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Written by Tina Haver | After twenty-two hours of travel, I made it to the house where I’d be spending the next three months teaching English and it was right on the water and would be absolutely beautiful if it weren’t sinking into disrepair, which is exactly what it was doing. I’d gone from Chapel Hill, North Carolina to Bali, Indonesia to work with young children in a learning center, and I met my fellow volunteers quickly: Two women about my age, mid-twenties, varied backgrounds. There was one from Brazil who lived in Australia and one from America who lived in Germany, and without hesitation, they walked me down to an open-air hut and handed me a Bintang, which is Indonesian beer, and talked about the sun and swimming. That was my first inclination that this trip wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. Bali
It should be noted that the company, Theresa from Germany and Marcela from Australia, wasted no time in giving me beer or introducing me to the three male teachers, who I’d get to know in earnest over the next several months: Made (Mah-Day), Little Bob, and Tutu. Made was kind of hunky in the stereotypical sense, with long black hair and a deep voice and big muscles. Little Bob had 10 years’ worth of dreadlocks all the way down his back, a chubby belly, and was very friendly. Tutu was the smallest of the bunch, with black hair and squinty eyes. He always seemed to be giggling, and in that way he sort of reminded me of a hyena. Made liked to call me “Cackalacky” and made fun of the South.
Sunset came very early in Bali, around 6 PM, which I realized when I began teaching. There were frequent religious ceremonies, so many of the students were gone from school for long stretches of time, and the translator, Mr. Puja, was often preoccupied, so there were usually only a few students who’d show up. We’d practice numbers and colors in a casual way from noon until sunset, singing and drawing. The concept of “time” in Bali was lax, and nothing seemed too serious, which I think was partly because you could hear the waves from the black-sand beach break right from inside the classroom. So I’d teach for awhile, and then swim in the ocean with my students for awhile, and the water was clear all the way down to my feet, so we’d practice our colors with living examples by looking at the fish.
It took me awhile to adjust to the nonchalance and the Bintang and the overriding schedule of the sun, but the day I left for the United States, I only wished to stay longer. Everyone I met asked, “When will you come back next year?” as though the question were not if I’d come back, but during which month. Some of my students grasped and hugged. Some held my hand and thanked me. Some even begged. Made said he’d pray to the gods. It was serious. When I arrived, I was sure I wouldn’t ache but I kept myself open and it got me. My goal all along was to let it all in, to let everything in, but I didn’t think it would come. Well, it did, and it ached. Chapel Hill was great, it’s a place I loved and in which I could live, that Western part of me concerned with Western things, but now there was the tiny Balinese piece that had gotten under my eyelids and pried them wide open.