The Late Writers & Readers festival – Day Two – Oscar Wilde in Bali

We are now into the second day of this lively festival of internationally renowned dead writers who have arrived in paradise wearing coats of many cultures waxing eloquent on the frailties of life and the temptations of physiological attractions.

When I dropped into the festival office to collect my Press Lunch Pass I was greeted by the apparition of Oscar Wilde singing platitudes in a longitude position, sipping ever so gently on absinthe whilst tapping his upright knee with his index finger.

He glanced at me and said with a flourish, “My dear fellow are you one of the locals? Could you be so kind as to tell one what a gentleman of leisure may indulge in after 10.30 pm in Ubud, for I’ve noticed it gets awfully quiet and submissive to the elements?”

I invited him to join me on a nocturnal run, down to Kuta, to partake of decadence in throbbing environs.

“You’re a good soul, if ever one exists. Thank you,” he replied.

Before I embark on an evening with a Victorian celebrity permit me to enlighten you on the distinguished gentleman in question.

To understand this famous Irish Playwright of the Victorian Era it is essential to read his two famous works, a play titled The Importance of Being Earnest and the sole novel that he wrote, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde was born in Dublin in1854 and died penniless in Paris in 1900. His life as a dandy and bisexual was the subject of much gossip in the hypocritical and suppressed Victorian society. His downfall came when he was convicted of homoeroticism and incarcerated for two years. On his release he quietly left for Paris where he spent the last three years of his life under the assumed name of Sebastian Melmoth. He is buried at the Pére Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. The works of Oscar Wilde continues to be relevant even today where sections of society in many countries still remain suppressed by self appointed moralists masquerading as keepers of a faith.

Later in the day when the sun had set and the full moon rose to the occasion, we drove down to Mix Well on Jalan Dhyana Pura to witness the likes of Priscilla Queen of The Desert perform, in the heat of the night, a hip displacing rendition of Dancing Queen.

The steamy atmosphere, blinking lights and perspiring bodies of plebeians sandwiched between Johnny Walkers and Bintangs was acutely unbearable even for Oscar who appeared flustered by the scene.

“Let’s go somewhere else, please”, he said.

We walked across the street to Kudos and ensconced ourselves on a cement sofa festooned with red cushions; and soon we were whetting our whistles with strawberry martinis and gazing, albeit a bit distractedly, at the shenanigans of the night crawlers.

I turned to Oscar and asked, “Could you share with the readers of The Bali Times some of your thoughts on life in general and a brief sketch of your novel The Picture of Dorian Gray?”

His reply encapsulated a number of his witticisms from his published works and is probably familiar to Wilde’s avid followers. However, for the benefit of those unfortunates who have yet to encounter this literary giant’s outpourings, here’s a taste of Oscar Wilde!

“Let me begin by saying that it is perfectly monstrous the way people go about, nowadays, saying things against one behind one’s back that are absolutely and entirely true.

Mark, I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good character and my enemies for their good intellect.

I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.

What a fuss people make about fidelity. Why even in love it is purely a question of physiology. It has nothing to do with our own will. Young men want to be faithful, and are not, old men want to be faithless, and cannot.

And when it comes to reason, I have this to say – I can stand brute force, brute reason is quite unbearable. There is something unfair about its use. It is hitting below the intellect.

As for society – civilized society, at least is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment of those who are both rich and fascinating. It feels instinctively that manners are more important than morals.

However, I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty.

I was married once and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties. Most of the time, I never knew where my wife was and my wife never knew what I was doing.

Those who are faithful know only the trivial side of love; it is the faithless who know love’s tragedies. Therefore, one should always be in love. That is the reason why one should never marry.

To love oneself is the beginning of a life long romance.

I believe that if a man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream – I believe that the world would gain such fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of medievalism. But the bravest among us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure or the luxury of regret. The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

And speaking about temptation, let us yield to another round of martinis. What say you my friend”, said Oscar.

I ordered another round of drinks. By now two Bancis (pretty boys) were sitting at our table listening to Oscar craft each sentence and enunciate every word, rolling them on his tongue and spinning them out. Though they didn’t understand a word it was apparent that they were mesmerized by Oscar’s theatricals.

A rough sketch of The Picture of Dorian Gray:

Dorian gray is an effeminate and beautiful young man whose portrait is painted by an artist named Basil Hallward. When Lord Henry, a friend of Basil’s, meets Dorian he convinces him that beauty and fulfilling one’s desires were the main essentials of life. Aware at this point that he would in time lose his beauty the narcissist in him comes to the fore.

“How sad it is!” murmured Dorian Gray with his eyes still fixed upon his own portrait, “How sad it is! I shall grow old, and horrible, and dreadful. But this picture will remain always young. It will never be older than this particular day of June…If it were only the other way! If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old! For that—for that—I would give everything! Yes, there is nothing in the whole world I would not give! I would give my soul for that!”

Though Dorian’s wish comes true his portrait absorbs all the ugliness of his life. It slowly morphs into a grotesque image. Dorian in a fit of conscious rage murders Basil Hallward (the artist) for having created the portrait. At the end of the novel he attempts to destroy the picture with a knife. He fails and is discovered by his servants in a mummified form with a knife in his heart. The picture reverts to its original splendor.

Oscar took a sip of his drink and looked at me and said, “Aaahhhh! …fair youth and beauty are impostors for they lull us into false notions that we can remain the same forever. But youth is a passing phase, just one part of our whole lives. Narcissism reigns supreme when we feel the freshness in our loins and the brightness in our hearts. For a moment we think we can be young and beautiful forever.”

Loud music suddenly erupted in the restaurant drowning out all hopes of further conversation. I fondled my drink as Oscar went into spasms trying to communicate in sign language with the Bancis. After a few minutes he turned to me and patted my hand to catch my attention. He gestured that he would not be returning to the hills with me that night.

I left the pulsating place for the comfort of my room and the words spoken by one of the greatest playwrights who had fallen from grace in his mortal life but was resurrected in death.

