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:: What A Difference A Guide Makes
July 16, 2000
What A Difference A Guide Makes
Bali and Java Indonesia
Kodar and I hit it off immediately. I learned much from my guide during two days in "Jogja," the nickname for Yogyakarta, Java's capital.
Apart from hosting me at Prambanan, the largest Hindu temple in Indonesia, and the magnificent Borobudur, the largest Buddhist temple in the world, Kodar chatted on a wide range of topics.
Marriage and Family: A Muslim man may have up to four wives but when he takes a new wife he must ask the others for permission. A possible scenario is that the first wife grants permission for the second wife if she is economically desirable. Or, if the potential second wife is poor, the first wife agrees to help raise her economic status by bringing her into the family. According to Kodar, modern Muslim marriages in Indonesia usually have two partners.
In fact, the current Sultan X has one wife and five children, setting the example for a country that has actively campaigned for family planning over the past thirty years. By contrast, Sultan IX, the current Sultan's father, had four wives and 22 children.
Divorce: "It's legal but the gods don't like it."
Religion: The majority of Javanese people are Muslim as is most of Indonesia. Bali, a predominantly Hindu culture, is an exception.
Muslim men pray five times per day - 4:15 a.m., noon, 3:00 p.m., 6:00 p.m., and 7:00 p.m. - and each prayer time has a specific name which corresponds to a letter in the word, "Islam."
Language: Java has five dialects and Indonesia has 250. Bahasa is the common tongue.
Kodar laughed when I tried Bahasa. Instead of saying, "May God go with you," the literal translation of "Welcome," I said, "May God go with the puppet."
Food: "Saya tidak makan daging," means "I don't eat meat" - a handy phrase at the lunch buffet where many of the selections were non-vegetarian except for Gado Gado, the cold Indonesian salad made with bean sprouts, cabbage, potato and tofu in a thick peanut ginger sauce.
Kodar introduced me to Salak or Snake Fruit, which has a thin, rough, reptilian-like skin. On the inside it smells like perfume, and though it looks like three giant garlic cloves it tastes like a crunchy combination of pineapple and pear.
We had some chuckles over two days. Kodar told great stories and answered everything I asked with ease, candor and good humor.
Runita, my Balinese guide, was a different story.
We began our time together at Bali's southern most tip for a sunset view of Ulu Watu, a pagoda-shaped structure perched on a cliff above the Indonesian Ocean and one of the six holiest temples on the island.
Before entering the temple grounds, Hindu practice required tying sashes around our waists. I'd read about such clothing rituals for visitors but wanted to know the particular significance of the sash.
Runita told me, "It's a sign of respect."
"Yes," I said wanting to know more, "but why a yellow sash versus, let's say a red wristband?"
Runita blinked. We stared at each other while untying our sashes at the temple exit. After a minute he provided a lengthy, detailed and complex explanation of Hindu beliefs surrounding the separation between the body and the higher soul and how the sash marks that distinction.
"Oh," I said, completely overloaded.
Runita and I spent the next two days of our week together engaged in similar conversations. From Denpasar in the south, Bali's capital, we drove north central to the rustic yet fashionable artists' enclave of Ubud, then to several points east of Ubud for other major temples, water palaces and scenic drives. Tracking back through Ubud, we continued northwest toward our ultimate destination of the coastal town of Pemuderan along the Bali Sea, with village and market stops en route.
Our first long haul from Denpasar to Ubud came at night. Kumala drove and Runita sat in front of me on the left.
"Runita?"
He turned his head.
"Is there an Internet café in town?"
"Yes."
"Is it easy for me to get there by cab?"
Runita turned to me more fully placing an elbow across the back of his seat. "When do you need it?"
"Tonight. I need a computer tonight." My laptop died in Bora Bora. I grew tired of dragging it around the world, so I turfed it stateside in Cairns.
