Myammee Before Breast Implants

monsoon

The rain falls impetuously. Silver wires that connect heaven and earth. The water falls with his temperament, it is sometimes slight, fine , and others with power rushes. E 'whipped around by the wind that accompanies it. The air seems to dominate in gusts, but she has the same substance of a prairie of grass bends to peremptory blasts, but after a little again, straight, relentless, fixed.

The rain sound. Up in the sky, just a thought if we were to listen, and do not matter, we heard a rustling, still in its regularity. A talk dense, voice, a buzz. The flutter of a thousand hummingbirds. As soon as it binds to land, on which the earth is populated, the murmur of the rain changes in rhythm, singing, chattering. Regular, insistent, at times hypnotic. It 's so the sound of the monsoon, which has its own peculiar accent in the obsessive repetition of millions of tambourines. It 's a matter vaporous redundant message that sends to the land of the clouds. The land it echoes with its many colorings. The monotonous sound buy new tones from rebounding, the elements are creating new land and rain notes writes a symphony where there was the quiet stillness of the matter.

When vapors, tired, no longer send their frantic messages liquids, the song falls apart, stops the rhythm. The rebounds, the first symphonic dammed on their way, now take on individuality, are recognizable. The symphony is reduced to a trickle of counterpoint. A slow single notes followed by short bursts tinkling, tip, plip plip, titip.

Crrraack! A lightning illuminates the score and reflected on the wet leaves quickly.

Sears Warehouse Heaters

The dirge, hypnotic, began after dawn. Gongs and drums, barely touched, to come together to give a rhythmic bass melody is always the same feel. They look like pansies. It rings the great gong and start again.

The first, solid, sunshine, a rare monsoon in these dark days, dispel the mist of the morning and with it rises the chorus of female voices. Voices without accents are colored in a single, sad, litany that goes from the house and walk through the alleys around.

The procession is made up in traffic, the rhythm of the gong sounded like a march. A young man, perhaps the favorite nephew, climbs quickly on the canopy, decorated with white and gold paper. This is the signal and the theory of women, wearing a precious tray gifts, moving in unison, just sway, bodies wrapped in a soft color palette of the sarong. In a few minutes are already gone. A heel counter, and pay the thunderous clatter of a mob of scooters and cars, impatience and boredom the result of melancholy.

When the sun is high, the music leaves your hands free to chase colorful tonal scales, rings and elaborate flower. E 'style Kebyar that sometimes jumps out of the otherwise monotonous singsong and silky bass. The orchestra gradually attracts the female chorus, this time is expressed by the sacred sounds from vocals.

sounds that form the backdrop to the whole day, accompanied by the thought that unfolds supported by notes of brocades, soft and fluffy.

There are no tears, no scenes of despair, let the intimacy of the rooms in the shade. Death is now, full of family ties and neighborhood, sublimated in age-old rituals and marked by music and singing.

A muffled way to go.

Bain Ultra Tub Cleaning Instructions

Wayan, massage

Today, in a remote village at the foot of the great Batukaru mountain, under a rain and lightning ocean a few steps, and probing the expert hands of a masseur Balinese have long explored my pain. I discovered some new things in my body, new dense, new reflections. I also discovered that the Balinese, all at the snap of lightning stopped their ears not to hear the thunder.

The scene was a frame of Corot, low-contrast dark tones, the darkness enveloped all the time. The bruised faces of patients and friends, waiting for their turn, reflected the anxiety about the electric dart, the pain that had brought them there, the resignation for the long wait.

Pak Wayan is a Tukang pijat , a skilled masseur, with the ability to elicit reflexes where none existed before. It has a beautiful face, hair just grizzled, as the traditional sarong with a belt, receives in his home in Pekan, in front of a temple filled with flower decorations. He has hands that, at some point, seem to work alone, not driven by higher command. The tendons and nerves are strings of a harp and evoking sounds anthropomorphic, to find a new harmony in the patient's body. Does not insist on the greedy that causes suffering, but the strokes to bring it within the scheme who is building balsamic. Then, finish the ritual ablutions, collects bids and grants everyone in prayer to his god, so that the hand that has guided to be effective in the treatment.

saving operation of this magnitude is in complete nonchalance of a Balinese house, where they play a little girl chasing a bicycle, shouting happy. Galli chasing chickens, hens and chicks are all chasing chased by cats and dogs. Songbirds are hung everywhere in the verandas, a black maina laughs the laugh of children and greets with the tones of the householder. Scented plants, flowers of a hundred colors, brushes, many of the gray afternoon. The house consists of several separate small pavilions, each with a single chamber, immersed in the lush garden, make peace in the soul. The wanderer feels more comfortable in a house in Bali, now part of a group that wraps it with the spontaneity of domestic life.

