation and liberation, a number of them would surely find their way to his doorstep. It was my mother who first slid the book my way and after turning my nose up at her, I probably made some snotty remark and slid the book back. Within weeks, the book was everywhere and everyone seemed to love it. Eventually, I would find myself with a lot of free time and a free copy and I read it. I flew through the first part. Eating, hanging out in Rome, speaking Italian, what’s not to love. I dredged though the prayer and when I finally finished the love, I thought, why couldn’t she just talk about eating the whole time?!? It was a cute book. Ketut was a memorable character and when I mentioned in passing that we were in his town, my mother said, well why wouldn’t you go see him, you are right there. Good point.

I was still on the fence, leaning towards not going when Fred and Raini arrived. Raini had her copy of Eat Pray Love with her. She was reading it for the third time and when we asked if she wanted to go see Ketut, she was shocked and excited to find that he lived in Ubud. Her excitement was contagious and I soon realized that I would probably go.

The boys didn’t want to go, so the two of us mounted the scooter around 7am and wobbled south to see Ketut. He lives in a small suburb of Ubud, less than 5km away from where we were staying. We stopped once to ask where he was and the group of Indonesian men who were at first confused about what I was trying to ask, finally burst out laughing when they realized we were looking for Ketut. I couldn’t help but laugh too when I looked over at my traveling partner and realized that this officially makes me middle aged.

We easily found his place when we saw the signs and parked the scooter in front of his house. As is the traditional Balinese style, families live together around a shared open air courtyard or series of courtyards. Most compounds have a small entrance and then open up a little to reveal a scattering of separate buildings. There was no one milling around, so we awkwardly walked around inside their home. I was extremely self conscious that we were too early and would disturb them with our western “now” mentality. I was planning to wait, not because there were droves of people but because we had caught a glimpse of Ketut in the bathroom, most likely getting ready for the day.

Raini was more bold than I was and went up and asked a lady at the very back of the courtyard where we should go. She was nice and smiled and pointed us in the right direction back towards the main entrance. When Ketut materialized, he was very kind. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I had figured that after thousand upon thousands of white women coming through his home, he would not be as welcoming, but he was. He quietly led us to the porch of his room and we took off our shoes and sat down.

His energy was calm and patient and he slowly apologized for his English not being very good. We reassured him emphatically that it was great. We could understand every word. Well, most words. He talked about the book and showed his copy. He could not read it of course, but pointed out the places that he was mentioned and Raini pulled out her copy. He asked her to read aloud the part where he is described and asked her what some of the words meant and who is this Yoda that he is compared to? Raini tried to explain in words that he would understand and as they talked about the book and she read aloud, I scooted away and sat on the edge of the porch. I had realized before we even had sat down that this time was not about me and it gave me the freedom to listen and observe.

He explained that he sees the good and the bad and he has a duty to say what he sees. He said if he was “joking” (which I took it to mean lying) with someone about their reading, he would go to hell. Obviously I will never know if this is true of not, but I fully believe that he believed it and so I felt with confidence that he would do the best he could to accurately read each and every person.

He started Raini’s palm reading by saying that he was so happy to be meeting her, which she got a kick out of (it is what he says in the book). He said she was a good person, very good, like a queen. She glowed as he talked to her. He asked her if she had been married before and she said yes, but was no longer married. Raini had married her college boyfriend, who she still holds in high regard, but despite their close relationship, the marriage didn’t work. Ketut smiled and said that many women come from America that are divorced. He explained that in Bali, you cannot divorce very easily. Maybe not at all, but it wasn’t clear. He said that if you no longer want to be married, you simply move in to separate areas of the compound, but still live together.

I thought about what Ketut must think about all of this. He is an old man, he told us 95, but I don’t know if that’s accurate. Within the last 5 years he has seen all of these women coming through, divorced, wanting to know when they will get married again. After spending 90 years in Bali, seeing the local farmer about his rice crops or the woman in town wondering if her children would live long enough to have their own children, what must he think of all these aliens landing on his porch with these problems he has never heard of before. There is no doubt he is a simple man and where I would imagine anyone else to become extremely frustrated by the number of people at his door, his voice reveals only reassurance, albeit with a bit of confusion.

He had seen the faint line of her first marriage and assured her that there was a second line, much stronger. I don’t think Raini really cared about this. I don’t believe her purpose for going to see Ketut had to do with wanting to find another man. She seems to know her own strengths and weaknesses in a way that one could only label her confident. She does not seem to be seeking the approval of others in her kindness and laughter and so I believed Ketut every time he would tell her how happy he was to meet her.

