I feel as if Sunday nights minor yet painful and inconvenient accident should mean something, so I recount the day wondering what smashing the knuckles of my left hand into a rock is suppose to teach me. Yes it was dark, but I was only 150 meters from my hotel; yes I was tired, but I was going to have to walk back anyway; so what am I missing? What is my-Self telling my-self? Maybe I’ll never know because I am not going to do whatever it is I was going to do if this accident wouldn’t have happened. I am never-minding it; there is no cursing at myself, blaming or other ridiculous behaviors that I have to fight off (so to speak). It is one more story, gruesome photograph and scar to commemorate the journey; here’s how it went down…
It’s not even 6 hours into my Bali stay and I was slowly making my way on the side of a one-way street going against little to no traffic at about 10pm at night. I had spent the afternoon and early evening walking Kuta getting reacquainted with this unique place. After finishing a foot massage I decide to hire a motorbike for my stay. I make the deal, B.S. with the Bail guys waiting for the motorbike to arrive, pay the guy and then head, like I said, 150 meters down the road to my hotel. About half way the road switches to the other direction so now I’m going with the flow of traffic; I miss the drive way by about 2 meters and walk the bike backwards to the entrance; there is no light in the driveway or on the sign for that matter. As I go to get back on, to finish the last 25 meters of my return to the hotel, I realize the bike is heading towards a wall, I try to correct, accidentally giving the bike more gas instead of braking. Just as I’m about to regain my bearings the wall turns into a tapestry of boulders cemented to the wall to give it character. All I needed was another inch, but instead my left hand, firmly gripping the handle bar, goes knuckles first into the first boulder attached to the wall. Subsequently I let go of the bike as it drops to the ground. Luckily I managed to get my left leg off the bike as I hit the pavement with a short slide, leaving me with road rash in a few areas. Gaining my composure I pop up, ignoring the Balinese closing in on me, grab the bike and ride the last 20 meters as I feel the slippery texture of blood drip from my left hand.
The only thing I can think in that moment is, “not more stitches!” Wishing not to make a fuss I keep my hand out of sight, catching the blood with my other one, bee-lining it to my room. I cleaned it up under the facet just as the stinging pain and burning skin start to make their presence known. I inspect the wounds ranging from a scratch to a few layers of skin dangling from the top of the big knuckle of my index finger next to my thumb; gritting my teeth I tear the skin from my finger. It’s deep but short of a skin graft this one will make it without stitches. I dress the wounds-many of which I had to leave exposed, letting them ooze until a scab formed-and prepared for bed.
I woke-up sore almost like I got in a fight; wait I did with a boulder laden wall. As I scanned from my pinky to my thumb on my left hand the increasingly gradual state of swollen-ness is obvious. I now know how it must feel to punch a wall at full force because my hand, shoulder and neck ache with trauma; it’s a wonder I didn’t break something…thank God. The worst part is I keep finding sore spots and tweaked muscles all over my body; at least with the Chicama stitches it was just my right pinky.
Anyway I’m sure I will recover speedily, never-the-less I’ll be in the water for the swell arriving in two days. As for the question of purpose and educational value I trust that it was either a matter of working out some karmic debt, a revelation to be discovered later on or just another thing arising, staying a bit and then vanishing. Whatever the case, I am faithfully confident that it’s perfect.
