I made the most of my assumed final days in Bali, adventuring on back roads, some last downward-facing dogs in yoga class,
getting together with the dear friends I had made, and having a really lovely and
sentimental lesson with my rebab teacher. Our relationship had gotten much
better since my last post, in which I complained about him taking way too many
pictures of me—after I told him I didn’t want him to take pictures and was very
cold and distant towards him in lessons, I think he got the message. The
picture-taking was certainly not from a place of maliciousness or creepiness on
his part (although the feeling was uncomfortable nonetheless).
In any case, we had reached a much better point, and on top of that I was finding that despite my initial antipathy for, or even resentment towards, the music I was learning, it was truly growing on me. In the first few weeks of studying rebab, I had found it difficult and tedious to loop the repetitive melodies for hours on end. I was also frustrated trying to wrap my mind around the tuning systems, which to my ear sounded chronically out of tune. Still, as I progressed in my lessons the intervals came more naturally and I started recognizing the signaling of melodic patterns, getting better at anticipating how a melody would develop based on its rhythms and internal phrases (here's a sampling of what we do in lessons, but for about three hours).
Still, when the beginning of February came, it seemed like it was time to leave Bali. While I was getting a real grasp on rebab and starting to hear Balinese music in new ways, my visa was set to expire at the end of the month and I was eager to get a change of perspective before then in Banyuwangi, at the eastern tip of the island of Java. While I had made some lovely friends in Bali, they were not Balinese, but rather travelers passing through or expats. Leaving for Banyuwangi thus felt like an exciting chance to get a different and potentially more 'connected' experience musically and culturally. [interlude for a lifetime's supply of rice field photos]
That's me on the bike, everyone!
Volcanoes in the distance
Balinese temple complex
Banyuwangi sits opposite Bali across a small strait—the ferry
ride takes only an hour, but in the words of Evan Ziporyn, it’s amazing what a
huge cultural difference a small body of water can make. Bali is predominantly
Hindu, while like most of Indonesia, Banyuwangi is predominantly Muslim—both
are obvious by the proliferation of temples and mosques, respectively. In
Banyuwangi religion is particularly prominent in everyday life, from the veils
worn by many of the women to calls to prayer blasting at full volume from what
sounded like scratchy megaphones regularly throughout the day. The town is
working on boosting its tourism inflows, but it feels hotter, dustier, and
poorer than Bali. [another brief photo interlude]
Bus ride with a view
These rapscallions were diving in the water by the ferries for money
Even from afar Banyuwangi seems a mystical place
Bye-bye Bali
Java on the left, Bali on the right
The music in Banyuwangi, as expected, is totally fascinating—on
my second evening there, I attended a kuntulan
ensemble rehearsal consisting of many drummers, gamelan elements,
triangles, synth keyboard (obviously not a traditional element), and female
singer. The drumming patterns are incredibly complex, and the synth keyboard’s
melody used the pentatonic pelog
scale intervals I had been learning in Bali. Traditional music ensembles in
Banyuwangi are unique for their use of violin, or biola. One such ensemble is the gandrung
music ensemble—gandrung, one of the
genres of traditional music in Banyuwangi, is derived from a tradition called seblang, in which (as I understand it) a
female singer dances with many men while singing in a sort of trance for an
entire night (about midnight to 6 am or so).
Nighttime kuntulan rehearsal
I met a woman who makes Banyuwangi dance costumes for children's dolls out of trash
I took lessons on the biola, aka violin tuned nearly a fifth
lower than normal, played at mid chest level, and pivoted using the left wrist
(rather than changing the level of the bow). The music is notated using a
numbered scale degree system (as in China); this is especially convenient
because the notation doesn’t change regardless of what set of gamelan
instruments the player is tuning to. I was amazed to hear my teacher play a
piece using the scale degrees in a diatonic major scale, and then play the same
piece using pelog tuning. I had also
heard that Banyuwangi music draws on Balinese, Portuguese, and Malay
influences. Indeed, it was fascinating to hear the cyclical repetitions based
on a gong that permeated the songs, yet a strong emphasis on beats 1 and 3
within melodic phrases that doesn’t appear in Balinese music. Biola players
also do a lot of improvisation, ‘fiddling’ in a much more active way than the
rebab does in Balinese music. In general, the melodies sound more “melodic” and
tuneful than they did in Bali; when I played them for some non-Banyuwangi
musician friends in Indonesia, they commented they sounded like they were from
China. Although the left hand pivoting technique was a bit tricky, the melodies
were much easier to pick up and retain than those in Bali, and the
improvisational patterns were pretty straightforward as well, oscillating in
dips around a core note using the notes in the pentatonic scales.