I discovered, finally, that a massage "home" is a public affair, here. The massage exercises under the eyes of all who are squatting around, in the same veranda. Everyone says its on time, how much it will rain, how many years has the last grandchild, how has the license on that one, the slope of the garden, which can not flood. Also comment on the progress of massage are transverse and my grunts of pain respond giggles and explanations of Wayan, comments friends, and worried about the looks of pity for the next patient. At some point, realized that my desire for privacy does not interest anybody, and I have no screen behind which to hide the faces of suffering, I am speaking with a couple of jokes, that trigger the general hilarity.

Laughter chilly, however, who came to seek the nervous hands of wise and Wayan.

Funny Newborn Messages

Secrets of Dewa Putu

Domenica mattina. Un risveglio indolente e, stranamente, non mattiniero come al solito. Apro la porta finestra, mi affaccio in veranda e trovo seduta ad una of straw-bottomed chairs around the round table, a woman. Well-dressed, long pants, shirt and beige jacket and sunglasses in order to keep long hair blacks, a single tuft escaped his brow. Open face, shy smile, a hint of embarrassment in her eyes. Does not rise as a sign of respect, greets me and says he was sent to take us to Tulamben.

is Bali, which opens up before my eyes still bleary with sleep, in contrast to all of its faces. A total disorganization, ever obstinate in claiming the primacy of anarchy, which shows the face clean, clear, smiling young woman, disarming in the way you give to your service.

Mi trovo di fronte ad un equivoco, o meglio un netto errore di data. La donna autista è stata tirata giù dal letto alle 4 di domenica mattina, messa su un’agile citycar della Honda, inviata a tre ore di distanza, nell’alba brumosa di Bali orientale, semplicemente un giorno prima del concordato, con tanto di telefonata e mail di conferma.

Ha inizio così una domenica balinese. Cambio di programma, cancellata la cena con amici, a base di vino francese e salsicce e chorizo portoghesi, appena arrivati da Timor Leste; partenza trafelata per la lunga trasferta verso le spiagge nere a oriente, dove sopravvivono alcuni tra i più beautiful coral seas that lap the island.

Putu, our driver, guide with skill and is open to dialogue: talking on the early pace of the gear changes, avoid the holes, we touch the bikes at breakneck speed, between the traffic of a holiday, here is not for everyone. Putu is married to a man of Amlapura in Karangasem. To love her, a woman of the village of Singaraja, has moved tens of kilometers, leaving the green hills that slope toward the sea of \u200b\u200bhot north of Bali, to the relief of the rough and barren lava slopes of Big Mountain. She has three children. The largest works in a hotel in Qatar. The other two are still at school. After years working in hotels and in the family business now, since he bought on installment a second hand Honda, it was put in the uncomfortable business of transporting tourists. To the east of the tourists do not go, is a poor, bitter, dominates the rocks, the beaches are uncomfortable, pebbly, just close the borders between the sea and suffered steep slopes of the mountain. This border has become much later the only resource for poor people lost between agriculture and the ostentatious wealth of the south, fed money fine of millions of foreigners visiting here.

Putu confessed to me that here too, with the new hunger for well-being, the farmers are selling land. Changes are rapid and radical. New houses, new cars, motorbikes, cock fighting, gambling, alcoholism. But only for the few who are lucky enough to own the few areas ancestral appetite by wealthy tourists, enchanted by the rugged beauty of these places.

