From the Village to the Expats...

I feel like I’ve become the ball in a game of culture shock ping-pong.  In the past couple of days we’ve gone from a rural village to work at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival, and I don’t feel like I have the time or mindset to figure out how best to adjust.  Somehow the humility and simple joys that made us all love the village so much (probably my favorite part of the semester so far!) don’t align with the “mind-opening and intellectual” experience I’m supposed to be having at this well-intentioned, yet undeniably self-praising and culturally obtrusive, expat-run literary fest. 

We were already a little down after having to leave the village at all.  It’s not that I don’t love my family in Bedulu, but somehow the “town”, with its multiple banjars and real marketplace, no longer seems as communal and small.  It’s so hard trying to keep things in perspective. 

 

Of course family and tradition, simplicity and continuity, are just as pervasive in Bedulu as they were in Munduk Pakel, but there was something so heartwarming about that rice-field framed, single village street.  Almost so heartwarming that it made me forget what I like about Bedulu.  Not quite though!  I just have to readjust. 

Munduk Pakel just felt so right to everyone…even the Indonesian students from Denpasar who came with us.  One day and we had already discovered how many English songs we all know and can sing along to together with a guitar.  Two days and I felt like all the Ibus and Bapaks in town recognized us.  Three days and we’d figured out how to use rocks as a sort of exfoliating “sponge” for our river baths.  Four days and my Ibu was serving every meal in the coconut bowl I carved myself! And then we had to say bye :(

It’s not quite the same in Bedulu because we don’t all live in the same banjar.  Everything’s close, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t just yell over the wall to Becca eating breakfast next door, or watch my Ibu step outside the compound and likely be within several feet of some sort of relative and/or best friend.  I guess you don’t realize how “big” Bedulu seems to the Balinese until you spend some time in a real village. 

I guess I should talk more about what we did there…

We each had a new homestay family.  Some students were in the same compound as each other because several of the compounds house more than one family.  I was on my own with an adorable, adorable Ibu who’s 35 and giggles a lot and has hair that goes down to her waist.  She’s actually our teacher who’s wife’s died wife’s sister (meaning her sister died), which made it all the more adorable to see how nice she is.  My Bapak was on the quieter side.  He, like most of the village men, is a farmer in the rice field.  Then I had two little siblings, Putu and Kadek…not surprising given that those are the names for kids #1 and #2 here.  Ooh also we had a 2-week-old puppy. SO cute.  And probably the closest thing I’ve seen to an American puppy since I’ve been here.  They let us pick it up and play with it, although they warned us to be careful because it couldn’t bathe.  It mostly just slept in a little ball beside the wood-burning stove in the kitchen.  And, of course, it ate a little puppy serving of rice three times a day.

Things were much more traditional at my compound in the village.  There was the single mandi room with a squatting toilet and a murky green water filled bucket bath tub.  Somehow it felt really clean though…it hadn’t adopted the same damp smell that my bathroom in Bedulu is starting to have.  And I’d never used a squatter before, but it’s an incredibly convenient invention if you ask me.  That’s the position people got in to use the bathroom before there ever was a bathroom…so doesn’t it kinda make sense?  There’s no touching anything involved, no nothing…you just kinda hang out on the two treaded footpads beside a perfectly positioned plastic hole.  We did all act like Westerners and bring a roll of toilet paper, but, other than that, I was surprisingly pleased with the squatter.

Every day we bathed in the river.  That’s not really what the locals usually do—it was just more fun for us, and a pleasant reminder of the joys of water pressure.  I kind of felt like a little animal all weekend, between the squatting and the river bathing and the carving coconut bowls and eating with my hands.  One morning I actually bathed 3 times.  I took a bucket bath at home, then we walked across the river to visit a balian’s house and another girl and I both fell in, and then I took a real bath in the river after that.  It’s the most clean I’ve felt the whole trip!

On our first morning in the village, we hoe’d the rice fields.  Stack upon stack of endless, curving green, framing reflective pools of rice sprouts, with mountains and palm trees in the distance on every side.  We worked (very ineffectively..) then had races and mud fights.  But we got in trouble for our attempted army attack on the level above us cause we were apparently mixing up the seedbeds…oops!  After the races, our teacher’s dad (who lives in the village) carried baskets of fresh young coconuts up on his back for us to eat and drink while the mud dried.  It all washed off wonderfully with our dip in the river!  I’m having to readjust now to my wall-pipe, quasi shower thing..

