In the middle of all this beauty and silence it is difficult to remember what day it is, or when the day of departure arrives. And how does one confirm a flight’s departure time or check in, when there is no internet miles around?

The ladies at our retreat office advised me of an internet café down in the village, and the route to this village. “Hati-hati” (“be careful”), one said. “Of what?” I asked, alarmed. “Dogs? Other people?” But she only smiled, saying the walk was no more than 15 minutes.

I began to walk down the narrow road between the rice paddies, and passed a few small villages. Dogs, I thought. If a dog were to attack me here, or out between the villages, who would help me? I do not look local or smell local, and no local person walks. Everybody rides a scooter. I have been bitten by a Balinese dog before so hiding my fear of them is not possible, no matter how loud I yell back at them.

I passed three very placid dogs, and began to relax. Then a European man on a scooter drove by me, stopped, and asked if I needed a ride. He drove me all the way to the internet warung, which proved to be not 15 but a 25 min walk away. The Balinese ladies at the office have probably never crossed the entire distance on foot.

The warung was a local haunt, with a little kitchen, a television, and a couple of grimy couches. The lovely owner behind the counter gave me wifi access in exchange for a large bottle of water, which I quite needed.

A few minutes later I was up to date: flights still on track, no new major aftershocks or deaths on Bali or Lombok after the quake earlier in the month, but over 400 dead, and thousands left homeless. My week at the retreat had been calm and quakeless. No more than a day later I would be reminded of how fortunate I was: the same night, hours after my departure, there would be another proper shake that frightened people on Bali and would have flattened things on Lombok, had there been anything left to flatten. Hati-hati, dear survivors on Lombok.

When I was about to head back to the retreat, up the hill and through the villages, the wife of the warung-keeper asked if she could give me a ride. She was busy cooking, but she did not like to see me walk. Hati-hati, she said. Clearly wandering around the village roads was not a thing to do here. I accepted, the wife convinced her husband to drive me up with his scooter, and I offered a fair price for the ride.

On my return I met an American woman at the office. She looked restless. It turned out she had approached the office ladies with the same request: wifi to check in on a flight, just a little while after I did. She had began to walk down but had not got past the first village where she met not one but two growling dogs blocking her way. The owner of the dogs was leaving on a scooter but did not want to give her even a short ride past the house of the dogs. She asked him to control his dogs, unaware that Bali dogs belong to a house, not a master. He had duly advised her not to try to pass the dogs on the road, and driven away leaving her alone with the beasts. She was forced to turn around and walk back.

I was lucky. And despite how much I distrust the safety of scooters and motorbikes on Bali (at least in my hands!), I know first-hand that I dislike dog bites even more. Hati-hati of dogs on Bali if you visit.(Near Batu Karu, Bali, Indonesia; August 2018)

The family I live with in Canggu are lovely. Together with my neighbor (who is here for yoga in the same center I go to) we have tried to figure out how the family works. There is Gede and his wife Kadek, and their child Mikaela. Since Gede is a first-born’s name (and Kadek is a second-born’s), I presume this house is his by inheritance.  There is another young man around (a brother?) and two old ladies. No old men. One of the old ladies is Gede’s mother and the original owner of the house. The other is Gede’s aunt. She speaks to herself, cleans our rooms, and understands little English, but she is one of the sweetest people I have ever met on Bali.

The Balinese name their children according to birth order. There is no gender difference in the names. A first-born is usually Gede, Putu, or Wayan. A second-born is Kadek or Made. A third-born is Nyoman or sometimes Komang. And the fourth-born is Ketut. If the family has more than four children, the fifth will again be a Wayan or Putu or Gede, with the addition of Balik, “the other one”.

Unless one belongs to a specific caste such as the highest Brahmin caste. Here genders are denoted, but the parents have no choice: a girl is usually named Ida Ayu and men Ida Bagus, with “Ida” denoting the high priestly caste.

Gender is denoted by adding “I” in front of a man’s name, and “Ni” in front of a woman’s. A little like Mr and Ms.

So what if you stand on a busy street and yell “hey Wayan!” and half of the people on the street turn around and look at you? The Balinese have nicknames, which can be both pretty and less pretty. Wayan the Beautiful and Wayan the Fat are both common nicknames. Or the modern family just names their child Mikaela, like in the case of my homestay family. Easy, but less common.

Tonight my neighbor and I are having a night off the compound. The Balinese dance their beautiful dances to keep spirits appeased, and to keep a balance in the world. For us it is just an enchanting experience of which we understand very little. Just like we understand very little about the Balinese naming rationale.(Canggu, Bali, Indonesia; August 2018)