June 12--Day 60

        The Balinese man pulled a coin from his pocket and offered it to me. This benevolent stranger, who had a gentle round face, brown fiery eyes and a soft smile, continued to stretch his palm outward toward me. I quickly turned from the airport pay phone I was attempting to use, but lacked the proper change, and greeted this tender man with a gracious nod. He held the coin out even further for my taking and gave a nod indicating it was indeed for me. In that brief moment, I just stood looking into his glowing eyes wondered what galaxy had I just flown into. As he silently pointed to the phone, I took the coin from his dirty hand and deposited it into the phone. I quickly dug into my pocket for a bill to offer him in return, but with the wave of his hand and a broad smile he turned and walked away into the throng of people flowing through the terminal. I knew in that exchange that this place was different, this place, this Bali, was a brilliant white moon shining throughout the dark night sky.

Bali is oppressively hot and muggy, and the salty wet air stuck to our skin as we walked through town in search of our hotel. Because of the sultry heat, it was an environment conducive to a laid-back, slow-paced setting, and yet remarkably, this place was just bounding with intensity. Literally, I felt as if I’d been thrown into a swirling black hole of pure, absolute energy. Bali immediately seemed like the center of this massive universe, a place where the energy of human life is purest. After coming from Australia, a land mired in such a confused state, this place had focus, and it was a blast of cold air sweeping across my whole body on this scorching day. Bali’s energy was distinct, contrasting, and it savagely attacked every cell in my body. My mind whirled, my soul stirred; I felt invigorated. I buzzed from head to toe, and I felt a tangible sense of being alive. Yes, I was alive.

After dropping a note under Jay and Lisa's door at four this morning, we flew directly north of Perth to the Island of Bali, one of the middle islands in the archipelago of Indonesia. Actually, it's a tiny island measuring approximately 75 miles across and 35 miles in length, and this small circle of land is crammed with nearly three million people. Bali is the "resort" island of the group, and is by far the most common tourist destination of any other island in Indonesia. Upon arriving in Bali, we have now traveled nearly 24,000 miles, that's one direct lap around the equator, and we are 13 hours ahead of the Eastern Time zone. We stand truly on the other side of the globe from home.

We got settled into our hotel, which after a bit of a negotiation cost $10 per night for a double bed, a fan, western toilet, cold shower and a small deck with a table and chairs. The price even includes breakfast and free tea. The hotel itself though is smack in the middle of the bustling activity of the tourist-town of Kuta and a short walk from the beach. Even though the accommodation is basic, it has character; in fact, it's much like the places we stayed in the Cooks and Fiji except that it's in town. Surprisingly, I instantly feel so much more comfortable than in Australia and New Zealand, which now seems more like a "vacation," while here and on the South Pacific Islands, it’s more like "traveling." I'm more at peace here, more in my element; it's me and life feels so "real." A weight has been lifted and I can actually breathe again. Yes, I felt alive again.

Kuta is definitely not, however, the idyllic setting of a tropical paradise. In fact, it's not even pretty. The city is basically a confusing mass of tight, narrow streets thrown arbitrarily next to a gorgeous strip of beach and cluttered with shops, street vendors, bars, and restaurants. There's no semblance of order; its madness is tempered only by Indonesian civility in the pursuit of the tourist's Rupiahs. Its raucous and boisterous voice of overdevelopment and squalidness rings loud and clear. It's tacky, but real. That is, although you are immersed in an endless glut of hawkers and shops selling fake and imitation items, where the town's every breath includes pandering and pesky badgering, it all smacks of reality. This is their life. Kuta is by no means filled with morally debased people however; rather, it is crammed with people just trying to survive on the ever shortening of resources in their country. It is truly an honest pursuit, and generally, although in hawking they will take advantage if you are so disposed, they are not out to "screw" you. For me, it contributes to the overwhelming power and passion of this place. I feel immersed in their world, and from the moment the stranger offered me the coin in the airport, they welcomed me to this place, their universe. I knew this tiny island went beyond the usual, typical tourist spot, and it was in every sense of the word, unique.

On our casual stroll around town we were immediately bombarded by street vendors, "Mister, mister," "Hey lady," "Where are you from?" popped out from every direction. Men selling anything from fake watches to cigarettes came at us from various angles ranting about their products for sale. They knew very little English, if any, except for their original opening line. So, they eagerly followed us down the street chanting the same lines over and over, "Hey, mister, mister" while thrusting their small briefcase full of wares persistently into our chests. Some even ventured to ask, "You like?" or "You buy?" Some really put the hard sell on asking, "You like, I sell you cheap, cheap!"

One anxious gentleman even asked, "I sell you, one dollar."

"Wow, my value has dropped that far, huh?" I replied.

He stared at me blankly. Undeterred, however, he started all over again, "You like?" His short legs moving briskly to keep up while frantically swinging his briefcase full of watches in front of our faces as we meandered toward the beach.

Kuta beach is a gluttonous sandy paradise for the hawkers and touts. If you’re here to "vacation" or just relax, clearly this place would be a constant and driveling annoyance. Just to get to the beach, we had to battle through their unbroken line on the edge of the sand and pass their barrage of taunts, rantings, and harmless gestures. Then even more combed the beach area selling, glasses, wooden carvings, sarongs, massages, and food, blaring at their lung's capacity. Should you even dare glance in their direction, they will be next to you in the blink of an eye. They possess some sixth sense for it. Despite other traveler’s horror stories about this place, however, I rather enjoy it all. For they only go as far as the sale will take them, and once they become discouraged they don't persist to harass or pester you. They're just desperately trying to make a living. In fact, they don't get ornery or angry, despite knowing that you could afford to buy their entire briefcase; they simply walk away looking for the next potential sale. I find their attitude extraordinarily admirable and it all contributes significantly to the pervasive electricity of Bali.

