Pizza in Bali

By Javishkar Reddy

There are many things in this world that look the same, no matter what city you are visiting at the time. Like the way a thin string of mozzarella cheese hangs in the air just before someone lifts a slice of pizza up to their mouth. That string is always the same, wherever you are. But her smile, at the end of that slice, that’s something completely different. It hides just behind the freshly seared crust; her teeth revealing a mischievous glimpse of who she might be.

There are over 4.2 million Hindus in this part of the world and I’m fairly sure many of them eat pizza. Yet, from all the souls that inhabit this wonderful island, it is her cross that gleams at me. Yes, that cross. You know the one- Bible; Jesus. It gently rises up and down as her breath draws in and out. Its silver shimmers a little more on the sea of her pristine cream skin as we bask in the afternoon sun.

Her cross seems so certain, so rooted, whilst my own faith is patchwork stitched together from lobbying views. I guess if you had to ask me, I would say I’m kind of half Hindu, half spiritual. All adventurer. When I made my way to Bali for my cousin’s 40th birthday, I did not expect to find myself on a date with a local Christian girl. Indonesia has the 4th largest Hindu population in the world. More specifically, Bali’s population is 87% Hindu. Yet, here we are. Pizza; Christian girl; adventurer. All stacked together neatly like the eight fresh slices before us.

My date and I take a sip from our half-filled glasses of Coke. As the cool stream of melted ice and sugary, carbonated syrup makes its way down my larynx, I smile nervously at her. At first, our eyes meet in stolen flickers, like we’re each viewing a stranger’s Instagram reel. I look up mid-bite and catch her watching me. She instantly drops her gaze to the table, tracing the condensation on her glass. What do you do when you cannot utter someone else’s mother tongue? How do you unlock someone’s defenses, when you do not possess their language as your own? Well, you start by finding a common dominator. Coke and pizza. The silence feels heavy, and I’m not sure what to do with my hands. So, I awkwardly drum my fingers on the table, pondering on. She mirrors my movement unconsciously, as we find rhythm before words. When we both sip Coke at the same time, our eyes find each other again and this time neither of us look away. Her gaze softens, the corners of her eyes bending upward and something loosens in my chest. As I hoist the last piece off the plate, the mozzarella stretches longer than ever before and I hear her laugh for the first time today. Her eyes shine directly into mine: steadily, playful. Unguarded. Like the fading fizz in our glasses, the tension dissolves, as I join in the laughter. With no pizza left, we’re leaning forward, grinning. There is now joy in our stillness. My right hand edges forward. Before I can graze the top of her knuckles, she animatedly shoots up off her seat and, clasping my hand in her own, she beckons me towards the exit. I barely have time to drop a few Rupiah notes on the table before we’re in full motion, running after motorbikes. Random drivers who have been whizzing through the streets. She’s shouting something at the pace of a frenzied trumpeter hitting a rapid solo. Eventually one of the drivers swings around and hurtles back towards us. One of his mates joins the scene on another bike. My date jumps behind the first driver. It’s fairly obvious that I must follow suit on the second bike. But as she wraps her arms around the driver from the back, that’s the least of my worries. Where are the helmets?The streets of Ubud streak by, as I cement my arms around the driver. Ganesha painted on walls. Blurs of other gods and mythological creatures. Local loas prowling for milk. A dilapidated building with a yoga and gym dumbbell sign painted on it. Curtains with lizards on the inside. Half woven baskets left to relish the sunlight. Wooden ornaments grazing untroubled on the sidewalk. Kids selling corn with half-burning cigarettes streaking away in their hands. We hurl through it in a haze of mad glory. My naked and careening head eventually catches a glimpse of other motorbike and scooter drivers with helmets on. Tourists I presume. Our drivers cackle at each other before engaging in a series of hooting with taxi cars. One or two jovial hoots to acknowledge they’re in this maze of marvel together. Then three sudden hoots or even one long hoot for fury or wrath. Move out the way…NOW. Narrow roads emerge around each corner. The path seems improbable but you may pass. It somehow works. Cars give scooters way. Scooters give pedestrians way. The road moves in its own direction, luring you into its bedlam, yet protecting you on the journey.

Out of the whirlwind, a stillness appears. Its majestic tower reveals itself; its pristine gardens sit snugly around it. In all its splendour, a Hindu temple is upon us. I hand the drivers some Rupiah as my date darts towards the entrance. She peers in, her cross daring to move to the gate but never quite touching it. As I catch up, her hand moves towards mine. It’s the first time the warmth of her palm etches itself over the top of my hand. Her fingers glide down to the strings around my wrist- the universal sign for being a Hindu. A red string for Laxami, the goddess of wealth and prosperity. A green, red and white one for Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge and wisdom. For a second, her thumb and forefinger fiddle with her cross, whilst her other hand grazes over mine. Our eyes meet as she locks her palm with unashamed certainty into mine. Let’s go in.

Inside the temple, the contrast sharpens even more. Leaving the clamour of the outside streets behind, the tangerine carpet in the garden area stretches out and paves the way for a tranquillity that now envelopes us. As we move through the front gates, the air is enhanced with clove and an almost rosemary type fragrance. The incense sticks smoulder away, as prayer flags streak amidst a light breeze. Their faint reds and yellows bow up and down as the sound of a gamelan gong echoes from within. When early Indian traders first brought Hinduism to Bali, it wasn’t fully accepted in its original form. But soon, a more animalistic influence blended with local ancestor-worship was a force that could not be reckoned with. A unique version of the religion was born in this part of the world- one that revolves around praying to and respecting nature.

