Читать книгу On the Edge of a Dream - Michael Wiese - Страница 11

Chapter 4

SPLASHDOWN

Clambering children thrust jackfruit and small carvings into my face through the open window of the bus. Several chant “minta wang, minta wang” over and over like madmen as they dance around us, holding out their hands. We climb out. So this is Bali!

Eddie and I push away the hawkers and find ourselves in a dusty lot. Jesus, it’s hot. It’s so bright that I can barely keep my eyes open. The air is filled with sweet and pungent smells, incense, and our own two-day-old funk. Nearby are drink stands with rickety wooden benches. Gaudy billboards with large orange Indonesian letters advertise “KRETEK.”

What a long bumpy ride! I stretch, trying to get the kinks out of my body, and then I sit down gingerly. What little butt I had is now gone—bone against plank. I’m beat, but excited. The newness gives me a rush. Everything is so stimulating. I know great things will happen to us here.

Eddie is wired and ready for action, as if powered by a dozen extra batteries. He was never this wired back home. He says it’s the air. A couple of young boys rush up.

“Darimana? Darimana?

Market urchins with something to sell. We don’t understand. They shout louder. Maybe they think tourists will understand if it’s louder. Fat chance.

“Ubud, Ubud, Sanur, Sanur, Kuta!” shout the urchins. We hear these destinations for the first time. We follow a pencil-thin kid who offers, “You go beach? Kuta? Okay. Okay. Come, come!”

Why not? We toss ourselves and our camera gear into a badly dented bemo, a truck with two long benches in the back for passengers. There are so many people crammed into this small, covered-seating area that I don’t believe it will really hold us. The kid stands on a small platform holding onto a handle, and off we go. A breeze blows through the open sides of the bemo. Twenty minutes later the road dead ends at Kuta. There’s not a soul on the beach.

Eddie and I walk past the mud-walled, thatched-roofed houses of Kuta village. It’s hot. Really hot. We stop under the shade of a banyan tree. There’s a dried-up offering on the ground.

A stucco guesthouse or losmen, rests under some coconut trees. The beach begins at the front door. A hand-painted sign says “homestay.” It has eight rooms. Only half are filled. It costs about 50 cents a day and includes banana pancakes and tea for breakfast. At this rate, my $300 will last for over a year.

A mildewed, dirt-floored room is our new home. There are two stained and sunken mattresses on handmade wooden frames; between them is a single oil lamp on a bamboo table. Behind the table is a chicken wire window with holes you can push three fingers through. That’s not going to stop any mosquitoes. Outside is a view of coconut trees and the ocean beyond, with row upon row of white caps. Inside, the walls are filthy green paint. A small room doubles as shower and toilet. There is one hole in the floor. No door. I surprise a fat lizard who slithers through a crack.

Eddie puts a small statue of Jesus on the table.

Ragged French travelers and Australian surfers occupy the other rooms. They shout and yell as if they own the place.

The smell of dope permeates the air. A dollar buys a weeks supply of potent Thai sticks. I get Eddie to try some. Big mistake. He laughs hysterically for hours and then gets paranoid and sees “the evil eye” everywhere. He must feel guilty for ‘straying from the path.’ We can’t get off the beds for the rest of the day. In the morning when we wake, we swear off dope off for the rest of the trip. We’d rather see Bali.

Rock and roll from the next room drowns out the gentle whispers of wind blowing through the coconut trees outside our window. A sun-fried, topless French girl stands outside our door and reports that Mick Jagger is at the Bali Hai Hotel.

“Mick Jagger, he’s so cool,” she says to her bearded surfer friend on the other side of the wall.

“Let’s go see him!” She sings off-key, “I can’t get no… SATISFACTION!”

Eddie says, “I’ll give you some SATISFACTION.”

“She’s got a boyfriend, Eddie,” I tell him.

“So?”

The Bali Hai Hotel is half an hour away in Sanur, a beach on the opposite side of Bali’s southern peninsula. Mick Jagger?

It reminds me of the Rolling Stones’ concert in Altamont. Someone was beaten to death by the Hell’s Angels. Whatever happened to love and peace? Suddenly, people around me were getting killed, at home as well as in Vietnam. It made no sense to stay. I’m glad to be here.

We stuff our things under the bed and padlock the door with the world’s smallest lock. Within seconds Eddie and I are on the beach.