As I predicted, but hoped not to pass, he told her she would live to be 100, that she would be rich very soon, that she should not drive so fast. He went on and on with the phrases that I had seen written all over the internet. This troubled me. Not because he was being generic, but because I couldn’t understand how he was being 100% truthful, which, after studying him, I found him to be, while still making the same claims to everyone.

As he apologized for the fifth time about not speaking good English, I wondered if perhaps his limited vocabulary was partially to blame. I remember reading that you cannot have a thought without the language to describe it. Perhaps in his case, he could have the thought, but not the English language to describe it and so, very simplified, he said the same things. Another thing that struck me, as he told her that she was going to live to be 100 years old, (“not soo long” he said, “but long,”) was that if what Elizabeth Gilbert writes is true and that he does not know the year of his birth or his age, perhaps he has never looked at time the way that we do. When he says 100 years, it is some number in the future that is not close to now. Not that he knows the exact amount of years, seeing as those things seem very unimportant to him, but so long that he does not know. We have time. For him, he claimed that he would die in five years, but he hoped longer.

The time passed and he was slow and patient. He would repeat himself sometimes or ask the same questions over and over, perhaps signs of his many years. And the reading went on with so much hope and so many smiles. I doubt he could ever get tired of people’s bright expressions when he tells them they are beautiful, they will be beautiful until the end, they are smart, they can be successful at whatever they want, they will be rich, they will be happy.

It had been well over an hour since we had first taken our seats on his porch and the sun was now over the horizon and casting the long morning shadows in the courtyard. He spent so much time talking and laughing and on some occasions, he would reveal a story about himself. After the laughter died down from telling Raini that she needs to rest when she has sex three times in one night, as not to be too tired and produce a tired baby, he told us about his old tired baby. The doctor had told Ketut that he was stupid for having made a tired baby and the baby died 10 days after birth. Raini said she was very very sorry about his baby and I could tell she felt really sad about it. Ketut on the other hand, had already grieved because he did not express any major sadness about it and instead went on by saying that he had adopted his brother’s child. He seemed to feel that life happens.

When her reading was done they turned to me, and Ketut asked if I wanted my palm read too. At first I hesitated for a second and then I don’t know if it was on accident, but he said “you want your palm read.” I did. I can’t really say why. I had been hesitant to do so because of the magic of Raini’s reading. If I were to get mine read and it was exactly the same, we would know for sure that it was generic and she hadn‘t read the stuff online about him saying the same things. I could have walked away and we would have never known, but there is a cynic in me that I can’t beat down. I have to know, even if it is not the answer that I wanted to hear, so I said yes, I wanted a reading.

I climbed back up on the porch and sat in front of Ketut. My heart sank when he started to talk about marriage. I knew he had been conditioned by the many before me to start with what mattered to them. I didn’t want to talk to him about marriage. It isn’t something that I have issue with. I was hoping (I suspected in vain) that he would give me the less flowery version. I wanted the bad, not the good, but it didn’t happen. He was happy to meet me too. In fact I was all the things that Raini was and I was really just hoping he would stop talking. I wanted her to have her reading be special and I wished I had never said yes.

He would pause from time to time and I would use those seconds to think quickly, my mind raced to come up with some logical conclusion to why this was happening. I was nervous and giggled and from the photos I can see that I had my skeptical face on. I was never skeptical of him, though, I knew that he was telling the truth. It wasn’t until he told me I would be rich that I had my answer. He said, “You will be rich very soon,” just the same as he said to Raini. At that moment he paused and rephrased, “are you already rich?” he asked.

“Nnnn,,” I said before stopping. I was sitting on the porch of some guy who lived all the way around the world from me. I was on a 2 month “vacation” from my life. Of course I’m rich. “Yes, I am already rich,” I said. He smiled at me.

The thing I hadn’t considered is that all the people who travel many thousands of miles to see him have some things in common. We are rich, we are lucky, we have choices and the means to achieve what we want and we are smart and resourceful. We can fly from far and wide to see this man, but we can’t fly our standards and expectations into his mind. I don’t think he really has a strong idea of what America is like and I don’t think he cares to. He told us that someone had offered to fly him to the USA, but he had declined, worrying that they would just leave him there. The image was not appealing to him.

I relaxed after that. I listen to what he was saying. I looked into his eyes. Our readings were very alike and that was fine, but there were some things that were different. Raini was like a queen, I was like his great-granddaughter. She should keep writing and she will be published, I will be fine in whatever country I wish to live. He did not tell me I could have a tired baby. I had good and bad in me, Raini had very much good.