“It is better not to be different from one’s fellows. The ugly and the stupid have the best of it in this world. They can sit at their ease and gape at the play. If they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat”.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

The Grand Central of Cultures

Imagine there’s no country
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

-    John Lennon, Imagine

This is about the expat community in Bali – The world within worlds that segregates the lotus eaters from a reality that most islanders have to deal with on a daily basis – navigating through the potpourri of cultures. Many naive expats have to tread the minefield of religion, rituals and social customs that is so far removed from their own that coherency in everyday life is often achieved by hitching up with an Indonesian in matrimony. The conjugal connection sometimes results in the birth of a Mom & Pop business that incorporates a new found sensitivity and belonging to the adopted country.

I dedicate this month’s column to these wonderful folk who make Bali the Grand Central of Cultures.

A few weeks back as I sat in a restaurant fiddling with my laptop keyboard trying to get the keys unstuck after a nubile nymphet had dropped wine on it, I was offered a glass of Grappa by a man who spoke with a thick Italian accent. It’s amazing how liquor bridges all gaps between cultures. He was Roberto, an Italian living in Bali and married to Niken, a gorgeous lady from Java.

“Salúte”, I said raising my glass.

“Salúte”, exclaimed Roberto, “We must look into each other’s eyes when we toast otherwise you get seven years of bad sex”.

“It has been so long, what’s another seven years”, I replied jokingly, “Are you Italian?”

“Yes. My hometown is Laives. It is in the shadow of the Alps. But it’s not really Italian. There’s a curious mix of Italians and Austrians. After the Great War the borders were shifted and part of Austria was added to Italy. There are Italian and German speaking people with two different cultures living side by side. As a child growing up with this weird mix of people I learnt a lot and this has helped me in living with alien cultures. Even our food and clothes are different. It’s like no other place in my country. We Italians are very gregarious, loud and with large families, while the Austrians are a bit formal in all the leather that they wear. I grew up speaking three languages – Italian, German and English. Now, I also speak Bahasa. And what about you my friend?”

I avoided the question and reached for the bottle of Grappa and poured another drink. For the edification of all those Philistines among us, Grappa is an Italian brandy distilled from the remains of grapes after they have been pressed for wine making.

“So how long have you been living in Bali?” I asked.

“Around 14 years. Actually I have never planned to come to Bali. Many years ago when I returned to my hometown after a trip to Madagascar some friends approached me and asked me to join them on a holiday to Bali. As one of them had backed out at the last moment, I took his place. It was accident that I arrived here. But it was a fortunate twist of faith. Bali captured my senses and Niken, a beautiful girl from Jogyakarta stole my heart. I married her,” he replied.

Roberto told me how he and his wife had started the restaurant (in which we were sitting) with the idea of offering delicacies from his home country, Italy. Since its inception eleven years ago the outlet has become popular with locals and tourists alike for its range of pizzas, pastas, freshly baked breads and a delicatessen that sells a wide range of cold cuts, cheese, organic produce etc. In fact every Saturday the couple let out part of the restaurant for half a day free of cost to the organizers of the Organic Farmers’ Market to hold their weekly sale of fresh farm produce.

“Do you see any noticeable difference between the eating habits of Italians and Indonesians?” I asked.

“For us (Italians) meals are a celebration in which the whole family takes part. But the local people here eat alone with no fixed time for meals; it is like they are just putting food in their mouth impassively,” he said.

“And what about the women, what’s your take on their contribution to the family?”

“The Indonesian woman knows her place in the family and society. She is instilled with family values. I think this is called Mengabdi. Whereas, the Italian woman has lost it, probably that’s why men from my country look for young brides from the East European Countries,” he replied.

“Do you think religion is a barrier between you and your wife?”

“No, because we are both Catholic. However, after staying in this country for so long I do believe that religion creates divisions between peoples and cultures.”

“Why so?” I asked

“Because if we do not belong to the majority religion we are looked on as outsiders even though we may be part of the community. I do not mean to be critical or disrespectful but this is a fact of life all over the world and I accept it in all humility.”

“Why have you settled in Ubud, Roberto”.

“Please let me answer that”, said Niken as she sat down at our table, “we like the people and more importantly the harmonious culture of creativity that thrives here”.

“Niken, do you think your husband has understood your culture?” I asked

“No, not completely and probably he never will in this lifetime. But then one can absorb another’s culture only when one is a child because the culture adopts the child. Also, why should Roberto adopt my culture? He has brought his own to share with us by way of Italian cuisine,” she replied.

“What about social communication? Is there any similarity?”

“No. Unfortunately I have learnt this the hard way. My husband is a true Italian for he tells people exactly what he thinks to their face, whereas we do it in a roundabout manner so as not to appear insulting. You’re Indian, you know what I mean?”

Just then Vivian, their seven year old daughter walked up to our table and said a few words in Bahasa to her mother. She then turned to her father spoke in Italian to him and ran off with her friends shouting syllables of a language I couldn’t comprehend.

“Niken, what language is your daughter speaking?” I asked

“Balinese. She has picked up a number of words from her friends”.

Roberto poured another round of Grappa for us. We toasted to Bali, to the world and to life.

This is Bali, I thought to myself, in all its glory – a confluence of cultures coming together to make a wholesome picture of all that is good and inspiring.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

High jinx at boot camp on Gili Nanggu

There exists on this fragrant island a rare and dwindling species of party mammals who have survived Ibiza and Goa. They now co-habit at the cross roads of the world with clear and present intentions to suck on the nectar of Bali and glean a life style akin to the famed lotus eaters of yore.

This week’s column is about a Dickensian character named Boots who hails from the heydays of Goa in the 70s. A man for all reasons he is now settled, in a manner of speaking, in Bali. Every so often he succumbs to the call of the wild life that beckons all who have set up home amidst the frangipani.

I met Boots through a friend, Mark Tuck of Paradise Properties, when I cooked an Indian meal at his home for family and friends. Since then we occasionally meet to reminisce and part-take of fortified h₂^o that is beautifully presented by his wife Nevi. His son Rohan, an avatar of Tom Sawyer, can be found climbing trees, throwing stones at imaginary monsters and beguiling guests with his witticisms.

Now that you have got the basic ingredients permit me to divulge details of the fascinating weekend on Gili Nanggu; where people of many nationalities congregated to celebrate Boots’ birthday.

The fast boat to iniquity took around two hours. On the fine sunny morning with the sea spray peppering the windows of the boat and Mount Agung gazing down at us from a distance one felt uneasy – uneasy because one cannot swim. I enjoyed the boat trip except for the water. There was too much water around.