It’s so bright I can hardly see. The sky is magnificent. The air is warm and clean. I walk between the brightly painted fishing praus and under the hanging fishing nets, which cast beautiful soft shadows on the sand. The water is pristine. I float. The warm water heals me

Eddie runs into the surf laughing, and then tackles me in the water and dunks my head under three times. “With this water, I anoint you in the name of the parrot, the lizard, and the banana pancake.”

Later, half-exhausted, we collapse on the beach.

“It’s going to be great here,” I say, as I rest my head on the warm white sand.

We see a group of people gathered ahead and go to investigate. Reverently we approach, as Balinese women bring offerings to two priests. (I get a great shot of the backlit halos that encircle their heads as they carry the offerings.)

“Oh, man,” is all Eddie can say, over and over, as the women pass. We’re mesmerized.

There is incense stuck in the sand, surrounded by half-coconut shell caps filled with holy water and flower petals. Behind us, a small walking gamelan group with a few gongs and drums knock out syncopated patterns.

Some boys ready a small prau, a Malay sailing boat with only enough room for about four or five people. A priest, carrying a large woven basket, wades through the water and then climbs into the boat. The boys paddle like crazy through the breakers. They stop about 50 yards offshore.

The priest sprinkles some holy water from a pitcher over various objects, then throws them into the ocean. I can’t make sense out of any of it. Then the priest pulls a duck from the basket and throws it into the air. The duck flies for a moment, but then with a stone weighted to its foot, it crashes into the water and is pulled beneath the waves. Just then a boy dives in and retrieves the duck. Some of the floating offerings are gathered up, and the boat returns to the shore. I walk closer to see.

Some of the offerings are cigarettes, flowers, and carved palm leaves that have been cut and folded together in quite beautiful patterns. I pick one up and put it my pocket.

It’s not long before Eddie wants to trade some cigarettes for the duck and the coconut bowls that were retrieved by one of the boys. What are we going to do with a duck?

Back at the homestay, Madé Gitah, a souvenir salesman, hawks some Balinese paintings. He sees us and rushes up.

“Darimana, tuan?”

“What’s this darimana stuff. Everybody’s always saying darimana. What’s it mean?” I ask.

“Where are you from?

“Where are you from? I reply.

He smiles.

“We’re from America.”

“Ohh, America. You go to moon?”

He shows us a few of his paintings. Eddie picks one up. Sensuous women sell fruit in the marketplace and steal looks at the men out of the corners of their eyes.

Eddie is fascinated. “Are Balinese women really like that?”

Others are underwater ocean scenes of horrible, large-fanged sea monsters. No wonder the few Balinese that are fishermen spend a lifetime throwing offerings into the sea.

Madé explains that offerings are made to both the gods in the mountain and the demons in the sea. The Balinese orient their beliefs around Kelod (the direction toward the sea) and Kaja (the direction toward the volcano). It’s a cosmology structured on high and low. Humankind is balanced in between. Made says he doesn’t like to come to the beach because there is lots of black magic. Oh, terrific. And the beaches are where the travelers hang out.

Eddie asks, “If you don’t believe in black magic or demons, can they still get you?”

“I don’t know.”

I pick up one of the offerings I brought from the beach, and reverently place it at the entrance to our room.

“Feel better?” I ask.

He crosses himself theatrically.

“Now I do.”

We all laugh.

Madé leaves as it starts to pour. The rain beats down for about an hour and then all is still. Night comes early and with it cool ocean breezes. I prop myself up in the bed and write a few letters by the flickering light of the lantern.

Dear Sonny,

I’m sorry how things turned out I couldn’t stay and face the draft. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up my side of things. I guess a lot of people are a little more than disappointed in me.

Now I’ve got a lot of learning to do. And Bali’s a good place to do it.

In any case, I’m not the guy you once knew. I am stripping everything down to the basics and starting all over.

Love, Nicholas

PS. Please destroy this letter after you’ve read it. I’d hate the draft board to know where I am.

In the morning, we are up early. We can’t wait to explore the market in Denpasar—Bali’s main city.

The light is exquisite as we pass the rice fields.

“Oh man, is this ever great,” Eddie says and swings his suntanned body outside the back of the bemo.

He shouts and sings Handel’s Messiah with absolute joy. I love that about Eddie; he doesn’t hold back. He motions to me to join him, and I hang out the other side and snap some pictures. The other passenger (an old farmer with a bale of cane) doesn’t know what to make of us.

A truckload of young soldiers passes us. They look down from the truck and glare at us. They wear green uniforms about two sizes too small and carry old rifles. I wonder if Vietnamese soldiers look like that? Very intense. Even scary. I wouldn’t want to mess with them.