The most complex part about the town of Kuta is just getting around. Although most everything is within walking distance, it can be seriously confounding as the streets are invariably crooked and lined with houses, shops and walls that all appear identical. It provides the distinct feeling of being in a maze. So, we wandered, yes we just wandered in this tangled wonderland, casually taking it all in: the ambiance, the sounds, and the distinct smells of our first sweet taste of Indonesia. It’s a frenzy of activity, bustling and noisy, with the aroma of garbage, sweat, and mouth-savoring foods penetrating our every sense of smell. In this regard it reminded me of New Orleans, where one minute you smell something putrid and the very next a veritable feast of baking pastries. It’s a place for the unexpected and impulsive, a place where life literally changes from minute to minute. And in this profound gift of energy, I felt like a child unable to decide which direction to take, which block to pick up, which morsel to grope for next; and it conjured forth that delightful piece of my spirit, one so rarely indulged.

As we returned to the bungalow, I laid down next to Bren in bed after an ice cold shower. With the window slats open, the geckos chirping just outside, I looked up in the dark room at the ceiling fan spinning wildly in a fruitless attempt to stir a breeze into our stagnantly hot room and I thought about this place, this Bali.

"God, this place, Bren, it just grips you! Do you feel it?"

"Yeah, babe, I feel it," she replied with a noticeable lack of fervor as she dangled on the fringe of sleep.

Bali bombards the senses and much like Vegas, it sucks you into its being so completely that you lose a sense of yourself. It’s a rush of the senses, it overwhelms your emotions, and the energy sweeps you up and whisks you down its winding path. It’s a place that must be felt and lived, not merely seen or mindlessly touristed. However, what makes the energy of Bali so different is that it doesn’t beckon for your soul, it asks for nothing in return, it just gives. It’s one of the only places I’ve ever been that I so distinctly felt this way, this penetrating sense of light—a profound connection with an actual place. Bali is an experience all unto itself, indeed it’s the beacon of glimmering light piercing the darkness, it’s the beauty of life. As I drifted off into a restless slumber, I knew that I had been gripped tight, tossed, and swallowed whole into the grumbling belly of Bali…and yes, within its world, I felt alive.

***************

We woke with the sun, off for a full day of diving at one of the world's prime underwater spots just off the coast of Bali. We passed the hour and half boat ride to the island with a blistering commentary on America with two Aussie couples and another American, who lives in Saudi Arabia. Bren and I had just introduced ourselves, settled into our seats when, "What d'ya think of the O.J. case?" flew through the air and into my unsuspecting ears.

I really hadn't thought of this embarrassing case as a worldwide issue, but obviously in many ways, it was as they all perked up looking directly at Bren and me for a response. I was mildly hesitant, the issue was old and crusty back in the States, but I sensed immediately that on some tangible level it was as relevant to the others as the depletion of the ozone layer. While still in my shock-induced state at the topic of discussion, one of the Aussies then blurted out, "I think it’s a bloody disgrace to your judicial system that a guilty man can walk free like that--"

"Yeah, and it doesn’t say much for the States as a whole either," Bob, another Aussie, interjected, "and the U.S. is supposed to be leading all of us, ha!"

"Here we go again," I instantly thought, bewildered that every person we meet has such an adamant, and usually negative, opinion on the affairs of America.

We were bouncing over the waves of deep blue with spectacular scenery all around, relaxed and excited, and the topic of conversation had turned to O.J. Simpson and America’s judicial system. I stirred. I squirmed. Bren, sitting next to me, placed her hand on top of mine, fully realizing what mountain of lava was violently bubbling beneath. I felt attacked, yet again, simply for being American, for being a representation of the world’s leader, and again, I felt the ire of their oft distorted perceptions of my homeland.

"Well, frankly, it says so much more about race relations in America than it does about our system of justice," I calmly remarked trying desperately to control the tidal flow of animosity swelling within.

"What! This guy is as guilty as sin itself and he’s now running around free in your society, and this says little about your justice system! I bloody doubt that...not only does it say something about your society, it says something about you as a people!" Bob emotionally retorted.

The emotion incited even by a non-American on this issue was simply startling, and I was taken back by the open hostility of these people who had little idea of the inner workings of another’s judicial system or the country itself. Indeed, television was the extent of their knowledge, it was their sole source of understanding. They knew so little yet spouted so much.

"Well, first," I began to say coolly, "I didn't say that it said little about America's judicial system, just that it said more about race relations. Second, he was innocent until proven guilty, and third, he must be proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Those are assurances that anyone who lives in or even travels to the United States enjoys. It is the crux of our judicial system and it's something Americans hold sacred. But yes, and this may surprise you, but I would agree that this incident does speak volumes for us as a people!"

As the words left my mouth I found myself staunchly defensive and unexpectedly embroiled in a heated emotional debate on an issue which at present seemed virtually immaterial.

"Yeah, I understand that, but how can you let an obviously guilty man go free?" Bob said directly to me as if I was holding the key to O.J.'s cell and let him go personally.

"Why is this, I wonder," he facetiously continued, "because he had money; boy, how dollars can bloody buy your way out of any situation in America!"

I couldn't help it, the lava finally spewed forth and I felt the desperate need to explain. For them, it wasn’t just an issue on O.J., rather it was the leader of the world permitting a "guilty" man to walk free in their society all because he possessed money.

"Listen, in American we are judged by a jury of our peers," I continued explaining, "so, the question becomes whether a jury of O.J.'s peers could find him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt."

They all stared at me intently. Entranced. Waiting for another reason to pounce.

