Full moon in a heartbeat

Sunday May 4th: Tonight is the night of the dark moon, the night of no shadows when it is believed that evil awakens from its deep slumber to rise from the bowels of the earth to grasp at the souls of the living for nourishment and everlasting life.

It is nearing midnight when I drive past the Sacred Monkey Forest in Ubud and the crowds of faithful returning from the temple after praying to the gods to protect them from harm. On reaching my room next to the river I light an incense stick and place it outside my door hoping to ward off evil. Then I sit down to write the story of wayang, a young Balinese woman who I met at Blue Lagoon, Padangbai, on the last full moon night.

What better time than now, the night of no shadows, to talk of all the goodness that resides in humanity.

Sometime ago when the rains played truant and the atmosphere became stifling in the hills I drove down to Blue lagoon to spend a night on the beach hoping to bathe in the Luna rays and recharge my spent soul.

At sunset when I arrived at the small warung next to the shore I was greeted by Made the owner who promptly led me to a deck bed and offered me a welcome drink. Sipping the orange juice I lay back and watched the sky turn many hues of pink and purple before fading into deep ink blue. Then the stars peered through the darkness like shy children from behind a curtain. Over the horizon came the moon glowing like a mother who had just given birth to life. My reverie was interrupted by a genteel voice that seemed to mingle with the sound of the waves. “Excuse me would you like to order to eat?” I looked up at the serene face and the long black tresses and quickly sat up and took the menu from her hand. She held an oil lamp close so that I could read the menu that was dog-eared and spotted with grease stains.

“I’ll have a chicken cap cay and a small bintang, thank you.”

“You come alone, no friend?” she asked

“No, no I just want to spend time alone. What’s you’re name?”

“Wayan”, she replied and walked away.

I lay back and dozed off only to be awakened later by the twanging of an electric guitar and a dull voice uttering the words check, check, check.

Thankfully wayan reappeared carrying my dinner and wearing a large grin on her face. She placed the food down on the bed and sat opposite me.

“Why are you smiling”, I asked.

“The guitarist is my brother but he no good, still learning, he crazy,” she replied.

The dinner was a culinary disaster. I left most of it and turned to wayan who was gazing out at the moonlit waters and asked her what she was thinking. Wayan told me that it was on a moonlit night one year ago when her husband had died from drinking spurious arak leaving her to fend for herself and their infant daughter. After his death she returned to her family home and since then had been unable to remarry because she couldn’t find a suitable boy.

I got up and walked down to the shore and sat on the rocks. Wayan followed me and stood behind resting her hands on my shoulders.

“Want massage?” she laughed.

“No!”

She removed her hands and sat beside me grinning like a Cheshire cat. The feeling was mutual as I too felt at peace being with this young widow. She accepted her life and was ready to move on to another, if only she could grasp and hold onto fleeting reality draped in a cloak of uncertainty in the form of men from far off lands that she encountered everyday on the job.

Even when she spoke of her fatherless child there was no hurt, anger or sadness. Wayan had accepted the hand that fate had dealt her and was willing to play blind man’s bluff with it in the hope of coming up trumps. She was a petite twenty-eight year old, slim with a disarming smile and a very basic education. Wayan was willing to learn, that is, if I could find time to teach her to read ‘good’ books and write in English – shades of Professor Higgins and Eliza Dolittle?

The conversation abruptly ended when the band started playing a mangled version of No Woman No Cry. The shaky voices, the moonbeams on our faces and the orange juice that appeared violet in the night made up a montage of flickering images that burned themselves on my brain. I wished the moment be engraved on my unconsciousness mind forever.

“Are you married?” asked wayan.

“Yes”, I lied as I had divorced some years earlier.

“You love your wife?”

“Yes”, I lied again.

Unable to bear the interrogation I briskly walked back to the deck bed as if it was a refuge from the frailties of manhood.

The night wore on as the moon glided over the sky and gently fell behind the hills. The chill in the air added to my growing hunger pangs forcing me to beckon wayan who was sitting alone on the far side of the warung. I ordered fried eggs and toast. The result – the eggs were runny and smelly and the toast soggy. Reluctantly I ate the toast that stuck to my palate and washed it down with cold aqua. Wayan gazed at me nonchalantly and then suddenly laughed loudly.

“You lost boy, you should have brought wife with you”

I kept quiet, as I was too tired to lie anymore.

“You wait I just come” she said.

She returned with a child in her arms. She put the child in my lap and sat down.

The child was fast asleep probably dreaming of a past life oblivious to the horrors of this one.

The live band had retired early so the ensuing rhythms were only that of the child’s breathing and the sound of breakers in the distance.

An hour later dawn crept over the horizon subtly lighting up the sky. And when the wind began to pick up I handed the bundle of joy back to its mother.

“If you were not married would you marry me?” she asked gazing at me intently.

“No”, I lied.

“Why?”

“Because you’re too young for me”, I lied, again.

We both laughed, relieved in a strange sort of way. We were two souls on different journeys, yet we found something in common. Love.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Silence of the lambs

First May or Labour Day as it is popularly known is celebrated across the world. Many dismiss this as a throwback to communism when rights were more apparent than duties.

