Driving to the North Coast and An Incredible Balinese Tale

Waiting for Daddy to go away

We decided to take a 3 day circuit, up through the central mountainous area where we'd made many forays, to the resort of Lovina on the north coast, then drive east along the coast back to Sanur. We began our drive north through villages and jungle, endless family temples beyond compound walls, dignified meeting halls of carved stone and marble, down to the lake between the volcanoes, then up over rice fields to the monkey forest.

A calm monkey moment

A soft gray monkey family waited for us, with wizened features and articulate eyes and expressive mouths, but Daddy Monkey was fierce and his clan dared not accept our peanut and bananas until he was some distance away. Then the young ones of various ages would scamper up and pick peanuts and bananas out of our hands till Daddy started to glower and hiss at me with a vicious look. He took off after one of the kids till Mommy, with an infant slung around her shoulders and an equally vicious look, took off after Daddy.

Munduk waterfall

We drove up into a thickening fog and decided to stop for lunch till it cleared. We gazed into the opaque vapor (where otherwise we could have seen lakes and the sea) over excellent prawn curries. Then we proceeded on a small hike to the Munduk waterfall, the jungle ringing with shrill cicadas. The cold spray discouraged me from staying too long so I headed back just as a torrential downpour commenced. I dashed under the scarce tree cover and Jacques scampered after me. We found our driver, Wayan, sitting with some woodcarvers in their storefront. Eventually our third party reached us, looking like a ghoul, holding banana leaves over his head, his curved bare belly pure white in the jungle. 

Our ghoulish friend in the rain

We drove on into Munduk as Wayan told me the story of discovering his heroic ancestor.  And this is the incredible story. It is the story of finding his Cawetan, his roots, his true home.

He had been born in a palace, in a high caste, the Kshatriya caste, but because of local fighting his family had to flee to another region and strated to call themselves Sudra, the lowest caste, and worked in the fields.

The illustrious ancestor, 1478-1512

Fast forward.  Six months ago his son was in the hospital for 10 days and no one could find anything wrong.  So he did the normal thing, he went to a medium who told him he must find his Cawetan.  He told his uncle who thought it was nonsense (didn't they already know about their roots?) until his own son got sick.  In all, three children of the same family got sick, and three different mediums told them they must find their Cawetan.  So the uncle started to research this intensively, traveling from village to village, speaking with many people.

Shrine of the ancestor

 The research of his uncle took them to another medium, who became filled with the spirit of an ancestor, and spoke to a gathering of relatives.  In a laughing voice the ancestor said, "I am so glad to see you all.  But you know I cannot see you.  My head is buried in Munduk, and my body is buried on the island of Java."  This ancestor, from the 15th c., was a great warrior with great shakti--power. He was assassinated by enemies who were afraid to bury him whole because he would come back to life.  Now he was asking his descendant to recuperate the body and the head--they would do it symbolically, using sandalwood carved effigies--and hold a cremation ceremony.

Wayan with long lost ancestors

We decided to stop by the grave of the ancestor's head.  It has become a shrine.  In the past, people who lived there had wanted to move the boulder that marks the head, and their children peed on it.  But the children fell ill.  Now that it is a shrine the people there address Wayan in a high Balinese reserved for high castes.

Many altars of the Kshatriya temple

Afterwards we arrived at Wayan's Cawetan, the village of his newly found relatives, at a Caste Temple for the Kshatriya caste, his real caste.  Two different mediums have told him that he should change his name to a high caste name--Anadi Agung.  He made a phone call and a brown shiny many on a moto showed up to open the temple--then suddenly his long lost relatives swarmed to the temple (including the owner of the hotel where we would stay) and there was much joy and laughter.  They asked him, why haven't you changed your name yet?  Their caste temple was one of the most beautiful we had seen--colorful statues, elaborately carved sandstone and endless altars.

So they will hold a pilgrimage to gather the body and head of the ancestor, and cremation in August of this year.  7,000 relatives will attend, some of them very rich, some of them very poor, contributing to the expensive event as they can.  Now they are raising money with lottery tickets.

In the lobby of Aditya

What a Balinese story!

