On the Edge of a Dream. Michael Wiese
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Название: On the Edge of a Dream
Автор: Michael Wiese
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Контркультура
isbn: 9781615931538
isbn:
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 СКАЧАТЬ