| The Mood
of Southeast Asia |
| by Harold
Stephens |
printed by permission
from Stephens'latest book
Return to Adventure:
Southeast Asia |
| Southeast
Asia is a mood as well as a place. It can be bewitching, almost magical.
There's something hypnotic about the sound of tiny temple bells tinkling
in a breeze, or the chants of Buddhist monks in the still light of dawn.
Or the sweet, mist-laden scent of the northern hills of Thailand where
the Shan and Karen, and other hilltribes, live. Or the power of the Irrawaddy,
or the untameness of the Sunderbans. There's stark naked beauty of the
Sulu Islands and the sea gypsies who live there. If you want to feel at
peace with the world, climb to the top of a hill station, like Darjeeling,
Cameron, Frazier Hill, even Penang Hill-and look out over the landscape
at dawn, and stand there when the sun comes up. There are images so powerful
you cannot forget them, ever. |
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| I remember
a scene on Bali that will always be with me. I was visiting Ubud, the village
where artists live, and decided to take a walk into the hills above. I
followed a path that lead up a steep climb into the hills. Somewhere far
above, I had heard, was a temple. "You must see it," the Balinese
told me.
The path
led through a thickly wooded area where a forest of banyan trees grew.
How magnificent was this forest, perhaps even godly. Banyan trees are beautiful,
and they grow with such grandeur. When one sees them for the first time
there is little wonder that the Balinese believe that the forests where
they grow are sacred. Here in the dark expanse of shade, the legend goes,
their gods triumph. The forest, green and damp and heavy with the scent
of decay, is especially welcoming in late afternoons, when the tropical
sun is most fierce, and here in the cool shade, the world seems to be still.
I found a place to sit and rest at the roots of a spreading banyan tree.
Pencil-thin shafts of sun light filtered down through the foliage and flecked
the forest floor in delicate patches of gold.
The sounds
that came to me, at first, were inconsequential, until I minded them. |
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| Birds unseen
in the deep foliage above sang cryptically to one another.
There were
sounds of insects, unfamiliar, suddenly breaking the stillness, loud and
shrill at first, and then stopping, abruptly as they began. A dog yapping,
barely audible, was heard in a distant village. An occasional leaf fluttered
earthward, catching a ray of slanted light, disappeared and reappeared
until it became lost among purple shadows beyond.
When you sit
there long enough, you wonder if your senses are deceiving you, as I wondered
when I heard, very faintly, the echo of a gong somewhere far off.
A gong in the
forest! In an instant more, it was clearer, and louder, and mingled now
with faraway voices. Then came the sound of a flute, and another, and more
gongs. |
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Offshore Resources Gallery
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| The yapping
of the dog that seemed so distant was now closer, and grew louder.
My peace
and joy of the forest were being disturbed by something strange and
bewildering, something mysterious and unfathomable, as Bali itself is,
especially for one like me who was a stranger to the island.
And as I sat
there, my back pressed against the knurled roots of the banyan tree, perplexed
and uncertain, and the sounds grew more distinct, there came into view
far down the sun-flecked path, a column of marchers, led by men and boys.
I watched them grow from fuzzy silhouettes into focus, like a camera zooming
in on its subject.
I could see
them clearly now, all wearing sarongs, white sarongs, and around their
waists were scarlet cummerbunds fastened with rich buckles carved in gold.
They wore headbands,
these too all white, and pointed at the crown. Those in the lead carried
towering bamboo poles, bent over in sweeping arches by the weight of flowing
pennants attached to their ends. |
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| More marchers
followed, boys carrying gaily colored umbrellas suspended high above their
heads on long slender poles. The music, gongs and flutes, accompanied
by a chorus of singing, grew louder and louder in intensity until it became
almost deafening.
Young children
ran with the dogs along side the procession, laughing and shouting
and calling out to one another, adding to the noise and cacophony of sound.
The
procession passed, the music and singing dinned, gradually, and presently
a line of women in single file came up behind the marchers. Unlike the
men who wore white, they were dressed in brightly colored batik sarongs,
and in place of head bands like the men wore, they carried upon their heads
towering pillars of food, some with tiny plated baskets, heaped with cakes
and sweets, and others with tropical fruit. |
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Offshore
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| These I learned
later were offerings to the gods, and what I was witnessing was a religious
procession heading to one of their temples further up the mountain side.
