My elation is short lived. I've barely climbed the first level when I am surrounded by teenagers who begin to interrogate me. Where am I from? Why am I here? What is my religion? Am I married? Can they take their pictures with me? I swallow my irritation, smile and answer all their questions, pose for all their pictures then try to move on. But an Indonesia couple stops me and asks to take their pictures with me, then a very large family, then three young males and each of these encounters is more abrupt than the last, though one wife mutters, "sorry, sorry" through her portrait smile as she wraps her arm around my shoulder. I can't help thinking, as she apologizes repeatedly, that the need to apologize as you do something is usually a good indicator that you ought not be doing it.
And so it goes as I try to make three mindful, meditative circumambulations, starting from the east gate as prescribed by Bhuddist practitioners I'm repeatedly stopped for questioning and photo shoots. It takes me almost an hour to make one complete lap of the first level and I have reached the limits of my patience. These people, I think, who veil their women and pray five times a day, who refuse to allow me into their own places of worship because I am not one of them, can't they see I am trying to meditate? No all they see is a bule whose picture they want to add to their facebook wall. My steps turn to stomps and my fatigue fuels my anger or my anger feeds my fatigue, I don't care to determine which one.
My mind continues to mutter and curse until I am stopped again by a young teenage boy, but this one is unusually polite saying, "Excuse me Miss, I am sorry if we are intruding but we are students who have come here to practice our English with Western tourists. Will you speak with us?" He sounds hopeful and smiles so brightly I can't help but smile back, genuinely, and nod.
As I talk to him and his friends my anger begins to wane. We volley questions and answers back and forth and share a few laughs. When a cloud moves and bares the relentless sun a girl with a pink veil and green eyes says, "Please Miss, you look so tired you will pass out if you stand in the sun, come stand in the shade," and, taking my hand, pulls me into the cool shadows of the intricately carved reliefs.
By the time they say thank you and I wish them good luck, I am laughing at myself. Everything is as it is, it's my wanting it to be otherwise when I have no way of making it so that is so infuriating. These people roaming all about me, and particularly the one's who stop me, are a part of my meditation, there to help me see more clearly.
It takes another two hours but we finally make it to the top where perforated stupas house hidden buddha statues. Indonesians believe that if you reach your arm through one of the openings and can touch a buddha you can make a wish and it will come true, but today that level is closed while crews work to remove the ashes Mount Merapi scattered only a few weeks before.
But I don't need to touch the buddha to make a wish: Om Mani Padma Hum.
I hope it will come true.
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