The muffler-less bemo sounds like a chain saw ruining the tranquility of the countryside. Talking is pointless. White exhaust fumes curl up and around the back of the bemo, forcing us to sit down and cover our faces. The roads are filled with potholes after the rains.

Bam! Bam! Kabam! If there were ever any shocks on the bemo they’re certainly gone by now.

We are green with nausea by the time we arrive twenty minutes later. We get out. Eddie sticks his fingers down his throat and throws up his banana pancakes.

“Try it, you’ll feel better.”

He’s right. The cold clammy feeling passes, and I feel great. Great to be in Bali.

We walk around Denpasar to get the lay of the land. The city is terribly congested. Bali is just as crowded as Java, with about 2 million people crammed onto an island the size of Delaware. We can’t wait to visit the three towering volcanoes in the middle of the island and to walk across the fertile green rice fields.

Today is market day. Push or be pushed, we make our way through the crowded market. Village women display jackfruit, durian, oranges, mangos, papaya, bananas (a dozen varieties), coconuts, lemons, and pomegranates. Eddie walks through the market surreptitiously squeezing the fruit and eyeing the women. We are hot and sweaty from the heat.

There are heaps of herbal concoctions that boggle the imagination. A polluted river next to the market sends up an unbelievable stench. Several women stand at the side of the river, pull back their sarongs, and relieve themselves. Jeez! We’re talking funky. Packs of semi-wild Bali dogs scavenge and fight over the remains.

I want to get a sarong. We buy several but we’re not sure how to tie them. A market hag with red, betel-nut-stained teeth cackles as she carefully folds then ties mine. Looks pretty good.

Eddie buys some kreteks, Indonesian clove cigarettes. We each light one up.

“These aren’t real cigarettes, more like candy cigarettes,” justifies Eddie, who doesn’t really smoke. They give off a wonderful scent which permeates your clothes all day.

Denpasar has gone cosmopolitan. The government workers prefer white shirts and black trousers, which they think give them a modern look and the right to look down on sarongclad farmers, craftsmen, and food vendors. We strut along in our purple and orange sarongs. Power to the people.

We come to a large open field, a square in the middle of town. On the other side is the Denpasar museum. We enter through a large gate. Inside are two large, masked ritual creatures. One is a very frightening woman with bulbous eyes, fangs, long fingernails, and a long red tongue. She’s covered in hair. The other is a kind of lion creature like those you’d see at Chinese New Year.

A guide comes smiling, “Salamat pagi, darimana tuan?”

“Salamat pagi. Saya dari Salt Lake City,” replies Eddie confidently.

The guide speaks no English but we come to understand the two creatures are Rangda and Barong. Lining the walls of the museum are displays of shadow puppets and magic kris (daggers). I wonder whether this stuff is old or still used in Balinese ceremonies.

We stop at a warung (tea stand) in the street for some high octane kopi susu, which is essentially raw coffee grounds in a glass of milky hot water. I’ve learned that if you let the grounds settle to the bottom of the glass before drinking, you won’t have to spend the rest of the day picking coffee grounds from between your teeth. It’s pretty powerful stuff. My stomach starts to gurgle. I look around for a toilet, but there’s nothing in sight.

A crowd starts to gather around us. Knowing he is being studied, Eddie pulls out his cigarette-rolling machine, and begins a performance. With every move, the audience grows bigger. Concentrating intensely, Eddie begins by opening the tobacco pouch and religiously rations out its contents into the machine. He delicately takes the white rolling paper from its package and gently lays it in the slit in the roller. Next he exercises his fingers until they are ready to twist the machine, which eventually births a cigarette. Continuing, he then slowly raises it to his lips, lights it and savors the taste before exhaling the smoke. The audience coos with every move and cheers on the exhalation. Eddie loves making a spectacle.

When we are ready to leave, a mob follows us.

“Hey, man,” I say, “this is kinda scary. Now I know how the Beatles must feel.”

Eddie and I walk faster and faster. The crowd follows. Kids shout, “Minta wang, minta wang.” (Give me money). We start running. Several dozen crazed young men chase us. It’s getting out of hand. We’re sprinting now. We duck into a funky tourist restaurant. A toilet at last! The crowd disperses.

I look at Eddie. “That was close.”

He is sweating like crazy and he’s out of breath. So am I.

“What do you think they would have done with us,?” he asks between pants. He makes a face and we can’t hold back the laughter.

