“sorry simpson…”

3 oct. 08 ubud bali

“….sorry simpson,,i’m late..”…7:45 am…Nyoman steps off his motorbike and unlocks the door to the photograghy gallery that he works in,.a small plastic bag in his free hand. Two days prior wandering aimlessly around Ubud,I had stepped into the shop to browse the large prints and escape the afternoon heat. After a few minutes of gazing,hands behind back..i asked if he was the photogragher…”No..i just work here…the photogragher is in india..” Conversations about india,led to travel,asia..bali..and how i ended up in the shop. Simple easy conversation flowed,names..ages.…his life,..married with two children..my life..just walking around with my hands behind my back…. “you don’t know anyone here..?”…nope…”What are you doing on 1 october? do you have a program?”…I thought for a moment and realized I have probably never been more without a program In my life….not really..why?…” Because my friend is getting married,the holy man in Medahan ,our village,has said that it is very good day to be married… i’d like to bring you as my guest..you can meet my friends..see a real Balinese ceremony..i can practice my english.”…hmm..ok….” I’ll bring some clothes for you,.my brother is the same size”…and with that, we shook hands, decided to meet at 7:30..and I stepped back out into the sun questioning my wardrobe…

…Inside the shop,he opens the bag..and pulls out two sarongs and a scarf… standing motionless, I am immediately transformed back to childhood..he’s wrapping,tucking and folding the sarongs around my waist, basically dressing me…the scarf,a symbol/tool of holding in pure thoughts, is halved,and wrapped around my head,knotted in the front…”you can look”.. he points to a large glass framed print from Thailand,.my reflection coming back at me glossed over a temple in Ayuthaya that I sat in the shade of for hours last year…seeing myself..i know I am lifetimes away from there….we lock up,hop on his bike and we’re off.

…Medahan is about 8 km outside of Ubud proper..stately Indonesian homes,compounds actually,line the road as we go.. the roads narrows,..left.. right.. left.left..i know I’ll never remember the combination that leads back to town…i’m in…now its just rice fields and bali landscapes. We pull up at his family home,and i am introduced to his wife and two kids,she’s a tailor,and has an order to fill, she won’t be joining us in the celebration..,so we begin the short walk on our own.

…the entrance to the grooms’ family compound is a long narrow alley that leads to a walled courtyard of structures…each building a separate space,and function..some for living…some for cooking..some for ceremony and prayer..the direction and placement based in relation to sunrise,sunset,the mountains and sea.Roosters strut about the well groomed grounds, gardens,and paths that separate and outline the plot..scents of orchids and incense in the air. I’ve never dreamed of a space like this…it feels right..I am introduced to the groom..komang,.32..employed on a cruise ship in the caribbean,home for the wedding and then back to miami in 9 days to fulfill another 6 month contract as bar/wait staff, there will be no honeymoon,.His bride Eluh lives about a ¼ mile away. At 8:45 a procession of nearly 50 or 60 makes its way to her family compound,led by the holy man and komang,..i am the only non-balinese,..we spend 15-20 minutes milling around her familys’ courtyard before returning in larger numbers to komangs’..bride in tow.

..…Back in the gardens..the holy man and his priests begin the ceremony..washing and blessing of the parents hands,feet,.and then those of the elaborately dressed couple.Onto the sacred ceremony altar they go.. incense burns…flowers are used as spoons to splash blessed water on,over and around them..gamelan players in the background..ancient sanskrit prayers over a microphone.They move to another location on the property..offerings to the gods and local spirits are placed on the family altar,..hands together in prayer over their heads…a new union is formed.

..A feast for 200 has been prepared over the past 3 days,the entirety of the invited village taking part in the work..large silver serving platters cover a long buffet table,..nyoman and i take our place in the long line. Pork,.chicken.,sausages..and vegetables,fish satay on skewers,local rice in large steaming baskets,..the food is unlike anything I have tried.,not like thai or vietnamese..a whole new set of taste buds awakened…not overly spicy,somewhat sweet but not resembling westernized chinese food,..the first of a day of amazing meals.

