thePlace

            Blackie has a fever. He’s unusually cheerless and follows me around soaking up my attention.  His tongue feels hot when he licks my hands. Instead of scarfing down his chicken rice, he picks and eats very little and hunts out for mud and sand when he’s out.  Apart from gazing out to the dragonflies dancing en masse in mid air above the paddy field, he sleeps and stops chewing on his bone.  I watch him, pat him, take him out every hour to relieve himself and let him lie by me on the wicker lounge chair.  I wonder if I should call the vetenarary doctor in town. 

 

            He had his first vaccination last week and will have his next 2 soon.  He’s still ridding of his worms although the pills were administered 2 weeks ago – he must have a stomach full of those round short white worms!

 

            I bought Blackie a month ago. I kept the name given by the family that sold him to me – the Balinese will naturally calls him Blackie no matter what else I name him. All black except for its tongue and stomach which have a grayish tinge.  He’s a Balinese Kintamani dog from the central hill area near Ubud. Unlike the normal local emaciated mangy canines seen on the streets, Blackie has beautiful thick short black fur, glistering sharp almost all black eyes & utterly black nails.  He listens intensely, and yelps lightly when I have a conversation with him.  

            He loves mangoes and pineapples and he has a girlfriend, an all white puppy, named Adel that belongs to the family.

 

            This is the first time I own a pet, something alive and needs attention - not counting family dogs when I was a kid and potted plants in my SF apartment. I have had no desire to own any pet until now – it would be good to have a companion since I’ll be living up on the Place alone.  I heard that Kintamali dogs are the best dogs in Bali and have asked Made to look out for one.  He mentioned that it’s hard to find them unless I get lucky.  A week later Made told me that his friend had just bought a black Kintamani dog for his kids. I offered to buy it but was turned.

 

            2 weeks later Made’s friend and his wife came with Blackie and sold him for 300,000Rp (approx. $32) - 50% more than what he paid for it.  I gave him extra for his crying kids.  I thought he sold the dog because he needed the money but later Made told me a different story.  Since the family brought the dog home, everyone got sick.  As usual, the Dukun (folk doctor, witchdoctor, black magic advocate, herbalist, druggist, faith healer sing incantations, ritual specialist, diviner, conjurer, etc) was consulted. They were told not to keep the black dog because of a crash of karmic forces between the black puppy and the family.  Blackie’s energy is too strong for the family hence everyone got sick and will continue to be unless he’s out of the house. 

 

 

So here he is – destined to be mine.

 

           

 

Blackie is almost the center of my life now. I suppose it’s good to have something else to focus on besides the project. I let him jump into my bed when he wants to, get up early to take him out, feed him 2-3 times a day, walk him constantly, teaches him and trains him, watch the way he eats, watch his litters to see if more worms are coming out, pick out those defiant ticks out (don’t dare to use those strong chemical powder found in Singaraja; there’s no pet shop here), apply tea tree oil between his toes, clean his ears, buy him chicken meat & puppy’s bones, bathe him twice a week, take him to the market while the Balinese gawk at him and comment how beautiful he is…. It’s almost like raising up a baby. 

 

            Last night, when I returned from the project soaking wet through fitful of exploding lightings and flooded streets, I found Blackie clammy and curled up on the chair. The electricity was out, his teeth flashing white in the black when he tried to hold my stroking hands with his gentle nipping.  I stayed and comforted him for a long while.   

 

            Sheets of rain continued to pour through the night, my entire room was wet, bed, luggage and the rest.  The entire roof was practically leaking under the load of the pelting torrent from heaven. It was quite a feat to set up a tent in the dark on a not-so-dripping wet spot.  By then, I was passed caring; just needed to be horizontal….     

 

I stare at the dead pig that wedges in the roots of the Breadfruit tree by the waterfall. It was a white pig but now greyish blue, bloated and lying sideway. It looks like a big dirty plastic toy. Wonder how it could be freed and continue its journey to the sea; if it has started smelling, maybe something will start eating it….

 

Thought about Gusman’s drowned body. Uncertain if it looked similar to the dead pig when it was washed up. The deceivingly calm Indian Ocean in Kuta/the Goddess of Ocean carried him off while he was taking a dip. His body was found a day after, near Hardrock café not too far from where he was. Various dukuns and diviners were consulted and all told the same story – Gusman was taken by the beautiful sea goddess Nyi Roro Kidul. The place where his body was found was also accurately predicted. Watching Gusman’s body being hauled to shore by the small boat, a visible sign of relief set in, the grief of the family slightly ameliorated. For now they can give Gusman a proper burial which is the last and most important rite of passage that the family must perform for his short lived life.

 

The body was drove back to the village near Singaraja. An ad hoc simple ceremony was done and the body was burned. I was late and missed the burning of the body - I had to run around town with the scooter trying to buy the right things for the cremation – white cloths, a sack of rice, sugar and coffee, staples he needed while he waits 42 days for his soul to be liberated from his body and from all worldly ties. I also stashed some money in an envelop and gave it to Yudanes, the father.

