"He was pronounced dead!" Vivian cried out in horror.

We were headed back to Sukawati, yet again, to confront the people we suspected of having our stuff, but this time we took Vivian to translate for us. After describing our recent endeavors and the motorbike accident in particular, Vivian began telling us the shocking story of how her best friend's husband was electrocuted at work and pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital. However, Vivian's friend was not immediately informed about the incident and when she finally arrived nearly three hours later, she found her husband lying prone on a bed in the middle of the hallway with a sheet covering his body. As she wept on his body she realized that it was still warm. She instinctively checked for a pulse and discovered that he was still alive. However, while waiting for the doctor, he died in her arms. As tragic as it was, in Bali, there is no means of recompense for such an egregious error in judgment, there just isn't enough physicians. It's just an accepted reality of life here and it shines a brilliant light of perspective upon our gifted lives in America. As an American, it almost seems sacrilegious to just move on without some monetary compensation for such a loss. Coming from a society where money is the foundational core, where in such a case his life would be assessed monetarily and then awarded to the wife, it strikes me profoundly that she receives nothing financially, not even insurance proceeds upon his death.

"Your friend receives nothing financially as a result of her husband's death?" I asked Vivian.

"No. That's not even a question here. In reality, all they want is better health care."

"You mean, they wouldn't want monetary compensation for their loss, especially where such blatant neglect was the cause of death?"

"No, they really wouldn't."

"How do they survive, especially like in this case where the husband or breadwinner dies?"

"The family comes in and helps support the survivor and the children."

It smacked me hard. That's it, plain and simple. That's the difference between Balinese society and American society. In America, the foundational key to society is money. It's what we work for, it's what we work to maintain, it's what we’re taught makes us happy, and we are compensated for losses, even losses of human life, with it. In Bali, the foundational key to their society is family. That's what they work for, what they work to maintain, what makes them happy, and it is the glue which provides the compensation during their times of loss, even times when someone else's overt neglect was the cause of their anguish.

I really don't know what's worse though, having no recourse legally as here in Bali or being overly litigious and preoccupied with money as we are in the U.S. Before I would have thought such gross neglect without monetary compensation would have been a travesty, even unconscionable. But when viewed against our way of life, one in which money accounts, even dictates, human life, our system now seems strangely alien. In a system designed to help the injustice, it’s grossly unfulfilling on a personal level. And even further, we have created a world bound with the twisted thought of always receiving something, rather than giving, and this preoccupation with monetary compensation perpetuates this distorted indulgence. With money as the primary focus, naturally it builds a system predicated upon fairness, however, is it also just as naturally creating a system that pulls us all away from what is important in life? Does this blatant, almost obsessive, focus inherently inhibit our potential to find happiness? Just because you’ve been compensated as fairly as possible financially doesn’t remove the pain, the hardship or the injustice that manifested. So, does it merely offer an empty hand in assistance, because the money itself does little to help the person onward, to grow from the inequitable event? Does this monetary compensation now seek to replace the bonds of human compassion and our bonds within the family unit?

Without a doubt, within our modern world this monetary compensation creates a false sense of hope, and it affords us the opportunity to justifiably turn our backs from human compassion and sacrifice. It enables us to sustain our private, selfish worlds without interference from other’s troubles or problems, even if the troubles plague a family member. Once again, the money or even the system, are not the resounding problem here, but rather the absurd lengths we take them and the value we place on them. Of course, the money provides a sense of justice, a touch of what’s been taken, recompense in the name of fairness; however, if we had a choice of one or the other, overall the Balinese system has more to offer us as human beings. For it offers the potential for personal growth, to temper the pain with love and to flourish within the human spirit of one’s family. Profoundly, no longer in America is the family the center of our world, it no longer stabilizes our society, and unfortunately, it’s been replaced by something that can’t and never will have that affect, money. Without a doubt, money has now replaced family as the basic component of our society, and as a result, even in times of gross injustice like with Vivian’s friend, our preoccupation with money serves to taint the attempt to offer a sense of righteousness. It actually wields a two-edged sword of its own, slicing off the scales of justice and denigrating all that we are as human beings in the process. Once again, in American society, it’s another way that we become less than we were before, we become merely a piece of our prior self. Simply, we have so easily sanctioned this daunting path, and now we destroy instead of build.