We spent the days doing a variety of “traditional village” things.  We ate cooked dirt that tasted (surprisingly..) like smokey clay, we spent hours carving those dang bowls, we went on an herb walk and chopped veggies to make sambal, we hung out in front of the warung (food stall), and we interviewed locals.  In our down time, the Indonesian students got out the guitar and we just sat and sang together…from Blink 182 to Backstreet Boys to some covered version of Allison Krauss’ “When You Say Nothing At All”, it’s amazing how many English songs they know.  Most of them fall into the “emo-pop” category, which is fitting because they way the students carry themselves, you might thing they were an Asian sensation pop band.  Some of them actually are in a band called “Dysentery Gary”.  And they throw up the double peace signs in almost every posed picture.  They were such goofballs. 

It was refreshing being with students our age.  They go to school in the capital city, so they weren’t accustomed to this traditional medicine using, family camp style, farming life either.  Some of it was just as much of an adjustment for them, so it was nice for us to all get used to it together. 

I sure got my dosage of traditional medicine while I was there.  That added to my feeling like a little animal.  I interviewed one of the old women in the village about some of the different local medicines, like creams used for cold feet and juices used for fevers and heartburn.  Then we got to help make them and test them out.  It was tough work…lots of grinding and pounding…and I don’t actually know if it worked cause I didn’t have heartburn to begin with, but it was fun to try!  The locals said that no one there gets serious illnesses, like cancer, diabetes, heart disease, etc.  “We’re happy and active and eat well.  Why would we get sick?” is what they said.  I think maybe they just don’t identify those serious illnesses for what they are.  Everything happens for a reason…so someone dying is just someone dying and it’s not what they died of but why they died that seems to take precedence.

At night we would walk up to the rice fields and sit and look at the moon.  One night it was after the village-wide flirtation dance, where we all had to dance in front of everyone to try and “woo” this traditionally dressed girl (NOT my idea of fun..).  Two nights it was after some ear-drum-bruising rounds of gamelan.  They wanted us to try to play it, and it was a really nice gesture…but when you have 20+ people trying to bang 8 repetitive notes on drums and symbols and xylophones over and over for a span of 2 hours, everyone starts to get a little cranky and headache-y.  Good thing we had the full moon and eastern constellations to help distract us from the ringing sound afterwards..

Another theme of the animal (more specifically monkey) like weekend was weird shit on my skin.  I guess my scalp got burned in Uluwatu, but due to my lack of mirror in the village, I had no idea until someone told me that there were large flakes in my hair.  Sick.  After our baths in the river, one of my friends picked them out for me baha.  Then I put some of the traditional medicine stuff on my feet and it created a nice orange crust that fell off gradually throughout the day.  And apparently when I fell in the river I hit a rock cause I had a nice big knot/bruise on my calf.  When I showed it to my Ibu, she brought out a red onion and crushed it and stuck it on there!  She said I wasn’t allowed to peel it off myself, it had to fall on it’s own time, so I’m sure I smelled really nice by the time I got to the wayang (traditional shadow puppet) show the last night. 

Our last morning, we got up at 5 to watch the sunrise from the rice fields.  It was so beautiful—Mt. Agung and Mt. Batur off in the distance, the moon still way up in the sky, opposite the rising pink and orange.  I wonder if there’s a point where the natural beauty of the view atop a rice field ever becomes too commonplace?  I really hope not.  I think I could have stayed there forever!

I actually might go back to a small village for my ISP period, assuming I can find something to research.  I don’t know that it would be the same though without other students there though.  Maybe if I just keep practicing my Indonesian! 

So now we’re back in Bedulu.  I hope I don’t sound too upset about it!  It’s just this dang festival that I was so excited about before I came here but is proving to be a really strange adjustment now. It’s a real effort not to abuse the proximity of Ubud when we’re in Bedulu…because even though checking my email here has a tendency to stress me out, it’s so easy just to whip out 30 cents for a bemo ride and come into town when we have free time.  After returning from the village though, I don’t have that much desire to be here.  It’s not even an option for the next few days though because I have to work as an MC at this festival.  I feel so bizarre—dressed in traditional garb, telling the audience to silence their cell phones, shuffling around with the microphone in Q&A sessions.  What on earth qualified me to do this??? I have absolutely no idea.

