By Jonathan Leibovic
Pak Eker’s ankles were swollen and calloused from years of working in the sawa (rice fields). How many years he could not tell me, for like most Balinese, he has not kept track of his age. “Since I was young,” he assured me, indicating the deep creases in his forehead .
The sky grew pink with the sun peeking over the palm trees as he led me across the overgrown grid of earthen dams and canals to his paddy, a 10-by-20 meter plot in the lowlands of Gianyar, Bali. Pak Eker shed his shorts and sandals and stepped in, careful to avoid trampling the tiny green shoots. As I followed suit, he turned back with a snaggle-toothed grin and warned, “Watch out for eels.”
When I told Suasti, my hostess, that I wanted to spend a day in the sawa with Pak Eker, her neighbor, she could not stop laughing. In Bali, as almost everywhere else, rich people buy the food that poor people grow. The prospect of a young Westerner working in the rice fields must have seemed incongruous. But to me, it made perfect sense.
In the past three weeks, I had eaten red rice, black rice and rice flavored with everything from turmeric to palm sugar. But to the Balinese, rice is much more than just a staple crop. A handful of raw grains affixed to the forehead and throat mark the end of prayer. Tufts of dried husks, along with goat hairs, form the coat of the fearsome barong masks. Powdered and mixed with ground ginger, it is a common skin ointment; and fermented, as arak , it relieves pain.
During my stay at Suasti’s house, I had encountered the miraculous white grain in countless guises — but only as a consumer. As a beneficiary of a clearly remarkable agricultural system, I could not be content to continue free-riding. I had to see how the rice got to my plate and try my hand in helping to produce it.
Pak Eker had planted his crop about a month ago, after plowing and flooding his field. The shoots were still Granny-Smith green and had not yet developed grains. He showed me the empty spaces in each perfect row of seedlings, where the rice had not yet been planted or had failed to take root. We would then find a nearby clump of well-established rice, uproot half of it and replant it in the open slot.
Find a slot, find a clump, uproot, replant. The waterbugs danced and the mud gurgled between my toes. Would it be harder on my back to straighten up between each seedling or to stay hunched over? The sun crept higher in the sky. Find a slot, find a clump …
And just as I settled into a steady rhythm, ready for a long, hot day of work that exhausts and satisfies as only manual labor can, Pak Eker called out: “OK! It’s already hot.” It couldn’t have been more than an hour since we started; we’d covered perhaps a fifth of the field. In a slight daze, I followed him down to the riverbank, where my surprise grew into disbelief as the old man nimbly ascended a tree trunk and cut down a pair of fresh young coconuts.
Was he going easy on me, the naive young American? Had it not been for his recent display of agility, I would have assumed he was going easy on himself. Pak Eker, after all, was a simple, single man, old and childless; he worked not for quotas or wages, but for sustenance and subsistence.
We sat in the shade, sipping our coconuts, watching the surrounding fields. Farmers came and went as we had, performing their duties, then seeking shelter from the sun. Thanks to the island’s rich volcanic soil and sauna-like climate and the farmers’ extensive network of irrigation, Balinese farmers can grow rice year-round, sometimes bringing in two crops a year. On any given day, one can find rice fields in many stages of cultivation.
Neighbors were checking their dams and canals, tending their crops, or burning the desiccated chaff of the previous harvest to refertilize the soil. Some grew cucumbers, sugarcane, or bright, fragrant flowers for offerings; since the Balinese practice crop rotation, these fields, too, are part of the cycle of rice.
The only activities I could not see were the plowing and flooding of the fields and the harvest, momentous occasions accompanied by festivals and ceremonies for the rice goddess, Dewi Sri.
In another hour, all the neighbors had retired to the shade as well. They chatted animatedly about their families, their motorbikes and the rain. There was no talk of the economy or the recent election — no matter the economic or political climate, people always need rice.
For lunch we had chicken and rice and another coconut each. The men continued talking, smoking and sitting. An island rich in rice is an island where people can afford leisure time. Without the rice farmers’ extended midday social siesta, it is doubtful the ancient Balinese would have had the time to develop their vibrant music, literature and ceremonial culture. So rice is not just the center of Balinese culture, it is the source.
Around 5 p.m. it was cool enough to start working again, and we carried on as before. Sawa birds, white as rice, floated lazily on warm updrafts from the sea. Bamboo windmills beat in the breeze and the shallow paddy water rippled as we moved down the rows.
Find a spot, find a clump, uproot, replant. Soon the sun had set completely, and we left the field to wash our feet.
At dinner that night, Suasti laid the table with stewed jackfruit, steamed spinach, baked mackerel and a platter of rice. I partook hungrily but humbly, more fully aware of the effort, time and expertise behind each mouthful. After a day’s labor, the food tasted better — more nourishing, more tangible, more real.
