DACMan

Hunters hunt, and makers make. Dek does both well. He’s a great hunter and guide when we are on one of our buying trips to Java. He and his scouts hunt for and find all manner of wood, stone, antiques, folk art and sculpture that are otherwise simply impossible to find or incredibly expensive. He’s also a brilliant maker of solid wood furniture with traditional joinery and innovative design, the hallmarks of the pieces made in his studio.

On every trip to Bali I spend as much time as I can with Dek both hunting and designing furniture. It’s a joy to work with a man who immediately and intuitively grasps the essence of the piece I want to make and improves on the design almost without thinking. I probably learn more about Balinese culture from Dek than anyone. He’s insightful and eloquent and I love the evening time we have when on the road so we can talk about culture, religion, and dreams.

We share a warehouse and workshops of some 9,000 square feet. He guides and teaches his team of 7 artisans, as well as my 5 staff people who take care of my inventory,  carve, make furniture, computer work, and take care of the gardens, ground and buildings. Two of the staff actually live on site as watchmen.

Dek’s artisans seem to be able to produce anything Dek and I can design. It’s a dream of dreams come true for me. To build a good prototype of a chair though several renditions would cost $6,000 – $8000 in the States.  In our studio in Bali, I can afford to experiment, re-work mistakes, and abandon failed projects, without guilt or failure. It’s simply what it takes to try and perfect new pieces. We have the craftsmen, the space, the materials and the mad vision to do it and Dek is the reason all of that is possible

Dek is a family man and a young village elder who is pure Balinese and 100% a world citizen. He is intelligent, educated, fun, easy to look at, creative, hard working, and a true friend. He’s a regular Eagle-scout kind-of-a-guy with the spiritual sense of a shaman. I’m thankful for his being in my life.

As for as the eye can see in all directions there are temples built of brick in the 10th to 13th centuries by the people of Central Burma. In terms of number and of size, they are incomprehensible. The massive amount of labor it took to erect these edifices, brick by handmade brick into fantasy land of more than 2500 temples is staggering. These shrines and places of worship, filled with Buddhas and devotion, speak of wealth and dedication that challenge our current sensibilities. Each temple and stuppa is an intricate work of sculpture. That there are almost no people living within the boundaries of these 100 square miles, gives it all an eerie feeling.

When I looked at our written itinerary, I wondered why our guide and tour master Andre set aside three days to explore these sometimes rebuilt ruins, until I saw their wonder. I could not put my camera down. From dawn to dusk, I clicked away, trying to capture on film, that which, in the end, must be experienced in person. I’ve wondered many times how I could write about this place in a way that would inspire people to make the effort to see Bagan and Burma. I don’t think I can. It simply should not be missed and the sooner, the better. Someday it will develop and so much will be lost.

I often like to hunt alone. Sometimes I like not having to be concerned with anyone else’s comfort, needs, opinions or well-being. It gives me time to think and process what’s happened or could happen. It’s also easier to enter “the zone.” Then again, the right person can be a gift. When I’m hunting, my whole world is about hunting. If I’m with other good hunters, then all’s well.  I don’t know and don’t care if I’m a good traveling companion or not, if I’m a hunter among good hunters. It doesn’t matter if we find a piece of art Deco furniture or a primitive statue, a stone table top or a tribal necklace. Chills and goose bumps do occur. It surprises me how seldom chills are mentioned and how often they are a shared phenomenon.

Yesterday we were standing in front of the workshop (in Bali), looking at the second prototype of a dining chair we were designing. It didn’t “sing” yet. Why? Putu thought that the leg supports should be rosewood, not teak and Jakfar agreed. In a flash of clarity, I saw it: if we remove the leg supports and trim down the size legs and seat, we’re there! Perfection! Chills and Goosebumps. I looked at the other two and pointed to our arms. We all had Goosebumps. This “resonance of rightness” happens with people, experiences and creations all the time. Goosebumps are one of my guides in life. I’m informed by chills to pay attention to something, now.

Similar scenes of shared chills punctuate my life on the road. These are moments of confirmation beyond my making or control. They are imprints on our consciousness and memory. It is something like sharing the same green flash at sunset, the same horizon to horizon meteorite or the same branched lightning strike on the open prairie. Shared or not, these sensations and occurrences are a great gift.

To all of this, with both reverence and ecstasy, I shout a resounding “Yes!!!”

Just before the event, I was invited by Ali, a friend in Sumba, to experience Pasola, a day of ritualized Tribal war games for young warriors to prove their courage. It takes place in several locations in February and March each year in the western part of Sumba Island, Indonesia.

I had been in Sumba last spring for a week in 105o heat with matching humidity. We drove past the Pasola grounds where we’d just missed the event by two days. All reports were that Pasola was great and the non-natives suffered badly from the heat.
During that trip to Sumba, I too, succumbed to heat exhaustion after spending the day climbing to one hilltop village after another. Nobody wants a white boy sick or dying on their watch, so everyone was happy when a Western doctor was found and I recovered by morning. I’d had such amazing experiences that trip, I vowed to return to see Pasola and more of Sumba, an island that many consider the most primitive in all of Indonesia.