Then he talks about the recent visit of the President, who went to the largest and most sacred temple in Bali, without dressing properly, carrying, he said, an offense for the Balinese. And 'I know the only Balinese openly irritated by the way his fellow senseless to drive. He speaks to me of his allergy to shellfish, asthma, to what things cost as a vital health care and la scuola. Da colpetti affettuosi al volante, quando mi descrive le performance della sua auto che non s’è mai fermata per un guasto e, siccome è autista abusiva, mi racconta ridendo di come spesso dribbla il tono accusatorio di un poliziotto che la ferma, giurando che la macchina è di suo marito, suo fratello, suo cugino o che sta facendo un favore ad un amico. Del marito parla poco, ma vedo che annuisce con tristezza quando il discorso si sposta sugli uomini che sperperano il denaro in carte, galli e donne.

Le pendici di Tulamben, un tempo secche e brulle, ora sono ricoperte d’un verde tenero e setoso, frutto d’una estate particolarmente piovosa e di un monsone già insistent. Underwater corals, in fact, we sense more than see them on the thick darkness brought by heavy rain and cloudiness that accompanies it. However, it is a majestic backdrop of festoons, huge sea fans of that surge current as the fantastic fans. Wayan, our dive guide, is a type brisk unsmiling. It is bored and not much that beats for us. Lunch on the way home, is based on tasty kebabs and fish, resting on a bag of white rice and coated with a thick sauce and spice. Putu offers two juicy tangerines.

Returning drowsiness is disturbed by the holes and breaks in the great artery, a site that has lasted for ten years. The traffic on Sunday evening gives us the alarm. Until next time, Putu.

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Ruci

Long minutes passed in the hot sun around the Simpang Siur inevitably make us familiar high and impressive statue that marks the Dewa Ruci.

Bima giant, offered to watch with an air of a hero as he struggles with the serpent of the ocean, the thousands of human figures that are scrambling to his feet, could be moved to make way for a huge release overhead is said to relieve traffic asphyxiating this modern Bali.

AND 'the opportunity to reflect on the failures of modernity to produce sudden and ill-governed social life and culture of the island that hosts us. It 's also a pretext to penetrate deeper into the mythology that so often permeates the life and culture of the Balinese, fascinated and enthralled by heroes, demons and companies memorable.

History Dewa Ruci is one of the most famous and beloved stories Javanese, who crossed the Strait of Bali es'è rooted here. It 's the description of the harmonious relation between servant and master, represented by Bima, or Arya Werkudara and Dewaruci. It 'an illustration of a revival in the Buddhist sense / Hindu' s incarnation of the spirit that guides the practitioner's body and soul, symbolized by Wêrkudara towards the understanding of the Perfection of Life and Mystic Union with the Divine.

In this sense, the narrative is interwoven with the Sufi tradition of the human being as a tripartite body ( raga), soul ( pramana ) and spirit ( suksma ), in Javanese jasmani , napsu and roh. The story traces the way, so ancient in the human race and in every culture, uniqueness of the person and the need to search within themselves for the perfection of a complete being, through a practice long, hard and full of pitfalls.

The tortuous story of the brave Bima intertwines with the narration of the Mahabharata . I have five brothers Pendawa, in common with their wild cousins \u200b\u200bKurawa, a preceptor, Guru Durno.

Durno Bima relies on a task thought impossible: finding the sacred water Prawitasari ( Prawo , clean, sacred Sari, essence), that is the essence of sacred knowledge.

It is believed that water is in the sacred forest of Tikbrasara, on the slopes of Mount Reksamuka.
This setting recalls the first strong impetus to the knowledge of the practitioner, through the senses and sight ( Reks Muka ) in particular.

Bima is the beginning of the path that will reach the essence of sacred knowledge through Samadi (or final stage of any genuine spiritual path, ecstasy divine). The steps it takes are the purification of body and soul with water and concentration by focusing the eyes ( paningal ) on the tip of the nose.

Bima in the forest is attacked by two brothers and giants Rukmuka Rukmakala. Bima, initially almost overwhelmed, unable to kill them both at the end, delete, ie, the obstacles that prevent him from achieving his goal. The two orcs in fact represent a passion for delicious food (Rukmuka from ruk , damage; Muka face - or Kamukten) and the passion for material wealth (Rukmakala from r ukma , gold; kala , danger - or Kamulyan), impediments to the merger, barriers covering their inner sight.

