Haro is a Balinese word that I've grown quite fond of these days, largely due to Bu Ary's bad influence. It's kind of the equivalent of "meh" or "blah" in English; the textbook definition is an expression of disapproval/upsetness with one's self. I think I'll try and bring it back to the states with me.
Anyhow, I've been getting some feedback about that last post, namely that it's apparently bad to disparage one's own work in a public forum, especially if it's one's own public forum. But either way, I was less than satisfied with that post, and decided to let you all know. As I was writing. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was feeling neglected by compatriots in the western world, and the fact that I was stuck dealing with a persistent tropical cold (how do cold viruses survive in this heat?). For the record, the cold remains, but should be gone tomorrow.
Back to topic, this mood kind of persisted and grew as we went to Denpasar, capital of Bali, for what amounted to a working vacation in a nice hotel. Nothing spectacular, save for some interesting thoughts brought about by my ill humor and impending worry about ISP. What I'm building to is that I had a cool realization: I was standing at the window of my hotel room, looking out at the attractive skyline of Denpasar in the late afternoon, when I realized that I don't belong here. This isn't my island. Bali is a magical place, true, and quite appealing for tourism due to culture and natural beauty, but it's for the Balinese. Us westerners, we really only serve to mess things up here. The island is increasingly abandoning traditional ways in favor of the easy and lucrative life that supporting tourism promises. One lecturer pointed out (and I don't know the facts on this) that almost eighty percent of the island's income derives from tourism now. This is no longer an agricultural society, and it's having an impact on culture as people now turn what were formerly "extracurricular" pursuits (like art and music) into a profession, as tourists will come and pay good money for bits of foreign culture. So the culture gradually becomes commercialized, and loses its soul. This is fine, because Balinese culture is so strongly tied to religion, and religion can't be commercialized, right? Wrong. The influx of money leads to more and more ornate ceremonies, which could be considered a good thing as far as physical manifestation of devotion goes, but some people believe (and this is the gut feeling I get, even though I've only been here for about eight weeks) that this is leading to a kind of soullessness, a going-though-the-motions regarding what was formerly earnest expression of faith. I'd be skeptical if certain parties in Ubud a few years ago hadn't sold the TV rights to a big cremation to the European networks and actually turned a profit on what's supposed to be a sacrifice of time and money. Haro.
But it wasn't just me getting riled up about the evils of tourism (economic imperialism) that was getting me down. As a student, I really have no place on this island. As I watched the traffic, I realized that as much as I try to learn Balinese culture and live that life, I will always be a foreigner. Even Pak Tom, Bu Ary's American husband, isn't sure whether or not he'll be staying here for the rest of his life, and he's the closest thing I've seen to a westerner who's managed to become a part of the society here. But I'm not even a foreigner. I'm fifth business to this island. There are the locals, the people who live on this island literally and culturally. There are the tourists, of differing species (spiritual, surfer, European, Australian, family or party), who are here to have a good time and leave. There are the expats, also of differing species but really more on a spectrum of earnestness vs. obnoxiousness, who have decided to live here for profit or pleasure. And then there's me. I'm not quite a tourist, certainly not an expat, but never will be a local. Fifth business. And, at that moment in Denpasar, it seemed like I was really just a glorified tourist, abroad under the auspices of education.
And then I remembered the adventure, something that I think made all the difference. It didn't really solve any of these quandaries, but it helped me rationalize them. These doubts, this worry and wonder, all of this is part of the process of being a poor little mahasiswa (college student) lost in a strange land, feeling like he's been there for so long but really not yet a week over the halfway point of the journey. Everyone doubts, and the doubts will eventually become part of the story. In the meantime, I'm here on a journey (to the heart of the Balinese dream), and that alone sets me apart from all the other whitey on this island who think they belong here. I know I don't belong. My time is finite, but while I'm here I'm gonna get me some knowledge, and maybe some good will come of it later. Maybe I'll help the island. Maybe it'll be a selfish pursuit. But no matter how I look at it, I'm still better than the tourists. Haro.
