Curiosity #79: Prophecies of Potential

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There was a moment in Bali, sitting in front of a Hindu priest, when I learned the horror of being being told who and what I was. It was the second day of my visit on the island, and Pak Bedot, knowing my keenness for local wisdom, and perhaps hoping to learn a little more about his guest, took me to his cousin for an astrology reading.

Pak Bedot’s cousin lived in the village just outside Tampaksiring. He was a year or so into official priesthood, and had just moved into a new compound where he could host ceremonial gatherings. My host family owed him congratulations. We entered the compound with a basket-full of fruit and aromatic rice.

Amidst the house’s ongoing construction, at the center of the compound, was an elevated pagoda with a floor of bleached tile. On a cushion sat Pak Bedot’s cousin, bun tied high on his head, clothing loose and white.

What do you want to know, he asked. He looked bored. I figured Pak Bedot had called telling him a foreigner was looking for a show. When I told him I wanted to learn about his supernatural tap-ins, he pulled out a clean, laminated book he said was full of wisdom from Bali’s ancient Hindu sages. He lifted up four fingers “I can’t see ghosts or raise the dead, but I can read you based on your birthday.”

I told him the day, month, and year I was born. He spread the book, pointed to one spot on a page. The plastic cover crackled as the binding stretched. “Here,” he said, “You’re faithful.” “Loyal. You’re articulate with words.”

Pak Bedot, who lay on his side, nodded his head and muttered “mmmmmmm”. Pak Bedot’s wife, who made pointed efforts to prove she wasn’t interested in her husband’s bookish friends, particularly those of the female variety, sat looking away from us towards the pot of fried pig in the kitchen, tugging at her kabaya so it wouldn’t rise on her belly. The priest’s wife sat in the shade of another pagoda weaving baskets for a festival that would come next month.

The priest flipped toward the back of the book. He looked at me, almost reprimandingly. “You’re not frugal. When you give things away, you often regret it, and you like to wear things directly after you buy them.”

I listened on. This didn’t ring true (at least not after two years of living simply), and I thought back to all the bogus astrological projections I used to read in teen magazines. But surely ancient formulas held more merit? I was willing to believe.

Perhaps that willingness proved a mistake. The next and last reading profoundly unsettled me.

“Not smart, to the point where it frustrates you.” The word he used for smart is “pintar”, used also for “skilled” or “adept.”

The silence that followed bit my consciousness where I sat. I hugged the solemnity to myself and hid it behind closed features.

“So you are good and loyal,” said Pak Bedot to me, content now at welcoming this sort of stranger into his home.

In Indonesia, kindness and contribution towards others stood paramount over prideful attributes such as exceptionalism, intelligence, and renown. To most locals my astrological reading was a testament of good character, but for me it was a condemnation.

“Not smart to the point where it frustrates you. What does this mean?” I asked the priest.

Pak Bedot jumped in. He said it means that you are good at advising and writing, but better behind the scenes than as a figurehead.

It’s been over 1.5 years and that prophecy still haunts me. After taking the GRE twice with mediocre results, I wonder what path there is for cultural observers, for seekers, who stray outside conventional pursuits of wisdom.

So who is more merited to judge my potential, the ancient Balinese sages or the standardized testing panel? Or maybe they’re in collusion with one another?

As I write I’m sitting in Andahuaylas, Peru. Outside is a dusty urbanscape that sits in a valley in the Andes. I’m here on a stop between Ayacucho to Cusco. Upon arriving in Cusco I may or may not be welcomed by a local who has agreed to take me out to experience night life. This is contingent upon whether or not I’ll be able to reach him on a data-less phone.

Rewind several hours and I was being thrown side-to-side on a minibus whisking up clean roads that had been blasted and paved into the mountains. Rewind a day and I was touching woven textile in an artisan’s market.

The day before that I was inside a church adorned with holy figurines. Jesus on the wall looked pensive. Jesus on the steps towards the altar was being washed by a man who declared himself a religious anthropologist. “Peruvian culture is very rich!” he told me. Just then a traditionally-dressed old woman, who had been kneeling by a statue of the virgin Mary, emerged from prayer and paced towards me. She opened her arms. It happened so quickly. Before I knew it I was inside her embrace. I could feel her hands on my back. She kissed me on both cheeks, smiled and chuckled before she walked away.

I came here alone because when I get lost, beautiful things happen. The only intelligence necessary comes in adapting to the moment, and to puzzling my way to where I need to be.

As for where I need to go, that is, and perhaps always will be, unclear.

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Above: The anthropologist and his family washing Jesus for the upcoming evening mass. Inglesia de San Francisco, Ayacusco.

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Ayacucho’s Artisan Market, full of keychains, weavings, crosses, and religious dioramas (called retablos)

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The route towards Santa Ana Market in Ayacucho.

Curiosity #71: A Spiritual Strain of Environmentalism

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There are some forests in the world where genies still exist. They hover in the shadows, heads grazing the canopies, on the look-out for fools keen on chopping down trees for profit. The genies, despite being hump-backed and saber-toothed, are just like you and I, and wish to dally away their lives free of fascist scumbags who think they know what’s what.

Central Java is one region where genies, and trees for that matter, have managed to hold their ground. In Wonosadi Forest, it’s known that whoever chops down trees for economic purposes will wake up a vegetable. Naughty teenagers who dare copulate in the bushes are mysteriously transported to public spaces where their sins might be exposed and ridiculed. For this reason people don’t mess with the beasts of nature, and it all traces back to an agreement maintained since the Middle Ages.

Back when the Majapahit Kingdom swept its authoritarian sovereignty over Indonesia (we’re talking between 1293 and 1500), there was a royal concubine named Roro Resmi who ran away with her two illigitimate children, seeking freedom from the royal bedroom and the confines of servitude. After a long time traveling West, she found haven in the womb of a formidable forest.

Roro Resmi was not alone in running. Together she and others escaping the Majapahit collaborated in building an outpost beside a stream in the center of the forest. But like with all new settlements, the land was already occupied; and like all other settlers, Roro Resmi and her followers had every intention of oppressing the natives in efforts to further their agenda of freedom.

But these natives weren’t human. They were genies the size of the trees themselves, governed under a king who took the form of a white tiger (with the strength of five elephants and the mercy of a B-52). Good thing Roro Resmi’s children had the magical powers to defeat the giants in a valiant display of underdog ferocity. Finally subdued, the genies entered into a civil negotiation. They agreed to subject themselves to coexistence with humans in exchange for health guarantees on behalf of the forest, which, since the humans’ cave-dwelling age, seemed to attract the attention of axe-carrying buffoons (to say nothing of future tractors).

And so the people of the forest raised ninjas. The genies built houses. And the humans and genies lived together happily ever after. At least until now.

Whoever says environmentalism doesn’t yet exist in Indonesia knows squat about this country, but the foundations of this environmentalism might not impress the pragmatists sitting at the UN round table, itself made of wood chopped down from only genies know where.

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