Bima At this point you realize that the holy water is not in the forest and returns from the guru Durno. This provides another clue: the sacred water on the bottom of the ocean (samudra ), and that's where the hero goes without hesitation, even against the objection of his mother and brothers.

Samudra, the vastness of the ocean, reminds Bima that the virtuous man must have a heart as big as the ocean perdonre know others. Once immersed in the ocean, a giant snake attacks him. Only with the magic power of the claws of her thumbs, the kuku Phancanaka , can overwhelm and break up the snake. It also frees the evil and dark side of his heart, the reptile, with the strength of dignity of those who have reached the true reality of things.

immersing themselves deeper and deeper in the water, Bima finally lost consciousness and almost drowns. He wakes up and sees before her own double, but in miniature, by the name of Dewa Ruci (the god lowercase).

The Saint Dewaruci chiede a Bima di entrare dentro il proprio corpo, per abbracciare con lo sguardo tutte le cose. Bima, prima riluttante, obbedisce e s’introduce dentro di Sé/Dewaruci attraverso l’orecchio sinistro. Qui, al culmine della meditazione, concentrando la propria mente nello spazio interiore, infinito, gli si apre la conoscenza del mondo intero.

All’interno di Sé/Dewa Suksma Ruci, Bima raggiunge e accetta la piena consapevolezza del samadi , l’unione tra servo ( Kawulo ) e padrone ( Gusti ). Nello stato di compiuta visione interiore ( paningal ), Bima can see everything, all the manifests ( tinarbuka ) and, in its very essence, he is one with God, indivisible hour, and reached the true reality.

awakened status gives him a happiness never proven, that would never want to stop. But still the awareness of one's duties towards the family and society, to which it is intended. Bima, now Dewaruci, turned back to his obligations, both outwardly and inwardly. The golden sign distinguishes between the eyes as one who regularly practice the Samadi, bracelets candrakirana show his power over divine moonlight view of the interior, the multicolored batik robe symbolizes mastery over their desires; stick asem shows the attraction only to the pursuit of perfection, claws strong grip on the true knowledge and power of the full moral responsibility.

now can reach Pandawa brothers and defeat, combined, the 100 Korawa.
(newspaper articles reworked)

Herpes Spread Through Wet Clothing

cigars

tobacco product in Jember is the best quality, so as to be indicato nella preparazione dei sigari. La cooperativa Kartanegara, formata da ex dipendenti della PT Perkubunan Nusantara, ha iniziato una produzione di sigari per conto terzi, impiegando manodopera locale femminile di grande esperienza. Una distesa di foglie, stese al sole a guisa di tappeto rosso, accoglie il visitatore nel viale d’accesso. Bassi edifici, immersi in un grande spazio alberato, un campo da tennis in cemento, poche persone in giro, secondo lo stile di basso profilo dei tropici.

La stanza dove avviene la manifattura è impregnata dell’aroma denso e dolciastro del tabacco. Mani abili, mani femminili, stendono con delicatezza la large leaf on the glass. Cut it into small rectangles, using a Plexiglas mold. These pieces of dried leaf, but still flexible, they are quickly filled with chopped leaves and roll with a few moves and aid capable of a simple wooden frame. Another leaf is flattened, without the central rib and cut longitudinally to obtain at least three stripes. One of these strips is cleverly wrapped around the rising spiral cigar is the wrapper. Other skills, the extent and in sorting, put themselves in the field to even the rough and cigars to select the color and size. Every little scrap of precious colored leaf latte is recovered and recycled. Finally packing, first with individual envelopes and then in tin boxes, the Australian developer, wanted a fashionable periwinkle.

Packaging cigars here is given to the delicate feminine wisdom. An accessory is lovingly assembled a typically male, from the leaf to the cylinder compact, by the hands of women. And perhaps this helps to make them an object and exclusive area in a world of men.

