I'm like a treasure around here, a long lost pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow. I pass by the Hindu offerings of flowers, rice, coins that sit in store fronts, attach themselves to taxis, get smashed by the drunk revelers as the nightlife wears on, and think these might be for me -- not really. I am, in reality, just an American in Bali, post-2002. The bombs fell, and I still visit, alone, as a white, American woman on the shores of Bali.
So people wonder, then they ask questions, then they ask me to buy their services, then they beg and plead with me to pass on the word: Bali is lovely, warm, a place where Americans should feel at home. I'm telling you now -- Bali is nice. Bali is Hindu. How could you not love a people who want to give back to their deities everything life has offered them from water to an ability to study to their beloved rice?
But besides hints of this selflessness here and there, the spiritual Bali isn't what I've realized so far on the streets of Seminyak. In fact, I can imagine that day in 2002, and then again in 2004, when the bombs fell on Bali's premiere clubbing scene, its Miami, Las Vegas, Cancun. This is what I see. I can see the grand culture war that must be going on in Indonesia between the free-thinking, Western, "anything goes" contingent and those who are extreme and conservative. I see it melded into all shapes and forms, from women in full coverings riding their motor bikes through downtown Kuta to the barely dressed, tatooed women frequenting the bars. I see it in the group of French and Australian people I hung out with last night who are here to buy up real estate and sell it at a price that will give them a hardy commission. Their next conquest: untouched parts of Timor. They insist they will do it sensitively, with the community and not without them, as I looked to them skeptically. It seems they've almost done it here in Bali, only they haven't. No one makes enough money -- an average of $100/month -- and everyone will tell you about it. The government is corrupt and feeding their own pockets, while many Balinese sit on the beach penniless.
Can't there be something in between? I think there is. I found it today when I got a driver to high tail me out of Seminyak (pronounced without the last k) to a place a little north. A surfer's haven, the place provided a respite from the chaos. As soon as we left the traffic behind, we turned off the main road to a field filled with rice paddies, and upward to more green pastures dotted with men in cone shaped hats working the land. Despite the sense of serenity, I also noticed satellite dishes, and the frames of what seemed to be mega-mansions standing there and interrupting the sky. Turning on the last unpaved road to the beach, I finally found myself alone. I laid down, got a little sun, and waded into the crashing waves as they moved violently in between the jagged rocks. I felt like I had seen this beach before, maybe in South Africa. It was perfect.
I headed up to a small cafe, just above where I was laying down, ordered some papaya juice and continued reading my book about the story of one Ethiopian man's personal journey as an immigrant on the streets of Washington, D.C., and I finally felt very, very far away. The sound of Balinese men building a new, Hindu temple became my background music. My driver who calls himself Brown, pronounced "Bron," and the owner of the cafe, let me have 15 minutes of my soul-searching alone time and then they joined me. The questions started again: why was I here alone; wasn't I lonely; was I married. Ecetera. So I started questioning them. What did they believe as Hindus? And what were the rifts between the conservative Muslims and the Hindus. Bron insisted that the extremists are a small, fringe element in Indonesia. They are no good. He has no tolerance for intolerant Muslims, or intolerance in general. He said because he is Hindu, Muslims who he has driven around, won't even touch his hands. They throw their money at me, he said as he gracefully jetted an imaginary dollar bill into the air, so they don't have to touch me.
This must be the antithesis to how I feel on Bali. People want to know me, be near me, although it seems like they see tourists from other palces all the time. In fact, within five minutes of stepping onto the beach for the first time after my arrival, many women, maybe five, approached my chair and began offering me services of every kind -- manicures, pedicures, massages. I said to please leave me for now, maybe I could buy something tomorrow. Dear Kiki, can't you see I am so pale? I've been stuck on airplanes and then in between Jakarta's high rises for a week. I need the sun right now -- just me and the sun. Kiki said no, you don't, your skin is beautiful, white. I want white skin too. She began rubbing my skin against hers. This motion saddened me to the depths of my soul. Brown said the same thing today. He wanted to turn his shiny almond skin into snow, like mine.
So here I am all alone in Bali, traveling the world. But I dont think I'll ever really be alone. I'll always have my friends, or the people who want something from me, need something of me. Someone always will. It was clear when I was the only one eating dinner tonight on a huge veranda overlooking the sea that we Americans have abandoned little Ms. Bali. It is the Australians, the French, the Germans and the Japanese who keep this little island afloat. Yet the Balinese still want Americans back, or they want to go to America themselves, like my wanderlust waiter during my solo dining experience. He asked me all about the great, wonderful opportunity that is America, while a security guard with nothing to do overlooked the luminous hotel where I was dining -- alone.
Tomorrow, I leave the party scene and travel to Ubud to visit some temples, see some dance performances and talk to people about why I am an American in Bali. Join me.
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