I thought back to New Zealand and balancing our modern world with nature. Indeed, we have become so selfishly consumed with our own personal desires and individual needs, that we have become societally conditioned to expect something to be given to us, and even more, that the individual is greater than the whole. That is, the individual is greater than humanity, greater than society, and greater than even the family. Just as in Queenstown, where modern man had swung so easily over the delicate boundary of balance and impinged upon nature, have we swung past a system predicated upon "fairness" and into a realm of pure avariciousness, one where we now so easily indulge a sense of getting "something for nothing?" Sadly, it seems we have thoughtlessly trampled the "ideals" of fairness and justice, by our greed and narcissistic appetite and egoistic ambitions. It’s become another sign of our massive "sell-out," another way we have been bought and conditioned to sacrifice our souls for economic gain. To this end, we have savagely destroyed our essence as human beings, and so blatantly tainted the purity of our existence. Ironically, we actually believe that within this system and behavior lays the golden chain of "happiness" just waiting to be slung around our bowed head. However, much like the "American Dream," these aspects of our society that we hold up as the "ideal" only serve to savagely undermine the sanctity of being human.

As we arrived in Sukawati, we first stopped at the house with the incessantly bickering family. Vivian and I approached the home where they immediately recognized me. It seemed to create subtle chaos within the small courtyard as people immediately began scurrying in nervous apprehension. One of the women present from that day came running out to greet us and she scolded the others to remain inside. She then told Vivian that the shop was rented out by the woodcarver we had spoken with previously, and that the other woman who showed up was actually the woodcarver's wife.

"So, there's your connection between the woodcarver and this house," Vivian said to me.

"The woodcarver thought you wanted to buy some wood products and that was the reason he sent you here."

"Okay, but why would he be under that impression we wanted to buy something after reading our flyer three or four times which clearly explained our purpose?" I asked.

"Well, this woman knows much more but she seems unsure what to say."

"Anyway, if he believed we were potential customers why didn't he accompany us? No, this doesn’t make sense."

"I definitely have that impression too. She’s hiding something."

"Well, let’s go find the woodcarver then!"

We returned to the woodcarver’s residence and confronted him.

"He says that someone lost a bag back 12 years ago and he thought you were referring to that bag," Vivian relayed to Bren and me.

"C’mon, why would two Americans show up 12 years later searching for some lost bag?" I said out loud to Bren and Vivian.

"Not only that but doesn’t that contradict what the other woman just told us," Bren interjected.

"Yes! Because she said that he thought we were potential customers, for he’s acknowledging that we were looking for a lost bag," I concluded.

"Then ask him why he gave us the business card and sent us to the other address."

"He claims that he did that because he felt sorry for you."

Not only was this ridiculous, but he failed to even look in our direction, which is peculiar for the Balinese. I was beginning to lose my patience and began pounding on him with questions, via Vivian.

"How did he know about the missing camera then?" I asked sternly.

"He says that's just what he heard happened a couple weeks back," Vivian replied.

"Wait, he's saying that he heard a bag was found recently, not just the one 12 years ago?"

"Yeah, you kinda caught him there, because he now claims that there were two lost bags and he thought you were referring to the one 12 years ago."

"Oh, yeah, that makes a lot of sense. If two bags were missing 12 years apart, my natural inclination would be to think that someone was talking about the one 12 years ago," I was mumbling in frustration, "Well then, where is this missing bag he's heard about?"

"He doesn't know."

"Well, where did he hear about it and from whom...get a name or address?"

"He says that he doesn't remember."

I was edging ever so close to just jumping on top of this man and strangling every last lying breath from his lungs.