We drove on to Lovina, where Wayan took us to the palatial Aditya Hotel, owned by one of the relatives we had just met. From the lobby of giant Balinese reliefs and a brightly painted Barong costume looming over us, we took a walk on the grounds with sleek Asian bungalows facing the sea, mahogany and beige relief decorated verandas for each unit. At sunset we glided in the warm sea, for a glimpse of the sun's few red gleams.

Ancient temple of Besakih, Pura Kehem and Batu Klotek

Entrance to Besakih

The mother temple of Bali is at Besakih, where a complex of 23 temples ascends a mountain into the lofty distance. The holiest of these is Pura Penatawan Agung, rising 6 levels. The foundations of Besakih's temples date to prehistoric times--they are step pyramids. Succeeding invasions of Hindus from Java, dating back to the 14th c., annointed Besakih as Bali's mother temple.

A gate of Besakih

An upper level of Besakih

Impressive, majestic, especially as throngs of Balinese in their ritual dress ascend the black steps, women resolutely carrying loads of offerings on their heads Besakih is nonetheless an infamous visit for tourists. The guards at the parking lot are stern, then children chase you uphill demanding money. As you approach the temple itself young men practically order you to leave unless you play along with the many scams to get you to fork over rupiah. All the while women under the burdens on their heads, climbing up the many steps, smile sweetly. 

Pura Kehem

We ascended and ascended, told to take the external stairs, we skirted the temples and were able to see a bit of the ceremony inside. It was a day to celebrate farm animals, but we were spared any living sacrifices. The formidable temples are built of black volcanic rock carved into varying styles of monsters, serpents coiled around the base or flanking stairways, or great birds as railings. People sat straight-backed in the hot sun in this holiest of Balinese temples, or outside the walls, dogs sometimes fought - embodying the aggressive spirit of Besakih. Despite all the warnings to turn back, plenty of souvenir stands adorn the higher levels, plenty of women selling drinks, along with chatty priests. A young man sold musical instruments so I bought a flute of a limited range and played it walking up, delighting the women selling drinks. We ascended into a temple where young men and priests were gathered. One of them invited me to pray with him

and make a donation--some people donate 100,0000 rp, some 200,000. No thanks.

We descended among people now smiling and picnicking yet still more were climbing higher, the women straight backed and head-laden.

The smaller counterpart of Beskih is Pura Kehem, the second most

Hanuman before Batu Klotek

important in East Bali. The carving of the various monsters was the most ornate and detailed we had seen, the 43 altars had brightly painted carved wood doors and elegant monsters, handsome princes. It was built around an ancient mangrove. On our way home a pig was slaughtered by the side of the road.

Batu Klotek, gate to the sea

And there is the unassuming temple where Besakih's statues are purified. On the east coast, at the sea's edge, where smokey distant hills, like furry stupa, are wreathed in smoke beyond foaming breakers is Pura Batu Klotek, empty of even a caretaker, its volcanic stone roughly finished. At the entrance is an enormous Hanuman bearing a vial of water, on top of a turtle in a fountain of serpents. Within, the parasols are gleaming gold but decor is tattered. A gate leads to the roaring sea where people gathered and dogs roamed, couples lit incense and prayed to the horizon. It had a powerful feeling, this temple where statues from the holy Besakih are carried on foot--3 days' journey, 40 km-- to be purified in these holy waters. It imparted a profound peace to finish a beautiful day.

Ancient Temples of Goah Gajah, Gunung Kawi, Tirta Empul

Entrance to Goah Gajah

 It is difficult to know how old the temples of Bali are, even knowing that they date to the founding of the village. Time is counted with the cycles of harvest, life and ceremonies, while linear time seems of no interest to the unchanging culture. However certain temples date back a thousand years or more, despite the tendency to constantly renovate.

Linga at Goah Gajah

Our first day on the road, after an excellent lunch overlooking the rice fields of the Ubud area, stretches of brightest emerald cultivated by people in painted straw hats (the restaurant was called I Made Joni and staffed apparently by children in beautiful Balinese dress) we proceeded to Goa Gajah, the Elephant Cave, a small ancient dark temple filled with smokey incense. It dates back to at least to the 11th c, before the takeover of the Majahapit Empire, and was said to have been

Ganesh at Goah Gajah

created by the fingernail of a legendary giant Kebo Iwa. At that time, a period of trade with India brought a Budhhist/Hindu syncretism, whose traces at the Elephant Cave are lingams, a Ganesa, and yonis, ancient fertility symbols from India.