We arrived at Gili Nanggu to warm comforting sand between the toes and chilled beer. Terra firma (after so much water) helped dispel the churning feeling in the stomach and the giddiness that came with the ‘rocking’ of the speedboat slicing its way through the choppy sea.

After a lunch of chicken curry and rice we dispersed…some to the beach, others to snorkel in the rooms.

For all those unenlightened folk who have yet to visit this island here are a few off the cuff remarks that may or may not find approval from all and sundry.

- It takes about 30 minutes to walk around the island. Of course for those who carry an extra tire around the waist it may take up to an hour.

- Traversing the island on foot can be daunting as there are rocks, debris of bottles and plastic waste (that needs to be removed) and trees which seem to conveniently fall across the beach with branches sipping the water from the sea.

- There is a Buddhist temple on the island. However, I was too lazy to walk the walk and instead lounged with the hermit crabs that played hide and seek with every movement of the hand.

- The hotel has a number of rooms with attached toilets that are in urgent need of renovation, a restaurant and a ‘play area’ where Boots set up his psychedelic paraphernalia and music system.

- A few bales dot the beach front.

Okay that’s all the information you will be fed as you need to visit the island to enjoy the ‘other parts’.

While lying on the beach a respectable distance from the water line I was intermittently accosted by fellow guests who attempted to seduce me into the sea; fearful of drowning in three feet of water one escaped on a boat to sail around the island to watch sunset and take a few photographs for posterity. I returned at twilight to be greeted by throbbing trance music, laughter, and incessant chatter.

The dance floor was the beach. The props – tie dye fabric with colorful prints of Lord Buddha, Lord Shiva and retro psychedelic forms. UV lights placed strategically behind the stretched fabric transformed the display into ethereal images and with pulsating music one got the feeling that the event could have been mistaken for a get together of schizophrenics.

I sat in a darkened bale contemplating the futility of leaving such a menagerie of party animals to the elements while gently stroking my Arak Madu. Unfortunately all good things end…like my Arak Madu and so I was forced to enter the arena (dance floor) to be pleasantly massaged by outstretched arms of inebriated overflowing amphorae. Scuttling to the bar one managed to seize the day, in this case the night, pour myself a drink and make a dash for a group of locals sitting around a camp fire near the jetty. As luck would have it they turned out to be staff from our boat. Ignorant of the language, conversation quickly deteriorated into finger exercises, winks and a camaraderie that ridiculed sense and sensibility.

One of the prancing young bucks waved to me and asked, “What’s your name Bli? You India?”

“Yes from Bombay, my name is Mark Ulyseas”, I replied.

“What… Mark Useless?”

“Yes something like that”, I shouted above the throbbing monotonous music.

Then gibberish took hold as more beer arrived, courtesy yours truly.

The moonlit night and the sea gently kissing the shore were silent spectators to the shenanigans of homo-sapiens let loose to run free of inhibitions on a placid isle.

As the night wore on the revelers vanished into their hutments clutching anything they fancied. I on the other hand lay down on a bale, curled up and dreamt of the home I had left behind. Peace enveloped me to the vibrations of trance music which continued to play throughout the night until we departed the following day at noon. The wooden structure quivered with the sound waves.

An hour before dawn I was rudely awakened by a thud. Looming ominously on the beachhead was a gigantic Ogoh Ogoh with Spiderman in full flight on its back. Apparently Boots’ in all his wisdom decided to burn one at sunrise in keeping with tradition i.e. burning effigies on his birthday every year. He told me that this monstrosity was transported atop a boat like the one we arrived in.

As preparations for the incineration were underway, blurry eyed and bedraggled party animals began emerging from their shelters to witness the spectacle. Boots’ son Rohan and his friend held lit torches to the feet of the Ogoh Ogoh. Soon the monster was aflame to the sound of clicking cameras, clapping and yes, you guessed it – trance music. Alas, Spiderman refused to be drawn into the fire so stones and other objects were thrown to dismember the cartoon character. And as the smoldering remains of decadence lay scattered on the beach, the sun rose over Lombok lighting up the mighty Mount Rinjani to our left.

The sight was truly awe inspiring. Nature in all its glory had subdued our senses. The air tasted fresh except for the occasional whiff of beer breath. Some of us sat on the beach till the sun rose well into the sky.

Breakfast was a disappointment. The sticky omelet and cardboard bread was a far cry from reality. The only saving grace was the tea. How could anyone go wrong with a tea bag?

Answering the call of nature thereafter was an exercise in hop, skip and slide. It left one wondering whether the powers that be on the island had any intention of upgrading or at least maintaining a semblance of hygienic creature comforts that would entice tourists to return to the place.

Later in the day after we had submitted to the vagaries of sub standard hospitality, Mark Tuck, his friend Steve from Lake Tahoe, California, and me took a boat ride around the island. The short trip confirmed what I had thought all along – here was a beautiful isle that could be made a world class destination except for……

When we returned the trance music had stopped. The ensuing silence was deafening. The ringing in the ears and echoes of thumping rhythms was all that remained in one’s head.

The return boat journey was a nightmare as the sea was very rough and one of the passengers attempted to regurgitate her breakfast which fortunately was prevented by constantly talking to her about movies and in particular Dr. Zhivago.

Back on land once again I heaved a sigh of relief and profusely thanked Boots for inviting me to his birthday party and Mark Tuck for ensuring one did not drown.

The journey to iniquity and back was invigorating except for the boat ride. Next time round the preferred mode of transport would be by helicopter.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

A sojourn in Amed and a meeting with a Balinese Yoga Master

Incongruity is celebrated on the eve of the Balinese Festival, Galungan, in the form of a band playing cover songs at a small warung on Jalan Monkey Forest, Ubud, to a lively eclectic group of customers who appear to be propositioned by the band to partake of a surrealism that defies logic. The song that permeates the sinews is Sweet Home Alabama. I sit at the bar and order a double Water of Life on the rocks. The cold sweet taste comforts me as I slowly relax. The massage at Spa Kalangan on Sangiganan has slowed down my metabolism and given one a sense of peace.