It went on not nearly as long as hers, which was alright by me. He checked my knees and my back, as he does with everyone. He checked my fingers for my internal organs and was still holding my hand when he looked up and into my eyes. He just looked at me for about five seconds. He shifted his head to the side just so slightly that I noticed, but not enough to be called a movement. I could tell that he was thinking very hard and there was a bit of urgency in his expression. He smiled, not so much like he usually did when you could see his whole mouth, but it was as if his face smiled just a little and he said “I see you very well.”
“You do?” I asked, a little startled by this simple sentence.
“Very well,” he said. I smiled.

He didn’t explain anything else. He never said what he saw and I never asked him to elaborate. We finished and he showed us his book of all the people who had come. Most of the comments were in English, people writing I love you or leaving kisses or hearts, some drew pictures. He didn’t know what any of it meant and he asked us to explain the xoxos and lip prints, but he knew that he had seen all of the people. And I knew that he had SEEN all of them.

In a lifetime I think I will be lucky if one person sees me. Not just what I do, but who I am — the motivations, the fears, the intentions. Understanding people and having them understand you is the one thing that keeps me from complete isolation. But, much of the time I do feel alone, not horribly so, but enough to keep pursuing those connections with those I love. I don’t believe many people have the power to see anyone like Ketut does. It is a superpower that I wish I had.

I don’t deny that many times I am cynical and skeptical. I was with Ketut and the whole time I wished I hadn‘t been. I now see the pure perfection in the way it all turned out. The book was written, the people started coming, he holds their hands, he looks into their eyes. All of these people make the journey to see him for one reason or another and for those who need him the most, he is able to say with all certainty that he can see them. When he saw me and he smiled, he was telling me that who I am is okay. I will take away from this that a person’s power does not rest solely in what they say, but how they make you feel. Ketut may not have said the right things, but he makes you feel like you are special and no matter who you are, you can’t deny how good it feels to be seen.

The first tree – the one that seems the tallest – is in a small fenced area that might be used for farming, it’s hard to tell. This tree is fuller than the other, it looks solid from afar. The road then drops down a hill, at the foot of which the second tree stands. It is much higher than the first, considering the hill. The tree is decorated with a piece of checkered fabric wrapped around its smooth, white trunk, as is the fashion for large trees. The sarong seems to be worn as it would on a man: waist level, for modesty. The tree is strong and proud. It is dizzying from beneath.

Another 50 feet down the road is a volleyball court made of packed dirt. When we drove by there was a small crowd of men watching a match between two pretty impressive teams. The crowd was more interested in the two of us, though, as we parked the scooter to do a little scouting. Other than Azure, there were no women anywhere beneath the trees tonight – just men and boys. We tried to exchange some words with the men but my volleyball vocabulary isn’t very thorough. So we just watched.

Past the court, to the ocean, the sand dunes rise. We followed a couple boys up the dunes and when they reached the ridge they threw off their shirts and sprinted down the steep slope. We crested the hill to a beautiful sight – sunset on an almost-empty coastline with the ocean spraying onto the black beach. The boys who ran down the beach went to join a sand fight consuming 20 boys. They crashed in and out of the waves, throwing sand at each other, jumping on one another. They were 20 brown bodies on black sand playing in the waves. The high beach giving them privacy with the ocean. Often, traveling, I can imagine I’m witnessing something from another time, but hardly any imagination was necessary tonight.

Smile! It’s Ganesh!

In France every little detail is considered. Bali doesn’t feel so different – they consider details in places you’re surprised anyone would think to look, like the middle of a banyan tree or the corner of a rice paddy by the jungle. But unlike France, Bali is a society that lives externally in a climate that devours its biodegradable matter. The result is a place that feels alive independent of its people, as much as any place I’ve been. The efforts of religious people to decorate their land has compounded over the years to create a landscape that is waiting for the wanderer.

More Indonesian scarecrows. Expect dozens more pictures!

It was a Sunday evening and hundreds of Bali’s youth congregated for soccer, body surfing and picnicking. We didn’t swim in the dangerous water off the nasty beach.

Nasty and dangerous!

We ran smack into some cute youngsters who wanted their photos taken, so Azure obliged with some beautiful shots of the smiling kids. We’re being gawked at not unlike how Westerners gawk at the long-necked tribal people when they go on tours of northern Thailand. The funny thing is that we don’t mind at all! Dads will point us out to their young kids, and instead of feeling objectified, I feel like it’s a gift that we can make kids smile just by being ourselves. Even the adults are eager to say “Hello! Where you going?”

They put the baskets on their heads and duck underwater using a smaller basket to scoop sand from the riverbed.

When the basket was full they walked up the riverbank and asked us for money to take their picture. I gave them $2 and told them to split it among the 4 of them, but they insisted the price was $2 per person. It’s always fun when something like this turns into a barter. You know you’re really getting below the surface and touching people’s hearts.

