Old People On Bike

The first thing I noticed upon landing in Bali was the air was fragrant and there are no tall buildings. The second thing was the many motorbikes and scooters darting around, in and out of traffic, driven by young people, old people, but mostly young women. I love that. But traffic here is chaotic and noisy. I thought unkindly that first day, it must be the Hindu influence.

But I could be excused from having this thought because the third thing I noticed were the many Hindu god icons parked everywhere. The little statues creep me out with their painted eyeliners and white eyeballs. They leer at you from every corner, unexpected nooks, and pop up in the middle of a flower bed. The large statues glare down from high above traffic. They have wild, facial expressions, with wild, exaggerated, impossible body movements. They look more like a frozen frame from an action flick than statues.

In Bali, rituals are part of everyday life. On our walk along the ocean front, we came upon a ceremony for a three-month old baby. Every morning and evening, little trays of folded banana leaves that contain flowers and incense are offered to the gods for protection. They are everywhere - on steps, on lawns, under trees, in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of an entrance, on a shrine, beside a fire hydrant. I see the offerings made usually by a women carrying a bamboo tray of offerings. She walks around the various spots of her property, puts a dish in place, and lights the incense. A simple act, as if she's walking around lighting the candle at designated spots.

After a day of bed rest yesterday (I had a minor bout of food poisoning), The Man decided to join the young and fold into the Balinese culture. He rented a motor scooter. With my helmet and sore stomach, I mounted in the seat behind him. As soon as we left the hotel, The Man veered the bike in front of an oncoming taxi. Good thing the roads are so narrow that cars move slowly. The driver seemed surprised to see us on a motor bike. Maybe we had been one of his fares. He gave us a warm smile and waited for The Man to adjust the bike and get in the right lane.

No more near-death incidents after that. We drove into the main road and merged with traffic and noise. Sometimes we sped up, sometimes we swung out to pass a parked car, sometimes cars and bikes passed us. Most of the time, I tried to stifle my screams and anticipate speed bumps that further jostled my already sore stomach. I admit when we were alone on a stretch of road and The Man picked up speed, it was exhilarating.

At 6:30 pm, late for our dinner reservation, armed with purchases, and soaked in sweat, we rolled into the parking lot of La Lucciola to eat and watch the sun set. The guards at the restaurant watched us dismount, trying not to fall into the canal fronting the restaurant, and warmly waved us into the restaurant.

That ride must have wakened my senses. I noticed that many of the Balinese young men are beautiful. They have warm, warm smiles and are so gracious. I love that at the restaurant, the waiters tuck flowers behind their ears. So normal.