TALES OF A BOOKWORM BULE
Why?
People often wonder how I ended up on the island, why I chose to live right here. Such questions are being addressed numerous times to all of us who have stayed in Bali without planning it in advance. They are a backbone of the most common topics of conversation that we take with the people of the outside world, whether they are friends, family, or complete strangers.
And over and over again I have to ask myself how to respond, how to explain something that could not be easily explainable for the people who have to ask. Especially when the truth is so simple, so banal. When the truth doesn’t solve anything. We don’t know why we chose to stay on the island, we have no idea how it came to that. It happened by decision of unconscious and unreachable parts of our beings, in the course of one foggy day that managed to trick the mind and perish the thought. But nobody wants to hear such response to their question, no one is satisfied by that kind of explanation. Anyway the truth is mostly overrated, uninteresting and lacking in inspiration. Therefore, I make up stories. As well as many others. We insist then on call of destiny, magic of tropics, fatal attraction of the island, or something similar to that.
It is the same situation with another question that is so often heard, the for how long do you plan to stay on the island. I never planned to come here, so how could I know for how long I’ll stay.
The plans were pushed into the remote corner of the consciousness, battered by soft hammer of pleasant tropical living. I will try to do it the way I feel, I say every time, and when I say it I really mean it.
* * *
We set off with the sunset. The Three Musketeers on three bikes. The two of them are rushing somewhere, racing. I don’t follow, today I’m not in the mood to rush. I stayed behind, I wandered, I straggled. The pedals I cannot find, that handlebar is just a nuisance. As it fell out of my hands. A tsunami of tropical sunset, fueled by the fireworks of my restless thoughts, enhanced by intense scents this island is generously endowed, flattened me to the ground. I slowed the spinning of the rubber wheels, now barely crawling through the narrow streets.
I swerved on motorbike into a long turning by which the road breaks out toward the ocean. The bike leaned, my body laid flat to the ground, eyes fixed on the flags that the wind directed towards the sea. I watch as they stand starchy and proudly, my horn greets them cheerfully. Trade winds have an especially naughty way to play with the seriousness of the state flags. Blueness is blended with a belt of fine, light sand, creating colors which elicit sigh. I drive slower now, respectfully watching scenario I’m very familiar with. Every day I ride this route, every day I admire it. I know I’ll never get bored.
There is nothing better than driving a motorbike around Bali with the shirt open. The sun still burns, incense sticks attack my nostrils, I enjoy to observe that specific mix of people in which is possible to find everything and everyone. I am not aware of the smile on my face, it has formed without a plan. I couldn’t give up this ride easily. And why would I ever want to do it anyway?
Why?
Why?
Why?