Here in Bali free trade and enterprise is the corner stone of a prosperous and growing economy based primarily on the fruits and offshoots of tourism.

This island had tragically suffered in the past due to mindless ideology that resulted in death and huge losses for the then thriving travel business that brought millions to its shores in search of a heavenly experience. It directly affected the livelihood of all and percolated down to the masses i.e. the workforce.

However, as the years rolled on business revived albeit sluggishly but has not reached its previous level of high energy and big profits. The side effects of this growth has brought about a form of inflation that presently out runs the wages paid to the workers, thereby creating an uneven balance – monthly salaries lagging behind inflation.

This is not a criticism of the powers that be but a reality that we have to face in our daily lives wherever we are in the world, including Bali.

Basic costs like the increase in price of cooking gas and food grains etc., has created a piquant situation whereby workers are now spending a higher percentage of their earnings on food; Added to this is the stark reality that the basic minimum wage is not paid by many commercial establishments in Bali even though there is an existing Law - an allegation levelled by some workers.

This not my rendition of the truth but that of a young working couple, who shared with me some facts of life on the isle. While their beautiful three and a half year old son sat on my lap and nibbled on a chocolate biscuit we chatted in a warung about religious beliefs, the role of the Banjar and the community at large. Soon the conversation veered towards tourism, the price of food and the sudden rise in the cost of living.

Then Dewi uttered the words, “We are living on borrowings because our salaries pay for only half our monthly household expenses. The rest we have to get help from our families.”

I requested them to give me an approximate breakdown of their monthly expenses for the readers of The Bali Times. The basic cost of living for this Balinese couple, their small child and two aged parents is approximately:

Rice US$27/-: Vegetables/meat US$20/-: Cooking oil/spices US$22-
Electricity US$ 9/-: Water US$ 8/-: Transport/petrol U$ 22/-: Medical US$ 22/-
Ceremonies US$22/- : Bank US$47/- instalment towards loan for motorcycles.
The total is US$ 199/- whereas the combined salaries of Made and Dewi is US$140/- per month. Their earnings work out to US$2.40 per person per day! (US$ 1 = lDR 9000/-).

Made told me that their families who are farmers often gave them some vegetables and fruits. They also got meat from the family on Galungan and Kuningan. In return for this occasional assistance Made works in the field cutting grass for the cows prior to leaving for his job every morning. This was how they could make ends meet. Luxury – like a family outing to MacDonald’s or any fast food outlet occurred once in two months.

Dewi felt that the minimum wage for the work she did in a restaurant should be US$80/- for eight hours plus medical benefits and paid maternity leave. Although she showed her displeasure at being paid below the minimum wage she was grateful to her employers who gave her food on the job.

I sat and heard this couple speak eloquently about their life with great dignity even though the resignation to a life living on the edge was apparent on their faces. However, they appeared happy and content in a curious sort of way that defied logic. This was a side of Bali I had not known – the silence of the lambs.

After leaving Made and Dewi with her slumbering child in her arms I drove straight to a well known restaurant, ordered a meal and asked to speak to the owner who I knew to be a fair and just person. I told her about my meeting with the couple and requested her to throw some light on the facts I had collected.

“ Mark please understand one thing, you can’t just speak to one couple and then start confronting me with what they said. We do a lot for our workers. Do you have any idea how many ceremonies there are in Bali? We have to employ twice as many people as is required because the workers are always off on some ceremony or the other. It is their culture, their religion that we must honour. Our limited resources are stretched when we have to employ nearly double the staff we actually require to run this restaurant. If I paid them what you say should be a fair amount my business will close down. Now am not defending our low wages but we do give them food and yes for deserving cases we pay the medical expenses. When business nearly came to a standstill some years ago we never retrenched the staff. They got their salaries on time. The result was a huge overdraft with the bank. We have to recover these losses. Do I have to spell out the fact that the tourist trade has only in the last six months registered a reassuring increase. The forecast for this year is bright and we hope the trend continues and there are no hiccups.”

The paradox in paradise is evident wherever one looks. The beauty, the ugliness smothered in a joyful and woeful blend of culture and commerce. Where will this lead to could be anyone’s guess.

Let us pray that Bali returns to the dizzy heights of yesteryears so that we can all go home with full stomachs and money to spare in our pockets.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

The Good Women of Ubud

“Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams”
– W.B.Yeats

This week’s column is dedicated to my late friend Bina and the good women of Ubud who I see every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday at restaurants dancing the evening away alone or in groups, while the men watch from the sidelines. The throb of Jazz, Reggae, Rock and Salsa entrance the women who move to the music like birds in a mating ritual. Sometimes I feel the urge to join them but I am outnumbered ten to one by the heavenly bodies and the captivating fragrance of Chanel.

Today we shall not talk of that four letter word we encounter everyday – Love. Instead we shall put on our dancing shoes and waltz to Englebert Humperdinck’s song, Release Me, with a companion held close to our bosom like two swans in a partnership of a lifetime; although ours will last three and a half minutes, which is the duration of the song. But who cares, it is the beat of the moment that counts.

