So there I was, in the midst of a cremation procession (I can’t say that everyday) and I could barely contain my excitement.  As the parade advanced toward us, I noticed groups of people carrying different objects. The first man carried a long white cloth and about ten women walked behind him each holding a segment of the cloth. Immediately after them, four men passed in front of me carrying an empty wooden coffin that looked like a bed and was painted bright yellow with other colorful accents. Next in the procession came a small tower that appeared to be about five feet tall. It was also painted in bright cheerful colors and was attached to a bamboo grid platform born by 9 adolescent boys. At the base were a variety of local fruits. Strips of young coconut leaves waved in the wind from the top.

The second tower to approach was larger and was born by about 20 men on a wider bamboo grid. It looked to be about eight feet tall. Sitting at the top of the colorful tower, there appeared to be a regal-looking chair sheltered from the sun by a happy yellow silk-tasseled umbrella. The seat of the chair was stuffed with different kinds of grasses and about five fabrics of different colors and lengths flowed from the front of the seat like carpets.

wade coming up the hill

Both of these towers, however, were dwarfed in size, color and detail by the last and largest tower, the wade, which was so heavy it had to be carried by 50 men who still strained under its weight. As the twelve-foot tall tower approached me, I noticed two men riding in the top tier, each hanging on for dear life as the men carrying the tower ran and twirled it in the streets. Sometimes the weight of the wade was too much for its carriers who would collapse under it making me wonder if the tower and men inside would fall to the ground. The men in the wade were there to secure the body of the deceased which was wrapped in a white sheet and was also riding in the tower. Given all the spinning and near drops, it was amazing that the men and their precious cargo didn’t all spill out. Luckily that didn’t happen although sometimes it apparently does as I was advised that there exists a special ceremony to take the body back in the event it falls and touches the ground.

Following the wade was a throng of people with a twenty-five or thirty member band of musicians playing upbeat festive Balinese music that contributed to the mood that more closely resembled Mardi Gras than a funeral procession.

When the men carrying the wade approached the intersection at the top of the hill, they began running in a circle, spinning the wade to confuse the spirit of the dead woman so that she could not return home. As they spun, some of the carriers fell to their knees causing the wade to dip very precariously. Apparently it was well attached to the bamboo grid, however, and didn’t fall off. The men recovered, rebalanced and surged forward at a run. Sometimes the power lines were too low for wade to pass and a man carrying a long bamboo pole with a V-shaped tip would lift up the line so the wade could pass under.

Mun and I hopped on our motorbike and took up the rear guard of the procession which passed right in front of Ayu and Raka’s house. Mun, who had been sick on and off the past few days, was exhausted and didn’t share my enthusiasm for the cremation ceremony. So he stayed at the house where Ayu and Raka kindly let him take a nap while I continued to follow the procession on foot. I had only walked about one block when I heard a friendly voice behind me say, “Hi. How are you? Where are you from?” I turned to see a handsome young Balinese man smartly dressed in black and white with a video camera in his hand.

He introduced himself as Wisnu and told me that he was the great-grandson of the woman being cremated. He was in charge of making a video of the proceedings for the family and invited me to join him! I eagerly agreed and all of a sudden, instead of filming and photographing the events from the rear, I was now escorted to the front and given, along with Wisnu, the choicest spots from which to record the celebration. Wisnu and I would run to the front of the procession, film for a bit as they passed us and then run to the front again. I wanted to capture the event both on video and with still pictures. Without Mun there to assist me, I often had the movie camera in my left hand, my D5 in my right hand and a lens cap in my mouth as my pants pockets were completely inaccessible under my sarong. It was probably the most exhilarating photography I’ve ever done.

The procession turned down a quiet street and shortly thereafter into a field that apparently served as the village cemetery. Wisnu and I were in front of the wade at this point, walking backwards over the uneven terrain, filming as we went. Several times I tripped over the back of my long sarong which kept getting caught under my shoes. The men carrying the wade were having just as difficult a time controlling their cargo and Wisnu warned me that if I fell, I would simply be trampled by the wade-bearing men as they would be unable to stop their momentum. Already sensing that this would be the case, I ceased filming momentarily, hiked up my sarong and moved to higher ground.

About 100 yards into the cemetery, the men set the wade down near a small hill about 15 feet high upon which was constructed a wooden table covered by a temporary bamboo pavilion wrapped in white sheets. The musicians took their seats in the field and the music ceased. The four men who had been carrying the empty casket placed it on the table. Several men took the body down from the top of the wade, placed it on what looked like a stretcher made of bamboo and carried it to the top of the hill. They processed around the pavilion three times, shaking the body somewhat violently as they escorted it. I think the significance of the three circles was the same as in the Memukur, each pass representing the three levels of existence: the lower beings, humans and the gods. After the last pass, they placed the body in the casket and threw the stretcher on the ground to the side. Women carrying large black tubs on their heads walked up the hill and about 15 immediate family members gathered around the body.

I could see that they were performing various mini-ceremonies around the body but couldn’t really see what was going on. Wisnu was at the top of the hill filming, but I assumed that my invitation to join him had only included the procession and not this intimate gathering which was family only. I joined the rest of the villagers and more distantly related family in the field and put a long lens on my camera to resume photography from there. As I looked around the field, I noticed about 5 westerners photographing the event, presumably equally interested in this fascinating custom. I turned my attention back to the people around me and was surprised and amused to see a man selling cigarettes walking through the crowd and hawking his wares. It was most definitely a different atmosphere from any funeral I’d ever attended! 

I looked at the top of the hill again and was astonished to see Wisnu beckoning me to come up. It was obviously such an intimate gathering at the top of the hill, I thought I must be imagining things. “Who me?” I indicated, pointing to myself and giving him a quizical look. Yes, he nodded. Come up here.

I must have turned fifty shades of red to match my kebaya as I walked up the hill, hoping everyone had also seen Wisnu invite me, imagining though that they did not and were wondering who was the presumptuous white western woman invading this special ceremony. At the top of the hill, he introduced me to several of his relatives and then cleared a space for me at his great-grandmother’s feet so that I had an ideal view of the ministrations to her body. I photographed quickly, thinking that my invitation to be present was merely momentary. Wisnu again surprised me when, instead of indicating that I should return to my place at the bottom of the hill, he began explaining what was going on. I filmed and listened simultaneously. 

The body was still wrapped in a sheet. Several people on either side of the coffin held a piece of cloth that looked like cheesecloth about a foot over the body. There were already flowers strewn on top of the cloth as well as on the body itself and the priest was pouring container after container of water over the flower-covered cloth. Some containers were lovely ceramic while most others were humble plastic baggies. Wisnu explained that the water symbolized cleansing and each container of water came from different rivers and temples all over the island; each having been specially gathered for this ceremony. There are obviously a lot of different rivers and temples with holy water on the island; I must have seen at least 20-30 containers of water poured through the cloth and onto the body.