 

The wailing and crying were heart breaking. I gave Ibu (his mother) a long hug and cried with her. Yudanes took me aside and told me that Gusman knew that he would die young and that was why he was not married at age 31. The last time he was up in the village – about a week ago, he oddly kissed his mother feet, asked for forgiveness and bade goodbye gravely. His mother had scolded him lovingly for his strange behavior. A week later he was drown, he chose the first day of the year.

 

A week later, a special ceremony was performed by the beach where Gusman was drowned. His soul was returned home from the ocean after much offering and incantations by the high priest. The family has asked the Goddess to give back Gusman’s soul to the family. A tray with a human like figurine made from coconut leaves, a cup of coffee, cigarettes, meal and cash given by friends and relatives was brought home in a minibus. Dayu cradled it lovingly and the burning of incense was offered one after another for the entire journey. We even talked jokingly to the tray/Gusman’s soul at one point. I was partly responsible for holding the tray because I was seated in the front seats with Dayu. The artificial fragrance and dense smoke of incense stuffed up my nose and stung my eyes. For the 3 hours journey back to the village, I mostly gazed at the staring photo of Gusman and wished him happiness. In the picture, he is holding two bottles of liquor, brilliantly smiling and looks happy. He was a bartender in a hotel in Kuta.

 

Few days ago I attended the Metoon – the talking to the dead ceremony. This time it is a female Dukun in white – an ordinary looking farm lady with big protruding teeth. She burned a special wood with incense and offering, asked for permissions from the appropriate gods and spirits and chanted incoherently in the smoke-filled room. Suddenly she fainted and went into trance, Gusman came into her body soon after. The lady Dukun first went into the simulation of his drowning. She rolled and tossed, flopped about on the floor as if being swept by the waves and currents of the ocean, noisily making the sounds of gulping water and choking, painfully struggled to his death. S/he awoke crying, looked about him, smiled through tears and hugged everyone. S/he behaved quite normally – drank the wine that was offered, smoked up a storm, laughing and crying at the same time. S/he even sang and played the guitar one handedly - with only slight strumming on the string without proper notes and chords. He answered questions, told stories and asked the family to have wayang kulit (shadow puppet show) shown for the big ceremony 42 days later.

 

S/he said there were 5 of them that went to the beach on that fateful New Year morning. Only 2 of them went into the water. Wishing to cool his body, he only went to about knee deep but a big wave took him in. His time was up and death could no longer be postponed. He was supposed to have gone the week before when he was in Singaraja, but he begged to live a week longer and his wish was granted (Dayu confirmed that they did went to the beach but he refused to swim, and that was also why he kissed his mom’s feet and asked for forgiveness.) Gusman stayed and talked for about 40 minutes. The room was charged with energies and emotions. I was captivated by the whole process and took photos as instructed by the family.

Before leaving the living, he asked the family not to be sad. All that had happened was his destiny and there was nothing that could have stopped it. He laughed about his unwillingness to go and the many ceremonies that were done to attempt to change his fate. But the upper hand is at the side of the gods, he has accepted it now and it’s OK with it. He is now working in the temple and the beings around him are kind to him. He also mentioned that he saw his aunt that had passed on a few months ago.

 

The peculiar thing is, in coming back to the living world, he has forgotten his English when he tried to speak to me. Instead he made sounds like “shi-shi shay-shay, shi-shay-shi.” It sounded more like Mandarin basic tone. Curiously, Gusman or she/the Dukun did say “thank you” perfectly. He kept asking me not to be sad because I was sniffling a lot. Frankly I was more amazed than sad, apparently Gusman didn’t notice that I had a cold and the smoke in the tatty little room irritated my nose.

 

Yudanes’ family was satisfied with the Dukun because she/Gusman knew everyone that was present and knew that his sister was not there in the room – she couldn’t have known unless Gusman has taken over her body. The lady Dukun is not a friend of the family and has no connection with the family before this (although she does live in the same village). S/he also talked of things that only Gusman or someone close to him could have known. The family also explained that when the soul came through trance, his memory is impaired and some important details have been forgotten.

 

I imagine the soul must have gone through quite an ordeal to come back to the world of the living; it must have been a shock to the system. Perhaps his violent death has damaged his memory too. He did have open-wounds on his head when his body was washed up – he explained to the family that his body was hit against the rocks by the strong currents, got caught in the net and the fish had tried taking bites from his body. After the painful death and a summon back to the living, one can’t blame Gusman for forgetting his English and music, or what he had painted, the name of the English guy that went into the water with him, plus some other minor details of his life on earth. After all, we the living, naturally and without any hardship, select our memories, alter events, exaggerate and ignore things that happen around us all the time.