Another great thing about haro is that you can misuse it all the time because it sounds so cool. That turned out to be a little more inspiring than I'd originally planned, so here's the short Balinese adventure of the week, a visit to our local temple's odalan, which is a yearly ceremony for those of you who don't remember. There's a big temple in Bedulu, Pura Samuan Tiga, that all the host families go to worship at because it's local, as well as a few people from elsewhere nearby. Because we got back in the afternoon, I got to go with my host uncle and pray at night, which ended up being so much cooler than daytime. We rode over and joined the throngs of happy worshipers walking into the temple, which was all lit up with floodlights. But not in the ugly parking lot-style that we'd use. Instead, they lit only the various temples and shrines, which served to highlight all the shiny and brightly colored offerings and statues within, while spilling enough residual light to illuminate all the worshipers sitting on the lawn praying (yes, there's a lawn at Samuan Tiga). Prayer done, we got to wander around and see the different gamelans that had come to play, pretend to listen to a guy reading the Ramayana in some language I don't understand, and watched some mask dancing, including the dancer making fun of one of the girls because he's related to her host father (so it's okay!). What set this one apart, though, was the neighborly feel: I ran into a few other students who came to pray with their families, and my Uncle saw lots of friends and family to banter with. There were only a few whiteys in the audience, but apparently they were local, and they wore proper formal clothes, so it was less of a "ugh, whiteys" thing than "oh, what are you doing her?" Good fun indeed.
Well, that's about all that there is to say I guess. I'll probably finish my art project tomorrow, and there aren't any other excursions planned before ISP, so that's the next big adventure for me. Apart from the usual big adventure of everyday living here, I guess.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Galungan Days/Slight Adventure
I think I've reached the point on this trip (conveniently about halfway through my time here in Bali) when things that would probably sound really super exciting, exotic and wild to me three months ago don't really stand out in memory anymore. Like in our latest excursion, we stopped by a Muslim fishing village (cool because Bali is both massively Hindu and land-oriented instead of sea-oriented) and were coerced into dancing to the local orchestra, a group of dudes playing what I'd interpret as Sulawesian gamelan (again, memory fails; I think I remember it described as being from Sulawesi, which is another island in Indonesia, but I'm not sure where the Bugis are from. I probably should have called it a Bugis fishing village, as that's the ethnicity of the people who live there. They so happen to be Muslim. Fun fact: the word bugis is where we get the term "boogey man" from, as the Bugis were feared pirates hired by various people to do dirty work, so bugis man became boogey man. Now back to your original programming). I don't remember where I was before that long paranthetical, so new sentence: the aforementioned dancing was for the amusement of local children, who turned out in droves to gaze at the silly westerners before joining in the dancing. Then we saw their mosque and rolled back out. And right now, looking back, it doesn't really register that these sorts of things don't happen to everyone every day. Adventure has become my middle name. Well, not really at all, but who's counting?
In continuing with the plan of not being able to relate everything that's gone on, maybe I could at least explain the title of this post. Galungan is one of the big Hindu festivals in Bali (it has an Indian counterpart by a different name relating to Durga's defeat of some demon), a time when the ancestral spirits come back to hang out at the family shrine and be honored. It also celebrates the victory of good over evil (only temporarily though, as there must always be evil with the good), but I couldn't really understand my family on that theological point, so let's stick with the rituals. It's kind of like Christmas, but with a heavy dose of Thanksgiving. The entire family starts preparations a good week in advance, but the real madness starts a few days before. Kids get out of school and many people have time off from work so as to be at home and help with the offerings, of which there are many. Most offerings are little palm or banana leaf basket-like objects, filled with flowers and food, but many are really huge, like the piles of fruit for temple ceremonies or baskets with roasted animals. Penjors, however, top all. These are giant bamboo poles, curved at the top, that people decorate and put out in front of their house along the road. A simple one I made with my father for the local temple basically just involved affixing curved palm leaf shapes to the pole, tying a big palm leaf mane around the bottom, and putting a young coconut on it (the penjor is symbolic of life and the universe and a giant snake, all sorts of things that my Indonesian isn't good enough to understand yet). It took us under an hour, and probably didn't cost that much. But the one the family made took three days, involved a few huge store-bought ornaments (intricately cut out of palm leaf, dyed and painted bright colors), felt balls, precisely folded palm leaf shapes, black fabric, a huge bamboo pole, and finally a flag with the "Om" symbol on it. It cost 450,000 rupiah (lots for an offering) and took three days of communal labor. Admittedly, they were showing off a bit, but the process isn't that far removed from decorating a Christmas tree.
