Standing on my veranda, I ask Bapak Sadri if I can take his picture. He does not speak, but grunts, looks into the lens, and waits. The women do not bother with me. They continue with their work, thrashing the bundles of rice so that the grains fall into their baskets.

All over the field there are white strips of cloth and cans tied to rope. The villagers sit in the fields from just before sunrise until sunset, pulling the ropes whenever birds come near so that the cans make a racket and scare off the would-be rice thieves.

I lived in this house in the rice fields for a year. Most of that time I did not work, being a "rich American" by Balinese standards. And I was the idle rich. My habit was to sleep until 9:00 am then have a leisurely breakfast of buttered toast (fresh baked bread of course), papaya and banana fruit salad, and hot jasmine tea, then wait for my pembantu to arrive with the day's groceries and begin the housecleaning and meal preparation for lunch and dinner.

So you see, there was a problem with the cans. For a month my routine was utterly destroyed. I was forced up before 5:00 am each day and never really recovered my sense of peace and ease. I knew well that they had every right to be doing what they were doing. Of course. They were working for their livelihood and to feed people, while I was idling and lazy. Clear case.

But how long can one go with sleep deprivation before all understanding collapses? I made it a month. Then, reluctantly, I went to Bapak Sadri, saying, "Bapak (which means father), the cans. I can't sleep. Please, is there something you can do, perhaps to move them away from my window?" He was visibly upset with me for the first time ever. "For the rice," was all he said in reply. "But I can't sleep," I begged.

He said he would see what he could do. That evening the cluster of cans under my bedroom window were taken down and the next morning, for the first time in a month, I slept until my body felt rested and woke itself up.

Now two years later, when I look at this photo what stands out to me is how noble and strong Bapak looks. He was nearly 80 when this photo was taken. I realize now how much I loved him, how much I offended him, and how patient he was with me. I was so clueless as to Balinese customs. I remember the kids in his family yelling after me as I walked down the streets, "Go!" What? Turns out it is a sign of affection to call people by the last syllable of their name, my name being IndiGO.

As the years have passed, more and more of my cultural naiveté has surfaced and again and again I smile to myself thinking of how Bapak must have seen me. Yet there was always that sweet way to him, always the effort to understand me and help me to understand, and always a fresh bouquet of flowers on my veranda in the morning, picked and arranged for me by Bapak to say welcome to this day.

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