No beginning, no middle, no end
In my first letter from Portugal, still dazed by jet lag and 32 hours spent in flights and airports, I could only manage a scattered collection of thoughts and emotions.
On the back of the GoJek1, I press my helmet against the Ibu's2—she’s riding the Honda Beat. It’s an attempt to shield my face from the thick raindrops that the scooter’s speed turns into needles against my cheeks, nose, and mouth. The helmet has no visor, but I don’t complain.
Quer ler em português?
Angelina—that’s the Ibu’s name—was the only one who accepted the ride through the tropical storm. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have completed the final task on my last day in Bali: closing my bank account.
A task which, in the age of AI, can only be done in person at the branch in Ubud, a 40-minute scooter ride from the house where I live.
Humanity’s intelligence feels more artificial by the day.
I left Bali at 8 p.m. on Wednesday, June 25. In Brazil, it was 9 a.m. I arrived in Porto at 8 p.m. on Thursday, June 26. In Brazil, it was 5 p.m.
Time zones aside, it was 32 hours of planes, airports, immigration booths, X-ray belts, luggage conveyors, and waiting rooms.
On the longest day of my life, there was no time left for this week’s letter.
So today’s text is a collection of fragments—with no beginning, no middle, and no end. A non-linear narrative experiment? We could call it that, but really, it was just a matter of no time.
With a shameless downpour, wildly out of season—that’s how Bali said goodbye to me.
On my final ride through the chaotic, disorganized, yet surprisingly peaceful traffic, I hopped on the back of a scooter one last time, to say farewell to the wind that blew freedom across my body during every scooter ride.
Lines to get in. Lines to get out. Lines for the bathroom.
Too many people. On the planes, in the airports, in the world.
Too many people huddled around the scarce power outlets in the departure lounges.
Plenty of seats, plenty of waiting rooms, plenty of departure gates. But very few outlets.
And everyone desperate, waving cables of every color in search of the energy that must not run out. Everyone with their heads down, eyes plugged into glowing screens, escaping the boredom of the wait.
In the lines to get in, the lines to get out, the lines for the bathroom: heads down, eyes plugged in.
With half-closed eyelids, I shield my eyes from the water and take in, for the last time, the Balinese universe.
Tall coconut trees reaching for the sky; rain-soaked offerings on the sidewalks; fearsome images guarding the doors of homes; ataps3 rising from the visual chaos at the edges of Balinese rooftops and Javanese joglos.
Images that will linger in memory, coloring the remembrance of a remarkable year.
On the plane bound for Porto, a group of lively teenage girls chatter excitedly on their way home.
— Hey Juliana, who ended up sitting next to you?”
— Can’t you switch seats?
— I won’t sit by the window. I’m scared.
There are six. Maybe eight? They exchange phrases that don’t necessarily connect, as if each were talking to herself out loud, in the slow Portuguese accent of Porto.
— So, did everyone get on? There are lots of empty seats.
— Another bus is arriving over there.
— Is that one Brazilian, the girl over there?
They make jokes about nothing, they laugh loudly at everything. They swap seats just for the fun of it. It hardly matters who sits next to whom, as long as that one stays away from the window.
— Hey, is there a laptop up here? Did the guy forget it?
— Look at the helmet! He’s really boarding on this plane.
More exaggerated laughter fills their chatter. A wild dialogue, with no beginning, no middle, no end.
I recline the backrest of my seat on the plane. I savor the simple pleasure of understanding what people around me are saying.
So simple, and yet vital for someone who writes—to overhear the conversations of others.
The Balinese Uber.
In Bahasa Indonesia, Ibu means ‘mother’, but it’s also used as a respectful form of address for any woman, just as Pak—‘father’—is used for men.
Concrete or wooden ornaments used as finishing touches on the ends of rooftops.