DACMan

Lindu is truly one of my favorite human spirits on earth. Alive and playful, he’s overflowing with out-of-the-box creativity. Delightfully twisted, the unexpected is his norm. A bicycle seat magically become ears, a door handle, a mouth of a sculpture. Soon a mystical or goofy creature takes shape. His latest creation for me is a monster, a comical spider with plow handle legs and a pair of rear view mirrors to keep an eye on the suspended kite he’s pulling along behind. Beautiful madness. If I’d ever be jealous of someone, it would be of him and the brilliant vision, fun, and soul he brings to each piece he creates.

Tonight I attended the opening of Lindu’s exhibition at the Four Seasons, Jimbaran; Bali’s quintessential tropical resort. It was perfect in all ways. Lindu has grown leaps artistically in the years I’ve known him. I feel pride in him and joy in his accomplishment. When he saw me walk in, he jumped up and hugged me. His first words were, “This happened only because of you. You believed in me for years before I believed in myself. Thank you!” This was his night, but his acknowledgment was for me. I was stunned by his generosity of spirit and sweetness. My biggest surprise of that moment, however, was that he speaks good English. I had no idea that we would eventually be able to talk directly to each other! We’d always used translators! He was previously simply too shy to speak English to me. I have actually mentioned to friends in America that my largest frustration of not knowing Indonesian is that I cannot speak with Lindu. Even this wish is now fulfilled.

This spring, two of my house staff, Made and Putu entered a body builder’s contest. Made looks like a small-sized Mr. Universe. Six months ago, he enrolled Putu, the shy one, into a serious regimen of workouts. Made, the bold, pulled up his shirt to show off his abs. He’s been at this for years and it shows. Made, Made Curly, so named by the staff for his curly hair, just got a modified Mohawk this week. No more Made Curly. We also have a Made Security, a.k.a., Made Tinggi (or Made Tall) on staff. Made Mohawk proudly points to Putu and says, “Putu has abs now too, show them!” Putu looks uncomfortable, but pulls his shirt up halfway. Sure enough, to everyone’s surprise, there they are, real, live abs.

The competition apparently was a low budget local affair. Four local gyms were competing against each other, each presenting five of their best specimens. Somehow I couldn’t see a Speedo contest for local Balinese, so when Made showed me photos of the competition, I wasn’t surprised that the twenty guys competing were barefoot and bare-chested, wearing oil and blue jeans. They were lined up on the stage at once, striking poses from silly tough guy to smiling charmer, the effect being an overall kind of sweetness in its innocence.

Having finished an extraordinary final meal at my favorite restaurant in Bali, Lamak, I was looking forward to a quick ride home, an hour of rice field and lightning bug watching, and an early bedtime. We walked slowly down the half flight of steps onto Monkey Forest Road, the main shopping and eating street in Ubud. My driver of five years, Wayan, had dropped us off in front of Lamak and headed up the street to find parking. We walked uphill, window shopping and making final plans for completing the to-do list before I had to fly home the next day. The sidewalks in Ubud are difficult during daylight hours and treacherous after dark, so the stroll to find the car and driver was slow but enjoyable. After a few minutes, we spotted the car, but couldn’t find Wayan.  Usually, a musical call “Wa-yan” is enough to bring him to life, wherever he may be napping or chatting. Not tonight – “Wa-yan B-a-lik” we called again. The other drivers and taxi guys were all laughing knowing our driver was MIA. I joked with them, “No tip tonight for Wayan.” We all laughed again. Still no Wayan. I called his cell phone and no answer. “Uh oh. Now he is in trouble.” More laughter from all within hearing distance.

On my second try to call him, he picked up, but was fumbling with the phone before answering “Oh no, Pak David, I’ll be right there.” A minute later, we saw a figure in a long sleeve white shirt emerge from a side street, about 50 meters down hill, at a dead run, but still buttoning up his shirt. “Massage, Pak David, I was getting a massage. So sorry. Really bad idea.” “Maybe really long massage, I don’t remember.”

It looks to me like the world order is changing. The client now waits for the driver’s massage to be over, not the other way around….

Made Bidadari is a good friend, successful businessman, and a bit of a wheeler-dealer in the Japan/Bali circuit.  He will occasionally call me and tell me he’s hungry.  I always laugh and ask, “how hungry?”  Inevitably his response will be “very, very hungry.”  It’s code language for “I want money.”

We both laugh and tease each other about his insatiable hunger.  He’s always hungry but I only agree to meet him if he is having a 50% off sale just to see exactly how hungry he is.  He has some of the best wood that can be found but always at twice the market rate.  He deals primarily with Japanese clients whohave less space in their homes, fewer things, value the best of the best, and will pay top Yen for what they want.  I value the best, but won’t pay top dollar.  When I arrive at his warehouse, he assures me he is nearly starving and needs money for the family ski trip to Japan that night.

