Written on March 26th:

I am writing from a tiny hut in northern Bali, in a small diving town called Pemuteran. It is 10:13 PM, the sun set long ago, and I am filled with gratitude. Today was one of my most spiritually awakening days on my trip through Asia, and I feel compelled to write about the kindness that I experienced in the past few hours alone.

I said goodbye to Monica, Jessica, and Sara this morning in Ubud. Monica and Jessica headed back to California; Sara went west to a small beach town (no diving) to spend a week relaxing. I was excited to experience the northern part of Bali, a far less traversed area, and ready to spread as much positive energy as possible.

Wayan, a driver I met yesterday who agreed to drive me the four hours to Pemuteran for half of the normal fee, was early. I surprised him by sitting in the front seat, and we spent the ride talking about our lives. He loves taking pictures, has several jobs (like many people in Bali), and lives with his mother, father, sister, and grandmother, all of whom have never left Bali. He was convinced that I must be a lesbian, as I have no boyfriend, and assured me that he will not tell the government about my (assumed) relationships with women. Indonesia isn’t very gay friendly, apparently. We stopped twice. The first time, we stopped at an overlook of Lake Beratan, rolled our own cigarettes, and drank tea.

I used the restroom (the hut with the hole in the ground, rather) in the house of the person who sold us the tea; in the backyard, there was a cock fighting arena. The man of the house proudly showed me the roosters. When I asked the names of the birds, he showed me their feathers; they tell the roosters apart by dying their wings. He thinks Green is the best rooster. If I were a better (and had less empathy for the roosters), my money would have been on Yellow.

We visited a monkey forest the other day in Ubud, but I didn’t realize until today that all of Bali is just that. Our drive took us over volcanos, alongside rice terraces, through jungle, and past innumerable monkeys on the side of the road. Our next stop was at the roadside stand of Wayan’s friend’s parents. They gave us wine infused rice and smiled broadly when I ate the entire plate (which took strong will on my end). I listened to Wayan tell me about the decorations that are in front of each Balinese Hindu house. Tomorrow is a celebration day for Hindus, during which families celebrate the victory of good over evil.

When we arrived in Pemuteran, which is really just a small collection of home-stays and dive shops along a black-sand lined ocean, I said goodbye to Wayan – who was excited to be my Facebook friend – and hello to Putu, the young man who has been taking care of me at my guesthouse. Putu and I have already jammed out on the rindik, which is the Balinese xylophone that I played with Nyoman during our cooking course.

I took a walk on the beach a couple of hours ago. Balinese people said hello from their homes, grinning at me as I passed. I replied with sincere greetings and soon enough, a Balinese woman struck up a conversation with me and invited me into her home.

At first, it was hard to be trusting. Why would this woman possibly invite me into her family’s space? I was only wearing a bathing suit; she couldn’t possibly think that I had anything to give her. I forgot my hesitation, and went with the natural, loving energy I felt. I spent an hour sitting on the floor of Bitan’s stone home, drawing with her daughter Ani, laughing at language difficulties with her son, Tony, drinking Balinese coffee, and asking Bitan as many questions as possible using drawings to help us communicate. She married her husband when she was 15, after she met him at the local mosque. Ani, who is 16, wants to work in management, although drawing is her real passion. Tony works on a dive boat, and spends his free time volunteering as a reef gardener, protecting the local reef from tourists and locals alike. When I told Bitan I had to leave, she showered me with Balinese jewelry – elaborate, handmade bracelets and necklaces – and hugged me tight. There were tears in my eyes, and in hers. It was one of the most genuine and meaningful experiences I have had abroad.

I didn’t think my day could get much better, until I got back to my guesthouse after dark and Putu suggested I accompany him to the local temple for the festival celebration. I quickly donned my sarong and set out, dodging motorbikes and potholes as I walked down narrow dirt pathways, passing excited families dressed in white. The temple was filled with hundreds of Hindus, playing rindiks, eating carvinal food, dancing, all under a giant, glowing full moon.

Crowds of people swarmed the area of the temple where offerings were being given to Shiva (destroyer of ego), while smartly dressed ‘security guards’ blocked sacred doorways and attempted to ensure a stampede would not occur. I made eye contact with one of the security guards, who smiled and beckoned me to come stand with him underneath the primary temple doorway. His name was Made, and we talked about death. “I’m not afraid of death,” he said in a calm tone, “because Shiva already has a plan for each of us. And my death, and the death of all things, is necessary to maintain balance in the universe.”

After dancing with a couple of little children to the chiming sounds of the rindik, I walked home, feeling charged. I took a shower outside, underneath the full moon. I am so grateful for all that the universe showed me today, and for what it shows me every day, in Bali and beyond: love, death, kindness, and hope.