Bulan, bintang, matarhari & kambing (Moon, stars, sun & goat)

Christine's first day mirrors my own -- getting used to driving on the left side, weaving within inches of scooters and oncoming traffic on narrow roads, driving past temples and massive statues in the dripping rain and post-storm puddles, swerving around women in sarongs (heads piled high with baskets and offerings), familiar letters arranged in completely unfamiliar ways. Jo and I start Christine on the basics: counting to 5 and good morning, late morning, afternoon, evening, goodbye I, goodbye II and our favorite: Hati-Hati (careful!) as we drive to the villa after a stop at the supermarket for food (we load up on mangiis, wild mango and white rice).

Dinner together, in the outdoor kitchen, is fabulous. We laugh and chat and make plans. The next day, we walk down to the market and shop for sarongs for Christine and Jo for the full moon ceremony that night. We'll attend with Oka's family as he's receiving the blessing. We leave the market loaded up on silk sarongs, kabayahs, silk scarves, and beach dresses purchased from Anni's friend's shop. (The only downside to the day, Anni promised me the best price from her friend--I hesitate then pay the asking price. It seems rude to barter now and question Anni's friend's integrity - surely it must be a good price...Anni's always said something if I'm paying too much -- so I expect I'm getting a deal. Christine follows my example, then Jo - on a tighter budget - quietly barters to below the asking price. We've been had. I don't do anything, I've committed to a price--so I keep my word and pay it. This is part of the experience too. But I feel my good-natured trust in Anni shaken.)

After work and dinner, we dress in our sarongs with help from Anni who must individually wrap and tie each of us up, making sure the wrap the material so the end sits just before the left leg. I slip into a simple moon-white kabayah that I'd seen Oka's wife in. I love the feel of my legs moving under the light lotus-imprinted silk of my new sarong -- so much more luxurious than the batik sarong of my first days. I laugh with Christine and Jo as they grow accustomed to moving within the confines of the traditional clothing and we all revel at the grace and beauty of women, balancing side saddle on the backs of scooters, as we all race to the temple in the night.

The gamelon pounds music, the full moon lights the courtyard, and kids circle and run and laugh as adults sit and watch. Now flanked with two other non-Indonesians, I notice the kids keeping their distance from me again. They shyly smile, only to dart and hide when I motion to them. I'm greeted with soft hands and smiles by Oka's wife and sister, his daughters and young and old sons. To watch Christine and Jo wander through the strange newness of it all (and remember how overwhelming it first felt to me too) and then to be where I am now, two weeks later: relaxed and energetic, communicating so much freer in Indonesian, laughing over shared jokes and histories, recognizing faces and smiles, trying bits of food, being welcomed (my hands embraced within their hands as I learn the Balinese greeting "Om swastiastu") as a friend and family member into this little community.

[I've started to notice the presence of swastikas on temples, homes and now in Balinese speech. The word swastika actually comes from the Sanskrit svastika which means good fortune or well-being and was used thousands of years before Hitler's abomination. Knowing the history helps me say the words, but I still get strange nervous tension upon seeing the symbol with its offerings piled high--I can't help but think of so many other things...]

Minutes pass slowly as we wander through one holy display after another, past the giant roasted pig offering (yes, real pig) that's adorned with a tall red crown, laced with goat and pig satays (yes, hundreds of pig and goat on a stick). Oka's son-in-law does his best to talk us through each. However, upon questioning, it becomes apparent that religion and ceremonies are village specific -- apart from the shared three gods Brahma, Wisnu, Siwa there's little information he can tell me as he's not from the village. Christine is still jet-lagged and tired and in desperate need of food. I let Oka's son know we're going to sneak out for some peanuts or something (from the small roadside warung)...and maybe some fresh air. I remember how overwhelming my first day was.

