SILENCE IS NOT AN ABSENCE
But a PRESENCE
"Coming to surf?”
Tahir looked up from his phone. The man in the window seat had a heavy Aussie accent. He was clean-shaven, with sunburn and a thick pale chinstrap where a beard once was. Brown hair bleached blond by the sun and permanently matted by the salt water. Tahir wasn’t visiting Bali to surf, but he had been in Indonesia long enough to know that his neighbor was.
“No, just visiting. You?”
"Yeah. Been twice before. I’m Kai."
“Tahir.” He extended his hand. "Were you surfing in Sumatra too?” The island was better known for its coffee and agricultural products than for surfing.
"Oh yeah. Great little island chain off the coast. Clear waters.” Kai looked out the window with a lazy smile and traveled back in his mind.
“Bali 15 years ago," he said, “First time I visited. It was completely different then…it was paradise mate." He put his hands behind his head. “Where are you headed? Seminyak?”
“For a couple days, yes. Then to Ubud.”
“Did you say you were also going to Ubud?”
To his left, in the aisle seat, was a middle-aged woman with a gray-blond ponytail and oversized glasses.
She introduced herself as Holly and explained that she was going on a 10-day guided tour of Bali focused on personal growth, rejuvenation, and spiritual discovery.
“That sounds powerful,” Tahir said.
She nodded and smiled. "I think it will be. It’s about finding new life by reconnecting with ourselves, with others, and with nature. The underlying principle is summed up in the name. Ahimsa. It means 'non-harming' in Hindi. It's the principle that encourages Hindus to avoid eating meat, to embrace non-violence and to respect nature and the world around them.”
She grew self-conscious. "At least, that's what I understand. I'm not Hindu myself so this is very new."
Tahir learned that Holly was hitting the reset button after a stressful divorce and an equally stressful career in management consulting.
From what Tahir knew about the island, Holly and Kai were the legs of Bali’s tourism industry. They spoke of Bali as a haven and an escape.
Tahir had every intention of enjoying that same, sunny paradise, but, thanks to Zola and her best friend Siya, he would also get a behind-the-scenes look at the popular destination.
Polisi Traffic Jam
20 minutes in the back of a bouncing Blue Bird Taxi. Siya had warned him to avoid other, unregulated companies. Scooters wove in and out of buses and cars bearing surfboards.
His face was as good as glued to the window, and his eyes roamed across the cityscape, taking in dull colored buildings and clusters of people wearing brightly colored clothes.
Tahir tried to roll down the window, but it was stuck. The whole scene had a layer of soot over it, like a dirty overlay on a projector.
Tan tourists in flip-flops and tank tops.
Buildings with clay tile roofs. Gift shops and restaurants; bars and tattoo parlors. Ads for Bintang Beer. Plenty of surf shops. Apotek: a pharmacy. Lazy vines hanging across building fronts.
Street vendors everywhere – selling bottled drinks, power bars, and t-shirts.
Lush trees along the streets growing out of the concrete. Open-air seating. Tourists on bikes.
As they neared Seminyak, upmarket boutiques and themed lounges replaced surf shops and pubs, and in less than ten blocks, the taxi dropped him off at a hotel nestled between an organic perfumer and an upscale jewelry store.
Once out of the taxi, Tahir realized that it wasn’t the grimy window clouding his view. The city wasn't as bright as he had expected, and under the cloudy sky, everything showed up in muted shades.
After checking in and dropping his things, he made his way to Yoga Ohm, Siya’s yoga studio.
He knew Siya was in Lovinna on the northern coast of Bali for the next two days, but he had decided he would visit her studio and try out a class. His neck was sore from long treks through the jungle and 12 hour shoots, not to mention the plane ride. He thought Yoga may help.
“Welcome,” said a bright, young receptionist with short, dark hair. “I am Gede. I will be the instructor. Our next class begins at 5:00.” She pointed out the changing rooms and set up Tahir with a rental mat.
With 30 minutes to go before the class, Tahir stored his mat in a cubby and went out for a walk. Siya’s studio was in the perfect location to attract lots of foot traffic, and the beach was only three blocks away.
Camera around his neck, Tahir walked to the beach. When he got there, people were packing up their umbrellas and towels. The air was heavy and the sky was rapidly turning darker.
Snap, snap.
It wasn’t the picturesque Bali beachscape that you see on postcards, but it was a real, authentic shot. It would stand out. If he was lucky he might even catch lightning over the water.
He was dipping his feet in the water when the rain started to fall. A light drizzle at first– nothing unbearable. As the rain came down heavier, he scrambled to make his way back to the street. Running across the beach, he came across a widening rivulet with the horrible smell of rotting eggs. He tried to ignore it and step through the thick gray sludge, but it quickly covered his feet. His eyes followed the sludge up the beach all the way to the street.
When he looked out to the open ocean, he noticed soda bottles and plastic containers bobbing closer. He turned back, pulled a foot out of the muck, leaped onto the sand, and ran up the beach.
Instead of running directly back to the studio, he followed the dark trail of run-off up to the street and into a gutter. He followed the gutter for five blocks, past restaurants and retailers with fast diminishing piles of waste sitting in the gutter.
