Watching the shadows cast by the fire as they change and flicker on the Cave’s wall.......
Joanna stood for a moment with the wreckage of the plane behind her. Slung over her shoulders was her rucksack full of non perishable food & drink that she had rescued from the plane’s galley, a couple of plastic plates, a tin opener, a plastic cup & bowl, a fork & spoon, two disposable lighters and a box of matches wrapped in a plastic bag to stop them from getting damp. Making a fire in the jungle, she had reasoned, would not be easy but might also be essential at some point.
She had packed around the food some changes of clothing including 2 T-shirts, a long sleeved shirt, 2 pairs of socks and underwear, a pair of tough blue denim jeans and her fair isle pullover. The rucksack also contained a space blanket, a towel and a tightly rolled sleeping bag that she’d found in one of the overhead lockers on the plane.
She wore thick socks, her trainers, her black but slightly faded pair of Levis, a red T-shirt with her bright green light weight waterproof jacket over the top.
She had found and sharpened a good sized carving knife which was safely stored in one of her rucksack’s side pockets.
All the other clothes, books and general, as she thought of them, unnecessary junk in the rucksack she had dumped on the seat. Her only concession was to take her shoulder bag containing her passport, notebook and pens, a folder of notes, contacts and handouts from the conference and a few small personal items . The bag was wrapped in a layer of plastic bags to protect it and its contents from the damp humid jungle air and packed at the bottom of the rucksack.
“You never know” she thought “If I get out of here alive I may want to revisit all that knowledge.....right now it seems like a thousand years ago”
In front of her was the swathe of jungle that the plane had flattened on its crash landing. Some of the larger trees were still almost upright and would no doubt regrow if at a rather crazy angle. She wondered how long it would take for the other plant growth to cover this destruction and bury the plane itself. In this heat and humidity she guessed it wouldn’t take long.
She took the compass out of her jacket pocket. It was a simple device with the 4 points and the 360 degrees inscribed round the edge, a red needle floating in the fluid easily visible through the clear plastic window. She lined it up with North and saw that East, the direction Red had insisted she should start walking in, was directly to her right leading away from the crash site and into the jungle.
She turned and began to walk out of the clearing but stopped just before she entered the trees where there seemed to be a faint path possibly created by creatures going through the undergrowth, heading due East.
There was a smooth log covered in moss and lichen, just before the jungle started. She needed to take the knife out of her rucksack before entering as she had no idea how easy or hard it would be to walk along the track. She took it off, leant it against the log, sat down on it, opened the side pocket and took out the carving knife. It felt good in her hand. A wooden handle with a long stainless steel blade carefully honed on the sharpening stone she had found in the galley that now accompanied the knife in the side pocket.
Sitting there with the warm morning sun on her face, filtering through the leaves of the trees in shades of yellow and green she realised that for the first time since the plane crash she felt almost OK. In fact there was in her a low level sense of anticipation and excitement about what might lie ahead.
As she sat there she reflected once more on the events that had brought her from Bali to this jungle possibly somewhere in the middle of Sarawak.......
Denpasar, the capital of Bali, was its usual mix of slow meditative beauty & wild unorganised traffic where noone quite managed to have an accident.
The taxi driver was a small dark haired young man wearing cut off blue jeans & a T shirt with a picture of John Lennon in full Sergeant Pepper regalia on the front & the words Strawberry Fields Forever in psychedelic lettering on the back. His taxi had what she could only describe as an exquisite hifi sound system through which he had played at high volume a selection of Beatles songs. His English seemed to be limited to a few words including 'Beatles are Fab', which she kind of agreed with. The taxi had dropped her outside the bungalow where Paul lived.
She had walked through the gate round a corner and into a beautiful garden surrounding the bungalow filled with artworks, statues, fountains. It wasn't that it was a big garden. It was just beautifully designed. There were many flowers, including a vast number of orchids, oleanders, and other exotics, bushes, and shrubs she didn't know the name of.
It was the first time she had visited him at home. There were stone sculptures of Hindu & Buddhist gods and goddesses. Hanuman, Siva, Kali, Lakshmi. Parvati, Krishna, Green Tara, Avelokitesvara and some she didn’t immediately recognise.
There were also large stones of many shapes and colours scattered around with a raked gravel path that snaked down towards the far end of the garden where there was a small quarry with trees and azalea bushes growing out of the face.
Near the front door was a large pond full of multi coloured Koi with rushes, aqua grasses and a multitude of irises growing round the edge. A fountain in the middle throwing jets of water up in the air whose droplets landed on a beautiful statue of the Buddha with a slight smile on his face carved from what looked like deep blue marble embedded with small pieces of sparkling shining mica. His eyes were closed, his left hand touching the ground in the mudra known as ‘calling the earth to witness’ and the right hand raised with the palm vertical, the fingers pointing to the sky in the mudra of ‘perfect peace’.
