Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Nanti, nanti (Waiting for later...)

1pm arrives. Then 2pm. 2:30pm. Nanti, nanti (later, later), people whisper but are not alarmed. The ceremony might not start until 4. I struggle to stay awake and smiling. But finally, the priest comes, except the priest is female. Gray-white hair, soft face, serious brown eyes. She neither smiles or frowns. But takes her position on the ceremonial table, wraps herself in beads and gold bands. After incense, soft murmurs of incantations, she begins ringing a gold bell. Over and over. It “tings” to its own consistent beat. As the gamelon crashes and plays to its own consistent beat. Then the sacred puppeteer adds his own small melody and voice. And still, the older women from the morning ceremony sing into a microphone their own songs and chants. Joined at times by a man who, in an off key that hits my ears in an uncomfortable way like hitting your funny bone, talk-sings. Meanwhile, people come and go, talk and laugh, move through the 20 square feet of the compound where this is all assembled.

I sit at the steps of the wedding building, watching and feeling my tired brain kick into overdrive again (and not having the energy to stop it, I let it go and watch): I feel it trying to make sense of these disparate pieces. Strange rituals, smells, music and people. Laughing because I’m starting to realize -- only now after three days of Indonesian immersion with maybe just one English-speaking interaction -- what it wants: to again find something it recognizes, some certainty, something it can know--instead of drowning in the totally unfamiliar, the chaos of utterly new, coming at me from all angles. It seeks to find it in a wedding ceremony it knows from its past: it seeks one with a distinct itinerary, start and end, quiet decorum, one where a preacher talks and everyone knows listens, one where the musicians sing and everyone sways, one where a man says I do and everyone smiles, one where a woman says I do and everyone gets a little misty-eyed, one where a man kisses the woman and everyone applauds. One where I feel my heart inspired to reach for another. Then the celebration. Then, done.

Instead, I watch as five different things take place at one. All clashing and crashing, in a mismatch of colors, music, and activity, tones and words. The wedding ceremony of Oka’s daughter is combined with the tooth filing ceremony for the other three. Standing before their family, then sitting before the priestess, they are guided through a complex series of rituals and prayers. Flat rocks placed on palms, kicking an egg, tiny strings placed behind ears, tying of green rice leaves around the head, symbolic crushing of rice, then the eating of rice, the drinking of a potent liquid that leaves one girl almost gagging, the passing of sacred things behind and in front of the body. (Doing it over when it’s not done correctly). The elder women, the mothers of those in the ceremony, hover around their children; helping, guiding, instructing, encouraging with touches and silent but approving looks.

More hours pass, people come and go, talk and laugh, eat and drink non-alcoholic beverages. I am ever-fading from the long hot day and wander through Indonesian traditions and conversations. The party stands up to walk to the family temple.
A man with a mini-camcorder positions me in front of the kneeling, golden women. Behind them, the other women line up. Then they pray. Each woman picks a holy flower from the palm tray in front of them, holds the beautiful thing lightly, between gentle fingers. Around them the party continues, the gamelon plays. But kneeling there on the ground, every eye is closed with reverent beauty. The bell rings for a slow minute or two. The bell rings faster and faster, then stops. Silence.

Eyes open, they place the flower in their hair, behind their ears, mothers and daughters reach for a new flower. Again the bell rings slow then fast. Then stops. The flower is placed with the others. Simple and beautiful, it continues. Until they return to the priestess. There are never any words of love, instruction for living a life together, or what it will require of them. Instead, silent rituals are passed from one to the other. Looking around at the people gathered, I realize it’s this community that will help them find their way through this new life they are starting.

No comments:

Post a Comment