Locally sourced . . . deliciously imagined

I had three days in Bali at a local lodge with some of life's conveniences before moving to a tiny pondok, deep in the mountains, on the land that would become our lodge. I was transitioning from a pretty comfortable life in the suburbs of Los Angeles to something very different. I was now living in a small, earthen cabin with no running water, a bed, and a little gas stove. I took cold, bucket showers in an outdoor bathroom and washed dishes at a little spicket in the ground outside. My Indonesian was poor at best, my Jeep was thirty-four years old and wildly unreliable, my phone could barely hold a charge, and I missed my fiancé terribly. No pity required. After all, I was living my dream in a tropical paradise. This new, rustic life absolutely had its charm. However, the combination of these truths led to some heavy moments during my first weeks here on the mountain. While exhilarating, it was a very emotional time as well.

​

My first night in the jungle was a bit of a haze, but the morning sun brought the sounds of bird calls and an excitement for the adventures ahead. It also brought the immediate realization that while I had a plentiful supply of local coffee and sugar, I had no vessel from which to drink. Time to find a cup. I set out with a bit of a pit in my stomach. So many of my initial experiences on the island (banking, phone connection, fuel) had ended in frustration and a bit of heartache. I definitely needed a win on this one. No such luck. Several hours later, I was running out of gas and my phone, which I relied on for translation and maps, was dead. I tried every toko and mart in the area while taking in the beauty of Karya Sari and Belimbing as I searched. My final hope was a little night market off the main road.

I will never forget Ibu Agus. She greeted me with a smile and a host of questions my limited bahasa would prevent me from answering. With my translation app unusable, I did the best I could to explain my quest for a mug. I can only imagine for what she thought I was asking. In response, Ibu offered me a slew of perfectly reasonable solutions based on the language gap: A hot cup of coffee (of course), a bag of ground beans, a few packets of Nescafe instant, an empty plastic cup, and a bottle of iced tea. All were accompanied by an array of bewildered expressions as she offered item after item in hopes of hitting the mark. She even chatted with the owners of other stalls in the market in order to interpret what had become more a game of charades than a conversation. We smiled and laughed together through the confusion. I truly enjoyed the connection and appreciated this lovely woman's efforts, but couldn't help but feel slightly defeated. No one buys a coffee mug from a local warung. So I decided to order some Nasi Goreng.

As I sat and ate, I reflected on the charm of the local villagers I met along the way and how happy I was to be living among them. I finished the meal and was pulling out some cash when Ibu reappeared holding a small, blue coffee cup and saucer. "Baguuuuus!!!" I exclaimed. She offered them to me in what was surely a last ditch effort to satisfy this crazy buleh's quest. The cup was clearly her own, used and imperfect, not intended for sale...but she seemed more than happy to give it to me, an absolute stranger. I gave her a huge hug and insisted on paying for the cup, which she vehemently refused. She simply delighted in having figured out the riddle and been able to assist.

The next morning, sipping coffee from my new mug, my eyes welled with tears. I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of gratitude...for life, for change, and for Ibu Agus and my new blue cup. For this, we dedicate our kitchen to the warmth and genuine kindness of the Balinese people.​