Swimming in Penestanan

I've moved to Penestanan to a great little place Luhde recommended. Killer bungalows; I negotiated a great long-term price and am well ensconced. Luhde and Wayan bring the kids by to go swimming. When I last saw Ayu at age 7 she was very shy - "malu" in Indonesian. Well, no daughter of gregarious Luhde was going to stay malu, and when I saw her yesterday she wanted to pose for the camera and give me a kiss. Little Agus is not so little anymore - he will be eight in November.

Ayu and Agus

Luhde

Wayan

Bali: On seeing 'Tut after three year absence

I've told 'Tut to come by the next morning. I've been traveling 27 hours, and I know I'll look it. I also know I'll just want to fall into a dreamless sleep as soon as I get to my room in Ubud. Wayan drives me to a hotel where I know I won't stay more than a few nights, and we go through the de rigeur price negotiation. I almost fall asleep in the middle of it. I end up with a room at the end of south Jesus Land, down and up and up and up so many steps. My knee hurts after so many hours on the plane, and these steps will do it no good. But it’s too late and I’m too tired to look elsewhere. I know I'm paying too much for the room because it's in the middle of Monkey Forest Rd.

Tomorrow I'll see Putuh to rent a motorbike and get the hell out of Dodge - I want to ride through the rice fields, past grandmothers in sarongs on their way to bathe, past temples and family compounds. I go into Ubud for entertainment or the occasional dinner. I can't stand living there even for a few days. But here I am at this smug, dingy hotel.

The next morning I'm sitting on the porch in front of my room reading a book about some journalist’s adventures in India when I see 'Tut mounting the steps, his lanky gait, his familiar laugh. He looks good. We hug and it feels right. He is as I remember. Years of talking on the phone. Why does it seem a week? Bali has always left me feeling a bit confused. And so has 'Tut.

Friends at the Bali Airport

I walk out of the airport, into the hot, wet, early evening darkness lit by the tall lamps of the Ngurah Rai parking lot. As I walk past the railing dividing me from those who are waiting for arrivals, only one taxi driver jumps up at me - he backs off quickly at my dismissive look. Usually five of them pull at me. Even they can tell it's different this time. I'm looking for Luhde and her husband Wayan. They are, I guess, my oldest friends in Bali. I spot Luhde, and we greet each other with smiles, squeals, hugs. She looks younger than ever; she looks fabulous. She cut her bangs and straightened her hair, she says, She wears light colored, trendy jeans and low, pointy, high-heeled shoes.

We look around for Wayan, who is looking for me in another spot. I've known Wayan forever, longer than I’ve known Luhde. Even though opposite sex friends really don't hug in Bali, we do anyway. Wayan knows all the skeletons in my closet, even more so than Luhde. Wayan looks the same. The kids aren't with them. When I see the kids, of course they won't remember me after three years. They will be bigger and more knowing; when I see them, the feeling I have of it having been only a few months since I've been away will be shown to be a lie.

Arrival in Bali after a few years away

I think of the many, many times I’ve made this same trip, over 20 certainly, waiting in a plane on a Ngurah Rai airstrip to begin my stay in Bali. Always before, as the plane landed, as it rolled to a stop, as I bounced impatiently on my toes waiting for the plane door to swing wide, as I ran down the airport corridor to get into the line at customs, as I picked up my luggage, declining the help of the ever-eager porters, as I changed a little money to have something in my pocket, as I careened my luggage cart outside, and as I scanned the crowd for my ride, I was so excited I could barely breathe, my heart pounding, ecstatic at the first whiff of the clove cigarettes that signaled I was in Bali.

This time wasn't like that. I'm not sure why. After 14 years going back and forth to Bali, two of those years living there and struggling with the sometimes unfathomable obstacles of doing business, and after seeing friends both in Bali and America struggle with their inter-cultural Western/Balinese relationships, maybe it’s because my last illusions are gone. But I prefer to think it’s because I have become so comfortable here it is a lot like home, warts and all – it’s lost the lure of the unexpected and the foreign. It's the longest I've ever been away... before it was never longer than six months, usually less. This time it has been 3 years. Maybe I'm just happier in the States than I used to be.

There was a time Bali pulled me as the earth does the moon. Now I find that irresistible pull to spend a great part of each year in Bali is gone. Before making this trip, I had even toyed with skipping Bali all together - going to a Mexican beach for relaxation, or India for excitement or Greece for both – I sigh when I remember the blue and white landscapes, the conviviality, the history, the sensuality of Greece. Yes, there was an appeal in going someplace other than Bali – a place where I am unknown, where I have no past, where there are no constantly prying eyes, no gossip about every move I make. I've become so indescribably bored with that... high school sophomore year all over again.

I have a friend with a more intense history with Bali than my own, who has also lost her rose-colored glasses. But we both agree we will always go back. “Once Bali becomes part of you, you have to check in every once in awhile,” she says. Usually the most important truths are quite simple – and she’s hit it exactly. I’m here not for excitement but to check in with people and places that have become part of me. And of course, I’m here for ‘Tut. After so many years, it’s time to move forward or move on.