Читать книгу On the Edge of a Dream - Michael Wiese - Страница 15

Chapter 8

GUARDIAN ANGEL

In the morning, a wrinkled-khaki Anna joins me for banana pancakes and coffee in the courtyard. She’s embarrassed by her intense feelings.

“About my flip out. I just got very frightened. It was dark, then Eddie…”

“It’s okay. Could happen to anyone,” I say.

“You must think I’m pretty green,” she says, shaking her head.

“Think of it as a rite of passage,” I joke.

Eddie comes in and joins us. He greedily downs his own pancakes, then mine, then Anna’s, which she hasn’t touched.

Anom, the manager, stands at the doorway and talks with some older men. They seem to be looking for someone. They peer in at us suspiciously and then leave. Anom comes over. Apparently someone broke into the temple. Do we know who did it? Anna bites her tongue. Eddie feigns innocence.

Now we’re really fried.

“Time to go, Eddie,” I whisper to Eddie. He agrees. But where?

I find a bemo for Anna that will take her back to the Bali Hai. “Nick, I won’t forget you.”

“Bali’s a small place. See you again.”

Back in the room Eddie and I pack our gear. I write a postcard to Adrian as Eddie takes a quick shower.

Dear Adrian,

We saw the most incredible ritual last night. The Balinese have no problem expressing their dark side.

We are just the opposite, aren’t we? We repress the shadowy side, don’t we? Pretend it doesn’t exist. What would happen if we allowed it to fully emerge in our temples and churches? Would America be a less violent society? Would rape, murder, child abuse, and wife battering be nonexistent, as I’m told it is here?..or…

A familiar smile appears in the door frame.

“Hallow, remember me? I’m Madé Gitah.”

“Of course!”

He’s our Balinese shadow with features from a Bosch painting: square teeth, cat’s eyes, and dark hair that cascades onto his forehead. He unrolls a large painting on the floor in front of me.

Big Swede was wrong about these. These are really fantastic paintings. Much better than Swede’s favorites, the crass bright green and orange Penestanen paintings. Gitah’s paintings are from Sindu, a village in East Bali, with an entirely different painting style. Inch after inch of canvas is covered in fabulous detail. You can see each leaf in the jungle tapestry painted with remarkable reverence. As if everything mattered to the painter.

“You leave Bali?” he asks.

“No. Belum.”

“Kemana?”

“Tidak tau.”

“You want come to my village? See more paintings?” he inquires in a childlike voice. His words are answers to our prayers.

“Bingo. You’re on,” I say. I nudge Eddie and smile, “See, you get what you need in Bali.”

Eddie winks and nudges me, “Messages, messages.” Madé Gitah draws a map to Sindu village and says, “No problem.”

Wrong. Big problem. Eddie and I are in a maze of rice paddy paths. Madé Gitah’s map doesn’t show the myriad of paths leading in every direction in the rice fields. We walk to the top of a hill where we can see row after row of emerald-green rice terraces covering every conceivable space. It takes my breath away.

“This is wonderful. You know this place is utopia. Let’s live here!”

For hundreds of year, the rice terraces have been hand sculpted! It’s like that everywhere we’ve been. You can feel the sacredness of every part of the terraced landscape. I stand in one spot, turning in increments, and take pictures. Taped together, later the photos will show panoramic view of the entire vista.

On both sides are rice fields, and in the distance, a huge volcano releases a string of smoke that snakes its way to the clouds.

“It could blow any minute,” says Eddie. “Is that great or what? No one could find us here. Not the draft board…”

“And not your father,” I add.

We walk a little further and see a stone shrine dedicated to the rice gods. Beside it is the world’s smallest hut. Out pops a small, wiry elder; he squats, squints, and then smiles a toothless grin. With the energy of a small child, he speaks incomprehensibly—in what must be an old Balinese language.

He speaks louder, thinking it will help us understand. (Why does everybody do that?)

This 30-x-30 foot plot of land where we sit must be under the care of the old man. Does everyone here work into their advanced age? This rice field stands out from the surrounding paddies. As miniscule as it is, the paddy is absolutely healthy and pristine. It’s more like a spiritual garden. Each plant is perfect. There are no indications of insects chewing on the delicate stalks.