My hosts in Banyuwangi, the niece from a local family of dancers
and her husband, were overwhelmingly hospitable. They made hosting me their top
priority, and shuttled me around to meet cultural bureaucrats and potential music
teachers and to attend music ensemble rehearsals. The level of concern they
showed as hosts was truly unprecedented, and actually took me by surprise;
after registering me with the police, who told him “don’t let this beautiful
girl go places by herself,” the husband of the family took that advice to heart
and accompanied me everywhere short of the bathroom. His wife, concerned I
couldn’t stomach outside food, insisted I could only eat food her mother
prepared for me. Going outside for a walk or to get basic items was not a
possibility, and every outing was arranged for me and chaperoned. Although I
asked about finding different outlets for getting out of the house and making
some friends on my own (for instance, leading a language exchange at a local college)
it was a dead end; my days were a music lesson in the morning, and then, at the
insistence of the family, “taking a rest” that lasted the rest of the day. I
tried to make an effort to talk with the family and help with making meals, but
they wouldn’t let me engage. I understood this was their way of regarding an
esteemed guest and in their minds was for my benefit. I also acknowledged that
in Banyuwangi, where English levels are significantly lower than they are in
Bali, and the culture is in some ways more mysterious and closed (especially to female foreigners), I needed the
foundation of a host family; however, I felt like remaining in that environment
of mandatory dependency would make it impossible for me to develop my own
relationships, make my own mistakes, and find the spontaneous opportunities
that have been the highlights of my Watson year.
Sitting in my room in Banyuwangi for about ten hours a day, I got a
little stir-crazy and pined for the independence I had in Bali. I spent two
days crying about missing my hyper-positive rebab teacher, actually—while it
was possibly a bit of Stockholm syndrome since it was physically hard, a lot of
mental work, and a bit bizarre to deal with his quirks, I realized that I
really loved learning from him and was really getting to enjoy the music (and
life lessons—did you know that the grass and the carrot are our teachers?) he
taught me. I chronically read the old texts he had sent me—here's an excerpt:
Audrey good morning. How are you? I
am super good. Thank you for your letter to me. I am very glad share with you
music and life. I would like to tell you more, but I have problem in my
English. I hope you understand. Remember. Long life learning. Learning is never
ending. Every thing is teacher. Lets learn from every thing. I really hope see
you again. I hope you healthy and happy always. If you happy and smileing, the
world be happy. Ha Ha Ha (hope always, health always, happy always). Have a
nice day. Thank you/suksma.
My rebab teacher and me
While the music and culture in Banyuwangi seemed absolutely
fascinating, I felt paralyzed by the hospitality of my incredibly kind and
generous host family, who was, after all, just looking out for my best
interests. After much pondering (as it was all there was to do in my daily,
all-day “resting time”) I made the decision to return to Bali for my last few
weeks before my visa ran out. I worried that I was just clinging onto what felt
comfortable and quitting when things got hard—but in fact there just seemed to
be no chance to forge my own relationships and connect with the culture given
my short time, lack of Indonesian language skills, and general outsider/VIP
guest status. I decided it was best to come back to Bali for the last few weeks,
reunite with my rebab teacher, go to as many Hindu ceremonies (to hear Balinese
gamelan) as possible, continue learning Indian devotional mantras from my
friend, explore and ideally meet some interesting people before moving on.
