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Story of Bali, Indonesia

The Harvest Of Nang Peluk

"It's a mistake to call Bali 'the island of porn, said Atjin, helping himself to a crisp prawn krupuk from the bowl my house boy had just put in front of us.

"The other night", Atjin continued, "I heard my mother telling my baby son one of the many bedtime stories she used to put me to sleep with years ago. I still chuckled as I listened, but only now did it occur to me that to western ears it probably would sound porn. Come to think of it, some of our temple sculptures also might strike visitors as a trifle explicit. But, believe me, I find ours is merely a healthy outlook. From childhood no part orfunction of the body is tabu - to be mentioned only in sniggers and whispers. Accordingly, nothing gets undue emphasis.

Bali is a gentle country which laughs easily, else its spirit would long ago have been quenched. If some part of our anatomy strikes us as comic - a little ridiculous even - why be coy Let us laugh and enjoy the joke.

"As for our legends, let me give-you a brief outline of one, and you can judge for yourself which is likely to be the more harmful to children - something like your fable where the wolf gobbles up the good little girl, or The Harvest of Nang Peluk."

Sana, the houseboy, returned with two steaming glasses of the local thirst quencher. I settled back comfortably in my bamboo chair, while Atjin took a long sip of air jeruk before commencing his tale . "Our rice is dying the season is too dry - we must plant other crops.

So spoke the head of the subak and the farmers knew what they must do. They would sow soya beans and peanuts and vegetables.
All except Nang Peluk.
Many moons had waxed and waned, many years had passed, volcanos had belched, monsoons had lashed the land, and all the while Nang Peluk patiently followed the ways of his ancestors,
squelching barefooted through the paddies as he planted the delicate yellow-green shoots of baby rice; making the customary offerings - incense, flowers and food - to Dewi Sri; then, as it ripened, standing waist high in the rustling field, clapping and shouting to scare off the hordes of tiny maurading birds, and, in due course, harvesting the heavy heads of grain, held so proudly on their golden stalks.