“Looking at schools for the kids?” I ask.  “No. They want to ski.  It’s the end of the ski season and bargain time.”  “Okay Made, really, how hungry?  Give me prices on 4 pieces and we’ll see about your hunger.”  He quotes Japanese prices plus 20% to me and I tell him he must have just eaten a feast and is so full he won’t be hungry for months.  Skiing is not hunger and he’s wasting my time.  We carry on saying more outrageous things to each other and laugh and laugh.

I love Made.  He’s fun, innocent, unprotected, and doesn’t hide the game involved in buying and selling.  When he first sees me he runs to me and gives me a huge bear hug.  This is very, very un-Balinese!  He credits me with his success in business from my guidance and major purchases early on and he actually means it.  Too bad I can’t afford his furniture anymore unless, of course, he’s truly hungry.

Today is not my lucky day.  I offer standard, good friend/business prices on 4 tables and he counters with a 10% discount.  I give him a big hug, wish him happy travels, and tell him to call me when his hunger has reached excruciating pain and not before.

Wayan Balik has been my driver in Bali for many years.  I recently learned what the “Balik” in Wayan Balik means. Roughly it’s either, “second time around,” or, “turn around again.” My driver’s name is “turn around again.” It gives one pause.  In any case, our friendship has grown over time, along with his English and driving skills. I can always tell if he is thinking about our conversations instead of goofing and laughing as he usually does. First he stops passing other cars and then slows to half-speed.  With extreme thinking, he simply stops. This both amuses and frustrates me. I remember once having to ask my friends in the car with us to stop talking to Wayan or we would never get to the north coast of Bali. At the time, Wayan was behind a very slow truck and had many opportunities to pass, but he was busy thinking. After an embarrassing moment we all laughed, especially Wayan, and off we went. Over time, Wayan has learned to think and drive at the same time.

Wayan is my living, laughing Buddha. He’s my model of non-attached joy. He seems to live in an inner world where all humans are strange, funny creatures to whom very funny things happen all the time. One day he was late to pick me up in the morning,  a rare occurrence. While we were on the road, he said, “My house and my village flooded and we had to push stranded cars off the road.” Instead of telling me with grave concern, he told me as if he were living inside a Three Stooges movie, laughing with the audience. Every mishap, misunderstanding, personal foible, and stupid motorist is grist for the happy-mill. But there is always compassion mixed in with the laughter and fun. If I didn’t work so intently while in Bali, he and I could easily drive around all day talking and laughing at humans doing funny human things. His laughter is never at someone. He can laugh at me plenty, especially when I take stupidity too seriously, but he patiently waits until I can laugh with him, and it usually doesn’t take long. I love and treasure him.

Yesterday he said something that was startlingly insightful.  Upon hearing this I told him he’s a very smart man, to which he replied, “No, not smart at all, really sort of stupid.” “Oh?” I inquired.  “Yes, very bad in school. Bad grades, bad in math and reading. I didn’t want to be in school.”  I assured him, “You know, we all learn in different ways and memorization isn’t always the best for smart people.” “I guess so,” he said. “I’m stupid in school, but I guess smart in life. I can see people. I can see how life works on the street and in the village.” Then he burst out laughing once again, telling me a story about his village. I thought to myself, “No kidding, you can see and see deeply enough to laugh. You are indeed my living, laughing Buddha.”

In January, I decided I wanted to make hundreds of grasshoppers out of palm leaves. I showed a photo to Wayan and he gave it to a man from his village that makes grasshoppers. The next day I was handed a wonderful palm leaf grasshopper. Over the next 10 days we made 5 new prototypes and progressively improved upon them until I had the ultimate model grasshopper.  During this process, we had the following conversation:

Wayan: “This coconut leaf is not good. Lasts only one month.”
David: “Oh?”
Wayan: “Yes, Pak David, this other palm leaf long lasting.”
David: “How long?”
Wayan: “Maybe forever.”
David: “Forever?”
Wayan: (Long pause, deep thought) “Yes, forever, maybe 10 years.”  (Straight face)  We looked at each other and couldn’t stop laughing.

I could tell Wayan stories for pages and pages.

