Language is very funny as certain words have such completely different meanings when used in different cultures.
For example, ‘blog’ in Indonesian means stupid.
When I first heard the word (which was not in the too distant past) I couldn’t believe it. For that is exactly how I feel when faced with the enormity of my technological illiteracy.
I shall endeavour to come across as not too much of a blog in the future!!
This year we were given an incredible gift.
Three weeks ago, we received a telephone call that the forests in which houses, that were built over 30 years ago by Pedro and his friends, were ablaze. Firefighters were, at great risk to themselves, trying to control what was truly a dangerous situation. We were told that no one would be allowed anywhere near the disaster.
Pedro and a friend went there anyway, and managed to gain access. The fires were still raging, the blackened earth and trees paying witness to the damage that had already been inflicted. They both expected the worst. As it happened, the firefighters knew nothing of Pedro’s house, and had been fighting to save the others, unfortunately without any success – they were all burnt to the ground.
With hearts in their boots, and spirits laden with doom, they climbed the hill that lead to Pedro’s house among the rocks. Everything was smouldering, and the smoke made the climb even more arduous.
Upon reaching the top, they were greeted by the miracle of all miracles… Despite the fact that the fire left scorch marks on the walls and the roof, the house still stood. Even when they went inside, the place had managed to remain in pristine condition, untouched by the inferno.
When the firefighters came to have a look, they could give no explanation for what had come to pass and indeed described it as “impossible”.
Seeing is truly believing! What gift could be better? We still reel with what, for us, was a miracle.
The sizzling Australian heat has finally been drenched with a deluge of such refreshing rain that I couldn’t resist the urge to leave the shelter of the house to stand under the downpour. What a relief! I felt as if I was standing under a massive waterfall far in the deepest jungle. I’ve always loved the rain. Water has fascinated me, since earliest childhood, with a sense of something deeply sacred. Water has been both teacher and friend in ways that defy the accepted parameters of what is generally taught and understood to be the reality.
When I was younger I remember wondering why water was never given much attention, why for example no-one seemed to notice the living presence of water.
My father often spoke of the importance of clean healthy living water and I am still grateful to him for that, as it gave me a sense that he too understood something that not too many people seemed to understand. My relationship with water has grown as has my realisation that humanity’s lack of understanding of water contributes to the sickness and violence that roams our world with an ever increasing voracious appetite.
I remember when I was little, trying to explain what water meant to me. I met with various reactions, none of which served to satisfy my desire to learn and communicate. So, with my child logic, I came to the conclusion that for some reason, unknown to me at that time, people were not meant to talk about such matters. This served, in a round about way, to increase my sense of awe and reverence for what I felt to be the loving, friendly spirit of water.
It was many years before I met people who experienced water as an actual living entity, to be revered, honoured, and loved. It was with those people I felt free to share my experiences and as a consequence came to hear their stories.
At the moment I’m melting in the heat of the Australian Summer. Oh for a breath of the lovely cold air of an Irish Winter!
My brain seems to be reduced to some kind of jelly-like substance that makes me feel like one of those ‘swooning ladies’ of olden times. There is no doubt that this moment in time is meant for the kind of rest that has eluded me for many years. That fall down the stairs, while reducing me to the status of invalid, is quite interestingly appropriate. I can sit for longer periods, and can walk for a while without the feeling that my legs are not there. However, most of my time is still spent lying down and either sleeping or focusing on the injuries and observing as much as possible the many subtle changes that are taking place.
‘Six months at least until you can move normally again….. especially at your age’ is what I’ve been told by the various experts with the solemn certainty of ‘those who know best’. Of course, added to the rather ‘down drag’ diagnosis is the conviction that our ability to heal ourselves diminishes as we climb the years. Fortunately I don’t share this kind of thinking. I find it rather restricting, airless and lacking in the personal freedom to explore with an open mind and an unfettered curiousity.
So far so good, though perhaps not yet quite comfortable.
My sitting time has come to an end for the moment. Will write again soon.
Something that’s not mentioned in any of the brochures I’ve read about the ‘Paradise Island of the Gods’ that is Bali, concerns the ant population. These tiny creatures constitute, as far as I know, one of the largest communities in Bali.
I am often reminded of their presence, especially early in the morning, as I walk into the kitchen to prepare for the day ahead. In the dim light just before the sun’s glorious rising and if I am still not quite awake, and fail to check the floor, I will find myself immediately wide awake as I become their latest feast.
These tiny creatures descend, en masse within minutes to scavenge even the smallest traces of food. Flour, crumbs, oil, sugar are like magnets that draw them by the zillions, especially before it rains. Left to their own devices they are amazing garbage collectors.
However to walk into their midst in the early hours of the morning, is to become an irresistible delicacy, as they swarm, with lightening speed on any available part of one’s anatomy. Their consequent sampling of your flesh, has the power to set one hopping and slapping them off as they rush in all directions to taste the enormous food package that has arrived in their midst…. surely a gift from their gods!
Out comes the broom. Their orderly pathways are disrupted in what for them must be a cataclysmic event. However the speed with which they re-organise their marching columns is a miracle to observe. It doesn’t take long for them to come back, unless one uses some noxious substance, such as kerosene, to disguise their way.
There are so many different types of ants here. There are red ones, black ones, brown ones, big ones, small ones, each with a different Life’s Purpose. There are those who bite and those who don’t. There are the white ones that eat houses unless one takes the drastic measures of extermination. If you don’t, you may come crashing through the floor or alternatively have the house come crashing down on you.
The older Balinese people have a wealth of knowledge concerning each type of ant. They have names to describe whatever attribute each species possess. They are more that happy to share their knowledge with anyone interested enough to ask.
Enough for now!
Bali Baptism cont.
