A Very Little House

This is the view from our very little house in the rice fields in Ubud, Bali. We’ve taken it for a month, to study Indonesian formally before we take our pidgin east to Papua, so Z can do some arts, and I can work a little.

Herons and egrets come to the fields every morning, fishing for the frogs who squawk up a storm at night. I guess they nest in the trees around Petulu, flying home with thousands of others every night, to bicker fluffily in the branches before they ball up into bundles of cotton wool.

It’s ploughing time here. So this morning an elderly gentleman, his trousers rolled up past his knees, followed his plough and his oxen barefoot through the sloshing mud. Their sploshing, noisy progress echoed off the walls like gouts of water on a bouncy roof.

There’s a calf and several dogs who come into our little garden most mornings. The calf’s a frisky kid, generally under his parents’ feet when they’re trying to plough. But he doesn’t eat the frangipani flowers in our garden, barely even nibbles at the grass…

He likes to snooze under the palm tree in the corner. But when we cut a fresh pineapple, he followed me, bell jingling, to the terrace steps: which is, it seems, his personal ne plus ultra.

Just across the fields is the ARMA Museum and art gallery. There was a fire dance the night before last. We listened to the choir and watched the blazing torches through our window. Round the corner, we study Indonesian at Starfish, a school set up to teach local children English.

It’s weird how not-weird it is being back in Asia after two months in Australia. The velvety heat. The bips of cheery traffic. The offerings of sticky rice and flowers our landlady leaves each morning to the gods and demons to protect us and our house.

The need to cover up. The absence of seatbelts, rules, regulations, health & safety… The hawkers. The carvings. The rainwater surging down the streetside channels and flooding through the paddy fields…

Taking our scooter back from the market, Z perched behind me with delicate “I’m too old to hold my mother’s waist” hands on my shoulder. I drive a motorbike like a Balinese matron: dead centre to my lane, glacial slow, rigid on the corners, oblivious to the frustrated hoots of those who would like to overtake.

It’s a very tranquil place, here. A good place to be. Even when the weather’s cloudy. As it was today. Thanks to Debbie at Delicious Baby for hosting Photo Friday.

*: For any aspirant digital nomads out there, the rental is US$350 for one month. I should, of course, have haggled.