Traveller’s Bones

At the time that this occurred – the mid eighties – I was working as a cleaner gardener in a high school in Australia. There were many aspects to my work …  mural painting, stage shows, tree planting, window cleaning, garbage removal and it so happened that my energy levels matched my creative abilities. I hadn’t had a proper holiday in years and booked a month in Bali. I arranged to hire a motorbike for the month and was booked into the Kuta region for the first week.

Bali is a remarkable and beautiful assault on the senses. After a few days in Kuta, I moved a bit further away and to quieter quarters. It took a week for me to slow down, experience the pleasure of many people from many countries, all having a holiday, and then to want to strike out on my own.

I’ve liked chess without it being a passion … having said that, Mick and I played a game by letter which took nigh on ten years to complete. It wasn’t a brilliant game but it sure kept us in touch across a continent so vast that it was cheaper to go to Bali than to go to Western Australia. Chess is popular in Bali.

I’d met a young Balinese bloke at the first place in which I’d stayed. As I talked to him about where else to go, he suggested Ubud which is also where he wanted to go. If I really wanted to experience something different, that, perhaps, it could be arranged for me to stay in the very outer quarters of the royal palace. Thank you very much .. let’s go.

So now, this is the story pretty much as I first wrote it down, a few years after the event.

I’m looking at chess pieces. They are very old and richly detailed. The chessboard is on a low wooden table. On either side are the two players. Both are still. I sit back in a comfortable chair watching the game unfold. I’ve played two good games and their skill is greater than mine. On my right sits the son of one of the last kings of Bali. He is a blend of middle aged vigour and serenity. Across the table and about to make his move, sits an old man. It is night and we are alone in one of the public rooms within the grounds of the royal palace. Noise from the evening market drifts over the high courtyard wall and accents the stillness of the room. It’s pleasantly warm in the night fragrant air.

The two players sit, motionless and contemplative, not restless like me. Traveller’s bones ache in unlikely places.

Yesterday we arrived. I wait at the gate as my mate from Kuta enters the royal courtyard and waits respectfully to be noticed by a group of people who are having dinner in a wonderful three sided room. My friend is noticed and beckoned over. A short conversation and then both men walk over to where I’m waiting. The host is the grandson of the last king, a good looking, graceful man in his thirties. He asked me if I’d care to join them. I make my apologies in view of the lateness of the hour and suggest that I join them for breakfast.

My friend from Kuta has gone and I am tired. I lie back on my bed and wonder at the possible alternatives which can open up. It feels like real magic, the island radiates that this is the earthly home of the Gods. I am very close to town and the noises of the night, the ebb and flow of life, seep into me. It’s too exciting to sleep so I get up and leave the palace grounds.

It’s quite busy in the streets outside the palace walls. There’s a night market full of beautiful Balinese women, cheerful men, merchants, families, smiles and shouting. I move with the flow, stopping awhile, here and there, just to gaze about. I’m not loud but my presence as a stranger draws curious and friendly glances. I have a cuppa at a roadside stall and enjoy the tea. Language problems are smiled through and I love it.

Ready to sleep, I make my way further through the quieter parts of town, finally returning to my guestroom. There’s no eight hour graveyard shift, after midnight, where nothing stirs. At first light many people are about and why not? It’s splendid for me as my host has free time. We drink coffee. I tell him of my brief experience in his country and he tells me something of his life as a classical dancer. I learn that there is a blending of religious belief including Buddhism, Animism, Hindu, Christian, Moslem and older Gods beside. I also learn that the Balinese people are inclined not only towards a spiritual life but that they have also created a warrior culture. We talk about the resort communities of Kuta and Legiane, the whiff of corruption from dubious western influence, the strength of the Balinese culture. I really liked him.

Mid morning I left for a temple, a mile or so away and up a gently sloping road. Everywhere the land bears fruit. Knowing that their island is the home of the Gods, these people approach nature with honour and obligation. A rich variety of flowers are in bloom everywhere and the air is full of their perfume. The temple is ancient and well cared for. Like so many of them, it is open to the skies. I avoid the organised tour groups and find a place to sit. A young priest approaches. We nod. He would like some small sum of money which I can well afford, and he will share some time. His English is surprisingly good. He explains that his half proud request had been strictly for temple purposes and I believe him. He’s not impressed with tourists, most of whom show scant regard or respect and who are separated from the reality of the moment by buses, timetables and dull eyed materialism. He’s a very intense man.

At these pillared temples there are so many ceremonies, so much devotion and so much attention directed, so far as I can see, to one great God of many aspects.

I take my leave and follow a procession of priests and people who are wending their way at a leisurely pace, back towards the town and its centre. A moment ago there was the quiet of the temple grounds and now I’m surrounded by bells, music, colour, saris, pinks and yellows, chanting and joy. This is a wedding and everybody is cheerful. I am greeted and made welcome and I greet in return and share the joy.

The next day at lunch my royal host is free again. We talk about chess among other things and it turns out that his father would be returning from a trip to Java later that night and may perhaps enjoy a game of chess. I’m delighted at the possibility.

And so it is that a cleaner from a high school in Australia sits in the hall of the mountain king, thanking God for his good fortune. The old man has made his move. The players are still … serene as the night.

Mosquito – large, arrogant, thirsty – hovers in front of my face. I ignore it. The son of the last king will make a move at some moment and there is a suggestion of a breeze so perhaps the nuisance will disappear. The irritation overcomes me. I cannot help myself. I bring my hands together in a ringing clap.

As I read it, there was a noble and compassionate deliberation in the look I received. Attention returns to the game. Silence, stillness and a fragrance laden air.

Another mosquito buzzes – this time pestering the royal countenance. Again a point of irritation but the resolution this time is vastly different. The minuscule problem that I attacked with overwhelming force is now handled with a graceful movement.

With an easy sweeping motion, the mosquito is plucked from the air, breathed upon quickly and thrown behind. No malice to living thing. The mosquito, a bit dazed no doubt, stumbles away in search of easier prey.

I receive a look to see if I have understood.

Minimum force, maximum gain – harmonious action, no blame.