in other words
2015
Small Town, Big World: Love=mc 2
By Britt Bensen Steele
I remember when I asked Bob, the man from
whom we rented our house the first time we went to
Bali for six weeks, “What should we do when we are
there?” He replied, “Spend as much time as possible
with the two people and their families who will be tak-
ing care of you.” He didn’t tell us to go to the monkey
forest, or to visit the art museums. He said, “Stay home
and get to know your Balinese caretakers.”
The name for these caretakers in Balinese is
“pembantu” and they are in nearly every western oc-
july2
cupied home in Bali. These are the locals who care for
the long-term tourists and they help navigate one’s in-
ternational journey by grocery shopping, making food,
taking you to temples, setting up tours, and anything
else you might need. One of our pembantus had two
children, and at the time of our first visit, the daughter
was 4 and the son, 10.
As we settled in to our new home, we found
ourselves forming amazing relationships with these
two children, Wayan, the boy, and Madeh. We’d sit to-
gether for hours after dinner while the light in the near-
equatorial jungle faded. We’d sing, draw, laugh, and
exchange hand massages (a very Balinese
practice). Wayan would initiate some game
with “something interesting,” like a wooden
stick with a mosquito and a rubber band on
the end, or some ice and a piece of cardboard
or perhaps a bag would be turned into a hat.
Sometimes we’d paint finger nails together
or practice Balinese dance, kid style. In all
this, there were two constants with the little
ones and ourselves: #1: we’d laugh. A lot.
And, #2: we did NOT speak, for we did not
7
know one another’s native language.
The language we spoke was truly “of the heart.”
We had nearly two months of evenings on the kitchen
floor, and I fully believe that if we came across one
another in the street somewhere somehow, we would
laugh and dance right on the spot as a result of this six
week “conversation” we formed in the tropics, and we
would still not utter a word.
I often think back to our time living overseas
and wonder how different, how limited, our conversa-
tion would have been if we would have used words.
Instead, we spoke by spending time together, offering
our innocence, and choosing to understand one another
FIRST, and then concern ourselves (or maybe not) with
being understood.
There’s a poem by Radmacher Hershey that
says, “I’m not the same having seen the moon rise on
the other side of the world.” And I have to admit, I’m
not the same. The most important conversations are
not those we “speak” but those we feel in our hearts,
for words fall short and often go through a very murky,
guarded filter. But the heart? The heart always reveals
when given space and time to be seen.
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