Balinese Rain

The familiar face of Nyoman Astana peered at us through a curtain of Balinese rain. He rolled down the window of his van and motioned us quickly inside. We'd been rescued. It was uncomfortable sitting on the vinyl seats. My clothes were like glue on my skin. In the few meters we'd dashed between the corner where the bemo bus had dropped us and our temporary sanctuary of the covered badminton court, we'd become drenched.

Nyoman's bungalows are only a short drive down the now flooded alley. We'd changed our accommodations earlier in the day to this peaceful, more remote setting based on a recommendation by my Mother's friend who had spent several years living in Indonesia. She had recommended Nyoman as a driver. "Just ask anyone for Nyoman," she had told me. The name Nyoman, as is turns out, is the name given to the first born of every family, so, yes, everyone had heard of him. We spent the better part of a morning walking from Ubud to Peliatan in search of the right Nyoman.

The rain was coming down even harder when we pulled under the covered driveway of Nyomans's house. His wife ran to us with an umbrella and together John and I dodged the bullets of water as we rushed to our bungalow. The narrow stone path leading there was a foot under water in places and with John pulling the umbrella one way and me the other, we both managed to take a bath up to our ankles.

Wet rayon weighs a ton, or so it seems. The weight of my new batik outfit was pulling down on my shoulders with crushing force. All our other clothes had been washed earlier and we'd left them in the morning sun to dry. I doubted now whether any of their weight would offer much reprieve. But, at our room we found that someone had pulled our rack under the awning and ll was not lost. Dry they were not (In a climate with 90% humidity, even eight hours hanging time isn't enough), but damp was better than soaked so I changed.

Rain seemed a perfect setting for writing postcards, and we did until 7:00 p.m. when we left to order dinner. Nyoman's wife prepared us three dishes of vegetables, noodles and rice that came to a little over US$1. The rain slowed to a drizzle and we walked outside to the dining area. To accompany us was a stunning red and orange sunset that filled the sky.

Drizzle turned back to rain as soon as we finished eating and at 8:30 p.m. the power failed. With no power and such a continuous onslaught of rain we decided there wasn't much else we could do but go to sleep. Nyoman ran a small candle over to us and by it's light we brushed up and crawled on top of the bed sheet. No power meant no ceiling fan and with the humidity level so high, sleeping was going to be difficult. But we did sleep and when we woke up in the morning the sun was shining and the fan above our heads was whirring away.