At around 11:30 pm on Saturday, October 12, 2002, three bombings occurred in succession on the Indonesian touristy island of Bali. Two of them took place at a nightclub on Kuta Beach, crowded with tourists; the third occurred in downtown Denpasar, Bali’s capital, about one hundred meters from the U.S. Consulate. The attacks resulted in 202 deaths and left more than 400 people injured.
       The author visited Bali after the disaster and recorded, from an oblique angle, the impact of the event on the local community.

1   Volcano: Questioning Eternity

        Friends who love mountain climbing may have trekked through the tropical rainforests of Malaysia’s Gunung Kinabalu and Mount Tahan, admired the sheer cliffs of China’s Mount Huang (黄山) and Mount Hua（华山）, or passed through the rolling mountain villages of Nepal……  But have you ever challenged a volcano?

        Before this, I never had.
       So I decided to give it a try.

        Mount Batur—translated loosely as “Stone Mountain.” Stone Mountain is not a particularly special, romantic, or grand-sounding name. It rises 1,717 meters high. But even that number may not be accurate, because Mount Batur erupts frequently, and each eruption alters its height. The most recent eruption was in 2001. Even now, smoke still rises from certain parts of the mountain.

        Not to mention the earth-shaking violence of an eruption that could turn climbers into tragic lovers like Zhu Yingtai (祝英台), the poisonous gases that linger, like sulphur, can also harm the human body if too concentrated. Therefore, since 1999, climbers have been required to ascend with a guide. Guides receive up-to-date information from mountaineering organizations about volcanic conditions, making tourists’ safety more assured.

        Climbing a volcano carries real risk. Yet, “knowing there is a tiger on the mountain, one still heads toward it”. That is the fervour of mountain lovers.

        At 3:30 a.m., we got up, got ready, and left the hotel. By 4:00 a.m., the sky was still pitch-black. Four of us, all whom were mountain lovers who had never met before, formed a group and met our guide at the foot of the mountain, and then set off.

        Climbing a volcano is different from climbing other mountains because the volcanic soil has not yet stabilized. Walking on it is a unique experience.

        At the lower slopes, the soil is loose and soft. When you step on it, your feet sink slightly, like walking on sand.

        Then come small stones. After that, larger gravel. As altitude increases, so does the size of the rocks. Stones have no adhesion; once you step on them, they shift and roll, changing position. As a result, no two climbers follow exactly the same path upward.

        The stones are sharp. No one would walk barefoot on Stone Mountain. Yet walking there is oddly flamboyant: as you go, stones collide and grind against each other, producing rustling, scraping sounds. Are they issuing a challenge to climbers, or lodging protests after being trampled upon?

        The closer to the summit, the larger the stones, the higher you must lift your feet, the wider your steps. The closer to the summit, the fewer trees there are. Climbers lose the support they rely on: no branches to grab, pull, hug, brace against, or lean on; no firm platforms for the feet to push off or spring from. The path must be taken with respect, cautiously, step by step……

        ******

        The howling wind, the chirping insects, the calls of birds…… together composed a Zen-like symphony of mountain travel. Two hours of pitch-dark trails took us away from the Big Dipper and the Southern Cross.

        At the summit, the guide took out a straight bamboo flute and played a desolate, expansive melody. The distant sound of the flute summoned the sunrise and stirred memories left behind at the foot of the mountain. In the haze, I suddenly thought of yesterday’s fiercely fighting roosters. Had they, too, been infected by the volcano’s fiery spirit? Blinking again, I saw the wedding in the small village below. The ceremony was held in front of a dilapidated temple, simple yet solemn. Before a volcano full of instability, people had still not abandoned their longing for eternity……

        Gradually, the sky began to brighten. A sea of clouds drifted past in the distance, sometimes thick, sometimes thin. Everyone silently captured the fleeting transformations created by light and mist. The outlines of mountains and lake would appear, then vanish again behind nature’s gauzy curtains.

        The fog was dense, yet no one seemed to feel cold. At last, the sun cheerfully climbed out from behind the opposite mountain, sending out thousands of rays. I wanted to say to the sun: today, I was earlier than you.