Buddha complex at Goah Gajah

From there a lovely descent into waterfalls and pools, without much explanation, is also considered a temple, named the Buddha complex. It resembles Buddhist grottos in China. It was earlier in that period, in the 9th c. that the earliest writing in Bali dates. Buddhist magic written in Sanskrit was inscribed on tiny clay tablets in a stupika, small Buddhist stupas, many of which have been found. We sat with coconut milk, hacked out by the vendor over the Buddha complex. In Bali there are formidable knives and machetes everywhere. Even in the market little women blithely chop tiny herbs with enormous machetes. Young Balinese practiced their English with us, recording little interviews.

Rice fields of Gunung Kawi

Candi of Gunung Kawi

Another ancient temple in the vicinity of Ubud is Gunug Kawi, the Rock Temple. In the village above we bought sarongs, requisite temple garb, while dozens of tiny Balinese women clung to us relentlessly. Then you must descend among irridescent rice fields to abandoned platforms and a cave entrance thought to have been the Royal temple in the 10th c. There, candi, or large reliefs of stupas, rise against the rocky hillside, thought to each have been a monument to a member of 11th c. royalty. Another version has Kebo Iwa carving the whole thing in a single night with his fingernails. Below, refreshing waters flow from holes in the temple into cascades below. I had been suffering from a burning chest pain (it would be a tough climb back up the rice field precipice) so I doused my head in the healing cascades.

Tirta Empul where I am submerged

But the next temple cured me! Temple of the Holy Spring, Tirta Empul, discovered in 962 and reputed for magical powers, has cement pools spouting water from 12 successive fountains. People lined up before each successive fountain for the blessing water. I leaped in, fully clothed and additionally wrapped in a sarong, and was instructed to proceed methodically, to each fountain, throwing water 3 times on my head, 3 times on my face, 3 times on my ears, drinking it 3 times. I truly felt infinitely better as we roamed the temple grounds afterward, covering my chest now because of the wet t-shirt effect. After extensive bargaining for trinkets, we climbed in the car to the mountain air overlooking the three volcanoes, Gunung Agung, Gunung Batur and Gunung Abang. Lush green

forest and landscape carpeted the fields beneath the black lava, each volcano wreathed in dense white cloud around the lake that provided our fish smothered in hot Balinese spices.

Some Dance Performances in Bali

The Barong and his friend, the monkey

The Balinese world of performance has accommodated itself to the tourist industry. Once nighttime dances traversed dangerous borders between good and evil spirits, but now they fit into daytime slots for the schedules of tour guides. 

We saw the classical Barong dance, depicting the eternal fight between good and evil spirits. The costumes are massive and monstrous, like the monsters that decorate the temples--they are often displayed in palaces or temples. The narrative contains as much farce and coarse comedy as it does refined dancing--a rather wonderful combination. I was especially fascinated by the fingers of the costumes. Classical dance from Java uses codified hand gestures, or mudras from India and the fingers are often in constant motion, I have been told, because of the

The innocent prince is sent out to the forest

incessant flow of life. But the monsters have, instead, limp white extended fingernails with evil powers.

We saw a morning performance, which became interesting because that day turned out to be the new moon. The elaborately costumed beasts are include the good Barong versus the bad witch Rangda (the very one who lives on Nusa Penida, see the blog on ceremonies), but the supporting cast steals the show with broad physical comedy and highly refined classical dancing. For example, one beast is killed and as the performing dwarfs mourn him his massive penis pops up, which involves a huge amount of stage business. On the other hand Sadewa, the prince, is

Dead best with unruly penis

played by a ravishing woman whose every gesture has a breathless beauty.