There really are some fascinating writers here, so I’m trying to focus my attention on appreciating them rather than pondering the strangeness of the expat culture.  Like yesterday…I was at a session with Fatima Bhutto (who I think is one of the most naturally beautiful people I’ve ever seen).  And I know the people running the show are just some international, down-to-earth, literature lovers, but I don’t know how to come home from a day interacting with them in their “serene” and “exotic” venues to my fam’s feast of finger-food veggies and rice.  And what’s worse is I don’t even know if I’m justified to feel like this…cause it’s not like I’m a local either…and I have only been here for 5 weeks..

Alright, I have to go because I’ve been sitting here for way too long.  No MC-ing today, but I’m going to listen to some of the sessions.  Hopefully they’ll be enjoyable.  Next week we’re going to Lovina…I don’t really know what’s there, but I guess I’ll find out!  And then after that is the big big festival in Bedulu.  That will be my Balinese replacement for Halloween.

:)

If Only I Were an Apple..

I’ve been here for a month Saturday!  That’s hard to believe.  Well, I guess in some ways it feels like I’ve been here forever.  There are things that used to seem so strange that now seem normal (like cucumbers at breakfast…a surprisingly fitting morning food!).  Then there are things that have seemed strange from the start and still don’t and probably never will seem normal (like the fact that women can carry anything, even dozens of eggs, on top of their head).

There’s not so much variety in a traditional Balinese’s daily life.  As students, we’re always going to new lessons, hearing new speakers, etc., but I’m realizing more and more that, for my family and so many other locals, life can easily just turn into an endless span of days.    In a sense, the days can’t get away from them because of the calendar system, which contains continually circulating 1 to 9 day week cycles that the older locals simply wake up and know.  But, activity-wise, these crafty, spiritually oriented people live kind of like a hill of ants (and I mean that in the best possible way). 

Everyone knows their place and everyone, whether moving or stationary, seems to do what they’re doing with purpose.  No day passes without repetition.  Things are predictable, but only if you’re familiar with the beliefs, and it’s a different sort of predictability that bridges Monday to Tuesday, August to September, and morning to night.  I imagine that watching the villages from afar would be much like my view now, as I sit on my bed and look down at my floor that's laden with ants.  (they are like taking over the whole town..)

They’re always coming out of the cracks, but only on little missions, and they soon after return home somewhere inside the dirt mound beneath the hinge of my bathroom door.  The dirt mound is kinda like the Balinese village…although I guess it would be more so if the ants had separate family homes inside of that.  Maybe they do?  Hmm..

The ants have that same orderly busy-ness that’s everywhere here.  Every individual has to answer to the larger needs of the group (the family, the neighborhood, the village..) And the ants grow up knowing what's expected of them, their lives laid out in a path that's preconceived--but not in a dreadful sense, just in the sense that it's the way things have always gone.

If a Balinese man is some sort of artist (which many are), he usually teaches his craft to his children.  The wife may help with the husband’s skill, or simply cook, clean, and take care of the children and the family’s responsibilities to the community.  She gets a temporary break if she’s on her period and has to spend a day bed-ridden.  I came home from school the other day to find my Ibu in this condition.  My Bapak was “massaging her bones” to get the sickness out, and she was unable to fix our dinner.  They’re incredibly open about menstruation here because women on their period are considered impure and aren’t allowed into the temples.

Anyway, my Ibu can’t drive the family’s motorbike, so other than the times she walks to the market or to a nearby ceremony, she very rarely leaves the compound.  My Bapak used to write articles for the paper, but he’s put work on hold until he can save up to buy a computer.  Until then, the family’s income comes from the little paint/construction supplies store that’s attached to compound’s foremost building.  Bapak and Ibu spend the majority of their days in there.