"That is the essential question, that is the basis for seeking to clarify your perception. You must understand the psychology of race relations in our country, the reality of it. Blacks justifiably don't trust the police, while the police don't trust them, and whites generally don't understand this clash of distrust, or honestly don't care enough to attempt to understand it. It is a vicious circle of blindness perpetuated by each group's failure to care about the other's plight. Many blacks are angry, many whites feel guilty, many blacks have become blinded by their history of repression, many whites are ignorant, many blacks feel historically taken advantage of, and now many whites are beginning to feel taken advantage of..." I said exasperatedly.

"Truthfully, race relations in America is the single largest factor creating the chaos that currently exists in our country," I continued, "and it’s a beast that roams through our society unchecked. We still live in segregated worlds and integrate only those cultural elements that are forced upon the other or serve as a convenience to their respective ends. Within the bowels of America lives one of the world’s most deadly caste systems, one inherently based on race."

"A caste system in America?" Blair, one of the women--a history professor at a university in Australia--curiously inquired.

"Most definitely," I replied, "I don’t believe that the system has to be as blatant as India’s or South Africa’s to be classified as a system which naturally oppresses certain groups of people. In the States, it’s an extremely devastating system, one that most Americans refuse to acknowledge or even see, and one that is so easily justified because we all have some minimal basic right of freedom. But there are strings attached to this freedom, and at times, this system can become the rope that strangles the life from its repressed citizens."

"Hmm, very interesting," Bob said aloud in thought.

"Indeed!" Blair echoed.

"So now back to O.J.," I continued now with their undivided attention.

"When the defense lawyers brought to the jury a possible scenario that the charges against O.J. were possibly racially motivated, and the defense was able to provide evidence that at least one officer on the scene was ‘of a racially prejudiced mind,’ the jury members became emotionally entangled. It became an emotional ball of guilt, ignorance, and anger rolling with such abandon that it inevitably had to create a reasonable doubt. Now, money may have provided him with a better defense, one that had the ability to take advantage of America’s prejudicial eye, but it was society’s influence, society’s warped mind, and their fear that ultimately unlocked O.J.’s cell."

They just stared at me, eyes pointed in focus and their jaws dropped slightly agape.

"The sad thing about that case was that it was so much more relevant for us as Americans to learn the lesson that, regardless of the outcome of the case, just how devastating racism and its prejudices are to our country. Truly, the state of our country and the interaction between one another far supersedes the guilt or innocence of one man," and with a sigh and deep breath I continued, "and I believe that it's our lesson to learn this as a nation. In fact, maybe having O.J. roam the streets, still in the public eye, will ring as a stark reminder of the chaos created by race relations in the U.S."

"All I can say is 'wow', I just never knew," Blair replied reaching out to pat my leg as if to indicate her resignation.

"Yeah, I never knew to the degree this existed," Bob said with a confounded look.

"Geez, that's bloody incredible really, if you think about it...that a system of justice based on a judgment by its peers inherently runs the risk that societal pressures will taint the purity of the process."

"And it did," I said with a subdued tone.

A pause of silence lingered as we all became consumed in thought and gazed outward over the rolling waves toward our destination, the tropical island of Nusa Penida.

Following a disappointing first dive on the small outer island of Nusa Penida, we then enjoyed a peaceful lunch with the locals. The food in Indonesia is exceptional, our taste buds feel as if they are being assaulted and bombarded with their explosive flavors, and fireworks erupt in our mouths with each savoring bite. We ate at a small restaurant adjacent to a golden strip of beach, however, this part of the island was gravely neglected with garbage and broken bottles strewn recklessly all along the shoreline. In fact, it was impossible to even walk along the beach in your bare feet. As I looked over the garbage depot strewn along the beachfront, one that would be renowned in America, I had to resist the strong impulse to just start picking some of it up. As a Westerner, it was frustrating to think that the locals wouldn't pick up the garbage on such a gorgeous strip of sand just outside their own small community. To conspicuously display just how little they cared for their own living environment and conditions was one of first blatant signs that I was in a third-world country.

As we made our way back to Bali after the second dive, the sea became rough and the wind whipped the waves into a frenzy, which were beginning to tower as much as ten feet above our small boat. A serious storm was brewing creating these massive waves, and Bali’s nickname as a "surfer's paradise" began to take on a life of its own. As we all gripped to the sides of our boat, rising and falling with each cresting wave, we suddenly came across a boat in distress. It turned out that they'd run out of fuel...in the middle of the sea with tourists on board and with this storm rapidly approaching. They didn’t even have a single paddle or life jacket on board, and they were just rolling with the violent ocean waves waiting, hoping for someone to come along and rescue them. Interestingly, although the tourists on board obviously were captured with terror, it really didn't seem to be a big deal to their seemingly indifferent boat drivers. They actually found it humorous.

This event and the neglected Nusa Penida beach were provocative insights into the Balinese culture and their perspective on life; one that seems far different than Western culture. It was my first true glimpse into the ways of a third-world country, a place where life is drastically affected by their environment, and one so opposed to life in America. Their nonchalant attitude, their seemingly irresolute behavior seemed to ring hollow, and their apathy toward human life was profoundly disconcerting. Yet I resisted the swift impulse to judge. I wondered, was I merely ignorant of the harsh realities that grip this land or were they, as it seemed, just ignorant themselves, failing to think about their own living environment or the fragility of human life?