But tourists were only a part of the audience on this day of the new moon. Balinese themselves had come to see the final act, the kriis dance. Men in checkered sarongs, in trance, begin to go beserk over the witch Rangda, whom she casts aside one by one. They turn their kriis'---the classical crooken dagger of Bali--on themselves and stab and stab, but are protected by their trance. Mangkus, shamans who deal in good and bad spirits, come

Kriis dancers stabbing themselves

onstage sprinkling holy water, protecting from the evil. Finally the dancers are restrained and enter into normal consciousness.

At least this is what we're told. It was sometimes a little hard to believe, but then who are we to say? In the banal light of 11am it was hard to believe that people who were performing for tourist schedules were actually in trance. But who knows? I tend to credit it--the men were actively stabbing at themselves, they drew no blood. But my traveling companions doubted.

Performance during a political meeting

Even more perplexing is the Fire Dance, Kecak, which also closes with a trance dance, this one performed at night to dramatize the fire aspect. The Kecak is striking in that the orchestra is a
group of 100 men making orchestrated music without instruments: chanting, shouting, taking different parts of an orchestra, call and response, sometimes almost doo-wop, a capella tones, hypnotic rhythms, with a story being told. A tree of fire stands onstage. The men sit in different formations or lie down on each other in chains to form the scenery.

Ramayan in Kecak dance

First the Ramayana is performed in a tight circle between the fire tree and Kecak men, beautiful women playing the main roles except for a buffoonish Ravanna and the costumed Hanuman and other monkeys. Then the bright tree of fire vanishes, and two very young girls dance, vestige of an older version where the girls themselves would go into trance and enter fire unscathed. They still represent virginal angels who combat evil spirits.

But instead of the little girls entering fire, a man with burning eyes and jutting chin came out clothed in a straw horse and meditated with a mangku. A basket of coconut husks was soaked with petrol and lit. The mangku shouted for him to GO and he danced into the fire. Neither he nor his straw horse were burnt. Twice he attacked the flames, stomping into the fire, grabbing the burning coconuts, almost eating them as if hypnotized by them until a man grabbed him and flopped him down sitting, hands tightly around his waist till he came out of his trance. And then he joined the bowing performers, looking a little bewildered.

"Angels" in Kecak dance

I asked Wayan, why does the straw remain unburnt? The trance, he said, also protects the straw. It was absolutely true that straw entered into petrol-soaked fire and emerged without a trace. The man's feet were black, naturally. But Wayan felt the performer was not in the best trance. A better trance would have made him attack the fire more aggressively. It is a skill like any other, cultivated among gifted children, a specialty that leads to a career. Kecak dances are advertised everywhere in Bali, any night of the week. The trance seems to be pretty routine.

Ceremonies of Bali

Proceeding to a ceremony at Goa Lawah

Ceremonies are the supreme markers of life in Bali, they mark life's and death's passages, temple anniversaries twice a year, and defeat evil spirits at the spring equinox, before the purified new year arrives, in a silence more silent than Sabbath in Jersualem. Our driver was eager to find us a ceremony---first we were to attend a tooth filing, but it was rescheduled. At the age of 15 young people undergo a filing of their canines (which Wayan said was excruciatingly painful while other writers say it is not) surrounded by enormous pomp and circumstance. 

We were in luck, though: the brother of the king

Cremation tower

of Ubud would be cremated on the 14th of May. This is one of the most expensive and elaborate ceremonies on the island. Without cremation the spirit does not become free of the body. A cremation is enormously expensive, so bodies are buried sometimes for years as families save up for the cremation. In the case of the Royal Family absolutely no expense is spared: not the expenses of the villagers of the kingdom who will carry the floats on their shoulders, nor gifts for them, nor the construction of the enormous tower and bull and serpent Naga, nor musicians and priests. Because it is so expensive a few other bodies are cremated at the same time.

Blessing the tower and bull

In a fever of excitement Wayan arrived at 8:30 in the morning, while in Ubud the ceremonial tower already stood tall and brilliant as priests prayed, their wives burning incense, bells ringing. The tower was at least 10 meters high and made of wood, and it would be carried by the villagers of the Ubud region who owed the king their allegiance--he had paid for their temples, he had granted them favors. The Ubud kingdom turned out in their finest. Even more beautiful was the bull into which the body would be transferred for the actual burning. Throngs pressed into the palace

The bull

gates (where dancing took place only for invitees) and hawkers clung to us with sarongs and trinkets. We burned with exitement among the infectious crowds. We roamed Ubud before we finally took our seats which Wayan had arranged for us, at a restaurant where he was well known. We were facing the parade, as if on an elite viewing stand, where the villagers, 100 at a time carrying the heavy floats, almost weeping with the effort, would collapse, put down the weight of Naga and Bull and finally Tower and pass their burden on.