He was soaking wet with only five minutes to go before class when he got back to the studio.
Gede the instructor hurried to the door and gave him a towel.
“You’re here for the last week of the rainy season.”
The rain had washed most of the mud and sand from his feet and legs. What remained he scrubbed hard with the towel until his skin tingled.
His feet were side by side in mountain pose and his eyes were ahead. Following Gede’s instructions, he drew his attention to his feet. He felt the sludge.
Inhale.
Exhale.
20 minutes into class he could still smell the sulfurous waste. His breaths were shallow.
He tried to distract himself with the room. A pink lotus flower in a circle of Sanskrit words. Blue and purple mats on the dark wood floor. The soft sound of rain on the clay roof. Rain washing garbage out to sea.
Inhale.
Downward dog. A deep stretch through his hamstrings. An opening in his upper back.
"Breathe," Gede said. She stood behind him, pushing down his hips.
A forceful exhale.
Inhale. There was that smell again.
They ended with corpse pose, lying still on their backs. He heard the fan whirring overhead. A rhythmic tick after each rotation. The smell became stronger. It was the hardest pose yet.
After class, he thanked Gede.
“You did great,” she replied, “but I’ll give you an insider tip.” The petite instructor gestured for him to come closer, and he leaned down.
“It's easier when you remember to breathe,” she whispered, and she broke into a silly smile.
“It’s easier when you remember to breathe”
“Bali run-off”
“Bali run-off rainy season”
“Bali run-off” AND “garbage”
A Google search turned up a few blogs by disillusioned travelers, a website on eco-tourism, and an exposé in the Sydney Morning Herald.
He clicked through one of the blogs. An underwater photo of a surfer paddling out among aluminum wrappers and six-pack rings. Durable plastics and indestructible styrofoam that washed up on shore after every rainstorm. Pictures of kids picking through trash on the shores of Kuta. Apparently, the problem didn’t stop for Bali when the garbage was washed out to sea.
Tahir stayed in that night and fell asleep early. The next morning, he awoke to the grinding sounds of a mechanical crane. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and walked over to his window. It wasn’t even 6:00 yet.
He got back in bed. He couldn’t fall back asleep, so he read the news on his phone.
“W Hotel Seminyak,” the receptionist said when Tahir called down.
“Good morning. I’m in room 515. I have a two-night reservation, but I wanted to ask about the cancelling the second night. Is there a fee? And when is the next bus to Ubud?”
W Hotel Views
The Ubud Art Market. Paintings, silverwork, and elaborate woodcarvings – all produced in neighboring villages. Carvings of sea turtles and Shiva, Buddhas and monkeys. Piles of wooden flip-flops. Tabletop stone sculptures and larger pieces for a garden.
He stopped at a stone stall and admired a set of bookends with dancing Hindu gods.
“Friggin’ Biddha.”
Tahir looked up to see a middle-aged man with a long beard and a raging red sunburn inspecting a polished mantelpiece.
The man snorted. He looked like a disheveled Jim Carey. “The things they de fir these tirists. Ye wanna Biddha?” He held out the mantelpiece to Tahir.
“Oh. No thanks,” Tahir replied.
“So yir naht in one ay those grips?”
Tahir couldn’t place the man’s accent. Wales? Ireland?
“Bloody tir grips. Eat, pray, fuckin love.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s a feevir. Everyone comes tae pray, but no one knows exactly what thir prayin fir, or who thir praying tae. Trust me. Ah’ve asked!”
“But people have tae eat,” the man continued. “The pair Balinese, just like the pair Egyptshens, running aroan tryin tae make dosh from side hustles by thir oan ancient wirship sahts. Say, ye know Biddha doesn’t even belong hir? May as well be Santa Claus.”
The man continued looking in the distance, unblinking. He speech was rapid and pressured.
“The Biddhas. The Italian restaurants. The grip chants,” he continued. “Bali tiday is a a haven fir the third rate Julia Roberts, sirfirs, and the people who love them. But it’s hard tae tirn them away with thir fat pockets. Gid dosh. Reliable.” He looked past Tahir. “At least ‘til the ahland collapses undir the weight ay all the fat pockets and great promises of paradise and self-discov’ry.”
The man turned and left just as abruptly as he had appeared.
Tahir put down the bookends and watched the man disappear into the crowd. When he could no longer make out the man, his eyes drifted through the market from one anonymous face to the next.
Wide-brimmed sun hats. Loose fitting pants with elephant prints. People strolling, carrying leather-bound journals and dog-eared copies of self-help books. He thought about Holly.
Tahir’s stomach growled. There were pizza and pasta restaurants on every corner, and now that the jaded stranger had pointed it out, Tahir couldn’t help but notice each and every one.
Finally, he stopped at Café Wayan, which boasted traditional Balinese healing cuisine. It was still early, but a sidewalk sandwich board advertised a special vitamin lunch available all day.
Inside he was greeted by the smell of garlic and ginger. A young woman with smiling eyes waved Tahir in and seated him at a table by the window. She gave him a menu and left, only to return minutes later with a cool, honey-colored drink.