"He says that he wants to help us though. He wants the information of our whereabouts and contact numbers, and he'll see what he can do," Vivian said.

"Oh this is so frustrating," Bren spiked in with a resonating groan.

"Okay...this is a waste of time, he's obviously lying but there's nothing we can do except get the Police involved or accept his sincerity about helping us. Surely, he has the bag hidden somewhere off the premises now after we came here the last time, and if we get the Police involved they won't find it and then we'll definitely never see the bag again. We have no choice really but to accept his offer to help and wait..."

We all agreed.

So, did the woodcarver then burn the bag as Eebu foretold?

We returned to Kuta frustrated and somber, yet still hopeful. We all agreed that they definitely had the bag at some point and were lying about the whole thing, but the question was whether they still had the bag. Unexpectedly, we have yet to discover any inconsistency with the reading. Eebu has been remarkably accurate in describing her vision of the theft and the whereabouts of the bag, even down to the dim-witted woodcarver. On some level though, it’s not surprising. When I left her humble hut, I knew that day that I believed her, it was something that I felt. However, nevertheless for it to actually play out in reality has had a profound impact on my psyche, for it’s now true, and this "truth" burns deep within, it resoundingly beats its own tune within my spirit. I know now that who I am isn’t who I thought I was, the "me" of now is merely a precious end of something so much deeper, so much grander, so far beyond the cusp of my present understanding or comprehension. It’s an inherent beauty, one that is just as unsettling for I now know, now feel, now believe that there is so much more that I don’t understand than I do. Indeed, that I am more than I see or feel, or even understand.

So, I am not an animal after all, I am not genetically bound except in this realm, and my parents are mere players not creators. This place, this earth, is merely a realm for an exercise in the physical, to touch the folds of primal instinct and desire. A chaotic place for the imperfect, bound by the imperfect, with nary a hope to ever be more than imperfect. However, I am still bound by this life, bound by the decisions I make within this imperfectness, I am still a composite of who I was, who I am, and who I will be. Time now loses its meaning, its place, for now who I will be is who I am today, who I was, is who I will be. Because without the physical body, this realm, time loses its distinction, and we become only markers of the tangible from the intangible. It’s an interconnectedness of the universe, a tapestry woven so delicately, and I now feel a part of it.

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

We were off to the next island east in the Indonesian archipelago, Lombok. Instead of waiting in vain for the return of the bag, we decided we'd wasted too much time already and departed for a small "getaway" island off the coast of Lombok. After the hellacious ferry ride to Lombok where both Bren and I were seasick for the entire two hours and a young teen-age girl vomited on Bren's legs, we crammed onto a tiny boat with five obnoxious surfers from Brazil. But for all the trouble, when we finally arrived at the beautifully idyllic isle all our worries instantly drifted away with the soft rolling waves of the ocean. It swept us away from all that we endured in the strange land of Bali and I felt much like I did upon arriving in Fiji where the nagging worries commensurate with American society seemed to float away. The cumbersome anchor had been removed, and I sensed, reveled, in the liberty.

The tiny island of Gili Nanggu can be hiked around completely in less than 20 minutes. It's small and intimate—it’s perfect to douse our anxieties over the oddities of Bali. There are only 8 bungalows, a couple dozen smaller cottages and just one place for food on the island. For $13 US, we received our own personal two-bedroom, two-story thatched bungalow right on the sands of the beach overlooking the clear azure waters of the Flores Sea. Much like on Fiji, it was basic and primitive. The second floor consisted of the two rooms where we had a double bed with a single light bulb hanging from the towering ceiling above. The bottom floor was primarily a tiled deck with two wicker chairs, a table, and a "mandi."

A "mandi" is an Indonesian bathroom; it's an all-in-one bath and toilet. The "mandi" itself is a large basin where water resides and is necessary due to the lack of running water. It serves three purposes. First, after utilizing the hole in ground depository, or "squat pot," you take water in a bucket from the mandi and pour to flush. Second, it is a means of bathing, by taking the bucket of water and pouring it over yourself. And third, the water serves as toilet paper; otherwise you’re merely left with your hand. It’s one of the diverse aspects of traveling that I so cherish, different ways of doing things, challenging my perspective, and developing a sense of appreciation. It’s the basis for traveling.