Growing up in the late 60s early 70s in a city that was the former capital of India, Calcutta, we were intoxicated by Pam Crain and Braz Gonzales who jazzed it up at a restaurant called Trinca’s on Park Street. Those were the days of the Fox Trot, Waltz and the Tag dance. Of course the Cha-Cha and Jive did get pride of place. Pond’s talcum powder was thrown on the floor to smoothen the surface so that we could twist to Chubby Checker in our nylon socks and pointed toe shoes and shorts that were so tight that they stuck in our rear.

As the years rolled on, the Doors and The Beatles opened us to a whole new world of bell-bottoms and floral shirts with collars the size of medieval contraptions. It was a time of free love, teenage pregnancy and good music. The Waltz then became the choice of fuddy duddies while we moved on to rock n roll. The girls in their midis, short tops and roman sandals were like Indian rubber men on the dance floor. The contortions could have displaced a few hips but this did not happen for they knew how to move to the music of the times. Then in the midst of the party in walked the crinkle tie-dye cotton skirts, long hair, faded jeans accompanied by the raucous sound of Janis Joplin and the wailing of Bob Dylan’s ‘Times they are a changin’. Peace descended in our hearts to the harmony of Simon and Garfunkle. The sound of silence was the music that stoked the fire in our hearts. We danced with complete abandon oblivious of the morrow that cried out for sanity as our lives flowed like a river in spate.

Many of us had fumbled on the dance floor or had been shy of moving to the beat or holding the hand of a damsel eager to accompany us in a ritual that invariably bordered on erotica. Unfortunately, some of us have carried this feeling through to adulthood.

I have often wondered as to why women dance to the spirit of the beat and are mesmerised by the vocal chords of songsters, Barry White and Joe Cocker. Could it be that they have tuned into the subtle nuances that lie hidden in the subterranean blues and these unravel their heartstrings?

Not too long ago I met Elizabeth, one of the good women of Ubud, who wanted to learn the salsa. A teacher would arrive at her hotel to guide her through the motions. As time passed she transformed herself into a creature of delight swaying to the tempo of a live band. She dressed in black and danced the night away. The tempo ignited her emotions and quelled the feeling of loneliness she carried within her. I sensed that the sound of feet tapping to the music could have been a balm that soothed her aching heart. But one will never know for she had tuned into a higher frequency of passion just like Bina who I had left behind in Calcutta.

The first time I met Bina was when I bumped into her on the dance floor while straining every sinew to Rod Stewart’s grating ‘ Tonight am yours’. Her long black hair and lithe body clothed in a white cotton dress soon became entwined with me, as the song changed to Leo Sayer’s ‘When I need love’. In those days we called it the Slow Dance: A perfect opportunity to agitate the pheromones. From that night on we were regulars at Jam Sessions where a live band played pop songs and tea and cucumber sandwiches were served. Over a period of six years we graduated from these evenings to nights at the disco dressed like members of the band – Abba, and onto rock concerts on Calangute beach in Goa on full moon nights. Sadly from the time I stopped dancing with her, for I had grown weary of music, she drifted away. One day I awoke to a good-bye letter placed under my door. I never saw her again. She passed away last year on Valentine’s Day after a prolonged illness.

The only regret that I have is not having danced with her one last time.

‘Come on baby light my fire’ is a haunting melody that plays through my head whenever I encounter the good women of Ubud for they remind me of follies past. In them is reflected a joie de vivre, a time of roses and poses that keeps them forever young, a touch of Gatsby in the hills. They, like Bina, possess a lust for living and a natural enchanting rhythm that entices onlookers like sirens in a Greek tragedy.

Ubud embraces a string of restaurants and a host of entertainment that never ceases to drive away the melancholia that sometimes grips the good women of Ubud who have arrived from far off lands and nested in the hills. A night out with Chika and her saxophone, moving to Michael Franti’s ‘Yes I will’ at Flava Lounge or swinging to salsa with the genteel crowd at Indus is reminiscent of evenings at Park Street’s hip restaurants and bars of the 70s; Trinca’s, Blue Fox, Mocambo’s, Moulin Rouge, the Barrel, Sky Room with live music and good food. Here in Ubud shades of those swinging years flash before my eyes like errant motorcyclists whizzing past unmindful of the near death experience they go through everyday.

From Calcutta to Ubud, the song remains the same.

“You can’t start a fire
You can’t start a fire without a spark
This gun’s for hire
Even if it were jus for dancing in the dark”
-Bruce Springsteen, Dancing in the Dark

To the good women of Ubud, I have one request…

Save the last dance for me.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Dreamscapes of home in Paradise

Everyday is an endless dream of cigarettes and magazines
And each town looks the same to me,
The movies and the factories
And every stranger’s face I see reminds that I long to be
Homeward bound

I wish I was, homeward bound
Home, where my thoughts escaping
Home, where my music’s playing
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me

Tonight I’ll sing my songs again
I’ll play the game and pretend
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony
I need someone to comfort me, homeward bound,
I wish I was, homeward bound

- Simon and Garfunkel, Homeward Bound

The further we travel away from home the closer we come to it. The dreams of home stoke the fires that burn in our hearts as we traverse the world.

Not a day goes by without paradise throwing up reflections of the home we left behind and with it only sweet memories of innocence, joy and togetherness.

Paradise is unrelenting in its pursuit of remembrances. We cannot escape the daily silhouettes of life that feed these memories with the help of paradoxes that shake us out of our stupor.

