Babi guling & pensar (suckling pig & the market)

Annie tells me Oka will take me to a big, big ceremony tonight. But I must dress Indonesian. She will take me shopping at the Ubud pensar ( or market). But first, lunch. She wants me to try babi guling (or suckling pig) As a Muslim, Annie doesn’t eat babi – and doesn’t think she’d get the spices right, not to mention a pig is a lot of work. We wait for a break in the rain and dart down the muddy path to the disheveled sidewalks. She calls out Hati-Hati and points to a step or hole or pile of rocks. I sing back, Ya, hati-hati!

We stand in a long line. Offerings find their way to the babi guling sign as buses of tourists stop and go, directed by men in sarongs and baseball caps. The family in front of me is Australian and friendly. We sit next to a couple from Germany. The other two at the table are Chinese. A woman hacks at the flesh of a barbequed pig, freshly pulled from its roasting pit. Again, the food is amazing. Tender, juicy, spicy. Still on a mission to try it all: I eat something that resembles dried, red sausage. Despite its look, it tastes amazing.

Past the palace, flip flops sloshing through puddles of water, we go past the shiny stores, around a narrow path – where stick-thin vendors sit amongst souvenirs piled so high they almost block out the sky – up two flights of stairs, another path, then stop at a tiny shop.

Batik, of all designs and colors, line the walls. Silk ties and blouses fill any leftover space. Annie explains my mission to the woman of the store, who speaks no English. She asks me which design I like. Each blue or gold pattern I choose with met with frowns and shaking heads.

It is nice, but you are so white -- You can wear bright color. Not many in Indonesia can. But you, it is very pretty! You see. So I tell them to dress me, and make up my mind to buy whatever they deem appropriate and Indonesian.

I’m wrapped in a swirl of dark brown, green and red. Then re-wrapped, again. Finally it works. The women laugh. Annie asks me how tall I am – I laugh, due metres (two meters). The women laugh and giggle and point, in shock. Indonesian women are not tall like that, they tell me. They dig in bags for a kaballah, frowning at the growing pile of clothes that won't fit the dua metre, until they settle on a bright, ornate, chartreuse shirt. (There are no changing rooms, so they have me strip in the corner of the store as Annie holds a sarong as high as she can to shield me from the crowds) They tie brown silk around my waist. Finished.

It’s not what I would have picked out. I feel like I'm wearing clashing patterns and colors, all a little different and mix-matched. It's an aesthetic, I admit, I can't seem to appreciate. But at the same time--I just want to go with it, see what happens. And, I like that they’ve dressed me. That these colors and patterns are good in their eyes, this is Balinese, to them it is beautiful and I want to experience that understanding that is different from my own. After they button my shirt and pull at the sleeves so it sits just right, both women nod in approval. Salamet sore! I greet them and bow low. They laugh, clap their hands, and greet me back.

Wild bartering begins. Annie throws her hands up and down and they say things I don’t understand. Finally, they call the owner. Then it’s settled. $20 for a handwoven batik sarong and kaballah. As we start to leave the rain pours and we decide to sit it out at the shop. Annie points to the one chair. But I’m already sitting on the concrete floor, like they are. While they talk, I listen for the few words I understand. Children run in and out. A small boy with dark hair and darker eyes peers at me. When I smile at him, he hides. I start practicing my numbers then, counting my fingers slowly. When I get stuck, he emerges from the folds of the shop’s materials to point to my second finger.

Dua. he whispers as he touches my finger tip.
Dua. I repeat. And I smile. Then tickle his cheek.

He giggles, and points to himself. Again, softly, Dua. I smile, he is two. he’s my nephew’s age. He pulls his older sister from another corner, and we all count my other fingers, until we reach lima! (five!). Warm Indonesian rain pours down gutters and pools in the road. Again, we count to five, and then ten. Then again.

The boy plops in my lap and I start counting his fingers and toes. He touches my nose and my ears and my eyes. When I make funny faces, he laughs and laughs. And, as we sit together on the concrete floor, counting, and trading smiles and giggles, we all - an almost 2 meter tall American girl, a 2 year old Indonesian boy and his 5 year old sister - grow more and more excited, as the others talk with words we don't understand, or care to learn for that moment.

When the rain stops, he waves and hugs my legs as we leave the pensar to head home.