Zachary

One of the greatest things about Bali is that, at any given moment, nature threatens to overtake civilization. Walking down one of the windy, narrow streets--hardly large enough for two motorbikes, let alone a car--you get the impression that you are teetering on the edge of a balance that will, at any moment, collapse. I love Bali because there is no such thing as human-centric design; if anything, it is the opposite. You want to cross the street? Better wait for the pack of mangy dogs. You wanna take a shower? Better check if there is any water available. You wanna walk to the bathroom barefoot? Fuhgettaboutit. The cockroaches and scorpions were here long before you were, and you can be damn sure they'll be here long after you're gone.

On my second night at Slukat, and the first night that I didn't black out from sheer jetlagged exhaustion, I woke suddenly to what sounded like a gigantic bird being strangled in the rafters. My ceiling is more than 20 feet high, mind you, and the sound reverberated off the bamboo thatching in such a way that it managed to come from multiple directions at once--there was no way this was a bird, or even a small mammal. In my half-sleep stupor, I began picturing eagle-tiger hybrids with gigantic scales and bulging red eyes... essentially, a hippogriff. I thought a hippogriff was living in my roof.

Needless to say, when the Dutch volunteers came back from their weekend in Padang Bai, I told them about my new roommate... much to their delight. "Is not a behrd," they told me, "is gaycko." Beyond my newfound concern that 70% of Slukat students would be learning English with a heavy Dutch accent on TOP of their Indonesian one, ("AHYSCUZ ME SEEER, WULD YOUS LIKE TO GA TO DE BETCH??"), I was tickled to hear about my new friend. Geckos are so exotic. They have awesome, knobby toes, and are speckled with colorful spots, like they are always on their way to a tiny lizard disco. Plus, geckos eat the spiders... which in case you didn't guess, are the size of dinner plates. I was definitely pro-gecko.

That was until I found out that they poop from above. My roommate, Milla, has a nice canopy bed--but me, I'm completely exposed to the elements, right in the line of fire. As much as I appreciate our gecko, who I have since named Zachary, I do not appreciate having little treats parachuted down in the middle of the night. It's bad enough that on an average day, my room is swimming in fire-ants, buzzing with flies and wasps, and perpetually coated in a thin layer of goo that you know--you just know--is evidence of much nastier critters lurking just out of sight. The first night I felt things crawling and falling all over me, I shot out of bed, desperate for a solution... but soon realized that there isn't one. I can erase a line of ants with a wet towel, letting them bite me, but they will only be back 2 minutes later. One of the Dutch volunteers, a computer nerd, gave me some high-tech bug zapper that emits some weird frequency when plugged into the wall... an expensive gadget that actually had a negative success rate, seeing as the existing ants appeared to have called all their friends and relatives over to have a look at what happens when human beings spend money on silly toys. Since this failed experiment, my nighttime ritual has been boiled down to washing my face and feet (if the water happens to be on), slathering my body in herbal bug spray, and saying a little prayer that I wake up with all ten fingers and toes. (So far, so good.)

Living and sleeping here is an adventure. Close your eyes, and you can hear a thousand sounds... the nighttime cicadas; the sunrise roosters; the whir of broken fans; the buzz of motorbikes; the bark of stray dogs; the bad karaoke down the street (in the immortal words of Milla: "I'll say one thing about Indonesians...as shy as they are, when it comes to karaoke, they just fucking GO FOR IT"); the hush-hush of the tall grass and banana leaves. Take a deep breath, and there is the spice of Sambal mixed with warm fruit, incense, and the faintly-sweet, thick smoke of the brick makers baking clay during the wee hours, all cloaked in perpetual dampness. This place is an orgy for the senses... it's a bit overwhelming, if you ask me. Then again, I don't remember what 'clean' smells like, and I've all but lost my taste for most things 'sterile.' The clean laundry smells acidic, and the dish soap feels toxic... but then again, it might just be. When it comes to most purchases, the Balinese are a little loose on the whole "is-it-gonna-kill-me?" thing.

Might as well face it: it's a Zachary world, and we're just living in it. It's a good day when you don't feel a giant winged insect thwack into your forehead, or open the fridge to find tiny, freezing lizards scampering in the bread (both of which happened today, by the way.) There is so much more to say, so much more to describe--my first day in Ubud, the supermarket at Gianyar, my introductions to traditional Balinese dance AND traditional Balinese yoga--but seeing as this is the very first time I have managed to stay awake past 10:00, I'm not going to push my luck. You can guarantee that at some point during the night, I will be woken up by Zachary's incessant "NGEEEEK--CAW. NGEEEK-CAW," the tickle of ants crawling across my face, or a confused rooster heralding the 2 o'clock hour. There are chickens, ducks, and pregnant cats everywhere. My friend recently caught a rat eating her underwear. On an average pedestrian street in Keramas, the ratio of 'crazy, jungle-like weeds' to 'street' is about 6:1. Here, nature makes room for you--not the other way around. It's surprisingly comforting. I have a feeling that, by the end of this trip, I'm going to find a lot of peace in it... if I don't get eaten in my sleep first.