Apart from the offerings, there's lots of cooking and family gemutleicheit (did I spell that right? Not many Germans here, only a vague Dutch feeling from their colonial presence). Everyone gets together to help out (even homestay students) and the time after the religious ceremonies (which involve visiting and praying at lots of temples) for visiting with family members. It was cool, and I'm spending way too much time on this, but as a last thought it really made me wish that we had more festivities in the states that involved this much tradition and ritual. I guess that's one challenge of a mostly secular society, but we can't really pull of religion in as low-key a way as the Balinese do, so we might just have to create some traditions of our own. I'm just saying, it's rare that there's ever that much of a good vibe surrounding anything holiday-oriented back home.
As I drone on about random things, I might want to include a summary of the excursion that took us to this fishing village. We were up to the hot and arid North Coast of Bali, a more diverse area in that there are many different religions represented. We saw some cool Buddhist temples and met with a fun group of kids from the university up there. The area really reminded me of home, home being Los Angeles, but that might be because I've been away for a long time. And then we went to try and climb a mountain (a sign near the bottom said "Slight Adventure," which described the excursion perfectly), but some of us happened to get sick the day before and didn't want to climb a mountain to see the sunrise. So instead I skulked and bemoaned my bad luck and resolved to climb it later, and then basked in scenery that legitimately looked like the Eastern Sierras.
In case my readers can't tell, I'm losing coherence, so apologies for what feels like a couple of weak posts. It's hot here. People don't think well when it's hot. People also don't like writing blog posts when there's absolutely zero feedback. So, friends, if you like what you read, say something so I don't feel like I'm all the way on the other side of the world. Which I am. But still, ground me, let me know if I'm actually having an experience or if I need to step my game up. ISP's a-coming, so hopefully I'll have a better experience for y'all next time.
In continuing with the plan of not being able to relate everything that's gone on, maybe I could at least explain the title of this post. Galungan is one of the big Hindu festivals in Bali (it has an Indian counterpart by a different name relating to Durga's defeat of some demon), a time when the ancestral spirits come back to hang out at the family shrine and be honored. It also celebrates the victory of good over evil (only temporarily though, as there must always be evil with the good), but I couldn't really understand my family on that theological point, so let's stick with the rituals. It's kind of like Christmas, but with a heavy dose of Thanksgiving. The entire family starts preparations a good week in advance, but the real madness starts a few days before. Kids get out of school and many people have time off from work so as to be at home and help with the offerings, of which there are many. Most offerings are little palm or banana leaf basket-like objects, filled with flowers and food, but many are really huge, like the piles of fruit for temple ceremonies or baskets with roasted animals. Penjors, however, top all. These are giant bamboo poles, curved at the top, that people decorate and put out in front of their house along the road. A simple one I made with my father for the local temple basically just involved affixing curved palm leaf shapes to the pole, tying a big palm leaf mane around the bottom, and putting a young coconut on it (the penjor is symbolic of life and the universe and a giant snake, all sorts of things that my Indonesian isn't good enough to understand yet). It took us under an hour, and probably didn't cost that much. But the one the family made took three days, involved a few huge store-bought ornaments (intricately cut out of palm leaf, dyed and painted bright colors), felt balls, precisely folded palm leaf shapes, black fabric, a huge bamboo pole, and finally a flag with the "Om" symbol on it. It cost 450,000 rupiah (lots for an offering) and took three days of communal labor. Admittedly, they were showing off a bit, but the process isn't that far removed from decorating a Christmas tree.
