Smoke got in my eyes

by Janine Dukha (Japan)

Making a local connection Indonesia

“Om Swastiastu.” My driver for the day, Made, greeted me with a hint of a smile, as he quietly surveyed me. His hands were pressed together in front of his chest in a prayer position. “Good morning. I’m sorry?” It was hello in Basa Bali - the island’s dialect. Petrichor and smoke flooded my nostrils. Haze partially cloaked the view, the sky, and my eyes. The smells almost stunned me. I was in Canggu the night before – the adjacent town teeming with surfers and digital nomads. I was expecting the smell of the ocean. All the Bintang I drank the night before wasn’t helping. My villa, however, was situated in the middle of a Balinese rice terraces field. At 7 am, women’s chirpy laughter echoed alternately with the hum of a rice processing machine. My driver engaged me in small talk as we walked towards the top-down vintage Volkswagen I rented for my Ubud tour. It was adorned with vibrant flowers and ribbons, and a signage that said, “Just Married.” I was taken aback. The car had been used for a wedding the day before and Made did not want to just chuck the flowers away. I agreed to keep the flowers, but not the signage. He asked who I was with despite knowing that I booked for a party of one. He was a bit chatty and I could tell he’s got personality, but I wasn’t in the mood to chat then. I reckoned that solo travel was still an underappreciated concept for Asian women; even in Bali, with tourists from all backgrounds, all over the world. We were taking the most sensible route around town – coffee tasting and Bali swing first, then temples, some scenery after, and finally, maybe some handicraft making – the basics. We were making our way up to the mountains when it began to drizzle. We stopped by a convenience store to pull up the roof. I smoked a cigarette. Made joined me. I felt a tad bit conscious as I felt gazes thrown my way. I asked Made if it was normal for women to smoke in Bali, granted that Indonesia is known to have lenient smoking rules. There was news about an Indonesian baby smoker that made rounds worldwide some time ago. He was pensive. He took a long drag and looked far away. I thought I might have made my preceding statement way too strongly. I apologized. Then he finally spoke. He shrugged and told me that was all true. He phrased his explanation prudently. He was insightful, just like most locals I’ve spoken to. Conversation came more easily after our cigarette break. Made told me I made him a little nervous. We laughed. As he scratched his tunneled ear, I noticed the fresh mandala tattoo on his peeling elbow. I told him he didn’t seem to be the nervous type. We spoke about Eat, Pray, Love, karma, Kopi Luwak, #travelgoals, and how there was definitely more to Bali beyond the hype. Oppressive heat and humidity took over as soon as the rain stopped. The air was still misty and there was barely any shade around Bali. Made told me that buildings can never be higher than the highest Pura or temple, so there was hardly any obstruction in the sky. As we went around, I noticed that there were a lot of people named Made. Balinese names are assigned according to their birth orders and caste level, Made explained. “I would have also been named Made if I were Balinese”, I said. He laughed and shook his head. He said I would’ve been named Ngurah or Agung, which were names for females in the higher casta. On the way back to my villa, the traffic had only gotten worse. Streets were filled with people in traditional clothes. The women rode the motorcycles sideways, all poised, under the midday blaze of the sun. Made wondered why I wasn’t bothered by the smoke that enveloped the air the entire day. “It’s just smoke”, I said coolly. Made chuckled as he covered his nose. It was the day of mass cremation ceremony for the dead of the Sudras all throughout the island. I followed suit.