Ode to Bali
Disclaimor: this is a very long entry. I've been reminiscing a lot these last few days, and once I started writing, I couldn't stop.
All my life, I've travelled a lot. I did the European backpacking rite of passage several times, collapsed with near dysentery in India, hiked my way through Korea, lived in Japan for a couple of years and re-discovered my roots as it were, and I explored the incomparable nooks and crannies of New Zealand. But the trip that left the most lasting impression was my Indonesian adventure.
It was the first time I had travelled alone. I was twenty-six years old and had just finished my two-year stint of teaching English in Japan. I have a million stories from those 20 days in the summer of 1997 -- there was a startling encounter with a crotch-grabber, a snorkeling incident (I didn't know it was possible to be seasick underwater) and a moonlit romantic evening with an Indonesian man who bore a striking resemblance to Whoopi Goldberg. I even met a boy claiming to be a prince who picked me up in a sleek black jeep driven by what I can only assume to be his bodyguard. They took me to a native dance performance -- a circle of men surrounded a massive fire pit and bobbed up and down hollering "Ketchup". They were, in fact, saying "Kecak," which is a famous story-telling performance. I saw a cockfight, and wished I never had. Those poor roosters.
When I think of Bali, I think of Tony. It was the morning after I had survived a flight on an ancient commuter plane where my boxed lunch skittered across the aisle and back to me with terrifying frequency. I tried to open my plastic cup of water and spilled it all over the kind old man sitting next to me. Anyway. I was still a little shaken and was trying to calm my nerves in the soothing atmosphere of a museum in the village of Ubud. Red frangipani flowers floated in shallow bowls filled with water near each painting and there was that familiar hush you find in all museums. I wasn't really paying attention to the art; I was enjoying the air conditioning.
I stepped out and winced a little at the humid heat. Everything was lush and moist and touristy, complete with multi-lingual vendors beckoning me to "look! look!". But I didn't mind, it was still a beautiful place. I was contemplating going back into the museum to cool off some more when I saw a lean young man poised to run across the street. His backpack was unzipped and it was obvious that the contents would spill all over the muddy road. "STOP!!" I yelled, and started running. Running. Now, I'm the shy sort, and I normally don't go around yelling at and running towards strangers. It was a moment worthy of chick lit: the surprised man stopped mid-sprint and watched as I lunged at his backpack, zipped it up neatly and gasped, "Your backpack is open." I gazed up, and found myself staring at the most beautiful man.
"Hey thanks, man," he said.
His name was Tony and he was from New York. He had the requisite chiseled features and -- oh god, forgive me -- almond eyes. Chinese-American with a hint of Johnny Depp. Without missing a beat, he gestured toward a coffee shop and I found myself sitting across from him nursing an avocado shake, tongue-tied and nervous. He was on a mission to find a mask for his aunt, he told me. She was a fashion designer and needed ethnic masks for her next runway show. He quoted Aristotle. He pointed out that the mural on the wall looked Henry Rousseau-esque. He told witty jokes that caused me to spurt my avocado shake (not pretty). I swooned.
For the next 12 hours, we packed in some serious sight-seeing. Tony rented a couple of motorcycles manned by 10-year olds, and I clutched onto the boy operating my bike wondering what the hell I was doing. We cruised around and made our way to ancient Hindu temples and relics. He bought us tickets to a Gamelan performance and we both nodded off while pre-pubescent dancers made expressive gestures with their perfectly arched hands. We hitchhiked in a dilapidated van to the royal palace and bought too much fruit at the outdoor market. We got massages -- separately -- and while he enjoyed a bath of rose petals, I was shocked to learn that my fare involved a full-frontal massage by a miniature woman with the strength of a sumo wrestler. When we met up an hour later, he looked wonderfully refreshed; I looked ashamed and violated. I felt like I'd known Tony for years and all the locals kept asking how long we'd been married. Tony would smile and say nothing. I swooned some more.
Along the way, Tony captured the fancy of the owner of the single upscale boutique in Ubud. And so we partied with the boutique owner and all his gay friends (many of whom were ex-pat Australians) in a trendy bar decorated with tasteful bamboo shards. I had an avocado cocktail.
By this point I was convinced that we were meant to be together. "Oh!" he suddenly said, while slapping away the boutique owner's wandering hands. "Come with me," and pulled me out of the bar. Before I could ask what was going on, he hailed another pair of motorcycles and we sped back into town. My heart palpitated when I saw the jeweler's sign. I practically crushed the rib-cage of the 12-year old wheeling the motorbike.
A weary-looking man in the store recognized Tony and rushed out with a parcel. His English was broken, so I couldn't understand a word, but he handed Tony the parcel and smiled at me warmly. My heart was now pounding out of control and I held my breath. A jeweler! Had Tony stopped by while I was getting my torturous massage? I looked at him expectantly.
Gently, oh so gently, he unwrapped the filmy paper and presented to me the prettiest, most delicate, tiniest ring. So tiny, in fact, that it would not have fit my pinky. I exhaled.
"Isn't it great?" he enthused, "I designed it for my girlfriend..." My eyes glazed as he went on and on about how he couldn't decide between the jade and garnet and that it was meant as a surprise when she arrived in Ubud next week... Girlfriend. It would have been nice if he'd mentioned her in the twelve hours we'd just spent together. Then I thought about it. Not once had he deliberately touched me or given me any impression that he was interested. His behavior was impeccably platonic. The only strange part (other than not even hinting at the existence of this twiggy-like creature) was that he paid for everything. But that could have just been chivalry. I did, after all, accompany him all over Bali and not only that, I drank all those damn avocado drinks at his insistence. I even helped him pick out a mask for his aunt.
After he yakked for another hour explaining the rationale behind choosing matte silver and chunky beads for the bracelet, we decided to call it a night. I didn't ask for his contact information and he didn't ask for mine. We parted amicably and I think I saw a flicker of something in his face - doubt or guilt or maybe sadness. I suppose I could have been angry or upset, but really, I had just experienced the most incredible day of my life. It was -- for lack of a better comparison and forgive me again -- Before Sunrise in Bali. The funny things was, a few days later, I was propositioned. It came from the Whoopi Goldberg look-alike and is another long, long story...
