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A writer's dream -- here I am on this Oasis of Serenity, Bali, a tropical paradise and suddenly the eyes of these peaceful islanders show fear as rebellion rears its ugly head, on their quiet haven. There is usually fun, joy, and contentment here, but somehow hysteria has replaced harmony.
This island, ninety percent Hindu, is in the midst of unbridled turmoil, because the Moslem majority has overruled its fervent wishes for a legitimate voice in the government. Simple people, simply confused by the promise of democracy. It is the rainy season and dark clouds overhead present a portent of the building concern for the future of this island of tranquility.
Magawati is their hope -- their princess of promise. She had been recently elected by a large majority to represent their interest -- fulfill their destiny. Now she is being ignored just as their aspirations have been ignored for so many years. Even the caste system has evolved to the point where they acknowledge that they have equal value in the work force. Now they stand shoulder to shoulder with a common plea for acknowledgment.
Suddenly, we are forced to attempt skirting around the protesters. Forced to use roads barely passable for years, neglected because the locals had no voice. Confused, bewildered lines of two and four wheel vehicles pressed together like a war torn evacuation. On the side of the road harvested rice fields have turned brown -- an ironic reference to the political change of seasons, the end of an era.
Again we are faced with the young protesters standing by their fiery roadblocks with their newly acquired power. Motorbikes block the intersections. Young warriors on iron horses, trying awkwardly to lead the way to their culture's future. Black T shirts with the political affiliation logos, black and white checkered sarongs, and black and white checkered Hindu headbands, demonstrate their religious zeal, and are a powerful reminder of their historical battle against great odds, during the Ramayana Saga. Wielding machetes to fell trees, blocking all the thoroughfares. How do they acknowledge their righteousness and still accomplish their objectives peacefully?
This scene is repeated road after road, using whatever materials are available to block the roadways. New fires set right in front of us by young protesters, some only in their teens, using pine trees to build their flaming statements. I step out of the vehicle to see how far ahead the obstructions are, and are they passable? Up ahead, trees fall across the road as I watch, listening to the sounds of the hacking machetes destroying nature's greenery. The young warriors directly in front of us wave their red flags with the charging bull symbol to show they have come of age and want to participate. How much fear can they generate, yet this fervor is occasionally interrupted with some youthful laughter?
Young teenage girls celebrate the festival like atmosphere. They come up close to our vehicle and engage in schoolgirl prattle. Even while, up ahead young men, like beavers, topple trees leaving a sea of fallen limbs across the road. Other young girls giggle in glee, oblivious to the destruction and aggressive expression of anger by the young warriors directly in front of us.
We can go no farther here, so it was turn around again as we had done many times before, and search for another unchallenged passageway. It was no celebration for the professional drivers, so used to a peaceful day at their wheeled offices. Suddenly they are threatened, maybe for the first time in their lives.
Every imaginable obstacle is placed across every roadway, narrow, wide, country road, and even the major highways. Young trees, bricks, steel barrels, electric poles knocked down, roadside tables and stands. The flames rise over every barricade and the stench of burning tires permeates the air.
Finally there is nowhere to go. The stranded are bewildered, the locals are friendly, demonstrating their good cultural upbringing. Now we are directed to wait by the road, as we are informed that this is a timed demonstration and will be over at 9 PM after they make their dramatic gesture so that they can be heard. No one knows how we will get through this mess at that time.
We seek a safe haven to wait. There is an isolated rural home with several tour vans already parked there. With all this stimulation of the senses, I try to continue to write on a raised concrete slab near a window that is allowing a dim light to illuminate the area near this humble abode. Blow across the concrete with my breath to clean the writing area of dirt and debris while I wonder how I'm going to be able to position myself to use this platform that is only two foot off of the ground and write on it at the same time.
A small girl, probably around five years old appears in her tattered clothes carrying a well-worn, small child's red wooden chair for me to sit on while I write on my concrete desk. She points down to the chair as an offering, her face trying to mask a sheltered smile. As I uttered a hearty thank you, she has already turned and is clip clopping her sandals across the rocky surface on the side of her house and is up the stairs and back into hiding again.
