The waves stirred up flotsam of plastic bottles and the betel leaf baskets of daily offerings. I let it bounce around my legs as I waded out in the warm water, still cooler than the heavy air. The sand stayed in weird crevices like ear nooks and in between my toenail and the pink flesh around it.
I peddled an old bicycle away from Old Man’s Beach, the sun beating down on my exposed skin, still salty from the ocean. When I pulled up to the gas station slash bodega slash living room, I rang the bell on the handlebar to let the old man know the bike was back. I greeted the owner of the cafe next door and sat down at one of the sidewalk tables, macrame plant hangers swinging above me while scooters with surfboards hanging off the sides rushed past just feet away. My watermelon juice arrived with an ant in it. I’d been in Canggu, Bali for almost a week and this was routine on non-work days, except the ant.
“Can I ask you a question about your culture?” Lengga asked me. Of course, ask away, I was entirely engaged. Lengga is the owner of the watermelon juice cafe next door to the homestay set back from the beach traffic. She sat down and looked at me across the ashtray on the table between us, brushing her bangs off her forehead with the back of her thumb to reveal her dark-lined eyes.
“How do Americans think of single women?” In the capital of Jakarta, where Lengga grew up, no one cared if you were married or single. But here, in the small beach town of Canggu, she is told to get married and have children, even though she is almost 50. I said I think it is the same in America. In large cities, women are free to explore their careers or art and create a family when and if they wanted to, but there was more pressure in smaller towns to be a mom, to adopt the status quo. “I think they are more conservative here,” she said, apologizing for her poor English. I noted her English was very good and she said she’s trying to get the girls in her shop to practice more but they are intimidated by all the different English accents. I told Lengga that she was the mother to the girls who worked in her shop and she laughingly noted that I was the mother to the 740 Thai kids I taught English.
A week later, when I was gone from Canggu and Mount Agung was spewing ash, Lengga texted me to make sure I was okay. She offered food and shelter if needed, now or any time. As the volcano continued to erupt 18km away, I emailed my worried mother and told her, it’s okay, I’ll be taken care of.