Some of the colourful extravaganza of flowers and shrubs were in flower beds, some in pots, some just growing out of walls and between paving stones. There were irises, oleanders, bougainvilleas, tropical roses, and a range of ivies and other climbers. It was a long oval shape with fruit trees, papaya, rambutans, mango, passion fruit and banana scattered amongst the other exotic growth. A beautiful place that Paul had created mostly by himself with the help of his friend Rhada.
She knew the visit would be short because they would soon be setting off to the village where the wayang* was going to happen.
His familial relationship to her was rather odd, though he wasn't actually a blood relative of hers but of Sean's. She had tried to work out by talking to Sean and Paul exactly how they were related. It would seem that they were sort of second step brothers once removed.
The connection was that Paul’s mother Tara had been involved in a relationship with Sean’s father Arthur who was a professor of oriental studies in Edinburgh university and had met Tara while she was studying architecture at the university.
There was a family scandal about their relationship as Arthur was already married to Sean’s mother, Lucy and though he had kept his relationship with Tara a secret for nearly 2 years it finally got out, as family secrets sometimes do. Tara had disappeared back to Bali where she gave birth to Paul. Joanna had never met her though she was still alive and had returned to Edinburgh when Paul was old enough to look after himself to work for a firm of eco-architects. Rumour (mostly from Sean) had it that she and Arthur had reignited their passion for each other.
So Paul was half Scots and half Balinese. He spoke perfect English which he always described as Scots.
“My father tongue & Balinese my mother tongue” he would tell people in an almost perfect Glaswegian accent.
He spoke perfectly a variety of other Asian & European languages including Malay, Chinese, Italian & Portugese.
She rung the doorbell and he'd appeared almost immediately. They'd embraced genuinely glad to see each other again. She always felt a frisson when she saw him as if he was from a different life. They might be lovers reunited after a long separation perhaps not in this life, but maybe...... maybe. It was a possibility.
He was dressed in a pair of bleached jeans, a plain white T shirt, bare feet with his long lustrous black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and a simple red headscarf round his forehead. He was, she had always thought, ridiculously good looking with perfectly balanced features, dark brown eyes, an almost constant smile that showed his perfect white teeth. He was a small man, muscular, lithe and somehow almost glowing with health.
They'd first met through Sean at a party in London, and he'd been introduced to her by Sean with a glass of whisky in one hand and his other hand resting on Paul’s shoulder . It seemed to her that he was almost joking as he said
"So.....This is my half step brother twice removed called Paul, he usually lives in Bali but he’s over here on a visit to talk with the British Council or Arts Council or some organisation that gives money to impecunious artists and other cultural renegades about bringing some shadow puppets to England..... or something like that”
Sean was already quite drunk and had one arm around Paul’s shoulder, possibly more for support than out of affection.
Paul laughed
“ Yes. As Sean says...something like that....only an outside possibility but it gives me a chance to meet up with the European side of my family......and you, Joanna, it would seem, are some kind of relative”
She smiled.
“ Some kind of relative. Not sure quite what the relationship is. Similar to Sean’s but without the blood line”
He laughed again.
“ Blood lines. They always make life more complicated”
They had instantly liked each other. As well as trying to organise some kind of artistic visit to England with puppets and puppeteers he was doing a 3 month intensive course studying the history of oriental art at one of the London universities though she couldn't quite remember which one.
Over that summer he had visited them in Hartland where Joanna, Sean, David, Susan, Rosa and Dorothy were passing most of the holidays together in various combinations accompanied by friends and other family members. He had fitted in easily to the rather chaotic, creative and welcoming atmosphere of David & Susan’s shifting household.
He was determined to make his name as an artist, not just any artist, but as a maker of shadow puppets and as a director of the wayang. Though he’d been born in Bali he hadn’t grown up there as his mother had worked for a firm of architects in Singapore when he was a child. He'd only returned to Bali in his early teens to study traditional art & crafts at the university of Denpasar and had immediately been captivated by the music of the gamelan and the wayang itself, the shadow puppets on the screen, as he had explained to her in some detail, telling stories, ancient narratives through shadows.
It had struck her that there was something almost Platonic about the whole thing, the idea of shadows being cast on screens telling ancient stories about other worlds. She had mentioned this one time when she was eating dinner with him, David and Susan, they had laughed and David had said
" Yes of course just the sort of connection you would make Joanna"
Paul hadn't said anything initially but looked at her intensely & nodded
"Yes. I'd never thought of it like that but there is something about those shadows on the cave wall that Plato talks about that has always made me wonder exactly what he meant."
