Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Mr. Beautiful

A Dutch man in Java was arrested for unplugging the loudspeaker of a mosque. When questioned it was revealed he had committed the crime before.

Martina, my roommate, and I had a good laugh over this and we’re contemplating the mindset of the expat, living in remote central Java surrounded by mosques competing in volume over the rice-fields for the 5 times a day prayer. Knowing there probably weren't loudspeakers when he moved there, but with money and competition came the loadspeakers and broadcast prayers.

With the irony that only consciousness can summon, two days later, a new loudspeaker pops up out of the blackness, to blast prayers into our space. It started at 8 pm as we were trying to watch the bootleg copy of “Rachel Getting Married” that I shamelessly bought for 10 cents from”a video store”in Seminyak. It continued until 11. It continued the next day, the next day and the next. Each time for three hours. This night, last night, it was louder than ever before. We’ve known it’s high holy days of Ramadan, but this was Balinese. Not that we, or maybe anyone could understand what the priest was saying out of the loudspeaker, just that it was important, slow, alternately spoken and sung-usually off key.

I imagined, for hours what he might be saying. Imagined myself teaching yoga class in his loud long draw of a Balinese sermon voice- something between Indonesian and Cantonese. I imagined Baptist preachers doing the same in the middle of New York City, what sort of tolerability or intolerability would the Americans have for this sort of auditory violation. Or a Rabi, in the middles of Beverly, Fairfax, blasting the Torah, into the busy streets of LA.

Martina and I often unload after work, sitting opposite each other, chewing the fat, we’re kind of like two crazy old aunts. The word for “Mrs.” in Bahasa is “Ibu.” If you are a grandmother or a woman of note you are an Ibu ibu. So we joke that we are two ibu ibu’s knocking around the house like two crazy artists who’ve lost the plot. I imagine the Aunts from “James and the Giant Peach.”

This night, Martina says, “Maybe they are having a big ceremony, let’s go down, “ she pauses and laugh’s,” or maybe there is just an old farmer and a chicken.” We put on sarongs (respectful to temple) and walk down the dark road from her house. Even though the sound source isn’t far, there are no street lights, only a sliver of a moon, bulan chuchi (spoon moon), and a tropical breeze, and of course, the weird sounds blaring, anonymously from a loud speaker.

As we approach the small temple, it is clear there is no one. Martina speculates, “Maybe it’s a tape…”, just then a loud feedback sound screeches from the speaker.
“That’s not a recording, “ I say.

A bali dog barks wildly at us from just inside the temple. Martina is fearless, I am a little less so. The headline “Rabid Dogs Kill Many on Tourist Island of Bali” flashes through my head. A sort of joke to one expat friend, since in 5 years, more people were killed in motorbike accidents than the villagers in outlying towns that didn’t know that a bite from a Bali Dog might have rabies. But the headline was posted throughout Southeast Asia, none-the-less to announce the spread of rabies in Bali.

The loudspeaker stops. There is a pause of silence. I think for a moment that if a Bali Spirit were to fly out of the temple, I wouldn't be suprised. Instead a little, old man dressed in white with kind eyes comes out, another man follows behind him, who has an ear to ear smile, that never leaves his face.

Martina speaks perfect Bahasa Indonesian and asks him what they have been doing. This is the story that comes out:

His name is Pak Chantik which means Mr. Beautiful. Now he is a Mangku (priest) hired for 17 days to help reconcile the world above with the world below. During the day he is a shrimp fisherman, but for this auspicious time, he is hired to help spirits crossing over, and to invoke the powerful beings who have been here in Bali before to come back. Too many foreigners are coming, farmers are selling their land, and they need the strongest ones, the ones that KNOW, that have been here before to come back into the island.
Martina and I exchange looks. We both haven’t slept for two nights. Not because the loudspeaker has been blaring, but because, now, we’re pretty sure the ongoing ceremonies have stirred up a lot of energy. We are sitting next to a cremation ground.
Of course, as holy as it is, the Mangku tells us we can buy it for the right price.

Martina laughs.

“He has such a wonderful face,” Martina says about the Mangku. It’s undeniable. I would believe anything he said. Martina has been talking about an art project, just photographing people’s eyes, I know she is mentally recording this for her collection.

He continues, the rest of his expose, at least through Martina’s explanation, get’s simpler rather than more complex, “you eat, so the mind can work. Be honest, be healthy, be happy…that’s it.” Somehow it doesn’t have the big wind up I was expecting.

The man behind Mr. Beautiful is smiling even brighter. Like he has just delivered us the gospel.

Just then the dog starts barking again, another man in ceremony gear walks up. My first thought, just a split second of a thought, at this man is sinister. His right eye is half closed, giving him a slight mobster look. Even weraing ceremony white. He sits down next to us listening. Then I feel his energy, it’s not sinister. Feeling trumps vision.
He listens as we ask Pak Chantik more questions, then the man to my right speaks in perfect English,

“It’s a compass, we are praying to the four direction and the triad of Brahma, Vishnu , Shiva. The black represents water, and it is here” (he points to his belly) the red represents earth, and it is here, “ (He points to his heart), “and the white, the heavens, and it is here, “ he points to his head.

“It’s not different than anything you’ve been saying in class,” Martina says.

“What is your name?” I ask, to the man with the half closed eye.

“Pak Circus!” He exclaims proudly.

“Pak Circus?!” Martina and I say at the same time.

Pak Circus is the most famous healer on this part of the island. Everyone has told me to go see him and how he has healed people December. It’ s been on the “to do” list, but things in Bali have a way of being so close and yet escaping you. It felt more appropriate that I should meet Pak Circus here than in the small villa across the street from where I used to live.

Just then some bamboo sticks bang loudly from about 100 yards away. Pak Cantik and Pak Circus quickly pull out their cell phones, like cowboys.

“Something’s happened, “ Martina says.

“What?” I ask

“I don’t know, but the banging of the bamboo sticks symbolizes something has gone wrong, maybe an accident, It’s their signal.”

It appears our darshan is over. Pak Circus is called to duty, and Pak Chantik is heading back to reconcile the spirits from above to below. Before we leave we find out, how much longer they will be doing this ceremony of reconciliation “Two more days,” Martina translates.

Which was the real reason these Ibu Ibus walked down here in the first place.

To partake in a ceremony, or, in truth, we were going to unplug the speaker.