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.