Through the center

I climbed through the center of Bali inside magical light past an extinct sacred volcano at Lake Batur carrying spare ammunition, a small portable typewriter, a map carved on narwhal bone, a roll of scented four-ply toilet paper, codices or painted books and texts on bark paper called Amate, and cactus fiber including palimpsest animal skins and dialogue of Mayan origin.

My hair caught fire. Gathering flames I lit a piece of bark for guidance.

I mixed volcanic ash with water, creating a thick paste of red ocher, a cosmetic balm rich with antioxidants.

I applied this to my skin to gain entry and passage through the spirit world of ancestors. 

Source: A Century is Nothing.

Monkey Forest

“I know where Monkey Forest is,” she said.

“The bull is placed under a cremation platform (bale pabasmian) constructed of bamboo with a white "sky" cloth and gold tinsel roof. Reeds secure the bull on four corner poles and music stops.

“It’s like a party,” I said. “Women work the crowd selling water and soft drinks in searing heat. Tourists replace film and run videos.”

“Men cut the bull's back open with a large knife under sky pavilion and remove a section. Music starts and the body is lowered from the tower accompanied by cymbals, drums and clanging instruments. Women carry offerings and lead an honor procession three times around the bull.

“All the men are hot, tired, sweaty, and laughing. They lift the body up and pass it to a group along the bull. They place it inside. The widow places family heirlooms on the corpse as forest monkeys swing and chatter through overhead jungles. A black and white butterfly dances.

“A Brahmin priest in black stands on scaffolding with the family singing and chanting prayers over the body. They cut a string binding white cloth, pour holy water from clay pots on the body and pass pots to a family member who smashes them on the ground.

“Then the priest takes a flowering plant and sprinkles soil on the body. Another man adds yellow silk. People hand them family items wrapped in white cloth to be placed inside. Clay pots are emptied and smashed.

“A family member takes a photograph of the body. An effigy of reeds and tinsel is dismantled and placed on the body before the lid is replaced on the bull and secured with a long piece of bamboo lashed diagonally across the corners. Someone lights the fire.

“The bull and flowers burn quickly as wood, bamboo and rattan sends smoke and ash circling into sky. Cloth shells flame away as heat jumps to the tinsel and golden roof.

“Italian and French film crews work close to the fire.

“The crowd evaporates. The ground is littered with plastic water bottles and ashes. The widow sits by a path in the shade eating, drinking and talking quietly with her family and friends aboutsekala, what is seen, andnisekala, what is unseen.”

“Wow!” Michiyo said when Smith finished. “Amazing!”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s about impermanence and perception. When people change their attitudes they change their perceptions.”

“Is that all that happens?” She wanted to know.

“Well, it’s about connections on many levels, you see. When people change their attitudes it affects their values and changes their belief window.”

“What’s a belief window?”

“How you see things. Some cultures think with their heart instead of their head.”

“I see.” Our laughter shattered the calm silence. Wild cranes lifted from the rice paddies into blue sky slashing their shadows through light. The sky is the same color no matter where you are.

Metta.

The Rice Farmer

Bali sunset light. A light of soft gentle music from a choir of painters. A tapestry on a loom of sky. Mountains stand strong and silent in the distance. 

Ducks settle down in their straw hut as a young waitress reads in an upstairs section of a bamboo restaurant. Business is slow.  Downstairs a child cries as someone slices dark green vegetables on a chopping block mixed with laughter. Motorcycles race along a twisted road blazing shrill horns. Birds and gekkos create twilight music as day slowly fades.

A narrow dusty dirt uphill path winds through the jungle. A woman with deeply lined brown skin wearing a purple sarong passes in and out of shadows. She maintains a steady pace balancing a stack of red bricks on a torn dirty yellow towel wrapped around her head. Her brown eyes glance down at the rocky terrain and up, straight ahead.

A gaunt rice farmer cleans debris from around rice stalks in a paddy near Monkey Forest Road. He wears faded blue shorts, a torn yellow t-shirt and sweat-soiled straw hat.

He pulls, smooths, and pats thick wet muddy soil in the water while tossing clumps on a pile of rocks at a construction project.

As daylight escapes he moves along a rice paddy terrace, stopping to splash water on his arms and legs removing the mud of his day with strong fingers and hands sliding up and down leather skin. 

Picking up an old hoe, he places it on a thin shoulder and continues along narrow edges inspecting adjacent paddies. Calloused feet trace a zig-zag pattern toward a dark horizen of trees and thick tropical forest. His figure becomes smaller and smaller.  

A slight breeze moves through green rice. Rice paddy water stands silent.

Metta.