This is Bali. And it gets even better…

As the night wears on to a string of songs played threadbare, the bartender gently reminds me that I have to leave early next morning for the few hours’ drive to the North East coast of the isle to meet with a Yoga master (I had instructed him to stir me to reality if I submerged myself in the nuances of paradise). I pay my bill and walk home breathing like a steam engine. The famed Ramayana cigars from Java help with the wheezing.

Early next morning the vehicle weaves its way along the road hugging the coastline. Headless chickens in the form of youngsters riding motorcycles run amok on the Sanur Bypass to Candi Dasa and beyond. Soon Amed appears on the horizon like a mirage. Fortunately, what you see is what you get and I am soon lying horizontal on a pool side bed with Nyoman (my favorite masseur) kneading my muscles to pulp.

I am staying at Wawawewe II which is well known for its bohemian guests and hospitality.

Ever since one discovered Wawawewe II a small hotel situated on the beach at Bunutan, Amed, it has become a place of sanctuary from the cacophony of a burgeoning tourist economy. The Proprietor, Made Donge Sudana (pronounced Maaday), is an obliging chap with a deep sense of priority like welcoming you with a thousand year smile and a hand shake that would dislodge any notion of “is this reality?”

Later in the day when the sun is less offensive, I telephone Boy Made, a thirtyish Balinese chap who runs a small shop on Lipah beach a short distance away hawking silver trinkets and semi-precious stones to meet me with his latest ‘collection’.

Boy Made arrives with a disarming smile and a conniving look on his face. He has been a yoga teacher for the last two years. Every so often he buys ‘exotic’ looking stones from Javanese traders and when he has a range he calls me to Amed for a look see and my opinion which is short and sweet for it begins and ends with the question, ‘what is the price?’.

Boy Made or Kacut Made was born on December 10, 1974, to a family in Singaraja that were living on the edge of poverty. A few years in primary school and many stints washing utensils in restaurants drove him away from home to Amed in 1997 in search of a better life. He began working for Warung Brith on Lipah beach and after a year or so moved to Wawawewe I (Café) which is nearby. It was here on Saturday nights when the band from Amlapura would play mangled versions of popular western songs that he met many fair faces from foreign lands that had come to Bali to find themselves (whatever this means). The ensuing decadence was invigorating at first but then it digressed into a monotony that brought on ennui with a vengeance. His life shuttled between the ebb and flow of tourists. Emptiness gripped him and soon he withdrew from the ‘high life’ and crawled into his room every night to avoid the revelry that punctuated the nocturnal hours. Made’s dreams became very colorful and often he would awake to the loud rhythms of the spirit world. It appeared that he was stranded between two worlds – Sekala and Nishkala – the Seen and Unseen.

His predicament was short lived for on a full moon night in walked Ram, a visiting Indian Yoga Master who was traversing the isle for a short while before heading back to the banks of the Ganga in Northern India. Ram recognized Made’s anguish and to heal this lost soul he shared his knowledge with Made and also taught him yoga.

In 2007 Made fell in love and married Ni Anik, a pretty Balinese lass. A year later a baby boy was born to them. He is called Putu.

Made practices and teaches three forms of Yoga, Pranayama, Hatha and Suryanamasker, to Indonesians, expats and tourists. He has taught over 500 people till date.

“So where do you want to go from here, Bli (it means brother in Balinese)?” I ask expectantly.

“I want to set up an ashram and teach my own brand of Yoga – Ishwara Yoga. My spirit tells me that I have to help all the people who come here to Amed like I have been helped by Ram. The problem most people face is that they are too caught up in the material world. I want, I want, I want, is all that they ask for. Many have become lost in their own wants. Once we have stopped ‘wanting’ and begin giving and sharing not only our wealth but also our love, affection and friendship without expecting anything in return, will we achieve inner peace.” He replies.

“But why set up an ashram in Amed and not anywhere else in Bali?”

“Amed is very special to me for it has five natural springs next to a small shrine dedicated to the Goddess at Toya Masem. It is a few minutes’ drive into the nearby hills to village Bangli. The energy I feel whenever I make offerings and the curative powers of the five kinds of water (salty/sweet/sour/sweet sour/bitter) that I collect from the springs helps me help others who come to me to learn Yoga and meditasi,” he replies in a quiet voice as if contemplating on every word.

I get up and beckon Made to follow me down to the beach which is strewn with rocks and pebbles. A few tourists can be seen snorkeling in the reef in front of the hotel.

“Do you have a message for the readers of Maxx-M?” I ask.

“Bli what do you want me to say? Huh? Come to Bali to find yourself? Yes! Come to Bali and make a mess of the environment? No! As you probably know Bali is being polluted by all kinds of materials and lifestyles that create problem for all of us. People must understand the Balinese concept of Tri Hita Karana – harmony between Human and God, harmony between Human and Human, harmony between Human and the environment. How can we become spiritual if we desecrate our environment by throwing plastic everywhere? Look at this beach you can see for yourself all types of plastic waste. We should ban all plastic bags and begin a cleaning up operation in Bali. If we don’t do this immediately the Gods will do it for us and we will perish. So my message to all – please don’t use plastic bags,” he replies in a high pitched tone.

I’ll sign off now as the sun is setting and the full moon is rising over Lombok. Wish you were here dear readers to join me for an Arak attack and kacang goreng pedas.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Bali’s Cultural Nasi Campur

Bali’s signature culinary concoction is the ubiquitous Nasi Campur, rice with meat and vegetables that is the staple diet of most self respecting Balinese and some expats. But there is another kind of Nasi Campur that exists on the isle – the beautiful children born out of connubial joy between Indonesians and expats from far off lands. These creatures of delight with their light brown hair, biscuit colored skin and minds free of cultural encumbrances mingle with all and like chameleons take on the hues of their surroundings effortlessly and without prejudice. It is like they are born out of the mold. Could these be the next generation that will help us out of the convoluted quagmire of religious and cultural intolerance and will their parents be able to protect the minds of these exotic species from being poisoned surreptitiously by people blinkered by self induced machinations?

A few weeks ago Melani Semuel, the Editor-in-chief of MAXX-M Jakarta, suggested I write an article on mixed marriages between expats and Indonesians and hopefully get a glimpse of this exotic world that is woven into the cultural fabric of Bali.