In that moment, I reflected back only hours before on how I felt when the Aussies were emotionally attacking America, and just how little they actually knew and yet so openly judged. It struck me as that thought floated through my mind, that perception only becomes reality for the truly ignorant. That is, if we only become a composite of our perceptions, instead of exploring and discovering a deeper sense of the "truth," we are choosing to experience our lives on a lower level of "awareness." For just as the spiritual connection with Jay and Lisa is part of our "significance" as human beings, we must actively "seek" this deeper depot of knowledge, and more importantly, attempt to grasp the outstretched hand of understanding. This quest for a deeper "understanding" must be the path toward a higher "awareness," and the possibility for a deeper sense of "significance." For me, that is the essence of enlightenment. It’s not some intangible, unseen goal of spirituality; rather it’s a tangible "awareness" of the world around you. This simple "awareness" is the basis for giving back to the whole, our collective, and moving individually toward feeling a sense of "significance." Indeed, within this enlightened state is a piece of our "significance" as human beings.

Later that night, as we roamed the crowded streets of Kuta, I gazed out over the people, the tourists, the hawkers, the vendors, and I distinctly felt Bali’s omnipresent energy. I knew then that within this realm lay the beginning of this basic understanding and hopefully a simple state of "enlightenment" for me personally. Within this place where the energy is palpable, the people spiritual and open, there is a glimmer of light, one so bright that it pierces the cracks in the walls we build as human beings and brightly reflects into my eyes. And upon seeing this light, I felt for one of the few times in my life, truly ignorant. I knew so little and yet felt so much. Indeed, I felt Bali deeply, but I didn’t understand her or the ways of her people. It was another stinging reminder of just how insignificant I was, and how minuscule my thoughts and feelings.

Yes, the struggle with my human imperfections had ensued yet again.

***************

A solitary steely-sounding bell resounding rang out, echoing through the winding corridors of the small town of Sukawati. And we were being taken to the local Police Station. It became the day my life drastically changed forever; it became the day my destiny subtly unfolded into my deep confines of my mind. Although still unseen, this "Red Rock" had finally pierced the surface, and had a life within me. Uluru called forth, it now stood prominently before the altar of my inner being, and this would be the genesis of my personal golden path. I sat on the back bumper of our rented Suzuki jeep, while Bren left to search the area around the Station. It was hopeless, however. Truly, the search was fruitless and only served to secure her peace of mind. Alone, my upper body slouched over my legs with my head squarely within my hands, and as I stared down at the ground between my trembling legs, tears flooded my eyes and dropped innocently onto the dirt road below. Suddenly, it struck me what exactly had happened, what I had lost, what had so easily been stripped from my possession. I frantically tried to control my emotions, but couldn’t. They were my master and I its unwitting servant.

It was at this moment of realization that I gazed upward, and through my tear-flooded eyes, saw Bren coming around the corner toward me, pear-shaped drops streaming down her cheeks and her face filled with horror. Without a spoken word we both knew it was gone. We both realized it in virtually that same moment and as we looked at one another, we felt the pain twisting ever deeper into our hearts. She ran toward me with her arms held outward in sympathy and we both dropped to our knees, together we embraced on the dirt road and wept.

We were frozen in place, and much like the emotional embrace in Sydney Harbor after our furious fight, we were joined. It was a moment of time held together by the human heart and compassion. We were One in our pain, our anger. Any sense of time and the world around us fell away and disappeared into our emotional embrace. Fighting back the tears, Bren could only say in misery, "My God Bri, I'm sorry...I’m so sorry."

Nothing could be said, nothing could temper the knifing pain our bodies felt at that moment. Boundless pain filled our every cell and raged with abandon through our bodies, it stymied thought and paralyzed our spirit. I pulled back and stared into the huge black dots of Bren’s watery eyes, and it suddenly jolted me--this wasn’t some cruel nightmare, it was real and my journal was indeed gone.

The journal I had only finished at two in the morning earlier in the day. The journal I meant to mail home in Perth. The journal for which I had no other copy, the journal I had over 350 hand-written pages of notes, thoughts, poems, and spontaneous statements; in essence, the journal detailing my life and this trip, was abruptly stripped away. It had been so much of my life, and represented so much of who I was and all I was attempting to become. Every day documenting my thoughts, emotions and events, the painstaking effort, the unfailing devotion to my life's dream of writing a book, were all torn away in just a few brutal minutes of time. In truth, there wasn’t a damn thing we could do or say to bring it back, nothing I could do to reproduce it, and I was utterly helpless in the unforgiving arms of fate.

Irony is a twist of fate so distorted that its head engulfs its tail, and freely takes to weaving its own intricate web. Fate certainly had a way of personally showing this to me, as the irony of having just finished the journal cover-to-cover only 10 hours previously, the irony of failing to mail the finished portions home on several occasions, and the irony of placing it in our small rucksack instead of the large, were not lost on Bren or me. It was all so damn ironic, so damn painfully ironic. For both of us, we’ve been models of efficiency, of caution, by taking every measure possible to ensure our safety as well as our belongings. Yet this event contradicted everything. It was so blatantly out of character and this fact created even more gut-wrenching confusion for us both, it haunted us.

It was a rare moment where I was futilely lost; I was underwater out of breath fighting to get to the surface and yet without a clue which way was up. I had no idea how to reach the place where I could find that next breath, I was disoriented, empty and every second that passed seemed achingly meaningless. The "struggle" now seemed vague and intangible, almost pointless, and I was in that moment content just to allow the will of the water to win and fill my lungs.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind, the simple thought, "What would I do now?"

What would I do? The journal was gone, writing the book was now but a mere dream, and life seemed strangely cruel, even hopeless. Indeed, hope was snatched from my grip and no amount of determination or persistence would change this obtrusive fact; what got me over so many hurdles in my short life would not help in the least now. It was daunting, and I had to face another stinging obstacle, that the meddling fingers of fate had plucked away a precious dream.

It couldn’t end this way?

