They get up at sunrise and go about their routine - sweeping the rammed earth floors with long brooms made from tightly wound grasses. Leaves from the ever autumn trees and remains from last nights festivities are collected into piles and burned, filling the air with a heavy smoke. It is hard to breath, but the smell blends with rich images of the island. Men are making their way through the terraces swinging their sickle with clean unbroken circles. Some of them are older than my father - their skin is stretched tight over hard muscles from years of working the same routine. As I make my way up the road, one of the men notices me and turns his head displaying a soft reaching smile. I am struck by the contrast between his hard labor and calm complexion. His work is his own.

Darmawan, my local guide and friend, drapes his arm around my waist as we walk. I quickly identify the akwardness as my own and relax my posture. Balinese are friendly people and have little reservation at expressing their feelings. It is differences like this which make it easy to forget tourist discomforts such as the sun's heat and persistent mosquitos.

Near the end of the road we reach the public bath and talk with others while waiting in crowded line. It becomes obvious that Darma knows everyone - a fact which is more convincing with each day. It seems ordinary conversation is turned exciting by my presence and Darma is well aware. A few of the younger boys proudly weilding sling-shots provide entertainment. Though the bath was divided by a wall, there was no real attempt at privacy between sexes. Many of the young men would break from their gossip and watch with great interest when a certain young woman was in view.

On the way back Darma informs me that although we were not able to attend a class earlier in the day (at my request) he has arranged for some of the Pentjak Silat fighters in the village to give a demonstration at his father's house. Five minutes later we enter the courtyard and find a group already practicing their form. Darma has impressed me again, but I wonder where his power comes from. By nightfall a large crowd has gathered in a full circle around the fighters. Young boys sit with wide eyes in the front row while older men crouch in the back in typical Balinese fashion - feet flat on the ground and backs arched over their knees. The teacher motions to me again and I am no longer able to avoid their eager attention. It is now my turn to present. A long flourescent tube hanging vertically from a nearby pagoda swings back and forth casting light into the closely packed faces. I walk to the center of the circle and, with an exhale, slowly raise my hands to the centerline.

Sitting motionless on the bamboo planks of a small pagoda, overlooking the wide ocean and star filled sky, I listen to the sounds of Bali.

Mosquitos wave in and out of hearing range. Bats fly in low arcing turns through the coconut trees - when their wings touch a faint clapping sound can be heard.

Occassionally I can hear laughter from the sailboat anchored just 100 feet off-shore. The captain and guests have traveled inland, but two hands have stayed behind to keep watch.

In the dark, only a soft washing of the pebbled black beach is hint of the immense surrounding water before me.

The repeating sound of the Gecko is heard from many directions near and far. One of them stirs on the grass roof above me, making slow progress towards a spider which has ventured nearby.

Even under first moonlight, the roosters try to rouse the sun. Those which are not held captive under baskets (for cock fighting tomorrow) are now wandering the village commons keeping track of their hens. I watch one hen fall back from the herd and make a dash for the brush. In a quick flury it leeps into the thickness of a nearby tree and makes its way across a branch and onto a rooftop.

A small congregation of villagers sit around candles and sing in worship. The Balinese do not venture far from home after nightfall. It is believed that demons are always nearby and conspiring against them.

On the last morning at the hotel in Lovina, I said goodbye to my friends and packed my things in the jeep. Darma sat in the back - Wayan, our driver, and his friend rode up front. The road to Ubud is twisty - much like a small boat on the waves. We all sat quietly, lost in our own thoughts, and listened to American soft rock radio the entire two hour trip. (Strange how you have to fly 10,000 miles to find a good selection of music without commercials.) We arrived on time at the Bamboo foundation in Ubud and met my father at the gate.