When we make a move to leave, Oka's family escorts us out and sits us under a dirty blue tarp in front of a small cart. A thin man with a faded blue baseball cap dishes up rice, coconut grilled satays drenched in dark peanut sauce, nankat fruit soup (and my stomach jumps remembering the pig tufts from a few days prior) in chipped china dishes. Anni looks at me -- I get you drinks, you get food.

Of course. After offering to pay for dinner, with gratitude, it's now become expected for every meal, every day, and as my travel budget explodes, I'm realizing the joy in giving is depleted some when it's taken for granted. But at the same time, they've welcomed me and my friends into their homes and most private lives -- let alone their country. So I pay. I look at Jo and Christine. Tired and overwhelmed. I try to entertain the crowd around us -- grab the spotlight so they can take a breath and eat. I'm hoping good Indonesian food will revive our waning full-moon late-night spirits.

I chat in Indonesian with the man next to me about the food we're eating. I know rice, I know soup. I guess we're eating sapi (beef) satays.

He laughs. Shakes his head. Kambing.

I think. I know this one. What is it again? Christine and Jo are looking at me, expectantly. Then I remember: Oh! Kambing!! Goat!!!

I smile widely that I've remembered. Then I look at Christine. She's pale and her eyes are wide. She's starving and running on empty -- and not looking like she can take goat, or much of anything right now. I try to whisper to her to just eat the rice.

Then pick up the banter, hoping to keep the attention away from her and on me. I know how they love to see people eat, so I put on the best multi-lingual show I can muster sitting in a muddy field, under a blue tarp, in a silk sarong with my adopted New Zealander, my mountain biking friend (who know little Indonesian) and Oka's family (who know little English).

Poor Christine finishes what she can and we head back to the ceremony. The moon shines through the clouds and the priest arrives. I know this now too. I tell Jo he'll decorate himself in beads and material, then light incense, then his prayers begin, while the bell rings incessantly, then we all pray, then it's over.

As we sit, minutes and hours pass. Bells ring, processions begin and incense lit. By now, both Jo and Christine are aching and tired -- surrounded by a sea of sitting people, there's nothing I can do but sit and wait. Oka's youngest son sits next to me and Oka's grandson reaches across him, from his mother's lap, to tug at my sleeve and then hide. I mimic him and we both laugh quietly. I point to the moon and tell Oka's son the words he taught me only few days before: Bulon.

He nods solemnly.

I make fists and say "bintang".

He smiles slightly.

I make a circle and then wave my fingers for rays of the sun: Matahari

He laughs.

Saya engat!(I remember!), I clap.

Tidak, tidak! The eight year old shakes his head: Ing-at. Ing-at. (No no, it's Ing-at, Ing-at! -- For some reason "I remember" is the hardest sound for me to form)

Satu cali lagi, I tell him (One more time!).

We do it together, Bulon, Bintang, Matahari. The 2 year old grandson moves his tiny hands with us, the old ladies behind me whisper with us. Over and over. As the bell chimes and the incense burns and the moon shines.

Finally the prayer. The hushed sounds of hundreds of bodies moving, at once, to face the East. Followed by the sounds of silence from hundreds of bodies, praying in unison, under a full moon in the dark, warm midnight. The ritual I remember. Hands picking out imaginary flowers and holding it in my fingertips briefly before my eyes, until the bell rings. Eyes close. Hands lift. The bell rings slowly, slowly, slow. Minutes pass. It speeds and stops. Eyes open, bodies shuffle as the flower is placed in the hair and a new one picked. Over and over and over and over.

I watch as a group of 5 or 6 men, late teens and early twenties with a pierced lip and styled hair, stop their talking to carefully, quietly pray and lift flowers to their hair. I finish my prayers with the masses, and watch as Oka's oldest daughter hands her young son to his father, then lifts a flower in her hands, pauses and closes her eyes to pray, kneeling alone, in a sea of softly moving people.

In the confusion, we finally make awkward moves to an unknown exit. The ceremony continues until morning. We drive home in tired silence.