Wisnu explained that unlike many Balinese, his great-grandmother had not been buried after she died but was immediately cremated. Apparently, his family was wealthy enough to afford the expensive ceremony (in their case around $6,000). Most families have to save money for many years to afford a cremation during which time their dead lie buried in the cemetery. “Immediate” has a different meaning in Bali though than it would in the west. Wisnu’s great-grandmother died 20 days before she was cremated. Those who have money for immediate cremation will consult the pednanda (high priest) for the first auspicious date dictated by the Balinese calendar to hold the cremation ceremony. Until then, body is laid out in the bale of the family compound (the bale is a special room in the compound used only for the most important ceremonies). Immediately (in the western sense) after death, the body is injected with enbalming fluid to preserve it and prevent decay during the wait for the cremation. The Balinese also use this time to prepare the myriad of offerings used in the ceremony, build the wade and accompanying towers, gather the waters from all over the island and many other things that take place “behind the scenes.” Everyday during the time that the body is lying in state, special offerings are brought to it, including coffee, tea and symbolic meals.

box with great-grandmother's personal belongings

At this point, five women carried another white sheet from the bottom of the hill to the top and placed it on the body. They unrolled the sheet which contained flowers, rice and some belongings of the dead woman. They also brought a small white wooden box whose contents they emptied one at a time and placed on the body. Mostly, these were clothes and personal items that belonged to the lady. They laid her with her sarong and kebaya on top of her body, pulled a brand new pair flip-flops from their plastic wrapper and placed them near her feet. Money and Chinese coins were put in the coffin along with the rest. I have read that the purpose of a Balinese cremation ceremony is to free the body of all worldly attachments so I presume that was the reason the family was burning all of the woman’s belongings along with her body, preparing her soul to be reunited with the Supreme Being as a first step to her reincarnation. Before leaving the hill, the family last placed under the table a bamboo basket of green leaves that I guess also contained some offerings.

body prepared for cremation

 

At one point during all the ministrations, Wisnu had left the hill, telling me to stay and keep photographing. That was all the encouragement I needed. He returned a while later with a bottle of water for me. My God! Could this guy make me feel any more like an honored guest?! Throughout our time on the hill, I thanked him profusely for allowing me this rare close-up glimpse into a ceremony I’d been reading about since before my trip began. I told him repeatedly what a very special gift he was giving me and that I considered it an honor and a privilege to be allowed into such an intimate family moment. His reason for inviting me, he said, was so that I could tell other westerners about Bali and their traditions, hopefully enticing others to come see for themselves. No problem, I thought! But what about the other western photographers lingering in the field that day (who I’m sure were not happy to have a white woman “embedded” with the family “ruining” their photo opps)? Why didn’t Wisnu invite them for a close-up view too? Was it just because he and I had already chatted in the street? Or because I was the only one wearing a traditional Balinese costume (if so, thank goodness for the ceremony that morning!). Whatever his reason for inviting me, I will be forever grateful.

Putu in front of the wade

I left the pavilion with Wisnu and the rest of his family and we took our seats at the bottom of the hill. We visited, I was introduced around, brought more water and we took turns taking photos of each other with the family. Wisnu invited me to climb through the bamboo grid and pose with the wade, one of many things he encouraged that day that I wouldn’t have dared to do uninvited - and barely dared to do anyway.

Shortly, a few men brought containers of propane gas, lit a fire under the table and began the actual cremation process. Wisnu told me that in years past, they would use a special kind of wood under the table as firewood to burn the body. Although it gave off a pleasant odor, it would often take 3 hours or more to complete the cremation so now, they just used propane gas.

Again, he surprised me when he proposed that we have our photo made together … with the burning sarcophagus as the backdrop. Definitely a different kind of funeral than those we have in the west! But I figured he knew the ropes so I joined him for what has to be the most surreal photo of my entire trip.

with Wisnu (I can't believe this is really happening!)

 

While we were waiting for the cremation to be complete, Wisnu and I chatted. He told me that people jealous of his family had prayed to their gods for rain that day, while he and his family had implored their own gods to keep the rain at bay. The two groups of gods did battle among themselves and Wisnu’s gods had obviously won as the rain had stopped early that morning. I wondered whether the jealous families had pulled a fast one though, as the sun had come out and was starting to get downright hot. At the last cremation, Wisnu said, they weren’t so lucky. It poured rain which obviously meant that his family had lost the village “battle of the gods.”

It took about an hour for the body and all the accoutrements to completely burn. To hasten the process, a sheet of metal was placed on top of the coffin focusing the intense heat. In the meantime, more introductions were made and I was invited to join the family for a mini-picnic before the feast. They had obviously had the event catered, one of the many expenses incurred, and I was presented with plastic containers of traditional Balinese snacks: doughy rice cakes topped with shredded coconut, slices of cucumber, slices of tart mango and fried rice. A number of Wisnu’s cousins wanted to sit with me, but would get very shy when I complied. His sweet friendly mother, however, practically plopped in my lap and we chatted as much as we could through the language barrier when Wisnu wasn’t translating for us. They invited me to attend the family banquet after the ceremony was complete. 

with Wisnu's family

Eventually, the burning was finished and the family reassembled on the hill. They doused the smoldering ashes with hollow bamboo lengths filled with water until the pieces were cool enough to touch. The ground was still very warm from the heat though and I could feel it through my sandals as I photographed the family who were sifting through the ashes. They picked out fragments of bone and the Chinese coins and placed them in conical shaped woven bamboo baskets. More water was poured through the baskets rinsing the ash off and the clean contents were transferred to a white cloth-lined basket. When Wisnu saw they were at this stage of the ceremony, he excused himself saying “Oh! This is something I have to do.” I guess it’s required that all family members participate in this segment.

The memory card on my camera filled at this point. No more photos; only video and those batteries were about to die. I prayed to any god that would listen that they would last as long as possible. 

 When all the bones and coins were gathered, a woman carrying the basket containing them walked down the hill and over to the medium sized tower I had seen processed through the streets earlier. The basket was placed in the seat of the “chair” on the tower and several women began handing the priest baggies of different colored liquids - clear, green, brown - along with handfuls of noodles. These were all placed/poured in the basket on the chair seat.

the family gathering bone fragments and Chinese coins

 

At this point, the memory card on my video camera filled. Almost simultaneously, a text message from Mun brought me back to Earth. “It’s almost 4:00 and we still have to drive back to Ubud. How about if you wrap it up and come get me?” Even without the ability to record anymore, I longed to stay with the family until the very end of the ceremony. But that involved a procession to the river where the bones and coins would be deposited as well as a full-blown family feast. It would likely be another three or four hours before the village dispersed and went home. Mun had already given up a whole day of his one-week vacation on Bali to my ceremonial obsessions. It was time for me to go. It was with great regret that I said goodbye to Wisnu and his kind family for the privilege of including me in this very special family ceremony. I can only repay him by honoring his request that I do what I can to tell others about it.

