On the Edge of a Dream. Michael Wiese
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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