Sometime back a (late) friend spoke tearfully of how her brother was selling his house in New Zealand because of divorce proceedings. She spoke endearingly of the house as her home and the place where she got married. But what brought this sudden urge to remember? Was it the house in which she was living in Bali or her marriage that was slowly losing its passion? The sudden surge of angst can be placed firmly at the threshold of paradise – the prime meridian between the past and the present.

We are in a way imprisoned in paradise – doomed to relive our memories of home replete with all the beauty without the cruelty of reality. Amnesia has taken control of our senses and we enthusiastically accept this situation for none of us want to be reminded of the grief that we endured in the past; we only choose to select the bits and pieces of happiness out of convenience. It is an inbuilt survival mechanism generously given to all who arrive seeking to live another life in Bali.

Helen, an acquaintance of sorts who has temporarily set up home here, speaks incessantly of her children, boyfriend she left behind and the saga of a long lost marriage and subsequent divorce. It would appear that though she is living in paradise her thoughts are constantly of home.

The perception of home that we carry around with us is in essence a subterfuge that annuls all sense of proportion in relation to reality. We conjure up metaphors to convince ourselves of the viability of memories and its sidekick – a feeling of belonging to a world that exists within the parameters of our sub-conscious being.

Could it be that the dreamscape of home is actually the anchor that stabilises life wherever one resides?

The rapturous images of religious ceremonies, offerings, food and landscape ignite the fuse that we carry within us.

For instance, nothing is more reassuring than a comforting meal that reminds one of home, family, love and belonging in times of despair and loneliness. The lingering image of a bowl of steaming rice reminds me of my childhood in India amid the rice fields of Bengal and also the day when my infant son ate his first spoonful of curd and rice. But at the same time if I so desire I can recall the unhappiness and isolation that I felt. Fortunately this never happens for recollections of home are shrouded in a veil of make believe imagery that resembles Alice in Wonderland without the mad hatter in tow.

So what could be the life force that sustains and provokes us into remembering home in a manner that mocks the truth? And is our perception of home a figment of our magnified imagination – the amplified sights and sounds of paradise that intoxicate our senses and lures us into hallucinating of a home that in actuality never did exist.

One can only presume that dreamscapes in Bali are the food that nourishes the memories of our past that surfaces every so often.

On how many occasions have we arisen from deep slumber feeling elated or sad because the morning sun on our faces in paradise abruptly interrupted dreams of home?

On how many occasions have we awoken to the lingering taste of our favourite home cooked food on our lips?

Or, on how many occasions have we sat up in bed after a deep sleep and rested our naked feet on the floor only to be reminded with a sinking feeling of home; a place where as children we frolicked oblivious to the vagaries of daily life.

For some, awakening in paradise is like a bitter pill and for others a dreamscape that one retires to for comfort; the sugar coated pill of reality.

Though the illusions differ from person to person the esoteric dimension ensnares everyone who leaves home.

If home is where the heart is then our hearts are not in paradise. We are merely living out our lives in anticipation of returning home wherever that is. Invariably death plays the spoilsport for many who wait with deep longing for the cosiness of home and aromas of a mother’s cooking wafting from the kitchen.

The irony is that we are in great haste to leave home, to wander the world and taste the meaning of life. Yet as years flow by we nurture the memories of home and sadly imagine that we can return to a place and time that does not exist anymore in the realms of the universe.

For many of us in Bali, home will remain a cruel joke played on us by a Power that keeps urging us to live our illusions yet face the harsh paradoxes that confront and confound us everyday. There are some who have not played the game and returned home only to find that it had vanished into the past – in a dreamscape of home in paradise.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Requiem for a People that People forget

This is dedicated to the people who work tirelessly as stewards, cooks, drivers, clerks, security guards, pembantus etc., to make Bali an island paradise. It is also an appeal to all non-Indonesians who have made their home in Bali: Let us return to the Balinese the love and sustenance that we have received from them.

Several months ago The Bali Times carried a news report on the number of suicides on the island. Between January and October 2007 114 people committed suicide: 92 of hanging, 17 of poisoning, three by cutting their veins, one from jumping from a height; and one burning.

Reasons cited by family members for the suicides were disease, frustration and poverty; 60 percent were men, 40 percent women.

Statistics have a comforting way of showcasing the truth without emotion or drama. We are mere numbers on the graph that rises and falls like the daily exchange rate of currency. It’s this cold response that denotes our level of morality that has become threadbare with over indulgence.

We should ask ourselves the question - Is suicide the final egress for a misspent life or is it an ‘escape’ from penury and degradation?

People who have read these statistics speak eloquently about it being the unavoidable consequence of lopsided social and economic development. Social reformers and workers masticate on solutions like the adjustment of society to include the fringe folk and their ilk. But this is talk and it is cheap just like the lives of these wretched people whose souls lie buried deep in the morass of collective consciousness.

We shall not be drawn into the blame game or pontificate about the evil that befalls those that end their lives – the perceived notion of an afterlife of eternal damnation – for we can console ourselves with the fact that they are in the company of Sylvia Plath, Papa Hemingway and Yukio Mishima, literary giants who resorted to the final act of self-extinction albeit in a dramatic manner - Hemingway turned a gun on himself and Mishima performed the centuries old ritual of hara-kiri – self disembowelment with a ceremonial knife.