To see video of this amazing event, click here. NOTE: The video is almost 30 minutes long. Don’t be scared - you will not see an actual body. I gave my family a sneak preview a couple days ago and they reported that it took a while to download, but finally played. Just so you don’t think you’re doing anything wrong, here’s Dad’s input: “Since the files are so large we would get a “stack error” message. All we had to do was click on that box to clear the error message and then let the file continue to download. There is a little “gearwheel” in the lower right part of the screen that continues to spin letting you know something is going on. It took another 4-5 minutes to finish downloading and then it played fine. So patience is required.” But I assure you, it’s worth the wait!

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

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Mun and I left Amed at 7:00 am Friday morning headed for the cremation ceremony in Selat which we were told started at 9:00. We had calculated that it would take us one and a half to two hours to drive to Selat. We didn’t count on the rain.

We drove through village after village, making our usual frequent stops for directions. All the while a light rain was falling, impeding our progress and making us wet and cold. It was much different driving under these hurried, damp conditions than it was when we were driving on a sunny day and had the time to meander and stop when we pleased.

people gathered outside the Selat temple (photo courtesy of Mun)

 

We made it to Selat in fairly good time though considering the circumstances, arriving shortly after 9:00. The rain stopped at about the same time. As we got close to the village, we noticed a number of people all dressed up and walking in large numbers into town. All the action seemed to be centered around the same temple we had stopped at two days earlier where we saw many people carrying in baskets of offerings.

We slowed our bike to a crawl and asked people walking along beside us what was going on. They explained that a ceremony was about to begin and then said something about honoring souls and burning. “Ah!” we thought. “This must be the cremation ceremony we’re looking for.” I was a little confused though because we were in a different village than the one where we were invited to the cremation ceremony. Also, people were gathering in the temple and, as far as I had read, cremation ceremonies typically involved a raucous procession in the streets followed by the actual cremation in a cemetary. I wasn’t expecting a temple to be involved. I’ve learned here to just go with the flow though so Mun and I drove on, searching for the man who had invited us and who had offered to rent us the proper clothing to attend.

We didn’t remember the name of the man who invited us (probably Wayan or Nyoman!) and we had only a vague recollection of the intersection at which he lived. We drove for about 15 or 20 minutes searching, unable to find it or him. We decided just to try to rent or buy clothing from someone else so we stopped at the house of a family standing at their gate, all dressed up. “Where can we buy sarongs, kebaya and udeng?” we asked them, explaining that we had been invited to the ceremony but couldn’t find our invitee. Typically hospitable Balinese, these strangers invited us into their home and offered to loan us their clothes with no request for any rental fee.

Mun being fitted for his sarong

 

Although this is starting to become a semi-regular occurence for me, I’m still genuinely surprised and humbled each time it happens and no less so this time as these people were complete strangers to us. I guess this doesn’t happen often for the Balinese, however, because each time they become quite excited at the prospect of helping us foreignors play dress-up. Both the husband and wife, grown adults at least the same age as my parents, became like little kids, laughing and running to get the clothes and having fun as they dressed us like we were dolls. Their neighbors somehow found out what was going on and gathered in the courtyard to watch the goings on.

Ayu, me, Raka & Mun

 

When we were dressed, Ayu (the wife) and Raka (the husband) offered to keep our bags and helmets for us while we went to the ceremony. They trusted us with their clothes so we trusted them with our belongings. We hopped on our motorbike and hurried back to the temple, anxious not to miss anything.

We were both stunned as we walked through the temple gates. There were easily over 1000 people inside all milling about, almost all of them wearing white or cream colored tops. Although we weren’t sure what we were looking for, it didn’t seem that any ceremony had started. Although I would have easily stood out anyway with my white skin, I was an especially obvious standout with the bright red kebaya that Ayu had selected for me. Mun, with his brown Indian/Malaysian skin and cream colored top easily blended in with the locals and was often mistaken for Indonesian. I’m not sure if the color of my shirt was a “party faux pas” or not, but if it was, the locals outwardly overlooked it graciously as many sought me out for conversation.

I had read a bit about cremation ceremonies before coming to Bali and what I was seeing didn’t fit anything I’d read. There was a man standing with a white cow wrapped in a white sheet. Three other men each held a baby pig, baby chick and baby goose respectively, each also draped in white cloth. All four animals wore necklaces of old brass chinese coins, round with a rectangular hole in the center. Many women were carrying offerings on their heads as they stood around. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the ceremony to begin. One of the open-air bamboo structures in the middle of the temple grounds had a second story where a few people lingered. I was told that Mun and I could go upstairs after the ceremony, but not at this time. It started to rain again so we crammed under a bamboo thatched structure with everyone else, our feet sinking in the wet mud, and waited … like everyone else.

the crowds (actually this photo was taken at the end of the ceremony so the crowds had greatly thinned out by this time)

 

Several women struck up a conversation with us, asking us where we were from and how we came to know about the ceremony. We explained that we had been invited but couldn’t find our host. No one seemed to mind that we were there un-hosted though. We asked about the schedule of events and were told that this was a ceremony to honor 700 souls. “Wow! We’ve stumbled into a mass cremation,” I thought. Cool.

In Bali, cremation ceremonies are very expensive by Balinese standards often costing $5000 or more which is frequently more than families can afford. Most families cannot afford immediate cremation for their deceased relatives at the time of death so many Balinese are buried with minimal ceremonies until the family can save the money to hold a cremation ceremony at which time the body is exhumed. Sometimes, this may take up to 10 years. The Balinese consider it bad luck to have too many bodies buried in the cemetery for too long so sometimes the village will pool money together and hold a mass cremation ceremony for all the as-yet uncremated village members. It’s a very special occasion when this occurs and I was beginning to think that’s what Mun and I were about to witness. I was wrong.

men holding animals to be used (not sacrificed) in ceremony

 

After continuing to ask many questions, we ultimately discovered that we were not attending a cremation ceremony, but a ceremony to honor 700 souls that had already been cremated at some point in the past. While I was delighted to be learning about a new kind of ceremony and thrilled to be included in anything, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t see a cremation ceremony.

Now if you are unfamiliar with the customs of a Balinese cremation ceremony, you might think my near obsession with them to be a bit macabre. Let me explain. First, unlike in India and some other countries, you don’t see the actual body being burned in a Balinese cremation. In fact, the entire event is rather a dramatic production with very festive overtones. In Bali, a cremation starts with a parade through the village streets. The entire village participates in a loud, partying atmosphere.

They carry a number of tall, elaborately made and brightly painted wooden structures that are art in themselves, each having been made specifically for this one and only event. One of the structures carries the body of the deceased wrapped in a sheet. As that particular structure arrives at an intersection in the streets, the Balinese shake it violently and spin it around in circles. They believe that doing so confuses the soul of the deceased so that it cannot find its way home so it will proceed on its soulful journey upon cremation and not linger and haunt the family. So it’s really this part of the cremation ceremony and not necessarily the actual burning of the body that fascinates me and that I was hoping to witness. Unfortunately, it looked like Mun and I had encountered some language barriers two days earlier and had actually been invited to a different kind of ceremony than a cremation.

ceremonial goose

 

Still, a Balinese ceremony of any kind intrigues me and this was one I hadn’t heard of before so I was easily contented photographing, watching and asking questions. I was fortunate to strike up a conversation with an Indonesian man named Wayan who teaches computer science and whose English was fabulous. He filled me in on much of what Mun and I were seeing.