It was very good to see him again, nearly 3 years since they’d last met briefly in London a few days before he flew back to Bali, where he'd been offered a full time post as director of a new wayang company producing modern interpretations of traditional wayang plays. After 2 years the current director had married an Australian musician & moved to Canberra. Paul had been the obvious choice as his replacement so he became the young director of a fast rising cultural phenomenon. He’d decided that this new post meant postponing any more visits to Europe for the immediate future but he’d invited her to visit him. He’d said with a smile
“Next time you’re in the neighbourhood”
He told her that they didn't have much time before they would have to leave for the village . Perhaps she would like something to eat before they set off as he'd made a fruit salad of mango, guava, papaya, banana, covered in a thick layer of coconut milk and palm syrup. They sat down to eat on the floor round the large glass topped rattan table with views onto the garden through the wide open french windows.
She told him as briefly as possible about the conference. He was interested. He was always interested. In the connections between science, creativity and society. It was one of his passions and he put a lot of that into the wayang, so she asked him.
“What's it about?”
He thought for a moment before speaking.
“This is a modern wayang that tells an ancient story. The Mahabarata. A tale of conflict, war, deception, greed and family rivalries but with a lesson of love and surrender at its heart. The Bhagavad Gita is actually a section of the Mahabarata, a conversation between Krishna and the chariot driver Arjuna about the challenges of being human. Love, duty, family, friendship, right action..... to name but a few. Kind of the core teachings and philosophies behind Hinduism and some of them migrated to Buddhism. It’s a story that starts with a dreadful bloody war between two related families. A tale of heroes and heroines.....and you, you are one of the heroes or heroines.....a sort of mix between you and my mother. Who of course...”
He paused for a moment
“…..who .....she loved me....still does.....though I haven’t heard from her for a few months....she’s still teaching in Edinburgh and, apart from the long dark cold winters, she really enjoys it there. So much art, culture, politics and conversations ”
He ooked at Joanna, smiled ruefully.
“But of course when I was younger I couldn't really help her with all......but that's gone now. Anyway I was thinking about modern heroes and heroines, and I thought, why not make some of the puppets look like some of the people I know. So one of the sort of shadow puppets is based on a photo I have of you.....but you’ll see. Do you remember when we were at that crazy party in Kentish Town with David and Susan?”
“Sure, yes. Dorothy and Rosa were there as well”
“How are they? Such an amazing pair of young women”
“ Yes they are. Dorothy....well, she's Dorothy. Still studying biochemistry, though she’s taken a year out before university to do some of her own research and just hang out with Rosa and some of her other friends. I'm so lucky to have her as my daughter. So lucky.....and Rosa.....Rosa’s good. As always creating extraordinary beautiful art and illustrations. The two of them seem to have this passionate but sometimes difficult friendship.”
“ So glad they’re doing well. I’ve always enjoyed spending time with them. Such great and entertaining company. Anyway.....the party .......there was that professional photographer. Do you remember there was somebody called..”
She interrupted. Remembering the party clearly.
“I think he was called Gareth. Yes. He was definitely called Gareth.”
“ Of course. Gareth. All his photographs were in black and white. Most everybody else in the business were using colour. Except Gareth. He insisted on taking photos in black and white, something about the colour being a distraction from the essence of who the people in his portraits really were”
She nodded.
"He took photos of each one of us. He didn't even bother posing us he just brought the camera up very close then moved away until he was at the other side of the room taking shots all the time as he moved, that was how he worked. Anyway, he got some shots of you and months later he sent some to me, along with copies of other photos he had taken at the party. Accompanied by a postcard of a Man Ray photo which I still have somewhere, another extraordinary artist. The message said , as a maker of Wayang, I might be interested in the interplay of dark and light in the photos. They are extraordinary photos that really capture something at the core of each person he'd photographed. Extraordinary, they reminded me of some of the work of......what was he called the photographer that was married to Princess Margaret?”
“Anthony.....Tony Armstrong Jones.”
“Yes, yes, him. A bit like his work somehow, that real intensity that he managed to get in his portraits. I could show them to you......but we'll have to go now, just look at the time.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Ive a lot to do when we get there, quite a bit of setting up still to happen. I need to meet the orchestra. I've got to make sure that all the puppets are ready.”
“You mean some of them aren’t made yet?”
“Well, some of them weren't ready about a week ago, but I'm sure it'll be fine.”
“And the village ?”
“Oh, it's a little village called Carik Sabah about 20 miles away. I decided I wanted to premiere it there rather than in the city..........and here’s the taxi, right on time”
There was a loud blast of a car horn coming through the open windows.
“Let’s go. Can you carry this for me? Careful it’s got a couple of puppets in it”
He gently handed her a large brightly coloured cloth bag with handles. He picked up a couple of other bags and a satchel and quickly put on a pair of leather flip flops.
“More puppets in these bags with my last minute director’s notes”
He nodded at the satchel then walked quickly out the front door followed by Joanna. They got into the back of a large red Mercedes taxi with its engine running. The driver smiled at Paul & they exchanged greetings in Balinese. He introduced Joanna to the driver in English.