        Turning back absentmindedly, I suddenly saw a circular rainbow right behind us.

        Climbing a volcano was my first attempt. Encountering a circular rainbow was also my first experience in life. I called out to my companions to look at it, while hurriedly raising my camera. But the rainbow’s colours, resting on tiny droplets of water, waxed and waned, appearing and disappearing. Elusive, like the beauty within life itself.

        Suddenly, I thought of the volcano beneath my feet. Mountains often make people think of eternity. But volcanoes do not.

        Sunrises are fleeting.
       Rainbows are fleeting.
       Life is fleeting.
       Opportunities are fleeting.
       So as Beauty.

        Let us learn to cherish them.

2    The Little Whale: A Mark of Love

        I am walking along Kuta Beach.

      Kuta has a long coastline, one stretch of sand merging into another. Although the beaches carry different names, while strolling you feel no boundaries between them at all. I walk alone along the shore for more than two hours. The waves are powerful, the sand silvery white, and the road ahead remains unobstructed.

        After the terrorist bombings of October 13, 2002, there are far fewer visitors in Bali. The once lively, bustling beach is no longer crowded. Only a few surfers ride the waves here and there; foreigners lying on the sand enjoying sunbaths are sparse and scattered. A few lifeguards, bored out of their minds, practice handstands on the beach to amuse themselves. The vendors who sell small souvenirs on the sand also seem to have lost some of their sunshine. These vendors sell watches, jewellery, offer beach massages, and there are also drivers willing to take tourists for a ride or out to dinner……

        “Tattoo?” a young man asks me, following relentlessly.

        Do I look like someone who likes tattoos? I ask myself.

        “If you don’t like them, the design will fade after two weeks.” He flips through his album page by page, urging me to choose.

        Out of curiosity, I glance at it. Naturally, I am not drawn to designs like Mount Tai or dragons. Too vulgar! Flying eagles and fierce tigers? Too domineering! Snakes, scorpions, spiders? Too sinister……

        I tell him, “There’s nothing I like.”

        The vendor refuses to give up. He circles around to stand in front of me, blocking my way, and says, “Look! How about this?”

        “No, no more looking!” I wasn’t serious about getting a tattoo anyway; better to just send him off.

        “Look at this!” he insists, thrusting the picture in front of my eyes.

        It is a little whale.
     The little whale leaps out of the water— graceful, with clean, decisive lines.

        I feel a stir in my heart, something like love at first sight. I freeze for a few seconds, then take a closer look.

        The young man says, “Very cheap—just fifty thousand rupiah.”

        I shake my head vigorously.

        “We can negotiate. Name your price.”

      Perhaps after shaking my head so hard, my mind finally calms down. I explain, “It’s not about the price. I don’t think tattoos suit me.”

        With a dejected look, the young man says, “Just offer anything. I came all the way from Ubud. I haven’t made a single sale all day, and now the sun is setting. At least let me earn enough for the ride home……”

        ******

        Ubud? A tattoo artist from Ubud?
        I had stayed in Ubud just a few days ago.

     I remember the chubby local man in Ubud who grinned at me, proudly showing his neat, white teeth. For locals, fixing one’s teeth is a once-in-a-lifetime event. He had them done on the eve of his wedding.

        I think of the children in Ubud, turning the slanted concrete in front of their homes into ready-made slides, laughing and playing.

        I think of Ubud, where art blends seamlessly into everyday life. A simple chair back carved into the shape of five fingers. Even the layered rice terraces look like paintings made by farmers upon the earth.

        I think of the Kecak dance performance, for which the entire village of fifty households, two hundred people mobilized together. The dance became a ritual and revealed the spirit of the tribe.

        Ubud, its mountains and waters, its people and affections, I miss all of them……

        ******

        “It won’t take much of your time, just ten minutes,” the tattoo artist pleads.

        My heart softens.

        In the end, we agree on five thousand rupiah, allowing me to “adopt” the little whale. The little whale will live on my chest like a pet for a few weeks. As an aside, five thousand rupiah is equivalent to one Singapore dollar.

