Selamat Datang
My Australian travel agent arranged for me to be met at the airport and driven to my hotel. Skeptical, I was, as promised, greeted by a smiling face holding a sign reading “Mr. Hall.” Nyoman (noi’ man) welcomed with “Selamat Datang”. In the car park I was introduced to our driver, Made (mad’ e). Made is quiet and takes his driving very seriously. Nyoman is filled with energy, information, and laughter.
On the drive Nyoman introduced me to his country with pride and enthusiasm. To their surprise I asked after their families. Nyoman is the youngest of three, Made second of four. They asked after mine and we became friends.
Later in the week I decided I wanted to see more of Bali. However, the tours offered through the hotel and huckstered on the streets of Ubud looked like the tourist outings I so dislike. So I called Nyoman (every one here has a mobile phone) and asked if I could hire him and Made for a day. Excited he explained that they work seven days a week but since the last bombings in Denpasar tourism is so slow that I was their only client this week. Yes! I could hire them! Their fare is Rph 460,000 for the day – barely CD$50. He suggested many places where we could go. I explained that I didn’t want to do the tourist traps but see the country that he loves. “OK! No problem!”
Thursday morning 8:30 they are waiting for me. Nyoman proposes we go first to his favourite Temple.
It was built in the 17th century, destroyed by an earthquake in the 20th century, and reassembled from the rubble. It is a place of such peace: flowing water; lotus and lily pools; a waterfall; ritual baths; and altars. Deep in a ravine, the greens are multi-hued, sounds muted by damp moss, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine. A stand of sacred yellow bamboo grows. I am keenly aware of Brenda’s remarks about sacred space. 
Next we go up the mountain to the edge of an active volcano, Gunung Batur. Made veers off the main roads and drives along single lane tracks, through rice paddies and dark gorges, making a slow and winding way up the mountainside until we are on the lip of the volcano. Smoke twisted around from the other side obscuring much of the view but it is awesome nonetheless!
Over lunch we talk about mobile phones (“Why don’t you have one?”), about music (Creed and Red Hot Chiles are their favourite bands), and growing up (both grew up in rural villages). “So, where to now?” I ask. They exchange remarks in Bahasa. “Made says we should go to the Java Sea. You like? Or (shyly), my village is only a half hour away. I would like you to meet my family.”
Java Sea can wait for my next visit.
Entering his village area Nyoman’s chatter doubles in speed and I lose all comprehension of what he is saying. Only the laughter speaks.
We hike through terraced paddies to the stream where the family bathes. Kicking off sandals, pulling up sarongs, both wade into the water to impress me with their abilities to skip stones. I didn’t spend summers at Lake William for nothing. Off go my sandals and in I go with them. I reach down to the riverbed, find a smooth, flat stone, and with six skips up the stream, the competition is on with gales of laughter and splashing water.
Soaked, we climb a steep set of stone steps and, through a narrow gateway, enter into a courtyard surrounded on three sides by living quarters, cooking and eating areas. With much grace I am welcomed. An older son is sent to bring father. An auntie goes off to bring us refreshments. After all are gathered we remove sandals and sit on the marble floor of the serambi (veranda), drinking rich, thick, sweet coffee and eating succulent rice cakes and biscuits. Nyoman’s brother brings out a bamboo xylophone, his mother a drum for Nyoman. and there is music. Father, an
official at the village’s Temple, takes me to the family’s temples on the fourth side of the courtyard, pointing out his orchids as he escorts me, and, through his son, explaining the three temples and their shrine to ancestors. Respectfully we burn incense, make offerings and prayers. I give thanks for the blessing of such open, gentle, and generous hospitality. I have a deep sense of the imminent presence of sacredness.
With bags of cakes and biscuits, fruit and incense, we are sent on our way. Selamat datang – I have indeed been welcomed with peace. And I know a rich and deep blessing.
On the drive Nyoman introduced me to his country with pride and enthusiasm. To their surprise I asked after their families. Nyoman is the youngest of three, Made second of four. They asked after mine and we became friends.
Later in the week I decided I wanted to see more of Bali. However, the tours offered through the hotel and huckstered on the streets of Ubud looked like the tourist outings I so dislike. So I called Nyoman (every one here has a mobile phone) and asked if I could hire him and Made for a day. Excited he explained that they work seven days a week but since the last bombings in Denpasar tourism is so slow that I was their only client this week. Yes! I could hire them! Their fare is Rph 460,000 for the day – barely CD$50. He suggested many places where we could go. I explained that I didn’t want to do the tourist traps but see the country that he loves. “OK! No problem!”
Thursday morning 8:30 they are waiting for me. Nyoman proposes we go first to his favourite Temple.
It was built in the 17th century, destroyed by an earthquake in the 20th century, and reassembled from the rubble. It is a place of such peace: flowing water; lotus and lily pools; a waterfall; ritual baths; and altars. Deep in a ravine, the greens are multi-hued, sounds muted by damp moss, the air heavy with the scent of jasmine. A stand of sacred yellow bamboo grows. I am keenly aware of Brenda’s remarks about sacred space. 
Next we go up the mountain to the edge of an active volcano, Gunung Batur. Made veers off the main roads and drives along single lane tracks, through rice paddies and dark gorges, making a slow and winding way up the mountainside until we are on the lip of the volcano. Smoke twisted around from the other side obscuring much of the view but it is awesome nonetheless!
Over lunch we talk about mobile phones (“Why don’t you have one?”), about music (Creed and Red Hot Chiles are their favourite bands), and growing up (both grew up in rural villages). “So, where to now?” I ask. They exchange remarks in Bahasa. “Made says we should go to the Java Sea. You like? Or (shyly), my village is only a half hour away. I would like you to meet my family.”
Java Sea can wait for my next visit.
Entering his village area Nyoman’s chatter doubles in speed and I lose all comprehension of what he is saying. Only the laughter speaks.
We hike through terraced paddies to the stream where the family bathes. Kicking off sandals, pulling up sarongs, both wade into the water to impress me with their abilities to skip stones. I didn’t spend summers at Lake William for nothing. Off go my sandals and in I go with them. I reach down to the riverbed, find a smooth, flat stone, and with six skips up the stream, the competition is on with gales of laughter and splashing water. Soaked, we climb a steep set of stone steps and, through a narrow gateway, enter into a courtyard surrounded on three sides by living quarters, cooking and eating areas. With much grace I am welcomed. An older son is sent to bring father. An auntie goes off to bring us refreshments. After all are gathered we remove sandals and sit on the marble floor of the serambi (veranda), drinking rich, thick, sweet coffee and eating succulent rice cakes and biscuits. Nyoman’s brother brings out a bamboo xylophone, his mother a drum for Nyoman. and there is music. Father, an
official at the village’s Temple, takes me to the family’s temples on the fourth side of the courtyard, pointing out his orchids as he escorts me, and, through his son, explaining the three temples and their shrine to ancestors. Respectfully we burn incense, make offerings and prayers. I give thanks for the blessing of such open, gentle, and generous hospitality. I have a deep sense of the imminent presence of sacredness.With bags of cakes and biscuits, fruit and incense, we are sent on our way. Selamat datang – I have indeed been welcomed with peace. And I know a rich and deep blessing.
posted by He's Not Home (again) at 12:34 pm
1 Comments:
It comes as no surprise to those of us who know you that you would be welcomed in peace. After reading your story, which is far more interesting that the standard travelogue, I also feel at peace. Thanks for sharing your new friends with your old friends.
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