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When Peter Neely went to Grajagan in 1982, it wasn't to surf. Much to his chagrin, he departed Bali boardless, bound for his girl friend Muji's home village and a Muslim ceremony that he will never forget. This is part one of a two-part diary of Neely's trip.

Ramadan, the Moslem fasting month, was fast approaching, so I was looking forward to a week long holiday from the rigours of work. It was 1982 and I had been working 6 days a week for the last 3 months in a clothing factory in Denpasar Bali, so I was keen to laze on the beach, do some surfing and enjoy a well-earned holiday. 

Unfortunately, my girlfriend Muji had other ideas - she wanted me to drive her to Java for her brother's circumcision, an Islamic coming-of-age ceremony performed on 12 year old boys.

We argued about it while sipping an icy cold Bintang in Tubes Bar at Kuta. I was explaining how much I needed to enjoy a quiet surf and some relaxing time off. She tried to explain how important it was for her to attend her brother's circumcision. In the end, after I promised we'd visit her family in Java in another couple of months, she came around to my way of thinking... or so thought.

The next morning I snuck out of home before sunrise and rode my motorbike over to Sanur. The swell had picked up the night before, so I'd hoped there might be some small uncrowned waves at Sanur to get my holiday off to a relaxing start. 

Arriving at the beach in the pre-dawn darkness, I could see lines of white foam crashing onto the reef, lit up by a glowing full moon. I immediately started paddling out across the lagoon, still a little bleary eyed but stoked to catch Sanur. breaking for a change. After I had paddled across the lagoon to get my first close-up view of the waves, the sunrise burst out spectacularly over Nusa Lembongan island, revealing 8 to 10 foot sets crunching onto the low-tide coral reef. This was going to be a heavy session, but at least I could take a well-deserved siesta afterwards. After all, I was on holiday!

The first few set waves were incredible. My 6'2" surfboard was way too small though it slipped sideways down the steepest peaks, right on the brink of spinning out. I had to settle for the smaller ones, otherwise I could really do myself an injury on the shal- low low-tide coral reef. One particular wave was so perfect that time seemed to stand still as I tried to squeeze my little board out of a tube that just kept funneling perfectly over my head. After an hour surfing alone, I was grateful to see someone finally paddling out, t~ and who else was it but Martin Boothman, the ultimate Sanur devotee, universally renowned as "The High Priest of Sanur". You couldn't ask for a better surfing partner at Sanur. He easily handled the biggest set waves on his 7'10" single-fin Brewer, while I was happy just to watch him driving into tube after tube. Both of us were stoked! Perfect waves with only two guys in the water. That doesn't happen in Bali too often, even back in 1982!

Two hours later, my arms ached from paddling so much and my eyes stung from constantly looking into the morning sun. A few Balinese locals and some other Sanur regulars had joined us in the lineup, enjoying the start of the holiday. By the time hunger and fatigue drove me to the beach, I was aching for a long massage and an even longer snooze back home. 

When I returned home later that morning, I was greeted by an awful sight - my girl - friend Muji was sitting on the verandah waiting for me, a determined scowl on her face and an overnight bag by her side. "I've changed my mind" she said. "I want to go to Java. Today!" The look in her eye said she wouldn't take no for an answer.

Now it's best I point out here that Muji isn't one of your stereotyped meek and mild Asian ladies - no, she prides herself on being a 100% hard-headed Taurus, an independent Javanese jungle-woman, born and bred in the wilds of Grajagan. No matter that she had changed her mind overnight, that was a woman's prerogative. We used to have the most amazing clashes of wills, so I very quickly decided it was less painful to drive to Java than to put up with another fiery argument with her. I took a shower, packed my bag and we took off for Grajagan on my 100cc Honda motorbike.

Six hours later, we polled into Muji's parent's home, all I could think about was sleep. But no sooner had we arrived than we had to speed off again - Muji's elderly grandmother had fallen ill earlier in the day, and we were told she could easily pass away that night. So we visited her in the little woven bamboo shack she called home. The floor was hard-packed earth, swept immaculately clean every day. A single kerosene lantern flickered inside. Muji's grandmother was totally blind - the light was just a courtesy for visitors. We talked to her as she lay in bed surrounded by concerned family and neighbors. She was a crumpled little woman of 90, with long wiry grey hair and very few teeth. When I was introduced, she gently ran her soft hands over my face, laughing at my long nose and beard. She was a gem of an old lady, still full of humour and enthusiasm despite having been blind for over a decade. 

