Excerpt from my travel essay on Bali, soon to be published in my upcoming travel book "Distant Islands and Sea Light
One final stop will complete the adventure of the day. The car moves deeper into the jungle within the interior of the island of Bali; I have finally arrived at where I want to be, lost in paradise and without a care in the world. My trusty driver knows where he is going and relates tales along the way that give insight not only into his own past, but into the past of the island. Many years ago, in my father and grandfather’s time, he relates, people had nothing. They didn’t even have cloth to cover their nakedness. I am not sure I have heard him right, and so repeat back to him, they wore no clothes at all, not even a sarong? Nothing, he confirmed. My father wore nothing. I didn’t wear clothes until I was into my teens, my little thingy moving freely in the wind, he said, wiggling his finger with a smile. We were very poor, he confirmed. Food? We didn’t have much to eat. We ate sweet potatoes all the time and now I can’t stand the sight of them. Rice was a luxury that we ate only once a month, meat once a year. We were poorer than poor. When I was young, I worked in the oil palm plantations. We worked all day and half the night and still we didn’t have enough money to eat. It was terrible. I’ll never forget. Now I have rice for lunch and dinner. I must have rice every time, to forget the hunger of the past.
You are not the only people who were poor, although when I grew up in America, at least we had clothes to wear. It’s all relative, I assured him. I am an American and you think we are all rich. As I sat next to him in the private car, no doubt I looked wealthy and well-heeled in his reckoning. I was young once myself, I told him. I was the fourth of five children. My father was a laborer, a pipe fitter to be exact, working for an oil refinery on the south side of Boston. My two older brothers set the pace for work and I soon inherited their paper route that serviced the local neighborhood. I must have stuffed over 50 papers, carefully folded, into my bicycle basket and then made the route each morning and evening, throwing the papers up onto the front porches of the houses in the neighborhood. Not a problem, you might think. Think again, I tell the driver. Think 5:30 in the morning, winter cold, freezing snow, wild neighborhood dogs, all after my innocent, 10-year-old, sleepy body. It wasn’t easy, but I made a lot of money for a 10 year old child in the mid 50s. I wasn’t always a professor you know, in spite of what you might think.
By the time we pulled up to the park where the 14th century Hindu temple resided high in the mountains, the sky had darkened over again with its stormy veil. We scurried from the car to a small shed with a rain roof overhang. “Put this on, Papa, out of respect to the temple,” and the driver ties me into an Indonesian sarong and bundles me up with a purple sash. There is something touching and intimate in the way he takes care of me, a perfect stranger. We sit down under the eaves and I absorb some of his native patience as we wait out the rain. Once again, the world is veiled in sheets of silver rain, the onslaught of drops lose their individuality and take on the appearance of a communal attack against everything visible across the land. The jungle terrain is awash in drenching rain, the air has turned gray and the sound of falling drops is loud and notable. Peals of thunder roll across the heavens like bowling balls to heighten the drama of the scene, starting initially as a dull rumble; but then advancing in sound until it shakes our hearts as well as the ground below our feet, before subsiding once again into vanishing reverberations. I am reminded of a short story from the 19th century (died 1891) American writer Herman Melville that I recently read, entitled “The Lightning-Rod Man”. The protagonist of the story, in the middle of a thunderstorm,exclaims: “The hairs of our heads are numbered and the days of our lives. In thunder as in sunshine, I stand at ease in the hands of my God. . . . See, the scroll of the storm is rolled back, the house is unharmed; and in the blue heavens I read in the rainbow, that the Deity will not, of purpose, make war on man’s earth.” Needless to say, while it wasn’t a war made in heaven, the foliage of the jungle that surrounded us responded in kind, the great rain trees swaying to and fro in frantic counterpoint to the rhythm of the storm. Great swathes of water washed everything in sight. The driver is restless that the rain is spoiling the tour, and I tried to reassure him that just the opposite is the case; the rain itself is part of the tour. I have seen sun enough in the desert to last me a lifetime, I tell him; in the tropics, I want rain, rain, rain. I grabbed my oversized umbrella and courageously ventured forth into the deluge with a smile and a wave.
