“I should go there,” I said to myself as the car I was riding in wobbled on a small dirt road meandering next to an endless field of rice paddies.
“Yeah, you should” encouraged Shirley.
Our car continued on, passing a group of women carrying sickles in their hands and bundles of wood on their heads. They smiled kindly and waved.
They’ve probably been working in these fields for generations.
First-world guilt sank in.
The next morning I awoke before sunrise. The sounds from the jungle beyond our room were numerous and unidentifiable. I decided to visit the rice paddies we’d driven by the previous day, a short walk from our hotel. I threw my camera and a banana into my backpack, kissed the slumbering wife on her forehead, and set off on a bit of an adventure.
The morning was quiet and misty, the smell of dew invigorating. Everything is so green, I thought as I wandered along.
/needs more journey or something/
CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP
I arrived at the rice paddy and heard a cacophony of tiny noises eminating from a small tarp-covered structure in the middle of the field.
The tarp was blue, corralled by a fence of netting and wood rods. I sloshed through the muddy field and walked along a narrow grassy ridge to inspect.
CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP
As I approached, the noises got louder. I looked inside to find hundreds of baby ducks swarming in a clockwise circle. They’d stop, then anxiously move in the other direction; stop, then move in the other direction—a game of follow-the-invisible leader.
As the sun rose, I took a moment to admire its effects on the landscape before me. Its rays cut through the giant trees with warm beams of gold. I witnessed the connection of the sun to the earth as life-giving light washed over the newly planted seedlings of rice. A small gurgling stream sparkled and splashed onto the paddy below.
Villagers walked along the road into the distance, presumably to start a long day of laborious work in the fields. I’d wave and smile, feigning my discomfort of tresspassing onto somebody’s livelihood.
Then the farmer appeared on the road, walking down a small hill towards me. He was stocky and dark-skinned. He carried a long thin bamboo pole at least twice my height. He wore a white shirt and donned galoshes that would make anybody’s feet look a couple sizes too small.
I hope he doesn’t think I’m doing anything to his ducks. I waved, nervously.
Then I quickly remembered to smile.
He paused for a bit---and returned a smile.
/ I saw his teeth, full and a bit crooked---his incisors large and noticably flat, just like all other grown Balinese people. They perform a tooth filing ceremony when they come of age, a painful multi-hour procedure to rid the bearer of the teeth of the demons that humans once were./
He spoke to me, and I to him, neither understanding the other.
I smiled, self-concious of my demonic teeth.
He pointed quizzically to the ducklings.
I nodded.
He motioned for me to step away, and I obliged.
In one swift motion he pulled open the gate of the pen. A rush of ducklings flooded out, clamoring and climbing over one another to take to the fields. They ran and stumbled, looking for comfort in the cool water of the rice paddies. There, they finally looked at peace. Shaking their tails, they dipped their heads into the water, once again following the invisible leader towards the fields beyond.
The farmer grabbed his long bamboo stick and set foot in his rubber boots to follow them. He moved deliberately, keeping pace with the ducklings as he gently guided them from paddy to paddy as they feasted on the bugs and algae.
We learned that the Balinese use ducks to rid rice paddies of pests and algae, fertilizing the fields with their droppings. True organic farming.
He went to another pen, this time filled with grown ducks, with the same herd temperament. As the ducklings feasted on one paddy, he mindfully guided the ducks to another. I spent the next hour watching him.
I watched him speak to the ducks. They’d listen: “Hey, don’t go there! Go over there! Yeah, there we go.”
He made his way back towards me and we had another exchange of mumbles. He smiled quizzically. I agreed.
He made a playful noise and reached into his pocket, producing a beautiful egg.
He smiled, proudly.
He held it tenderly in his hands. I looked at them, strong and stout like his body---worn and weathered like his life.
With this gesture, it was like he was sharing his story with me:
I am a farmer, these are the fields of rice I tend.
These are my ducks. I am grateful for them.
They keep the rice healthy and vital, so I can feed my family
They are my friends.
Seeing the egg was the last piece of the circle of life. It was one human making a connection with the other. It was just the ducks, the farmer, and me.
I felt more alive than ever, privileged to witness a way of life.
I hope to never see this way of life change.