In September, in the midst of an intense work schedule of forty straight, 13 hour days, Wayan and I were driving to the warehouse again to work with the carvers. I turned to Wayan and very seriously said, “Wayan, what is the meaning of Life?” We slowed to a crawl as he looked deeply into his life.  After two or three minutes he stopped the car, and with a look of concentrated innocence simply said, “I forgot.”  “Oh,” I said, feigning disappointment.  I couldn’t stop a smile from touching the corners of my mouth and we looked at each other for a moment and laughed uproariously.  So much wisdom was spoken in just two words. I will always remember “I forgot” and “forever, maybe 10 years.”  My favorite saying has become “The truth will make you laugh.”

Wayan: “There’s a big barbeque next week. Do you want to go?” David: “I don’t think so, I am a vegetarian.”
Wayan: “Oh, don?t worry, it really is a people barbeque, they’re cremating the old queen.”  It doesn’t get better than this.

Having watched his English improve over the years, we’ve decided to teach Wayan some idioms that he can use on other English speakers to impress them. Mainly, it’s an opportunity to make stuff up to laugh about.  He has now added to his repertoire, “slept like a log,” “it’s raining cats and dogs,” and “I need to piss like a racehorse.”

One last story to tell.  Justin and I were asking Wayan about people who are scavengers. We inquired, “What is ok to scavenge and what is not ok to take? Where’s the line?” He could not say where the line is between scavenging and stealing, but to avoid confusion, his village recently put up a sign which says “No scavengers.” Knowing we were on to something good, we pushed him again for an answer. He slowed down (a good sign) and said very clearly, “Scavenging and stealing are two separate jobs, sometimes same person.”

The waiter at our boutique hotel stood out from our first interaction. My first thought was that he was trained in a 5-star hotel in the West. His demeanor was warm, but with some reserve. His service was perfect, and timing impeccable. The more I watched him, the more I could see a level of serenity I rarely experienced in anyone, a serenity that comes from extensive spiritual training. It was his monk-like presence and flowing movements that touched us all.

Now in his mid twenties, Lodoe was sent to a monastery in southern Bhutan at the age of six and lived there the next sixteen years, only to be called home in 2006, when his father died. When I asked him if he missed that life, and his face glowed with memories. He said, “Oh yes! Very much I miss it.” He was alternately inspired and reticent when speaking of his former life. Being the younger son, he has an inescapable duty to his family. He explained there is no return to monastic life. His hunger for meditation and a simple life is clear. There’s sadness or loss in his eyes, which lurks beneath the surface of his remarkably handsome face. I am quite sure he could do anything asked of him, in any field, with great success. His body and mind were in the restaurant, his heart in the monastery, and his soul remains in the Buddhist teachings of compassion and living for the enlightenment of all sentient beings.

Everyone in our group was moved by Lodoe. Sometimes we don’t get the path we most desire; it’s simply not in the cards. I think Lodoe is here to help the rest of us along, to inspire us, to be an example, somehow, of living peacefully in everyday life. I wish he could have his life’s desire, but I am thankful for his living in the outside world.

Although there is something to be learned from anyone, a few times a year I meet someone from whom I want and need to learn. This man is one of those people. I hope our fates bring us together again. Just as Amita met Kunzang Chodin, and they discovered a connection and possibility of working together on a nursery school project, I would have Lodoe’s influence in my life. I want his peace, patience, and compassion. This foundation of compassion allows one, to allow others, to be as they are, without reaction or judgment. If someone shows me anger, I could return understanding, rather than more anger, if I were to be practicing compassion. Lodoe’s words, actions, and service all speak of his progress on the path to compassion. While I do strive to be good, most of the time, it’s immensely valuable and inspiring to have a model.  It might rub off.

Daeng is a gentle soul with deep knowledge of, and an unfailing good eye for, excellent primitive and tribal art. Originally from Sumba Island, he has deep family roots and a house or two there. He is perhaps the most respected tribal arts trader/collector in Indonesia, with an extensive collection of textiles, folk art, and Balinese and Javanese sculpture and artifacts.

The whole family participates in the business, and I’m warmly welcomed by all when I arrive. I’m invited to weddings, and made to feel part of the family. I have long-admired Daeng and the work he does. Every time I walk through his collection, I’m spellbound and lifted to wordless wonder. He finds pieces that vibrate with beauty and good energy. He knows each piece, its age, origin, use, and history. Many of the books on the great collections and museums of primitive art in Europe, show photographs of pieces he first discovered and sold. I visited his collection probably sixty or seventy times, and invariably run into a collector whose name I know, and whom I may have the privilege to meet.

One day I was at Daeng’s collection, and timidly asked if sometime in the future, he maybe, might consider, taking me to Sumba. When Daeng immediately answered, “How about next March for a five or six day cultural/buying trip?” I was astounded. This offer was truly a chance of a lifetime. He rarely takes people with him, and then only in groups. Only Daeng, his brother, and I went. I wrote a separate article, “West Sumba,” about this trip.