One day last week, my Bapak said to me, “Why you not apple?”  It took me a minute to understand him, but it seemed such a fitting statement once I got it.  Somewhere in the assumptions drawn through translation, my Bapak concluded that my songwriting dad must also be a good singer, and is, therefore, probably famous.  The way Balinese things go, I should have spent my adolescence watching and learning from him, and now, after years of study, I should likewise be a famous singer.  And somehow the saying “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” managed to reach more than just the English-speaking culture..   I think I’ve clarified my dad’s occupation a little better now, but it’s still funny how much that one statement says about the Balinese. 

If you say something about the akhir minggu (weekend) to a local, they usually look at you in confusion.  It’s not that they don’t know what the weekend is, but, to them, it’s not really anything special.  Saturday and Sunday are just two more days—days that they’ll pass in the compound or working, the kids still going to lessons, the family eating dinner and chatting together, often with random friends stopping by off the street, until everyone gets tired.  

In the past I’ve found that a length of routine days leaves me feeling restless and unproductive, but here it’s a little different.  Balinese believe in a constantly flowing karma—that every action has a consequence that manifests in either the good or the bad forces, which must always be kept in balance.  So while an outsider might see monotony in the daily rituals or hour upon hour spent crafting…and while an outsider might wonder how one could build up these intricate sculptures, just knowing they will soon be burned down…the Balinese simply appreciate it all as some form of sacrifice.  It perpetuates good karma, which they hope will guide them to the supreme happiness. 

It’s such a change, drawing that happiness from where I would likely draw discontentment.  That little difference makes the unproductive productive though, and I think I might like it.  I know I’m at least growing to like it more and more. 

In my time here, any sense that I’m lacking productivity will probably be justifiable with a reminder that I’m learning new things everyday, but I think I want to learn from all of this a little bit beyond that.  There’s a certain peace I envy in their acceptance of things passing so routinely yet contently—karma and sacrifice guiding them up, down, and onward, day after day after day..

One of the strangest things to grasp here is the attitude towards death.  I can see how a belief in karma might really affect one’s daily attitude, but with something like death, it’s hard to believe that simply thinking differently about it could actually change how one reacts and copes.  It is death after all…someone’s there and then they aren’t there, and no way of thinking says otherwise.  But, the Balinese believe in reincarnation, which hones in on a certain happiness in death because a sooner departure from this life means there are less sins to weigh you down.  No one passes away without some reason known by the unseen world.  With a healer’s explanation of what happened, everything is somehow justifiable.

The cremation ceremony we went to during our first week here was sort of the pinnacle of culture shock.  It was difficult to process at the time, and it’s still difficult to understand.  One of our teacher’s wives was killed in a wreck on her motorbike while riding with their 3-year-old daughter, who somehow made it out without a scratch.  The cremation took place a few days later (they consult the healer to select the first auspicious day). 

We all stood around the exposed body, which had been lying in the family compound since the death.  After the priests were done blessing it, two men began pumping gas underneath the bed it laid on so that it would burn.  The crowd moved back once the burning was well underway, the wind picked up, and ash began to rain down. 

The cremation is supposed to be a time for celebration—a muted sort of celebration, but celebration nonetheless.  The soul is on its way to the next life, and cremation grants it permission to leave the body, as well as assurance that the family is well.  No one is allowed to cry when standing near the body…in fact, crying in any form is discouraged after the death.  If the soul senses tears, it gets confused, and then its journey forward becomes complicated instead of happy, which obviously doesn’t bode well. 

It was hard watching our teacher try to hold his tears in.  He eventually had to be pulled away from the crowd because he just couldn’t do it any longer.  I guess believing that death never happens without reason provides a comfort that might quicken the healing process, but I can’t see how it could be expected to be enough to actually lessen someone’s sadness.  I’m so curious as to the extent to which belief affects emotion, but I don’t really know how/if I can find out..

The teacher who was talking to us about all of this the other day lost his oldest son about 5 years ago.  He is literally one of the happiest men I’ve ever interacted with, and he explained the beliefs behind death and the details of his own son’s car wreck with his usual, contagious smile.  Our teacher who lost his wife is also back to work now, and he’s usually smiling just as widely. 

