Breathless in Bali

I haven’t consciously breathed around the streets of Denpasar, Canggu, and the rest of Bali in a long time. And yet, today, I have to take a deep breath:

Euw...

I hesitate. Breathe in again. Deeper this time. Damn. Its garbage.

Bali’s tourist epicenter smells like trash. These little red, black, sometimes striped plastic bags piled on every corner like ticking time bombs. Torn open. Damp. Alive. Rats dart between them.

A little farther on.

Smoke.

People are burning their garbage. Gray veils hang between the houses, drift across the streets, creep into my lungs. I hold my breath and automatically start counting.

Twenty. Thirty. Forty seconds. At sixty, I give up.

I gasp for air. Too fast. Too shallow. My eyes burn. I close them. Every muscle tightens. I have to hold my breath again.

Why do I live here?

We drive into Bali’s mountains. Six hundred meters higher. Just an hour from Denpasar. The road twists upward, and we get stuck behind heavily loaded trucks. Thick black clouds pour from their exhaust pipes. I turn my head away and hold my breath once more.

The trucks peel off toward Gilimanuk, bound for Java, the island’s main supply route.

Then, after a while, something changes.

I breathe in carefully. Again. Deeper. I know this smell.

Green.

Freshly cut grass.

Now I breathe faster, almost greedily. Too fast. A sharp stitch catches my side, but I don’t care. There’s something in the air that doesn’t hurt.

With every meter, the air grows cooler. Lighter. Wider.

By the time we reach the top, it begins to rain. First a few drops. Then more. The rain splashes across my face, runs over my forehead, washing away everything that had settled there. My clothes are soaked.

I breathe in.

And this time, I don’t hold my breath.

I breathe.

And breathe.

And breathe.

Oh, Bali Darling. This is where you hide from us humans.