So here I am sitting in a car crawling up the steep road to Pura Pasar Agung with Terje Holte Nilsen, a strapping ex-Norwegian Navy Seal, his wife Nyoman Parvati and their three gorgeous daughters, Achintya, Gayatri and Ananda. The loud chatter of the girls dressed in their kebayas is confusing as strange words keep cropping up. I turn around and ask them what language they are speaking.

“Languages…when we travel my mother always tells us to practice our Balinese. Today we are rotating between three languages – Bahasa Indonesia, Balinese and a little bit of Norwegian”, answered Achintya.

Terje (pronounced as Terry) tells me that Bali is like a fertile breeding ground for tolerance to all life. It is here that he has learnt to be humble.

Now that you have got the gist of the tale let us move on to the story of this family and how they came to BE.

I begin with three quotes taken from the famous Norwegian anthropologist Unni Wikan’s book titled, Managing Turbulent Hearts, A Balinese Formula for Living.

Always when I go out in the street, I make my face look bright…that people will not laugh and say, “She does not know how to manage her heart” (sing bise ngabe keneh) – Balinese Woman

“That’s why, if someone is sad, we laugh to make their hearts happy from sadness” – Balinese Man

How can anyone laugh who knows of old age, disease, and death? – Lord Buddha

Ni Nyoman Parvati was born 35 years ago into a family of eleven children. She did her schooling in Bali and University in Jakarta where she graduated in Economics (Audit & Accountancy). Her job as an Auditor for a reputed company in Jakarta took her to Medan where she and some colleagues were assigned to audit the books of a Hotel and its Fitness Centre. It was here that she met Terje, who was then the manager of the fitness center.

The first encounter was a bit washed out as most of the time was spent peering through the books of accounts. A few months later when Nyoman returned to Bali after resigning her job in Jakarta she contacted Terje. There was much travel to and fro between Medan and Bali till finally one fine day Terje proposed and Nyoman accepted albeit hesitantly as she wanted her family’s approval, blessings and support. Terje was politely invited to visit the family for an ‘interview’ for they believed that mixed marriages didn’t work; Prime examples being evident among the expat community where the debris of such failed marriages can still be seen on the faces of disenfranchised children at shopping malls and supermarkets.

The verdict was announced the same day to the couple – the family approved and would wholeheartedly support the couple. A few relatives were abrasive in the beginning as they doubted Terje’s intentions and his willingness to become a Hindu. They were probably apprehensive about Terje’s mental capacity to comprehend the thousand shades of grey between the colors of white and black – Sekala Nishkala – the seen and unseen.

The couple married under Hindu rites in Taman Mini Indonesia in Jakarta in 1998.

“I am proud of Terje because he has seriously studied the Hindu scriptures, learnt the language and more importantly taken an active part in temple and Banjar activities. Most of his friends are Balinese and he has insisted our children speak our language. And he loves the food. I remember on one of our trips to Norway to visit his mother and her husband he drove me crazy because he wanted me to cook Nasi Campur and Babi Guling! The food I liked best on these trips was Kalkun (roast turkey) and Norwegian Salmon (baked) which was cooked by my mother in law, Lisa,” said Nyoman with a smile.

“Do you have any misgivings about the modernization of Bali?” I asked.

“Yes. I feel that more and more Balinese children are not speaking their mother tongue and instead they communicate in Bahasa Indonesia. I don’t have a problem with them speaking the national language but Balinese is our language. It is an inherent part of our culture and religion. If we lose our language we will fade away into history. Our culture will be lost. That is why I insist my children and my husband speak Balinese as much as possible. And another point I would like to bring up here and that is the fact that traditional Balinese dance forms and Gamelan will slowly die away as the children are more interested in modern music and this crazy thing called DJs”, she replied with a sigh of resignation.

Later in the day after we had paid obeisance to Shiva and had been blessed by the Priest at Pura Pasar Agung, the imposing temple built on the slopes of Mount Agung, we returned to the car and leisurely drove back to Canggu where the family has set up home for the last five years. On the way I unashamedly ‘interrogated’ Terje about his life, beliefs and family values.

“Thanks to my father who was in the Navy, I got the opportunity to travel to many countries and sample the unique peculiarities of many cultures. Of course, the food and drink did play an important part in my understanding of social norms and religious sentiments of the people I met along the way. Though I was brought up Christian/Agnostic/Protestant, I also studied Islam. After graduating in Economics (Financial Management) I did a stint as a Navy Seal in the Norwegian Navy. But as arms and warfare were not in sync with my beliefs I left to globe trot.

In school and then college I was the National Rowing Champion and also took part in World Championships in Europe and Australia. Probably this background of sports and the Navy got me into the Fitness Business.

In 1994 I returned to Indonesia as I felt this nagging feeling at the back of my mind that I had to be here for some reason which I couldn’t fathom. Maybe there was a benign life force that I had encountered on my earlier trips that drew me back here…I don’t know. Anyways, a few years later I bumped into Nyoman and then my life began in earnest.

You ask me why I got married and why I converted to Hinduism. Well it is quite simple. The western society in which I had grown up in had lost its basic family values, family support systems and more importantly the community spirit. Everyone was for his or her self. Very selfish and self centered. In Bali all these values are the corner stone of its vibrant ethos and spirituality. The family, relatives and community all make up an intricate web of support that acts as a net incase one free falls because of delusions of singularity.

The Balinese concept of Tri Hirta Karana is not religious based. It is a clear statement of how one should exist on this planet: Harmony between Human to Human, Harmony between Human and the Environment, Harmony with one’s God,” he said.

“Do you fear that your children when they grow up and travel to Norway for higher studies will be exposed to other cultures and may lose their Balinese connections?” I asked.

“No, this does not worry me in the least. Our three daughters who are now aged 8, 9 and 10 years are being grounded and in a manner of speaking embedded in the Balinese socio-religious-cultural matrix. So when they do face extremes abroad they will know how to deal with these factors because they will instinctively refer back to their roots. But what concerns us is the present state of affairs like the preservation of the environment from polluting plastic waste and the indiscriminate construction of buildings by ‘other people’ without any reference to the concept of Tri Hirta Karana or adherence to some of the basic principles laid down in Asta Kosala Kosali (Balinese architectural Code),” he replied.

