How far does the world around me extend? Down low on the streets everything squeezes close and alleyways wiggle around a seemingly small world. High up, the world of a jungle crawls out to the edges of the earth.
I walk through a new neighborhood, a little village on a hill where cars don’t drive. Foot traffic only through twisting slippery paths, footprints left in wet cement. I travel quickly down these paths. Something makes me want to get through faster than down in Ubud center.
Humidity builds sweat droplets on my forehead and back. I pass dogs, painters, expats and smiling ladies carrying baskets who ask me if I want to buy their Jamu.
Hidden in these tiny streets I pass a mini book store and I never see people inside. A young man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth is hammering on the edge of am under-construction swimming pool.
I turn down one street with a row of scooters and a row of fruit. I turn down another path and follow it along the wet rice paddy.
A painter is sitting on the floor of his studio adding color to a half-painted canvas. His paintings are a modern take on Indonesian art; he tells me he was trained by a painter from Holland.
Back at my house, the days are rainy and lonely. Tears fall with raindrops, emotions heavy in this weather. The plants are far too close to the windows for comfort. Mosquito nets are like teeth brushing. You get all cozy and then you remember you’ve got to get up and do the thing. Ants crawl on my toothbrush handle. Bedsheets are damp. Clothes are damp. Shower and pool are completely unappealing, I don’t want more moisture and the water is poison. Every brush against my skin makes me jump or retract. The jungle bugs have me on edge.
I miss the salty ocean air that blows way the insects and the clean sand I roll in carefree and the clear water I slip into and float away all worries. You see, ocean water carries my worries away while jungle water breeds my worries into something worse. I don’t trust my own bed. I could be falling asleep while something else crawls under my sheets.
I fluff the sheets and think of my mothers guidance — always fluff the sheets to make sure there are no spiders. Her advise felt excessive as a child in Seattle and extremely relevant now in Indonesia; most likely she learned this trick right here a few decades ago. The bugs and humidity is everywhere. There is only escape when I leave the jungle. So long as I let the jungle hold me, I soak in her healing sweat, gnawed at slowly by creatures and old parts of myself I can’t see, I can only hear in the dark. I must learn to be at peace with these little monsters, inside and outside.
This is the spider, outside my kitchen window, currently making my skin crawl.
Jamu is in the fridge of every cafe and grocery store. I buy one bottle a day and drink the whole thing.
Love & Rain,
Cha Wilde