When It's a Slow News Day

Bali Traffic

BALI, INDONESIA: “It’s a slow news day coming out of Bali, where the sun shines brightly over azure Indian Ocean,” I complained to my wife while Skyping this morning, “I need to find something to write about.” My surroundings in Seminyak, Bali, with its beach and shops offer little in the way of a subject matter. I stepped out of my hotel, thinking maybe I’ll just go for a long walk. A man from across the street hollered, “Do you want to rent a motorbike?” Now that’s an idea I hadn’t thought of. I could see a lot in a short time and it cost only $5 a day, whereas the beer I had at the hotel last night cost $7.50. “I just need to practice a little, and I’ll be okay,” I told the owner. “Okay, you practice, here, on the street.” It shortly became clear that I was a rank amateur when I confused the gas with the break and almost crashed into his other bikes. “Are you sure you can do this?” “Yes, I can. I just need a little practice.” I didn’t provide him much assurance as I swerved and wobbled and had to come to a full stop before making a turn. He shook his head. “Do you have a drivers license?” “Yes, of course. Here’s my California license.” “You have an international license?” “No, just this. I'm sure it's as good as gold here.” I found out later that this wasn't the case. “We drive on the left side of the road here,” he said, skeptically. “Yes, I know, I’ll be okay.” He finally relented and I was off — admittedly with some degree of uncertainty — toward the main street where I entered a swarm of bikes and cars confidently navigating between each other with only inches to spare. “They can do it, I can do it,” I thought. I had gone probably a kilometer; the car behind me was impatiently honking. I couldn’t pull over — cars were parked along the side of the road. The car, a taxi, wouldn’t back off, but inched closer. I could feel the heat of his engine on my back and at that moment, I hesitated, swerved and sideswiped a parked car on my left. I fell forward on the street, as the taxi behind me zipped by, but the rest of the rest of the traffic came to a standstill. “Are you okay?” several people shouted. I had hit my knee on the pavement and it was bleeding, but the rest of me was fine. My left turn signal was broken and the car I hit was left with a black gash along its side. “Whose car is this?” I asked. “No one knows. Could be anyone,” several bystanders volunteered. An official looking security guard came over. He repeated, “No one knows. You go now.” “I’d like to leave the owner some money,” I said, pulling out a hundred dollar bill that I used for emergencies. “No, it’s okay,” the security guard insisted, shaking his head. The nearby shop owner who had witnessed the accident added jokingly, “It’s okay. You can go. Maybe next time you take taxi.” The security guard helped me right the bike and start the engine. “Drive slowly,” he said, as he waved me goodbye. I drove for another kilometer or so before deciding I had enough and returned to the safety of my hotel’s poolside to write this blog.