"You could walk," he said. "It's pretty short but you need a flashlight because you have to go through the Monkey Forest." I flashed a childhood image from a movie screen: Talking trees, winged monkeys and a green-faced woman in a black pointy hat screeching, "Fly! Fly!" I'm a city gal. At night, my suburban Connecticut friends walk me to my car because the bushes in their driveways spook me. No, thanks. I'll pass on the midnight stroll through the Monkey Forest.
"And the cab?" I wondered out loud.
Without answering, Runita turned back around and faced front.
Oh, it's like that. Well, two can play this game.
Later we hit a rough patch of dirt road. Runita turned around with a big grin and asked if we have similar roads in America.
"In some parts," I answered.
"What part are you from?"
"Connecticut."
"Is that near Colorado?"
"Yes."
I had a free day coming up in Ubud. My hotel suggested a local rice paddy walk and for an extra thirty-five dollars Runita said he'd take me.
Our visit to the village and farms of Begawan was the first of two breathtaking treks through the rice terraces of Bali. No cars or people except for the occasional farmer. Restorative silence alternated with Runita's explanations of irrigation, harvesting and local village life, all intricately woven with Hindu beliefs and rituals.
An image comes to mind when one dreams of a place. For me, it wasn't the dusty streets of Denpasar or the see-and-be-seen cafes of Ubud; it was three hours of nature's solace with mirror-like lakes bathing what Runita called "baby rice." It was the pinks, yellows, saffrons and blues of shirts and blouses brightly contrasting the luminous green, and conical bamboo hats pointing toward the road, their owners bent over, deep in the day's work.
The next day we covered the spectacular rice fields of Gatiluwih in the west central part of the island. I stopped every several yards to take what was probably the same picture.
Runita looked out at the terraces and said, "This is the true Bali."
It drizzled all day. Runita helped me up steep slippery trails, across slick bridges and indulged my multiple requests to take pictures of me back-dropped by the terraces. He later strolled ahead twirling a pinwheel-colored umbrella and whistled, "Rhythm of the Falling Rain." I joined in with lyrics.
Runita turned to face me. "You know that song?"
"Yes. It's an American song." Then I asked him about a tune he'd been humming for the past few days and hummed it back to him. I wondered, was it a traditional or popular Indonesian song?
He looked surprised and then laughed. "It's a popular song. A love song."
Later in the week he told me that American and Hong Kong films were popular in Bali and that his favorite movie stars are Steven Segal, Jean Claude Van Damme and Demi Moore.
In the town of Petulu, we watched thousands of white herons fly back home after a day's feeding. Runita mentioned that bird watching is one of his hobbies as well as raising Bonsai. He has fifty-seven trees in his collection.
For our drive west, Runita greeted me with two palmfuls of Snake Fruit and said, "Salak?" Two days earlier I'd casually mentioned how much I enjoyed my latest fruit discovery. And on the way to the Kecak Monkey Dance - a hypnotic performance by scores of bare-chested men clad in black and white checkered sarongs, seated in a chanting circle around an altar - he dropped me off at a cyber café and waited while I keyed in my latest dispatch.
My last day in Bali was a busy one. At some point during the four-hour drive from Pemuteran to the airport in Denpasar, I had to change money to pay Runita for the extra tour, mail six Javanese puppets and an assortment of junk to the U.S., and purchase eight passport photos for my Vietnam and China visas that my guides would process in Bangkok. Runita facilitated each errand in his native language. He also helped me wrap and pack my puppets.
In Denpasar, after I passed through airport security, Runita told me he would wait until I checked in, "to make sure everything is okay."
As I inched toward the counter I wondered if he'd lost patience and gone. But when I turned to walk back to where I'd left him, the blue and white batik shirt of Nagasari Travel gleamed from a distance.
We shook hands. His was a full, solid grip.
He smiled gently. "Have a nice trip."
"Thanks for everything, Runita," I said, still holding his hand. Thanks for taking such good care of me, I wanted to say, but didn't.
I turned and walked toward gate seven, Thai Airways flight 432 to Bangkok. And I began to cry.
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