With very few people around, the crystal blue water, the soft, white sand, the tranquility, all made it paradise found. After the trials on Bali, Gili Nanggu met us with a kiss of serenity. It was one of the most beautiful, pristine places we've ever seen and it certainly couldn't have come at a better time. "It’s amazing that places like this still exist on our planet, and have yet to be exploited," I said to Bren the following morning in the small dining hut.

"I know, isn’t it awesome," Bren was saying as we were immediately bombarded by scores of villagers; they just kept coming. They were arriving by the boat-full and anxiously cramming into the tiny hall.

"What's going on?" I asked one of the workers.

"Oh, big fight, big fight," he excited exclaimed.

"What, what fight?"

"Oh, Tyson fights, Tyson fights!" he cried out jubilantly.

"You are getting the pay-per-view fight here on this tiny island, you've got to be kidding me, where’s the television?" I inquired with absolute shock.

"Yes, yes, you watch. Come, come," he said leading Bren and I to the front row of chairs displacing a few of the locals and removing a curtain that revealed a 20" color television.

We sat down next to another tourist who seemed to be of European stock as the villagers crowded in all around us. As we have been one of the few Americans to visit Gili Nanggu, they were all extraordinarily excited to hear of our opinion on the fight.

"Who you think win...Tyson or Holyfield?" asked one of the villagers who had been volunteered to approach us.

"We like Holyfield."

"Holyfield! Holyfield!" he bellowed as he ran through the hall. And with this news, the crowd seemed to let out a collective groan of displeasure. I turned around to find all eyes were focused on Bren and me. Another villager, who spoke much better English then approached, "They all want to know why you Americans not like Tyson?" he asked incredulously, then pointing to the anxious crowd behind us.

"We would like to see Holyfield win, that's all..."

"Why you not like Tyson?" he continued undeterred.

"Well, first, Americans always love the underdog, you know, the one who's not suppose to win, and second, I think Holyfield is a good guy."

"And Tyson's a convicted rapist," Bren quickly added.

"Yeah, it's pretty simple really."

He paused and stood staring at us with a look of utter confoundment.

He then said, "I don't understand, why do you not like Tyson?"

"He's a criminal," I replied.

"Ah, a criminal, but why you still not like Tyson?"

"Are you for Tyson?" I asked trying a different tack realizing I was getting no where with common sense.

"Yes. We all," he declared motioning to all those behind us, "you are only ones for Holyfield."

"Really, wow!" I said genuinely surprised. There were hundreds jammed into this tiny little dining hut and yet we were the only ones for Holyfield, "Why is that?"

"Tyson is Muslim. We are Muslims," and with that a chorus of "Tyson, Tyson, Tyson," began to ring through the hall, "Tyson will win, he will beat your Holyfield!"

He said it with venom; pure passion of the heart, and in truth, the emotion oozing from the throng behind us startled me.

"Yeah," I said drifting off being cautious about not causing a religious revolt.

As the chorus of "Tyson" chants still rang through the air, he bent down in front of me and said in a whisper, "My friend, I do not understand why you like Holyfield?"

"Well he's seems like a good person, a good human being."

"Yeah, but he's not Muslim."

That's what it was to them a battle of religion, Christians vs. Muslims. It absolutely didn't matter what explanation I offered, it was a fight between religious faiths. I hesitate to even imagine what would have occurred had I actually said I liked Holyfield because he was a Christian.

The older European gentlemen next to me leaned in toward me and gently offered, "I'm pulling for Holyfield myself, but I certainly wouldn't say that out loud."

"It's unbelievable isn't it. Where are you from?" I ventured.

"Salzburg."