Tahir took a sip.
“This is delicious,” he said.
“Thank you. Very healthy,” his waitress replied. She was trying to remember the English name for the main ingredient when the manager, a Balinese woman with a round face and dark hair came out.
“Turmeric,” the manager said. “Ginger, honey, and turmeric. Very good for healing. Very soothing for muscles and organs.”
The manager welcomed Tahir to Ubud and insisted that he try the vitamin special – only Rp.80,000 for five courses, all carefully planned to maximize wellness.
Tahir took in the smells and admired large bags of herbs and spices along the back wall. He had no objections to a healing meal.
The manager was heading back towards the kitchen, when a fresh, sunny voice sailed through the door. “Wayan!”
The voice belonged to a woman with a light brown ponytail, wearing flip-flops and an embroidered tunic. The ruddy-faced manager turned around and grinned, shuffling back out to hug the exuberant visitor.
“Emily! Good to see you,” the chef said. “New group?”
“Yes, new group! Although there are some return visitors. Second day of the trip. Everyone is still exhausted from the flight. They were so excited to come to the cafe. We’ve been talking about it all morning.”
Through the window, Tahir could see 10 or 11 women behind Emily trying to get a glimpse through the door.
“Friends,” Emily said, turning to the group, “Welcome to Café Wayan!” She stepped aside and the manager smiled wide and nodded as the women poured in.
They settled in at tables like kids at a birthday party. Emily sat at the front and read a short excerpt from Eat, Pray, Love. Tahir listened to the women next to him talk about mindful eating and plant-based diets.
A waitress brought out his first course: melon and fresh tomatoes served on a banana leaf.
“Excuse me.”
Tahir looked up from his food. Two women at the next table were looking at his dish.
“Is that the vitamin lunch?”
Tahir nodded as he finished chewing. “Yes. It’s very good.”
“It looks amazing,” one of the women said, staring at the food. “Wayan’s understanding of the body is incredible.” She shook her head, “and I’m sure since the book came out she’s had access to all the fresh ingredients she could ever need.”
“At the same time, there must be more people coming to the restaurant,” the woman’s friend said. “Do you think she can keep up with the demand?”
“I don’t know. Do you think she’ll be back out? I would love to meet her.”
“Me too.” The woman sighed.
“Did you see her?” the woman asked Tahir.
“Who?”
“The owner, Wayan.”
The women were so eager to meet her that Tahir almost felt guilty admitting that she had spoken with him briefly. Apparently Wayan was an important figure in Eat, Pray, Love, and the women on this tour were retracing Elizabeth Gilbert’s journey of self-understanding and inner peace.
“A Haven fir the third rate Julia Roberts, sirfirs, and the people who love them”
After lunch, Tahir took a bus 40 minutes north to Tirta Empul. The Hindu temple, which was built on a spring, was a site of ritual purification that attracted thousands of tourists every year.
Once at the temple, he stood in line for the purification pools, the hot sun on his back.
The line inched forward.
Sticky humidity squeezed his shoulders.
Except for the splashing and one joyful cry in French, he heard English all around. Balinese worshippers were few and scattered.
The line descended into the pool.
Cool water up to his thighs.
Just ahead, holy water gushed out of 20 ancient stone nozzles.
He looked behind him.
A line reaching out of the central courtyard.
He looked ahead. 20 others standing waist deep in the water with him. Around the edges, onlookers took photos with their phones.
He ducked under a nozzle. Ice cold water.
For a moment, caught between the pouring water from above and the coarse stone under his feet, he stepped out of his head and felt the island’s history flow through him.
“Smile!”
He opened his eyes. A woman next to him was laughing as a camera flashed. He was back in a big group of tourists hungry for spiritual healing. He shook the water off and wiped his eyes.
- Click "Listen in Browser" for an Aural Journey
Back to Ubud and to Mandapa, a Ritz Carlton hotel set amidst a tropical forest, overlooking the Ayung River.
He had a voucher from the Ritz in London redeemable anywhere in the world. A thank you for his work at a nonprofit arts gala. Tahir usually avoided unpaid gigs if he could. But for once, drained from his assignment in Java, he was glad that he had done it.
He wanted a massage. On the bus ride back, he could virtually feel the hands squeezing his shoulders. He hated the idea of being one of those tourists who goes to a tropical island and spends his time doing relaxing things he could do anywhere else, but so far, none of Bali’s unique, restorative adventures had done much to restore him.
When Tahir arrived at Mandapa, the spa was closed, so he went up to his room and took a quick shower. As he stood under the hot water in the steam-filled room, the smell of yesterday’s run-off came back to him. His mind filled with images of tourists packed like sardines into the sacred pools at Tirta Empul. They were loud. Balinese worshippers were nowhere to be found. More and more tourists piled into the sacred site until the stone foundation crumbled underneath them and the temple came toppling down.
“See?” He heard the man from the market in his head. “Bali, collapsing under the weight of all the wealthy tourists and great promises of paradise and self-discovery.”
He turned off the water and got out.
After drying off, he sat down and opened his laptop.
An email from British Airways. His flight was overbooked. They needed volunteers to take later flights, and the available flights weren’t just a few hours later; they were two days later.