We tuck in our shirts and smooth back our hair. The smell of chicken saté gets Eddie’s attention. We look around and see we are at The Three Sisters. A sign shows it’s famous for its magic mushroom omelets. Three vivacious siblings run back and forth taking orders and delivering food.

We order nasi goreng (fried rice) and mie goreng (fried noodles and vegetables), saté, and more coffee.

This is obviously a popular hangout; between the flirting and socializing, it’s the place to be. There’s not much to it: cobalt blue tables with benches, a coffee-tin can stuffed with dirty forks, and paper napkins. There’s a seedy, but necessary pit stop like this in every Asian city where unofficial information is shared between travelers.—where to stay (cheap, cheapest, free), buy dope and/or sex, extend your visa, or learn what’s happening in Thailand or India. I like to go to these places for a day or two, compile information, and then get off the beaten path.

Eddie isn’t comfortable here with the other foreigners. Bali is his discovery. Everyone else can buzz off. Period.

Eddie is still hungry and orders second, then third portions of everything and eats with a ravenous appetite. He can really put it away.

Several teenage boys are hanging around the table marvelling at how much Eddie can eat.

As he finishes, a big, bearded guy steps through the crowd and sits down at our table and introduces himself. “Ida Bagus.”

“I’m bagus, too,” I say. (“Bagus” is Indonesian for good.)

“No, I’m Ida Bagus. That’s the name my Balinese father has given to me,” he says with a heavy Swedish accent.

Whatever. I call him “Big Swede” for short. He is very tall and thin, with long hair and eyes filled with experience. I’d guess he’s about forty. He’s a righteous vegetarian and wants everyone else to give up meat too. He orders three plates of food as he divulges his big discovery.

“The Balinese are the healthiest people in the world,” he tells us. “They live to ripe old ages because they can’t afford to eat hamburgers.”

He’s been traveling for twenty years and now lives in Bali. A rule of the road is that the longer you’re away, the hipper you are. (I’ve been in Asia over a year, Eddie only a few weeks.) That makes “Big Swede” top dog. His passport is filled with dozens of expired visa stamps. Morocco, Pakistan, Istanbul, Afghanistan, Nepal, Thailand, Cambodia, Hong Kong, Sumatra. It might as well be an Olympic Gold Medal. In twenty years my passport will look like his.

Two Javanese girls in halter tops that barely support their mango-shaped breasts sit down on the bench on each side of Big Swede in front of their plates of food. One of the girls reaches down into her bag and pulls out a hairbrush. We can’t take our eyes off her. From our vantage point, we can see where the brown tan line meets the pale skin and pink nipple.

The girls braid his hair and fondle him.

“My tantric experiments. They’ll do anything for me. We balance our energies, don’t we?” he says, as he pats one on the butt and laughs.

Eddie, who is sheepish and silent, rolls another cigarette and covertly blows smoke towards the Swede while eyeing the girls. Big Swede proclaims that Kuta Beach is one of his favorite places. “Pure, untouched.”

Putu, one of The Three Sisters, brings me the bill. Big Swede ignores it until I point out that everything delivered to this table is totaled together.

“Hmm, give me 10,000 rupiah. My money is at the beach.”

I hand it over.

We all catch a bemo and return to Kuta. When we get off the bemo, we are greeted by a familiar face.

“Hallo, my name, Made Gitah, you want to see my paintings?” Swede grimaces and waves him off.

“That Sindu village stuff is crap. You want to see good paintings, go to Penestanen near Ubud,” says Big Swede.

Big Swede is staying with the girls in a rich friend’s bungalow further down the beach. He suggests we walk with him. Eddie trys his Indonesian on the girls. They laugh.

I join Big Swede. The girls wade in the surf. Their sarongs stick to their shapely little butts. Eddie follows. The girls wade out waist deep and dance teasingly for Eddie.

Big Swede smiles, “There’s only two things worth worshipping: women and God. In the Tantra, when you join with a woman you are joining with God.”

I know what he’s trying to say. I’d like to express something like that in my film about women.

“It’s kinda like they are muses,” I add, but Swede’s not paying attention.

I take a few pictures of the girls dancing. When we reach the bungalow, the nymphs say goodbye and run inside. Big Swede tells us he’ll see us later.

We walk on further toward the peninsula which juts out into the bay. (Hey, he forgot to pay me back!)

I feel incredibly free. No worries at all. My mind is clear. I am alive and happy. This is exactly what I’ve always wanted. In San Francisco, everyone talked about going out into the world but no one I knew ever did.