"Wow, I loved Salzburg when I visited there a couple years ago. One of my favorite spots in Europe actually."

"Yes, it's an enjoyable place to spend your life. Where are you from in the States?"

"Pittsburgh. Ever hear of it?"

"Yes, actually."

"Really, you've heard of Pittsburgh, that's impressive."

"Well, my father was an American prisoner of war and was held near Pittsburgh, I think in Harrisburg," he said in his thick German accent.

"Ouch. I don't know if I should apologize or what?"

"It was a long time ago, it certainly happened on both sides," Franz pointed out.

"Yeah of course it did," I was thinking, but that was the first I'd ever been confronted with an American-held POW, naturally I've always heard of the Americans being held captive.

As the fight went on, the villagers became as raucous as the most avid American boxing fan, leaping around uncontrollably, yelling with every punch. It was an emotionally charged environment, especially any time Tyson took the upper hand. For them, it was religious battle. For me, it was hundreds of people chanting and pulling for a man who, to me, represents so much of what is wrong with sports in America. They were so passionately cheering on Tyson, and despite our differing reasons for pulling Tyson and Holyfield, I became emotional. I found myself on the edge of my chair, fists clenched and throwing jabs with Holyfield, truly hoping that with one punch he'd silence them all.

When the fateful round came and Tyson bit Holyfield's ear, the crowd roared with approval and laughter. It was funny. This was a war of religious faith, one that shouldn't be decided over a small bite on the ear. Then as the decision came forth that Tyson had been disqualified, the already restless crowd went wild with fanatical jeers and hissing. Tyson, about this time, began acting like a caged animal storming around the ring and pandemonium broke loose with people storming the ring. One of the Indonesian gentlemen near me patted me on the back saying, "Your country funny. America very funny place."

I sat stunned. I cringed with appalling disbelief as I watched this pandemonium break out in front of me and I thought, "My god, this is truly how far we as Americans have come. How embarrassed I was to be an American--to have to admit that was my culture, my country they were indeed watching on TV. Yeah, that is America."

I sat back in my chair, sighed and said to Bren, "Is that really America, our home, is that the place we left only three months ago. Has it changed that much?"

"Unfortunately, I don’t think that it’s changed, I think we had just grown used to it."

As Bren and I made our way back to the bungalow, we were surrounded and bombarded with questions and comments about our home.

"Is this America?"

"I like America" one guy kept crying out as he imitated Tyson biting Holyfield.

"America very funny place; I go there one day," another said as he threw punches in the air.

"America the beautiful," another yelled out toward us as the entire group rang out with laughter.

As I sat in the bungalow peering out over the ocean which was only feet from our doorstep, I knew that this wasn't just a black eye for Tyson or even boxing; no, it was one against the United States of America, my home. As angry as I was with the locals for laughing at us as Americans and our country, I sullenly realized that I really couldn’t be, for it was a true and accurate reflection of our culture—all in a 30-minute boxing match. I guess it was funny to them, to see first hand an enormous superpower, an empire that leads the world, a country with incredible wealth and power, running around a boxing ring acting like a bunch of barbarians. It perfectly exemplified the tainted purity of American culture, and what in truth, was the driving force behind its bold and arrogant exterior, violence, money and sports. In that moment, it was the first time that I truly felt like what I thought, what I wrote about my home, was actually true. And, even more, that the darkness of this "truth" was blacker than I ever thought imaginable, that yes, America was deteriorating from within, its core silently being devoured by its own people.

Where is this going, will this epidemic stop before its too late?

Yes, I can see how it would be incredibly funny to them. America the beautiful, indeed.

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

The remainder of our time Gili Nanggu was spent lounging in the sun, snorkeling, and planning the rest of the trip through Indonesia. With so few people here, it had a penetrating feel of isolation, which after Kuta Beach the serenity was a pleasant aphrodisiac of life. We spent our evenings casually relaxing, reading and talking beneath the luminosity of the soft glow of our single bulb, while the nights quickly faded into the darkness of the next day, giving the distinct impression that our time here was just one long day. Indeed, in what felt like the passing of single day, we were already taking the ferry back to Bali. And I distinctly feel that I'm not ready to deal with Bali yet, four days away wasn't enough; however, we really don't have much choice having made arrangements with Eebu for the spiritual cleansing tomorrow.