“My very special cousin Joanna. All the way from England”
The driver, young and with long dark hair wearing a pair of black rimmed sun glasses, a pale blue denim jacket and a brightly coloured bandana with yellow and green floral print spoke to her in almost perfect English.
“Very pleased to meet you Joanna. I’m Sahid. Paul’s A1 favourite taxi driver”
Paul laughed.
“Yes. Sahid is, as he’s one of the few taxi drivers who picks me up on time and gets me where I need to be on time. OK Sahid, let’s go.......Carik Sabah as fast as possible. I don’t want to be late.”
The journey to the village took nearly an hour but was uneventful. Joanna watching the city pass by outside the window as they drove in the heat of the evening sunshine, mediated by the air conditioning in the immaculately comfortable surroundings of Sahid’s Mercedes, on roads full of traffic through what seemed like endless suburbs and a few industrial estates until they arrived on a busy dual carriageway, heading East.
Then after 20 minutes or so they exited the highway to take a gently winding country road with paddy fields and occasional stretches of jungle on either side. High trees in the jungle with dark glistening bark, lush green foliage and huge flowers of every imaginable colour.
As they travelled Paul & Sahid carried out a conversation in Balinese with much laughter. Though he drove fast Joanna felt completely safe in his taxi and soon settled down in her comfortable cushioned seat, with no sign of a seat belt , and slept until they arrived in the village in plenty of time for Paul to do all the preparations needed, for Joanna to find a passion fruit & coconut smoothie at the café and carry it to a comfortable seat near the front from which she could see the performance in every detail.
Then the Wayang began.....
After the performance was over Paul had introduced her to the pupeteers, musicians and some members of the audience. He spent time talking intently with some of them in the cafe that had been set up behind the seating area, what seemed like detailed conversations about the wayang (mostly in Balinese) while they ate delicious vegetable, fish & meat satay served with fragrant rice, flat breads and a wonderful fresh salad of green leaves, tomatoes, & mango washed down with spring water, fresh fruit juices, coconut smoothies & some kind of fiery coconut based alcohol which, after a mouthful, Joanna decided to leave well alone.
She had brought her notebook in her shoulder bag, having left her rucksack at Paul’s, while the conversations unfolded around her and people seemed set for a night of eating, drinking and talking accompanied by a trio of musicians playing quietly in the background, comprising a guitar, a small drum & percussion kit and a soprano saxophone.
She took out the beautiful pen that Dorothy had given her for her birthday a couple of years ago, as she knew how much her mum preferred to write than use a typewriter or a computer keyboard, and had begun to write......
(This account of the wayang is taken and transposed from the notebook in which Joanna wrote from memory immediately after the performance was over. It was still so much in her mind and body that she wrote it in the present tense)
I woke as we arrived in the village square after a brief dream about Rosa & a roman warrior god eating chips on Elswick road in Newcastle that faded quickly.
Paul pays Sahid, thanking him. Sahid tells us that he will wait and watch the performance then take us back later (how much later I hadn’t then realised) but for the moment he’s going to visit an old friend.
Paul invites me to make myself at home either by finding a seat or in the café at the back of the ‘auditorium” and to find him if there is anything I want. He points towards the stage where the large wayang screen about 10 metres wide by 5 metres high is set up along with the instruments of the ‘orchestra’ at the far end of the square with rows of seats & cushions in front.
“I’ll be there somewhere. Just give me a shout”. He kisses me on both cheeks and walks quickly down the wide gap between the 2 rows of seats.
The village square is full of people. A riotous medley of batiked shirts, dresses, sarongs mixed with track suits, jeans and shorts, T shirts with printed logos and bright patterns. Villagers, artists, journalists, tourists all have come to see this new version of the Mahabharata. It seems like a wide variety of ages, nationalities and cultures have met in this small village to witness and gaze at the shadow puppet spectacle that will shortly unfold before us.
The village square is in the middle of modern eco housing with live/growing roofs alongside older homes made of bamboo, rattan, clay and wood. Prayer flags strung across the gaps between the houses, fluttering in the late evening breeze as the sun begins to set. Dozens of seats with rush mats and cushions in front of them already filled with children excitedly talking and pointing at the large screen which fills one end of the square. Like a cinema screen with an opacity and translucence to it and a pale blue light glowing and filling it.
Gradually the sounds of the orchestra begin to build with the last of the sun’s rays fading quickly as they do here on the equator.
At first it seems that they are tuning up but gradually a rhythm builds. The bell like sounds of the gamelan joined by hand drums, two saxophones, a trumpet, a keyboard and a sitar. The orchestra are seated with their instruments to the right of the screen on a low stage.As the music begins to grow the street lamps that had been lighting the square fade out and there is only the warm glow of oil lamps and dozens of candles that surround the seating area.
A gentle sounding amplified woman’s voice speaks over the repetitive slow melody that the musicians are improvising around and riffing on. First in Balinese and then in English.
