No Woman, No Cry: A Night With the Bedouin in Wadi Rum

I hadn't heard of Bali before reading that book Eat, Pray, Love as a teenager years ago--and after that, I'm pretty sure I thought Bali was its own country. Even so, sitting at home in Wisconsin, fresh snow falling atop old snow, I found myself dreaming of white sand beaches, of open-air bungalows, of fabrics blowing in the wind. And, of course, of love.

I knew little about the culture; sixteen-year-old me was too busy paying attention to the Brazilian dreamboat in the book. Nevertheless, I placed Bali high atop my bucket list--and there it stayed for the next eight years.

In the meantime, I went to college. I traveled. I studied maps. I learned that Bali was part of Indonesia. It was a Hindu island, in a Muslim country. It was not an island of Brazilian hotties, and still, my heart longed to go.

During periods of restlessness or heartbreak, I would search airfare, threatening my bank account with an overdraw and life with an overhaul. Inevitably, reality would overtake me, and I would return to waiting tables and wistful daydreams.

So when, somewhat randomly, my uncle moved to Bali in 2011--and then invited me to visit--I took it as a sign.

Sometimes things just fall into place.

I did find love in Bali. But not romantic, head-over-feet Elizabeth Gilbert type love. It was rice paddies, warm rain, pesky monkeys, and the dizzying ring of the gamelan kind of love. It was the love you feel when you see other humans appreciating life. It was slow-paced, breathe-in-breathe-out love.

It became jet-lagged habit to wake at dawn and watch as every person, young and old, placed daily offerings to the gods. These small baskets, filled with flowers and sweets, are topped with incense, sending smoke to the gods above. A kind of silent communication, they are a display of gratitude, of recognizing the delicate balance in the Hindu world. I was fascinated.

On my last day on the island, a woman noticed me watching.

"You, Bali first time?"

I nodded, and said that I was only visiting.

"If you want come back," she explained, "just ask Bali gods. They much, much more organization than you and me."

With that she handed me a stick of incense, waiting to be lit for a morning offering. Smiling, I shrugged. The gods and I don't have a real strong relationship, in any religion. But whatever the Balinese are doing, it seems to be working, and I'm not one to argue. I took the incense, lit it, and wafted the smoke to the sky.

Sometimes things just fall into place.