We arrived back in Bali in the late afternoon and immediately were swarmed by drivers offering to take us the three-hour ride back to Kuta in their bemos (or minivans). It was viciously hot and it attacked every part of our already beleaguered bodies. Just thinking about the three-hour ride back to Kuta seemed to sap the remainder of our energy. After endlessly bargaining on a fare, we finally arranged a ride with three other girls who already had the bemo. We loaded our backpacks, jumped in and waited, waited and waited still some more all while wilting in the heat like a flower in the deadening sun. We were waiting for the third girl to join us. However, after all the other bemos were gone, we were sitting in the lone bemo, suffocating in the stifling heat, parched and with no water.

I turned to the two girls in the back and asked, "Where are you from?"

"Korea."

"Well, what's going on, where's the other girl?"

"Our sister adda ferry..."

"Why don't you go get her?"

"She go crazy," the sister replied.

"What do you mean she's gone crazy, how?"

"She go crazy here in Bali," she said ardently, "we leave her, okay?"

"Why don't you just go get her?"

"No!" she snipped.

"We try already," the other sister quickly added.

"Well, does she have a way of getting back if we leave?" Bren asked.

"No," the first sister replied exasperatedly, "we go anyway..."

"Wait, does she have any money, any Rupiahs to get back to Kuta?"

She shook her head side to side indicating that she didn’t.

"You're just going to leave her here without any money?" Bren asked with utter disbelief.

"She go crazy...nothing we can do," the first sister again reiterated as a young woman came running down the dirt road kicking up dust, dragging her small pack listlessly along the ground in tow. We all watched as she streaked passed our van screaming wildly and ripping pieces of her clothes off. She then began jumping around fanatically, throwing punches in the air while shrieking with high-pitched squeals. I turned around to the sisters and without a word they were both already nodding their heads up and down, their faces clearly filled with embarrassment and frustration, "Yes, she go crazy!"

She then sat down in the middle of the dusty dirt road, still blaring her lungs out, wailing in an absolute frenzy. A single man approached, he was a police officer. He bent down cautiously to her and as he reached out in a comforting motion, she lashed out and deliriously slapped him in the face and began running down the street mired in hysteria. The cop stood motionless, stunned as he watched her bolt down the street screaming, her hands flailing about her head. Having heard about the mad tourist strike an officer, people now curiously began lining the street. They came out in droves.

"Bri, go talk to her."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you can calm her down and get her in the van. I’m dying in here."

"Oh, I can't believe this, we are back in Bali less than a half-hour and this crazy shit is starting again. This is getting absolutely ridiculous. It really is."

"I know, it is all unbelievable," Bren said chuckling, "but just get her in the van so we can go."

I looked up at the ceiling of the van, let out a deep sigh and said, "Well, we certainly can't leave her here destitute."

"No, and I think the sisters are too frustrated to deal with her anymore."

"Yeah, and the locals are afraid of her," I said laughing as we looked out the window to see the young woman still screaming to herself. She sat on a wall alone a couple hundred yards down the road. No one would dare approach her after she popped the police officer, not even the officer. No one would ever think of slapping a cop and getting away with it here, she must truly be a lunatic they must have thought. Our driver then came back and asked the sisters if we could leave. He was losing money as we sat here in town idle. They nonchalantly agreed.

"Wait. We can't leave her, I'll go talk to her...drive the van up near her," I said finally. He hesitated, but did as I asked. We swept up along side her and I jumped out and slowly approached her. I vaulted up on the wall a few yards down from her. Afraid that I’d be her next victim, I just sat idle and silent. Her breathing was hard and heavy, her body slouched over with her head drawn downward and she was outwardly mumbling to herself. The minutes passed in silence. It was hot, I was thirsty and I was quickly losing my patience for her when she finally said in a deep, drawn voice, "No one understands..."