There wasn’t anything that required his attention back home. He didn’t have any new assignments coming up. But…
A chorus of chimes interrupted Tahir’s thoughts. A flashing green chat box. Zola. He clicked to accept the call.
“Hello? Tahir?”
Tahir watched the pixels settle into place. She was squinting at the screen, but her brown eyes were just as big and alive as usual.
“Tahir? Are you there?”
“Hey Zola!”
“I can’t see you.”
“Oh.” He rolled the mouse pad and found the camera icon at the bottom of the screen. Before clicking he checked his reflection in the mirror to his right and ran a hand over his closely shaved hair.
“Can you see me now?”
“Yes! Hi! It’s so good to see you.”
It was good to see her too.
“How is Bali?”
“Bali is…indescribable.”
Zola smiled, her high cheekbones shining.
“I like your shawl,” Tahir said. The red and gold wrap was clearly handcrafted, and he wondered where in the world it was from. Which new artisan Zola had discovered.
“Thank you! You remember that trip to India I told you about?”
“Of course.”
“Well we started working with three villages in the Pashmina region. We’re creating a platform for local artists to sell their traditional handloom products to the international market, preserving local traditions and helping people achieve a living wage. At least that’s the goal.”
“It’s beautiful. I bet they’ll do well,” Tahir said.
“I think so too,” she replied. “But enough of that, tell me about Bali. You said it’s ‘indescribable’?”
He rubbed his chin. “I'm meeting up with Siya for lunch tomorrow. Looking forward to getting the local perspective.”
Zola grinned. “I’m glad. She keeps trying to get me down there. I really need to make it a point to just take a break from work and go down.” She shook her head. “Maybe we can get lunch when we’re both in London again and you can convince me. When do you get back?”
“It’s funny you asked. I just got an email from British Airways asking for volunteers to take later flights, but the next ones are two days from now.
“That’s so nice of you to volunteer to stay in Bali for two extra days,” she said teasingly.
Tahir ran his hand over his hair. “Actually, I don’t think I can.”
“Oh? New assignment?”
“Not yet.”
Zola watched him intently, still smiling.
“…I just don’t have anywhere to stay,” Tahir continued, “and hotels fill up so fast down here. I couldn’t find anything at the last minute–
“Hang on,” Zola said, holding up one finger. He watched her and listened to her keys click as she typed something on her computer.
“Sorry, I’m back,” she said.
“Siya says you are more than welcome to stay with her.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Yes, she says you can stay with her and her fiancé in Canggu.”
“Zola I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can. And you should. She’s very excited, and it’s Bali!”
It was Bali. Tahir hadn’t forgotten that. He couldn’t forget that.
“...Preserving local traditions and helping people achieve a living wage.”
He glanced again at his inbox. A part of him hoped for an emergency message from Vince asking him to get back ASAP. Nothing. Normally his agent had to call him to get his attention while he was traveling, and even then there was a good chance Tahir wouldn’t immediately respond. But for once Tahir wanted a couple lines from Vince summoning him back to London.
“Tahir?” Zola repeated.
“Sorry, I’m still here.”
Zola regarded him. “Bali isn’t what you expected, is it?” she said.
“Yes and no, I don’t know what I was expecting, to be honest,” Tahir replied, watching Zola’s face.
Zola frowned for a moment. “I’ve never known you to leave a place because it wasn’t what you expected.”
Tahir grimaced.
“Stay,” Zola said. “Spend some time with Siya. She has so much to share about the island.”
Mandapa (Ritz-Carlton Reserve)
At noon the next day, Tahir met Siya in the hotel restaurant. They sat outside at a table overlooking the river. The restaurant featured beautiful cascading infinity pools, stepped like Bali’s famous rice terraces.
He had only met Siya once before – with Zola in New York – but as they ate, conversation came easy.
Tahir learned that Siya's parents had left Bali when she was three and moved the family to London.
"I had the great good fortune of moving in down the street from Zola."
They laughed over nasi goreng and prawn salad.
"Even back then she was a rebel,” Siya said. “I still remember, in Year 5, our school wanted to have a mock election. They wanted to teach us about civic participation, et cetera. I remember Zola’s platform included human rights’ violations in Palestine and Britain’s obligations to the international community.
She was just light years ahead of the rest of us. Most of the class didn’t care about anything other than choices in the cafeteria.
Tahir felt his own eyes grow bigger. “Year 5? So you were 9?”
Siya sat back in her chair and laughed. “Yes! She wrote a good speech and she rehearsed it with me, but I don’t think I understood much of it at all. I was just there for moral support.”
“Did she win?”
Siya shook her head, still laughing. “Oh no. Victory went to the boy running on the pudding-for-lunch platform. But you know, that’s why I love Zola. She pushes me to think more deeply about the world and helps me see things I didn’t see before.”
“I know what you mean.” Tahir nodded. “But I think you’re downplaying yourself. I know Zola, and I know she wouldn’t be best friends with just anyone.”
