This year, next year, sometime - Nyepi

But to press on -
"I was hoping you could join us around 5 o'clock when we make,this offering," Nyoman continued, "because then you would see what a Balinese christening is all about."
That evening I sat sipping hot sweet tea with Nyoman in his courtyard, under an ancient jeruk tree, its fruit swinging above us on stringy stems like a battery of green cannonballs.

As we waited for the ceremony to commence, I asked: name have you chosen for the baby"
"Oh, we don't have a name yet. It will be decided by the gods during the offering," Nyoman answered.
Mystified, I asked: "And how will you know what it is,
"Well, we choose nine names," explained Nyoman."The priest writes each one on a separate strip of lontar leaf, and wraps this around one end of a stick of palm fibre. The other end of the stick - the top - is wrapped in cotton wool, soaked in coconut oil Then all nine candies are set alight, and the one that burns long carries the baby's name."

"What happens if you have a favourite name you want for t baby"
"As a matter of fact," admitted Nyoman, "my wife and I d have a name we want to call -her - Tjampaka. So, we're doing what Balinese usually do in such a case, we're arranging for this name be put on a larger candle - so it must be the last to burn out. Bu come and watch, the priest is already in the kitchen, where tradition says we must hold this part of the ceremony."

Offerings were spread on the floor and over the stove in the kitchen. The tiny baby, swathed in a length of magneta brocad, elaborately embroidered with gold thread, lay serenely in t mother's arms, while the priest sprinkled her with holy water. A woman came out of the shadows, holding nine white tapers ii her hand - the "name" candles. One after another she began , light them, standing each upright in an offering atop the stove.

Nyoman muttered softly to himself as he watched her, th turning to me, explained: "She has made a little mistake here. A the candles should be lit at once - but no matter."

Slowly the nine little candies burnt away, until only o remained alight. Carefully the priest leant over, unwrapped the twist of lontar leaf from its end, peered at the spidery writing, a announced . Ariaso".

The parents gasped and looked at each other. That was n the name they wanted.
"What will you do now" I asked, anticipating disappointment. "Use your own name anyway"
"Oh, no," Nyoman was horrified. "It is clear that the gods do
not wish her called Tjampaka. Maybe it is unlucky for her. Of course, we will use the name the gods have chosen."

The naming settled, the baby's head given a further dousing of holy water (this time sprinkled through a rice cooker) the christening party moved out of the kitchen to a courtyard beside the house.