The Emptiness Of Streets During COVID 19

Sometimes there is a sure and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone; however, lately, the emptiness of those self-same streets seems to have taken up so much more space.  The abundance of time has allowed the opportunity to explore the town in which I live. I tend to walk a lot more slowly now and often stop, trying to remember what it was like before an invisible virus brought this thriving community to a grinding halt.

 There is an upside to this emptiness as the beauty of wandering the deserted streets and lanes, devoid of traffic and people is that there are sights that one suddenly begins to notice, whereas before these tiny observations would have been lost on me.

Sitting on a rickety chair on the pavement outside a shuttered restaurant, its owners having vanished along with the patrons that used to fill the space with bubbling chatter I try to take in the little things that surround me. The chair, its rattan seat slowly beginning to perish after too long exposed to the sun was overlooked when the rest of the furniture was moved inside and stacked in haphazard piles until the day the virus decides to leave us in peace.

 A yawning cat, basking lazily on a wall reveals a pincushion of sharp teeth enveloping a vibrant pink tongue. A palm leaf, fallen from on high into the gutter lies dappled with shadows.

A lone Balinese man atop his ancient bicycle smiles and bids me good morning then passes out of my life forever. 

A woman in a vivid red dress appears at an upstairs window, picks up an orange ripening on the sill, inspects it then puts it down before retreating into the shadows of the room.

A skinny young boy walks nonchalantly by raises his t-shirt to scratch his belly, treads on a fallen frangipani blossom as if extinguishing a cigarette under his barefoot. A mangy dog stops in front of me, pushing his face closer to mine, wrinkling his wet nose and, finding nothing of interest trots off. 

I eventually rouse myself and wander across the street that was once alive with traffic, the pavements filled with carefree tourists clutching at dripping ice cream cones. A dive shop stands empty, its doors locked solid with a sun-bleached FOR RENT sign hanging slightly awry is testament to the destructive power of this pandemic. 

I clearly remember when passing this place in the early morning seeing hordes of lithe, bronzed divers from all corners of the world waiting outside for the dive masters to assemble their equipment before being whisked away to explore the wonders of the offshore reefs.

Now, weeds are creeping through cracks in the steps leading to the front doors full with buds about to burst like popcorn. Peering through the grimy window, I can make out an array of wetsuits hanging forlornly on racks alongside displays of brightly coloured masks and fins. Against the far wall rows of dive, tanks stand in lines like terracotta soldiers abandoned now until the day when the divers return. An intrepid spider has spun an intricate web stretching from regulator to regulator.

Further up the street, a vendor wheels out an assortment of scooters and parks them on the pavement hanging For Hire signs on the handlebars; however, I feel that there will be no takers today.  

A collection of seedy bars that populate this part of town have remained open throughout the pandemic supported no doubt by grizzled ex-patriots who appear to have existed on a diet of cheap alcohol served by the ever-attentive ‘hostesses.’ A patron rests his head on the table looking, for all the world as if the furniture has been built around him. 

The trade winds are beginning to retreat now meaning the ever-present kites have to soar ever higher to catch the strong drafts needed to keep them aloft. I squint into an indigo blue sky trying to count them; anything to while away the time that hangs like overripe fruit in the heat of the early afternoon.

Soon the kites will descend to be stored until the winds return next year. I’m sure most of the fliers hope and pray that the international kite festival will return to these shores so that they can demonstrate their flair and creativity. 

Ever so so often I cautiously venture into the city of Denpasar and wander the streets and lanes surrounding the soaring bell towers of the city’s cathedral. Not so long ago, these narrow passageways would have been black with priests followed by the faithful heading to worship. These days I suppose the congregation prays in the silence of their homes. 

The hours of my day during this time are often slowly eaten away, filled with promises of chores to be dealt with but allowing procrastination to feast on my indecisions.   Those twenty-four hours that had never seemed enough a few months ago are now an interest-bearing account that keeps on producing unexpected dividends. 

This period, when the world is in pause mode offers an unexpected opportunity given that it is a time for reflection, a new awakening as it demonstrates how day to day life can change in an instant, not only for me but for everyone on this planet.

 Like the moon, it seems we must go through periods of emptiness to feel fulfilled again.

 But, as always, there is still the beacon of hope. 

Bali August 2020 

Paul v Walters is the best selling author of several novels and anthologies of short stories. When he is not cocooned in sloth and procrastination in his house in Bali, he occasionally scribbles for several international travel and vox pop journals.