Even Eddie’s Indonesian is of no use. The old man never had reason to learn the Indonesian language which was created in 1928. We sit around talking, smiling, and laughing without understanding a word. This doesn’t seem to matter as he rambles on, stopping momentarily to spit a stream of red betel nut juice between my toes.

“Imagine growing old in a place like this.”

Some other farmers begin to gather—word of strangers travels fast. Broken English meets broken Indonesian. Many eyes are upon us. We are somewhere on the outskirts of Sindu village, lugging our cameras and worldly burdens behind us. Eddie easily engages the young farmers in conversation.

A barrage of personal questions.

“Dari mana?” (Where are you from?) a brave boy in a red t-shirt asks.

“San Francisco, di America,” Eddie replies.

“Mengapa disini?” (why are you here?) someone wonders out loud.

“Kami suka Bali.” (We like Bali.) I respond.

“Dimana tinggal?’ (Where do you stay?) a young man about my age asks. I think his name is Lobo.

“Nowhere… How about Sindu?” I propose. Oh oh, this causes great concern.

They argue among themselves. About our request? This must be serious. No one wants to answer.

Eddie says, “They’ve got a real problem here. They can’t turn us away. We might be gods.”

It’s a pleasing thought.

Finally some consensus is made, and we are taken into the village to the mud-walled compound of Dewa Sadia, the village leader.

“Yes, yes, yes!” I whisper to Eddie as we walk. I can barely contain myself. This is really happening. We are really going to stay in a village!

Sadia’s eyes sparkle in a youthful, moon-shaped face. His smile is his principal feature. He looks our age, but in fact is much older. His English is quite good. He acts as if he’s been expecting us.

“Salamat datang. Welcome to Bali! I am glad you come to my village.”

What a relief. With a good humored scowl, he orders the gaping youngsters—who don’t know what to make of us—to fetch some snacks. In a few minutes, hot coffee and chalk-dry cookies are delivered. Although we are parched, we’ve learned that it’s polite to wait to drink until the host offers the drink three times. That’s once, twice, go for it. We lift our glasses on his third sip.

He’s warm and sincerely interested in us. We tell him about ourselves.

“We want to live like you, learn from you,” I say.

“It’s good. I can learn from you. West and East. Rich and poor. I help you. You help me. Everything in Bali like that. Bagus sekali.”

Across the compound, I watch Ibu, Sadia’s grandmother, instruct a dozen little girls in the family garden how to collect herbs and flowers. Triumphant, they return the herbs to Ibu, who uses a mortar and pestle to crush them into a special powder. One of the nursing mothers sprinkles it on her breasts then draws the infant near.

“The powder’s sweet smell keeps the babies very happy!” Sadia says, smiling.

Sorry to break the spell, I stand up. I’ve got the runs real bad again. Sadia leds me to the rumah ketjil (small room) with a hole in the center. Pigs rummage around and sniff at the flimsy door to the bathroom.

When I return, he suggests we leave our gear on the porch and join him for a tour of the village. Dare we? Is it safe?

We walk into the village, down a simple unpaved footpath. The local dogs bark incessantly from the entrances of each compound. It’s so loud we can’t talk. The noise draws people from their homes and in moments the streets are lined with hundreds of people. Everyone smiles and waves to us goodheartedly. The kids shout, “Hallo, Hallo, Hallo. Minta wang.” What a welcome.

Sadia points out the family compounds on each side.

“This house; Lobo; this house: Madra, that house: Rani. All painters.”

He tells us that his older brother studied with the famous German painter Walter Spies in the 1930’s and now teaches the other painters in Sindu. Sadia is now organizing a painting commune. The paintings are sold by Madé Gitah.

Except for Walter Spies, Westerners have only once visited here in the last thirty years, but never stayed.

“Good for you. Good for me,” he smiles.

Just then Madé Gitah comes out of one of the compound wearing a new colorful shirt. He shakes my hand vigorously. The hero of the moment, he greets me like a long-lost cousin. The crowd roars. With all this excitement, you’d think they’d declare a village holiday—Madé Gitah Day. I imagine he thinks it will be just a matter of time before we’ll buy all his paintings.

