Welcome to Slukat!

With the 3:00 hour just rounding out my first 24 hours in Bali, I finally feel sane enough to sit down and reflect. A cool, lifesaving wind is blowing through the open door to my left--delivering the occasional butterfly or delicate blossom. Yes, I know I sound like a yoga magazine; and no, I don't feel like apologizing for it. The beauty of this place makes me realize why people read those magazines in the first place... only it isn't glossy, or exaggerated. It is raw, and that is the best part about it.

The final leg of traveling yesterday--though 1/3 of the first flight--managed to feel ten times longer, made worse by the fact that I had a socially awkward seat partner trying to chat me up the entire time. He didn't bring an ipod, either, so I had the distinct displeasure of feeling him watch Gilmore Girls over my shoulder for most of the flight. The landing into Bali was smooth and scenic--the runway extends out over the water, so it looked like we were descending straight into the sea. We taxied in past airport workers sitting in the shade, their arms draped lazily over one another, surrounded by bicycles scattered around the tarmac. I drifted off the plane and through the airport in a happy daze, all the way to baggage claim... where--reality check!-- 2 men, apparently fluent enough to read the "SLEEP-DEPRIVED AMERICAN" tattoo on my forehead, managed to rob me of $200,000 rupiah by carrying my bags through customs (without my consent) and then holding out their palms for cash. Disoriented, I reached for my cash belt and attempted to hand them the lowest bill I could find--but was told "the red one! the red one!" so many times that I folded like a pancake. I gave them each a red bill, and Scarlett O'Hara-ed all the way out of the airport... with God as my witness, I'll never be duped again! 

Outside the airport, 3 Slukat staff members met me with big grins and a sign with my name on it. We hopped in a van (and at this point, I was already drenched in sweat after being outside for 2 minutes) and proceeded to snail through the craziest traffic I have EVER seen--and that counts Anaheim on a promotional Disney weekend--all the way through Kuta and Legian. I was told that we were in the car for about 2 hours, but it felt like ten minutes; the road was packed with motorbikes weaving in and out of the cars--honking NOT out of rudeness, I am told, but as a way of saying "hey, I'm here!"--and the side of the road was scattered with technicolor snack stands, shops, hotels, and the occasional cow or chicken. It is common for people to walk up to your window while you are gridlocked in traffic and offer to sell you a bobble-headed cat. When the road finally cleared, we flew through the countryside and along the coast--endless palm trees and rice fields, speckled with snack stands and artisans, as far as the eye can see--and finally arrived at Slukat Learning Center, my new home, in Keramas. Before I even got out of the car, I could see girls practicing traditional Balinese dance in one of the outdoor classrooms... and when I got out, they all greeted me with big smiles. My tour of the property was a big blur of colors and smells--every room has seemingly limitless, intricately carved ceilings and a beautiful porch. My room is gorgeous--airy, big--but not cushy, and I love it that way. Everything is coated with a thin layer of grime, there are lizards crawling in the spaces between the brick walls, and the bathroom--oh, the bathroom--consists of a rock floor (as in, loose rocks), a semi-functional toilet, and a shower-head. There are also a lot of ferns. And did I mention? You can get wi-fi in the bathroom, but there is no ceiling. Or hot water. (Priorities).

After showing me my room, the girls plucked fresh orange coconuts and showed me to the traditional kitchen--where 2 toothless men, the gardener and the maintenance man, squatted and wove palm leaves together. We hacked the coconuts open and drank the strange, spicy--almost bubbly--juice, which was unlike anything I've ever had before. There are also papayas, mangos, jackfruit, and starfruit growing right outside my window.

After a man on a motorbike delivered a delicious dinner of spicy (read: SPICY, as in touch-your-eyes-and-lose-an-eyeball spicy) tofu, steamed vegetables, and rice, I took a freezing shower and stumbled into bed at the ripe old hour of 7:30. That put me bright-eyed and bushy tailed at--oh, 4:30 in the morning--which was just in time to watch the brick makers arriving to work next door, and to spend some quality time with Slukat's resident starving pet, a cat named Maya. After doing yoga and drinking the most disgustingly satisfying cup of Nescafé instant coffee, I wandered down to the beach--passing at least a dozen locals who yelled "hello, madam!" at me, soliciting a range of schizophrenic responses on my part, everything from a half-thumbs-up to a wave to a drugged-looking smile. In all cases, the locals proceeded to crack up and chatter as I walked away... and I don't speak Bahasa, but if I could take a guess, I reckon the rough translation would be "Look at that silly white girl. Didn't her parents teach her how to wave? 50,000 rupiah says she falls in the mangroves and gets eaten by a chicken."

The ocean is rough and wild, white-capped and loud, and the sand is jet black. I watched an old couple carry bags of rice on their heads as they made their way up the beach, passing just long enough for one of my (now signature) cracked-smiles, before hopping on their motorbike and buzzing up the road. It's hard to say what it is, but there's just something about them--the Balinese--that makes me instantly calm. They give off an air of kindness and ease. I have a lot to learn from them.

Even with their constant respect and graceful acceptance of my awkwardness, I found myself feeling lonely among the Balinese, and craving a fluent conversation... and, oddly, for the company of other Americans. That's right, I said it. No matter how many fat Texans have I've recently served fettuccine to, and no matter how many times I've wanted to yank the skateboard right out from underneath every Adidas-clad Santa Barbara teenager, I missed Americans. I think it came from shyness more than anything else; I wanted to be in the company of people who were louder and more obnoxious than I am, and Americans tend to fit the bill quite nicely.

It didn't take long at all. (Disclaimer: if you're reading this, C & B, I don't think you are obnoxious. In fact, I think you are both sweet and freakishly good-looking and deserve to have your very own television show.) Around noon, two "Canadians" came rolling in. Thinking they were actually Canadian, I began to scrounge my brain for Canadian talking-points--which, thankfully, I didn't have to use, because the conversation would have gone something like,"do you like maple syrup with your hockey? Margaret Atwood."--but within minutes of being alone, they told me the truth. They're from New Jersey. They've been using the Canadian alias as a safety precaution.

Immediately, I felt my stomach drop. Should I have done the same thing? Even though Bali is Hindu and incredibly peaceful, am I making a mistake by telling people that I am from the United States?

Something to think about. The news in Jakarta is bookmarked as my homepage, and I am keeping a low profile. For now, I'm going to join the Jersey Canadians for a meal... where perhaps we can work on our "what abooot it?" over cold Bitangs and Balinese sunset. If I do need to adopt a new identity, though, it's going to have to come later... because for now, my brain is so overloaded with fresh sights and smells and colors and life that I can hardly keep from bursting at the seams.