Although it was obviously directed my way, I said nothing. I waited.

"No one understands, this isn't me!"

"Then who is it?" I cautiously asked.

She instantly erupted, "No one understands!" and she jumped off the wall and bolted once again down the road. As much as I was tempted to think she was right, "No one understood" and hop back in the van, I knew I couldn't leave her. So, off in pursuit I trudged. I caught her, pulled her small frame in close and hugged her. She quickly put her arms around me and nearly squeezed the breath from my lungs as she began to weep uncontrollably, and mumbled how no one understood her.

I moved us slowly to the side of the road where she collapsed to her knees.

"Explain it to me, I want to understand," I gently whispered into her ear bending down with her.

"This isn't me!"

"How isn't this you?" I curiously inquired.

"This isn't me, I understand things I didn't before..."

"Like what?"

"I can speak German," she screamed as she belted out a few phrases in German. "I can speak Chinese," she screamed as she supposedly spoke some more in Chinese. "I can speak Spanish," she screamed as she spoke in Spanish.

"No one understands," she yelled as she began flailing about wildly once again.

I'd calm her down and listen, and this senseless pattern continued for well over the next hour with the driver continuously nagging me to just get her in the van. Finally, we reached the point where I was the only one who understood her and from this perspective, I was permitted to "help" her into the van. However, she then refused to ride in the van unless she could sit with the "only one who understood her." Naturally, I quickly hopped into the front seat with her, where the twisted, possessed Korean girl incessantly jabbered for the next three hours about this entity taking over her body and torturing her soul.

Vivian had told us countless stories about the strange aura of Bali, and how normal, average people have been known to go crazy here, stark-raving mad. She told us a specific story of an American psychiatrist she knew personally who came to Bali and went "absolutely nuts." He stripped off all his clothes and went running naked through the crowded streets of Kuta, and was crawling around on all fours when the police took him to the hospital. After being released he did the same thing again. Vivian said it became so bad that she had to contact his relatives back in the States to come get him. Apparently, when he got back to the States the family wrote and told her that he had absolutely no recollection of even being in Bali. As far-fetched as it seemed, I knew Vivian wouldn't make anything like that up. It is difficult because I know I believe her and I also know that what she says about this place is true, it has an intense energy. It’s an energy that fully consumes you and breathes a new life into your lungs, your spirit and soul. Simply, there’s no other place like it in the world.

Bren and I stood on one of the main streets of Kuta as I closed the door of the van and watched it fade into the traffic beyond, I felt an immense sense of relief. She was gone. We walked hand in hand back to our hotel laughing about the strange events that seem to continuously unfold here in Bali, that persist in following us. We arrived back at our hotel, settled into our same room, and discovered the disappointing news from the hotel staff that there was no word on the bag.

We crashed into the wicker chairs on the balcony emotionally exhausted.

"What d'ya think about that girl, Bri?"

"It probably had something to do with the sisters and something they did to her."

"You don't think she was possessed then?" Bren asked with a shocking amount of sincerity.

"I don't know, so many strange things have happened here."

"But remember Vivian's stories. Remember the American psychiatrist."

"Yeah, but that probably says more about psychiatrists than Bali," I joked.

"I'm serious Bri," Bren said with a slight bit of agitation.

"Well, okay, it struck me that one of the sisters did something traumatizing to her. Her resulting anger and emotional trauma manifested in this "possession." It seems logical and a lot more rational than she was possessed by some entity."

"What about the foreign languages?"

"I don't know, she probably spoke them before."

"No! I asked the sisters in the van," Bren quickly interjected.

"I don't know, it's something we'll never know the answer to, and interestingly enough, I'm growing more comfortable with just not knowing. It seems as if Bali has taught me that."