Siya tilted her head as she thought about his comment. “I mean, I was concerned about the world, but I was from a typical immigrant family, you know? I kept my nose to the grindstone and just worked and worked and worked, without ever looking up until a couple years ago.” She took a sip of water.
Tahir learned that Siya had returned to Bali after large-scale lay-offs at HSBC, where she had worked in private wealth.
“I had spent all my life working and doing everything you’re supposed to do – you know, good grades, Cambridge on a scholarship, a high-paying finance job to help my family and repay my parents for the opportunities they gave us by bringing us to London. It was the successful immigrant story. So it felt impossible to walk away from, until I was forced to.”
When HSBC was hit with a $1.9 billion fine for money laundering, Siya welcomed her lay-off with open arms and decided to return to Bali. Siya had started practicing yoga several years earlier to deal with work stress. When she returned to Bali, she devoted her time to learning more about yoga and traditional Balinese spiritual arts. A year later she opened up the center in Seminyak, and another, smaller center at a hotel in Kuta.
“Zola told me you went to the studio!” she said suddenly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. How was it?”
Tahir remembered the 90 minutes he spent in the Seminyak studio breathing deeply through difficult stretches and trying not to think about the sulfurous mud drying on his ankles.
“Not easy. But it was good.”
She laughed. “Had you ever done yoga before?”
“A couple times. And you know, every time I do it, by the end, I’m surprised at how difficult it is. You’d think I would learn. How often do you practice?”
“I try to set aside at least an hour for my own yoga practice each day. But you have to be careful. It’s always possible to overstretch.”
“The class at the studio was full,” Tahir said, “and I keep running into tourists who are looking for spiritual growth so I imagine it’s a good business here.”
Siya chuckled. “Yes. The truth-seekers. The peace-seekers. Our bread and butter. And of course, the more people who come to the island, the less peaceful it is.”
“Exactly!” Tahir felt his shoulders relax.
Tahir told her about the man in the market.
She laughed. “He’s right. Not many Balinese are Buddhist. You know yoga isn’t Balinese either?”
“I didn’t think so,” Tahir said.
She sipped her water. “It used to excite me. The idea of all these people coming to Bali to learn our traditions and immerse themselves in our culture. But now…I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.”
Tahir felt a knot in his stomach uncurl. He hadn’t even known it was there. He bit into an airy prawn cracker.
“I think I’m sharing good knowledge with visitors – knowledge that can help many people heal and grow – and hopefully I’m giving them good experiences, but I worry about perpetuating this image of Bali as a pure and carefree paradise.”
Tri Hita Karana
After lunch, they traveled south to the Ubud Monkey Forest. The forest, as Siya explained, was actually a temple complex in a forest.
“The three temples represent the three components of prosperity: Tri Hita Karana.”
“What are the components?”
“Harmony between man and God, harmony between man and man, and harmony between man and nature. This is Balinese Hinduism. It’s not quite the same as Hinduism elsewhere, although I think most Hindus would agree with the importance of those three things.”
They walked through a stone gate covered with stone flowers, warriors, and the faces of different deities. Balinese gates were more like ornate doorways than actual gates.
They walked through the forested complex. A Komodo dragon, frozen in stone, peered over the edge of a moss-covered wall. Two gray macaques sat on a woman with a 12-inch tongue. The mohawked monkeys watched, but didn’t move as Tahir and Siya walked by. Gargoyles of the earth.
“I’ll get some bananas for the monkeys,” Siya said, pointing to a vendor 20 yards away, “hang on.”
On her way to the banana vendor, someone stopped Siya. An old friend from the looks of it. She got to talking and Tahir wandered around the temple as he waited. There were just as many tourists here as there were at Tirta Empul, but with Siya, somehow it didn’t feel as overwhelming.
The faint sound of glass clinking.
Voices yelling in the distance and a loud WHOOSH, like a big gust of wind.
Tahir followed the sound behind the temple, into the dense greenery. When he turned around, he could still just make out Siya and her friend.
He brushed aside ferns and stepped over exposed roots.
The voices of tourists disappeared as he dove deeper into the dark green mass of trees.
Another whoosh. More glass clinking and voices yelling.
He picked up speed as he headed towards the sound. Sunshine filtered through gaps in the trees, offering just enough light for him to see a few feet ahead.
Small rocks and pebbles came loose under his feet, and he watched them run downhill ahead of him. He felt the downward slope grow steeper beneath his feet.
Suddenly the hill dropped off. He stopped, and caught himself on the twisted limb of a banyan tree.
A giant ravine.
A rock came loose beneath his feet and tumbled down. Clink, clink. He watched it crash into glass bottles, then settle silently on a bed of plastic.
The wide ravine was full of brightly colored trash – candy wrappers and soda bottles, carryout containers and disposable napkins.
On the other side of the ravine, he saw a dark blue garbage truck pulling away. A pair of Balinese teenagers stood at the edge picking through a fresh delivery, separating out cans, metal scraps and cardboard.
Thunder. Another storm coming.
The teens looked up.
Another boom.
They gathered all that would fit in a big canvas bag and ran from the ravine.
Tahir felt a drop on his neck. He should go back before Siya worried about him. He waited and watched the pair disappear. They left and he regarded the silent jungle dumpsite. Then he turned and jogged back, jumping over roots and under low-hanging branches.