Source: http://www.thejakartaglobe.com
Pak Eker’s ankles were swollen and calloused from years of working in the sawa (rice fields). How many years he could not tell me, for like most Balinese, he has not kept track of his age. “Since I was young,” he assured me, indicating the deep creases in his forehead .
The sky grew pink with the sun peeking over the palm trees as he led me across the overgrown grid of earthen dams and canals to his paddy, a 10-by-20 meter plot in the lowlands of Gianyar, Bali. Pak Eker shed his shorts and sandals and stepped in, careful to avoid trampling the tiny green shoots. As I followed suit, he turned back with a snaggle-toothed grin and warned, “Watch out for eels.”
When I told Suasti, my hostess, that I wanted to spend a day in the sawa with Pak Eker, her neighbor, she could not stop laughing. In Bali, as almost everywhere else, rich people buy the food that poor people grow. The prospect of a young Westerner working in the rice fields must have seemed incongruous. But to me, it made perfect sense.
In the past three weeks, I had eaten red rice, black rice and rice flavored with everything from turmeric to palm sugar. But to the Balinese, rice is much more than just a staple crop. A handful of raw grains affixed to the forehead and throat mark the end of prayer. Tufts of dried husks, along with goat hairs, form the coat of the fearsome barong masks. Powdered and mixed with ground ginger, it is a common skin ointment; and fermented, as arak , it relieves pain.
During my stay at Suasti’s house, I had encountered the miraculous white grain in countless guises — but only as a consumer. As a beneficiary of a clearly remarkable agricultural system, I could not be content to continue free-riding. I had to see how the rice got to my plate and try my hand in helping to produce it.
Pak Eker had planted his crop about a month ago, after plowing and flooding his field. The shoots were still Granny-Smith green and had not yet developed grains. He showed me the empty spaces in each perfect row of seedlings, where the rice had not yet been planted or had failed to take root. We would then find a nearby clump of well-established rice, uproot half of it and replant it in the open slot.
Find a slot, find a clump, uproot, replant. The waterbugs danced and the mud gurgled between my toes. Would it be harder on my back to straighten up between each seedling or to stay hunched over? The sun crept higher in the sky. Find a slot, find a clump …
And just as I settled into a steady rhythm, ready for a long, hot day of work that exhausts and satisfies as only manual labor can, Pak Eker called out: “OK! It’s already hot.” It couldn’t have been more than an hour since we started; we’d covered perhaps a fifth of the field. In a slight daze, I followed him down to the riverbank, where my surprise grew into disbelief as the old man nimbly ascended a tree trunk and cut down a pair of fresh young coconuts.
Was he going easy on me, the naive young American? Had it not been for his recent display of agility, I would have assumed he was going easy on himself. Pak Eker, after all, was a simple, single man, old and childless; he worked not for quotas or wages, but for sustenance and subsistence.
We sat in the shade, sipping our coconuts, watching the surrounding fields. Farmers came and went as we had, performing their duties, then seeking shelter from the sun. Thanks to the island’s rich volcanic soil and sauna-like climate and the farmers’ extensive network of irrigation, Balinese farmers can grow rice year-round, sometimes bringing in two crops a year. On any given day, one can find rice fields in many stages of cultivation.
Neighbors were checking their dams and canals, tending their crops, or burning the desiccated chaff of the previous harvest to refertilize the soil. Some grew cucumbers, sugarcane, or bright, fragrant flowers for offerings; since the Balinese practice crop rotation, these fields, too, are part of the cycle of rice.
The only activities I could not see were the plowing and flooding of the fields and the harvest, momentous occasions accompanied by festivals and ceremonies for the rice goddess, Dewi Sri.
In another hour, all the neighbors had retired to the shade as well. They chatted animatedly about their families, their motorbikes and the rain. There was no talk of the economy or the recent election — no matter the economic or political climate, people always need rice.
For lunch we had chicken and rice and another coconut each. The men continued talking, smoking and sitting. An island rich in rice is an island where people can afford leisure time. Without the rice farmers’ extended midday social siesta, it is doubtful the ancient Balinese would have had the time to develop their vibrant music, literature and ceremonial culture. So rice is not just the center of Balinese culture, it is the source.
Around 5 p.m. it was cool enough to start working again, and we carried on as before. Sawa birds, white as rice, floated lazily on warm updrafts from the sea. Bamboo windmills beat in the breeze and the shallow paddy water rippled as we moved down the rows.
Find a spot, find a clump, uproot, replant. Soon the sun had set completely, and we left the field to wash our feet.
At dinner that night, Suasti laid the table with stewed jackfruit, steamed spinach, baked mackerel and a platter of rice. I partook hungrily but humbly, more fully aware of the effort, time and expertise behind each mouthful. After a day’s labor, the food tasted better — more nourishing, more tangible, more real.
Source: http://www.thejakartaglobe.com