"I don't know what to think about that girl. It was weird," Bren said reflectingly, and after a pause she added, "wow, isn't it great to back in Bali...it's certainly never dull."

"Yeah, you can't help but really love this place," I said laughing, "it’s all about the energy. I told you that this place grips you, just didn’t know it could be literally!"

"That’s for sure. I can tell you honestly, Bri, I really didn't know what you meant by the 'energy' here at first, but I do now. I can feel it. You're right, it is incredible. I think it's going to be one of my favorite places too," Bren said with a brush of excitement.

"The funny thing is though I'm really beginning to feel that I'm being tested like Eebu said."

"I definitely think you are; I never doubted it."

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

I wandered alone through the darkened and abandoned streets of Kuta, slicing though my own personal torment as the ugly "truth" once again reared its prominent head. It was deep in the recesses of the night, and I was lost within the maze that is Kuta strolling to where I didn’t have a clue. I just couldn’t sleep, and my mind felt like it hasn’t stopped churning since our arrival. I was still disturbed by the "possessed" Korean girl, and I wondered how she was doing and if she’d ended up in the hospital like Vivian’s psychiatrist friend. As I strolled passed the closed markets and restaurants, no one else was around and I thought about American society’s preoccupation with money and how it’s even distorted our most treasured and esteemed values and sense of justice. I thought about the Korean girl. They were both now thoughts that inhaled a life and the blood freely flowed through the veins of this infant entity. It crawled through my mind beseeching the most stinging of memories to the forefront and I thought, "Do we truly desire to be ‘happy?’"

I mean do we desire to discover, to touch a deep, profound sense of contentment and satisfaction. If so, this can only be discovered through a reflective "understanding" and compassion for the world around us. That Korean girl, regardless of her true mental disposition, was a creature devoid of "faith," one so crushed by the failure of those around her, to bless her with their love and compassion. It struck me deeply, for within that moment when I hugged her on the road as she wept uncontrollably and squeezed me tight, she knew, indeed she felt the bond of our humanity. Ultimately, that’s what got her into the van. However, and most importantly, she got in the van because of "faith," a hardened sense of "trust" that she developed from a stranger willing to enter her troubled realm. As one reaches out and accepts a responsibility for another, it creates a sense of dependency, one based on "trust" and one that naturally fosters this "faith." It was sharing compassion, and much like with Jay and Lisa, within this bond of humanity rested the energy of "significance" in our existence.

I realize now that there are two primary, and necessary, paths to find this "happiness." One is that we must discover, or at least feel that we are in pursuit of a sense of our purpose, something that provides a sense of belonging. This is precisely the realm where formal doctrines of religion have flourished, and taken hold and provided focus. Second, we need to find a sense of individual satisfaction within the moment, not a moment in a "time" sense, but a moment as in within our being at any given point. That is, we must undertake certain tasks, almost daily, which invigorate our sense of perspective, enhance our "understanding," while at the same time, placate the soul. Our spirit needs the daily sustenance to stimulate its growth, and within this process, we develop naturally those elements necessary for "happiness."

Therefore, as I reflect on the Korean girl and our encounter with Jay and Lisa, it seems that sharing the bond of humanity, through the gift of compassion, is critical to developing this "faith" in others, society, and humanity. Unfortunately, this doesn’t exist in America in any shape or form, and nothing demonstrates this more than our willingness to subvert our most sacred principles, our sense of justice and even our "family," all for individual pursuits, desires and goals, our obsessive focus on money and technology. Without this compassion, the bond of humanity, we will never develop "faith," we will never understand ourselves (or each other) and we will never find the "true happiness" we are endlessly groping for. So, it becomes imperative that we begin with reaching out toward others through the fires of human compassion, and even though we will get burned we must persist in stepping up for others to whom we would otherwise owe no responsibility. Without this crucial piece, we will always find having "faith" in others, even in ourselves, a profound struggle and being truly "happy" impossible.

In essence, we must learn to look inward and to give outward.

Copyright © 1999 PbFisher. All rights reserved.