Les is more

 

In the little village of Les, lives Jero Mangku Yudi. The name Mangku means he's the high priest of Les. He's got a lovely wife, called Mangku too, though why she's not a high priestess is one of life's mysteries. They're like peas in a pod, living the simple life of toil and worship and transforming the bountiful gifts of the earth and of the sea into generous succulence.

Just a bit removed from the north coast of the island of the gods, their house and kitchen, Dapur Bali Mula ( the traditional Bali kitchen ) is nestled among palms and coconut trees and drooping bougainvilliers and fragrant frangipani. 

Boys play football on the field next door with excited shouts, oblivious of the late afternoon dusty heat as the sweaty visitor from the west retreats into the coolness of her room with pages to read from many a glossy magazines where Jero is celebrated. 

She hears the sound of hammer and quiet conversation as a carver chisels a door lintel with deadly sharpened tools and another room is being built for guests such as her. She hears the gurgle of water from the hose as the dust is settled for the night and pots and plants revive. She hears the clucking of chicken and the oinking of pigs and the cooing of doves and the song of unknown birds. The chanting from the nearby temple is woven into the tapestry of sounds and she sighs with the certainty that she is where she should be. 

She ventures out to greet and meet and observe, with camera in her hand and curiosity in her heart, her stomach somersaulting in anticipation of culinary delights. She didn't know to arrive days earlier when many visitors from the western lands congregated to be instructed in cooking the traditional Bali way, the Jero way. But she's learned to expect the unexpected and this is indeed a magical place for the unexpected to occur because, ah... a traditional Bali kitchen is a holy place where alchemy operates, bubbles and hisses and thickens and transforms the gifts of the land into molten gold.

On controlled fires, the palm flower water is reduced to the sweetness of palm syrup, called juruh in the island of the gods. And Jero's juruh is the most fragrant of all. Another, more bitter palm flower water is distilled into arak and poured into gucis, Chinese ceramic jars from times past, in which the alcohol ages into smoothness and the bitterness becomes just the ghost of an aftertaste.

The guest is humbled by the warm generosity of the welcome. She's entered the true reality of life on the island of the gods. Maybe there's such a thing as too much imagination but when she reads that some of the Balinese cooking dates back to the Majapahit, the Javanese Hindu-Buddhist thalassocratic empire, she feels she's walking on the footsteps of legends. 

The visitor is traveling alone and alone she is too that evening. No other guests are gracing them with their presence and Jero deposits on the table delights for the two of them to share. There's nothing on the menu. There IS no menu as what comes to the table is what came earlier to the kitchen from the gardener, the forest, the fisherman. Traditional doesn't mean 'set in its way', it means using what exists in the world around them and celebrating it in an ever inventive, creative way. 

They enjoy a feast of tuna sate, cooked on embers, the fish marinated in tamarind, juruh and chili and never dry ; crunchy vegetables with boiled watercress in a slightly sweet juruh sauce ; sausages from his pigs, laced with the traditional bumbu mix of 20 spices, ; a sambal that could be too hot with chili were it not for the smoothness of Jero's own coconut oil ; bananas baked in their skin and ladled with juruh and lime. 

The Balinese chef is so proud. He's delighted when his visitor is silent with wonder and when her face lights up with the recognition of a flavour. The chef is aware of his worth and tells her she's lucky to be here, sharing his food. He shows her pictures of him leading processions and ceremonies in his duties as high priest of Les and she guesses he was born under the constellation whose brightest star is Alpha Leonis, generous to a fault and gifted with inexhaustible energy. The visitor is so honoured. Around a couple of glasses of arak, he brings her jams to taste and they swap recipes. She learns to say 'enak', delicious, 'makanan ini enak', this food is delicious. 

Replete and happy, the guest saunters back to her room in the darkness of the early tropical night, among the geckos and the crickets. But she's in a quandary, troubled by a dilemma that even a Greek tragedy couldn't countenance. Should she have breakfast AND lunch the next day? Breakfast will be the most delicious ever but will she be able to tackle lunch after that? And were she not to have breakfast, wouldn't that be construed as an offence against boundless generosity?  

The visitor from the west is deep in thought.

She settles for a compromise, for a light meal of coffee and sweet rice gruel and for profuse apologies about the limited capacities of her stomach. She wishes to honour what she knows will be splendid. She vows she will not leave a single drop of juruh unlicked in her bowl. 

She knows to stay out of the way as the morning unfolds and the kitchen quivers in anticipation of a load of guests. She hovers like a ghost around the hearth, around the slicing and the mashing, around the broiling and the boiling and the stirring and the steaming, trying not to intrude. But this is happy, relaxed food that is conjured here and her enquiring looks are met with smiles. 

These green leaves do not taste of anything... 'Ah but, this is daluman, see! Boiled to a pulp and pressed into a green jelly, it will be mixed with juruh and coconut milk and will make the most refreshing, soothing dessert for you after the feast that is to come.' 

The visitor from the west is now feeling quite eager.

Jero's reputation is such that people flock from all corners of the world. Today, no less than twenty visitors are expected : a jovial party from the island of the gods and a quieter  hijab-ed extended family from the big island of Java. 

There is barracuda fish soup, and barracuda sate, mackerel cooked into a bamboo stem, octopus mashed with grated vegetable and beans, a spicy sambal. and other, meaty, delights the visitor doesn't know as she's shown to her own table and to a seafood meal especially cooked for her, starting with small calamari fritters in sweet coconut oil.

The visitor from the west is feeling blessed.

Jero Mangku Yudi , his wife Mangku and the helpers in the kitchen know they are in the village of Les to bring delight and happiness around the table. Their role in life is fulfilled.  They are keeping the ancient traditions alive. They are rich with what they give.

The visitor from the west is driven down to the coast in a rickety van that shudders and squeaks. 

There she will fall asleep to the sound of the waves. 

There, she will see the lights of the fishermen surround the bay at night, will see the salt of the sea filtered, dried by the sun, raked and harvested.

There, she will see the sun setting in the evening haze and the boys running on the shore with their fishing rods and silver fish jumping free of the surf.

There, she will go to Air Tejun Yeh Mampeh, where the water falls thunderously from the mountain and, alone, she will watch in awe.

On the twisty path back to the coast, along shrubs and among foliage, she will sit at a small warung and sip coconut water.

A pack of cards is laid on the table. What is the meaning of this journey, what will it bring, she wonders. 

One card says abundance, one card says gratitude, one card says to live in the bubble of the here and of the now.

                                        Yes, yes and yes.

Jero Mangku Yudi

dapur bali Mula

Les Village

Buleleng Regency

+62 81 13 37 13 00 88

juruh : palm sugar

guci : Chinese ceramic jar

daluman, or cyclea barbata is also used in China and is said to be good for the stomach

Majapahit : lasted almost 2 centuries from the late 1200s and was based on the island of Java.