Needless to say, our friendship has grown over time. We were born only a couple of months apart, and both appreciate how valuable time is. We took a second, amazing trip to Sumba in January, 2009. I watched him talk, lecture, and scold his way through each day. When he got wound-up, telling his Sumbanese friends and would-be traders, how best to live their lives, I knew it was time to curl up with a book, or take a long walk. He was still at it when I returned. These discussions often became loud and animated. I could hear him across the soccer field. Daeng was always careful, later on, to let me know he was not angry with these people, just excited about what he wanted them to know. This trip is recounted in the article titled, “Sumba, 1/09.”

We know we’ll travel again to Sumba or some other tribal community in Indonesia one of these days. Daeng is, first and foremost, a generous, thoughtful man, who follows the passion of his work and his quest for timeless beauty. Many, many lives are richer because of him.

Ali is my friend from Sumba who guided me to see Pasola, the warriors-on-horseback festival on Sumba Island, Indonesia. Ali also scouts remote Sumba villages for me, looking for tribal art and artifacts. His opposites co-exist on his shirtsleeve. Aggressive and gentle, generous and blatantly self-interested, he accepts correction humbly, yet walks with that universal swagger of the arrogant or would-be arrogant. Each trait is always contested, at some point by its opposite. One never really knows which Ali will be on top in his war of opposites. Fortunately, his overriding attributes are loyalty and friendship. Ultimately, I can always count on him, though I cannot entirely trust him, as his self-interest is too highly developed for trust. I often have to remind him who he really is, in other words, the good Ali, to keep him on track.

Pasola - Sumba Island

Ali never stops making requests. “You must buy this from me. It’s old, good patina, and really good price.” I spend most of my time with him saying “No.” Eventually, he stops asking me to buy that piece and moves on to the next thing, the next request, and the next “No.” He knows there is always a “Yes” somewhere, so he never gives up. If I tell him he’s doing something wrong, he gets quiet, hangs his head, says, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” and promises to change. It lasts about 30 seconds. He’s like a puppy, momentarily abashed and utterly irrepressible.

Any time of the day or night, I can get a text message that says, “Hi David,” that’s all, just, “Hi David.” It used to drive me crazy, and I’d ignore it, or text back, “What do you want, Ali?”, until I finally realized he just wanted to say “Hi.”

He talks too loudly, and too often, and acts, rather than thinks. Someone should lock up his cell phone. Thank God, he runs out of minutes on it almost daily. Streetwise, intuitive, and without discipline, he wants desperately to help with everything, but seems to have trouble taking any direction. Sometimes, his way of doing things even works!

Did I mention he has a huge heart, a hunger to learn, and unstoppable good energy?

In the villages of Bhutan, life hasn’t changed all that much over the centuries. There’s often no electricity, or bridges over the rivers, and often few roads. There is little currency in circulation. The fields are worked by hand, and Buddhist traditions are deeply revered. Having had the opportunity to see this remarkably unchanged culture, to feel and see the beauty of the land and people as they are, I wish they would never change. That wish is made from my unthinking, selfish point of view, one that would probably require a certain level of privilege to be maintained for some, and poverty for others. That’s not exactly what I would choose if I were God, but I’d hate to see this beauty, serenity, and spiritual depth, erode.

There is, however, change in the air. Once a path of economic development has been taken to improve the health and education of the people, it often turns into a super highway, rushing along all those on it, or blocking its way.

We hiked the final few miles up to an ancient manor house where we were to stay two nights. I would have been happy to stay two weeks, even though there was no electricity, no road, and only wood stoves for heat on these cold, early, spring nights.

Kunzang Choden, the owner of the Manor, greeted us at its gate. She is one of the most inspiring people I have met anywhere, anytime. The author of seven books, she speaks eloquently about Bhutan to groups in her home, as well as at conferences all over the world. I happened to hear her interviewed on National Public Radio in the US a few months ago. Her novel, “The Circle of Karma” was the first novel written by a Bhutanese to be published. It was short-listed last year for book of the year. Her transformation of the entire main building of the manor house into an extensive folk and cultural museum, allowed us a deeper look at past and present day life in Bhutan. Her work on the educational system for the poorest of the poor and revitalizing the crafts and traditions of Bhutan, earned her the unofficial title of “The Queen” among the common folk throughout the country. She is not in competition with any of the four existing queens of Bhutan however. (Now, there’s a story for later!).