He explained that the ceremony we were witnessing was called Memukur, a post-cremation ceremony the purifies the soul so that it can go to heaven. In Bali, the purpose of cremation is to free the soul of all worldly attachments, particularly the body, by turning the body to ashes. Cremation, however, is only the first step toward reincarnation. Memukur completes the process by cleansing the soul, allowing it to enter heaven to be reincarnated. Without this purification, the Balinese believe the soul stays trapped on Earth and is blocked from reincarnation.

women with sekahs

 

Wayan explained that the particular Memukur that we were witnessing was cleansing the souls of 700 deceased and already cremated Balinese. Each soul in the ceremony was represented by an ornate effigy called a sekah and contained the name of the person represented. The bamboo frame of each sekah was draped in white and yellow cloth, colors representing the purity to be achieved for each soul; the same reason each of the young animals I witnessed were draped in white cloth.

Wayan told us that the Memukur lasted several days and would continue for two more days after the portion of the ceremony that we were witnessing. After the ceremony, I learned that each sekah is burned at some point during the Memukur as a symbolic second cremation. The ashes from this burning are placed in the shell of a young coconut and the container and its special contents are called a puspa. Two days after the ceremony we witnessed, the puspas would be carried by family members in an elaborate procession to the ocean several hours away and thrown into the sea finally completing the death rites of the individual deceased.

Now that I understood a bit more about what I was witnessing, I turned my attention to the activities and events at hand. Many people were beginning to come down from the off-limits second floor, each carrying a sekah on their head. It was important that they be carried on the head and not in the arms because the Balinese consider the head to the highest and most holy part of the body and therefore closest to God. Each sekah bore the name of the soul it represented and was created and carried by a family member of the deceased.

sekah

 

Each sekah-bearing person lined up single file for a procession that was lead by the man leading the cow and the other three men holding the baby animals. In a long snaking line, the 704 participants processed three times around the temple grounds. Wayan explained that each round symbolized the three levels of existence: Bhur - lower beings; Bwah - humans and Swah - gods. At the end of the procession, each person delivered their sekah to a high priest manning a large building that had an altar-type feel. Wayan told me that there were four “altars,” one for each caste. The high caste people delivered their sekahs first, followed in order by each of the lower castes.

As the lower castes were delivering their sekahs to their respective priests and altars, a traditional dance started under a canopy about 40 yards away. We hurried over to see it but there was already a crowd gathered around. Mun, who’s quite a bit taller than I am, video’d it for me (and you!). In fact, I need to give a big shout-out to Mun who helped considerably with the photography for this event. My description of the goings on makes it sound much more organized and contained than it actually was. There were many things going on at the same time and often in vastly different places. Throughout the entire event, he would video as I would shoot and then we’d swap equipment and he would shoot as I would video. I tremendously appreciated his help!

Wayan and me

 

All of these events took about 3.5 hours. They still weren’t quite finished by the time Mun and I were ready to go, but our stomachs were growling. It was time to find some lunch. We thanked Wayan for his guidance (keeping me from going places I shouldn’t) and information, said goodbye to other people we’d met and headed for our bike. We’d been driving for about ten minutes scouring for a lunch spot, when I told Mun, “That was really cool, but I have to admit that I’m still a bit disappointed that it wasn’t a cremation ceremony. I really had my hopes up and …” Wait! What was this?

Coming up a small street and headed straight for us, was a group of noisy merry-makers carrying colorful wooden structures on large bamboo grids. “What’s going on?” I asked a local standing nearby. “Someone died,” he answered. “We’re having a cremation ceremony.”

I had goosebumps all over my body as I awaited their arrival! I did a quick check. After the morning shoot I had 42 photos left on my Canon 5D. There’s no way that would last me. Hmm - I could change from RAW to Large format and be able to shoot more, I thought. Batteries were ok on that camera, but were starting to fade on the video camera. Still had 4 GB of unused memory for video but needed to swap out batteries.

Mun was wiped out from the morning shoot and thought my fascination with the cremation ceremony was a bit morbid. Luckily, the procession passed right in front of our newly adopted family’s home so we dropped Mun and the bike off, I swapped out video batteries and ran back out into the street to continue with the procession on foot. I was so excited I could barely stand it! (to be continued)

Click here to see video of the Memukur ceremony and accompanying Balinese dance.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

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One week ago, some friends I’ve met through the international travel enthusiast website, Couchsurfing.com, convened in Bali for one week and I traveled an hour south of Ubud to Kuta to meet them.  Kuta, known througout the world for its great surfing beaches, is a major tourist destination in Bali.  It received world-wide attention in October 2002 when terrorists bombed a popular nightclub in the tourist district, killing 202 people, most of whom were Australian. For both reasons, I had been avoiding Kuta. My friends, however, were anxious to spend time there to surf, shop and go clubbing … and sometimes you just do things because your friends want to.  So off I went to Kuta.

The first to arrive were Munawar and Nita from Malaysia.  The next day, Eny, an Indonesian woman from Java, joined us.  Traveling in a group is more complicated than traveling solo or even in pairs so the surf lessons never materialized.  We did spend some time shopping and clubbing though.  One of the nightclubs we went to, Ocean Beach Club, had a Cirque du Soleil type atmosphere featuring a dance platform in the middle of a pool and people dressed in surreal clown costumes on stilts hovering outside the club beckoning tourists to come in.

During our time in Kuta, we connected with my friend Adriana, the Brazilian girl who attended Galungan festivities with me last week.  Her Kuta scene was in stark contrast to the frenzied nightclub and tourist atmosphere we found elsewhere in the touristy city.  We found Adriana sitting in a quiet spot on the beach surrounded by about ten handsome guys playing reggae music on accoustic guitar and enjoying a few beers.  Somehow, in the midst of crazy Kuta, Adri and her friends had managed to create a mellow haven.  Tired of the crowds and the touts offering massages, motorbikes, t-shirts and postcards, Mun and I were delighted to escape to Adri’s world and were immediately drawn in.  

After leaving Ubud last week, Adriana had traveled northeast to Amed, a small fishing village on Bali’s coast to do some diving.  There, she met the sweet, mellow boys of Amed Scuba who led her on dives through the day and serenaded her with their intoxicating music at night.  Apparently, when it was time for her to catch her flight out of South Bali, they couldn’t bear to let her go so they drove her to Kuta where we found them all on the beach. Mun and I immediately fell in love with the group and decided right then that Amed had to be part of our week of travel. 