I will end this enchanting encounter with a quote from a Nasi Campur in Bali, Achintya Holte Nilsen aged 10 –

“I am Balinese and Norwegian. Indonesia is my home and so is Norway. I love both countries and both peoples. I hope someday everyone will begin to feel like I do now, then we will not be fighting and killing each other. We will only be loving and caring for one another”

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Are we the Gods themselves?

If this is a flight of fantasy or tripping the light fantastic with historical events, so be it. Amen.

On New Year Eve 2008 while praying at my favorite shrine in Amed, Bali, I recalled a novel, The Gods Themselves, by the famous science fiction writer, Isaac Asimov, which prompted me to pen this essay.

After paying obeisance, walking down to the shore and laying flowers and incense at the feet of the mighty Pacific and genuflecting before the vastness of the Universe, I returned to my Arak on the rocks resting next to the rippling waters of the infinity swimming pool to contemplate the question whether we are the Gods themselves. I took a swig of reality that flowed between the ice cubes clinking in the glass. The ensuing warmth trickling through my body comforted my restless soul. The moment was perfect in this solitary existence. Peace had descended with a vengeance but inspiration, the bitch of invention, played spoilsport and prodded the soul lying curled up within. Suddenly, questions cropped up like a bad hair day for Medusa – Is there a God, or Gods? Or, are we the Gods themselves?

Many religious aficionados may term these questions sacrilegious or worse, heretical. In reply to these blinkered blokes, I shall quote the protagonist Red from the immortal film, Gone with the Wind – ‘Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn’.

Isn’t this an opportune time, at the dawn of another artificial year, to question our existence on this planet; the why fors and where fors?

Surely there are many among us who believe that we are the only living beings on earth that can do all these things; create, manufacture, pre-empt, foresee, destroy, mindlessly use weapons for mass murder, protect, love and more.

Is it conceivable that we are the Gods that ventured out one Saturday night in the Universe and inadvertently overstayed the night out on earth, awakening from a long hangover with no recollection of our place in the firmament?

From this stupor we awoke and created advanced civilizations like the Minoans, builders of temples, whose engineering feats without modern machinery have flummoxed present day historians and their ilk. The Minoans lived one thousand years before the pyramids were built.

Advanced city planning, water ways, architecture, astronomy, mathematics etc. in ancient times when modern technology was not prevalent should be enough evidence to prove the hypothesis that it was the nascent years of the Gods, our ancestors’ stay on earth.

As time dragged its feet across eons, we the Gods became lazy and self destructive; often resorting to violence to achieve a semblance of control over perceived dominions like animals marking their territory. Added to this was an infusion of avarice and egoism that, when ingested through a process of osmosis, morphed us from Gods into ‘human beings’ with all the frailties of animals.

Our memories gently faded into oblivion leaving us stranded with stories, legends and miracles carefully chronicled by word of mouth and script. Over centuries these fragments of thought cemented into a ‘story’ fueled by Chinese whispers that became the foundation for future organized religion.

Religious laws, tenets, commandments, places of worship, days of worship left us impotent for we had finally succumbed to our own delusions thereby cutting the umbilical cord to the root cause of Truth beyond atmospherics, beyond the very essence of physical life on earth. We had severed ourselves from our beginnings thus making ourselves orphans of the Universe.

So how do we retrace our steps cross the dust eddies of history that blurs our past and distorts our sensory perceptions?

Some one suggested to me that the miracle of man on earth lies hidden in the ancient Hindu texts and that the Master Key could be found in the everyday religious performances that we re-enact like exercising at a gym e.g. praying to our ancestors.

What if we could communicate with our ancestors through prayers? (Prayers are in fact a form of speaking to our ancestors/Gods). What if through prayer we discovered the bridge back to Godhood? How many of us would be qualified to attain eternal life on earth? Probably none, for we have digressed too far into the physical world and unwittingly permitted animal instincts to imprison us. We are drunk on worldly pleasures and addicted to its bio-rhythms.

We have, in our haste to relocate our lost Godhood, sown the seeds of religion that sprouted teachers of all hues who had and still do, attempted/attempt, to reach out and touch eternity with prayer, yoga, meditation, fasting, penance, ceremonies and sacrifices animal and otherwise.

All these methods, in reality are too diluted, too impure for they are perpetuated by ‘human beings’ not Gods. The physical world taints all that comes in contact with it.

Nothing is sacred or unsullied.

So where do we go from here after accidentally being marooned on Planet Earth as Gods and then morphing into Human Beings with all the trappings of the infidelities of the Circle of Life and Death?

Admittedly, people have been searching for the answer that could, hopefully, reveal the elusive Ultimate Truth through the process of half-heartedly following the well trodden path to unfettered Love, though never actually reaching the desired destination; which is one of True Love without boundaries, without social stigmas of sex, religion, caste, color or regional affiliations.

True Love could be the Master key to open the celestial doors that lead back to our Godhood: The portal through which we could traverse to take our rightful place in the Universe.

How many among us are brave and unselfish enough to follow this path by transcending all the seductions of a material world, thereby cheating a mortal death?

Only time will tell, hopefully.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Esoteric Enemas and Clash of Clichés

In Bali many ‘long stay’ visitors aka derelicts are bereft of common sense for they succumb to the cliche – ‘Let’s not rock the boat’, a euphemism probably for ‘ Let’s not draw attention to ourselves for fear we may be found out for who we really are’.

These unbridled skeptics tip toe around the isle afraid even of their own utterances being misconstrued and thereby attracting the wrath of unknown entities. They remind one of Barking Deer, which are so skittish that they bolt at the sound of their own droppings. One has had the pleasure and privilege of being ticked off by these self-serving people for brazenly questioning the goings on in paradise.

‘You can’t say this, you can’t do that,’ or, ‘You will be thrown off the island if you write this or that’.

The litany of dos and don’ts goes on to the soundtrack of clicking tongues. No, I’m not suggesting these hapless souls speak in tongues; they just suffer from the enormity of anonymity: Faceless wonders in co-habitation with hallucinations that prompt one to surmise that humanity could be evolving in an oblong fashion, thereby creating a wedge between the Haves (those that draw on their cerebral assets) and Have Not’s (lobotomized folk).

