Floating Like a Butterfly on the Swift Breezes of Bali

The day we arrived in Bali the sky was filled with kites. “There must be some big festival,” I said to Andrea. But I soon learned it was another routine day in kite-crazy Bali.

Kite flying is a vital part of Balinese culture, with roots in mythology. It’s believed that the deity Rare Angon, protector of crops, is most benevolent when kites ride the wind. Kites are used in religious events but are mainly flown for fun. Balinese young and old launch them from beaches, soccer fields, rice paddies, wherever they can find a path to the sky.

As we traveled the island, admiring the airborne dancers, I flashed on my youth. My heart had soared the rare times there was money for a kite. I’d fashion a tail out of tattered strips of towel. I later built a kite with my grandfather out of scrap wood and newspaper. I was thrilled when that homely craft lifted from the ground. That was 30 years ago--the last time I had flown a kite.

It’s a mystery how we can forget the things we enjoy. I wasn’t sure why I had come to Bali, but I now had a clear reason to stay: I needed to go fly a kite.

In Ubud, the heart of Balinese arts and crafts, I found the Kites Centre, a shop that makes 400 kites per month, most for export. There were kites in the shapes of dragons, frogs, eagles, crabs, fish and rabbits. The hand-painted wings, from 3 to 16 feet long, were nylon, the frames bamboo and the bodies papier-ma^che.

After a 30-year hiatus, I needed a kite that would be easy to get aloft. Proprietor Mang Nix suggested the butterfly, a 3-foot model with legs and antennae made from pipe cleaners. It was a flying work of art splashed with blues and greens, a little like Monet’s “Water Lilies.” The kite, which took a worker three 10-hour days to build, cost less than $8. That sum is beyond the reach of most Balinese kite enthusiasts, many of whom fly kites made from plastic trash bags.

We pointed our rental car to the north of the island in search of a stiff breeze. In Dausa, a mountain village 10 miles west of the volcano Gunung Batur, I spotted a boy with a kite standing in a field on a ridge. The Bali Sea was visible far to the north; green farmland rolled down to the south. The wind bent the tall grass.

Kite in hand, I tentatively approached the boy, indicating I’d like to share his airspace. He looked about 9, dressed in raggedy shorts and a too-big, stretched-out T-shirt. He flashed me a brilliant smile beneath a runny nose and said, “Hello.” I returned the greeting, relieved I was welcome on his turf. We stood there exchanging 10, 11, 12 “hellos.” Unable to verbally communicate further, we let our kites do the talking.

His flying Hefty bag said, “Whee! . . . Yippee! . . . Yee-haw!” as it screamed across the sky. My fancy butterfly said, “Help . . . ugh . . . oops,” as it struggled to leave the ground.

A crowd gathered. Pressure mounted. But each time my kite gained a bit of altitude, it crashed and cartwheeled across the field. I’d untangle the string from the butterfly’s legs, pull grass from his antennae, flick mud from his head and send him up again, only to watch him spiral and plummet.

Meantime, the boy cut holes in the sky with his scrap of plastic. He flew circles around my kite in the brief moments it was aloft. He pretended to attack my kite with his like a jet fighter. “The kid is divebombing me,” I said to Andrea, plucking the butterfly from the weeds yet again.

“Don’t blame it on the child,” she said. “It’s unprofessional.”

I tried something different: I released more string. That was it. Sometimes you just need to let go. The kite shimmied and soared, climbing higher and higher, lifting 100 yards of string into the air. It all came back to me then, that childlike sense of awe and wonder, that exhilarating sensation of holding wings in your hands. I looked over at the boy, and he was positively beaming, sharing in the joy.

I wrote off what happened next to 30 years’ lack of practice. The wind decreased, and I forgot to tug on the string. My butterfly fell to earth like a wounded duck. The boy and I groaned, then laughed.

I reeled in the butterfly. Everyone left except the boy, who sat on a stone wall across the road from our car. His smile was gone.

When I handed him my kite, he looked confused. I had to take a step back before he knew the butterfly was now his. The brilliant smile returned to his face. He sprinted down the road, clutching the kite, shouting with glee at everyone he passed. Every few strides, he leaped into the air, each time bounding higher, until I thought nothing could bring him down.

NEXT WEEK: Lodgings we remember.

Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.