“Tahir?”
He had reached the temple. The menacing storm still hadn’t arrived and the rain was nothing more than a light drizzle.
“Tahir!” It wasn’t Siya’s voice. He wiped his face and looked around.
Holly. She came over, her face shining with sweat, wearing a t-shirt with an ohm symbol. Holly with Ahimsa tours.
They hugged. “How have you enjoyed Bali?” she asked, stepping back.
“Good. Different from what I expected, but it’s cool,” he replied.
Holly nodded. “There’s another woman on my tour who’s been here four times. She says every visit is a different. Every day on the island is different. It changes before our eyes, with every sunrise and sunset.”
Tahir listened.
“I’m learning to find peace in that change,” she continued. “Like the changes in my own life.” Her voice sounded so small and young. Tahir envied her wonder.
“Tahir? Did I say something?” Holly said, looking worried. She pulled him out of his reverie.
“Oh! No, not at all. I was just thinking about your experience and wishing I could say the same. Honestly, Bali hasn’t been quite as rejuvenating for me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Holly said in a gentle voice. Seeing and hearing her, it was hard to remember that she had worked in management consulting.
She wanted to know what he had done and what he had seen so far.
He didn’t tell her about the trash or the run off.
“It’s packed, isn’t it?” he said. “I didn’t expect so many people on the island. I just wonder how all this tourism is impacting the island.”
Holly nodded. “Yes. That’s one of the reasons I chose Ahimsa. Ahimsa is committed to promoting harmony and respect for the natural environment and the local people through meditation and dialogue with local groups.”
He didn’t want to tell her that Ahimsa was part of the problem.
Someone called out for Holly.
She looked over her shoulder. "I should catch up with the group," she said. "But promise me you’ll take care of yourself?” She touched his arm. “I know the island will open up to you and you will find what you’re looking for."
"New friend?" Siya asked, returning with several small bananas.
Tahir shook his head. "We were next to each other on the airplane. Strange coincidence."
Siya watched Holly walk off, towards her group. She turned back to face him, her tan face growing perfectly round like a basketball as she grinned and held out a banana. "I fed them once when I was a little kid, but haven’t done it since."
Tahir pulled back the yellow peel and broke off a piece of the soft, white fruit.
They continued their walk, feeding the monkeys until they were out.
“HArmony between man and God, harmony between man and man, and harmony between man and nature.”
It was dark and drizzling when they arrived at Siya’s villa, but four flickering votive candles illuminated a small shrine outside the courtyard. An offering of flowers and fruit sat before the golden shrine, kept dry beneath a mini red umbrella.
Balinese houses, Tahir learned, were open, just like Balinese gates. The large, one-story villa looked like an enormous garage opened on all four sides, and flanked by smaller buildings that were fully enclosed.
"Hello?” Siya called, as she walked in and took off her shoes. Tahir followed suit. They stood in a large living room that opened onto an equally large pool.
"Hello?" A man’s voice traveled over from the kitchen.
The man was almost Tahir’s height, with a stocky build and a slightly darker complexion than Siya. He was opening a bottle of wine.
“Tahir, this is Wayan. My fiancé.” Siya kissed him on the cheek and headed to the sink.
Wayan put down the bottle and held out his hand. “Welcome! You’re Zola’s friend, right? Siya has been looking forward to your visit.”
"Wayan still hasn't met Zola,” Siya interjected. “I have to get her down here, but she is always so busy."
Wayan picked up a wine glass. “Would you like some?” he asked Tahir.
"Yes, please.”
Siya grabbed a bowl of salted peanuts from the table and tilted her head toward the couches. “Let’s sit down.”
Tahir learned that Wayan was a chef at an upmarket, vegetarian restaurant popular with both surfers and health conscious guests.
“You’re the second Chef Wayan that I’ve met in two days.”
He grinned. “You were in Ubud? You must have visited Café Wayan.”
“Yep.”
“Eat, Pray, Love. Elizabeth Gilbert fans,” he said. “That's our target audience. I changed my name to draw in bigger crowds.”
Siya slapped Wayan on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to him, Tahir. In Bali, the traditional names are based on when you are born. So Wayan is the name given to many first-borns.”
Wayan rubbed his chin. “It does help my business though, I think. Having the name Wayan.”
In the background, Tahir heard the sound of familiar reggae beats.
"You like Buju?" Wayan asked.
"He's one of the best."
"He is THE best," Wayan said. “No questions asked.”
"Wayan's dream is to take a reggae tour of the Caribbean islands," Siya explained, "And at the end, he wants to see Buju in person, in concert."
"Walk like a champion, talk like a champion!" Wayan exclaimed in his best patois. He smiled and poured more wine.
"Have you ever been?" Tahir asked, helping himself to some peanuts.
"To the Caribbean?" he said, eyes wide. "No. I've never really left this part of the world. I went to school in Australia, and I did some backpacking in Southeast Asia. I would love to travel more though."
"We're planning our honeymoon now," Siya said, uncorking another bottle of wine. "I would love for him to see England. But there are so many new places I want to go too."