“Good evening friends. Thank you for coming to this evening’s performance. The first public viewing of our version of the Mahabharata, I know that some of you have come a long way to be here and some of you have only had to walk from your houses. Wherever you have come from, whatever has brought you here this evening you are all very welcome. The show is about to begin so if you haven’t already found a seat please sit down, make yourself comfortable and our story will start in a few minutes”
People moving to seats or the last few spaces on the mats. Many of them with bowls of noodles, rice and vegetables, fruit, crackers, crisps, chocolate and cups of fruit juice, tea or other beverages. Talking at first then gradually the sound of conversations fading as the blue light from behind the screen begins to grow, to change from blue through green to yellow and then a bright white as the orchestra’s melody begins to change, picking up in tempo with the trumpets and saxophones creating staccato rhythms over the hand drums and the repeating riffs on the keyboard and sitar.
Then......suddenly....the screen is filled with explosions of colour as two armies of life size shadow puppets pour onto the screen outlined against a background of jungle foliage and flowers dominated by a huge mountain.
The trumpet, keyboard and saxophones fade out as the gamelan takes over the focus of the music joined by wild edgy and chaotic rhythms on the sitar and drums including a tabla player beating out a lyrical uptempo teental.
Swords, spears, bows and arrows, elephants, horses, chariots mixed with machine guns, bazookas, flame throwers, grenades, rocket launchers, dive bombers and tanks. Pieces of puppet limbs flying across the screen. Huge red stains that seem to grow and then dissolve at different points of the battle, an overwhelming riot of colour, violence and destruction and yet.....there is something beautiful and totally captivating about it.
Some of the younger children hide their faces or clutch onto their older brothers and sisters. All of them open mouthed at what is unfolding in front of them.
The puppets aren’t the traditional shadow puppets used in the wayang, though the shapes and outlines have a similar Balinese flavour to them. Many are two or three times the size of the traditional puppets, made of painted perspex or transparent plastics, inlaid with gels and intricately carved patterns and designs of wood or card casting black outlines alongside the riot of colours, shapes and forms as they move, almost lifelike, and interact across the screen.
It’s impossible to tell how many puppeteers are behind the screen, at times it would seem from the action that there must be dozens of them.....
Somehow the spectacle is more vivid, intense and moving than any imax movie or 60”super HD TV screen. The audience is completely captivated by and riveted to it which I can see as I gaze briefly round the square at their faces enthralled by the battle unfolding before them.
Then, suddenly, at the height of the confusion and chaos of the conflict, accompanied by a wild cacophony of sound and music from the orchestra the action freezes. The music stops mid note and rhythm. A sweet sounding melodic woman’s voice in Balinese translated into English accompanied by the gamelan and a flowing piano sound fills the square.
“The battle between the 2 families of cousins the Pandavas & the Kauravas is balanced equally. Many have been slaughtered and wounded. No quarter has been asked or given. What will the outcome be?”
The still images of the chaos and confusion of the battle slowly dissolve into a bright rainbow coloured light that spills out and illuminates the audience in its shades of yellow, orange, red, blue, green & violet.
Suddenly, how this happens I really still have no idea, there is a full size chariot pulled by a pure white charger front centre between the audience and the screen.
On the chariot are 2 figures. I and probably the whole audience knew who they are. Krishna with Arjuna driving. Krishna, rather unexpectedly, is a woman. A stunningly beautiful woman with blue skin, long black hair wearing a flowing saffron coloured robe next to Arjuna who has an automatic rifle, an AK 47 possibly, slung over one shoulder in the full battle dress, gas mask and helmet of a GI about to invade Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Venezuela, Vietnam.....take your pick....holding the chariot reins casually in his left hand with his right hand resting on Krishna’s arm.
At the same time the screen has grown even wider and higher filling gradually with a number of still and moving images of the 2 charioteers in close up, medium shot and a high long shot of the chariot including some of the audience.
The female voice moves seamlessly from Balinese to Sanskrit as she begins to sing with a beautiful animated script of subtitles in Balinese and English across the bottom of the screen. It’s Krishna singing accompanied by the piano playing a slow lyrical and slightly mournful melody with the low hum of the bass gamelan in the background.
Arjuna’s voice joins hers and together their vocals soar over the instruments while the piano fades out and a slow raga builds on the sitar with the drone of the gamelan supporting it as they sing together what I realise are lines from a modern version of the Bhagavad Gita. Though I have never read it in full I recognise it immediately. I’ve dipped into it and a friend of David’s, Rama, is a Hindu, sometimes when I'd been doing a yoga class one of the teachers had read from it.
Just the sitar, the drone and the beautiful words. The sound of Sanskrit being recited, something about the power of this language even a language that I don't understand. At the same time the still images dissolve into a long high shot of the chariot on a vast plain with the snow capped mountain behind covered in bodies.....victims of war, famine, disease and all the challenges our human selves face on our journey from birth to death, superimposed with moving close ups of their faces as they sing.