Ali

When the invitation from Ali came, I put my fate in the hands of the Gods, even though I had health concerns. If there was a round trip ticket available, I’d go. Two days later, when I arrived at the airport, I found we were on a 45 year old turbo prop. We were delayed because we were waiting for a part to be flown in from Jakarta that we would then take to Sumba to fix a disabled turbo on a nearby island. The airline’s record of canceled flights is staggering. If a flight is only a few hours late, everyone is happy. You simply don’t go if you can’t afford to lose a couple of days to delays.

Back in Sumba! It’s the rainy season and lush, green, tropical vegetation covers the hilly back country of west Sumba. In July it will be a parched, dusty brown with little or no rain for four months. For now, the steep rocky trails to the hilltop villages are wet, moss covered, and treacherous. Thick undergrowth chokes the narrow pathways. My sport sandals help, but I wonder if the barefoot villagers are better off. Once in the village, I step over, around, and occasionally through the dung of water buffalo, chickens, dogs, horses, and pigs.

Daeng

My friend Daeng, who took me on the cultural/buying trip to Sumba last year, calls the villages dirty. He is a native Sumba man who’s made it to the top of the collecting world in Indonesia while living in Bali. I guess the villages are dirty, but to me, the houses are quite aesthetically pleasing. I imagine these are typical of any tropical, primitive village; subsistence farming and livestock for food, bamboo houses with high thatched roofs, with animals living below and people above. There is a cooking fire in the center of the house, which, over time, blackens everything above the 4th level. People do their socializing, food prep, and hanging out on the long, raised, covered front decks that face the “village green.”

West Sumba Village

There are usually only 12 – 18 houses in a village, though there may be one or two other villages within a stone’s throw. The huge, old, stone table top grave markers, that dominate the central common area of the village, are an insistent reminder of the ancestor worship that is central to this animist culture. They are sculpturally bold and stunningly beautiful in a most primitive, powerful way. They exude energy that helps define and bond village life. Every village has the feeling of a Stonehenge. Each stone took 100′s of people months to cut, carve, move up the mountain to the village center, and lift onto four stone pillars. In the older villages, some of these stones were placed over 400 years ago.

Buffalo Horns

Upon entering a village, you are expected to call out to announce your arrival, ask the way to the village head’s house, pay an “entrance fee,” and sign a book. This money is set aside for village emergencies. I have often visited villages where no one has signed in for a year or more. At this time the traditional gifts of cigarettes for the men and betel nut for the elders are distributed; our hostess gifts, if you will. The villagers and I study each other, looking for differences as well as common ground. We try to imagine, discover, and perhaps connect to the other’s life. I wonder at the collections of buffalo horns that cover the walls behind the front porch of each house.  Each horn is from the very animal that was at the funeral feast of the ancestor who was honored by that tribute. Those three were for great uncle Charlie and this one was for great, great grandpa Jones… Something like that. The horns are beautiful, hung in perfect vertical rows, and numbering over 100 in older or wealthier families. They wonder at the digital camera, delighting in the instant photos of themselves. They look at my shoes, white skin and blue eyes. We all smile, laugh, bow and shake hands. We sit and talk for a few minutes, and the atmosphere became relaxed and friendly. People are generally looking for a any reason to laugh, so I find something goofy to say or do to bring out a smile or a chuckle. Often, there is a momentary bond with someone, even a touch of love exchanged. This unexpected, sweet food is for my heart; the cultural and physical anthropology of the village feeds my mind; and the beauty and ancient vibrations of the stone markers and sculpture feed my soul.

I leave deeply nourished, enlivened, and happy.

Stone Table-Top Grave Markers

I regret having to saying good-bye, yet I do walk back down the slippery path with Ali and Ali’s friend to the AC car and our driver. We navigate the rough roads to another village, see an amazing ancient sculpture, and are treated to the sun engulfing monster thunderheads as it goes down in glory. We arrive back at the hotel after dark, only to be “greeted” by a dozen villagers and would-be traders. Ten or fifteen hands reach out to show me their wares. I want them to go away, but I see hope, prayer and some calculation for a bit of profit in their eyes. I’m surrounded, exhausted and still curious about their offerings. I know that I am their last chance tonight for “a chicken in the pot.” I can guess what else a sale can mean to them. I respect the challenge they live in, and I try somehow to touch each one, to joke with them, to simply be human. Finally, I’m just tired. They will wait until I return from dinner or will reappear in the morning.

My room is my oasis and escape. It’s big and it’s one of 9 or 10 air conditioned rooms in all of West Sumba, as far as I can tell. It offers a bucket of cold water for a bath, an Asian toilet, a sink with no running water, and a thin towel that doesn’t wrap all the way around my waist. A few minutes later, the four of us meet again to drive the 8 blocks to eat at the best restaurant within 50 km.

Formica tables, vinyl floors, plastic flowers and a sweet staff. Our dinner for four is about $13, including the meals I send home for Ali’s friend’s and four kids. Their mother left 2 years ago. No one has heard from her since. Ali’s friend and the driver are a bit shy through dinner. The fancy restaurant with a white boy is new to them. They order too little. I order enough extra so everyone’s well fed. They leave the table to smoke, even though it’s common to smoke at the dinner table. I appreciate that gesture and invite them back for desert. No takers.