It so happened that Tanya, the daughter of one of my closest friends from University arrived to stay with us. It was, in a manner of speaking, for her, a very important pilgrimage. Her Mother, Jeannette was born in Indonesia and was adopted when she was very young, by Marten Toonder and his wife Phiny, who lived at that time in Holland. Later they decided to live in Ireland with their family and that is how we came to meet.
Jeannette often expressed the wish to come to Indonesia, However she left this world before she had the opportunity. Hence Tanya’s visit was, in a way, a coming home. It was a wonderful moment for her, as everywhere she went she was greeted as if she were in fact Balinese. So indeed she felt as if she had come home.
One evening we were invited to the home of a Balinese Friend, who was well versed in the culture and history of Indonesia. We spent many hours in his company and listening to his stories. He was bombarded with a profusion of questions that Tanya needed to ask. He answered them all with such patient enthusiasm, that we forgot the time.
Meanwhile the Heavens opened and a mini deluge came lashing down…. and didn’t stop.
In Ireland we believe we know what rain is, well the famous rain of Ireland is but a gentle drizzle in comparison to what happens here…. when it rains.
We decided to make a dash for it any way, not wanting to keep our gracious host from his slumbers any more than we had already.
Luckily by the time we reached the narrow path home, the rain had stopped. However we discovered that one of our torches had died and the other was waning. It was decided that I go first with the dim light, Tanya would follow with Pedro at the rear. The idea being that he could perhaps steady her if she missed her step.
Well I put my foot where the path should have been to discover that the path was no longer where it ‘should’ have been. It had completely collapsed during the deluge. Sure enough, I stepped into nothingness and landed in the water channel that flowed beside the rice paddy. I managed to keep my balance and avoided the actual field itself until Pedro, being the gentleman he is, reached out to help me up. He missed his step and guess what, fell on top of me, sending us both toppling the rest of the way in what felt like a slow cartoonish motion…. face first into the smelly, slimy, sticky muck of freshly ploughed water flooded earth. It went in my eyes, my ears and even up my nose. I managed to avoid getting it in my mouth despite the fact that I was laughing so hard I thought I’d never be able to get up. I was so laden down with dripping mud that walking became a sloshing shuffle. Pedro fared better as he was protected from the worst of the mud bath by the convenience of my body.
So that is how Pedro and I had the unexpected pleasure of ’sharing’ our Bali Baptism.
Tanya, our city guest who had never negotiated a pathway narrower than a London laneway, at night, remained mud less and pristine in her white dress. However she said the experience was priceless and would provide her with much laughter for years to come.
For many years the only access to the giant ‘basket’ in which we live was a narrow path through the rice fields. It was about a foot wide and served as an excellent exercise in mindfulness. A single moment of inattention could all too easily result in what was affectionately known as The Bali Baptism.
There were many degrees to this famous experience, from mere toe wetting to full emersion in muck and slime. Baptism stories flourished and were the subject of much hilarity and occasionally embarrassment. In fact rice paddy duckings were considered to be one of the major initiations into Bali life.
For years this experience eluded me. However, I knew that one day or night when I least expected it the experience would be mine. There could be no cheating. Mind you, no deliberate meddling would qualify as the real thing.
When that fateful moment finally arrived it was thorough and was absolutely unexpected.
To be continued… I will write again soon. For now my back is telling me to lie down.
(ps Pauline had a nasty fall recently – hence her need to ‘lie down’).
The big buzz of the moment here in Ubud is now the filming of the best seller ‘Eat Pray Love’. Rumours abound and stories flood the coconut telephone. Julia Roberts is playing the main character and Javier Bardem has been cast in the role of the romantic hero. The word is that Brad Pitt is the Director / Producer. However, that could be merely pipelined speculation.
As the injury to my spine has punished me severely for my venture into Tutmac’s for the recent book launch, I have not had the opportunity to catch even a glimpse of the exciting proceedings. Nevertheless, my Balinese friends have ‘seen’. They come here with an entirely different view of the events that are probably appearing in the local and global news.
Early one morning Wayan, a friend of over 20 years, burst into the kitchen in a flurry, that was totally out of character. She apologised for being late. I asked her what was the matter and she launched into an explanation that involved something about ‘IPIEL’. This IPIEL had taken over the market and everyone had to walk a long way to find their fruit and vegetables for the day. The Dagangs (vendors) had to haul their wares way up some road, out of the way, and many people didn’t know where to go for their usual early morning shopping. She described the big black expensive cars and trucks that had invaded the market place. I asked what on earth was this ‘IPIEL’. She said she didn’t know. I assumed that it must be some sort of bureaucratic convention of sorts.
Later in the afternoon Pedro came home and told me that they had been filming part of the film EAT PRAY LOVE in the market and were packing up when he happened to pass by. It was only then that it finally dawned on me that what Wayan called IPIEL was EPL – EAT PRAY LOVE.
Later Pak Nyoman, another Balinese friend came to tell us that the Film-makers had moved to Penestanen Klod, for the evening, and that the road was blocked , But if we wanted to have a look we could see some of the events from his kampung. Alas that too has been impossible….so the big event has sailed past on its way to Hollywood… without my having had even the tiniest glimpse.
The fast becoming famous Writer’s Festival has been and gone. Ubud was flooded with various members of the world’s intelligentsia.
Due to a rather nasty fall, in which I was rendered incapable of walking very far or sitting for more than a few minutes at a time, I was unable to go to the festival.
I did manage, with help, to attend the launch of a little book of short stories called ‘Dragons in the bath’ by a lady who is known as Ibu Kat (Cat Wheeler). For anyone wishing to have a glimpse into various aspects of her life in Bali, it’s well worth the read.
All content & images © Copyright Pauline Solon 2010
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