It was beautiful......terrifying...mesmerising.
The large sharp images of Krishna fill the screen as she sings, slowly winding her long black hair into a topknot that she fixes to her head with a golden comb inlaid with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and other precious stones that glitter and shine throwing out their crystalline rays onto the faces and bodies of the audience.
Arjuna takes off his helmet and gas mask to reveal his closely cropped hair framing his handsome brown face with dark almost black eyes and full red lips above his chiselled chin. At times it seems they’re dancing together on the chariot as they throw back their heads and sing
The screen also contains what I would hesitate to call mere shadow puppets.
Images of Krishna, Arjuna and the chariot in traditional wayang puppet form that overlay the images on screen of their faces and bodies as they sing and move together. Along with gorgeous images that move, dissolve and merge of the natural world interlocking, interweaving patterns within patterns initially like complex Arabic geometric shapes but not just Arabic.......patterns, designs, shapes from many different cultures.
Celtic...Viking...Chinese....Amerindian...a multitude of forms that become mandalas composed of flowers slowly blossoming, trees growing, leaves and fruit, clouds, rain, birds of every kind, hosts of butterflies, insects, fish, tigers, deers, monkeys. Suddenly diving down into the deep blue of the sea with a vast array of fish glistening in every imaginable colour, seals, puffins, dolphins, octopuses, whales, sharks.......
Mixed with the images of Krishna and Arjuna’s faces sometimes including their bodies with their arms and hands in expressive mudras moving in an endless dance as they sing to each other and to us, perfectly balanced by the extraordinary images of nature in all her glory, wonder and beauty.
The whole screen fills with them sometimes in colour sometimes in black-and-white, the words of the Bhagavad Gita flow out across the audience accompanied by the sitar now playing entirely on its own
And all the time the text from the Gita and other sutras rolls across the And all the time the text from the Gita and other sutras rolls across the screen....
As the sound of the sitar fades there is just a single image of Arjuna’s hand filling the screen holding a flower between his thumb and forefinger.
The words on the screen slowly scatter and dissolve....
A perfect, beautiful flower.
A Lotus or a Rose in the gesture of perfect peace.
The music changes. A few brief moments of silence and then the sweet ancient sounds of the Northumbrian pipes float out through the village square, playing a slow heart wrenching lament as the hand with the flower is replaced by an image of Arjuna’s face begins to fill the whole screen. Huge tears rolling down his face as the image continues to grow until there are only his eyes and cheeks with the tears.
In each tear there are faces reflected and I realise that these reflections are the faces of the audience members, constantly changing to new ones.
Then a reflection in one of the largest tears of Krishna’s blue face. Smiling. Imperturbable. I realise with a shock that it’s my face....Remembering what Paul had said about “modelling one of the sort of shadow puppets on a photo of you.....but you’ll see”
Before I have time to think any more about what, if anything, this means, the image of a multitude of tears fades out to leave a pale blue light on the screen with a single bright warm spotlight on the chariot as Arjuna and Krishna embrace.
Arjuna steps down from the chariot towards the audience.
I wonder if he is going to walk into the audience but he stands there, absolutely still for at least a minute as the sound of the pipes is joined by the slow beat of a hoop drum. Then in a single graceful movement he takes the automatic rifle off his shoulder grips it in both hands, raises his arms above his head and, seemingly effortlessly, breaks the gun in two. There is a huge flash of light, almost blinding the audience, who let out a shout, a mix of fear and exultation.
A few moments later when I am no longer dazzled I see that the broken gun has turned into a myriad of flower petals that fall around Krishna & Arjuna and drift out across the audience.
He puts both hands on his heart and looks deeply into the eyes of everyone in the audience. He bows, turns, seems to walk up an invisible stairway to the right of the chariot into the pale blue screen and disappears.
Krishna is left alone. She holds the reins of the white Horse who seems so calm and unperturbed in all of this. Then she turns the Horse and chariot, which throughout this extraordinary sequence had been at right angles to the audience, to face the audience that is divided by the long, clear corridor about 2 metres wide.
The chariot begins to travel down it. It’s wide enough for the chariot to start picking up speed as it moves accompanied by the pipes with the hoop drum beating behind it, at first playing a slow, repetitive rhythm, an extraordinary combination of melody, sound and beats. As the chariot begins to gather speed they are joined by tablas, djembes and then the full gamelan orchestra building the rhythm.
It seems to me watching it from where I’m sitting at the front on the far right that the audience and the corridor extends much further than when I first sat down. The corridor itself, the space between the two sections of the audience, is growing wider and longer by hundreds of yards and then it seems to be at least half a mile long.