"This couldn’t be my fate," I kept mumbling repetitively to Bren. I just couldn’t get rid of this plaguing thought, the thought that so thoroughly vanquished my spirit and rendered me utterly forlorn. Yet, on some tangible, unseen level, I felt that it was indeed just all too damn ironic.

***************

It had begun earlier in the morning when we left Kuta for Tulamben, a small village on the northeast coast of Bali. It was supposed to be one of the best dive spots on the island, with the prime attraction being the wreck of the U.S. Liberty cargo ship just off shore. We had planned a leisurely drive up the coast and around eastern Bali for at least three days with a dive off the coast to the shipwrecked Liberty. So, we threw our backpacks and small rucksacks in the back of the rented Suzuki and had begun the long, arduous drive up the coast.

We abruptly discovered that driving in Bali is not easy. In fact, it's downright crazy, even maniacal. There are usually only two lanes, one in either direction, and yet you'll regularly find three, maybe four, even five cars abreast on the road. You’ll frequently see a car passing a car, which is passing another car, with a bus passing all of them and small motorbikes in between. It's maddening for a first-time driver in Bali, not to mention driving on the left side of the road again. If the insanity of the driving process isn’t enough, you have to constantly watch out for the smaller "things" that can dart out from anywhere at any second, those "things" which provide the fringe to this strident commotion. In fact, anything and everything roam the roads, all at their own pace: horse-drawn carts, animals of all kinds, objects indiscreetly tossed onto the road, and of course, the ubiquitous motorbikes recklessly weaving in and out of traffic--packed with whole families on them. And for all the chaos, it's normal for them; there is no honking, no yelling at other drivers, no complaining, no "revenge" tactics, it's just all part of the typical driving process. It’s one so distinctly void of America’s tradition of "road rage."

Driving in Bali is an onerous challenge for a Westerner who is used to an abundance of space. In fact, driving in Bali requires use of every aspect of car or motorbike. For with each passing second, I was slamming on the brakes, passing furiously, punching the horn, driving completely off the road, frantically checking my mirrors and swinging my neck around to avoid motorbikes passing on either or both sides. If that wasn’t enough in the small but crowded towns we had to deftly maneuver between people who without sidewalks freely congested our car’s path. It put me in a crazed, almost panic induced state, I had to be; essentially, I had to become one of them in order to survive their roads. And I quickly realized that all is fair in the game of driving in Bali.

Yet for all the insane chaos, it actually had a base of logic. There were far too many vehicles for the narrow roads, so they developed this system which seems completely deranged at first glance, but nevertheless it is a system. The slower vehicle is always expected, so you don't get mad, you just pass. The faster vehicle is expected to take control, and it doesn't matter in the least if you have to pass three slower vehicles to get by or jump into oncoming traffic for the smaller vehicle always yields. Otherwise, it is you who’s holding up the flow of traffic, which then will surely prompt a horn. Another prominent rule of the road is that the bigger vehicle always has the right of way. A steamroller can drive straight down the road and you are the one who must adjust or...get hit. The bus coming at you head on has the right of way even if it’s on your side of the road. Most importantly, people walking in the towns never have the right of way, as a pedestrian you get out of the way or...quickly become "road kill." It's incumbent upon the smaller modes of transport to always give way without exception. Basically driving in Bali, logic controls although it certainly never appears to be the case.

After stopping at an ATM for some cash and a harrowing 15-mile drive we arrived in the small town of Sukawati, the Balinese center for the production of wooden wind chimes. We pulled in front of one of the many seemingly innocuous handicraft stores on the main street. During our brief 5-minute tour, I looked out to the jeep twice to ensure that it was safe and sound. As I proudly returned to the vehicle with two wood chimes, however, I knew immediately something was amiss. The rear door was slightly ajar. My mind raced through a host of possibilities, but it simply refused to acknowledge the most obvious. I knew that I hadn't left the door open, in fact, I was positive. I had definitely locked it and even remembered re-checking it. Even after eliminating this short list of explanations, my mind became laced with self-induced confusion, a defensive mechanism designed to avoid dealing with that which was the most disheartening of the choices. I knew what had happened, yet I in that moment I couldn’t think about it. My mind was frozen.

As I opened the back door, however, there was no avoiding it, no mental gymnastics could avoid the blatantly obvious. The door merely slid open with the slight pull of my hand. As I reluctantly peered inside, my heart pounded in my throat and fear swam freely through my body. Aside from the two large backpacks with our clothes, all of our other belongings were gone. I immediately pulled back jolted and numb, and instinctively, I shielded Bren from looking inside—as if somehow she’d never find out. She quickly slithered past and began screaming, "Oh my God, oh my God...Bri, our stuff is gone! Oh my God, what are we going to do? Bri," she said punching me in the chest and then in the same reflexive moment hugging me, "our stuff is gone!"

As Bren broke out in tears hanging delicately around my neck, I looked around. People, who were standing in front of their shops or who were just walking the street, now stopped and approached the scene. As we became engulfed, Bren suddenly switched gears and flew into a tirade running around in a circle yelling and screaming. Panic had set in and the anger was flowing through her veins, it consumed her.

"Bri, what the hell are we going to do now, even our passports are gone! My God, all that money, your new camera...all gone. What are we going to do? I can’t believe it, I just can’t!"

"They must have broken the lock—" I began saying realizing one of us had to be calm.

"Who gives a shit, our stuff is gone; Bri, it’s all gone!" Bren said completely cutting me off.

"I know, babe, I know," I said still stunned as my body felt like slow-dripping molasses and I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think.

