When wintertime, otherwise known as rainy season, comes to Bali, day-to-day life can get a bit dreary. There is something about the chill of an Oregon winter that is enlivening in itself. Here, the weather is as hot, or hotter than ever, and the only difference is that it rains several times a day. Preceding these fits of rain is a sort of suffocating humidity, then the sky breaks loose and the rain pours down and people who were unlucky enough to be on their motorbikes at the time are soaked to the skin, and then ten or fifteen minutes later, the sky breathes a heavy, exhausted sigh, the rain stops, the streets dry almost immediately, and life goes on. In short, it's monotonous.
Nor do we have the traditional winter holidays of America to divert us. Halloween does not come. Thanksgiving does not come. The Christmas season does not begin. One anticipates nothing. Not even snow. We do not have milestones to mark the time, to send us out shopping, or decorating house, or gathering with relatives and friends, of sending gifts and cards in the mail, or walking out to a Christmas light show. We have rain. And heat. And heat, and rain.
Of course, the Balinese have their holidays, such as Galungan and Kuningan. But these are foreign to our hearts. We do not know what they mean. We see them from the outside, curiosities wrapped in inscrutable tradition.
We do not have the surprise of the first snow, or mittens, or boots, or heavy jackets and scarves or snow shovels, or sleds, or red noses and chattering teeth. We do not have the simmering house filled with the aroma of turkey and dressing and gravy and spiced punch and candied yams and pumpkin pie as the icy wind beats against the door and the Christmas wreath shivers on its nail. We do not have the tree and the scent of pine and the twinkle lights and angel on the top, and there is no Christmas morning. Santa Claus does not come here.
So, I miss the winter. I do. And yet, if I were there, I would probably find a reason to miss being here.
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