        After finishing the tattoo, the young man reminds me not to let it touch water for half an hour. And so, with my neck bare, I set off again along the not-so-crowded beach, beginning a new stretch of my journey……

        With the little whale for company, does the journey feel a little less lonely?
       With the little whale as an escort, perhaps I can avoid the grasp of disaster.

        Every journey in life is unique; every encounter is a kind of legend. 

        Water leaves no trace once it flows past. I will leave the next day.

         Perhaps unwilling to depart just like that, before I go, I accept the little whale’s intrusion. I want to leave Bali with an attached souvenir……

3   Xing Xing Suo:  The Wind Sways the Sail

        The sound of the waves surges. I am waiting for the sunset on Kuta Beach.

        Under a tree, a group of young people gathers on the beach, chatting casually, holding guitars and singing.

        The singing draws me in, and I quietly move closer.

        The group does not turn me away. Instead, they offer me a straw mat to sit on and invite me to listen, song after song. They sing Western country songs, mostly about homesickness and love.

        Suddenly, one of them brings over a few durians. Everyone opens them and eats together, including me. I have a naturally “heaty” constitution, so I eat only a seed out of courtesy. But the durian becomes a bridge, and conversation begins to flow.

        It turns out that all eight of them are from Kalimantan and currently work in Kuta. Some as security guards, some as waiters, some as attendants at parasailing rental booths, some as lounge singers……

         At dusk every day, they gather under the tree to sing and talk from the heart. It has become a daily ritual.

        The guitarist and lead singer is named Jongga, thirty-six years old.

        Compared to the others, he seems less warm and talkative. Even the hottest sunlight appears unable to melt the frost on his face. His aloofness makes people hesitant to get too close. But when he sings, he gives himself completely: utterly focused, wholly absorbed, and free of distraction. As he sings, all the lines on his face bunch together, as though the entire world consists only of the song before him, the only thing worthy of feeling, worthy of devotion.

        While he is momentarily distracted eating durian, I ask him, “How did you learn the guitar?”

        He says, “I'm self-taught. Both the guitar and the songs. No teacher at all. I just figured it out little by little.”

        Before the bombing, he sang regularly at different lounges. Now he has only one contract left. By the end of the month, he will leave Kuta and head to another city to look for opportunities.

        I want to make friends with him and keep in touch, so I ask for his contact address.

        He writes down only his name. He says he does not know where he will finally settle.

        Suddenly, an airplane flies low overhead. The thunderous roar of the engine drowns out our conversation. Kuta is only three kilometres from the airport.

        One of the companions points at the plane and jokes, “Looks like it’s coming to pick me up.”

        “Where to?” I play along.

        “Hmm… Jakarta.”

        Everyone bursts into laughter.

        The wind rolls up waves that travel ten thousand miles. Where do their crests finally break?

        I ask Jongga to sing an Indonesian folk song, something related to the sea.

        He falls silent for a few seconds, his face expressionless. His fingers begin to pluck the strings…

        It is “Xing Xing Suo.”（星星索）

        Excited, I tell him that I know this song.

      The corner of his mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. After the instrumental passage, he opens his voice: “Wu wei—”

        The chant-like opening note stretches extraordinarily long, growing from soft to strong, forcing everyone to hold their breath and listen in awe.

        After the “wu wei,” instead of pausing to breathe, he moves smoothly and directly into the heart of the song: “Oh wind, sway my sail.” I am instantly seized by his interpretation. Tears roll down my face. From childhood to adulthood, I have heard “Xing Xing Suo” dozens of times at concerts, on records, on the radio, but it never occurred to me that it could be sung like this. I can say without hesitation that I have never heard a version so devoted, so deeply emotional, so effortless and free. The transitions between phrases, the sensitive shifts of colour, the smooth and supple breath control. All of it fills me, a lifelong lover of classical music, with sincere admiration.

        In contrast to Jongga’s total immersion, the others remain understated, holding their places quietly, singing along at ease. Line after line of the refrain “Xing Xing Suo”, it was like waves gently patting the shore, tireless and eternal; like loyal companions offering steadfast support; like the ocean itself, facing the smoke-and-cloud changes of the world with solemn calm, tolerance, and composure.

        That day, Jongga’s singing allowed me to rediscover messages hidden within an old folk song.