I've never seen the ocean so calm, I could be standing at the shore of a lake. The waves barely ripple. There is something about the small waves, about the muddy sand under my toenails, that turns my mind behind me, to the mountains I've traveled over and through. In a small white van with a broken door I watched the rice paddies slip past and the gorges fall away. I saw butterflies smash against the windshield and goats led to the butcher by a little girl singing and skipping. I watched women step carefully to cross the road, cement blocks or bamboo poles balanced delicately on their heads. They tell me that when I leave here I will understand balance and unity. Maybe they're right, but only if I stay in the tourist areas here on Bali where I can eat organic lentils and go to yoga retreats.

When I was fourteen my grandmother died from brain cancer. It's something that happened, I don't think about it anymore and it's not what this is about. It's just that she would have been really interested in hearing my stories about Indonesia. She would have been interested in the old Ibus here with their bare chests and long fingernails, carrying their grandchildren in sarongs tired around their shoulders. She'd be interested to know that even people here know about the Native Americans and what was done to her grandfather's people. When I told one man I was American the first thing he said was "You killed the Indians! Your ancestors killed them." I told him I was Indian and he shook my hand. "But only a small part," I said. "My ancestors killed my other ancestors." "Yes," he nodded, "That's the way it is."