Why Do White People Love Waterfalls?

Its taken me a little while to settle into the feel of this tourist town out in the mountains. But now that I’ve found my flow, I’ve fallen hard. The days pass in a sunny paradise monotony. Elisabeth Gilbert look alikes and beautiful sun-kissed European couples filter along the rutted sidewalks.

I’ve spent a lot of mornings going to mediation classes in the morning before breakfast. Krishna is a beautiful young meditation teacher who’s face scrunches up into a thousand folds when he smiles. His skin, hair, eyes, and teeth are all beautiful shades of earth. He lead us through various pranayama, or breathing sequences, to deepen our meditation practice. He rhythmically walked around the room while we went into a deep open eye meditation. And for a moment, I was there, completely there, at peace, content. And it stayed, it lasted—I mean for like a few whole minutes! The birds and geckos bayed from the lush jungle that spilled through the open air chalet. A particle of dust lifted itself into the sun. Krishna’s hands clasped behind his back, his movement around the room only accentuated the stillness.

The whole rest of my day was softer.

Later, I sprained my ankle. The sidewalks are real rutted. 

Yoga Studio

The Bamboo Room Yoga Studio 

I was walking down a side street, when a young local guy called me over. He was sitting on the elevated wooden floor of a shed, surrounded by wood chips and intricately carved masks. His name was Wayan, of course. I sat down and watched him working on a rough cut Ganesh figure. He called the waitress from next door and ordered us two Balinese coffees; sticky-black coffee in plastic cups. He set me up with a swath of wood and a sharp knife. I was to carve a hair stick. Over the next few days I’d go back and sit, whittle and chat. A french woman joined us a few days. We’d all three sit on his floor and heckle other tourists as they walked by—trying to get them to have a look and buy some souvenirs. Feliz Navida played on the radio next door. 

Wayan took me on his motorbike to the river, weaving in and out, cutting around. I found myself bracing and tensing, and finally realizing 1. he knew exactly what he was doing and 2. I had zero control anyway. It was such a fun ride! We went out to a locals only spot at the river. Milky water from the volcano cuts its way through the jungle. A huge waterfall rages over a peak. Bayan trees with their roots falling down like vines, Plumeria shrubs shedding their flowers into the water, banana and coconut trees keeping things tropical as fuuk, I realized it had been a long time since I’d been out of town. It felt much needed to be without the dull buzz of motorbikes, to look up at the canopy and have the waterfall pelt down on top of me. Wayan asked why white people liked waterfalls so much…for this, I had no straight answer. 

Met Some Rad Lady Travelers. Aixa sold her bookstore in Argentina to travel around the world for six months

Celts and Spells, Local Celtic Crepe Shop 

One of my radical coworkers way back from Olympia-fucking-Washington happened to plan a Bali trip with the same dates and to the same town. Bellamoon flew to this Indian ocean island a week after me. Her game plan was to volunteer at a local farm, but when she got there things were not as described. The advertised wife had died of cancer over a year ago, the farmer owned a gun (which he used to kill a kitten on her first day there), and a local-loco man started jacking off while looking at her. When she told the farmer later, he suggested she throw dirt at him…not like throwing shade, like literally, pick up the soil and throw it at him…Not to mention the dirty cot on the floor, big cockroaches that climbed in the holes in the walls and ceiling, and the squat toilet that she had to spray her shit down with a hose. By the time she came to visit me in town and became phoneless after leaving it in the taxi, I told her “Too many red flags! We’re staging a rescue mission!” The next morning, Wayan and his friend took us on their bikes back to her farm. We packed up her stuff, left a message for the farmer, and that was all we left. Even Wayan poked his head in her farm room and then looked at me, “Is this where she was staying? This is dirty.”

On Our Way to Get Bellamoon's Stuff

The next day I packed up my life at Jati Homestay. Bellamoon and I booked a bus for the coast. I realized, home is where your shit is. Once your toothbrush is packed and your bags are loaded, spaces go back to being an empty shell. 

Drawing My Room At Jati

Exploring an Awesome Local Restaurant