Tropical Fruit & Gasoline

Some Rhyming, Innit? 🥭⛽️

Ubud, February 2024

In a land of incense, exhaust, and sun,
Where traffic’s a war never lost, never won.
The scooters don’t swerve—you swerve for them.
We pray to survive past the next traffic jam.

Locals watch us melt with a knowing gaze,
Sweating through shirts in the humid haze.
Their smiles are the AC we cannot find —
A moment of grace in the daily grind.

Oh, the humidity: heavy, wet ghost,
It clings to your skin like an unwelcome host.
Every step is a sauna, every breath is a weight,
But we push through the steam to the temple gate.

Mystery meat — a dangerous game,
Spice that rewires the tongue with its flame.
With every bite, a new sensation to claim,
On plastic stools, we learn the chef’s name.

Then rice terraces cascade, green steps to the sky,
Where the air runs clean and the engines die.
In their silence, the chaos finds a reprieve –
A minute of stillness too brief to believe.

So here’s to the land where the contrasts blend,
Where mango and petrol share the same wind.
No resolution. No lesson. No tidy end.
Just the beautiful mess, without end.

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