Apart from the offerings, there's lots of cooking and family gemutleicheit (did I spell that right? Not many Germans here, only a vague Dutch feeling from their colonial presence). Everyone gets together to help out (even homestay students) and the time after the religious ceremonies (which involve visiting and praying at lots of temples) for visiting with family members. It was cool, and I'm spending way too much time on this, but as a last thought it really made me wish that we had more festivities in the states that involved this much tradition and ritual. I guess that's one challenge of a mostly secular society, but we can't really pull of religion in as low-key a way as the Balinese do, so we might just have to create some traditions of our own. I'm just saying, it's rare that there's ever that much of a good vibe surrounding anything holiday-oriented back home.
As I drone on about random things, I might want to include a summary of the excursion that took us to this fishing village. We were up to the hot and arid North Coast of Bali, a more diverse area in that there are many different religions represented. We saw some cool Buddhist temples and met with a fun group of kids from the university up there. The area really reminded me of home, home being Los Angeles, but that might be because I've been away for a long time. And then we went to try and climb a mountain (a sign near the bottom said "Slight Adventure," which described the excursion perfectly), but some of us happened to get sick the day before and didn't want to climb a mountain to see the sunrise. So instead I skulked and bemoaned my bad luck and resolved to climb it later, and then basked in scenery that legitimately looked like the Eastern Sierras.
In case my readers can't tell, I'm losing coherence, so apologies for what feels like a couple of weak posts. It's hot here. People don't think well when it's hot. People also don't like writing blog posts when there's absolutely zero feedback. So, friends, if you like what you read, say something so I don't feel like I'm all the way on the other side of the world. Which I am. But still, ground me, let me know if I'm actually having an experience or if I need to step my game up. ISP's a-coming, so hopefully I'll have a better experience for y'all next time.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Munduk Pakel
I couldn't think of anything super-witty, so just read it like Mmmmmmmmunduk PAKEL, which is how some enthusiastic Balinese people would pronounce it. Anyhow, you guys might not ever get to hear about the art projects or the host family or any of that, because I realized that I can't keep trying to tell you everything that goes on all the time. Ever. What cool stories would I have to come out later? What secrecy would be left? And practically, it's hard to write those massive posts, and it must be hard for you to read too, poor things.
So in the interest of simplicity, let's stick to this latest adventure, five days in Ary's home village of Munduk Pakel, a little farming town way up in the ricefields in the west of Bali. And when I say little, I mean little: it's literally a one-street town with no post office (but it still has over three warungs and a little ice cream motorbike that rides through every afternoon). There's definitely a laid-back village vibe, as everyone knows everyone else's business and things get really sleepy in the afternoons, but it was incredible. Probably my favorite part of SIT so far. We drove and hiked through the best, greenest and most picturesque fields of rice, terraced all up and down these hills, into the village, where most people turned out to say hi and invite us into their homes so we'd have a place to sleep and food to eat. Munduk was interesting because, instead of the usual one large extended family per compound, there were around four different families living in a single compound, just building more buildings further and further back down or up the hillside, due to marrying-in and other complicated family dynamics that I don't have time to explain here in full.
And then we had lots of adventures. The laundry list: we practiced gamelan. Twice (although the second one kind of sucked because we're not very good and that practice was less structured, and as you can probably figure out a percussion orchestra without structure is just a lot of painful, painful noise. And intro gamelan is kind of repetitive and boring to begin with, but we had to start somewhere). We bathed in a tropical river every day, although mine was a solitary activity as I couldn't exactly bathe with the other male students (BECAUSE THERE ARE NONE). I worked in a rice field, which was good wholesome fun and games hoeing in the middle of verdant greenery, with the mud between your toes and the morning rain in your face, until my co-workers started a mudfight, involved me, and led me to step on my own hoe, splitting the ball of my foot. But it's okay now, as I think it just opened the really big callus I've got there and freaked me out about "cow manure fertilizer" and "tetanus" entering my body.