Sumba Trader

We walk back through the sellers, pausing here and there to look. I buy an old Kodi sarong of hand woven ikat with natural dyes. They drop me back at my hotel after we plan the next day, Pasola! I ask for and receive soap and toilet paper at the front desk on my way to my room. It’s not automatically provided. At the appointed hour, 4:30 am, hot tea and toast will appear at my door for breakfast. Right now, I’m dead tired and my room is close to heaven. It’s clean – on a sliding scale of “clean.” I have only to write descriptions of the things I bought today, label them, make notes of the day, and prepare for tomorrow before I sleep. I can’t believe I was in Bali this morning. It’s worlds away.

I’m happy. I bought cool pieces, saw sights that are rarely seen by white man, touched and was touched by some sweet villagers, I’m fed and watered, safe and cared for, and yes, thankful. It’s hard to express the level of peaceful gratitude I feel. What more could I ask?

My mind, heart and soul are too stimulated for good sleep. Massive thunderstorms and night traffic inform my dreams and punctuate my nighttime naps.

This afternoon I literally stumbled on to something, one of those flashes of truth that are instructive in the in-the-moment micro world and point to a larger truth, question, or at least a lesson.

We were on our second day of X-country skiing in the mountains outside Glacier National Park. We ski a couple hours a day for a week once a year. It’s enough to enjoy it, but not enough to get much better at the sport. I was facing my first big downhill this season on a groomed trail and I knew somewhere I would fall. You see, I never learned to stop. Without that trick up your sleeve, any steep downhill brings out a sweat like no uphill climb ever can.

I couldn’t see very far ahead because of the curves in the trail. Dragging your poles is not only ineffective, it’s cowardly. After about the first 20 yards, I was dragging my poles for all I was worth and still gaining speed. I made it through the first three curves just fine. The trail got a bit steeper and a thought came charging into my mind. “Bail out now before it gets worse!” “Hummm,” I answered. Even though I was still on my skis and not that close to the edge of losing control, bailing out sounded better and better by the nanosecond.

“Yep, you are right!” and down I went, only 30 feet from where the trail leveled off. I gave up. I gave up to avoid an imaginary danger. I took the road of the peaceful chicken instead of the peaceful warrior.

I can’t help but wonder, where else in life do I act like a chicken?

“The Bear Went Over the Mountain”

Did you ever hear this nursery song? It is sung to the tune, “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” Try it!

The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain
The bear went over the mountain

To see what he could see

And all that he could see
And all that he could see

Was

The other side of the mountain
The other side of the mountain
The other side of the mountain

Was all that he could see

For an explorer, a traveler, a hiker, an adventurer, or a bear like me,
“the other side of the mountain” is enough!

I think this is what I do, what my life is for. I go, I see. I conquer myself, a bit at a time. Again and again, with an insatiable hunger, I go to see that which I think isn’t me, until I see myself.

Bambong & his Family

With every collector, every artist, every hunter, every family compound with something valuable to sell, I am to some degree faced with a conflict. The conflict revolves around paying attention to people vs. things. Because my work seems, on the surface, to be about buying “cool things,” I am usually a bit impatient to look at the pieces that are offered. This isn’t because it is my job; it’s my job because hopelessly, joyfully, I’m so drawn to the quest for beautiful objects. I hunger for beauty: finding it, enjoying it, being altered by it, and sharing it.

Here is the dilemma. When I am at a collector’s home and see something that intrigues me, I want to see it. I’m a hunter. I want to see the “game.” I also don’t want to be rude or be seen as a typical westerner; always into the material world first. What do I do? I know well that the real reward may be the relationship or what I learn from that collector, trader, or artist, or the gift of friendship that matures over time. I also know that most things that matter are built on relationships.

“Building of relationship” is a concept. The reality of my world is that I am charged and recharged by emotion, the sense of kinship, being connected heart and soul to others, and friendship’s love. This is the gold, the icing on the cake. I’m often stunned by how frequently and freely I’m given these gifts. I have momentarily thoughts of unworthiness, but mostly, I live in amazed gratitude when I’m not too hot, hungry or lost.

Early 1900's Horse-Drawn Carriage

An important part of the world of the hunter/trader is the Zone. One can step into the Zone, an altered reality, where things have a life of their own. An 80 year old tribal carving can have beauty, balance, history, patina… all those good things, but without energy, the piece is dead. You need to be able to recognize energy. We feel it, but may not be conscious of it. If you don’t enter the Zone, you may miss some or all the attributes, from its beauty to a powerful healing energy. In that Zone, a state of wonder, exhilaration, discovery, and joy can be found. That’s where I go and hang out when I’m at my hunter-best. It’s almost meditative in nature and induces a state of gratitude for all of life.

It seems that “People vs. Things” is not a conflict, not a dilemma, but rather, an opportunity to dance. Life is the dance partner. It is the ever available, magical mystery tour, full of discomfort, annoyances, creepy crawlies, love and beauty.