Kunzang spends most of her time in the capital city Thimphu, helping guide the country from a kingdom to a democracy, and beyond. All of this is biographical. It is her presence, generosity, and thoughtfulness which inspired us, and made us not want to leave her side. She speaks in a straightforward, but eloquent, manner, infused with intelligence and humor. Her warmth and personal peace comes from a life of hard work, not privilege, though the family heirlooms in the museum are from generations of royal blood that runs deep on both sides of her family.

When I asked Kunzang what she sees for the future of Bhutan’s 700,000 people, she said the people see and want things, things that will make life less harsh, from rice cookers to electric light and heat. The kids are leaving the villages for the capital. They want gadgets, cars, and whatever else they see on television. Having electricity means not having to cut and haul trees, chop and stack wood, and build a fire, just to boil water for tea. It means light to read by at night. Developing facilities for education and health care is at the top of the country’s to-do list. The hope is that the Bhutanese will recognize what’s enough and what’s too much. Deep, deep in their training is the concept of “Enough” and that may be their guide through the massive changes brought by the increasingly influential world of materialism. Also deep in Bhutanese training, is recognition we come into this world with nothing and leave with nothing. With that training and something of the Buddhist concept of “mindfulness,” her hope is the future of Bhutan will be balanced, rather than overrun.

We felt privileged to spend an afternoon touring the museum with Kunzang. She grew up in that manor house and shared her stories, and those of generations of her forefathers, brought to her mind by seeing pieces in the extensive collection of farm implements, kitchen and household tools, and crockery, formal clothing, furniture, and sacred objects. After both of our wonderful dinners, we gathered around the wood stove with Kunzang as she told more tales and answered our questions. What I found from our time with her was how much I want to contribute something to this unusual land.

Lindu, an artist’s artist, fits and breaks all the standard artist molds. When we first met four years ago, he was living alone. After a couple failed attempts at morning visits to see him, we learned to wait until mid-afternoon to show up at his shop/workshop/house/studio. If we arrived any earlier, he would be asleep or so blurry-eyed from working all night on his creations, that he was completely worthless. His workers were busy by 9 am, but there was never a sign of “the man” that early. In the hot Java afternoons, he was invariably shirtless, lean and brimming over with jokes, good humor, and playfulness, very much like the sculpture he makes. Dek dubbed him “the funny man” when I couldn’t keep everyone’s names straight during our trips to Java.

I found his art so irresistible that during my first meeting with him I asked him to plan for an exhibition in America. He refused to take me seriously. Each subsequent trip to Java I would ask him again to prepare for a show. Over time he has learned to say “yes” and proceed to give reasons why he could not do an exhibition that year.

On our next trip, Dek and I were shocked to find him two months married. His new wife was sweet, bright and utterly exasperated. She got more (or less) than she bargained for. “He never comes to bed at night and won’t get up in the morning. He only works and sleeps.” It wasn’t a complaint, more a worry about how life would turn out living with this happy madman.

The next time in Java, Jakfar, Justin and I found Lindu still shirtless but not so lean. Regular meals and more sleep were taking their toll. He was almost done building a house for his beloved on the back of the property. It was a house James Hubbell or Anton Gaudi might have built, had they lived in Java. It was stunningly beautiful, rich in texture and materials, and playful throughout. He built it in the same vein he makes sculpture; full of surprises, humor and beauty. The house was his first acceptable excuse for not preparing for my exhibition.

If I ever build another house in Bali, I want his madness at work in the design process. We joked, laughed, ate treats his wife prepared, and played ping-pong on a sheet of plywood under a single light bulb until we were all dripping with sweat, happily exhausted, and ready for dinner and bed.

It is rewarding and inspiring to see a great artist change often and in wonderful new directions. Lindu’s soul-stretching, life-giving art has been evolving, as was he, in both his home and work life. On my latest trip to Java, in late January 2009, our schedule was such that we could only see Lindu in the morning. We called ahead to see if his wife could wake him up and get him moving. He was already at work.

Interior Lindu's House

By then, I’d given up on asking him to prepare for a show at David Alan Collection. I was resigned to buying what I could (or what he would allow me to buy from his personal collection), and showing his work as I was able. When we entered his shop we found an entire exhibition was available, by chance, not by design. I had only to choose my favorite twenty-five pieces, arrange for the shipping, and transfer the funds. As we walked through his gallery, piece after piece brought laughter, delight, and chills, as we recognized great art from the soul of a great man. Before this trip, I considered him to be one of a small handful of great living, producing, folk artists. Now his work had risen to a new level of purity, simplicity, and playfulness.

Lindu is now in his mid-thirties. What a gift to have found him, be able to share him with you, and to look forward to seeing decades of his evolving art and wonderful spirit.