Amen to Amed!
Michael Altschul
know some charming, sweet local kiddos. More on that when Internet's
cheap.
Arrived in Amed earlier today, wonderful vibe in this diver's fair
oasis. Sometimes the ball just gets goign and you let it ping pong
you from one bus to another, from the back of one guy's scooter to
another, your backpack magically bounces along with you, and before
you know it you have bounced your way to a lovely bungalow on the
beach of Amed for $10. You say, "Okay, pinch me...cuz this is just
too perfect." Then you walk around town (all of 200 meters), stumble
upon that diving school that Lonely Planet recommends for
certification, they take credit card, and hey, would I rather learn to
dive in a high school gymnasium or among coral reefs and Tulamben
(home to the USS Liberty)? Shit, $310 seems like a bargain and 2 of 3
days I'll actually be diving! Then just as I'm ready for my ball to
hit the net, the guy who's renting my bungalow lobs me over with a,
"Oh, hey, there's a little ritual right now...to prevent tsunami."
And I'll be a motor scooter's noxious exhaust if I didn't just hop on
over to a beach 1 km north where this incredible ceremony wasn't
taking place. Oh, but it gets better. Much.
The moment I arrived, a couple bold and darling kids greeted me with
a, "Halo." I felt like an ass because I wasn't wearing proper attire
(the Balinese farmer hat and gringo t-shirt rather pale in comparison
to the ornate attire that even children don). But the little critters
didn't care and were so friendly that before I knew it, I was sitting
in the kid's section (*the* place to be!) of this beachfront ceremony
to fend off the demons of tsunamis. Every year, temples have a
massive ritual; once in a blue moon, they hold a special ritual. This
was one of those special rituals (complete with roasted pig offering
-- I'd be lying if I didn't admit to salivating throughout), held
tonight across the island in light of the recent tsunamis in
Indonesia. So, I'm surrounded by these abso-friggin-lutely adorable
kids, 6-10 years old, badgering me to take their photos, eager to see
the results (I was not the first tourist to come through), and making
the dumb tourist feel even dumber for all the noise his side of the
beach was making on account of him. An older fella came over and I
was sure he'd ask me to leave. Nope. He wanted to look at me and
eventually nabbed my Indonesian translation book that I'd been
futilely employing to communicate that, "No, I'm not here with my
mother. I am here alone, but yes I do have a girlfriend. No, she
isn't my wife. Yes, I do have a girlfriend. No, she is not here. My
mother lives in Los Angeles, I do not live there. I live in San
Francisco with my girlfriend who is not my wife. Oh, and I stay in
Bali for 4 weeks." Eventually the kiddos calmed down. At a certain
point during the ritual, I looked down and saw one of them (Futu)
touching, nay cleaning, nay prodding, my dirty feet. I'd read in the
Lonely Planet that Indonesians are a) an affectionate lot and b)
frequently touching white, Western skin, so I didn't think much of it.
Then I realized that I'd been so entranced by the ceremony that I had
missed the fact that one kid had made his way under my arm and another
was rubbing my arm against his face. Okay, Lonely Planet, right on.
I resisted my Western urge to withdraw and just went with it. I think
the face rubber was trying to get a sense as to whether or not
freckles made skin feel funny (I'd love to know what he determined).
There have been a number of instances that I've wished I had a travel
mate to take photos at times that I could not -- I'd trade every photo
I have so far for that one. Suddenly I had this urge to have kids,
nay to adopt these ones (well, they probably weren't orphans, so I'd
have to steal them!). Then they started snorting like pigs during a
silent moment and I snapped that urge. Just as I'm looking around at
this lovely setting of beautiful Balinese people in their Sunday's (or
Tuesday's) best, sandwiched between mountains and the sea, I thought,
"It just can't get any better. This is the mental snapshot I will
cling to from this journey." And then Hari (the sweetest of the lot,
it took awhile to gain his trust, but once I did he was my best mate)
motions to me to sit cross-legged, a genuine challenge for my lanky
ass, but I did. Others motioned me to remove my Balinese farmer hat.
Then Hari handed me an offering (several flowers on a coconut-thatched
plate) and showed me how to properly do a namaste. I struggled
through it a couple times, but the third time was a charm; I knew I'd
done it right when 30 children erupted with clapping. Hari and Gede
(my other closest mate) then assisted each other showing me how to
take a flower from the offering with one hand, hover it over smoke
from the incense Hari had just placed at my feet, clasp it with a
namaste, motion toward my head, then down, break the namaste, and put
the flower in my ear. We repeated, this time putting the flower atop
my head. Last time, flower in the other ear. The priest gave
everyone something of a blessing, Hari told me, "Bagus" (good), and I
gushed a massive smile. These kids had just walked me through the
essential of the ceremony and I think I got a passing grade. We
parted ways after exchanging an infinite number of high fives (the
night before, my Ubud homeys taught me how to say High Five in
Balinese...big hit with the kids!). I felt like Kobe leaving the
Staples Center after just having hit the game winner.
Of course, all perfect days must end. Fortunately, this one didn't
without a little BBQ on the beach with a few locals who were cooking
up a tasty tuna one of them (a fisherman) had caught earlier in the
day. Stuffed and culturally drunk, I'm ready to hit the sack...
Much Love,
IndoMike