In the near distance, toy boats made out of bamboo sticks and sails out of plastic bags, sailed in the sun setting wind, bobbling with the low tide waves. Boys in adolescent years tug, push and pull their boats. We stopped to watch the children at play, their play, their show.
Sporatic movements like the peak of a concert their movements, throwing rocks, playing tackle or chasing the chicken, the sand, the water, the beach, the sun, a world language only kids can understand. I push my sandle on the water imitating the kid next to me knee high in the water to see what he sees. He puts a rock on the heel of the sandle and pushes it through the water. I do the same thing. A mother carrying bags of handmade items stops to look. I ignore her. He spoke to himself I cannot understand and I still push my boat. Something happened to a level of looking and learning to look at what makes people or children or humans learn and see what they see. I smile at the unfathonable depths our perception can open up to and experience and learn how the world can open to us in very very very very mysterious ways.
Children`s energy, vibrant, indiscriminate, open-hearted and free to share themselves, laugh, giggle with their playmates with no reservations and inhibitions. To them, nobody is watching, observing, judging. Rantings in Balinese and giggles in between, I hear laughter out loud followed by finger pointing at something in the water. Brittle stars with eight legs crawl over and under rocks and in between. Children turn over rocks and crabs swinging their claws to defend themselves. More rocks turned over and pluck clam-like crawly creatures as they shrivel on the children`s palm.
An autumn leaf serves as a "plate" of appreciation as she holds her squirmy leaf. My complete ignorance makes me put my hand to my mouth as I think, are they collecting the small clams to eat? A half hour later, by the waves, her plate is sailing on the surface; slugs getting their escape. I take out my camera and show them their picture, they have an immediate giggle. Laughing at themselves.
Warm already in our presence, we attract more children walking down the beach, suddenly a dozen children surround us in our play. Tried hard to entertain, juggle maybe, skip rocks or imitate their play. Wayan, an 8 year old girl planted herself next to me and asked, What is your name? I say, Nama Saya Suzanne. She held out a palm sized hand weaved basket with a small bag of salt inside. Five thousand? I say, no thank you. Wayan says four thousand? I say once again, no thank you. She rested the basket between us, stretched out her legs in front of her and watched the other children play tag. She began to scoop sand and rocks with her hand, burying her legs underneath. I scooped a handful of rocks and emptied them on her legs. She smiled. Simple gestures of play unfolded, no more words exchanged, silent play in motion. I studied her face, dark from the sun, yellow teeth, a maturity unmatched any other 8 year old I`ve ever met. Clothes old, stained, torn and ratted from use, hair with lice, legs scarred from insect bites, some fresh. She eminated the energy of a young woman, with responsibilities her burden.
Most children on the beach of Amed, carry handmade gifts of Amed Salt, moving their arm from shoulder and elbow outward. High season tourists rush the beaches of Bali. All the tourists here are rich. A kid being at play on the sand, can take a break of being a kid selling wares to play as a kid.
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