It’s just then that a tall, willowy figure slides towards us, as though the temple itself has sent him to carry its story further. The tour-guide fully steps into our view, and introduces himself to us in both of our languages. His moustache is one of those that are two thin separate lines on each side of his upper lip that never quite meet in the centre. Before we move further inside, he drapes us each with a gold and blue sarong, paired with a selendang, a sash, that hangs across the left shoulder and the bottom right of the waist. After we remove our shoes and all protocols are respected, this holy haven finally opens itself to us. Step by step, the temple unfolds. Inner shrines with thatched roofs and open stone platforms adorned with fresh flower offerings; each corner is a bud flourishing open for us. Gleaming cloths are wrapped around sacred trees whilst oil lamps flicker in between intricate carvings of a spiritual world filled with gods and demons. Our bare feet wander across the cold stone floors, as our guide’s words propel us through the history. Nine gods protect the island in every direction. The Balinese people believe in reincarnating into the mountain and the ocean, as you leave your soul in a temple; a symbol for the ancestors. As our guide’s voice trails off, movement gathers around us, colour and life stepping into the silence. Ladies carry large bouts of fruit on their heads as they approach us. As we walk around the temple, we take some salak, the snake fruit, as an offering. I let the course exterior roll over the inside of my palms. It looks like a giant litchi and after peeling back the skin, which resembles a reptile’s hide, the flesh inside has a sweet and sour taste to it.

And then, the myth grows larger. We walk past statues of Hanuman, Ganesha, and Shiva- the usual deities I am privy to back home. But now we come across Barong, a bulging-eyed creature with a wide mouth god, magnificently accoutred in a flamboyant costume. The guide tells us this represents the battle of good vs evil. Barong is dharma- cosmic order and virtue and he’s constantly up against Rangda, the demon queen who represents adharma- chaos and evil. This is an ongoing struggle that the Balinese believe we face every day.

As the guide finishes, the clang of knives on wood draws our attention away from the cosmos and back to earth as a few of the temple staff are sitting down, chopping chalets and slicing limes. The guide strolls towards them and tells us that in Bali, you celebrate your birthday three times a year. Once is the internationally, Western way of doing things. The other two are more traditional Balinese celebrations- a Pawukon birthday celebrated every 210 days and a Saka birthday based on the Indian Hindu lunar calendar. He then beams at both of us, as he purrs out that for weddings, people from villages and communities come together to help everyone. Over a hundred people will buy ingredients and cook for the big day. If you don’t help in a village for a year- the leader kicks you out. Getting blessed at the temple before starting your new life as a wedded couple is more than a useful move. He winks and my date lets out a booming giggle as she tightens her arm around my bicep. Her cross brushes against my wrist-strings once more. They rest easily amongst each other, as her laugh makes a home within my chest. They are not burdened by which book is right, which statue is bigger, or which higher power matters most. Soon, she does not want our arms to unlock. And I am happy to oblige. 

We slip out through a small red gate behind the temple, bound closely to each other. Across the road, a schoolyard pulses with life. Kids sit on the steps tracing cloud animals with hopeful fingers. Others gambol through chalk hopscotch squares. Not a single child’s nose is buried in a screen. They dart through games invented in an instant; worlds born and lost in squeals and shrieks. Some of the children notice us and begin to wave. Their laughter swells, then hushes, as a teacher in a sky-blue dress with white dots appears. She speaks enough English to explain she’s about to tell the children the story of Ogoh-ogoh. The word alone makes the children’s eyes widen. The teacher’s voice drifts over all of us, low and dramatic. The kids lean in, gasping, giggling, gasping again. Limbs still, eyes wide. I don’t understand everything but I catch enough: monsters made by hand, carried through streets, then burned to banish evil before Nyepi, the day of silence. Later, under fluorescent light, I’ll Google the rest. The huge statues, the eerie parades, the cleansing fires. But nothing online will match the way a child’s mouth drops open when fear and wonder collide. As the teacher finishes her story, the air is charged, as if the island is about to turn the page. 

The first drops of rain duly arrive like blessings. The kids stick out their tongues to catch them. I flinch, ready to treat, but my date tugs my shirt, a surprising firmness keeping me close to her. Her eyes hold mine, fixed, certain. I remain still. For a beat, the noise of the kids and the heavens all fade away. It’s only her breath, her warmth, her nearness. Her lips brush mine softly at first, a question. I answer without hesitation, my shoulders dropping. As I pull her in even deeper, the tension unwinds, the knot releases. Another universal language. The kiss.

When we reach the city centre in Ubud again, soaked and exhilarated, we duck under the awning of another pizzeria. Twice in one day? Somehow it feels brand new. We let the mozzarella cheese hang in the air once more. We hold hands and feel the gentle breath of each other on our necks. Tomorrow, I will board a plane back home, leaving just before Nyepi, the Balinese New Year which is a completely silent day. The whole island will hush itself. No cars, no scooters, no work, no lights or fire. Darkness will swallow the streets and the stars will bloom ancient and unashamed, the sky remembering how to shine. Imagine leaving all that behind. Imagine going back, away from all of this. Well…one last slice before I go. One last look at heaven and the little cross in front of me.

By Javishkar Reddy