Bren switched gears yet again and began to weep in my arms, while I then took another glance around the street. I tried to logically start at the beginning, to think about what had happened, piece it together, and it struck me that we were the only tourists anywhere around. I looked at all the people swarming the street, like bees around a shaken hive. They circled us en masse, curiously staring at the two rich Americans standing bewildered in their street. I could see clearly that they knew something; yet they just stared. In fact, one of them may have indeed been the culprit. As a lawyer trained to observe body language, "guilt" seemed to be imprinted on each of their foreheads; they all looked so damn guilty. As Bren stood sobbing, I anxiously ran to several immediately encircling us, asking if they saw anything, throwing any question I could that might jog their memory or free their reluctance to speak...

"Did you see anything?"

"Do you know who stole our stuff?"

I even motioned silently, mimicking the actions of one taking something from the back of the jeep. Each one, however, avoided me and simply looked downward to the ground in silence. They conveniently relied on the language barrier to relieve their feelings of responsibility and said nothing. One-by-one they slinked back to the safety of their stores, and that set me off. They had just stood staring at us, they knew what happened, many probably even saw it first-hand, and yet they refused to even acknowledge our predicament or us. Now, it was my turn and I flew into a rage.

"Someone at least call the police!" I vehemently spouted, "I know you all saw it, but no one has the courage to say a word. Okay, okay, I see how it's going to be!"

I turned livid. I was turning into a beast I never thought possible, I snarled and wanted blood. Just then, the police did arrive and I calmed hoping for some sensible action. Many of the people on the street then felt brave and once again encircled us to hear more details. Still, they offered nothing. No one apparently saw a thing, and we soon realized that the officers were even worse. They were casual and indirect; they didn't care, we were just another set of rich tourists. In fact, I began to think they were involved. It was a conspiracy of the highest sorts, to sucker in a few innocent tourists while the whole town then worked as one to rip them off of everything they owned.

"Bren this a huge waste of our time, none of them is going to say a word, and the cops could give a shit. I don't even think they’re competent for god’s sake," I broke out in sheer frustration and obsessed with my conspiracy theory.

There is nothing like the feeling of having something stolen from you. The pain, the anguish of being intentionally dispossessed of your belongings, the sheer invasion of privacy, the premeditated taking of what is rightfully yours. I felt empty yet full of fury; the blood had rushed to my head, I felt confused yet I wasn't; I felt as if I wasn't in my body, yet the pain made it obviously so. I truly couldn't believe it, yet it was all so vividly real. Bren was standing by the jeep crying, saying through the tears, "No, let's go after them, we'll hunt them down ourselves. You're right these assholes aren't going to do a damn thing!"

I laughed to myself and thought, "That's my girl!"

As I hugged her in the middle of the throng of foreigners, we were alone, it was us against the world. I felt it intensely, no one was going to help us, no one cared, it was just her and I halfway across the world from our home in the height of despair and frustration. We were in their country and it was highly possible they were all smirking with profound joy beneath their placid faces, that one of their own snagged some of the Americans’ belongings. Indeed, it certainly felt that way. It was a reality that struck me hard, deep within, that we were alone, and it was us against the entire world. I knew therefore that we had to at least keep our heads together as one.

We had a distinct choice to make. Without a doubt, nothing was going to be done to investigate the scene or hunt for the thieves; however, we needed the police report for insurance purposes. I didn't like the looks of these cops, not one bit, and God only knows what they would want from us for the police report. I had seen enough of Bali to realize that this situation could get much uglier, that the police could openly demand anything for that report knowing that we needed it. With all the doubt lingering, one thing I knew with certainty was that the report would be much easier to get now. The officers were giving us plenty of room timidly asking questions while making a cursory review of the incident. They could see our anger and pain, and they were afraid. They sensed our volatility, and it was obvious they didn’t understand it; they couldn’t comprehend the utter rage over the loss of a couple bags full of goodies, especially when we had the money to just buy more.

So, it was probably better to attempt to get the report while they were afraid and backing off. Despite our unfettered emotional pull to wander around in an attempt to at least understand, to give ourselves the peace of mind we so deeply yearned for, I knew we had to get that police report while they were intimidated. Otherwise, we would come away with absolutely nothing.

***************

We then spent four frustrating hours at the police station recounting our losses, forced to explain it over and over again as their understanding of English was slight, or so it appeared. We took turns attempting to explain the situation while the other went outside to scream their lungs out with total frustration. We understood that it was their country, their laws, their implicit rules, and we needed that report. So, we had no choice but to endure and despite their obvious attempts to remain deliberately ignorant in the hope of getting something from us, we had to be patient; simply, to wear them down. Naturally, it took the entire police force to interpret the events and help type the one-page report. Eight men stood around us abuzz with our predicament, and even though we were calm, they clearly sensed our loss and remained hesitant. We were obviously the "action" injected into their otherwise boring and mundane day, and each one probed us independently offering their support in the hope that we would single them out and offer them something from our sacks of wealth. All we could do was laugh together for we had absolutely nothing to give for all the good stuff had been stolen.

The thieves had scampered away with both small rucksacks containing my new SLR camera and lenses, scuba equipment and logbooks, our passports, driver's licenses, Walkman, sunglasses, our guidebooks and notes, over $200 worth of Rupiahs, and of course, my journal. All our identification was gone, and yet we had to be grateful, our plane tickets and ATM cards had been securely tucked away in our large packs. That which we truly couldn’t afford to lose we didn’t, all except of course, my journal, my dream.

After finally getting the police report without giving anything in return, we drove to the U.S. Embassy to explain the loss of our passports. In fact, we couldn’t leave Indonesia without new passports. We showed up at the doorstep of the Embassy emotionally tattered and mentally vexed. To add to our overwhelming feeling of isolation, we had been away from home for over two months and had begun to experience symptoms of withdrawal.