After I told my host family I was returning to Bali as tactfully
as I could and survived the non-air conditioned, hurtling, smoke-filled bus
back to Bali, meeting interesting people happened much sooner than I expected. (My rebab teacher also called me: "Welcome home! I missed seeing you for lunch or dinner. Come back, we will share your experience, my experience.") My friend and fellow Wellesley alum Carly invited me to join her to watch an
open mic night the day after I returned. By chance I met, and ended up jamming
with, a group of really awesome young Indonesian musicians—some of whom I had
heard about but not had a chance to meet before. Without thinking, I found
myself improvising using the scale systems I had been learning for six
months—and surprisingly, not stressed out but actually enjoying the music (even
though I had no idea what was coming). One of the musicians, a percussionist
and aspiring ethnomusicologist from Java, marveled that I, a Western musician,
was improvising using the scales from gamelan tunings with ease. “Let’s play
together again soon!” he said. “How about tomorrow?”
So the next day, we went to Agustian’s studio. I already was
acquainted with Agustian, amazing artist/sculptor/sewer/dancer/musician, because he
plays with the Indian musician whose meditation classes I had been performing
in. Agustian had been inviting me to his studio for weeks, but I had not
visited before I left for Banyuwangi. I finally understood what the big deal waswhen I entered
the space—it’s a beautiful, airy place that serves as gallery, collaborative workshop,
and hangout spot for him and his friends. The first week I was back I spent
hours every day there meeting new musicians and jamming out with them. A totally
foreign concept for this classically trained violinist—following your
instinct/curiosity in the moment? And yet, with this group (and in Bali
generally), it feels like instead of competition there is encouragement among
the artistic community. It’s an extremely supportive and collaborative
environment, aided by the fact that members of the community here are only ever
a few degrees of separation apart.
Anyways, on one such afternoon of stringing together
improvisations based on pentatonic scales accompanied by eager banging of
djembes and tooting of Sumatran flutes, I met Rizal, a Javanese
singer/songwriter who just came to Bali after months of touring in Australia.
He writes really beautiful music, and is a particularly memorable performer because
he plays instruments he made himself, most notably a bamboo didgeridoo/guitar
combination. That day, I was toting my erhu, and so he, Agustian (on handmade
flute), and I had a blast playing together. Even though I am a bit out of
practice on my Chinese fiddling, Rizal still seemed impressed: “We should make
more music together!”
We got together a few days later to continue our
music-making—hours later, we were still talking away about music and sharing
some of our favorite artists. Between hearing about his social activist days
cutting class to lead protests around Indonesia and his approach to making
music now that he is first and foremost a traveling musician, it has been
absolutely inspiring to be around Rizal. He is someone with the ability to both
envision and execute—he dreams big and assumes there are ways to achieve those
dreams, from inventing his own instruments to arriving penniless in Australia
with only his instruments and the belief that he could survive on his
music-making abilities.
Rizal was telling me about his booked schedule of upcoming
concerts in Bali when he asked, “Why don’t you make a visa run to Singapore and
come play them with me? And then we can record an album together!” The
effortlessness with which he tossed out the question belied the outlandishness
of its requisite spontaneity—that morning I had had a promising discussion with
a master musician in Istanbul about working with him, and was set to purchase
tickets to Turkey departing when my visa expired in ten days. Rizal’s
invitation was alarmingly casual in its extension, but it became increasingly
clear that this wasn’t a flippant offer—he was entirely serious, extending his
invitation thusly because it seemed like a real, exciting prospect.
The idea rolled around in my mind for the nights to come. I had
loved playing music in this new and unplanned way, while calling on everything
I had picked up from the hundreds of musicians I have heard and met in the last
sixth months. At the same time, it is scary to feel out of my element—the music
I have grown up playing is written down, practiced for hours and years, and
delivered to the audience in a deliberate and premeditated way. And playing
live shows and recording an album? Featuring ‘pop’ music (by my musical
standards)? Terrifying. I also felt the pressure to not succumb to traveler’s
inertia—I theoretically have four more countries to go to in the next five
months, and that’s barely enough time to scratch the surface of any music
culture.
