Life on Mars

Remember that meal I talked about yesterday, the one with the Jersey Canadians? My pipe dreams of a cold Bitang and a plate of nasi goreng? Yeah. Never happened. Around 7:30 last night, after walking along a stretch of abandoned beach, we realized that not only do 2 restaurants exist in the general vicinity, but they all close at sundown. After bidding my new friends a good night, I was left to scour the local equivalent of a quickie mart (ramen, gum, mysterious looking chocolate beverages)... and quickly decided to take my chances back at Slukat. It wasn't long before I was out prowling the grounds with my headlamp, deciding which of the prickly, neon fruits would be least likely to poison me... and even went so far as to tear open a football-shaped green one before realizing that no matter how desperate my hunger, I would rather go to bed with my stomach growling than end up like the guy at the end of Into the Wild.

And when the symphony of roosters roused me at dawn, I woke with a vengeance. Suddenly, I was lonely and starving and desperate for home. My hair and skin were sticky. There was no one to talk to. There was an infestation of fire ants underneath my desk, and I was eating yet another Clif bar in place of a real meal. It's almost as though the honeymoon and anger phases of being abroad had been switched; I lay on my bed, sweaty and lonely, wondering why I'd ever decided to come so far from home. I understand now why everyone leaves Slukat on the weekends--it's beautiful, but its isolation is crazymaking.

Then, just as it always does, my discomfort lifted as quickly as it had settled. Two of the young students arrived at my door with buttery, grilled corn, fresh from the garden--and as we sat eating it, making pleasantly broken conversation about (what else) the Twilight franchise, two fanny-packed men walked down the driveway: Kelly and Sam. Kelly, it turns out, was the very first volunteer at Slukat and lived here for more than 5 years. After a quick conversation that revealed my recent lack of sustenance (not to mention social contact), the three of us took off for the beach.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven. A breeze blew off the water, I had a plate of fried noodles and a cold beer, and I had serendipitously stumbled upon the most knowledgeable tour guide this side of Ubud. Within minutes, Kelly began to talk about Bali--which, according to his opinion, is the "furthest you can get from American culture."

"You can't get to Mars," he said, "but this is the next best thing."

He briefed me on the simpler differences. For example, while some Americans expect to encounter anything from a rabid dog to an overalled, shotgun-bearing hillbilly each time they cut through private property, the Balinese have no problem with tresspassing. In fact, it's expected. On our way back to Slukat, we crossed through a rice field and made conversation with a woman laying brick from a Jenga-like pile of stones on her head. This image isn't an unusual one-- in fact, women have traditionally done most manual labor on the island. When the Hindus were herded to Bali, the men were expected to stay home and keep guard; as it were, the women were left to the fields.

He told me about the drug policy--which is not so much a policy as an ultimatum. For even the smallest amount of marijuana, one is imprisoned for an average of 12 years. (That sound you just heard is a collective shudder from every Santa Barbara high schooler, and most of SBCC as well.) The punishment for possession of hard drugs is, without exception, death by firing squad. The only loophole in this harsh and unforgiving policy is that of hallucinogenic mushrooms--which, according to Kelly, are served up legally on the majority of Kuta and Legian dinner menus.

In other news, while on Bali, one should never pay or greet with the left hand-- toilet paper is allegedly a Western phenomenon, meaning that--in its place--the left hand is employed to do the dirty business. While on a morning walk on the skinny road to Keramas, one may encounter people bathing and, erm, defecating in the canal water... often at the same time. It is not considered strange to do so.

My mind was blown. Kelly, Sam, and I walked along the glittering black sand for over two hours, sometimes stopping to take a picture or to watch groups of stone-gatherers collecting the little black rocks used to make pathways. When I asked what I should see in my spare time, Kelly advised me to experience the four main pillars of Bali: the 'real' Bali, Keramas and surrounding villages (where I bought my mango this afternoon); Kuta, Legian, and Seminyak, land of drunk Australians and luxury resorts (where the average age gets higher as you move up the coast); the mountains of the north; and Ubud, the arts colony where--from everything I've heard and read--all my wildest dreams are sure to come true. Divide those 4 goals by 5 weeks... well, I think it's certainly do-able. And I am forever indebted to Kelly for reinvigorating my faith in the natural ups and downs of travel, and in my ability to navigate it with confidence and reverence.

"I almost feel bad for you," he told me, as we sat looking over the ocean. "You've already discovered the best place on planet earth. The culture couldn't be more different than what you're used to, but the people are relaxed about it. They are accepting. No matter where you go after this, Venezuela or whatever, nothing will ever compare. You've found the most beautiful land on earth."

I have to say, as the sun sets on this 3rd day and my homesicky-jetlag is beginning to disappear (along with my stash of Clif bars), I'm beginning to think he's right. But what do I know? I'm just a dumb Canadian.