I was driving the motorbike home late at night after an outdoor world music festival. As I realized the gas tank was empty I also discovered that all the gas stations were already closed. Usually there are many little shops selling fuel in recycled vodka or coconut oil bottles, but it was Sunday night, the sleepiest day in Bali, and even the little shops in the villages were shut. I knew that either I would make it home on fumes or I would find someone to help me. Along one darkened street was a tiny shop with its lights on and a few young men sitting around smoking cigarettes. I asked if they had any bensin (gasoline) and immediately I had all of their attention. They looked at my gas gauge, wanted to know where I live, were calculating how far I had to go. One young man in athletic gear asked me to follow him on the bike and ran down the road ahead of me. He politely walked into a darkened family compound and soon came back out with a woman who was carrying two bottles of bensin and a funnel. They filled up the tank and I was on my way.
It was late. It was dark. It was a group of men and I was a woman alone. I was safe, comfortable and assisted every step of the way. The exchanges were sweet. That is not unusual; it is the norm.
Another day. Asher, Sofia and I are on the motorbike chugging up the steep hill from the river on our way back home from school. A procession from our local village, Sibang Kaja, rounds the corner on their way to the temple beside the river. The procession is large and takes up the entire road. We pull over and stop, making way. All the villagers are in full ceremonial garb, carrying offerings and playing percussion instruments. As they pass I make eye contact with nearly every single person. Each one smiles brightly back at me. They can feel my appreciation of their devotional practice. Or they feel the commonality that we live in the same area and share the same road, a neighborly warmth. Yet the feeling is beyond friendly; it is connection, it is Bali Hati (Bali heart), it is love. This is not unusual; it is the norm.
My family and I are at a party. It is actually several days of celebration forming one big birthday bash. I have been commissioned to make raw cake for 50. An evening gathering at one house on a remote east Bali beach, with fresh coconuts and hibiscus coolers, rolls across the black volcanic sand to another house for dinner, gamelan and Balinese dancing, then to another house for western style shake your boody on the dance floor. Walking from one house to another we must cross through a property of large, antique Sumatran structures on stilts. They look familiar. I realize that during my online research of bamboo and indigenous construction I had come upon photos of these very Sumatran houses and they were my favorites. The caretaker invites us in to explore the houses. It is like walking into a dream; I had seen the photos on my computer, felt the desire to live in a rustic, elegant space like that, then shortly find myself right inside the photograph. The bed faces a dramatic view of Mt. Agung. The living space looks out to the ocean. A double jetted tub is in the living area with a view down the rocky shore. The next day’s party is at a palace. The last king of Karangasem (a region in east Bali) built a water palace with pools of fresh spring water. The party overlooks the pools and the palace. Traditional dancers move gracefully beside tiki torches. I present my cakes while a reggae band plays, led by Fantuzzi, a musician I seem to run into all over the world. Asher joins the horn section. Later fire dancers swing their flaming chains and batons. One of the fire dancers we know from Ashland, OR. These dreamlike synchronicities are, of course, the norm.
Sometimes in the morning I walk. The mornings have a freshness to them, before the sun heats up, before people have worked hard during the day, before afternoon burnings of rice stocks in the fields or trash beside the family compounds. A fresh effervescence emanates from each person I pass along my way. Each one communicates with me. A man on his motorbike taking his uniformed children to school. An elderly woman carrying sticks on her head. A man checking on his cow in the field. Most say, “pagi!” (morning). Some smile broadly. Others grin while they raise and lower their eyebrows in a uniquely Indonesian greeting. No one is self-absorbed, in their own bubble. We are all in this thing called life together, enjoying the moment. This is the norm.
I am riding my bike through the rice fields. Narrow motorbike trails cut through the farm land and over waterways, a maze of little paths. I ride through the mud past plots of flowers grown for ceremonial offerings, vegetables climbing bamboo stakes and expanses of rice like a vibrant green carpet. All I see is lush growing things and a blue sky hung with well shaped clouds. I encounter only a few humans, but each one greets me. When I turn the wrong way, heading for a dead end, someone calls across the fields to warn me and point out the right direction. They are looking out for me. This is the norm.
I have been riding my bike with increasing frequency. I notice something that mystifies and amazes me. I have an easier time pedaling up hills than I used to. Much easier. In the past I didn’t like hills. In fact, I really disliked them, even dreaded them. Now I kind of enjoy them. I can make it up the steepest, bumpiest, rocky, gravelly Bali roads with the enjoyment of a good burn in my legs and it doesn’t wipe me out at all. I feel an ease. I also notice a relaxation when riding down steep, bumpy, rocky, gravelly roads at speed. My fear is gone... well, not completely gone. Riding on muddy single track with a drop off on either side still has me on edge. I don’t have much experience with technical riding. What I notice is that the volume on my fear has turned way down. It’s surprising. And encouraging. I have let go of a large portion of fear about my body and dying and find myself flying up hills on my bike. What will happen when I release the rest of the load of fear I have carried around with me for far too long? I guess I’ll dance my way into a fortune of bliss. And that will be my norm.