Villagers carrying the floats

After the burning

We sat at our viewing stand, next to Mr. Carlo, a Milanese who'd been coming to Bali for 45 years and had a house by Klungung. A sudden downpour as the orchestra approached put everything in doubt. The orchestra members in their turbans and black checked sarongs dispersed, crowding with their brown smiles into the restaurant. Yet the show went on. Amid thunder and sheets of rain the village men took up their burden with a shout and hustled toward us, putting it down in front of us, fainting with the effort. Boxes of water were broken open and rushed to the young men. The priests sprinkled water with rice sheaves and 1-2-3- GO the men shouted as a new crew pushed up the load, and trotted on to clamorous bells and drums.

Ceremony at Besakih

We missed the actual burning at the cemetery, not believing that it would be possible in the downpour, but in fact petrol was poured and poured and the bull now carrying the body exploded in flames. We arrived there after a museum visit, as the ashes were being prayed over. A stench of rotting flesh hung in the air. Someone carried a duck, and I did not see what happened to it, but later I understood.

Waiting for the Malasti procession

The next day we happened on a Malasti ceremony, in which the statues of the temple are carried to a purifying place before they are returned to the temple, which was happening as we were stopped on the road. Ominous chanting started up just as we arrived. Young girls danced in the road at the entrance of the temple. A woman held a terrified white duck, stretching its neck to face the oncoming procession. The clangorous orchestra started up. Parasols and

high flags shaped like palm fronds glittered with gold and bright colors. Little platforms with wooden statues had been cleansed in the river. Upon arrival the priest stabbed the duck in the neck, head, wings and feet to the ominous roar of medieval chanting. The

Malasti procession

procession circled the duck's plonged spasms of agony, the pure white feathers drenched in its own blood, its beak streaming like a red baton, a long, cruel death. They finally kicked the duck aside.

Back in the car, in a voice of studied neutrality, I asked Wayan about animal sacrifice. In fact every single ceremony includes animal sacrifice. Yesterday's white duck, at the end of the cremation, being so passionately videoed by the men present, had been hidden from me. But animal sacrifice is everywhere and incessant. In three days' time there would be a cockfight as well, the cocks fighting to the death, another constant. Everywhere in Bali roosters strut under woven baskets, waiting their turn to die.

Watercolored Rooster-so far, so good for him

Wayan didn't know why. I later read in the wonderful book on Bali by Miguel Covarrubias that it is to appease the evil spirits, who want blood.

Wayan told us that it is usually white ducks or black chickens, but a friend who owns a B&B in Seminiyak said that every kind of animal is sacrificed all the time, a detail normally omitted from tourist information or the usual rhapsodic description of Bali. I asked Indra, a Balinese masseuse who grew up near the most sacred temple at Besakih, about it. "I know!"she cried out, her face suddenly pained. "Why do they do that?"

Blessing at Tanah Lot - for a price

Another kind of blood is given in Tanganan, a bali-aga village with practices that pre-date the arrival of the Majahapit Hindu kingdom in 1343, when it took over the island. Men still fight, with bare torsos, using stiff fronds of a certain succulent bordered by sharp thick spikes. They strike each other and draw blood. It is painful. Only the master of ceremonies decides when they have had enough. 

So it seems the evil spirits of Bali have withstood time. The nearby island of Nusa Penida is said to be the home for these denizens of a black and white checkered universe. I have meditated there and it is in fact a strange place.

Visiting Bali

Jatiluwih Rice Fields

There are two Bali's. In the south, relentless development has transformed fishing villages into high end destinations for water sports, endless clubs along beautiful beaches, gated communities so removed that they seem to be ghost towns. But I can't describe this Bali, for I visited the other Bali, after a hiatus of 30 years.

