Foreigner

“MADEEEEEE!!” 

The familiar voice. There she goes, riding around in that scooter after she injured herself. Scratches up her left leg, limping from two villas away. 

I watch her with one hand on the handle and the other hand waving at me.

"CAREFUL!" I yell at her.

Foreigners.

Since she moved into our small neighborhood, I would watch her and her roommates weave in and out throughout the day with their oversized backpacks and surfboards much taller than them.

They would start their morning at 9 a.m. and return when the sun has gone down.

"These foreigners waste their day," I tell my wife. "There’s so much to see in the morning, but sometimes these young people sleep too much."

But she was different from the shorter British girl or the taller American with the scruffy beard. She would come to the shop, say hello, and ask me about the rice fields. Sometimes, she’ll bring me hot coffee and sit at my table even if I don't want company. Other times, I would watch her with my daughters, kicking the ball back and forth in our shared yard.

This was the first time we had foreigners as neighbors in a long time. Many stay near the beaches in big villas with a pool, air conditioner, and fancy furniture with a big screen television. They stay where the hip restaurants and beachside bars are, where the night doesn't end entil the sun makes its way back up.

Our home is traditional – it's sacred. We have fans in the rooms and Balinese furniture that comfortably seats two. Our tv is small, but brings our cozy family of five together after dinner. There are no loud hip bars, but instead cozy warungs that serve hot fried veggie fritters, satay and Nasi Goreng.

We are surrounded by the stillness of nature and we rise before the sun peaks its head over the rice terraces.

I couldn't help but wonder why the three foreigners would choose to live in this part of the village.

Since the accident, I would see one of the three foreigners sit alone on the stairs. She would always have a book in her lap and coffee by her side.

"Go bring," my wife would say to our youngest daughter. She would place three pieces of sweet green rice cake coated in coconut on a banana leaf.

I watch my daughter walk two villas down, where the girl is reading. She has bandages up her thighs and accepts the treats with a smile. She invites my daughter to sit beside her and together they hover over the open book infront of them.

A few moments later my daughter returns with a silver package. Inside there are two rectangular pasteries coated in bright sprinkles. My daughter asks if she can have one as a snack.

I hand her a square and she breaks it in half. Inside there's a thick bright red jelly and a chunk falls on her thumb. I take a bite into the corner and my nose twitches.

"Too sweet," I tell her. "Why American sweets have so much sugar."

The girl visits the shop almost every day after her accident. I watch her limp to the front of the store and we sit together, mostly in silence.

"Still hurt?" I ask her. The bruising on her leg had seemed to lighten and she's not as bandaged up as before.

"It's ok," she responds. She tells me it's healing thanks to the ointment my wife had given her and the instant coffee she buys from me.

I shake my head. "Your scooter is too strong. Maybe. It's balance – you let break go, and balance with gas."

She kicks off her slippers and stretches her legs out.

"I think I need lessons," she laughs.

We watch the tall and lush fields wave slowly from left to right, dancing together with every gust of wind that passes through the village. She goes on to tell me that she doesn’t get to see anything like this – she’s from some American place. A desert.

"Bali is a very magical place," I tell her. "You like Bali?"

She nods her head. She begins to talk about the desert and how there's so much traffic and not much nature, and how more buildings are being built right after the other. She then goes on to ask me what the chewy green dessert is called and if my wife can teach her how to make it. She continues to tell me of her mom's reaction when she got in an accident, and how she's worried because she doesn't have insurance – or anyone here to look after her.

Since the accident, I haven't seen much of her roommates at home. They leave at 9 a.m. with their oversized backpacks and surfboards while she stays behind with her book.

I take aways pieces here and there, but mostly let her talk. This continued for a couple of days, until one day, I see a new scooter in our shared yard.

"BYE MADDDDEEE!" She yells again, as if I didn't hear her the first time. She waves at me feroshiously as she zips by the store with her backpack.

"CAREFUL!" I yell back at her.

Her foot is barely touching the ground as she balances the scooter with the tips of her toes. I hold my breath as she slowly turns into the main road on her white Snoopy, eventually disappearing into the sea of scooters trailing right behind.

I sigh with relief.

Foreigner, I say to myself. I really need to teach her how to drive.