I was driving my 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. I am on my motorbike chugging up a steep hill from the river on my way
home. A procession from a local village rounds the corner on their way to the temple
beside the river. The procession is large and takes up the entire road. I 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 of us all living in the same area
and sharing the same road, a neighbourly 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.
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 bicycle 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 defined clouds. I encounter few people, but each one I see 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.