The following lines taken from one of Sylvia Plath’s poems reflects the intensity of life that finally led to her death by suicide:

“My candle burns at both ends, it will not last the night
But ah my friends and oh my foes it gives a lovely light”

The gentle people on this isle have taken their lives not out of honour or belief in a philosophy but because of disease, frustration and more importantly hunger. Is this an indictment of our insensitivity and sheer callousness to our less fortunate brethren or the ever widening gap between have and have-nots fuelled by a cancerous form of consumerism? A stroll through the labyrinth of malls and food courts may give us the answer to this puzzling question.

An acquaintance termed this as the ‘me factor’ – the urge for self-gratification that exceeded the established boundaries of awareness and reason. Maybe this is the brave new world disorder where everyone is for herself or himself and winner takes all.

We can carry on ad nauseam about the factors contributing to suicide on the isle or pass the buck ad infinitum but what will it achieve, heartburn and hot air?

I spoke to a friend who told me that the Indonesian word for suicide was bunuh diri. She said that it was devastating for a person’s karma as the decision of life and death lay solely in the hands of the Almighty. If this is correct then the people who have ended their lives must have known this yet went ahead with their decision. One can only speculate on the trauma and utter desperation they felt when they cut their wrists, jumped onto the rocks below or hung themselves. It was the final act in a play that mocked the very essence of life.

Nothing escapes reality except the truth, it lurks somewhere in our consciousness prodding us to accept what is dished out on a daily basis. Is it good to starve to death or die of a horrible disease (naturally) because it is our kismet? Are realism and fatalism impostors that take us on a guilt trip? And will these souls be absolved of their iniquities?

On earth the stigma of suicide will rest forever on the family like the mark of Cain. And in heaven the angels may sing praise or send them back to earth to live another life as an act of redemption.

In Christianity people who committed suicide were buried in unmarked graves. Whether this practice is still followed one does not know. And in India, attempted suicide is rewarded with a jail term.

It is apparent that society and the God/s are hell bent on punishing these miserable people for the transgression of ending their life. There is no difference between them and criminals – the logic is that if you hurt yourself or hurt someone else retribution is the same from man and the Maker.

In wars there have been many instances where people have killed themselves and their families for fear of being captured by the enemy. So how do we judge these people? Are there different laws of salvation for these people? Or, is there a blanket condemnation of suicide?

Bali is not the only place where suicides occur. For example, in India hundreds of cotton farmers have committed suicide due to abject poverty brought on by failed crops and the humiliation that followed in the aftermath – prostituting their wives and other unmentionable acts. So how will society and the big eye in the sky judge and convict them – with many rounds of bad karma?

We must pay heed to the welfare of people on this isle and share our resources and love with them. Let us endeavour to make it a comfortable and safe place for all who eke out a living in Bali for suicides are the paradoxes that are a slap in the face of reality while paradise is the comfort food that we can partake of in times of despondency. The comfort food being the rich cultural landscape embellished with a religious fervour and presented by a beautiful people – the Balinese.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

The year of living foolishly - 2007

I wish my editor William Furney, the staff and readers of The Bali Times, my son Kabir Andrew, Kamal and Sarita Kaul, family, relatives and friends like Sioned Emrys, Nia Williams and Jill Gocher, a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year.  I regret I couldn’t find anything festive to write about. Instead I have spoken the truth or at least I think I have. Humour me and read this piece, then if you so desire promise yourselves that you will do your bit to make this planet, which is our only home a little bit safer, cleaner and happier with all the love that you can give. A little money on the way will help.

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.

2007 is ending (at the time of going to press) on a note of promise with the climate change conference in Bali. 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

Living in parenthesis

How can we ever be happy and content in paradise if we live within the confines of our encapsulated world? Many of us have become weeds glowing brightly in a stagnant pond of our delusions; a world within worlds that nullifies the effect of the wonderful and enlightening aspects of paradise.

This week’s column is dedicated to the Dalai Lama and the people of Tibet. I met His Holiness in Dharamshala, Mcleod Ganj, Himachal Pradesh, India, nearly seven years ago. He tied a red string on my hand and told me not to live for myself but for others, with love for all living things on this planet. Sadly, I’m still trying to follow his teaching, but the string has retained its bright red colour. It is a reminder of all that is pure and truthful.

Paradise is all around us wherever we travel and live on this earth. Bali is one example. Let us now look at ourselves in the mirror in paradise.

Many of us live in a parenthesis in paradise - shrouded in a make believe world that we pretend shields us from the ugliness of life. Our world has been carefully co-ordinated to merge with the flow of the seasons. We imagine it is impervious to life on the other side of the wall. However, time and again we are faced with death and/or despair that makes us aware of a reality we mistakenly presumed did not exist in paradise.

And why do we speak of this darkness, spiritual or otherwise in paradise?

When I first set foot on Bali many things escaped me; like the cruelty of poverty, plastic waste, lepers and the fact that the membrane of a fragile culture was being torn asunder in the mad scramble to create our little private worlds. To avoid being constantly confronted by the mushrooming of ugliness perpetuated by the new arrivals and the subsequent ‘clichés’ that were created by lotus-eaters in the rarefied atmosphere of a burgeoning ‘expat enclave’ - I hid in my own parenthesis.