Let's see, we also... had a flirtation dance! This was much more fun than the terror that the words flirtation and dance inspire when associated so closely. The way it works: a bamboo gamelan orchestra (much cooler than the other one because it's not so brassy sounding) plays the most jaunty and upbeat tune I've heard since coming here, and repeats it twice so you, the lonely westerner missing music that sounds upbeat and familiar, can groove for a bit. Then the dancer comes out, does a prelude thing, and then picks visiting guests from the crowd to dance with her. You're supposed to kind of follow her moves, or at least dance something, until she sends you back or shame and embarrassment lead you to shake her hand in defeat. In case you haven't guessed, this is something the villagers do for their entertainment when guests come (although it used to be a way for guys to meet girls). Props go to the little old teacher from Tabanan district, apparently formerly a professional dancer, who looked like he was doing a choreographed part, and actually made the dancer herself laugh. Good fun.
We also (this never really ends) made coconut bowls, traditional medicine, visited a healer, saw a shadow puppet play (something I couldn't really understand because it was in Balinese, which in itself was for the benefit of the local audience as the main characters usually speak in Kawi, high Javanese. But it was fun nonetheless in a slapstick way), and went squirrel hunting with Putu. Putu deserves an introduction here: Ary's son by her first marriage, a nice and shy guy born and raised in Munduk. I'm convinced that if he went to high school in the late 50's, Putu would be the quarterback who shows up on his motorcycle, and everyone would cheer "PUTU! Yeah, you go man! Yay Putu!" Then he'd smile that quiet smile, light a cigarette, and ride off on his bike to more cheers and screams. Anyhow, he goes to school in Denpassar now but doesn't really like the city, which is easy to see after spending a few days in the village, so he returns whenever he can. Squirrels are also a pest to the farmers, so they pay a small bounty for tails. Anyhow, I finally managed to bond with this mysterious man, and he showed up as I started to pack to head back and asked me if I'd like to go hunting. This entailed him hiking a short trail with a gigantic air rifle, spending a lot of time looking up, and shooting a squirrel from some distance on the way home. He let me shoot a coconut.
And then we went back. Even though Bedulu is kind of a sleepy place, the traffic and proximity to the evils of Ubud made it seem so much less pleasant after that five day stint in what's about as real as the real Bali can get. Even though we got the candy-coated version of rural life, it seemed pretty content and idyllic, once you get over back-breaking rice farming and food shortages and poverty. Just sitting in the compound on a lazy afternoon after a mandi in the river, watching the world go by, was about as great as life can get.
Which is of course why I decided to spend the next few days volunteering at the Ubud Writers and Readers festival (or, Expat Appreciation Week), an event that I'll report back on in detail later, once I can form a clear opinion. Chances are it'll be pretty unfavorable.
I'm not entirely sure where adventures are taking me in the next weeks, but I think I'll be out of internet contact probably until next Monday. So in the mean time... well, I've used all my "keep doing your thing" endings up already, so I'll just say until next time. Also, keep me posted on the news, not current affairs. I find it really hard to believe that it's been a month at school and I haven't heard one wild and crazy story or piece of gossip. Come on guys.
So in the interest of simplicity, let's stick to this latest adventure, five days in Ary's home village of Munduk Pakel, a little farming town way up in the ricefields in the west of Bali. And when I say little, I mean little: it's literally a one-street town with no post office (but it still has over three warungs and a little ice cream motorbike that rides through every afternoon). There's definitely a laid-back village vibe, as everyone knows everyone else's business and things get really sleepy in the afternoons, but it was incredible. Probably my favorite part of SIT so far. We drove and hiked through the best, greenest and most picturesque fields of rice, terraced all up and down these hills, into the village, where most people turned out to say hi and invite us into their homes so we'd have a place to sleep and food to eat. Munduk was interesting because, instead of the usual one large extended family per compound, there were around four different families living in a single compound, just building more buildings further and further back down or up the hillside, due to marrying-in and other complicated family dynamics that I don't have time to explain here in full.
