Under the Bali Moon

Soon, the chef and the housekeeper were trying to help, too, but Zena held them all off with one finger pointed at Adan, demanding that he stay away. The red hibiscus had fallen from her ear as she stammered to clear the food from her throat.

Then, she felt arms weave around her waist and lift her from the floor. She tried to get free from the tightening hold, but it got tighter and tighter, forcing her stomach in and up.

Whoever was behind Zena started jerking her body up and down and telling her to breathe. In seconds, the food lodged in Zena’s throat came barreling out to the floor and landed in a squishy splat.

“Uhhh!” was the collective sigh when they observed the regurgitated eggs and bacon and fruit.

The arms around Zena’s waist let up, and she turned to see that it was Adan. Alton and Zola were standing next to him.

“You okay?” Zola asked.

“Yes. I’m fine,” Zena said.

“Are you sure you’re fine? You were choking,” Adan pointed out, now looking at Zena incredulously as the chef and housekeeper, who were standing beside him, scrambled to get the vomit mess cleaned up.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Zena narrowed her eyes on Adan. “Thanks.”

“Guess my brother saved your life,” Alton said with pride.

Zola exhaled. “I’m glad Adan was here for you. Look, we were coming to get you guys. The driver is here.”

* * *

Adan scheduled Mahatma House’s private chauffeur to show the foursome the best of beautiful Bali. So, through much of the morning and leading into the afternoon, Adan and Zena, Alton and Zola, sat in the back of the minivan, crisscrossing Bali’s complex terrain as they visited popular and off-the-beaten-path attractions that covered massive mausoleums, dramatic sculptures, seedy swap meets and ancient rice fields that reminded them all of the roadside plantations throughout the deep South back home. While the heat outdoors might have initiated a “keep the kids indoors” weather advisory in Atlanta, crowds of Balinese workers, Australian expats, and tourists from throughout Asia and Europe packed the streets and sidewalks so tightly they seemed to contribute to the stifling conditions.

Loading in and out of the van, Zena tried most often to sit beside Zola, who had been rather quiet through most of the day. Zena could feel that something was bothering Zola, but she didn’t want to force the issue and seem too concerned. Of course, she wanted to know what was going on, but she had her own issues to contend with. The word date had been bouncing around in her head since they left Mahatma House. More specifically, two words: date and Adan. They sounded like opposites in her thoughts, contrasting ideas that she didn’t want to connect. Did Adan mean to say date? Was he serious? He certainly seemed serious. He did sound as if he meant it. But how could he? How could he want to date her? Why? Zena tried to pluck these questions from her thoughts, but every time she looked at Adan, or heard his voice throughout the day, they all came rushing in. And soon, date and Adan didn’t sound so opposite at all. And Zena hated that.

At one of the many four-way stops where the minivan was caught in a traffic jam mosh pit of cars and mopeds and motorcycles and trucks and pedestrians and wild dogs, all seemingly going in every direction—both on-and off-road—Zena leaned into Zola and commented that even though Zola was a bad driver in Atlanta, she could be a great driver in Bali. This didn’t even get a giggle out of Zola.

“Something wrong?” Zena asked.

“No. I’m just a little tired. I think the heat is getting to me,” Zola confessed, and this sounded quite plausible.

They’d just left a monkey forest reserve where more than six hundred wild macaques had taken over a Hindu temple and become a real-life Planet of the Apes episode. While the wild and not-so-humble monkeys provided lots of laughs and camera ops, after an hour walking through the gardens, Zena and Zola had split a gallon of water in the parking lot as the foursome waited for the chauffeur to return.

Adan was sitting in the fro

nt seat beside the driver. “Well, I hope you’re not too drained. We’re about to hit these waves,” he said, turning to face Zola and Zena. “Abdul tells me Padang Padang has the best surfing in Bali. Isn’t that right, brother?” He nodded to the driver, a portly bald man with scaly dark skin that had clearly seen too many days on the beach.

“Yes, Mr. Adan. Exclusive beach in Bali. Best waves,” he replied.

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t been surfing in a while, and I am kind of drained after all this sightseeing,” Zena complained, still parched and a little dazed herself. The heat here added a kind of malaise that was hypnotic.

“Really? You can’t be serious. Little Miss West End Swim Community Center Champ 2000 and 2001 doesn’t want to surf?” Adan pressured Zena as he grinned at her.

When Adan’s mother realized Zena and Zola couldn’t swim, Mrs. Pam immediately took it upon herself to see that the girls attended the free swimming classes offered at the local community center. While Zola got the hang of it quickly and became an average swimmer, Zena excelled at the sport and became competitive, going to local and state swim meets, where she usually lost but delivered a strong effort to represent their community. When Zena got to Bethune-Cookman, her love of swimming transitioned to surfing the waves at Daytona Beach. She even joined a black women’s surf club, the Soul Surfing Sisters, and Adan came down to Daytona to see a few of her team’s exhibitions.

Adan went on, “You came all the way to Bali, to some of the best beaches in the world, and you’re not going to hit the waves the first chance you get? Some things done changed, Soul Surfing Sister!”

Zena laughed at Adan’s memory, and she felt herself blushing, so she cut her laugh short.

“Well, I’m game, bro,” Alton said, giving Adan a high five for his idea. He was sitting in the middle row by himself. “My love can get a few pictures of me on the board. Caption reads: Dread in the Water!” He shook his wild auburn dreadlocks as Adan laughed.

Zola hadn’t. “What do you mean, ‘get a few pictures’?” she asked.

“You’ll be on the beach, right?” Alton said, confused. “You don’t surf.”

“I have surfed,” Zola argued.