In the near Cigar Corner, the cooperative sets out samples of its products in boxes that bear on the cover mainly exotic and evocative images Bali, a dancer, the mask of Barong, Kecak choir. The matching cigar-liquor, so prized by gourmets, is sadly relegated to the dusty shelf of a closet, a few bottles of wine and Fernet Branca, absurdly empty. Outside, turn a white wall, rests a life-size plywood silhouettes, the testimonials, they say very appealing but now abandoned, a popular line of cigarillos. The man, dressed in a black pinstripe suit, brimmed hat down over his eyes, cigarette dangling from his lips tight vertical just marked by precise mustache, is the unlikely picture of a kid mafia overseas, rather extravagant to have the effect of emulation macho average Indonesian.

New Job Congratulation Phrases

to Jember East Java

A long and tedious ride in the car, made a sudden stop, dodge, speed, dangerous overtaking often, motorcycles and cars continuously grazed. This is the stretch of road, mostly coastal, which separates from Kuta Gilimanuk, from where the ferry to Java and home of the tasty dish ayam betutu , in which chicken and banana leaves are combined in a delicious plot. It crosses one of the most fascinating areas of Bali, accompanied by vast paddy fields, lush green, terraced on the one hand, and glimpses of the ocean of poignant beauty on the other.

The big rusty barge, loaded with trucks and cars, in a short time through the strait has been, in centuries past, a real boundary between two worlds: Bali jealous guardian of a Hindu aristocratic culture, steeped in Java the new order quickly Muslim syncretic with the ancient indigenous animistic rites. Above, the sky, big cottony clouds seem to be the stage where the gods, who leave behind, they seem to observe.

Javanese The land is immediately shows different in many respects. The houses and many buildings are modeled, often, the traditional form of joglo , with the central part of the roof that rises to the pinnacle. Public buildings have architectural features simple and linear, lacking the coloring of the baroque Balinese tradition. Islam permeates it, even if it is not ostentatious, religious buildings, which are present everywhere in the thousands, and traditional costumes which are reduced to simple shorts and shirts, colored in muted tones.

The kitchen, however, does not reserve big surprises, because there is often revived in Bali, as elsewhere in Indonesia, from Warung and vendors of all kinds, and is therefore familiar. Are common in these parts, the small "rice-field eel, or belut , fries and pass again into a thick sauce of spices.

The road runs along the district of Jember, and for a short distance through a huge crater strewn with some active volcanoes, the Ijen Plateau. When the long straight sliding along the southern slope of the plateau, narrow hairpin bends, here we deal with the slopes of Mount Raung, which exceeds 3000 meters, one of the volcanoes of the group. The inevitable delays, caused by heavy trucks, can capture the views with quiet coffee and cocoa plantations that line and invade the forest. They are often too small forest trees in the most steep and treacherous curves, it is not uncommon to find beggars who, at the edge of the road for a few dollars and make signs to passing drivers to help them prevent or reckless maneuvers. E 'of the economy seek to live even in the most unthinkable folds of society. By day, a hand shake with fatigue, night enriched by the feeble light of a torch.

The road over the pass, he rushes towards the plane and the air becomes hot and muggy again soon. The wide plain that is home to the district of Jember, covers a long strip about sixty and thirty wide, protected by ramparts dell'Argopuro and south by the ocean. Top enormous trees blend into the rainforest, a color that tends to blue. At the bottom of the fertile land is home to extensive cultivation of tobacco, interspersed with coffee, cocoa and rubber. Each village has at least one mosque in constant re-construction of the willing and faithful ask for money to the travelers passing through, shaking plastic bowls, colored flags, waving hands to the sound of an Arabic dirge, shot on street by huge megaphones at high volume.

Kalibaru, scattered village on the wooded slopes of the volcano, is a place of potters, which doth stands up to a bendidio, pans, frying pans, pots, pots, pans, pots, pans, egg cooker, toasters, kettles, wok-sized tables. Some exotic forms are mixed with ladles, skimmers, ladles, baskets to create a palette of grays, from aluminum to steel, gloss, matte, riveted hammered. The background music is a dull pounding rhythms and artisans who live and work in a back room that is already street.

