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.
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