writing for self-discovery

My love for this island hasn’t wavered. I’ve written poems and posts praising her wondrous landscapes and warm-hearted people. My taste buds have acclimated to chilies and fish sauce. I can’t imagine going back to canned-soup casseroles after thriving on fresh-off-the-tree dragon fruit, papaya, mango, and the magnificent red banana.

Here’s what I wrote in June, 2013, a word-picture of the old Bali that put all her eggs in the tourist basket. And the last verse, the Bali now, is a much different scene. As you read it, the word Bule means foreigner and is pronounced Boo-lay, accent on Boo.

Bali Beats

• Kuta Beach, braid your hair?
• Won’t take long…buy sarong?
• Maybe two…good price…
• Kuta Cowboy nice, you want
• Mushroom? Weed? Speed?
• What you need, Bule?
• Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
• Gamelan in the streets, cremation tower
• Dodging power lines, three times
• Black bull circles
• Dizzy spirits flee
• Can you see it, Bule?
• Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
• Kecak chorus, chant, trance
• Women dancing
• Golden deer and Hanoman
• In the night by firelight,
• Are you frightened, Bule?
• Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
• Rubbish smoking
• Choking when you breathe it in…
• The din of tourist bus
• Clogs narrow streets
• Defeats the purpose, Bule…
• Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
• Trash in ocean, river, piling up
• While Bali smiling for you, Bule…
• Taxi, yes? Today? Tomorrow, maybe…
• Where you stay?
• What you pay, Bule?
• Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali bleeds…
• Covid came and Bule fled
• Business dead, no smiles here
• Just fear, uncertainty
• And empty streets
• So quiet I can hear
• The beats…of Bali’s…heart

The situation is bleak, and it’s a stern wake-up call. An economy based almost solely on tourism is fragile indeed. But the Balinese are resilient and creative. They will adapt. Many have already gone back to resurrect their paddies and vegetable gardens. But those who no longer have land, those taxi drivers, hotel staff, and restaurant owners who depended upon a steady stream of tourism for survival, are suffering.

I’m a Bule who is still here, and while I grieve for my Balinese friends, I also watch wildlife return. Birds and butterflies I haven’t seen for years twitter and flutter about the garden. Fumes from the exhaust of too many cars, buses, and motorbikes, jammed in gridlock, have faded away. The air sparkles clear.

They say it’s like Bali twenty years ago…before the Bule stole her heart.