New Stories
from A Little Book of Bali
Kites
There are fish, birds and butterflies all over the sky.
“Our kite festival,” says Wayan, the airport driver.
We have just reached Sanur Beach.
“Let’s see,” my wife says.
Stopping, Wayan explains how each village sends its flag bearers, gamelan beaters and rope-team. Some kites are small. Others are floating pagodas and bony dragons as big as buses. They are judged in heats by the best launch and the longest flight.
Here comes a green gecko, a buffalo cart kite and a blue god ascending in a gold chariot.
“We fly kites, so the gods will bless the coming harvest.”
CMS, Aug 27, 2013
Kites
There are fish, birds and butterflies all over the sky.
“Our kite festival,” says Wayan, the airport driver.
We have just reached Sanur Beach.
“Let’s see,” my wife says.
Stopping, Wayan explains how each village sends its flag bearers, gamelan beaters and rope-team. Some kites are small. Others are floating pagodas and bony dragons as big as buses. They are judged in heats by the best launch and the longest flight.
Here comes a green gecko, a buffalo cart kite and a blue god ascending in a gold chariot.
“We fly kites, so the gods will bless the coming harvest.”
CMS, Aug 27, 2013
Topeng Mask
from A Little Book of Bali
Masks
“In the next village lives the famous topeng maker.” Wayan says.
My project will perhaps need Balinese masks.
“What wood is this?” I ask.
“Pullay, Crocodile Tree,” he answers and goes on. “They growing in cemetery, home of Witch Queen, evil Rangda. First, must pray Spirit for permission. Tree knot tough and best. Many days cut, polish. Then dead can speak.”
We scrutinise his gallery of lacquered faces, some wearing horse-hair.
He puts on girly shyness, snake-eyed cunning, nobility, anger, meanness, repose while shifting legs, tilting his head, flourishing hands. This isn’t dance-acting. It is mediumship, possession, I realise.
CMS, Aug 27, 2013
Masks
“In the next village lives the famous topeng maker.” Wayan says.
My project will perhaps need Balinese masks.
“What wood is this?” I ask.
“Pullay, Crocodile Tree,” he answers and goes on. “They growing in cemetery, home of Witch Queen, evil Rangda. First, must pray Spirit for permission. Tree knot tough and best. Many days cut, polish. Then dead can speak.”
We scrutinise his gallery of lacquered faces, some wearing horse-hair.
He puts on girly shyness, snake-eyed cunning, nobility, anger, meanness, repose while shifting legs, tilting his head, flourishing hands. This isn’t dance-acting. It is mediumship, possession, I realise.
CMS, Aug 27, 2013
Topeng