Two things don’t matter here in Padangbai.

1- America doesn’t matter. Uh huh. You heard me right. Nobody thinks or talks about it here. It’s not the center of the universe. It doesn’t define the conversation. It’s some place far away. “Where you from, Tru-les?” “Cal-eefornia. Los Angeles.” “Ameri-ca?” Yes.” “Far away.” “Yes, far away.” That’s what Kedek and I said to each other this morning. In English.

It was true. Very “far away”. Approximately, “half way around the world”. About 13 thousand miles, as the crow flies. Where there are absolutely NO newspapers (that I can understand). Where there is a very slow, unbearably… slow… internet connection. Resulting in the fact that I am… pretty much-completely…. isolated here…. and delightfully so.

But forget about me. Here in this banana & coconut field, it’s more about the constantly-crowing roosters, the brown-lolling cows, and how much fish did we catch this morning? Than about the international price of oil, the whereabouts and danger danger danger of ISIS or ISIL depending who’s spelling it, the next scary flare up in the Middle East, or the new “petro dictator” in whichever oil-rich desert America is currently hostage to. Oh, and how could I forget, the Ebola terror-scare that I haven’t heard about since I went through customs over ten days ago.

Sure, America has created Iron Man and Spider Man and Starbucks & McDonalds, but there’s not one to be found in Padangbai. Maybe in a few more years, but I’m hoping it doesn’t happen.

2- Time does’t matter. That’s right too. Because here, in the middle of the transcendent coconut and banana field, there is no sense of time. Just place: Here. Now. Do this. Then that. Hear the hypnotic, marimba-like “gamelon” music (without the Latin beat) off in the distance. Hear the wispy call to prayer from the scattered Hindu-Bali temples in every direction except the ocean’s. Hear the roosters, the birds, the cry of children coming home from school. See the green, green jungle, the spider-like fishing boats, the toil and the devotion in your neighbors faces.

People who see you like a stranger. Which you are. Or maybe a visitor who comes and goes. Occasionally. Not someone who really lives here. Not yet.

Here there is only local vision. Only the immediate. The sound of laughter. The smell of fire. The cry of a child. The immediate. The gecko on the wall, the trip to Klungkung, the “bule” who you can make some money from. There’s naturally very little “formal” education (wish it wasn’t so). So maybe that’s why there’s no “bigger” vision.

Take, for example, today. Every construction project in the village stopped dead… for three days. “How many projects,” you say? I say, “every one.” Twenty? A hundred. I don’t know. Probably somewhere in between. Why? Because… there is a 3 day ceremony going on… right now… as I tap on these touchscreen keys.

People are at home preparing meals! Or burning incense and making flower and rice offerings to each of their gods.

So, naturally, my point, there are no workers… for 3 days. A long time if you’re sitting around waiting for you plans to work out the way you projected. Forget that. Because there are many. Workers. And Construction sites. And ceremonies.

Of course, and perhaps inevitably, now there is an “outside” vision for the East Coast of Bali, specifically Padangbai where I’m living. Money is coming in from all over the world. Not particularly from America, but more from Java, the next Indonesian island to the West, where the capital, Jakarta, sits with its 20 million hungry and busy people.

But POW! The East Coast is exploding with projects.

Land is being bought by “bules” (pronounced “boulays” – what locals non-perjoratvely call “white people”). There’s evidence of big foreign-owned hotels being built overlooking the immaculately-undeveloped white and black sand beaches (“Padang Bai” literally means “Glass Bay” in Bahasa Indonesia, the local language spoken all over the 17,00 island archipelago.

And now there’s talk of a touro-friendly international Farmer’s Market going up on the Black Sand Beach just down the dirt path from where we are.

Hard to believe when I still have to ride my shaky motor bike over a rocky road full of potholes and women who still carry vegetables and water on their heads.

But, hey, it’s also a place where I can just call a local boy over to gladly climb a swaying coconut tree for 2 dollars, so he can, well, get me a coconut.