I thought how so many acts of kindness are always there to take away the sting of ugly confrontations. I used up the backs of all the printing papers I had, and wished that my little savior had also had a writing pad, but I shouldn't be greedy at a time like this.
An interesting mixture of emotions -- not really threatening all this time. The local people seem more concerned than the visitors. Embarrassed by the unruly behavior of their countrymen, but also fearful that the peace and tranquility that they have always enjoyed, would now be interrupted for an unknown length of time.
The two wheelers are in charge! Each road that is closed, they have provided a small path that only they can transverse, again demonstrating the strength of the little people. They are little match for the large military vehicles showing up sporadically, except for their energy, passion, and commitment. They are all new to this type of challenge. If allowed to make their statement they will retreat back to their country homes with some satisfaction for the stand they have made. They will rise in the morning to lay out their offerings for the gods, and wait patiently to see how things move along from here.
If they are handled with too much force, or face the pangs of hard oppression, the situation could ignite into another E. Timor. Their friendly smiles replaced by a stoic grimace that will not soon go away, without some resolution of their grievances. The scene is set in this region for another Yugoslavian experience.
A crippled, nearly blind cleric takes the presidential reigns of this wakening giant, with hardly enough physical strength to climb the podium to make his acceptance speech, and he is now faced with the most challenging times in Indonesia's recent history. Military leaders, who seem a foot taller then the new president, have to assist him to the podium. A pictorial image of the large military strength that has an overwhelming background presence.
Two hours later, and someone has announces that the demonstration has ended. It doesn't take long to ascertain that our situation has not improved that much. The roads are still blocked with burning barricades built out of trees and whatever. Piles of unburned trees are hardly visible in the dark and make passage difficult. Finally, one intersection that looks like there may be a small passage through, but the confrontationalist direct, in a menacing fashion, that no one can proceed through there yet and we were again forced to turn back.
Even when we find a way through the debris, the opening is so narrow that it takes outside direction to traverse them safely. The smallest of back roads are still blocked by anything available. Walls are torn down and thrown across the roadway. Turned back at every turn by more obstacles dozens of times, until finally a two wheeler points out an alley only designed for two wheelers. With the vehicle's mirrors turned in to make the vehicle narrower the driver successfully navigated back to the main highway, not far from the hotel.
The main highway was harder to close off, but burning debris still has to be avoided to pass through safely. Finally the last major intersection near our hotel -- we're there! Not quite, the intersection is flaming, two wheelers block the center of the intersection. Red flags are waved, the sound of metal oil drums being stuck with a hammer to produce a banging noise for major impact. (Not known to us at this time, but they were celebrating triumphantly their victory. Their female messiah, Mrs. Megawatis has been named as their vice president. First ignored, their voices had now been heard.)
Six hours and ten miles later, we had endured the challenges and reached our temporary home safely, far removed from our first impression of a simple peaceful life. The air permeated with the smell of incense as we had tip toed around the many offerings to the gods. Palm trees swaying in the gentle breezes. Fuchsia colored bougainvillea petals cascading down the sides of the large over grown bushes. No man made noise to disturb our new found tranquility, as manual labor in colorful sarongs move quietly around, sweeping, cleaning, tiding up their areas. Ponsais placed everywhere like flower baskets. Their maturity obvious by the character built into their aging trunks. The shallow water rolling up to the shore, brushing by the bathers only waist high, gently like the normal tone of the Bali experience
Unknown to us, the demonstrations had begun early in the morning, strategically to influence the selection of the vice president. Shutting down the Denpasar airport, virtually every street and intersection in the Southern half of the island, forcefully demonstrating the ability of the Hindu political movement to totally immobilize this international resort, which could cut off a large financial feed line for the Indonesian economy, an economy already struggling for vitality.
This demonstration of their power proved how well this political movement has developed a serious organization that is skilled in making an adversarial statement that could muster up human resource numbers that will impress their rivals.
Maybe the sun will rise tomorrow, and this will only be a wistful memory, but I'm afraid the seeds are planted that may grow into a human tragedy in the near future. My heart goes out to these brave exponents of freedom, and I hope they have the courage to take them through any threats to their future.
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