The road, in Indonesia, has a frayed edge, a large mesh plot from which everything and everyone folds, is permeable, is a land of cross communication. Demarcation not be prevented from forming populated like the land it crosses, and the cars pass through it like a crowded river, dodging debris, plants now grown, small crowds and large chasms roam, people and animals brought by the current, often cross and stop anywhere, where c 'is needed, even in the midst, perhaps to deliver a package or an imam with a healthy respect.

Cat Spay And Internal Stitches

Smile a barber

white tile floor, covered with hair blacks. Young Balinese crowd the wooden benches of the barber to be substantially deprived of their raven hair thick and straight, neatly unkempt. Shaved and leave happy, thanking with a shy smile and leaving little cash, separate their contribution to the mat of hair lying on the ground, by way 'of sheep shearing. Under one of the benches is the plastic bag, already half full, which reflects the outcome of the fleece, and a sweep away. Without bare human hand, from the corners of the floor, a dirt that defies time.

The environment is little more than a cubicle on the open road, with two metal chairs that face two mirrors chipped. At the center of the wall on a simple shelf, within reach are the two electric shears and scissors a few. The destination is wrapped da un sudario blu scuro, di un poliestere lucido, che ha visto molte chiome prima di quest’ultima, scelto a caso tra quelli già usati e appesi ad un gancio. Il pettine a la forbice sono svogliatamente privati dai peli rimasti, con un pezzetto di gommapiuma celestina, che poi sarà usato per ripulire faccia e collo dai pelucchi ribelli.

 I due artisti si danno da fare, intenti, con abili colpi di pettine sdentato e piccole dosi di rasoio elettrico. Le mani, sempre sicure, agili quasi, ogni tanto esitano di fronte a capigliature forestiere, magari straordinariamente folte di riccioli anarchici. Solo allora il rasoio, abituato a zazzere ordinate e diritte,  come boschetti di bambù, hesitate entangled in her hair twisted like a jungle.

The only working fan moves hot air and thin tufts of hair from one side of the room, chasing a few lazy flies. Who's waiting in the form a clear boundary between the glare of the sun out there and the few spaces in the shade. Local newspapers are scattered in several tranches between the benches and the floor, shoot their headline "It's about the most famous collector of kris in Bali", "Inter faces Parma without Eto'o." A radio plays melodic songs, interrupted only by news of the exchange rate of the rupee. The road noise spreads its content, we on a side street in Seminyak. The atmosphere is quiet and relaxed but nervous glances in the warm air spreads s'appiccicano you and me. Few customers will throw in jokes to defuse the expectation of the razor, a must, cut with surgical precision the boundaries of hairdressing final. Without water, no sharpening, just on a skin softened by a brush stroke of a wet bar of soap and white, full of short Pelini blacks. Black and white. The Balinese dualism (good and evil?) Chasing me even within the antrum of the barber.

Ringworm Healing Stages

In Bali we are surrounded by a smile, it is said that in Indonesia's enyum and sounds to us like a sign in the face. Asians are brought to smile, to paint their faces with the bared teeth that stand out decided on dark skin. But it is true, or is it always so?

After years of positive answers to this question certainly, the most assiduous attendance of doubt creeps in, builds and comes to distinguish crack certainties. That's quite a minefield of blunders, like bombs ready to explode under the feet of the observer careless, hasty in judging and maybe uncertain in direction for the reasoning.

begin coll'indossare a beautiful armor: I love every sincere smile that appears on the face of those around me, especially here in Bali. Relieves the tension test and that the alien is a bridge between two sincere and firm diversity. A full stop. In this exercise, the Balinese are masters of social, always ready to laugh in any situation, like a white hand extended to help communication. But ... After observing the faces that reflect, here as elsewhere, a desire to live, the anxiety of an uncertain and low wages, the rush of responsibilities that bind, that's the question arises by itself: it is always a sincere smile ? It 'still Suddenly it has become innate or native a form, a foil, an accessory who has learned to wear depending on the circumstances?

How do you explain the smile that flashes on the faces of passers-by after a car accident? And the waiter's face that makes you fall on him juicy dish a whole? And that's tailor who has miscalculated and get you an account of the double-agreed? And what about the woman running against traffic to get onto all of a sudden in front of you and forces you to brake and dodge dangerous? Maybe his smile, quickly worn, is sufficient to dilute your angry reaction? And 'their way innocent (or designed) to get perdonare ogni nefandezza ai danni del codice della strada? Oppure è un mezzo sufficientemente simpatico per far digerire allo straniero la totale assenza di un codice di leggi che proteggano l’incolumità altrui?

