Riding with Garuda

My difficulties in Bali began with inadvertantly displaying the soles of my feet to the locals. Hostility ensued. Culture clashes seemed to be my forte.After a sweltering bus ride up a dusty road to Ubud, I dashed to a losmen under a powerful downpour that ripped at fronds and leaves. I craved a bath. Josi, the golden-skinned Balinese houseboy, directed me to a stand-up tub in the washroom, its water murky from the rain. We argued about 'good' water and 'dirty' water. My anxiety of catching some weird tropical disease drove me to pull the plug, draining the tub, shocking the houseboy. He fled and didn't return with a hose. No taps were in the room.The hard rain stopped abruptly, leaving an echo of the torrent. The sun burst out to steam the earth like a million small cooking fires and bathe me in sweat again. After biding my time on the veranda, an ancient man appeared with a pole across his shoulders and a pail of water suspended from each end. He traversed the veranda before me heading to the washroom.
My water, for my bath.I discreetly followed him along a path, thinking I'd see a water faucet. I went as far as the edge of a ravine. A slippery trail wound down to a stream where the old man filled the buckets. No taps here. Time after time after time, the buckets splashed into the tub, angering me. Most old men in Bali sat under trees drinking hot tea or congregated at cockfights. I couldn't imagine my grandfather doing this. I'd probably fall flat on my face.I sought Josi, berating him for forcing the old man to work so hard and told him I'd help get the water. My offer irritated him. He told me it was the man's job and "he always does it." I gave up arguing and watched as my bath filled, pail after pail, regretting pulling the plug. I was just another stupid bloody tourist. Finally, Josi called me to check the water quality. I grabbed my towel. Josi smiled, pleased that harmony and balance were restored, and offered a tray of tea and bananas.