As the months rolled on ephemeral images of beauty superimposed with the shadows of sorrow in many forms dilated the pupils of my eyes and the truth began to sink in; paradise is like a scorpion, reality the sting in its tail. I became like one of the protagonists from Clockwork Orange who had entered rehab.

Though I am still in rehab fulminating, my words through metamorphosis have brought forth some thoughts that I want to share with the denizens of paradise. (Those in parenthesis may please step out for a moment and breathe in the fresh air of reality).

01.    We stand accused of condemning one another with laws created to sustain and promote our self-imposed morality.
02.    We stand accused of hiding in paradise like ostriches with our heads in the sand.
03.    We stand accused of assuming that living in paradise is an end in itself and blindfolding ourselves to the reality of ugliness.

Sometime ago I viewed Michael Franti’s film titled “I know I’m not alone”. The horrors of war in Iraq and the utter hopelessness in Palestine portrayed in a collage of bloodstained faces and children who had lost their limbs in the violence, to the soundtrack of Habibi (a chant that loosely means love for another), lifted the veil I had been wearing. The sentence was spiritual death and rebirth to the rhythm of the Gamelan in the Garden of Eden. Resurrection was around the corner in the image of Shiva and his trishul.

Paradise is deceptive. It lulls us into a false sense of beauty without cruelty, love without belonging and life as an endless stream of pleasure. Nothing escapes its crab-like claws, which it sinks into everybody who disembarks on the isle. The illusion of a beautiful lifestyle ensnares us in the web of the present that bares no semblance to the world of natural reality. We mimic the chameleon and vainly attempt to blend into social stereotypes so as to remain within the periphery of the parenthesis.

We scuttle between home, friends and a lifestyle of falsehoods oblivious to the harsh truth of paradise that lurks on street corners and in the rice fields. It is ready to spring on us like a carnivorous beast, to consume our souls and bring us enlightenment. We fight it because we fear the unknown, the perceived nothingness that comes with releasing the grip on our lives and freefalling in paradise.

Some of us will question the validity of this hypothesis; others could be indifferent while the rest may accept life as is, but grumble that it is bland, without spice.

We should seek oneness in a living paradise by undoing the parenthesis because if we don’t then our lives would be like a person who straddles the international dateline without ever having to live in either time zone except in one’s own self-deluded world.

Reality is the heartbeat of paradise that attempts to restore the balance of life by encouraging us to commit to ourselves, to instigate a change and to erase the warped perceptions and assumptions from our consciousness.

It is only after we have discarded this baggage and cleansed ourselves of the residues of our past can we hope to remove the parenthesis in paradise and live as one in the morning of the earth.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Birds of Paradise IV

This is the last piece in a four part series on the wonderful women I have met in Amed.

“Love may do the cruelest things
May bruise those angel wings
But angel, love will find someone for you”
- Jimmy Nail, Angel

Erica had come to Bali in search of love. She was a fifty eight year old fading Theatre and TV star from a European country. A divorcee for the last three years she yearned to feel the touch of a man and to hear his gruff voice in bed when the lights were turned out. This is what she told me when I first met her in a warung on Lipah beach. Actually these were not the exact words but it was something to this effect.

Earlier in the evening, I had entered the warung along with my friend Vanessa, loudly arguing with her about the year when Dadaism (an avant-garde art form) started in Germany. I insisted it was the 1950s while my friend said it was post World War I, around the early 1920s. Erica walked up to our table and announced that Vanessa was indeed correct and I was wrong. We then struck up a conversation that swung like an erratic pendulum. Topics like the killings of the Israeli Olympic team members in Munich, the Wall, Martin Luther and finally to the fact that Adolph Hitler was not German but Austrian.

It was surreal. Here we were an American (Vanessa), German (Erica) and an Indian sitting in a small warung drinking Bali Kofi with fisher folk as spectators discussing events that had occurred decades before.

After a few cups of coffee we switched to Arak and then the verbosity subsided. Erica declared in the ensuing moments that she expected to find love in Bali.

“I have been alone for the last three years ever since my husband left me for a younger women. She was four years younger to me. But he loved her. He stopped loving me. I cannot understand why? We were married for over thirty years. He is a poet and writer. I suppose one can un love a person and then begin to love another all in one breath,” she said with a sigh.

Much to Erica’s annoyance, I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked

“Love between man and woman does not exist. For if it did how could we un love a person?” I replied.

“You are a cynic, you know. Even though I am divorced after a thirty-year marriage I still believe love exists in the realms of a truthful partnership,” she said.

“Okay, then explain your husband’s behaviour? Didn’t he profess his love for you on many a night while you both lay in bed?” I asked.

“Yes, but then feelings change. I still love him and he probably loves me in his own way,” she said defiantly.

“That’s convenient!” I replied and quickly apologised for my abruptness.

We left the warung at twilight and walked to our small hotel.

Later that night we met at a café for dinner. The live band and the young crowd added spice to the evening. It was not till the wee hours of the morning did the crowd disperse into the dark, leaving just the two of us with lots of empty bottles and glasses lying scattered on the tables.

