life as I know it

The men warily shuffle over making room for my backpacking butt to sit and enjoy the show. Why we are seated here, I’m not really sure, but looking out into the mass crowd of curious brown faces, I realize this is really the only spot left.

As everyone strains to gawk at us sitting amongst the band, I become instantly aware of my unwashed hair. Thankfully the sizzle of incense is wafting by and mixes in with my locks; I might look out of place but I’ll smell like I belong.

I turn to greet my neighbor. My smile returned by a judging “uhm” and a nod. Tough crowd. I hear the distinct sound of denim ripping as I slide across the rough bench in an attempt to get comfy.

I find it just as exhilarating to collect rips in my jeans as it is to add country flags onto my backpack. I settle myself with the fresh memory of the sounding rip.

The first note rings out as a queue to the show beginning. First sounding like plump raindrops falling into puddles, the music soon gathers momentum as each musician adds notes. I watch the dressed up characters spew exaggerated actions across the stage. Music and dance fill the nicks of time between costume changes and scenes.

The show before us is winding down with the beginning of the last song. The leathered man beside me catches my eye and holds it. With one swoop he picks up my empty hand and fills it with a padded piece of wood, throwing the pair against his instrument.

I later learn this traditional musical instrument is called angklung. The distinct “klung” sound that bellows out is definitely suitable to its name.

The next note I do alone, looking to the old eyes for approval. He isn’t a man of many words but I got the message. My questioning gaze is returned with another, yet less gruff sounding “uhm” and a nod. I can’t help but notice the small smile turning up at his lip. I wiggle my toes like him as I keep wailing on the bamboo pipes of his instrument.

I lean back and close my eyes. Each “klung” radiates from my palm and through my body. The woody swirl of incense floats up my nostrils and straight to my head, still masking my unwashed hair. The childlike cluster of instruments brings a gurgling laugh from the pit of my belly.

Opening my eyes back up to the moment, I catch the old man’s head now bobbling up and down in continuous approval.

I don’t speak Bahasa, nor he English. But we understand each other.

For this splash of time we both speak music.