But, as was the plan, we decided to get out of Kuta the next morning and head north via minibus to Ubud, another rather touristy hill town perhaps made even more popular by the 2006 novel, “Eat Pray Love” and subsequently Anthony Bourdain. Having arrived, again, in the heat of the day, we decided our best option as non-acclimated, sweaty white people was to wake up at dawn and do our sightseeing.

For some reason (jetlag), we’ll call it ambition, it was quite easy to get on the scooter by 6. We rode out to a whole different Ubud. There were people out in the streets, going to market, getting the kids off to school, but no one was asking if we wanted a taxi or a tour or some handicrafts, people were going about with their morning routine. Another great part was that it was cool — so much so that I considered putting on a jacket!

Armed with only our cameras, water and a map of the island with about the same detail as if I were to sit down and draw western Washington freehand, we began our climb north into the hills. We never had a real plan, but we picked a town and began our trek, stopping every half hour to make sure we were still on the right path. It was a beautiful morning for a ride. The sun was low enough that it filtered through the hills and the trees and made everything so surreal. Mike insisted that I pull out the new camera and take some photos from the back of the scooter, which I am now so thankful for.

When we finally got to our arbitrary destination, a town called Kintamani, it turned out to be a city on the ridge of a small mountain which overlooked the valley and another, strikingly large mountain.

After stopping to snap a few more photos, we decided to continue north and attempt to make it to the ocean since it was only 8am at that time. We set our sights on what we thought would be an equally easy place to find, as it was due north of where we were. In fact, it was not easy and seeing as the roads are not marked at all, we got lost. We were continually prodded forward by smiling locals until we found ourselves on what seemed to be a small, ill-maintained driveway for several miles. That, along with it being extremely steeply graded, we considered turning back. But, having nothing to really get back to, we decided to keep going. At some points we could look out to other hills in the distance and see no signs of human existence. At one such remote location, we came across a woman tending to some crops on a steep hillside and as we drove past we found that she was alone in all directions for at least 2 miles.

“Crashing, it’s THE number one risk,” he said. “That’s factual.”

Everyone looked at this guy cockeyed trying to read if he was for real, meanwhile the instructor paused for an extraordinarily long time, perhaps taken by a chilling vision of the weekend to come. I was busy imagining what the guy thought lesser risks may be: currency devaluation, teen pregnancy or a housefire? All seem like risks, if you think big enough.

My list differed from the standard “SUVs and potholes” as well. Mine were: chickens darting into the road, rabid dogs going for your leg, hot grills crowding the street and child drivers. The instructor paused an extraordinarily long time, perhaps taken by a lovely vision of riding in Asia. The other students looked on in awe.

Yesterday, in Bali, we finally hit the road, and I was well-prepared for motorcycle safety in the third world. We rode through parts of Indonesia that reminded me of India – dirty markets, hectic streets and people dressed in drab clothes. Then we got to parts that were so remote that they didn’t remind me of anything I’ve seen before – we drove through tribal areas high on the hills where people still lived in thatched-roof huts and didn’t speak Indonesian (they spoke Balinese). Throughout the trip we had to avoid chickens, dogs, grills and child drivers.

If you’ve never encountered school children in the third world then you’re missing out. Dressed in government-issued uniforms, these kids went NUTS when they saw two white people coming down the road. They would scream “HELLO! HELLO!” and wave like miniature flight attendants on speed. Drive between two schools and you’re in a parade, waving to both sides and truly touched by the outpouring of love from the community. Azure and I screamed “HELLO! HELLO!” until we passed through, leaving the kids jacked up and incredulous: “Did you see those fucking white people!? That was awesome!” I turn to Azure on the bike, “Did you see how fucking cute those kids were!? That was awesome!” It’s genuinely exciting every time, the social version of bubble tea.

Another thrilling circumstance arose when we took a short cut and ended up lost on absolutely ruined roads, but we pulled smack into the middle of a Hindu town’s scooter-mounted holiday procession to a monkey forest. They were dressed in beautiful formal Hindu sarongs, button up shirts and head scarves. Some of the men had nice sandals and the women looked stunning. We figured out that they were headed the same direction, so we just continued among them, Az snapping photos from the back of the scooter. We chatted with a very nice young couple on the neighboring scooter as we pulled up behind a truck loaded with revelers standing in the bed and waving, “Hello!” And we smiled & waved back. The instructor wouldn’t have liked any of this.

When the group finally turned off toward the monkey forest, Azure and I were left quietly heading toward Ubud, eight-and-a-half hours into the day’s ride. Exhausted and sore-butted, we overshot the turn to Ubud by seven kilometers. At that point I doubted we would make it back to our hotel. But we did, eventually, and collapsed into bed to sleep at 8:30.

Sandal envy