Alison's Adventures Crazy Canadian, still backpacking the world after breaking my back snowboarding in France! Come explore with me :)

“Is this real?”
James’ voice was thick with perspiration. A slick bead of sweat ran down his collarbone and disappeared beneath the folds of his heavy cotton V-neck.
I nodded in silent response. The reality of Bali gripped me with a frightening force. We left Kuta Beach and spent three hours weaving north through mountain roads. We passed tumbling rice fields, wild gray monkeys, and thick green rainforest. Crumbling stone temples lingered down each bend in the road, sporadically releasing the sweet sound of melodious worship. Everything was stained grey. There were no tourists around.
With nauseated stomachs and overwhelmed eyes, we arrived at the orphanage.
The children ran around freely, stirring black ash into the air with their bare feet. Chickens and dogs perched in the shade, bothered by no one, owned by no one. The flurry of commotion slowed at our arrival. Curious brown eyes stared up at the white volunteers that had infiltrated their daily life.
I sat on a picnic bench armed with cutlery while the children squatted against the mud walls. They shovelled sticky rice into their mouths with their fingers. Flies buzzed around a single light bulb that illuminated the small space against the pitch-black night. I settled down to sleep on an ant-infested mattress. A gecko cooed throughout the night. How was it still so hot?
In the morning, we pulled our weight by uprooting banana trees in the communal garden. We spent the afternoon teaching the children silly songs and playing games. Through the sweet mixture of accented voices and joyful giggles, I was hit with a strange sense of déjà vu.
Suddenly, I was back in my air-conditioned living room, isolated from the rest of the world by my 50” flat screen TV. A bright commercial overtook the screen. I stared into the deep black eyes of a young African child with a bloated belly and snotty nose. A wave of compassion flooded my veins. I made a mental reminder to pray a little harder for those less fortunate than myself.
And then I changed the channel.
In the orphanage’s Meditation Room, I watched the children skip and dance around my feet. Their clothes were torn, their hair was matted, their teeth were rotten—but their smiles were the biggest and brightest that I’ve ever seen.
The television program portrayed an incomplete image, one that could fade with the press of a button. At the orphanage in Singaraja, I was completely surrounded.
And this time, I couldn’t change the channel.