And then we had lots of adventures. The laundry list: we practiced gamelan. Twice (although the second one kind of sucked because we're not very good and that practice was less structured, and as you can probably figure out a percussion orchestra without structure is just a lot of painful, painful noise. And intro gamelan is kind of repetitive and boring to begin with, but we had to start somewhere). We bathed in a tropical river every day, although mine was a solitary activity as I couldn't exactly bathe with the other male students (BECAUSE THERE ARE NONE). I worked in a rice field, which was good wholesome fun and games hoeing in the middle of verdant greenery, with the mud between your toes and the morning rain in your face, until my co-workers started a mudfight, involved me, and led me to step on my own hoe, splitting the ball of my foot. But it's okay now, as I think it just opened the really big callus I've got there and freaked me out about "cow manure fertilizer" and "tetanus" entering my body.
Let's see, we also... had a flirtation dance! This was much more fun than the terror that the words flirtation and dance inspire when associated so closely. The way it works: a bamboo gamelan orchestra (much cooler than the other one because it's not so brassy sounding) plays the most jaunty and upbeat tune I've heard since coming here, and repeats it twice so you, the lonely westerner missing music that sounds upbeat and familiar, can groove for a bit. Then the dancer comes out, does a prelude thing, and then picks visiting guests from the crowd to dance with her. You're supposed to kind of follow her moves, or at least dance something, until she sends you back or shame and embarrassment lead you to shake her hand in defeat. In case you haven't guessed, this is something the villagers do for their entertainment when guests come (although it used to be a way for guys to meet girls). Props go to the little old teacher from Tabanan district, apparently formerly a professional dancer, who looked like he was doing a choreographed part, and actually made the dancer herself laugh. Good fun.
We also (this never really ends) made coconut bowls, traditional medicine, visited a healer, saw a shadow puppet play (something I couldn't really understand because it was in Balinese, which in itself was for the benefit of the local audience as the main characters usually speak in Kawi, high Javanese. But it was fun nonetheless in a slapstick way), and went squirrel hunting with Putu. Putu deserves an introduction here: Ary's son by her first marriage, a nice and shy guy born and raised in Munduk. I'm convinced that if he went to high school in the late 50's, Putu would be the quarterback who shows up on his motorcycle, and everyone would cheer "PUTU! Yeah, you go man! Yay Putu!" Then he'd smile that quiet smile, light a cigarette, and ride off on his bike to more cheers and screams. Anyhow, he goes to school in Denpassar now but doesn't really like the city, which is easy to see after spending a few days in the village, so he returns whenever he can. Squirrels are also a pest to the farmers, so they pay a small bounty for tails. Anyhow, I finally managed to bond with this mysterious man, and he showed up as I started to pack to head back and asked me if I'd like to go hunting. This entailed him hiking a short trail with a gigantic air rifle, spending a lot of time looking up, and shooting a squirrel from some distance on the way home. He let me shoot a coconut.
And then we went back. Even though Bedulu is kind of a sleepy place, the traffic and proximity to the evils of Ubud made it seem so much less pleasant after that five day stint in what's about as real as the real Bali can get. Even though we got the candy-coated version of rural life, it seemed pretty content and idyllic, once you get over back-breaking rice farming and food shortages and poverty. Just sitting in the compound on a lazy afternoon after a mandi in the river, watching the world go by, was about as great as life can get.
Which is of course why I decided to spend the next few days volunteering at the Ubud Writers and Readers festival (or, Expat Appreciation Week), an event that I'll report back on in detail later, once I can form a clear opinion. Chances are it'll be pretty unfavorable.
I'm not entirely sure where adventures are taking me in the next weeks, but I think I'll be out of internet contact probably until next Monday. So in the mean time... well, I've used all my "keep doing your thing" endings up already, so I'll just say until next time. Also, keep me posted on the news, not current affairs. I find it really hard to believe that it's been a month at school and I haven't heard one wild and crazy story or piece of gossip. Come on guys.
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