It’s now lined with vast ornate temples and palaces with crowds of people outside them shouting and cheering , not just the audience who were there at the beginning of the performance but tens of thousands of people of all ages and races dressed in exotic and varied costumes of many shapes, sizes and colours.
Krishna begins to encourage the Horse with words in a language that is certainly not Sanskrit. The Horse throws her head back and begins to sing with a beautiful soprano neighing sound. Krishna joins her in this new language. She has let go of the reins as if she and the horse no longer need them. She turns from side to side raising her arms and bowing her head to acknowledge the cheers and adulation of the crowds and the audience.
I know that everyone can see this in complete detail from the smallest baby to the oldest man or woman in their seat in the audience. Though after the performance I could never say whether what I saw took place in front of me, on the screen or even in my mind.
Was it real, or was it the most extraordinary illusion that was so convincing that it just seemed real?
But it doesn’t matter because I and all the audience are captivated, carried away by the Horse, the chariot and Krishna with her hands raised in blessing above her head as the Horse begins to canter then breaks into a gallop towards the far end of the village square, which is now so much further away from when we first arrived on the road in the car, coming out of the jungle and into the village.
She sings the melody of the gamelan, her face and body brightly illuminated from within the chariot. I can see every detail of her face even though she is now far away, hear every note she is singing and the orchestra are playing.
Suddenly the music comes to the end of a phrase, a rhythmic cycle and stops all together.
Krishna sings a long high note echoed a couple of octaves below by the deep ringing tones of what must be a huge gong. They are at the end of the village square. She holds the note effortlessly and it seems inevitable that they will gallop down the road to disappear into the jungle but at that moment the horses hooves begin to lift off the ground, she begins to fly, effortlessly pulling the chariot behind her.
Krishna throws back her head.......laughing. Such a laugh of pleasure and joy that the whole audience and the other onlookers explode with laughter.
For the horse and the chariot are really flying now..........flying up over the jungle......there beyond the jungle rising above it is a huge full moon.
A full moon tinted with pinks, yellows, oranges and reds from the sun that had set it seems a lifetime ago.
As they rise up towards the moon, travelling at high speed, Krishna turns and for a moment she, the chariot and the Horse are silhouetted against the moon, small black and white shadow puppets miles and miles away traversing the outline of the moon.
Then they are across the moon and gone.
The moon passes behind a thick bank of cloud and suddenly the whole village is plunged into darkness with the only light coming from the candles, oil lamps and the screen changing from pale blue to a rainbow of colours that grows slowly as all the musicians begin to play together their final melody.
Triumphant, lyrical, joyful. Lasting only a few minutes while the rainbow light grows until we are dazzled by it.
Then the last note of the melody and rhythms fades out along with the light from the screen.
We are left in candle light and silence for what seems many minutes. Stunned, uplifted, moved and connected and....no words can quite describe how I feel....how I still feel writing this account around an hour later.
Someone starts to clap, then we are all on our feet cheering, clapping, whistling, stamping as the soft auditorium lights come on and we see there is no screen any more, no temples or palaces or crowds of people.
Just the audience with 5 puppeteers standing together on a stage where the screen has been.
Holding a shadow puppet each. Arjuna, Krishna, the Horse, an Eagle and a Monkey. Just 3 women & 2 men joined almost immediately by the group of musicians (there must be at least 10 of them) Paul and all the production assistants, volunteers, stage and technical crew. 30 or 40 people crowded onto the stage together. All smiling with their hands on their hearts.
Everyone dressed in white loose trousers and long sleeved white tops with a simple logo on the front of a black & gold Om symbol surrounded by a rainbow.
The audience continue to clap, cheer, shout, jump up and down as they take a bow. Slowly raising their arms above their heads then bringing their hands down pressed together over their hearts, gently and gracefully bowing their heads, turning together and leaving the stage.
The applause and appreciation for this extraordinary, wonderful and genuinely magical event goes on for many minutes.
Now it’s time to stop writing in my journal as Paul and some of his friends are insisting that I join them in dancing to the live music at the after show party. I suspect some of them have been indulging in the alcoholic cocktail that so far I have resisted. Maybe I will try a mouthful or two. The small group that were playing earlier have been joined by some of their fellow musicians and are creating some irresistible dance tunes. So I will join the dancers. Till the next time.....
The after show party had gone on till the early hours of the morning. Joanna was surprised to see so many children and young people there but Paul told her that this was quite normal in Bali. There were few places or occasions where children, young people and adults didn’t happily mix and coexist.
They had left the village while the party was slowly winding down and Sahid had driven them back to Paul’s house where Joanna had immediately fallen asleep on a very comfortable futon in the spare room.
She’d got up late in the morning, showered, dressed to find Paul in the kitchen making them breakfast of toast with tahini and honey, a fruit salad of fresh bananas, mangos and papaya fruit topped with dollops of thick yogurt and a pot of green tea.