The next morning, the four of us (Mun, Nita, Eny and I) were planning to leave for Ubud for a day before heading to Amed, but Eny got word that some Russian friends of theirs were on the ferry headed to Kuta so we waited for them.  Alexy and Holga arrived in Kuta some hours later and we whisked the poor travel-tired souls off to Ubud where we arrived late that evening.  

En route to Ubud, a comedic scene ensued. We clambored into the beat-up 1960’s Volkswagon van that served as our shuttle bus. I sat in the front to direct the driver once we arrived in Ubud to the homestay where we were all spending the night. He asked me to buckle up.  The seatbelt was broken, however, and wouldn’t reach the buckle.  When I pointed this out to the driver, he nodded vigorously saying, “Yes, yes.  Just lay it across your chest. It’s only for looks for the police.”  Hmmmm.  It didn’t really phase me. Afterall, I’ve recently spent hours zipping all over Bali balancing like a circus freak on the back of a speeding motorbike with no helmet.  What’s not wearing a seatbelt for an hour going to hurt? 

Fortunately, my motorbike drivers, although sometimes slightly manaical, were safe.  In great contrast, this guy, whose name I’ve deleted from my memory bank, was the worst driver I’ve experienced ever.  During the two hours it took him to drive the one-hour distance to Ubud, he managed to run over a huge lizard and nearly hit a number of dogs and people.  Although he didn’t even blink at the lizard’s demise (cringe and gulp), at each near miss of a dog or vehicle, he would wait until the very last second to slam on the brakes, each time shouting, “Shit! Did you see that?!”  Since I had only a virtual seatbelt, believe me - I did indeed see each one up close and personal as I struggled to keep my nose from meeting the windshield.  Since we weren’t traveling all that fast, each obstacle could have been easily avoided by simply braking a little sooner.  

Tucked away in the back of the van safely away from the windshield, my friends weren’t sharing my excitement.  In fact, Mun, admittedly hyper, was downright bored so he organized an international sing-along to pass the time.  At first we all started off singing the national anthems of our 4 countries, but let’s face it - national anthems get about a 1 on the 10 point scale of music-you-can-dance-to.  We needed something more upbeat.  Eny suggested we sing international songs.  I wasn’t exactly sure what an “international song” was but she quickly clarified launching into some old Air Supply.  Whoa!  Truly a blast from my high school past.  We eventually howled our way through about twenty songs perfect for karaoke - “I Will Survive,” “All Out of Love,” “Making Love Out of Nothing at All” and other throwbacks from the 80s.  Somehow we managed to forget “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”  It was silly fun - the spontaneous stupid kind that should happen way more often than it does.  Kudos to Mun and Eny for kicking it off … and distracting me from the road and windshield.  

Everyone in the group was absolutely lovely and we clearly had fun together, but, as often happens with group travel, we all had different agendas, time schedules and budgets so the next morning we decided to split up so that we could each make the most of our short time in Bali (the Russians had only 2 days in Bali and Eny, Nita and Mun had 4 more days).  Eny, Nita, Alexy and Holga ditched the plan for farther-away Amed and headed back south to Kuta while Mun and I grabbed my motorbike for my first independent roadtrip in Bali. 

As a fellow photographer, Mun and I were perfect travel partners.  He not only understood my desire to meander slowly and stop for frequent photo opps, but more often than not, he initiated the photo breaks.  Traveling this way, we stopped to watch two men prepping their prize fighting roosters for a cockfight.  Click here  to see a short video of men practicing with their roosters. (NOTE: this is NOT a cockfight and no roosters are hurt.) We came across people preparing for a large and important ceremony honoring 700 souls (although at the time, we didn’t realize the purpose and just assumed they were preparing for Kuningan, the final day of the 10-day Galungan festival that started last week) and discovered a hidden resort with a gourmet lunch and breathtaking views of terraced rice paddies.  

Bali doesn’t have an interstate system, but my map indicated that there were obvious main roads to guide us to Amed which we were advised was about 3 hours drive from Ubud.  As it turns out, the “main road” wasn’t really distinguishable from the rest of the roads and the signage was terrible so Mun stopped just about every 15 minutes to ask directions to make sure we were on the right path.  That’s how we happened to be invited to attend a cremation ceremony two days later - one of my top goals while in Bali.

The drive through the gorgeous Bali countryside was amazing.  There aren’t enough words for green to begin to describe it. The vegetation varied from verdant rice fields to dense jungle-like forests of banana, coconut and palm trees while the terrain stretched flat at times, then rolled in waves and finally stretched up into the tallest peak on Bali measuring over 12,000 feet above sea level.  We passed through villages where people were selling their goods at market.  In the countryside, families bathed naked in the streams near the road while we politely averted our eyes.

As we stopped for frequent directions, photo opps and a leisurely lunch, our three hour trip stretched into five and we arrived in Amed at about 6:00 just as the sun was setting on some quaint fishing boats.  We met up with our Amed Scuba friends who were eagerly awaiting our arrival, welcoming us with glasses of arak (rice wine similar to sake but stronger).  They situated us in a charming hotel that overlooked the ocean and was conveniently next door to their shop.  

I felt covered in a layer of dust from the road and was immensely refreshed after taking a shower. Clean but hungry, Mun and I followed the warm inviting sounds of guitar,  singing and laughter next door to join our friends.  They were seated in the garden around a table where votive candles flickered on their warm tanned faces.  Smells of freshly caught mackerel wafted toward us from the grill and made my stomach rumble.  Ali led the group on guitar, Nyoman backed him up on a hand drum, Putu (naturally my buddy because we shared the same name) accompanied with a glass Coke bottle filled with nails and screws and Shark “played” a piece of plastic in lieu of a harmonica. The ocean waves lapped the shore in the background. Everyone was singing “Redemption Song.”  Bob Marley was a perennial favorite with this group.  

Our friendly hosts made room for us at the table and Mun and I chatted with Nyoman while the others continued their serenade.  Nyoman explained that he started Amed Scuba some years back and employed his brother and best friends.  Amed Scuba is the only locally owned dive shop in Amed; the others in town are owned by wealthy foreigners. When business was good, Nyoman and his friends shared the spoils.  When it wasn’t, they worked on their music.  They were a little disappointed because they’d broken one of their guitar strings on the way back from Kuta a few days earlier and the nearest place for replacements was about an hour away. They were so talented on the instrument though, I couldn’t hear the difference.

In addition to playing their favorite reggae and U2 songs, they also played some Indonesian songs for us.  Our sweet friend Adriana was remembered fondly by us all as they launched into her favorite and mine, “Hello. How Are You? Apa Kabar.”   Click here to hear the Amed boys’ rendition of this song - you can’t see much because I only had candlelight to “film” by.

They shared their grilled fish and rice with us which we ate Indonesian style with our hands.  They joked that there weren’t any vegetables because they were all guys and didn’t know how to cook.  We teased them about being a bunch of young guys all sitting around by candlelight and singing romantic to each other.  We shared many laughs and songs that evening. After the hurried pace of Kuta, the quiet mellow evening with these kind-hearted friends soothed my soul.