‘Excuse me sir, have you reserved a dichotomy?’

‘Yes but please don’t seat me next to a conundrum.’

‘Oh well, do follow me then to your place in the scheme of things’.

Have you ever navigated the tables of diners lost in a make shift world of cocktails and culinary delights to a corner of the eye which is all seeing…all seeing through the spuriousness of an imaginary social set up like Barnabide’s feast?

The derelicts are the watchers in a paradise festooned with religious tributes. They dwell, procreate and congregate as a group that is akin to a herd of Wildebeest; Acceptance and enlightenment being the exception rather than the rule.

It is well known in some circles that their dodgy knowledge is acquired by dredging society and lovingly collecting, collating, rehashing and serving piping hot flotsam and jetsam at warungs frequented by their ilk.

Culture is the conundrum here for it plays a dual role in assisting in the preferences of the Natives on one hand; and on the other, tickling the appetites, extending the elasticity of sexual synergies and enhancing the delusions of those afflicted by a self induced paralysis in paradise.

Could these derelicts be hamstrung by Nature to prevent them from smothering the prevailing fragile culture with their predatory intentions.

Or, are they paradoxes deliberately planted like weeds to balance the forces in paradise?

The answer to all these questions probably lies with the unseen forces that emerge from the darkness to taunt the derelicts in their dreams with nightmares of the past replete with all the angst of love, hate and belonging to the meter of the Gamelan and Clash of Clichés.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Avatar of Henry Miller in Bali.

The day commenced with a downpour that drenched his spirit and kept him closeted within himself as work meetings trailed to sundown and slipped into twilight at the bar. Devils crouching on the rocks in the water of life invaded his senses and occupied his nocturnal thoughts with carnal concoctions.

Loud chatter, clatter of cutlery and the ubiquitous chiming of cell phones created a world of pathological passion that crept into his sinews, prompting him to ask a friend the question, “Do you have any company to spare tonight?” After a few whispers into a hand phone, winks, nudges and a camaraderie that bespoke of a reality he had never encountered before, he suddenly found himself sitting in his car with a warm sensual woman clutching his body like a baby simian suckling one of the troop.

The time they spent in the darkened car park was made up of silhouettes punctuated by unabashed emotional eruptions that loosened the tightly held strings of their lives. She searched him out by tracing her soft hands and tongue across the contours of his aging body. The tautness suddenly snapped when he left his imprint on her as they both convulsed into spasms of tingling intimacy.

Then they rested in each other’s arms to the sound of their breathing…her breasts rising and falling like a gentle summer breeze.

The symphony of sweating, heaving bodies subsided to the croaking sound of mating frogs. He wiped himself with his shirt while she struggled like a contortionist to put on her skimpy clothes in the narrow confines of the car.

“I am looking for a boyfriend”, she said with an air of contentment and hope.

He quickly turned his face away to light a cigar, rolling down the window and blowing plumes of smoke into the night that was being washed by a light drizzle. He never answered her and instead started the car, leisurely driving out of the car park.

“I want some water to drink. I’m thirsty.” She said.

He stopped at a Circle K and bought them water, chocolate ice cream and chips, as if to shrug off the sudden guilt that had descended on his shoulders.

She licked the cold bar and munched on its crispy chocolate coating.

“uuummmm…this is nice…sweet but cold. Do you always order out? I mean like me? You know I’m alone. My parents passed away many years ago. My only sibling is my brother who doesn’t bother whether I am alive or dead”.

“We all have our lives to live. We cannot run from ourselves”, he said softly at the same time reaching out with one hand to stroke her like a pet that had just done a trick.

“Yes I know. I work in a Spa. Sometimes I have to do a customer but I don’t mind ‘cause I get enough money to pay rent, buy clothes and enjoy. I don’t know how much to charge you. Actually I accompanied my friend tonight hoping to find a boyfriend. Oh well, maybe another time. Do you have family here? Okay, so how much will you give me?” she asked hesitantly.

He removed $25 from his pocket and placed it in her sweaty palms. She held it up to the neon light penetrating the car and smiled, “Yes, this is okay, thanks”.

The midnight traffic jam in Kuta, the throbbing music emanating from the restaurants and the effervescent crawlers that thronged the pavements made up the landscape of a Henry Miller ish montage; one that would remain briefly in a reality of lascivious surrealism spiced with Sambal (a portent local chili sauce).

A short time later they reached her place that was located on a narrow side street. When the car came to a halt she bent over and kissed him on the lips, running her fingers through his hair and whispering, “Call me when you need someone to love, I’ll be there but only nights”. Then the door slammed shut and the darkness swallowed up another desperate soul leaving him to drive home alone to the grating whine of Dylan’s ‘A Hard rains gonna fall”.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Whose New Year 2009 is it anyway?

The year begins with a hangover for party goers, while many others have to trudge to work often walking miles to catch a bus.

The world is topsy-turvy. Each time zone, culture and society is marinating in its own curious blend of eccentricities. The uniqueness of each group acts as an impetus to surviving the trials and tribulations of life. Often societies implode or explode, thus bringing them in conflict with each other.

The imprint of a western culture on ancient cultures is evident on New Year Day for it has artificially been created out of much fiddling with calendar systems. It has no relevance to the Hindu calendar.

So whose New Year is it anyway? Yours, mine or theirs?

Names and numbering of months and days acts as a matrix that sets the routine of the populace. To be out of sync with this, results in alienation of the Self from coherency to the daily grind.

Every year commences with celebrations, hope and anxiety. We make resolutions that dissolve within the nascent period of the New Year. The Year quickly degenerates into a distorted repeat of the previous year spiced with unforeseen dramatic turn of events.

Often one is tempted to speculate on the outcome of a ‘New Year’ if all resolutions were honored. I suppose to be sanguine is a luxury best spent on day dreaming.

So let us ask ourselves a pertinent question: Do we live from New Year to New Year attempting to revitalize our flagging fortunes in ethics, morals and the material world?

The answer probably lies sandwiched between longings for a better life and the esoteric enemas we constantly take throughout the year…flushing our system of all bits and pieces of the past that reside within.

So dear readers, let us chant the much mangled mantra called Love all through the New Year for it will surely bring forth a rich harvest of peace, prosperity and happiness for one and all.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

The year of living foolishly – 2008

Happy New Year 2009, 10, 11 ….?

