On the Edge of a Dream. Michael Wiese
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
Chapter 5
Wayang Kulit
THE SHADOW PLAY
It’s night. I’ve missed the hashish-enhanced sunset, the main event on Kuta among the homestay crowd. We spent one evening with them. Mostly Australian surfers and loud rock and roll. All they could talk about was the waves.
Ketut, the homestay manager’s son, waits by the door. He’s Eddie’s friend and has been teaching him Indonesian. He invites us to go to a ceremony in nearby Kuta village, and he loans us each a brightly colored saput to tie around our sarongs before entering the temple. He tells us that there will be a shadow play performance by Gedé, Bali’s most popular dalang.
The temple is not far away. It’s just a short walk down the path behind the homestay. I hadn’t realized that we are so close to the center of a village. As we enter the temple, the local guys acknowledge us with “bagus” and accompany the greeting with thumbs up. Some I recognize from the beach. We’re the only Westerners here except for Big Swede, who’s already inside.
Anyway, I’m glad the homestay parasites were too stoned to come. The Balinese don’t do drugs. Ketut says that the Balinese stay away from anything that can master them—like alcohol or mushrooms. He can’t understand why Westerners are always asking for magic mushroom omelets.
“Because they open your mind,” I tell him. “I’ve had plenty psychedelics. No more. I want to experience Bali without getting stoned. Anyway, it’s intense enough here already. Who needs it?” Ketut looks confused.
As I climb down the temple stairs, I step on the bottom of my sarong and down it comes. One of the local guys shouts “bagus,” and laughs good-naturedly. I grab it and quickly re-tie it.
Twenty or more lithe young women pass us with huge offerings on top of their heads. I am too slow to focus my camera before they move out of the good light. All kinds of stuff is piled 2 or 3 feet into the air: fruit, rice cakes, coconuts, flowers, palm leaves, pork fat—all elaborately carved, stacked and sculpted together. The women exude the most exhilarating smells. Most have hibiscus flowers behind their ears. Some smile at me. Some look shyly away. I am mesmerized—excited by their sensuousness. They are exquisite creatures.
“I’d really like to make love to a Balinese woman,” Eddie says as he fixes his eyes on a shapely girl nearby. She laughs in return.
“Who wouldn’t?”
One by one, the offerings are unloaded by a priest’s wife and placed on high platforms behind three white-clad pedandas (priests), who sprinkle holy water on everything. Ketut tells me that later they will take the offerings back home for tomorrow’s lunch.
Gedé, the dalang, begins an elaborate ritual. He pours holy water, chants some incantations, and adjusts the flame above his head. He washes his hands in the flames, and then rubs holy water into his hair and face. He takes a drink and finally taps on the puppet box with three sharp raps to bring the puppets to life.
He takes the puppets out one by one and arranges them on the appropriate side of the screen. One rather ugly character with disfigured lips and large feet appears.
“He’s a bad-looking character.”
“No, he’s really noble and good. He was just born into a bad family of liars, murderers, and seducers of women.”
“Then why doesn’t he join the ‘good family’ if he’s so noble,” I ask.
“Oh, no, it’s his karma.” Ketut replies. “He must stay in his family. No change. It’s his duty. Mengerti?”
I get only little snippets of understanding from Ketut. His English and my Indonesian are on an equal par—real bad. I have to fill in the blanks myself, so my understanding of things has to be a work in progress.