Mun and I got up before sunrise the next morning to photograph the charm of Amed. We captured the sun on the water, fisherman hauling in the morning’s catch, magic light on small country temples.  A man invited us to go fishing with him in the evening.  A little girl waiting for her father to return from his early fishing expedition enjoyed the attention of our cameras.   She was precious, admiring the fish her father handed her from his boat when he did finally arrive.  She giggled uncontollably when playful Mun pretended he was going to eat the fish right out of her hand.  

Back at our hotel after our photo shoot, we enjoyed a yummy breakfast of banana pancakes.  Within minutes, the restaurant owner developed an intense crush on Mun who charms everyone with his outgoing personality and outrageous sense of humor.  Tummies filled, we wandered next door to Amed Scuba where the guys hooked us up with snorkeling gear.  Mun and I had both been experiencing sinus trouble and were concerned we wouldn’t be able to clear our ears properly to dive so we started in easily with snorkeling.  

Diving in Bali is supposed to be some of the best in the world.  If the snorkeling is any indication, then diving fans should immediately book a trip … as in yesterday!   We snorkeled in a quiet cove right off the beach - no boat needed to take us out for miles - and saw amazing varieties of fish and coral.  Many of the corals were the size of boulders. One bed looked like a rust colored garden of enormous roses.  Mun pointed out a blue starfish about 16” in diameter.  Fish and coral both came in every color, size and shape and we were constantly tapping each other’s shoulders with underwater messages “Look here!” “No! Look there!”  It was all terrific eye candy.  The currents in the cove gently carried us along as though they were hands of water.  

We found a lovely warung for lunch where we ran into Ali, keeper of the group guitar. He lamented that another string had broken so he was down to three.  He played for us over lunch - still sounded great. In chatting with him about our afternoon plans, we decided to drive 30 minutes away to Tirta Ganga, a temple known as the Water Palace which sounded like it would be great for photographs.  We also offered to drive a little farther to Amlapura to pick up the much desired and rapidly needed guitar strings.

We were expecting our Finnish friend, Juha, to arrive at any moment though so we waited around at an internet cafe that we were pleasantly surprised to find.  Juha’s bus arrived late and he needed to eat, get settled in a hotel and rent a motorbike so we didn’t start our mini-roadtrip until 5:45.  I think we all knew we weren’t going to get to see much leaving at that late hour, but we had promised guitar strings for the evening so off we went.  

The drive between Amed and Amlapura passes through mountainous terrain with gorgeous terraced rice fields that are lovely to see during the day.  Driving this road after dark as we were doing, however, is nothing short of stressful.  Mun and Juha were both tremendously good sports about the whole misadventure.  

We stopped at Tirta Ganga and I got a chuckle as we pulled into the parking lot.  I immediately recognized the warung where, only the week before, Adriana, Nyoman, Kadek and I had eaten lunch during our break from the Galungan festivities.  I couldn’t believe that we had been in the parking lot of such a fabulous photo opp as the Water Palace and Nyoman had failed to mention it was only a hundred yards away, much less show it to us.  Funny, funny.  At this late hour, Mun, Juha and I could make out shadowy statues in the midst of what looked to be a lovely water garden, but we could barely see it with our eyes.  Cameras weren’t going to be able to capture anything.  Oh well. Next time.

An hour after we left Amed, we arrived in Amlapura and headed to Hardy’s, a Sears-like Indonesian department store.  I was amused to find mannequins modeling the latest fashions in sarongs, kebayas and udeng.  We found the section that had guitar strings … but there were over 20 different kinds to choose from.  While Mun called one of the guys to find out what to get, I spotted a harmonica and immediately thought of Shark and his piece of plastic and decided to make a gift to our musical friends.  After striking some gaudy poses in front of the ceremonially dressed mannequins, we departed Hardy’s and  headed back to Amed.  Mun couldn’t resist stopping at a night market we passed along the way to buy some Balinese sweets for our generous friends who wouldn’t let us pay for any of the food or drink the night before.  

Rain on the way home slowed us down a bit and we arrived back in Amed at about 9:00 pm. We dropped off the sweets, strings and harmonica to the guys who were thrilled with their presents and the three of us went to shower and eat. Everything seemed to move in slow motion that evening and instead of joining the guys for another musical evening, they came to wish us good night at our dinner table as they headed to bed around 10:00.  

The next day was the cremation ceremony in Selat, about 2 hours drive from Amed. Mun’s flight home out of south Bali was two days after. After discussing our options, Mun and I decided that, much as we wanted to stay in Amed, we should head back to Ubud the next day, stopping in Selat on the way for the cremation.  I was sad that we got to spend so little time with our friends (both the Amed Scuba guys and Juha) and that we didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to all of them although we saw a few of them the next morning and called and texted the rest.  As the sound of the waves gently put me to sleep, I decided that I would come back to Amed once more before I left Bali.  This decision made it a little easier for me to leave the next morning which turned out to be completely the right call ….

 

 

 

 

 

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Hi everyone. Just checking in. I had scheduled this entry to post several days ago in anticipation of my absence. For some reason, it didn’t post though, but better late than never.  The post was:  

For the next 5 days, I will be traveling around Bali with my friends Mun (pronounced Moon) and Nita (both from Malaysia) and Eny (from Java, Indonesia).  As I’m not bringing my laptop with me during our travels, I won’t be posting any updates until I send these lovely people back to their respective homes. I will be taking lots of photos in the meantime though to share with you soon!

 

 

Posts-script:  I’m back in Ubud momentarily and was checking the net before heading out again.  To give you a little taste of what’s to come, I’ve been driving all over Bali on motorbike taking some independent road trips with friends (i.e. sans guide).  Besides the stories from the roadtrip itself, I also attended a cremation ceremony, a ceremony honoring the souls of 700 Balinese, went clubbing in Kuta and spent some time in a small fishing village hanging out with some guys who own a dive shop and who spend their evenings grilling mackeral and playing Bob Marley on guitar.  I’ll fill you in on all the details, but to give you an idea, I filled my 8GB memory card on my “big” camera, three 2GB memory cards on my little point-and-shoot that I use for video (that amounts to 755 photos and about an hour of video) and have burned through all 6 of my batteries!  Can’t wait to “show and tell!”  I’ll check back in a couple days with the details …

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I’ve been a bit behind on my postings lately because I’ve been filling every minute in Ubud traveling around and spending time with new friends so I have only recently finished this story on the Galungan festival from August 20! Please pardon the delay …

Every 210 days, the Balinese observe a holiday called Galungan which celebrates the victory of good (Dharma) over evil (Adharma). During this holiday, which lasts for 10 days, the Balinese believe the gods, including their deified ancestors, visit the Earth and then depart on the last day of the festival known as Kuningan. During their ten-day visit to Earth, each of these gods resides in the temples found all over Ubud. The ancestors return to their former homes. Accordingly, the Balinese must also visit the former homes of their ancestors to honor, entertain and welcome them. Often, when a person dies, the family does not have money for the expensive cremation ceremony so the body is buried until the family can save the money to cremate them at which time the body is exhumed for cremation. In addition to visiting the former homes of deified ancestors, those ancestors still buried in the cemetery awaiting cremation must also be visited and entertained.