Sadia guides us to the main temple with its ornately carved cornices and gateway. Next to it is a huge tree with vines which hang down like the hair of Rangda.

“Wow, look at that. You could live in that tree. What is it?,” asks Eddie.

“It’s a banyan tree,” warns Sadia, “if you fall asleep under it at night when the leyaks (witches) are about, you will wake up gila (crazy).”

Kids chase each other through the spaghetti-like vines that hang down from the huge tree. Sadia points out the kulkul, a carved trunk, hanging high in the tree. A kind of drum. Each village has its own secret rhythmic code that only they know.

“If there is danger…” says Sadia quickly, beating an invisible kulkul with an invisible mallet.

“Ke-thump thump, ke-thump, ke-thump.”

Outside the temple, women are pounding rice with posts in troughs.

“Listen,” instructs Sadia. “Some people say gamelan started like this.”

Behind the temple on a half-concealed path is a deep ravine with a stream at the bottom. Sadia leads the way. We climb over large, ancient, moss-covered stones to get down to the water.

“From an old temple.” Sadia pulls off his shirt and sarong and indicates we join him in the water.

“Mandi, mandi.”

He covers his privates with his left hand and squats in the water. We do the same.

“Whoa, that’s cold,” whoops Eddie.

Several dozen kids watch from the bushes, tittering at our ungraceful moves over the slippery stream bed. They can’t take their eyes off us.

What a life!

We return to the small bamboo hut that serves as the painting commune’s studio during the morning, and as the rest shelter during the hot afternoon. Against the walls and in the rafters are dozens of finished and half-finished paintings of demons, princes, and goddesses. It is already dark. Sadia lights an oil lamp.

“You sleep here. Okay?”

“Terima kasih.”

Sadia takes us to the porch where food is being laid out on woven mats. We sit and eat Bali-style with our fingers. The thumb serves as a food pusher. There’s rice, root vegetables, tempeh (fried tofu), bean sprouts, and something that might be chicken.

Sadia shows us how to mix into our food the small puddles of sambal (hot spices) at the side of the palm-leaf plate. A huge audience gathers to watch. Eddie christens the event drama makan (food theater), and the crowd roars. Eddie loves showing off, and being the center of attention.

I drop some rice, they giggle. Eddie tops that by tossing food in his mouth like popcorn. Words ripple out and back, sounds of people repeating what just happened or what was said.

Eddie laughs, “We’ve entered the theater, but we can’t get off the stage.”

Sadia suddenly pulls Eddie’s left hand away from the food he is about to touch. Eddie’s act is interrupted. Everyone laughs. Sadia, and others in the crowd, gesture to Eddie’s right hand.

“Right hand for eating. Left hand for…” He makes a wiping gesture. So that’s how they do it without toilet paper.

Sadia continues the lecture, “Right hand, give something. Left hand, tidak bagus (not good).” Eddie is embarrassed, then sullen.

This new rule makes eating even more difficult. You have to remember to pick something up with the right and then put it down, never transferring food or drink to the left hand. I try to keep the left hand in my lap.

More food falls on my lap than makes it to my mouth. Gotta work on my thumb moves.

The spices burn the hell out of my mouth and make my eyes water. I gulp down a glass of tea, which does nothing for my swollen tongue.

Lobo is also having trouble with his tongue. He can’t seem to get it around my name, Nicholas, no matter how many times I pronounce it for him.

“Nipas, Nipas,” he sputters, shaking his head. Everyone laughs. “Nipas” means “thin” in Indonesian. Everybody thinks this is a real hoot. Nipas is what they call me now.

Everyone is having such a laugh that Eddie gets back into the act. He slowly rolls a cigarette, playing to his audience. “We don’t really have any choice,” he says, “might as well make the best of it.”

It’s fun but also very tiring to have so much attention continually heaped upon you.

Sadia wraps a brightly colored saput around my waist. As we follow him up the temple steps and through the split, temple gate, Eddie murmurs, “They’re having the ceremony because they think we’re gods.”