Thunder. The rain picked up and Wayan made his way around the living room, pulling down bamboo shades the height and width of garage doors.
"You must have a unique perspective on traveling,” Tahir said. “Working with tourists so much."
Siya and Wayan looked at each other for a moment.
"I guess so. I never thought of that before. But you probably do also,” said Wayan. “I understand you’re a photographer?” He looked at Siya.
“Yes. I actually came to Indonesia for an assignment on Sumatra.”
“Oh! What about?”
“Palm oil.” Tahir thought about the article on the stunning environmental impact of the international demand for the versatile product.
Siya nodded. In one short week, Tahir had learned about the high demand for palm oil and the effects on the ozone layer.
“Good,” said Wayan. “It’s important for the world to know.”
“What else have you done here? Have you been to the studio yet?”
“Yeah. The class kicked my ass.”
Wayan smiled and the three new friends laughed.
“Honestly, I’ve really been struggling with meditation. I haven’t been able to still my mind. New thoughts always pop in – you know, ideas for new articles; new books I forgot I’ve been wanting to read; people’s birthdays. And then I think about the fact that I can’t stop thinking.”
“That’s the first thing to let go of,” Siya said. “If you judge yourself for thinking, you’ll never stop thinking.”
Logical enough.
“So just observe your thoughts. Don’t judge them or try to pursue them. Just notice them and let them go.”
In the warm glow of the wine-soaked night, Siya’s prescription seemed doable.
“I’ll give it a try,” Tahir said, smiling.
“Have you been out to the rice paddies yet?” Siya asked.
“No, I haven’t.” Tahir had heard about the breathtaking rice terraces.
“Want to go tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
- Click "Listen in Browser" for an Aural Journey
It was still raining two hours later when Siya showed Tahir the rest of the house and led him to his room.
“Thank you for hosting me Siya. It’s very kind of you.”
Siya smiled and handed him a neatly folded towel. “It’s my pleasure.”
While the living room and kitchen were open on all sides, the bedrooms had walls to keep in the air conditioning.
He couldn’t sleep. He thought about the monkey forest. He thought about Holly and Ahimsa. He thought about the trash heap.
At the edge of the bed, he tried, without success, to meditate the way Siya had taught him, simply observing these thoughts and letting them go.
He tried to focus on the good and positive things he had experienced, but his mind drifted. Was he really any better than the truth-seekers on the self-righteous Ahimsa tour? Why were his thoughts spinning? Like Siya said, let the thought go. Siya, who still loved the island despite all the changes she had seen. Siya, who was such good friends with Zola. He was doing it wrong. Why the hell couldn’t he meditate – in Bali of all places?
Wonders of Cooperation (Tegallalang)
Green, stepped terraces, like a moss-covered Aztec temple.
Tahir inhaled and surveyed the landscape. Sunlight bounced off the flooded paddies. Agricultural emeralds.
Snap snap.
He caught a picture of the tallest palm trees reflected in the water of the lowest rice paddies. Green on green.
“Who owns all of the paddies?”
“Locals,” Siya replied. “Lots of small farmers. And the temples control the irrigation.”
"How does that work?"
Siya told Tahir about a centuries-old system of cooperation called subak. River water was diverted into temples, and from there, distributed to the fields through channels. Rest periods for the fields were also scheduled in and everyone stuck to the schedule.
"So places like Tirta Empul are important for metaphysical reasons, but also for life here in Bali."
"So this is what you get when people think of the whole group rather than themselves. The wonders of cooperation."
“So this is what you get when people think of the whole group rather than themselves.”
Back at the villa, Tahir stood in the grass and looked out at the rice paddies. Quiet. Still.
He focused on a point in the distance and thought about his breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Dark pink flowers in his peripheral vision. He turned his attention back to the paddies. Paddies. Temples. The subak system that Siya described was incredible. Someone should document it.
He ran after his thoughts.
Photographs. Work. He should pitch a piece about the paddies….
On second thought, that would just draw more attention to the already over-visited island and put a greater strain on the fragile ecosystem.
He observed his thoughts.
Zola.
Palm oil.
Trash.
Tahir felt something inside him release. It was like he had been carrying a heavy stone, but instead of putting it down, it suddenly dissolved and his arms melted to his sides.
He felt his toes spread wide in the grass, and he imagined himself as a tree, firmly rooted in the ground.
For the Culture (Siya's Villa)
“Do you like dragon fruit?” Wayan asked Tahir when he walked back into the kitchen.
“Never had it.”
“Try this.” Wayan pushed a bright pink smoothie in his direction.
“This is delicious.”
Wayan smiled. “And for lunch, babi guling.”
Barbeque, Bali-style. It had the familiar dark, char-grilled color of barbeque around the world, but it boasted bright, unique flavors of lemongrass and turmeric.
Over big plates of the lemongrass and turmeric barbeque, Tahir told Siya and Wayan about his meditation.
“I’ve been trying since I got here, but I haven’t been able to until now. I don’t know if it was the noise and the crowds and the energy of so many tourists, but I just couldn’t do it.”
