The air was thick with the scent of plumeria and clove cigarettes as we piled into our old “Kijang”. Laughter crackled like static in the humid air, punctuated by the rhythmic thrum of the engine and the excited chatter of my siblings. We were bound for Bratan Lake, a jewel nestled in the heart of Bali, and our annual pilgrimage was about to begin.
Those were the late 1980s, a time when Bali pulsed with a different rhythm. The roads were empty ribbons of possibility, winding through emerald rice paddies and past ancient temples carved from volcanic stone. The only traffic jams we encountered were caused by lumbering water buffalo or the occasional procession of colorfully-clad villagers bearing offerings to the temple.
Braten Lake itself was a haven of serenity. The water, as still as a mirror, reflected the verdant slopes of the surrounding mountains, their peaks wreathed in wisps of mist. We would rent a small boat, casting off from the mossy stone jetty and venturing out onto the glassy expanse. My uncle, his weathered hands gripping the oars, would regale us with tales of the lake’s resident spirits, his voice low and conspiratorial. My cousin, her sarong billowing in the breeze, would point out the lotus flowers clinging to the water’s edge, their delicate blooms shimmering like spun gold.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and pink, we would gather on the shore for a picnic. Sticky rice, wrapped in banana leaves, sat alongside sambal-laden tempe and juicy wedges of mango. Laughter mingled with the chirping of crickets and the croaking of frogs, an orchestra of nature serenading us under the star-studded sky.
But time, like the relentless tide, has a way of washing away even the most cherished memories. The Bali of my childhood is a fading watercolor, its edges blurred by the harsh realities of modern life. The once-empty roads are now clogged with a cacophony of motorbikes and tour buses, belching fumes that sting the air. The serenity of Bratan Lake has been shattered by the din of jet skis and the hawking of souvenir peddlers.
And our family, once bound by the simple joy of a shared annual pilgrimage, has been scattered by the winds of inflation and the complexities of modern society. The old Volkswagen Beetle, its paint faded and upholstery threadbare, sits rusting in the backyard, a silent testament to a bygone era.
Yet, amidst the echoes of loss, a flicker of hope remains. In the hushed moments of memory, I can still hear the gentle lapping of waves against the shore, feel the sun-warmed stones beneath my bare feet, and smell the heady fragrance of plumeria blossoms. And for a fleeting moment, I am a child again, adrift on a timeless lake, with my family by my side and the world a tapestry of endless possibility.
Braten Lake may be a haven lost to time, but the memories it holds are a treasure I will carry with me always. They are a reminder of a simpler time, a time when family, nature, and a shared sense of wonder were all we needed to find happiness. And perhaps, someday, when the world slows down its frantic pace, we will find our way back to that idyllic haven, and the laughter of children will once again echo across the still waters of Bratan Lake.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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