Still, even though Rizal’s suggestion had seemed an
impossibility at its utterance, it continued to incubate in my mind. Wasn’t
this—learning from and collaborating with musicians who are drawing upon their
own musical cultures as well as ‘outside’ influences, plus getting out of my
comfort zone while utilizing my experiences and channeling my passion–exactly
the goal of my Watson project? And logistically speaking, my plans are still
entirely flexible, Istanbul is not going anywhere, and popping over to
Singapore and back for a new visa is extremely feasible. So as of now, I have a roundtrip ticket to Singapore, a tour of Bali's live music venues lined up, and some extremely exciting musical prospects on the horizon which I will write about soon. In the meantime, my first concert with Rizal and the newly incarnated "Ubud String Collective" is tomorrow night—video and a full report to come! [And now, some final photos from my recent Bali nights—]
I was driving on the Ubud main road at midnight when I heard gamelan--
lo and behold there was a huge dance performance (not geared towards tourists) going on!
I'm just a little over one week into my year of international travel, and already I feel confident declaring that the one thing you can count on with this sort of large-scale, cross-continental endeavor is that the best-laid plans will crumble when you least expect them to. However, I can also wholeheartedly attest that opportunities present themselves in the most unlikely fashion as well, emerging from chance encounters that even with the most careful research and planning one could never hope to manufacture.
First, the crumbling best-laid plans: visa issues beyond my control continue to affect my itinerary for this upcoming year. I thought I was going to be interning in Hong Kong for ten weeks, and then just three, and now I am putting off my entire internship until next year. I'm also crossing my fingers that I am able to get a Chinese visa at all given my issues last year (see previous post)--if not, in addition to the ten weeks I planned to spend in Hong Kong, I will need to come up with a plan for the two months of my Watson year I intended to spend in western China. That said, I already rented an apartment in Hong Kong for this month in anticipation of the internship; in other words, last week I found myself in Hong Kong wondering what I was going to do with myself on a daily basis given that interning as planned wasn't a viable option. I also have been coming up with new potential yearlong itineraries that are extremely conditional on factors outside of control ("IF I get a Chinese visa, THEN I'll travel around Yunnan and end up in western China, but IF I have a good gig going in Hong Kong, THEN maybe I should first stay here longer, and IF my Chinese visa falls through, THEN...what? Azerbaijan? Indonesia? Burma for kicks?") But even in the face of all of this uncertainty, I have been having a great time in Hong Kong--not just in the sense that I have been seeing the sights and eating the eats, but also in that I feel good about the connections I have made with people and foundation I have laid for my project.
Disclaimer: I have no idea what I'll be doing in three weeks time, but all things considered I'm feeling pretty good about it.
So onto the positives, and probably the reasons why I have adopted this nonchalant bravado about my transient lifestyle.
Upon realizing that conducting my internship as planned was no longer a feasible option, I freaked out about finding a sense of purpose in Hong Kong. Luckily, Hong Kong is a city of over 7 million people with an efficient public transportation system, so it's a pretty happening place in which to suddenly find oneself with nothing to do. A couple of my days so far have read like really romantic dates--except that it's just me. On my first day of funemployment, I took myself to a hip Thai joint ("Table for one, please..."), and then decided that I would walk uphill as far as I could. I live at the base of a mountain, so I figured that if I got lost, I could just roll a round stone and follow it down the slope like a fairytale character. My upwards walk led me to the Hong Kong Botanical and Zoological Gardens, where I joined a host of mother/toddler or domestic helper/toddler duos ogling the flamingoes and orangutans. After admiring the colorful birds and orchids for some time, I continued walking up the steep slopes, until I found myself at a tram stop that was ordinary in most every way--except that the station was at a 45 degree angle, and the tracks ran straight up the side of the mountain. I had found the Victoria Peak tram, and with the push of a button I requested the next tram stop to let me on. [Pro-tip: getting on midway up the mountain is the way to do the Victoria Peak tram. The terminals at the top and bottom of the mountain were swarmed with crowds--the wait in the line was easily 45 minutes (and this was a weekday)!] Slowly, the cable in the center of the tracks started moving, and within a few minutes I saw a tram huffing and puffing its way up the incline. (You could all but hear the engine muttering, "I think I can, I think I can...") The packed car wheezed to a stop and I stepped in, immediately thrown backwards by the steep angle. As I pictured the cable snapping, the tram in fact chugged on matter-of-factly, and I forced myself to consider the panoramic views of the city rather than imminent doom.