It was like a stage, a play that had been conducted for me, and for me
alone. No one even noticed me. Was this truly man being in tune with
nature? That same evening I was invited to dine in Ubud at the home
of my friend, Dutch painter Han Snel. It was evening when I arrived. It's
a magnificent house, where Han lives with his Balinese wife. He had it
constructed from red brick and gray volcanic stone, patterned after
the feudal palace of Prince Tjokorde Agung.
We sat and
had a drink on an open pavilion, where long shadows from torches crept
out over the carved stone walls. We talked about Balinese life, small talk,
about the procession I saw that day, until dinner was announced. A servant
led us to another pavilion at a lower level, also lighted by torch. Somewhere
in the deep darkness a gamelan orchestra played. So softly and finely did
they perform that I could not help wondering if they were not part of the
night. The meal was excellent, native dishes, a rare delight, and occasionally
I had to glance about to remind myself that my host was not a myth, that
this was all real. The meal lasted until the late hours. The music continued;
the wine flowed; the mood was like I had never known before. It
was real, and this is Southeast Asia.
The very first
travelers to Southeast Asia were spellbound by it's strange mood.
Seamen who visited the area called it "the land below the winds." Technically
speaking, with the exception of the Philippines, it is free of typhoons
and other such violent tropical storms. This doesn't mean, however, that
tropical Southeast Asia is without natural calamities. It is a land
of monsoons and dramatic volcanoes, both of which can be devastating at
times. And both which create a mood. What power a volcano has, especially
one that sends up clouds of ash 10,000 feet into the sky and looks like
its about to explode.
Perhaps nature's
most spectacular, and awesome, sight is that of an exploding volcano. I
witnessed one such volcanic eruption from the deck of my schooner Third
Sea in the Santa Cruz Islands. It was a terrifying experience to
watch it the way we did. It happened at night, on one of those black, evil
nights when there is no moon. It was impossible to tell where the sky and
sea met. For all practical purposes, we were traveling through a black,
velvet void. The only light was the dim, red glow of the binnacle reflected
on the face of the helmsman. It's eerie sailing on nights like this, when
the sails are set and the schooner heels into unseen seas. The only sane
thing, it seems, is the compass, which points out the course.
We knew we
were nearing the Santa Cruz Islands in the Western Pacific, and
that out there coming up on our starboard was a small dot which on the
chart read Tinakulu Volcano. We gave it a wide berth by several miles.
Suddenly in the blackness of night there was an explosion, and shortly
afterwards the sky turned crimson and then a fiery red. Belching clouds
of smoke bolted skyward, followed by a rumble that seemed to come from
the core of the earth. Those of the crew who were below deck scrambled
topside, and we all stood dumbfounded, uncertain. Was the earth disintegrating
before our eyes? Twisting balls of fire hurled upwards like rockets
out
of control,
and sparks and flames spewed umbrella-like into the surrounding sea.
Only when we
saw the white-hot lava flowing down the cone-shaped slopes did we realize
we were witnessing a volcano erupting. In those few brief moments we felt
the god-awful fury that would certainly prevail if the earth did explode.
It wasn't a satisfying feeling.
For the next
twenty minutes we lined the deck, not knowing if it was the beauty of the
spectacle or the fear of it that kept us spellbound at the rail. Then,
as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.
When dawn came
and we looked astern at the still silhouette of Tinakulu, it all seemed
strangely unreal. Had the volcano really erupted? There were no other islands
about, no other ships. We were the only witnesses. Then, as we sailed ever
so slowly away, and Tinakulu vanished into the blue of the sea and sky,
we wondered if even the very mountain existed at all.
The incident
deeply impressed me and it made me realize how we who live in Southeast
Asia also live in the shadow of volcanoes, and more often than not
we are only dimly aware of them. Most of my life I have been chasing these
wonders of nature.
I fell in love
with the first one I ever saw, climbed it, and thereafter had to climb
those that crossed my path. There is something challenging about volcanoes,
which makes one want to climb them. They have a magnetic force, a force
that draws you towards them, that makes you want to stand on their summits
and perhaps become akin with nature. Maybe they satisfy our need to conquer,
not nature, but fear. Volcanoes are often beautiful, but they are always
awesome-simply by virtue of their existence.
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