"Hey, even though we got ripped off at least we'll be able to get a taste of home, it'll be good to see Americans again," Bren said excitedly as we pulled up to the front gate.

"Yeah, just to hear American English again…wow!" I returned.

What had begun with the promise of one of the best parts of the journey, had turned so suddenly into a raging nightmare. Unfortunately, something inside told us both that it would get even worse before it got any better.

We were hassled practically before we even entered the Embassy as one of the staff came running out to inform us that, despite being the only souls at the Embassy, we couldn't park anywhere near the driveway of the complex. Then as it turned out, not a single staff member was American (except the consular), and none spoke articulate English. In fact, we found the three staff members barely comprehensible.

"Do you think that in China’s Embassy in the U.S. they would only speak English, that they wouldn’t speak Chinese?" Bren solemnly offered as we were now "escorted" to a simple, well-marked door for "passports and visas."

Upon arriving we weren't permitted inside the Embassy, instead we had to sit outside on a bench and fill out the forms. In Bali, few phones have international access, only special phones possess the capability. So, one of the primary conveniences here at the Embassy would be to use the phone without going on a wild hunt for one in town. Upon my request to use the phone to call the insurance company, however, the staff lady indelicately refused.

"I can't do," she coldly replied.

"It's a collect call for crying out loud," I said absolutely shocked at the struggle to get the Embassy to help us, at her patent indifference to our plight.

"What exactly is our Embassy for?" I sarcastically asked Bren, who shrugged with a smile.

"At least we could smile at this point," I thought.

The staff lady still did not usher a word, instead she just stared at us both, the only non-staff members in the entire Embassy complex.

"I'll pay," I reiterated, "it costs you nothing!"

She paused, and then harshly stated, "Okay...but quickly. Only you, she stay out," she said in choppy English sternly pointing to Bren with her crooked, wrinkled finger, as if both of us were permitted inside we'd immediately take to ransacking the place.

The rage of having most of our important belongings stolen, my journal in particular, and then spending four hours at the Sukawati Police Station, was quickly being redirected toward my own Embassy. My patience was wearing extraordinarily thin, and I was beginning to question the purpose of our Embassy at all.

I refocused and made the call to the insurance company, after which I politely asked if I could then call home. She instantly declined saying, "No, you get only one phone call."

"I just want to use the phone to call home on my calling card," I pleaded thinking she must again not understand my query.

"No. You use phone only one!" she restated this time with venom.

"What! This is absolutely ridiculous. First, it was no phone calls, now it’s just one. Is this a prison or the American Embassy?" I asked sardonically.

"You go outside now..." she told me completely ignoring anything further I had to say.

As I hesitatingly exited, I found Bren standing at the door furious.

"This is total bullshit," she spouted, "I’m going to smack that woman!"

I pushed Bren away from the door as she passionately explained, "I asked her for a pen to fill out the forms and she had the gall to ask if I had my own. Like, hey, I was just ripped off of everything I own, but I’ve got a goddamn pen, and just for a thrill I thought I’d ask her for one!"

"Then--" she continued.

"There’s more?"

"Oh, it gets worse, listen to this, she gets a pen and another form for your passport, which SHE forgot, and then deliberately tosses them at me so that they fall to the ground and I’m forced to pick them up!"

"You’re joking, oh man, this is out of control. This lady isn’t even an American citizen, I mean what the hell is going on here. We show up at our own Embassy as American citizens and we’re shit on by people who aren’t even Americans!"

"I don’t know, but there is no reason for this—none whatsoever! Once again today, I can’t believe that this is happening!" Bren added with fire.

We agreed, however, to just let it go, regroup, regain our composure, pay for the replacement passports, and just go have a couple beers simply chalking it all up to a bad day. We walked back up to the staff lady from hell and handed her the completed forms and a $100 and a $50 in U.S. dollars that fortunately we had in our large backpacks for the passport fees ($65 each). She actually gave us a nod of thanks, and told us to have the photo center courier the passport pictures back to the Embassy tomorrow and we could pick our new passports in a week or so. She then retreated casually back into the Embassy.

We waited...and waited.

I started having a strange feeling, and began cautiously calling into the back, "Hello, hello."

No reply.

"Where’s our change? This lady’s really pushing me," Bren exclaimed loud enough for her to hear.

"I don't know, but this is really getting ridiculous. Hello, hello," I clamored.

Still, no reply.

"Dammit, hello, hello," I said extremely agitated and ready to explode.

Finally, she popped back out, "Yes," she said sarcastically, as if we were sincerely bothering her for our $20 in change.

"Howwa 'bout our change?" I inquired.

"No change."

"What do you mean, NO change..." I said seething.

"No U.S. dollars, no change."

"You mean to tell me that this is Embassy of the United States of America, and you have NO U.S. Dollars," I said on the verge of busting down the door.

"Yes."

"Okay, and at exactly what point where you going to inform us that you'd be confiscating our $20 dollars?" I asked with a bite of abhorrence.

She said nothing. She just stood staring at me.

"Do you want your money back?" she asked.

"Do you have Rupiahs here, the national currency of this country?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Well then, we'd be content just to take the change in Rupiahs instead of U.S. dollars," I said with relief, thinking it was a rational solution.

"I cannot do, you must give me Rupiahs to get Rupiahs..."

"What?"

"She’s just playing with us, Bri—this is a joke, coming to the Embassy. An absolute joke!"

"So now, you want your money back?" she offered.

I snapped.

"You’re damn right I want my money back, and ya know, while you’re back there trying to figure out how much you tried to steal from us, just get the consular out here!"

After a few minutes, the consular did appear and innocently asked, "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, like Miss Hospitality over there didn’t tell you what happened, this is a joke!" Bren declared.