Erica stood up and began reciting her part as Maria in Shakespeare’s “As you like it”.
She was incoherent, as the Arak she had drunk had scrambled her brain. I gently led her to a chair. Erica sat down and began to cry.

“I have come to Bali to look for love. How foolish of me. Look at me - I am old who will love me? I am living an illusion just like the characters I play on stage. I seem to be living other people’s lives. The only reality I see are the Balinese I meet. They have open faces, loving eyes and a rhythm of life that I have never experienced before,” she said

“That’s rubbish. You are a handsome, successful and wealthy woman who can travel the world without a care. I think you have not got over your divorce  - the betrayal and the fact that your ex husband now lies in the arms of another woman who as you had told me earlier was your girlfriend. They both deceived you,” I said.

“What are you really looking for in Bali?”

“I came here a month ago on a whim as a friend told me in Cologne that Bali offered companionship to lonely women like me. I thought I’d find myself a young husband, buy a house and settle down to a quiet life. But now I am beginning to have second thoughts and you know why? When I spent a few days in Ubud I would walk through the rice fields every morning and watch the farmers tirelessly tending to their crops. It was then that I began to appreciate the plate of rice that was placed before me with every meal… I suppose the spirits are telling me that love and beauty are two sides of a coin. I think I should be grateful for everything I have and not demand another helping of personal gratification. I think I will die in Bali,” she said with finality.

“Rubbish and why do you say this?” I asked.

“Because when I was in Ubud I visited a Tarot card reader who asked me to pull two cards from her deck. I did and out came the cards that signified the Devil and Death,” she replied.

“You came for love but have found beauty and a premonition of death. I suppose you also have vivid dreams in Bali?” I asked.

“Yes, how do you know? I dream a lot of my childhood days in Bavaria. I think the natural beauty and the vibrant religious culture in Bali seems to ignite my mind,” she exclaimed adding, “Everyday I witness women making delicate floral offerings that are placed everywhere as thanksgiving to the gods. I find this fascinating and yet so laborious. I suppose this is also a form of love. Love for one’s gods,” she said.

I gently held her hand and told her to forget looking for a replacement for her husband or for that matter even love because she had already found it in the sylvan landscape and religious offerings – a life of beauty and serenity. She didn’t answer me and instead pulled her hand away and walked out of the deserted warung.

I never saw her again.

A few weeks later I received a telephone call from Erica.

“Mark, how are you? This is Erica? I am sorry I left like that but it was too much for me. I am in Berlin preparing for my next role in a television series. I understand now that I was a fool living in paradise (Bali) because the island showed me my reflection in the rice fields and I didn’t recognise it. In the Balinese way of life I saw the devotion to their gods and nature and for me this was greater than the love I was searching for. Yes I have found love and it’s within me. I shall stop living other people’s lives and live my own, for I have begun to love myself,” she said and put down the phone.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om

Nyoman Suradnya - The enigmatic master of the Arts

I Nyoman Suradnya speaks to Mark Ulyseas in an exclusive interview.

“The red is me…it’s Suradnya. My colour I try to get the Bali smile – not Java smile, not Sumatra smile…Bali smile”. – I Nyoman Suradnya speaking to The Australian, Tuesday October 07, 1975, at his first exhibition of his paintings held at Aladdin Gallery, Sydney.

The first time I met Nyoman at a friend’s place I took an instant liking to him because he knew the words of the song Release Me. We both sang it loud and out of tune till the dogs started barking. Later over a cuppa and fried banana fritters we discussed the state of art in Ubud. His frank and often strikingly honest remarks were a breath of fresh air after encountering many self proclaimed artists who were too eager to please any listener. The next day we met at his studio to carry on the dialogue.

I began by asking him the usual question, “Why Ubud?”.

He replied, “Because Ubud is where every breath is a prayer. Look around you at every nook and corner someone is making an offering to the Gods. The continuous religious ceremonies inspire this living culture. Ubud breathes life into the arts and many come here to live off this breath of living culture”.

Nyoman is 60 years old. A child of a rice farmer, he worked in the fields helping his family. From a very young age he was intoxicated by the arts and crafts and would experiment with whatever material he had to create images on paper, in wood and stone. Inspiration came from the Wayan Kulit (Shadow Puppet) and then from his brother. He painted in black and white as in those days colour was not available. On finishing high school he joined the Art School started by Tjokorda Gede Agung Sukawati of Puri, Ubud. In fact Nyoman was the first student! Here he learnt painting, woodcarving, stone carving, carving for the Bull cremation towers from the masters of each craft. Like in India the concept of Guru-Sheeksha (Master-Student) was prevalent.

After one year of the three-year course in the art school, Nyoman chose art on traditional lines learning proportion, perspective with regard to wood carving “Ubud Style”. He learnt the techniques from Balinese and non-Balinese masters. The market place was one of his haunts. Nyoman would visit the market to sketch the basic outline of his subjects. Then he would return to the studio and breathe life into the sketch with paint and brush strokes.

Nyoman turned to the technique of Batik and went to Jogyakarta in 1973 to learn the art from the Javanese master craftsmen. On his return to Ubud he began by inventing batik colour pigments with some powder so that it could be blended like acrylics. The special batik paint he created was used in his paintings to recreate the batik effect on his canvases. This was a groundbreaking technique that enabled Nyoman to take the craft of batik, which was confined to fabric onto another medium.

