I landed at Ngurah Rai Airport in Bali, Indonesia on Christmas morning. The humidity and sultry air characteristic of countries near the equator fell on me like a damp and tightly wrapped blanket. The arriving patrons shuffling through immigrations alongside me were primarily—if I had to guess—Australian, revealed by their twanged accents and surfboards. The airline workers, cab drivers, and shop tenants were local Balinese, their already dark skin bronzed further by the island sun. Their traditional clothes and distinctive sarongs (or, “kamben” in Balinese) were conspicuous in contrast to the bare skin, shorts, and tank tops of tourists. Every local man was wearing a saron—a rectangular piece of fabric that wraps around the waist, enclosing the lower body like a tube, covering kneecaps and ankles. On the occasions I entered one of the many Hindu temples during my week, I too donned a sarong.
Bali
Bali
Bali
I landed at Ngurah Rai Airport in Bali, Indonesia on Christmas morning. The humidity and sultry air characteristic of countries near the equator fell on me like a damp and tightly wrapped blanket. The arriving patrons shuffling through immigrations alongside me were primarily—if I had to guess—Australian, revealed by their twanged accents and surfboards. The airline workers, cab drivers, and shop tenants were local Balinese, their already dark skin bronzed further by the island sun. Their traditional clothes and distinctive sarongs (or, “kamben” in Balinese) were conspicuous in contrast to the bare skin, shorts, and tank tops of tourists. Every local man was wearing a saron—a rectangular piece of fabric that wraps around the waist, enclosing the lower body like a tube, covering kneecaps and ankles. On the occasions I entered one of the many Hindu temples during my week, I too donned a sarong.