My first trip to Bali was in 1990. Kuta Beach was the island’s most popular tourist destination for sea, sun, and fun. Being a pseudo-intellectual I opted for Ubud, an idyllic village of Legong dancers, ornate temples, and non-disco evenings.
I rented a small house off the Monkey Forest Road surrounded by verdant rice paddies. My bedroom overlooked a ravine whose stream served the village’s bathing needs. Ketut the house boy served breakfast and instant coffee in the morning. I wrote on a Brother Electric Typewriter. At night croaking frogs accompanied the gamelan music from the Pura Dalem temple. There was no international phone service other than at the post office. Traveler’s checks and cash were the sole forms of monetary transactions.
At night I listened to the BBC World News on a Sony World Radio and read tattered used books. Dragonflies buzzed through the room and the stars tolerated no earthly rival. I loved Ubud and stayed in the town for months.
Nearing March 17th I suggested to several westerners or ‘mistahs’ that we should staged a St. Patrick’s Day parade. None of them had Hibernian roots. My Balinese friends were enthused at the idea of celebrating being Irish by drinking beer.
“And we wear green.”
My house servant Ketut shook his head.
“Can not wear green. This unlucky color.”
“Unlucky.” He had used the Bahasa word ‘blog’. I had never heard it before.
“Yes, my uncle he have green car have many accidents.”
“Green is good luck in Ireland and Ireland is the European Bali.”
“Ireland tidak Bali. No green and you not wear green too.” Tuut was adamant about this edict, but said, “We drink beer and make music.”
“That is good luck?”
“Drink beer always good luck.”
Especially if a ‘mistah’ paid for it.
I didn’t argue with tradition and adjusted St. Patrick’s Day in accordance with local customs.
On March 17th Ketut, his friend, and I drank beer at the Cafe Bali. They brought drums. I sang Irish ballads on British oppression and at sunset we marched down Monkey Forest Road with me singing BY THE RISING OF THE MOON. I adlibed the words.
Ketut said it was a sweet song.
“By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon, the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon.”
Other Balinese joined the march. No one wore green. We trooped back to the Cafe Bali and switched from beer to ‘arak’, a strong palm wine. It wasn’t as strong as Jamison’s Whiskey, but it was a good drink for the first St. Patrick’s Day in Ubud and I told Tuut, “Maybe one day you will wear green.”
“Maybe a long time away from today.”
“But not as far as never. Semoga Beruntung.”
I thought that meant good luck and replied, “Go n-éirí an bóthar leat!”
At least I thought I said that.
Everyone clinked beer glasses.
AI hadn’t worn green either. It was bad luck in Bali and Indonesia in general since the color signified exorcism and infidelity. Satan was not in my soul and I was faithful to the world. The Wearing of the Green had to wait to someplace else.
It’s a color close to my heart.
ps this was originally written in 2013