The resultant effect was a creative leap whereby batik was not limited to fabric but became a medium that Nyoman could use to manifest his perceptions of the real world around him onto canvas. Colour exploded on the palette and splattered into shapes, forms and perspectives that immediately made Nyoman’s work recognisable in the numerous countries where he held his exhibitions. He became a pioneer in this field.

Nyoman’s considers the word “artist” as one coined for or by tourists. The apt phrase according to him is Unagi, which means wood carver, builder, painter etc. All the arts and crafts were primarily for the Pura (House of God) and the Puri (House of the Royal Family). Later with the arrival of Walter Spies who was influenced by Henri Rousseau, the mingling of the two art forms resulted in metamorphosis of Balinese art forms. The local artist began to paint “daily life” and incorporated perspectives, subtleties of shading etc. The foreign artists and Balinese craftspersons took to each other like “bees to flowers”.

Asked about his opinion on the numerous art galleries sprouting up all over Ubud he replied, “The mushrooming art galleries across Ubud are like McDonald’s fast food outlets. They’ve lost the plot. The kitsch is feeding the tourists because that is what the tourists want to see and buy. I do hope this does not continue otherwise good taste and discerning customers will fade away along with various art forms”.

And when I enquired as to whether he had reached the zenith in his art form, he looked at me for a moment and then laughed loudly and said, “ I believe there is a promise land, a place I can reach nirvana with my artwork. However, I am still travelling and learning and travelling. When will it end I do not know. But I firmly believe it will be in this lifetime”.

I Nyoman Suradnya has been known to speak his mind and to encourage his fellow villagers to beautify Ubud. In fact due to his endeavours Ubud won the Most Beautiful Village in Indonesia in 1982, 1984 and 1986.

Some of his numerous past exhibitions were: 1977 Galerie de Geneva, Milan, Italy; 1982 Arts & Crafts Centre, Melbourne, Australia; 1985 ISLA Centre of the Arts, Guam University, USA; 1990 Gallery Balance, Osaka, Japan; 2004 Café Fleischli, Zurich, Switzerland.

Today one can learn the craft of batik and batik painting from the master himself at Nirvana Pension & Gallery situated on Jalan Gautama , off Jalan Raya, Ubud.

Gamelan Master - Tjokorda Raka Swastika

The Gamelan Master speaks exclusively to Mark Ulyseas

Introducing Tjokorda Raka Swastika of the Ubud Royal family, a Gamelan Master, who I met in the palace garden to talk about his art. This is what he had to say to the readers of The Bali Times.

It is a short introduction to Gamelan.  The music has intrinsic religious significance and is an integral part of Balinese culture. This short passage from our conversation does not do justice to the art. But for the sake of brevity we have confined ourselves to presenting it only as an introductory piece so that anyone not conversant with this religious art will begin to understand the complexities of Gamelan music.

This is what the master had to say to the readers of The Bali Times.

I learnt Gamelan from a local guru Dewa Nyoman Sura from Pengosekan Village about 5 km from Ubud. In those days, there were no children Gamelan. I hung around the musicians and watched them play.

In the 60s there were only two Gamelan groups in Ubud – one belonged to the Ubud Kaja (North) and the other Ubud Kelod (South).

Gamelan is the traditional music of Indonesia (specifically Bali and Java). Gamelan means the traditional ensemble of instruments. For example, in Bali Kendang (drum), Reong (kettle gong), Gong Kempur (medium gong) and Kemong (kettle gong).

The materials used in the Gamelan are metal and wood. Prior to the use of metal we had bamboo Gamelan as seen in the Gambang Ensemble.

The metal used for instruments is made of the Panca Datu – 5 elements of tin, copper, iron, silver and gold.

Gamelan is played on religious occasions as it is one part of the rituals viz.:
Dewa Yadnya (God ceremony), Resi Yadnya (Prayer ceremony), Manusa Yadnya (Human being ceremony), Pitra Yadnya (Soul ceremony) and Buta Yadnya (Devil ceremony).

Gamelan in Bali is also performed in temples when sacred dances take place. Of course it is played for the performance arts elsewhere.

The Gamelan vocal is also part of the Panca Gita.

I have been performing the Gamelan for 30 years and have taught students from Australia, Japan, Holland, Denmark and England.

In 1986 I visited Tokyo along with the Gamelan group from Ubud. It was for an International Music and Dance Festival. Since then many Japanese have visited Ubud to study the art. Many have been my students. Three years later in 1989 I performed in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Holland and Finland. In 2000 I taught Gamelan for three months in Sydney. Today there are two Gamelan groups in Sydney, one started by the local Balinese community and another by an Australian. I performed at the Summer Festival in Fukuoka, Japan, in 2003.

Presently, I am concentrating on teaching and the future progress of children’s Gamelan. The 1999 Bali Arts Festival held in Denpasar saw my students represent the Gianyar Regent team, which won an award.

In 2005 the children group, Cenik Wayah, who were trained by me represented the Gianyar Regency at the Bali Arts Festival and won an award.

Now I am also training women in the art of the Gamelan.

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om