…….After the masses have been fed..the whole party and procession moves back to Eluhs home to perform more rituals,,insuring that her departure will be well received by the gods and spirits that live there.Nyoman has been introducing me to everyone, eagerly answering my neverending stream of questions…next to the bride and groom,.i feel like the attraction of the day and am honored to be there. Everyone is happy to sit,talk..shake hands and ask where I am from..and why I am there,everyone smiles so easily..i feel it is me who has been washed with the holy water.,truly blessed to a part of all that’s going on around me.

. …Between the processions and food..nyoman suggests we head out to the rice fields with some of his friends..there’s something i need to try…arak.and tuak…palm wines..sitting in an open air cinder block hut looking out at endless rice paddies,i am acquainted with my first of many glasses of a local liquor that is drawn from the coconut palms in a similar fashion to maple syrup,..a spike is driven in as a syringe,,a bamboo shoot holds the goods.The sweetness and alcohol content dependent on the age..we drank the young and sweet ..we enjoyed the old and slightly bitter.In the shade of the hut, we talked..drank,.laughed and drew pictures to fill in the language gaps. “How many brothers, sisters do you have…”do you vote for obama”..,”why so many wars with america?”…”do you like war?.” The bombings in bali…the trade center in new york…life in bali….life in america.They could not believe we have homeless,..poor..or that we have war vets sitting at intersections begging for money. The myth that we are all rich,..sipping coca cola in a heated pool with big breasted, blonde blue eyed models waiting on us still lives here.Nyoman translating…his friend Made pouring tuak from old recycled soda bottles.,we shared some life and the same rocker glass. …Questioning my name,.they taught me that the balinese don’t name their children as the rest of the world does,..you are named according to your birthplace in the family:

the first born is Wayan, or Putu

second is Made or Kadeek

third…Nyoman or Komang

fourth…Ketut..no alternates.

……if a family has five or more children..you go back to Wayan,and continue the sequence..slight variations happen..nicknames or terms of endearment (Eluh)..but basically, you’re first thru fourth,the end….through the course of the day i met an equal number of all…and they were all as sweet and kind as the first..wayan,putu….i mean…..well,.you get the point.

…As the day moved from day to evening..and evening to night.. while the new bride and groom moved through various costumes and outfits,welcoming and greeting the coming and going guests.. a group of about twelve of us moved through cases of Bintang beer and plastic bags of tuak (the stronger wine) on an outdoor pavilion..an acoustic guitar emerges…a foreign language simplified and reduced to a nuance. It gets passed around and finally lands in the hands of the long haired, shy,quiet guy in the corner,I hadn’t heard him speak all day.Out of respect for his humble,sweet, modest way I won’t confess his birth number and name,.but for the past 20 years he has been sitting in a small house at the end of a small road in a small village in bali Indonesia teaching the guitar a few new things.I have never been in the presence of a prodigy, ..until I attended a Balinese wedding,.and am unsure whether I will ever watch a mans fingers move as quickly,deftly and precisely as his.,.regardless of where i may roam.Unleashed is the only word that can describe his playing.Through nyomans’ translation I was told that he is happy where he is..and only plays for himself,all day,,everyday…no desire to make money at it….”just for me “. Bali has no shortage of spirits and gods,..they are everywhere,present in everything,and i was fortunate to actually sit across from one and will never forget the experience.

.…Around 1:30 am, after a full day of festivities,.it was time to go..the photograghy shop had to be opened in the morning. Good byes..thank yous..requests and promises to return completed,..nyoman and I start to make our way towards the gate that leaves the compound…. .Made,who’s taken to calling me “simp”……yells over to me in his limited english,. “good night Wayan Semarajaya”….good night first born son,god of good fortune….