Three Boys and a Monkey

 At the traffic light where Jalan Tamblingan meets the Bypass a boy sits on the concrete traffic divider strumming a toy guitar. When the traffic stops, the drivers give him money sometimes. Coins or small bills. His face lights up when he receives the money and he looks each benefactor straight in the eye, convinced perhaps that it is they who have benefitted. And perhaps he is right. The bills he stuffs into his tiny pockets and he uses one thin coin to turn the plastic screw in the neck of the guitar and tighten one of the threadlike strings. The light turns and the cars and motorbikes move on, his toes an inch away from the tires. He returns to his strumming. Who can say what tune plays in his head? 

Two other boys I see on the beach, same day, same morning, same island, same town. These boys are fishing side by side, sitting on the rocks of a jetty. I know these boys from more than a half century ago for I am they and they are me, all the same in a different time in a different place in a different world. But the peace is the same. And here we all are, all on the same island, nearly as close as a stone's throw, as distant as unnamed galaxies. A camaraderie of utter strangers. 

And then there was a monkey too, and monkeys, when present, must be mentioned. It was an unusually large monkey and it was walking along the top of a wall between the beach path and the wild unused land on the other side. Monkeys are not seen in Sanur anymore. You see them in the higher places, in the jungle. Yet here it was. Tourists stopped, they pointed, delighted, took photos. Here it was, at home out of place, both native and alien.

And so here are we all.