Hati-Hati!

It takes two hours to get through the visa line. I talk to equally tired, disoriented travelers as we wait. It impresses them that I’m staying for a month, that I found my house on Craigslist, that a last minute snafu over dates makes me uncertain whether or not anyone will be at the gate to pick me up. I’m confident I can find something in Denpasar for a few nights, if it doesn’t work out. Just have to wait and see as the house as no number and I have no email at the airport. I walk past the “Death penalty for drug smuggling” sign (sneaking a pic) and into the dripping, warm tropical afternoon into a sea of people with signs of all sorts. Tired eyes read them all, and stop at “Jowya Villa Shivaloka” held by a sweet faced, petite woman with ageless brown skin and warm brown eyes. Annie!

She grabs my hands, across the gate, and we smile! She touches the shoulder of an older man, leathery skin, curly black hair seasoned with gray, and equally warm brown eyes: Oka. He takes my backpack before I can object. We pile into Oka’s car, steering wheel on the right side, drive on the left side. We race down the narrow streets, flanked by scooters, everywhere, scooters. New, shiny, sleek. Girls, boys, men, women. Most with helmets, often without. Some with white-burlap bags of stuffed with rice, padi. It’s called padi until the rice is harvested, then it’s called beras, until it’s cooked, and then it’s nasi. Nasi puti (white rice). There’s also black rice for pudding and red rice, but Annie doesn’t like red rice – it’s too rough. Annie asks me if I like rice. Love it! And meat? Yes! Organic? I want to eat whatever you eat, I want to eat all Indonesian food. I have heard you are an amazing cook. Please just cook Indonesian for me, I like all food and will be very happy. She smiles wide with approval. Sometimes, she has guests who don’t like Indonesian food. I gasp with disbelief. (Though I admit, I honestly am not sure I know exactly what makes Indonesian food--I'm excited to find out!)

We stop a stop light, and scooters speed to the front to crowd around the cars, coming within inches of each other, and inches of oncoming traffic. We come within inches of oncoming traffic. But it’s my favorite part of traveling, just sitting back and trusting in the crazy, local, mode of transportation. Buses, taxies, strangers but friends.

Within 30 minutes, I’m invited to attend Oka’s daughter’s wedding. Teeth filing and music! He smiles to me. I can hardly believe my luck. Pointy canines are considered uncouth in Indonesia – so they’re filed down as part of the coming of age ceremony. Then food. Lots of food. Hours of eating and music. Then more food. Lots of good Indonesian food. I can’t wait, it’s on the twenty three of September. Dua tiga. (Dua tiga, I repeat to myself) Annie points to a small field, overlooking a river, temporary cemetery, she tells me. After death, bodies or the “shell”, are cremated after the spirit departs, in one of the most dramatic ceremonies yet. Bodies are buried until the right time, then exhumed, the town gathers for the procession, where the body (placed inside a paper-mache bull) is set to fire. It sounds strangely beautiful and I’m sad I can’t see this. (I’ve been fortunate to see both Mexican and New Orleans burial processions, I would have been interested to see this) But it’s not to be.

Oka then reaches into the glove compartment and unwraps a wood statue: elaborate strokes craft an exotic woman, her fine face uplifted, her arms dancing, her body covered in an ornate wooden lace. She is beautiful. And he gives her to me. I read it’s polite to turn down generous offers. I try to refuse, a wedding and the statue is too much – they smile happily until I finally give in, with gratitude, and hold her carefully in my lap on the drive home.

Conversation lulls and I watch massive stone temples, give way to ornate carvings, wrapped in black and white plaid material stream by. Simple homes and simpler square shops line the narrow street. Their wares hug the space between shop and street. Familiar stone Buddhas give way to unfamiliar elephantesses which relent to even stranger –almost hideous—giant eagle-dragons things that I've never seen before. Everything looks, appears, seems, feels truly foreign to me. I quietly read to myself unfamiliar names of familiar things. The strange new syllables stumble from my mouth. It sounds and feels awkward, like a two year old, learning to how to speak. Oka speeds up to swerve to the other lane past a shop with a sign in the road, next to a pile of rocks that spill into the road: Hati-Hati!

Finally something easy, fun I can sound out—it spills from my mouth. Annie and Oka both swing around with shock – what did you say?! They ask.

Hati-hati – the name of the store, back there. Did I say something wrong?

Annie laughs. Rattles off something to Oka. Then turns to me, Hati-hati means be careful!

We laugh hard over my inadvertent back-seat-driving.