On the Edge of a Dream. Michael Wiese

Чтение книги онлайн.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