So I’ve let a few of my root bury down in this black sandy soil. What can I tell you about this small town where I’ve been living; Amed in Eastern Bali. Well for starters, it’s smaller than you think. At first glance, I thought Amed stretched down the coast. Nope. It’s basically just one junction, the main market, a little bit in land at the end of the almost straight jungle road. So what’s the rest of all these warungs smoking satay, scuba and freediving dive shops, bougainvillea covered hotels, beach bars, and family homestays? Little villages nestled together, merging into what the tourists refer to as “Amed”. Technically, I’ve only driven through Amed a bunch of times. I spend most of my days writing a novel, freediving, scooter joyriding, reading Twilight and Oscar Wilde, buying fruit, get massages, and talking long walks through unidentifiable villages whose names will never appear on Google Maps. You have to ask a local person the name of the village we’re standing in. Google will thoughtlessly group all these villages as “Amed.”
“Where you frrrrom?” The local people ask me again and again. They roll their “r” dramatically.
I gave up saying Seattle a long time ago. Nobody had heard of my home. Now I say “America” and their eyes spread wide open. “Wow!”
“Far away, ya?” We smile and nod together. I keep my real thoughts secret to myself; thoughts of questioned patriotism, insecurities for why I’m choosing to be so separated from my family, a woman traveling alone, exotic excitement to feel the size of the planet shift into perspective.
“Where you stay in Amed?” Is the next question. They all follow the same script.
“How long you stay?”
Long time. They’re surprised when my answered don’t fit with the usual tourist conversations. I’m not staying at the big hotel for a week.
I point over the hill. I’m over there with the ex-pats and locals, deep in the rice for months of writing, reading and diving.
I visit the beach to snorkel and get an oceanside massage before I plug my earphones back in and enjoy the sunset scooter ride back to the Bungalow.
The diving in Amed is lovely. The coral at Lipa Beach blew my mind the first time I swam out there with Tanya, back in February. Just three months ago and so much has changed me.
The coral probably hasn’t changed but it doesn’t look the same to me at all. Exploring Koh Chang Marine Park in Thailand (I recommend diving with Koh Chang Divers) and diving in Raja Ampat with The Sea People has spoiled me.
I’ve seen 200% coral cover now. These Amed coral patches look like a bald head trying to keep its last few bit of hair. The sea is balding! The coral here looks dead, empty, colorless compared to what I was recently flying across on those strong currents in Papua. Thailand and Raja Ampat felt like actual underwater botanical gardens, abundant life with impressive landscaping. God, I’ve decided is the greatest gardener of all time. I think of my mother when I dove in the most beautiful underwater gardens. She would love the way the colors grow over each other with every texture imaginable. Diving in these wilderness coral gardens is like a Project Runway shopping trip to the epic fabric stores of New York City. Every pattern and pallet you’ve ever dreamed up…and it’s alive!
Amed’s coral is like a sparse Japanese rock garden. Simple, sandy, almost empty… maybe 20% coral cover. Still pretty but less breathtaking now that I’ve been exposed to something grander. Hmm. I’m grateful I saw Amed first and enjoyed it for what it is before I knew any better.
We’ve got a slow month in town (tourists are elsewhere) so I get the cafe all to myself. The coffee boys play guitar in the corner and watch anime. I’m glad there are less cars on the broken road. I still get angry when extra loud scooters roar past, hurting my ears, disturbing my peace. And the dogs bark at me, yapping and howling and I want to kick them away. Of course, I don’t. I just clench my jaw and fists and curse at them in my head. It’s out of hand. I must remember to wear headphones all the time to protect my ears from these loud sounds that hurt me. My sensitivity is increasingly rapidly as I spend more time in solitude at this empty resort. I’m deep in thought, peering into my soul pool, analyzing the changing reflections inside me. Im drawing out memories and weaving a fantasy storybook together. I feel very strange most days, not quite in this world and not quite in that one, suck in the past, moving through it towards the present that I keep waking up in.
The songbirds keep me sane. So does the cool water swirling around my body when I float and twirl in the pool. I dive down to talk to fish. They still don’t trust me. I float upside down in the ocean admiring the sunrays and for those moments everything is heavenly. I miss home and family a lot right now. My mind is a strange place to be. But I forgot, I was telling you about Amed.
Sunrise is probably the most beautiful moment of the day. This is the orange view from my bed. I open my eyes and see the rising sun. Everyday it comes back hotter, passionately playing red and orange for me. I tie my orange running shoes and walk briskly for twenty minutes through the dirt paths between the rice paddies until I touch sand.
The glowing sun materializes like clockwork, rising out of the cool blue water that I still can’t find the right words to describe. It’s the softest most gentle blue, almost a little green, shimmering with a hint of gold, maybe a little white and grey. The ocean at sunrise and sunset. My favorite colors are here to say hello. The sky absorbs the sunshine and blends shades of pink and purple. I stare into it as long as I can until the perfect description pops into my mind. Lavender Rose. The clouds look like they would taste delicious, a feminine floral flavor, a pretty ice cream delight on the streets of a Parisian dream. But other days… it’s more intense, neon orange, like a tangerine on passionate fire!
Strong winds rustle the palm leaves and the rice farmers wear long sleeves to cover their hardworking bodies. They’re harvesting now.
I’ve watched these fields glow green in the rain storms. Now they’re dusty yellow, drying and cut down. The farmers carry the bushels of rice to the wooden table they’ve placed in the middle of the paddy. They beat the stalks against the wood, rice grains fall to the tarp laid out beneath.
“Saya suka lihat Sawah.” — The first sentence I learned to speak in Indonesian.
How many bags of rice will be filled and carried away from just this one paddy? I balk at the though of the world to feed. My whole life I’ve eaten rice so easily, so effortlessly it’s arrived in my plate. Now I see the effort behind all those little white grains I’ve chewed. Never before has rice tasted so sweet. With each bite, gratitude warms me, and I think of the farmers who smile and wave at me as I pass them by on my morning strolls. They begin their work at sunrise, just like me. Our work looks so different though, at least on the surface.
There is so much more to tell you about Amed. My emotions distract me easily so I will have to resume my photo-journalism tomorrow.
Love & Rainbows,
Cha Wilde