When Muji explained we had just ridden a motorbike from Bali, she offered to massage my aching shoulders. I protested that she was ill and should rest, but she jokingly said she'd never massaged a white man before and wanted to know the feeling before she died. Everyone cracked up with laughter at her incredible attitude. Her tiny hands were extraordinarily strong as she kneaded into my knotted shoulder muscles.

When we finally returned home at close to midnight, a huge feast had been turned on for us. It was the end of the Moslem fasting month, so the whole town was awake. Festive music was blaring over loudspeakers. Kids were romping in the streets. No one slept until dawn. It would have been impossible to sleep anyway because of the screeching music broadcast at full volume all night. Grajagan was in party mode.

The next morning I tried to steel myself with a big breakfast of nasi goreng. The circumcision wasn't until sunset, so I hoped to go back to bed and sleep until late afternoon. But Muji wouldn't hear of it, having promised her girlfriends that we'd go shopping. So we climbed aboard the motorbike and rode to the Grajagan markets half an hour away along bumpy dirt roads. This was the Grajagan tourists rarely get to see.

|The ramshackle markets were in a dusty courtyard, trod into deep grooves by the feet of thousands of locals over the centuries. The smells of fresh chilies and dried fish assaulted my nose. Muji's girlfriends giggled as the unusual appearance of a white man brought a crowd of inquisitive kids who followed us everywhere. An old man was squatting in the dirt breaking chunks off a solid block of what looked to be a kilo of compressed hashish. When he rolled it up into a cone-shaped cigarette made from corn husk and offered me a taste, I really thought I must have flashed back to Morocco! But as I politely refused, Muji broke into laughter, assuring me it was just the local tobacco.

A wrinkled old woman without any teeth smiled at me offering beetle nut. Her lips and mouth were stained blood red from chewing the nut. She looked like one of The Wicked Witches. The culture shock was starting to get to me, so I quietly retired to the shade of a nearby mango tree while the girls kept shopping. Just as I was getting comfortable and about to nod off, Muji approached excitedly and said we had been invited to the mayor's house for coffee. I figured maybe that's exactly what I need - a solid caffeine hit to get my eyes open again! 

So we climbed back on the bike and rode to the mayor's neat little home, in the row of fishermen's houses lining the river mouth. This is where surfers board outriggers for the treacherous crossing over the bay to the Land surf camp an hour away. I could see the swell crashing over the headland and closing out the river mouth, but my surfboard was back in Bali. The waves were probably too big for me anyway, especially seeing I hadn't slept for 36 hours and was totally knackered. If Sanur had been 10 feet yesterday, how big would G-Land have been? 15? 20 feet? I could have died out there! 

An hour later, after 2 cups of extra strong sweet black kopi jahe (ginger coffee) with the mayor, we rode home to prepare for the circumcision. Guests were arriving already, so there was no time for a siesta. We drew water from the well and had a refreshing bucket shower as the sun went down over the rice fields. The toilet was just a hole dug in the garden.

Muji's father lent me his best formal sarong and a clean batik shirt. The ladies were all exquisitely dressed with gold-leaf flowers in their hair and skin-tight, see-through kebaya blouses. It never fails to amaze me that some Indonesians can disapprove of a western girl's sleeveless t-shirt, while not minding their own girls' see-through kebayas, showing off their frilly bras underneath.

Muji's young brother was escorted out in front of the invited guests with much pomp and ceremony. His proud father walked at his right side. The elderly village circumcision expert was on his other side, dressed traditionally with a gnarly old kris knife at his side. I secretly hoped we wouldn't have to watch him slice away at the offending appendage. 

A clattering gamelan orchestra was playing while seemingly everyone from Grajagan village gathered into the front courtyard, sitting on rented seats under a specially erected marquee. Hissing kerosene pressure lanterns were shedding a romantic, festive light on the proceedings. The guests chatted and laughed nervously as The Circumcision took place, thankfully out of sight, back in the house. The men particularly flashed lots of knowing smiles and cracked ribald jokes. They were a happy mob, obviously enjoying the ceremony (and looking forward to the free feast later on!

