Wedding? Belum... (The Wedding? Not yet...)

It’s a long drive back to the compound. Already a full day, I realize it’s only about to begin, at 1 with the wedding which I am told will be very, very long. Tired but excited, I am now greeted with familiar waves and warm smiles—-I laugh, the jolly green giant from America has returned! The kids tug at my hands to show me the beautiful gamelon, now playing. As I take photos of men intently playing, the boys try to pile in my picture, everyone laughs, even the players. Oka teaches me the three main gods: Brahama (fire), Wishnu (water), Siwa--Oka pauses and a gust of wind blows through the compound, we laugh (wind!)!

I repeat the Hindu gods and their English attributes. To everyone’s amusement, when I get to Siwa (wind!) I pause to look at the sky expectantly. Then mocked frustration. I can’t seem to make the wind blow with Siwa’s name, as Oka did. Everyone laughs.

Rounds of copi (coffee) alternates with rounds of air (water) and soda pop. I unwrap a gelatinous cone of brown-red rice from palm strips. I untie little packets of sweet white rice with bits of fruity nankat (yak fruit? They tell me it’s called in America, though I’ve never had anything like it). Both are homemade treats from Oka's wife. I eat orange-colored potato chips from the long potato. I am careful to monitor my smiles and exclamations--as they only seem to result in people bringing me more snacks. And this, Annie warns me, is only appetizer. Noon passes and I am fed two more plates of piled with savory, rich, delicious food (more curries, satays, babi, naci puti, ayam goreng, vegetables...) by various people eager to watch me eat and savor this taste of Bali.

I try to follow the Indonesian talk, to pick out a few words, and add a few of my own. We laugh and talk and eat. I am quietly greeted by Indonesian women my own age, with children and husbands for the last ten of my years. (Aside from Oka and the bridegroom and the small children, none of the men talk to me, or approach me--though they all smile when I level my camera to their faces. Conversation seems left to the women) Far from the travelers hub of Ubud or the touristy havens of Kuta and Denpasar, being alone as a woman is much less common. They have many questions. I can't understand or answer all of them. So I let Annie talk for me. I can see they are in quiet awe that I can travel alone, and do. Annie tells them I work for the internet, have a little house with two adopted kittens (Annie loves animals) in America (it's never the United States, always America). I take photos and write. I am smart and I learn Indonesian very, very quickly. I rent villa. (which I think comes with some implied status, being able to rent the villa--single-handedly--and stay in Bali. When I hear my story told, I try to smile kindly, make a joke, kneel to photograph something simple or play with a child--anything to appear just "everyday" in their eyes, perhaps someone they could relate to. Because, sometimes I feel my American tourist status, accidental villa accomodations, and bank card elevate me to something more than I want to be to them. For this time, I want to be accepted, as one of them, as much as possible.) Annie then proudly brags that I always eat with her the real Indonesian food from any of her favorite roadside warung (restaurant) and never sick. Not like the other tourists, sick the next day. It's this that really impresses people at the wedding. More plates of food are brought out (I say a little prayer of thanks that my ongoing Seattle "taco-truck-or-any-food-from-a-truck-or-hole-in-the-wall" love affair seems to have slowly strengthened my little stomach, to be in perfect Balinese shape! I seriously have just been eating EVERYTHING, ANYWHERE. With no regrets. I am always saying, "Yes!" and am always suprised just how extra-awesome my iron-stomach has become! To get Balinese props at a wedding because of it, even better!)

It is my story, in Indonesian, I hear repeated over and over.

At the same time that they are curiously impressed, the women wonder aloud why I am alone, not married. (It's like taking on 15 or 20 of gentle mothers or grandmas, at one time--they all want to know) I laugh off their honest curiousity. Shake my head and reply: Belum ("not yet" because it is always rude to say no). I am not ready yet. I needed to come to Bali first. Then maybe... They love that I am enjoying Bali and that I can mash together rough replies in Indonesian.

I haven’t told anyone about my photo project. I don’t want to lie about my intent, but at the same time, I feel the best photos will be authentic and unposed. I want those around me to trust me and feel comfortable showing me their less guarded sides. Not self-conscious about (what may likely never actually see the light of) my little altruistic photography show idea. The hiding of this idea is also a little for myself: when I think of putting my photos to the public scrutiny of others, my hands grow stiff and my eye gets nervously cold, focusing on the end result and not the content in front of my lense. When I let myself forget, I am back to taking photos as I like to do it: capturing the many depths and shades of beauty, as I see it so I can better connect with what’s before me. As they day goes by, as I am part of the "ceremony" of simply, patiently waiting (a ritual, I think, is not really known in my country...) they grow more and more comfortable to my clicking shutter, even inviting it, and I discover it gradually easier to move through the day; capturing more natural, beautiful moments of a wedding day unfolding.

As I drift in and out of a jet-lagged lull, I get to do my most favorite of all my activities: watch the world. The intimate goings on of an Indonesian community. The offerings that are replenished, the personal rituals repeated, the greeting of old friends and respected elders, the mischief of children, the laughter of adults, the worry of a mother, the anxious look of a young daughter, the fixing of hair, the whispered talk of family and friends sitting in outdoor hallways of a traditional Indonesian kitchen, in front of enourmous baskets of all kinds of food, chopping, cutting, preparing, soaking, frying, cooking. Stoking the fire with dried coconut husks, to add extra flavor and warmth to food I already know will be amazing.

This afternoon, it’s the women who seem to shine in front of me. The women in the morning's ceremonies reappear - all gold and flowers. I can hardly believe the site of them floating through the crowds and sunshine. Like gilded angels. They eat nothing, to keep to the fasting until after the ceremony, and sit in the shade. Resting, waiting, watching. A smile is never far from their red lips, but it's also doled out carefully to those deserving. I see more solemnity from the young women. One of the girls seems to hurt beyond belief. Tears well in her eyes as she sits, and the others comfort her.

My favorite is Oka’s daughter, naturally beautiful in the early morning, she is now resplendent in a towering, flowering, gilded headdress and burgundy-gold wrap. Wherever she steps, she reflects the light of the sun, matahari. Whatever she does, it’s with light, graceful movements. There is gentleness mixed with playfulness. I see both holds the hand of an elderly woman or tickles the cheek of her friend's child. Whomever she greets, seem to momentarily shine in her presence. When she smiles, it seems there's no one who can't help themselves but to return the gift.

Slow minutes pass in the Balinese sunshine as we wait. Belum, belum, belum...