Let’s ask ourselves the question – Has anything changed in the world?

This year is in its last days and then hope will begin for the New Year. So what will it be? More wars? Genocide? Child Abuse? Women beating? There’s so much to choose from. It’s like a supermarket out there with all kinds of disasters available on the shelves, one has simply to reach out and grab one.

2008 is ending (at the time of going to press) on a note of promise with the climate change conference reaching some agreement on burning issues. What happened to the good old days when we used a blanket instead of a heater? All this talk of saving the world is pointless. Everything is done half-heartedly. Let’s make a resolution for the New Year to decimate the planet. Destroy all our natural resources, pollute the rivers and farm the sea to extinction. At least we would be doing one thing properly.

On one hand we talk of peace, love and no war. On the other hand we bomb, rape, pillage, annex and subdue nations with our money power. So what will it be, folks? Anyone for a second helping of torture?

For instance, let’s take a quick look at Afghanistan. The British couldn’t control the tribes in the 19th century, the Russians failed miserably and the American soldiers with their assorted comrades in arms, poor souls, are dying by the dozen. I suppose life is cheaper by the dozen. Hasn’t anyone got a clue about what the Afghans want? Could it be conceivable that all they want is to be left in peace to manage their own country the way they think fit?

And what about certain parts of the Middle East and Africa? Do you think they will run out of people considering the number of killings that are taking place? Education there stems from the barrel of a gun. The pen is for signing death certificates.

Finally we come to the mother of them all, Iraq. The cradle of civilisation is now a cemetery of lost souls. Violence has become synonymous with breakfast, lunch and dinner. “So how many died in car bombs today ladies and gentlemen and while you’re about it please pass the apple pie,” said Tiffany at breakfast.

Statistics are essential in war zones. They can always be rearranged to suit one’s perceived objectives. The little numbers represent people; mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, relatives and friends. A neat way to manage these numbers is to write in pencil so that an eraser can be used judiciously.

And while the dead toll in war ravaged countries rise, the world peeps behind the blood stained bamboo curtain (Burma) watching helplessly as unarmed monks are shot in the streets to the chorus of voices threatening Iran not to go ahead with its nuclear program.

Oh Africa, the Dark Continent. What can one say about its peoples and their ancient cultures that has slowly been corrupted by large corporations and foreign governments meddling in the affairs of the states: Buying and selling governments on mammoth proportions?

I like Robert Mugabe. He’s a nice chap. Sensible fellow who has kept most of the population of his country on the threshold of poverty. His public relations efforts appear to be working better than a lot of other countries. Recently his buddy from Senegal gave him a clean chit of health. Oh for the days of Idi Amin. Remember Entebbe and the blood baths? Everything is so quiet now, no excitement and drama. I suppose people are so hungry that they don’t have the power to raise their voices. Can we give them microphones to help them be heard? Better still we could sell them a few million pieces. Any takers?

What is interesting now are the stories emanating from South Africa and Nigeria; street violence, robberies and bandits on the prowl. What happened to the good old days of the mafia when one couldn’t refuse an offer? There’s no subtlety or class left in all this violence. Killing has become so crass.

And what about my country? Do we still abort female foetuses? Burn our women who don’t bring enough dowries? And are we still killing the remaining tigers in the wild and selling their body parts to the Chinese to be used in aphrodisiacs?

Forgive me, I missed that little country to the west of India; Pakistan. Poor chaps they’ve had such a tiresome year with the constant ebb and flow of political shenanigans and religious fundamentalism that possibly the common folk want to migrate to India. Can’t really blame them. All they want is to live in peace to pray, work and procreate.

Now let’s see who is left on the black board? Hummm…Chavez seems to be doing pretty well for himself. And what about Brazilians who are fighting a losing battle with the powers that be to stop the plunder of the Amazon rainforest, the green lung of mother earth? South America appears to be lost in translation. We never seem to get a lot of news from there except for the soccer.

Let’s leave all this violence for some whale steaks. The Japanese are so considerate to the world at large. For a country that prides itself on rejecting nuclear weapons it has a rather odd way of showing its respect for the environment. I am referring to the commencement of the mass killing of whales for scientific purposes. Actually you must admire their concern. Ever considered the fact that they maybe ridding the oceans of monsters that take up so much space and are a serious health hazard to humanity?

I think Japan’s neighbour China has the right approach. If any land is required for development in that country, bulldozers move in to clear out the poor people living on the land. This is good as it saves on court cases and human rights.

There are many countries that lecture China on its Human Rights record. Wonder who is keeping the record? The world’s last imagined Superpower? This same superpower has a democracy like no other in the world. You know why? Because it’s the only country where democracy is alive and well. Further, the person who wins the maximum votes in an election does not necessarily win the Presidency. Are we talking of an oxymoron?

Civil liberties are essential for the survival of a nation and so is the health of its people. In some areas of society where commonsense has been the victim, Nature has found a way of retaliating by inventing diseases like aids, infecting millions and helping to keep the population in check.

And once again as we have done in the past this Christmas and New Year we shall all sit down to sumptuous meals, drink whatever fancies our taste buds, shop till we drop and pamper our overweight children and pets. It’s the season of happiness, love and family especially for the homeless on the streets of New York, injured Iraqi children in hospitals, missing women in Afghanistan, asylum seekers, political detainees and the fringe folk of the planet. They will surely be very happy and content with what they see, hear, feel and touch this festive season.

From democracy to environmental disasters it has been a roller coaster ride through many countries and peoples and cultures and religions. This journey will end only when we truly comprehend the reason as to why we have been put on this planet by a power far greater than we can ever imagine.

For me Bali is paradise and the world, a paradox.

Merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Merry Christmas!

How many graves of innocents will be dug on Christmas Day 2008?

Christmas has come again

Trudging along through the rain

Wiping its bloody feet

In the Nativity scene

Hypocrites and Gentiles

Gather around to pray

To the rhythm of the bells

That are tolling for the dead

Mothers are gone

Fathers are gone

While children genuflect

Knee deep in the graves

Why is Christmas as it is?

When all we have is this

Killing, raping, pillaging for God

And putting a price on sin

Merry Christmas to our brothers and sisters in Blood.