The tradition in Bali is to marry outside of one’s village which means that one’s ancestors originate from all over the island of Bali. As each ancestor returns to his or her former home, Galungan results in a massive island-wide road trip for the Balinese.

I celebrated the better part of Galungan from the back of a motor bike. To be more specific, I celebrated riding “side-saddle” on the back of a motor bike zipping around Bali at speeds up to 80 kph with two cameras in hand photographing everything in sight. I’d love to tell you that I was wearing a helmet during this feat, but was forbidden to by Gede who had just created a special hairdo for me. Whenever the Balinese are going to temple, no one wears a helmet because of hairdos and udeng, the traditional ceremonial headdress for men. Of course, I didn’t realize we’d be reaching such speeds at the time I agreed to the ludicrousy; speeds which, surprisingly barely effected my special hairdo. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Balinese spend weeks preparing for Galungan. The Balinese spend weeks preparing for Galungan making decorative rice cakes, coconut leaf and flower offerings. Two weeks ago when I was cooking with Nyoman’s family, they were already baking a variety of fried rice cake treats, cooking chicken, lawar and many other dishes. Most of these dishes are used in offerings to the gods, but some are used for family feasting as no cooking is done on the actual day of Galungan. During my visit, the women in Nyoman’s family were also weaving numerous offerings out of coconut leaves to which they added fresh flowers on the day of Galungan with which they welcomed their ancestors and the other gods. About 5 days before Galungan, I noticed 40-50 long bamboo poles appearing in front of houses, propped about 5 feet off the ground. These were to become penjor, decorated bamboo poles erected in front of every house on the island. The tops of the penjor arch over the narrow roads creating a tunnel effect where the villages are especially small and the roads particularly narrow. Special offerings are suspended from the top of the arched penjor and dangle down like tempting pinatas. The families also decorate the temples within their family compound wrapping them in colorful cloth and stuffing the shrines with multiple offerings, some including baskets of fruit. Even the already elaborate stone carvings get dressed up, most sporting silk sarongs but some even equipped with tassled silk umbrellas.

My adopted Balinese family invited me and my Brazilian friend, Adriana, to celebrate Galungan with them by going with them to their family temple. As usual, my expectations were very different from what actually took place. I had envisioned the entire family, all dressed up, hopping on motorbikes, four people to a bike, and processing as a group two hours away to “the” family temple. Instead, I learned that the family had temple obligations in no fewer than 5 temples spread all over Bali because of the origins of the family’s various ancestors. Accordingly, in order to cover all the ground and ensure that each ancestor was properly welcomed back to Bali and entertained, the family split up, each accepting the duties for one temple.

When Adriana and I arrived at Nyoman’s family compound, the women were already gone so before heading out, Nyoman’s brother, Gede, dressed Adriana and me in the traditional kebayas and sarongs borrowed from Nyoman’s wife and fixed our hair. He put the kebayas and sarongs over the tops and pants that we were already wearing so we both felt a bit “poofy” all day long. He fixed our hair in matching French twists complete with silk flowers. As a final touch, he spritzed each of our arm pits with cologne he told us was from The Netherlands (the Balinese answer to deodorant) … and we were ready for the road.

The four of us rode on motorbikes for about 2 hours passing through many villages. Until we got at least one hour outside of Ubud, the road seemed to be cutting though one continuous village that gradually transformed from “city” to rural in the same way that colors on a color wheel change from blue to green before your eyes. Rural Bali was filled with steeply terraced rice paddies, many of which contained home-made Balinese scarecrows that sported coconut heads and plastic trash bag bodies. Everywhere we went, Adriana and I were treated like celebrities. Kids and adults alike shouted hellos both from the side of the road and from motorbikes that either passed ours or that we passed. Everyone admired our traditional garments and constantly shouted “beautiful” at us. Feeling like beauty queens, we happily played the part and smiled and waved at everyone we saw.

I saw innumerable charming scenes on our way. Many I was able to capture with the camera. Just as many, unfortunately, I was not. I took photos in my mind of the beautiful twenty year old Balinese woman wearing a stylish lace kebaya and silk sarong carrying a traditional woven bamboo basket of offerings on her head while talking on her mobile phone. My mind’s eye also captured a lovely procession of men holding decorative silk umbrellas with long bamboo poles and women balancing plates filled with a mix of colorful fruit stacked a foot high on their heads. We whizzed past a cemetery filled with families holding grave-side picnics to honor and entertain their as yet un-cremated relatives still buried in the ground. This touching sight too I was only able to capture in my memory. Although Nyoman is proud of his island and delighted to show me around it, like anyone in their hometown, we frequently stop seeing the interesting things around us as we take them for granted. It’s no surprise that these things which caught my eye did not strike Nyoman as interesting or something that might be worthy of a photograph so we sped by these and many other fabulous photo opportunities and I just captured what I could. Unfortunately, there’s only so much one can do with a camera while balancing side-saddle on the back of a motorbike speeding along at 55 mph.

The island of Bali has two languages: Balinese, which is only spoken in Bali and bahasa (Indonesian) which is spoke throughout Indonesia as well as Malaysia. As we approached our destination, Nyoman advised me that bahasa (the one I’ve been studying) was really more a language spoken in the cities and the people in these villages would only speak Balinese. Knowing that I wanted to photograph everything in sight, he began coaching me on how to say in Balinese “Excuse me. Is it possible to take a photo?” and “Thank you very much.” I was well-rehearsed and ready to go by the time we finally stopped the bikes at Telaga Tista, a temple Nyoman told me was special to his family.

The road wasn’t as kind to Adriana’s “do” as it was to mine and her twist had come undone by the time we reached our destination. Several Balinese women who were in mid-procession through a rice paddy next to the road saw her predicament, stopped their procession and a well-dressed mother-daughter team literally ran up to the road to help her. As the mother fixed Adriana’s hair, the 20-something year old daughter held the basket of offerings her mother had been carrying on her head and chatted with us … in absolutely perfect English without the slightest trace of a Balinese accent! Having been prepped by Nyoman to expect these “less-educated country folk” not to even speak bahasa, you can imagine how our jaws dropped when the girl advised us that she had lived in North Carolina for a year and asked what we were doing, how long we were in Bali, etc.
Hair re-done, the women resumed their procession and we walked up the gravel road to join Nyoman and Kadek under a bamboo-covered pavilion that was perched on the edge of a very peaceful pond filled with incredibly clear water. About fifty feet across the pond, a set of stairs seemed to emerge right out of the water onto a small isthmus of land which housed a small temple compound surrounded on three sides by the pond. Flanking the steps, two small trees twisted into odd and interesting shapes, entirely barren except for a single flower at the top of the tree on the left. The stairs lead up to a rustic but charming table covered by a sloped bamboo roof and on the table sat three young Balinese women and a young man dressed in their ceremonial best. The lovely bucolic setting would have had made even Marie Antoinette jones for her own replica. The friendly Balinese perched on the table waved at us from across the pond and smiled shyly as I took their photographs. Armed with my new Balinese phrases, I walked around the side of the pond, over a small bridge and through the exquisitely crafted metal gates of the temple.