Once again, a stunning, richly-adorned gate carved out of stone and open to the darkened sky, frames the entrance to the enclosure. In walking through, I walk into another world altogether, a hidden sanctuary away from the turmoil of our days. A thousand years of jungle growth protects the various layers of the temple as the enclosure ascends the side of the mountain in its serenity and calm. But for the occasional hoot or jungle cry and the steady drone of the rain, there is a lasting silence that prevails and there is virtually no one around crazy enough to stand in the air and gape in wonder at the surroundings. There are whispers about the eaves of buildings and leaves of the rain trees, in addition to the droning hum of the rain. Amid the natural sounds of nature floats muted chanting of some sort, ancient sutras that break away to the air and sky with the humming of human voices that lift music and sound to the heavens in an age-old tribute to the sacred sentiments that lie within us to yearn for that which lies beyond. I find myself alone in this ancient, sedate setting, as in a sacred grove or cloister, the pavilions and pagodas standing as silent sentinels of another age and civilization when the life of the spirit took precedence over life in the physical world, when every physical manifestation used to represent some alternative dimension as counterpart in the spirit world to the physical symbolic form. The Indonesian word pura itself, originating from the Sanskrit, signifies not just temple, but “walled city”, “towered city”, or “palace”. Indeed, as I roam around the secluded grounds nestled within this mountainous jungle, I feel the force of history, religion, culture, and civilization accompany me wherever I go.
A long and secluded staircase descends toward an avenue narrowly enclosed by the lush, wet greenery that leads to an enclosed lake, sheltered on all sides by the encroaching jungle woodlands. I feel as though I am taking part in some grand opera as I descend this magnificent staircase leading me toward the sublime, as I hover under the relative safety of the umbrella, feeling protected somehow from the full strength of the storm. The lake itself is pummeled with a million raindrops and reflects the muted green of the surrounding forest, mixed as though in some witches brew with hints of brown from the muddy murk within the lake. The elements of earth, trees and rain all converge to create the muted colors of the Master Painter whose brushstrokes eternally recreate the world as He sees it. In the middle of the lake there is a moss-encrusted figure or statue, sculptured out of stone, to represent one of the gods perhaps. Alone and with no one to ask, I don’t know who it might be; but then realize that I don’t need to know. The image of otherworldliness, of sacredness, of nature in its highest and purest form is enough to take me out of myself for a few moments; the line that has been drawn between this and some other world has been crossed for a brief moment to allow a rare encounter with something “other”, a timeless thing that is a blessing to experience. I stand in place under the umbrella for as long as common sense permits and think that words cannot do justice to the emotions aroused within this setting. It is enough to know that at this moment, this beauty is all for me. This is the first time that I see this and soak up the spectacle of its eternal wisdom; this is the last time I will see this, I also realize, and feel a sense of melancholy that one always feels in leaving something behind that you can’t take with you. I then take my leave of the moment and head back to the shelter of the car, realizing that the rain has finally stopped.
That was absolutely superb!...Thank you John for a glimpse into this unforgettable sacred visit...
I was there, amidst the lush greenery, sensing the otherworldliness and sanctity of Nature, blending with our frail humanity ...and safe also under the umbrella that gave you that feeling of protection from the full force of the storm...
To experience a taste of the numinous is a true blessing...and a blessing for us the
reader to re experience again in such wonderful descriptive words...I could feel the rain beating down...and the sense of melancholy in having to leave it behind...I am feeling this now also as I finish your story...
What a gift to have read this enchanting piece....Thank you, Thank you!
Ahhh . . . How I loved this read, John. For someone like me, who has never been outside the confines of America, except Mexican border towns, reading this makes me feel somehow inept. Loved your descriptive passages very much.
Another of your vividly descriptive travelogues that are so enjoyable and that I can relate to from my own travels.
I had to read the section of about the poverty of the driver with a laugh to my partner. She has related her story of being forced to live in the country with her brothers by the Vietcong where they only had sweet potatoes to eat. They raised chickens and ate the eggs, but did not want to kill and eat the birds, so they traded them for rice and other food.
Your experience in the Hindu Temple in the pouring rain mirrors my memory of the many temples that I visited, mostly Buddhist. I traveled during the dry, winter season, so did not experience rain like that until I arrived here in semi tropical Houston where we get monumental downpours from time to time.
There's something ethereal about being alone wandering ancient holy places like this that stand timeless in the jungle. One has to get away from the crowds and the yapping of guides to actually experience the peace and tranquility of these mystic places.
I believe you've summed up the higher purpose of your travels throughout the world, off the beaten path: "The image of otherworldliness, of sacredness, of nature in its highest and purest form is enough to take me out of myself for a few moments ..."
It is the quest we all have, each of us finding these precious moments in our own way. Thank you for sharing one of your sacred moments.
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