Pura Taman Saraswati in Ubud

Thirty years had brought disheartening change to Ubud, Sanur and Denpasar where people are ruder and the commotion is incessant. Beautiful Ubud no longer has its rice fields and quiet pathways, it is now a chic commercial center, but still wrapped around its heart of temples (pura) and palaces. Sanur, where we stayed, is quieter but concrete is going up everywhere between the old villas and classical Balinese compounds, many of which are now outfitted for karaoke though many have become very

Sanur beach

Balinese hotels. Especially along Sanur beach, where expensive hotels face the sea, there is a juncture of very simple Balinese eating places, warungs, and white tourists on chaise longues ordering drinks, receiving massages from simple Balinese women who carry their wares stacked high on their heads.

Everywhere agriculture

But if you go further north, which we did on daily excursions for two weeks, you find an eternal Bali of jungle interrupted only by expanses of emerald rice paddies filling ancient volcanic craters, or by villages without a single modern building, only the brick and carved sandstone of temples and family compounds and meeting halls, or the black volcanic rock classical structures that have filled Bali for a thousand years. Women carry high loads on their heads--weighing as much as 60 kilos--under which they sometimes lean down to pick something up off the ground. Men are building,

A caste temple

or transporting bamboo logs, or doing road work, aided by their wives. Aside from the ubiquitous agriculture of rice, green beans, hot peppers, bananas and other crops, rotated to yield as many as three harvests a year, the biggest industries seem relate to the building of temples and family

Hanuman guarding Pura Batu Klotek

compounds. The standard statuary for temples are being carved in stone, the elements of the age-old architecture are sitting on lots, fountains and Ganeshas and Arjunas are mass produced by hand. Marketplaces of produce seem to be dominated by the sale of offerings for the gods, delicate baskets of rice and flowers, and other votive paraphernalia. Aside from the tourist industry (many Balinese are employed as woodcarvers or stone carvers, producing massive amounts of the exotic crafts that seemed so rare and strange 30 years ago) the perpetuation of a life centered around pleasing both good and bad spirits is the overwhelming impression.

Ogo-ogo embody evil spirits

Every family compound has a temple, as well as every public building including the police.  Every village has its main temple and then there are caste temples.  There are the temples for all the Balinese, such as Besakih, the mother temple, with her 23 separate temple complexes.  There are altars everywhere, and offerings are made in profane places too, like crossroads, to ward off evil. 

Receiving a blessing at Tanah Lot

This seems so charming--"it is a feeling," said our driver, "to always make offerings to the gods." We watched a woman put down delicate fragrant baskets in the middle of a busy intersection. "We feel better, but I can't really give you information about it." The exquisite manners of the Balinese apparently reflect this constant conversation they are having with the gods. Nowhere are people more refined than these women with their delicate smiles and eyes deep with kindness, their hands folded in salutation, their exquisite choice of words. They all seem to have been trained as dancers, but dancers with lilting voices and a genuine interest in your happiness.

4-headed gods guarding the crossroads

We were able to gain a deeper perspective by the constant company of our driver, Wayan, whom I would recommend in an instant to any visitor to Bali. (Please don't hesitate to ask for his particulars.) He is a man of the village, the head of his extended family, while his work is driving-- tourists, dignitaries, professionals and rich men with their armed bodyguards. He learns of the larger world through them, because his own world is a small village controlled by priests who determine the when and how of every person's actions, and village heads who control the villagers in other ways.

Cremation bull

For example, Bali is filled with swastikas, an ancient Asian symbol long before Naziism-- Wayan has never heard of WWII or Hitler. His life is in the village. It began with his first three months when his feet were never allowed to touch the ground, then his life milestones have been marked through a series of rituals (such as tooth-filing) and ceremonies carefully determined by the priests, until in manhood he owes rituals to his parents, such as cremation. (Actually Wayan's life has been much more complicated than that, but more about that later.) He works hard with relentless good cheer and fulfils his duties to gods and family. He knows how to dance in ceremonies and what is expected of him during the important rituals. His is a completely Balinese perspective.

And so, the blogs that follow will try to share Wayan's world as seen through our foreign eyes.