It had been a leisurely breakfast on the table and chairs in the garden under the shade of a banyan tree as they talked about her work, their ideas on Hindu/Buddhist cosmology and of course the wayang and how all the effects had worked. Paul giving evasive answers to her questions about the line between the illusion and the reality of what she had experienced.
She had even speculated about some kind of hallucinogen in the food or drink. She’d heard there were some powerful Balinese magic mushrooms or maybe they’d been hypnotised somehow.
Paul had laughed these suggestions off as both outrageous and impractical.
“ Hypnotise the whole audience? I don’t think so. How could we have done that? You talked with other people who watched it so you know that everyone had more or less the same experience as you, which isn’t what happens with magic mushrooms or any other natural hallucinogen. Everyone who takes them has different experiences. No it was just very elaborate stage magic, tricks and illusions which one day, maybe, I’ll reveal to you.”
He’d laughed again, taken a sip of his tea and asked her.
“So what time is your flight?”
Joanna had found her ticket in her shoulder bag which she’d put on one of the empty chairs and realised to her horror that though she was sure that the flight to London via Singapore was much later that evening in fact....
“Oh shit it leaves in just over an hour!”
It was totally unlike her to be unpunctual. She must have been distracted by their conversations and her undoubted attraction to Paul.
“OK. We’ll leave now. I’ll take you on the bike. I’ve got a spare helmet. You can carry your rucksack on your back and put your shoulder bag in a pannier, but we need to leave now if you’ve any chance of catching your flight”
She’d thrown all her clothes and belongings into the rucksack. Checked she had everything she’d brought with her in her bag including her passport and tickets. She had run out the front door to join Paul who was starting up his large immaculate BMW R100, put the shoulder bag in one of the panniers, secured her rucksack over both shoulders, put on the helmet Paul handed her and they were off.
It was a crazy ride of weaving and speeding through traffic, down side roads, almost jumping a couple of red lights while she hung on tightly to Paul. They arrived within 40 minutes at Departures at Denpasar airport. But they were too late. In spite of Paul’s rapid fire Balinese at the check in desk and Joanna’s tears she wasn’t able to board as the plane was already on the runway preparing to take off and it was impossible for it to turn back for Joanna.
The young woman at the check in desk was sympathetic and not impervious to Paul’s charm. She had offered Joanna a 75% refund and seats on a flight to Singapore on a DC7 that was leaving in an hour. She had booked her follow on tickets from Singapore to Saigon and a flight from Saigon to London via Calcutta. This, though a rather circuitous route, also meant that with her 75% refund Joanna only needed to spend an extra £20.00 to get her home a day later than planned.
The boarding gate was about to close so she only had a moment to embrace and hold Paul in her arms.
“Thank you for coming to see me Joanna. Such a pleasure”
“It’s been an amazing experience. A wonderful visit….I’ll be back in Bali soon I’m sure”
He had kissed her on both cheeks, brushed his finger over her lips, turned round and walked quickly out of the airport.
She watched him go for a moment, then she was running towards the departure lounge ready to get on her flight to Singapore..........
All this, sitting here on the log with the sun breaking through the jungle canopy, was almost unimaginable.
She knew that she needed to start walking, to follow the instructions that Red had given her. She stood up, picked up her rucksack, secured it over both shoulders. With the knife in her right hand she turned towards the track she had seen leading into the jungle, possibly created by deer or even a large predator. She felt a moment of fear, took a couple of slow deep breaths, was about to start walking into the jungle when from behind her the parakeet landed gently on her left shoulder.
Of course it might have been any parakeet but as she looked at it perched on her shoulder she knew that it was the same bird she had met after the plane crash.
Immediately she received a series of powerful images in her mind. Not the same kind of communication she’d had with Red, much simpler, a brightly animated image of her with the parakeet flying ahead taking the journey through the jungle together. Accompanied by an image of Red giving her a thumbs up and then a burst, a vivid almost overwhelming 3 dimensional picture of a huge network of communication involving thousands of creatures. A kind of animal telepathic world wide web was how she had described it later to Rosa.
She knew that somehow Red and the parakeet had connected. That she would, as far as the parakeet could ensure, be looked after by it. She felt a sense of security that almost balanced her sense of expectation and danger for the journey that lay ahead.
With the parakeet resting easily on her shoulder Joanna set off into the jungle.
Medium shot following Joanna from behind as walks towards the jungle with parakeet on her shoulder.
As she enters the trees parakeet turns its head and gazes straight into camera.
Camera stops following them as they disappear into the trees.
Pan up through green leaves, flowers and a sudden host of multicoloured butterflies momentarily filling the shot.
Then continue up through trees and into bright blue sky.
Fade to blue......
* A Wayang is a Balinese shadow puppet performance usually accompanied by an orchestra of Gamelans. These consist of a wide tonal range of wooden & metal balafons/xylophones, bells and gongs.