Chilled out sloth and baby monkey!
Hong Kong Botanical Gardens
These look like they belong in a Dr. Seuss book
She'll be coming 'round the mountain--or in this case, full steam straight up the mountain
Charging up the slope
I 'mist' out on the view
I wish I could gush about the spectacular view from the top of the peak, but in fact once I reached the top, I was enshrouded in mist that reduced visibility to twenty feet in any direction, as well as shops pushing commemorative memorabilia emblazoned with sights from the peak on clearer days. After surveying the mist around me, I decided to skip the tram line and walk down the mountain. The walk down the jungle path (with the occasional mansion thrown in) was appropriately contemplative--until I saw a spider the size of my face calmly suspended from a tree. Then I entered flight mode, bouncing down the peak at top speed and reassuring myself out loud that I was going to be okay.
With my newfound time, I've decided that the best thing to do is to engage with my project as much as possible, and so I have signed myself up for intensive Mandarin tutoring and am looking for an erhu (Chinese two stringed violin) teacher. I've also tried to get out and meet new people in lots of different places, and have attended a swing dancing gathering, a Couch Surfers meeting, a dramatic reading of short fiction, and this evening, a concert by a German jazz singer. I have met a Russian dance teacher ("I hate Obama," he told me, "but we can still dance"), a Czech guy whose brother's girlfriend is a violinist in the Czech Republic (I got contact details for later), a Korean who spent the last few years in Africa, a Hong Kong international lacrosse player cum policeman...I also stalked a group of people solely because they were carrying violin and viola cases--if you can't tell, I'm desperate extremely enthusiastic about engaging with the local scene.
I was very fortunate to have met Alexis Alrich, a composer and music critic in Hong Kong, whom I am hoping to assist in her work. Much of her music is inspired by the musical traditions of Asia, and she has often composed for both Western orchestral and Asian instruments. An editor at WSJ connected us, and she very kindly invited me along to a concert she was reviewing (and on her birthday, no less)! Over dinner, I was astonished to learn that her advisor in graduate school was Lou Harrison, an American composer whose work was the focus of my senior thesis, and that she is also studying erhu. I absolutely enjoyed learning about her projects and experience as a 'crossover' composer in Hong Kong, and hope that I can continue to collaborate with her in the coming weeks.
I've been really lucky also in that the other interns at WSJ I met in my first few days in Hong Kong have been an absolute delight, and we've become fast friends. Some of us went out for phenomenal Moroccan food last weekend, and afterward they insisted I try sago pudding, a local specialty dessert, with durian, a polarizing fruit some love and others swear smells like rotting flesh. Personally, I have no qualms with durian, and had a terrific time hanging out with the others, who are Hong Kong natives and eager to share the best the city has to offer. I also went with Regina, another intern and fabulously interesting person, to Lantau Island, where we took a clear-bottomed cable car to see the Tian Tan Buddha, one of the largest bronze sculptures in the world. We took in the incredible scenery (the cable car went hundreds of feet over a sea inlet) and the 'wildlife,' which apparently meant some loose cows that seemed more a potential liability than an indication of the island's untamed fauna...but thankfully we escaped getting head-butted. Perhaps the best moment of the entire journey was when the tranquil atmosphere of the cable car ride was suddenly shattered with Regina's shriek, "Oh my god!" The other passengers nearly jumped out of the car with shock. "It's the Buddha!" And indeed it was, the enormous benevolent being slowly emerging in the distance as the cable car sailed up into the ridge.