Most of the people here are so, SO happy.  More than once, my Bapak has followed a “we don’t have so and so” statement with, “But still, we happy happy!”  And it’s so hard to figure out what it is that makes them so happy!  Because I feel like I could pick apart any of the options and find things about it that would make me, and many with a western mindset, somehow discontent, somehow feeling that something’s lacking.  I guess I have a lot more learning to do..

Last weekend, 6 of us took a little break from the village and headed to Uluwatu—a surfing town that’s just as incredibly serene as the name makes it sound.  It was refreshing…but not so refreshing that it made us feel guilty, which is a good thing I’ve discovered about being here.  Bali is considered the Cancun for Australians, but, as long as you avoid Kuta, Seminyak, and a couple other big cities, your Balinese experience isn’t going to be like spring break.  Despite the fact that we paid only 10 bucks a night to stay in an ocean-view “bungalow”, I still came out of the weekend with no hot shower, no shaven legs, and no sense of ever escaping this ever-permeating Balinese feel.  And the only difference between the hotel’s fried noodles and the ones my Ibu sometimes serves for breakfast is that we think the ones at the hotel contain MSG.  yuck..but tasty!

To get to Uluwatu’s beach, we had to wind our way past surf shops and warungs tucked into a cliffside between rickety wooden staircases that eventually reached the sand.  It was more like climbing down to a beach that’s not really supposed to be there, ducking under rock overhangs to make it to the small sand strip where you can actually lay down.  As soon as we did lay down, local old women came over and started groping us (literally!) saying “massage? massage?”.  It’s so hard to make them believe you really don’t want one.  I felt bad, but there’s no telling where those hands have been.  It’s not traditional to use toilet paper here.  Or to wash your hands with soap.. 

Dirty hands aside, Uluwatu was like a livable postcard.  We watched the sunset from one of the cliffside warungs one night, and I’ve never felt so intently intrigued by the majesty of that big orange ball.  It looked like you could just hop off the cliff and run right into it, all the way until the place where the water turns to sun.  So clearly and so quickly it slipped out of sight, pinched momentarily between the ocean’s surface and this finger-like cloud that seemed to push it farther and farther down.  I could just see it popping up elsewhere, almost as if it weren’t setting, only bouncing out of my direct sight.  Even after it set it stayed light for a while, so we just kept watching the surfers and the bands of waves crashing, the non-sun illuminating the rolling white stripes. 

SUCH a nice weekend :)

I have so much more to say. AH! We had a lecture today about the pressures that come with being a Balinese woman…marrying into the same caste, cutting ceremonial ties with your parents, producing a male heir for your family’s temple, etc…in a time when so many of these should-be traditional women only want to make a name for themselves in the working world.  I don’t think I’m gonna ramble on about that right now, but it was fascinating! (and really sad!)

This Saturday we’re off on a 4-day “rural village” excursion.  We’re bathing in the river, and apparently eating dirt?  Not as our meal…just to try it because our teacher said there’s someway they prepare it so it tastes good.  I have no idea.  Oh, and local Indonesian students are coming with us!

We spent a day last week visiting college-aged English classes.  It was so funny…kind of like playing a cross-cultural speed dating game.  They had us rotate to a new person every 10 minutes, so we got a broad spectrum of characters, and there were a whole lot of interesting questions asked.  One guy wanted me to tell him about the sex education in America.  “Is it like American Pie??”  Baha.  I think he was just trying to get a reaction.

Another guy told me all about the girl he’s in love with who doesn’t seem to care for him.  When he found out I was a psychology major, he wanted to know if I had the power to change someone’s mind.  Usually when I tell someone here I’m studying psych, they ask either if I can read them by looking at their face, or if I’m good at hypnosis.  No and no.  Psychology isn't a huge field here yet because so many of them still prefer treatment from a traditional balian.  One of those came to talk to us too!  I just can’t write about it all :(

This is so bizarre.  I'm in an internet cafe now, surrounded by cleanliness and expats, and outside the window a big procession of men in traditional white sarongs, playing gamelan and carrying colorful banners and things, has stopped all the cars and is processing down the street.  It's part of a cremation ceremony.  They're carrying the ashes off to somewhere.  That's what I mean by this "ever-permeating" Balinese feel..

Okay, all done for now.  I’ll update again sometime after our little excursion!

:)