After just ten minutes or so, Muji's brother came back out, looking a little pale-faced and walking somewhat bow-legged. They had tied half a coconut under his sarong to prevent it rubbing his freshly sliced "banana". He put on a brave face as each man in the village shook his hand and ceremoniously accepted him into their community as an equal. It was a surprisingly moving occasion, causing me to reflect upon how this centuries old ritual cemented a feeling of community togetherness, contrasting starkly with white Australia's considerable lack of culture, ceremony or sense of community. We have much to learn from our Indonesian neighbors. Their hospitality and generosity can be overwhelming, considering their modest incomes and few basic possessions.

Then the feast started. Bowl after bowl of festive yellow coconut rice was brought out onto the flower decorated trellis tables. Hundreds of sate sticks had been cooked over charcoal made from coconut husks in the backyard. They were made from goat meat, a local delicacy. There was also curried goat stew, made from all the left-avers, bones and internal organs, a veritable Goats Head Soup. All the men were seated and ate first, the women and children politely waiting their turn, as is the local custom.

The musicians played noisily while Muji's father made sure everyone in the village had eaten. Then he proudly said a little speech, followed by the mayor who we had met earlier that morning. Unfortunately everything was in the Javanese language, so I didn't have a clue what it was all about. Muji tried to translate for me, but started cracking up and blushing as the jokes started to flow. Her brother was standing at the head table, understandably preferring not to sit down. He was shifting from one foot to the other - you could see he was uncomfortable underneath his coconut codpiece.

I stifled a yawn, glancing at my watch - 9pm - the usual bedtime for most Indonesian villagers. But this crowd was just starting to warm up. The mayor and the local Islamic Imam bid everyone goodnight, which became the signal for the alcohol to com' e out. The Christians and the Hindus all had a beer while the Moslems drank warm ginger ale.

The music stopped for five minutes as the main attraction for the evening was readied. Suddenly a sweet love song rang out over the loudspeakers. The singer appeared from behind gold embroidered batik curtains, an elegantly dressed mature woman in a tight sarong who shuffled and wiggled to "center stage". It was obvious she had once been quite a beauty, and she still knew how to flirt and work a crowd of men. But the older men knew what was coming next and didn't pay her much attention, preferring to glance back expectantly at the dressing room. Soon they were rewarded by the sight of the most gorgeous teenage girl foaling out to join the older woman. Even though she half obscured her face with a flowing lurex scarf, her eyes shone with extraordinary beauty. She was wearing an incredibly tight sarong and see-through kebaya. Shyly she would glance up occasionally at the crowd before demurely averting her eyes once again.

The young girl shimmied politely up to the table of honour, bowing demurely towards Muji's father before gently flinging her scarf around Muji's brother's neck. Reluctantly he joined her and danced shyly in front of the crowd of cheering men. The older woman was obviously singing a very funny, ribald song, because everyone kept laughing. But the beautiful young dancer kept her shy, demure image intact, thereby increasing her virtue and attractiveness in the eyes of all the onlookers.

Dancing with half a coconut hung over yourrecently circumcised banana obviously wasn't too comfortable, so Muji's brother politely thanked her for the dance. As he returned to his father's table with a shy smile, theother men jostled for the next dance.

Even though it was fascinating to watch, was feeling incredibly drowsy after a big meal and a couple of Bintangs. I whispered to Muji that I had to sleep somewhere. She shufled me off to a large bamboo lattice bed which I had to share with a couple of her younger male cousins. Somehow they managed to sleep, while I just tossed and turned all night.

The singing and dancing continued all night, so I was lucky if I even got an hour or two of broken sleep. Just before dawn I was startled awake by the raucous wail of the Islamic imam, broadcasting loudly from the nearby minaret, calling the faithful to prayer at the neighborhood masjid (mosque). I couldn't get back to sleep, and neither could anyone else. The house was alive with the sounds of sweeping, bottles being collected, chairs being stacked. In forty eight hours I had slept only one or two hours at the most.