Nyoman Dahlan

I had just finished my morning coffee when the call came. A man from the hospital, polite but brisk, asked if I was the owner of a black Yamaha NMAX. My stomach tightened. I knew that scooter. A young Dutch couple had taken it yesterday—excited and tanned, with matching helmets and clumsy Bahasa. They were engaged, they told me. This was their first trip together.

Now they were both in the ICU.

I live in Bali, Indonesia—born here, raised here, and for the past seven years, my wife and I have run a small moped and motorcycle rental business. It started with two scooters, both secondhand, and a bit of hope. Now we have eleven—or had. Most mornings, I check the bikes myself, wipe the dust off the mirrors, make small talk with renters. I like the rhythm of it.

But lately, Bali’s rhythm has changed. The traffic is heavier, faster, more impatient. Tourists ride like the roads belong to them, weaving through chaos like it’s a game. And more often now, someone doesn’t make it.

This was our first serious accident. We’ve dealt with a few scrapes, a stolen helmet or two. But never this.

I drove to the hospital with a fruit basket, something small. The nurses wouldn’t let me in—I wasn’t family. I sat in the hallway for an hour, staring at my hands.

Replacing the bike will be a headache. Insurance here means long delays, endless signatures. And I’m 48 now—too old to keep chasing paperwork through offices where no one wants to help. My wife says we’ll manage. We always do. But I’m not sure this time.

More than the loss of the scooter, I keep thinking about that couple. Their smiles. The way she laughed when she couldn’t start the engine, and how he reached over to help without saying a word.

Maybe it’s time for something else. A small warung. A quiet life. Fewer moving parts.

But not today. Today, I just want to sit here and hope they make it out.