#5.0.0 Smtp;554 5.0.0 Transaction Failed

beach

Una lunga spiaggia bianca che guarda ad oriente. Venerdì mattina. Pochi stranieri diluiti tra sdraio e ombrelloni, allineati in un’unica fila, bianchi su bianco. Il sole già alto è pronto a scottare la pelle nuda. L’acqua è cristallina, poche alghe verde brillante disegnano il fondo granuloso. Al largo si scorge netta la striscia candida e schiumosa che le onde tracciano al limite della barriera corallina. Da qui a là, la laguna è una coperta smeraldina, appena mossa dal vento. Più a sud, dove la rena s’arresta di fronte agli alberi, si agitano pigre le canoe dei coltivatori di alghe.

Corpi pallidi, presto arrossati dal riverbero, distesi a leggere, chiacchierare. Un succo fresco di mango, un sarong offerto da una timida ambulante, un gruppetto di ragazze in divisa che pulisce la spiaggia. Alle spalle risuona secco il richiamo di un martin pescatore. Lo smeraldo liquido offre un breve refrigerio, ma galleggiare qui è una lunga, languida e setosa carezza. Tutto è lento, torpido, anche il libro è pesante tra le mani e resta inascoltato sul tavolino. The breathing rhythm with the surf, subtle and barely perceptible. The thought follows the curious movements of this voluptuous noon between the grains of sand.

Brazilian & Holywood Wax Foto

Day celebration. Great celebration for the people of Islam. E 'in memory of a sacrifice moved almost impossible to pronounce, a father able to sacrifice his son on the altar of an ideal. That sounds dangerously close to idol.

The first call to prayer is heard only in Hindu Bali. The ancient formula rebounds shy of the low houses, restaurants still empty hotels.

Whole families, elegant dresses, shaman of the few Muslim neighborhoods to the mosque for the prayer of 9. The women, sitting behind the scooter, they greet each having balance in one or two small children, protected from the sun with a batik scarf. Husbands, in shorts and zuccotto, driving, smoking and brief address to friends. On the streets mingle with other families, now Hindus, who go, always in motion, other ceremonies, sarong and white shirt boys, lace blouse and sarong colorful ladies.

In a neighborhood of the village of Tuban, a group of people has just begun the ritual sacrifice. Like every year, neighbors, relatives and friends get together and break down some livestock, purchased by wealthy members of the community and killed on the spot.

Pak Rahman invited me to attend what looks like a festive open-air butcher shop. There is a hole in the ground where hath been consumed in the bloodiest phase. After a little 'to take away land from the eyes of all the red product of slaughter and will seal in an underground womb. Each family, Rahman whispers, receives a bag with 4 ounces of meat mixture, a little more 'a few bones and offal. All the same amount which, when diluted in a juicy rich stew (called gule kambing), will be the hearty meal of celebration.

Now, under the blue tents, muscular young men busy themselves with axes and knives, meat resting on simple wooden planks. Women go through water, teh and rice cooked in banana leaf. The sight of the camera lights up the atmosphere and everyone wants to be taken. Some of 'em big pulpy touches. Others wield enormous skulls with horns. Screaming, shouting, hellomister . Prevails in the fold jolly precise packing parcels, despite the red materiality of bodies dismembered. The thought of the impending meal feeding la burla e lo sberleffo. Rahman mi indica il più scatenato, quello col cartello con scritto “capra n°1”, è il matto, sospira.

Il quartiere è un miscuglio di etnie da ogni parte dell’Indonesia, continua Rahman, e tutti gli abitanti, oggi, danno una mano, anche se appartengono a fedi diverse. L’imam, arrivato da poco, si avvicina per un saluto di benvenuto e si augura di vedermi alla moschea l’anno prossimo.

Tra queste casupole, al margine di un sentiero sconnesso, si respira forte il senso del sacrificio condiviso, declinato in una convivenza pacifica e solidale, condita con carne halal .