LITMIR.BIZ

      On both sides are rice fields, and in the distance, a huge volcano releases a string of smoke that snakes its way to the clouds.

      “It could blow any minute,” says Eddie. “Is that great or what? No one could find us here. Not the draft board…”

      “And not your father,” I add.

      We walk a little further and see a stone shrine dedicated to the rice gods. Beside it is the world’s smallest hut. Out pops a small, wiry elder; he squats, squints, and then smiles a toothless grin. With the energy of a small child, he speaks incomprehensibly—in what must be an old Balinese language.

      He speaks louder, thinking it will help us understand. (Why does everybody do that?)

      This 30-x-30 foot plot of land where we sit must be under the care of the old man. Does everyone here work into their advanced age? This rice field stands out from the surrounding paddies. As miniscule as it is, the paddy is absolutely healthy and pristine. It’s more like a spiritual garden. Each plant is perfect. There are no indications of insects chewing on the delicate stalks.

      Even Eddie’s Indonesian is of no use. The old man never had reason to learn the Indonesian language which was created in 1928. We sit around talking, smiling, and laughing without understanding a word. This doesn’t seem to matter as he rambles on, stopping momentarily to spit a stream of red betel nut juice between my toes.

      “Imagine growing old in a place like this.”

      Some other farmers begin to gather—word of strangers travels fast. Broken English meets broken Indonesian. Many eyes are upon us. We are somewhere on the outskirts of Sindu village, lugging our cameras and worldly burdens behind us. Eddie easily engages the young farmers in conversation.

      A barrage of personal questions.

      “Dari mana?” (Where are you from?) a brave boy in a red t-shirt asks.

      “San Francisco, di America,” Eddie replies.

      “Mengapa disini?” (why are you here?) someone wonders out loud.

      “Kami suka Bali.” (We like Bali.) I respond.

      “Dimana tinggal?’ (Where do you stay?) a young man about my age asks. I think his name is Lobo.

      “Nowhere… How about Sindu?” I propose. Oh oh, this causes great concern.

      They argue among themselves. About our request? This must be serious. No one wants to answer.

      Eddie says, “They’ve got a real problem here. They can’t turn us away. We might be gods.”

      It’s a pleasing thought.

      Finally some consensus is made, and we are taken into the village to the mud-walled compound of Dewa Sadia, the village leader.

      “Yes, yes, yes!” I whisper to Eddie as we walk. I can barely contain myself. This is really happening. We are really going to stay in a village!

      Sadia’s eyes sparkle in a youthful, moon-shaped face. His smile is his principal feature. He looks our age, but in fact is much older. His English is quite good. He acts as if he’s been expecting us.

      “Salamat datang. Welcome to Bali! I am glad you come to my village.”

      What a relief. With a good humored scowl, he orders the gaping youngsters—who don’t know what to make of us—to fetch some snacks. In a few minutes, hot coffee and chalk-dry cookies are delivered. Although we are parched, we’ve learned that it’s polite to wait to drink until the host offers the drink three times. That’s once, twice, go for it. We lift our glasses on his third sip.