After a brief laugh at Bren, I facetiously inquired, "Well, for starters you can verify that we are indeed in the right place, that this is the American Embassy?"

"Yes, it is," he staunchly replied.

I explained the theft of our bags and the emotional loss of the journal, and how upon coming to our own Embassy we have been curtly and rudely received. How we have had documents thrown at us, been hassled about using the phone of which we were only permitted one phone call, and now after tendering $150 U.S. dollars we were told that the Embassy had no change and that’s only after the staff member attempted to pocket the $20 difference.

"All of this has occurred, mind you," I continued, "without the slightest hint of an explanation."

"Well, I am sorry," the consular meekly deferred.

There was a pause as the consular acted as if the apology would appease us.

"Honestly, I feel more alienated in my own Embassy than I did being ripped off in the streets of Bali, at least I wasn’t ripped off directly to my face!" I passionately stated.

He remained impassive. Standing, silent, staring.

"What do you do for a living in the States?" he finally inquired.

"I don't see how that is at all relevant," I said pausing, "but before this trip, I practiced law."

He paused, gazing at me, sizing me up.

Finally, he relented, "Okay, c'mon back to my office, you can make as many phone calls as you'd like."

It was another stark reminder of the inner workings of American society; that is, if you "do" something, if you have a respectable career, you’re somebody. In American culture, you are what you do. I wasn’t foolish enough to believe that I was walking to the consular’s office because I was a human being in need or because I was an American citizen, but rather because I was a lawyer. I was only then considered "somebody," a person who should be respected and given the right to use the phone.

In that piercing moment I hated my country, I despised America. I had never felt such utter disdain for my home, a place I always held with esteem and honor, but as I stared at the consular and the flag of Stars and Stripes behind him, I suddenly felt sick. Is this how foreigners are treated, or other countries are dealt with by America, that you’re deprived of civility if you’re not "somebody" to the good old United States of America? That if you aren’t listed high on their social ladder of respect, then you’re dirt, you’re nothing? Yes, that you’re just like the hawkers and touts in Kuta, a driveling annoyance, a mere obstruction to their self-ordained "right" to use the golden strip of beach?

I followed him back to his office jaded, even naked, and somehow I felt less American. Bren followed us to the back still fitfully mad and gave the staff lady a gelid sneer as we passed.

"What the hell is going on around here, seriously?" I finally asked.

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Are you kidding me, after what I just explained, you really don’t know. Well, is this typically how American Citizens are treated abroad?"

"I really wouldn't know..." he replied.

"I guess that's part of the problem right there," I said mockingly in disbelief.

"Practically speaking, it’s not my job."

"Well then whose is it? I mean this lady isn’t even an American citizen, she’s out there probably personally pocketing our twenty bucks, being rude as can be, for god’s sakes she representing our government, our country! And, mind you, all of this comes on the heels of an ordeal with the police after being dispossessed of everything that is important to us!"

He again remained impassive, unsympathetic.

"I really don't understand this at all, to come here in emotional toil and to be treated in this manner is truly a disgrace to our flag; it's an absolute disgrace!" I said pointing to the American flag standing in the corner.

Silence.

He was nervous and disturbed with our presence, his hands shook slightly as he motioned for me to take the seat in front of his desk. He reminded me of the Sukawati Police, tentative, sensing our anguish and surely, the fury over our treatment here. He continued to stare at me in wonder, at the dirty T-shirt and shorts and my overall ragged appearance--something that happens naturally after two months on the road. Still, he seemed as if this treatment was a normal occurrence or procedure, almost as if what I was asking was beyond the parameters, or even courtesy, of the Embassy.

It struck me deep inside that I felt out of place as he replied gingerly, "Oh, well, quite honestly, there is nothing we can do about the payment for the passports. If you can get Rupiahs, we can then give the appropriate amount in change back in Rupiahs."

"Fine, I guess we'll have to do that, but that doesn't dismiss your staff member trying to keep the $20 without so much as an explanation and her intolerable behavior."

"Well, I am sorry about any insensitivity to your situation, and as far as the $20 is concerned it was probably just a miscommunication, but you are welcome now to make as many phone calls as you'd like," he said apologetically. He was lying. He knew she was attempting to pocket the $20, maybe it was a form of under the table payment. Oddly, now I really felt as if there was a subtle conspiracy, and the Embassy conveniently didn’t keep American dollars on hand.

"Quite frankly, it doesn't seem like your staff would provide much sensitivity to any situation," I said as I picked up the phone and thought how truly strange it was that an American Embassy wouldn’t have U.S. dollars.

He just stared at me in silence.

"Wow. What am I going to do now?" I thought as I was connected to the operator, and my thoughts turned back toward the journal. It plagued me, that feeling of loss lingered, and no matter the situation, it remained a tight knot in my stomach, aching. My dream has been shattered. What I once thought was my plight, my desire to write about something that I loved, my truest fate, simply turned out to be just some provocative illusion, a misplaced thought. Indeed, it was just a freely floating second among the ramblings of time. I was forcibly alienated from that which I cherished, and there was no possible way I could reproduce those thoughts, spontaneous reflections, and emotions. It was over, and I had to face this stinging reality. There was no Mary Matthews’ "faith" to lift me, nothing intangible within to draw on, and nothing physically I could possibly do. I was alone and helpless; a piece of me was torn, ripped from my soul and forever taken.

"Hello," a groggy familiar voice answered on the line, "is anybody there?"

When your dreams are stripped away, without that which personally inspires your soul what is left to motivate the human spirit?

"Yeah, it’s me," I somberly replied without a clue how to answer that disturbing question. "It’s just me," I repeated and I agonizingly wondered, "Yes, what am I going to do now?"

Copyright © 1999 PbFisher. All rights reserved.