He looked out into the dark rice paddies. “Here though, I just felt…I don’t know how to explain it.”
“You felt at peace.”
“Yes!” Tahir said. “Like finally there was space for me to release my thoughts and get out of my head.”
Wayan nodded.
Siya observed Tahir over her smoothie. “I think you feel at peace here because it’s a well-curated experience. Sure we’re in a less developed village, but you’re still in a comfortable villa, surrounded by people who speak English, with access to air conditioning, fresh food, and delicious drinks. And you went to see the rice paddies at the right time of day when the sun was out. You didn’t see the less attractive parts of Bali.”
“Oh, I saw plenty of that on my ride from the airport to Seminyak” Tahir confessed.
Siya nodded. “Yes, I believe it. But it exists here too, you know. Even without tourists, Bali has blemishes and imperfections. People think of peace and serenity and they imagine sitting cross-legged on a white cushion in front of a stunning blue sea. They think relaxation depends on the environment. But true peace and serenity means finding stillness and calm even when the world around you is bustling and imperfect. Observing without contempt and without turning away.”
“What about leaving HSBC? Wasn’t that a move to get out of a stressful environment?”
“It was. My understanding of peace and serenity evolved over time. After leaving HSBC for more peace and stability, and coming to Bali only to find chaos and ugliness of another variety, I had to rethink things.”
I mean I see that in Kuta and outside of Ubud, but here in Canggu?”
“True peace and serenity means finding stillness and calm even when the world around you is bustling and imperfect.”
After lunch, Siya showed Tahir the ugliness. They visited a nearby village just outside of Canggu, and he learned about a waste management project she was undertaking.
Another ravine, full of waste.
“This is what I saw near the monkey forest!”
Siya nodded. “This is what I was trying to explain. Sometimes it’s easier to see it than to put it in words. I think you want to oversimplify things and blame tourists. Tourists strain the system, sure. But the Balinese people didn’t have the infrastructure in the first place to deal with the garbage we ourselves produce,” she replied. “We find plastic and styrofoam just as convenient as everyone else in the world.”
Although there were paid garbage collectors, Siya explained, they didn’t make enough to cover the cost of gas, and it was cheaper for them to dump the garbage in empty ravines.
“Kids and families pick through and recycle things they can get money for, so no one really wants to stop. But I’m trying to set up a new system here, based on the principles of subak. I want the temples to play a bigger role, and I want people to understand that it is our collective responsibility to manage the new forms of waste. Everyone together, instead of each man for himself.”
“That’s a wonderful project.”
“It is, but I brought you here to show you that ugliness is native to Bali too. I could leave Canggu and try to find a more isolated area up the coast – a place with less trash. But I haven’t. I don’t think I should. Trash will make its way up there, just as it made its way out here.”
She continued and something clicked in Tahir’s mind as she spoke. “People think relaxing and de-stressing means being carefree. People don’t want to have to plan out when and where they’re going to get water for the day, so we order boatloads of bottled water to ensure that guests never have to walk more than two blocks without finding clean water, and those bottles end up in our streams and oceans.”
“Sustainable tourism will involve people being mindful. At its extreme, it will mean people passing up trips to Bali or coming to Bali and embracing it just as it is right now, with the trash and the imperfections, and recognizing that this is a season of change. Things will improve, but not if we never accept them the way they are. Being in Bali and being a responsible tourist is about being mindful, and accepting the blemishes.”
Tahir looked out over the ravine as they walked.
“Tomorrow, I will ask Wayan to take you to the site of his new restaurant in Kuta. By building there, he is doing exactly what we all need to do.”
Soon Come (Inshallah)
The next day, Wayan drove Tahir to the airport. They left early, per Siya’s instructions, so that Wayan could show Tahir where his new restaurant would be.
It was a sorry patch of beach. It wasn’t as bad as the pictures he had seen online, but it wasn’t far off. Tahir imagined that once upon a time it had been gorgeous. He remembered Kai on the plane and his comment about visiting Bali 15 years ago.
Wayan introduced Tahir to his cousin, who was working on the outdoor light fixtures. Wayan excused himself to talk shop with his cousin, and Tahir turned his attention to the beach.
He regarded the trash.
Inhale.
He observed his fears and indignation about changes in Bali.
Exhale.
He noticed little buds of thought about how to stop the change. He caught himself trying to problem solve and stopped. He observed all this, and he let it go.
“Not a pretty sight,” Wayan said, coming back. “It seems pretty hopeless to me most of the time, but Siya says embracing the imperfect parts is the only way to save the island. And she’s the smartest person I know. Every day I come out here to work on the restaurant, I try to see what she sees. Most of the time I can’t. But occasionally I do…”
He turned to Tahir. “What about you? Do you get it? It’s pretty…” he waved his hand in the air.
“Abstract?” Tahir said.
“Yes, I think that’s the word,” Wayan replied.
Tahir looked out at the trash littered across the beach.
“She’s leagues ahead of me,” Wayan said, smiling to himself.
“That’s good.” Tahir replied. “That’s the ideal. Someone who pushes you to be better.”
Tahir gave Wayan a firm pat on the shoulders before they got in the car and drove to the airport.