Under the Parasol

by Claire Hopkinson (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Indonesia

I will never look at a parasol in the same light again.. The day we had been waiting for, finally arrived. A memorable birthday awaited. Anna and I chartered a boat from Kedisan, a small sleepy village on the West Bank of Lake Batur. By the pontoon, local children with make-shift fishing rods, watched with intrigue as we set sail. Basking in the afternoon sunshine as it welcomed us, we began reflecting on the morning: fuelled with banana pancakes, my attention drawn to the hands of a local artist as he skilfully carved a sacred mask, out of crocodile wood, the patchwork Tegallalang Rice Terrace like an auditorium, the sound of the Balinese music, still ringing in our ears. Wondering if the local children had caught their evening meal. In awe of Mount Batur towering our viewpoint, aware the volcano could erupt at any moment. Embracing a new age. ‘Over there!’ our local guide, pointed out the remote Bali Aga village of Trunyan, Small wooden structures, dominated by an eleven pagoda Inhabited by an indigenous tribe, lined the Eastern shore, below the foot of Mount Abang. Mully took great pride in showing us his homeland, sharing with us his wealth of knowledge and forever fascinated finding out the cultural differences between us that made us unique. He referred to it as ‘my work, my holiday.’ Our conversation carried on flowing with the current. An abundance of green surrounding us once more. Clouds moving in. I could feel the engine slowing down, the boatman steering the rudder inland. A small jetty appeared out of know where, unsure of its destination. ‘Climb out!’ instructed Mully, a voice we had grown to trust over the day. The boatman, talking in his native tongue, his body language firmly understood. He sat back down in the boat. Only a local would know the existence of our next steps. It was good to stretch our legs if nothing more. Following in Mully’s foot steps, it became clear to us there was an overgrown entrance amongst the vast jungle slopes that lined the water. We made our advance. My eyes, adjusting to the low-lit tones. Focussing my attention on the colossal Banyan tree taking centre stage, it’s canopy towering above us, providing a welcome shade and breeze from the warm, humid air. The trunk baring its ancient routes, directing my eye to what appeared to be a 2000 rupiah note on the ground. To my amazement it was! As though Anna had smashed open a piñata for us to feast our eyes on. Several more notes and coins visible, along with full packets of cigarettes. Scanning the floor further, wicker baskets filled with pots and pans and silver wear. I look up. I realise we are not alone. Lined up on the small wall next to the Taru Menyan ‘nice-smelling tree’, an army of skulls watching our every moves. we exchange stares. It came natural to Mully holding them in his grasp to show us. Next, he invited us to take a closer look at the 11 large bamboo canopies shaded by elegant, handmade parasols, traditional in Bali. I didn't expect to find eyes and teeth grinning back at me through the gaps of the structure. Some with a full head of hair, toenails and fully dressed. Other corpses, just bones. The baskets we earlier discovered were left by relatives to provide for them in the afterlife. An open grave wasn’t the birthday surprise I had anticipated for Anna.