 

Yudanes had been so proud of Gusman. He told me about his son when I first met him. Gusman was tall and good looking, his fair skin took to his mother likeness, he painted, loved to sing, played the guitar and was loved by everyone that knew him. Gusman had a special gift of seeing the unseen. He frequently told stories about a beautiful girl that wouldn’t leave him alone. He told the family about 5 years ago that he would die young. Since then the family was constantly worried about him and had tried in vain to introduce him to girls. He secretly told Dayu once that he was not allowed to have a girlfriend because the invisible one was the jealous type. Many Dukuns were consulted and various ceremonies were done to change the situation – to no avail.

 

  A couple of years ago Gusman painted the beautiful sea goddess Nyi Roro Kidul. The painting is so filled with power that high priests and people with special power are afraid of it. It is still hung in its original position in his room, now accompanied by the tray that lives his soul, his guitar, various photos, and of course the daily offerings. Flanked by 2 great Nagas, Nyi Roro Kidul looks magnificent in the sea of blue. At the cremation, Yudanes offered to give the painting to me because he was afraid to keep it. He just told me now that he couldn’t because a Dukun asked him not to – the painting has to stay with Gusman in his room.

 

 

I was happy not to take it.

First day of 2006, my first new year in Bali. Dayu cried on the phone, a sign portended a darker and stormier new year day to an already wet gloomy start. Gusman, her brother in law also a close friend of her went swimming at dawn to celebrate the beginning of 2006 in Kuta beach area and disappeared. The police are searching.

I stare & hope; quietly feeling the pain of the family.

I passed the last day of 2005 working in the garden at the Place and had a symbolic cleansing fire ceremony at day’s end. Asked the fire energy to clean the Place, clean my body for the 2006. Offered a burning branch to the big tree that lives the lion spirit and prayed for its enlightenment. Had dinner by the sea with a friend and took the scooter home. The night was sprinkled by the monsoon rain, streets were crammed with carousing motorbikers while pop and rock music are blustering at every street corners teeming by squatting gawking youngsters. The reverberations of the baritone golden-wrapped new year trumpets fill the air way before midnight.

No decorative expensive storefronts, no Champaign and gourmet food, no limousines and elegant dresses…but the air is festive in the grimy town of Singaraja.

I waited for 2006 to roll around and sms greetings to friends around the world.

Tried to remember the first day of 2005. Memory fails to give continuity in my life. Was I in SF, Nepal, NZ, KL, or in Bali? I only knew I was in these places in 2005, but the when and where have gone fuzzy. A series of illusions, of fleeting images….

New Year day. Still at the Space and not the Place. Alone in the entire compound for the first time - no one is in sight. The farmers have taken a day off & the whole family has gone on vacation in Denpasar for a few days. I listen with no choice, to the thundering sound of the paddy flooding channel waterfall few feet below. The Space/my room is next to the twin aged mangoes trees that harbor all kinds of spirits and not far away from the 2.5 meters plunge. The daily rainstorm has created an uninterrupted rushing and crashing of excess water from the villages to the sea; bringing along all the garbage and muck northward to the long-suffering Bali Sea.

It’s deafening but a source of refreshment more magnanimous than a roaring air conditioner. I see all kinds of lifeless things and creatures take the plunge and float by - dead dogs, chicken, garbage of unnamable kinds…. Some inescapably stuck by broken branches and piled up wastes.

Life while waiting to move into the Place threatens to drift off into oneiric never-never land. No seasons, no days, just endless downpours and stories of spirits, gods and magic. I often marvel at the way Balinese relate to the ineffable, see the invisible and understand the incomprehensible. Just a few nights ago, the roof repair guy that spent a night in the bale (Balinese open-air pavilion) saw a dancing Dewi and a snakeman. The poor guy rushed into the house screaming and refused to come out till daylight.

I walk pass these revered grounds whenever I go up to or come down from my wide-open room. Talks of seeing spirits by the twin old mangoes trees never end. I listen with immense interest and watch villages filing past my room making offerings every morning and evening. It’s hard not to speculate when I might see one every time I make an excursion to the bathroom through the uneven flight of high steps in the dark of the night.

It’s the high point of the high monsoon. The air is dense & humid. Made promises that the house will be finalized in 3 weeks. I bet not, no longer in a hurry. The mood has changed from impatience to irritation to nonchalant. A situation I accept because I have no alternative - no point rushing around swallowing up all the anxieties singly and uselessly. I’ll wait while the Place is being built and shaped to my liking – with constant bewilderment of course.

I have started the building of two cottages and the office – a very bold decision, the only way to seriously commit myself. The swimming pool is almost done. The garden is 80% green now, more plants need to be planted and more colors need to be added, walls need to be erected, paths and drive way up the property need to be paved…and a lot more need to be done. Started another compost pile for the planting season, I must start geminating the seeds I brought from SF during the wet season….

Another endless list...and it’s impossible to have them all done under my current state of financial standing.

It’s the first day of the year; the first day of a very long-drawn-out start.