“Om swastiastu. (Excuse me).” I started. “Yes?” they answered in English. “Dados gnamil photo? (Is it possible for me to take your picture?” I continued. The girls giggled and the boy smiled shyly as they said in perfect English, “Oh you know Balinese! Yes, you can take our picture” and, almost as one, they struck a lovely, composed pose - with solemn faces. The Balinese are very interesting when it comes to taking photos. In every other moment of their life, they always seem to be smiling, yet when the pose for a portrait, the smile disappears and is replaced with a serious look. Nyoman told me they do this because they view a picture of them smiling at the moment is inaccurate since, according to Nyoman, they are not always smiling. The quirky thing is that they ARE always smiling, but because of their philosophy on photos, it’s very rare to capture the true Balinese spirited smile unless it is a candid shot - or you learn to make them laugh just before taking their photo, a technique I’m beginning to master.

After taking several photos of these hospitable Balinese people and of several shrines within the temple grounds, I walked back to the pavilion across the pond to join Nyoman, Kadek, Adriana and Nyoman’s friend Agus who had joined us. Although I teased Nyoman about the inaccuracy of his “uneducated country folk” assessment, I was very glad to have learned some Balinese so I could show respect to the people from whom I was asking for photos. This began a discussion of the complexity of the Balinese language.

Bali still recognizes a caste system which is comprised of four levels: Brahmana, Ksatria, Wesia and Sudra. Each caste speaks a different form of Balinese so that when a person of the Brahmana caste is speaking to someone of the Sudra caste, as was the case between Agus (Brahmana) and Nyoman (Sudra), they were essentially speaking two different languages and sometimes had difficulty understanding each other. Obviously, the caste system has adapted over time such that members of the two extreme castes, such as Nyoman and Agus, could be friends. Even so, they both still observed their places within the caste, each speaking their own appropriate level of Balinese with Nyoman taking particular care not to make a mistake and risk offending his friend.

 As we were having this interesting discussion, people had begun to congregate at the temple across the pond. Agus told us that the men dressed all in white were different kind of Hindu priests. One of them paused on the steps and collected water from the pond in a jug for the upcoming ceremony prompting Agus to explain that the pond was filled purely from rainwater and, therefore, was considered sacred so people were not permitted to fish or swim in it. Nyoman and Agus discussed between themselves that the ceremony was starting at 2:00. It was 1:50 - only 10 minutes to wait. I noticed a young boy walking hand in hand with his younger brother along the edge of the pond and I photographed them, engrossed in nature’s world. The older brother looked up and noticed me with my camera. He got his brother’s attention and, thoughtfully, told him to look at me … and they both smiled for their photo!

 At 1:55, Nyoman gathered up our group and we started walking. I was surprised and disappointed when, instead of heading across the pond toward the temple compound where the ceremony was about to begin, Nyoman lead us to our motorbikes. Inexplicably, he and Kadek whisked Adriana and me away without a single prayer having been uttered at the temple. Apparently, we’d been taken here only to enjoy the exquisite scenery. I’ve learned that sometimes questions get lost in translation so rather than risk offending my host, I just went along for the ride.
We stopped for lunch at a little warung in the middle of shiny green terraced rice fields and then hopped back on the bikes for another hour while we headed further northeast to Pura Lempuyang (pura means temple), one of nine directional temples on the island of Bali. According to my guidebook, some temples on the island are so important they are deemed to belong to the whole island rather than to particular communities. These are called directional temples (kahyangan jagat). Pura Lempuyang sits on the top of a mountain 768 meters high (over 2500 feet) and during our visit there, fog would roll in and out, much like San Francisco, often obscuring our vision.

 We were required to park our motorbikes in a large parking lot and take a bus up the mountain. Even after being dropped off by the bus, we still had to hike up a very steep hill to get to the temple. We walked in the temple compound and our jaws dropped. To say that Pura Lempuyang is elaborate is a drastic understatement. As Pura Lempuyang defies description, I’m grateful I had my camera. We climbed approximately 75 steps to get to the temple itself, passing along the way countless stone carvings scattered along the steep hill, most holding the silk and bamboo umbrellas we’d seen throughout the day. Tall skinny flags waved in the breezes and created a festive atmosphere. As a testament to the fact that Galungan is celebrated over many days, temple laborers were still working on several shrines and other projects for a special celebration scheduled to take place the following day.

We trekked to the top and into the temple proper where a group of people were already gathered in prayer. We waited for them to finish praying and then our group was ushered in. The format was just like when Wayan and I went to the temple near Ubud a few days earlier - cleansing with water, flowers “dipped” in the swirling incense smoke three times, blessing with holy water and then rice put on the forehead and throat. “Bagus (good),” the priest told me as I correctly observed the ritual.
By the time we descended the 75 or so steps out of the temple, it was 6:00 and starting to get dark. Nyoman told us there was another temple 2 kilometers up the mountain if we would like to see it too, but suggested that, as it was dark and his family obligations had been satisfied, we ought to head home. We took his advice and hit the road for home … 2 hours to Ubud. There was no light for photography so I tucked my cameras away and called it a day.

Click here to see a video of the Galungan Festival.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

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When I began this journey, I set as a lofty goal to write a haiku everyday to summarize my experiences.  Although I’ve come no where near my goal, I have managed to scratch out a few lines, mainly inspired by the neighborhood roosters. The progression is obvious as the quality of my sleep decays …

 

Day 1

Morning in Ubud. 

Puccini and roosters blend.

I inhale the sounds.

 

 

 

 

 

Day 7

Morning in Ubud.

Roosters crow. Brooms scratch sidewalks.

I miss a good sleep.

 

Day 14

Cock-a-doodle-doo.

Mr. Rooster I hate you.

Roosters have no charm.

 

It’s a fallacy that roosters only crow at dawn. The Balinese roosters start at 3 am and crow all through the night … and then through the day.  At 6:30 am, the darling 90 year old woman who lives here begins sweeping the sidewalks.  She uses a loose broom handmade from tiny bamboo sticks. As she sweeps every nook and cranny of the mosaic’d stone sidewalks at my losman (guesthouse), it sounds like someone is crumpling a plastic bag right next to my head. Have you ever noticed how sounds are magnified when you’re asleep … or trying to sleep?   

 

I’m becoming desperate for a good night’s rest.  I no longer bounce out of bed, eager as I am for the day to reveal its surprises to me.  My eyes feel heavy and puffy and I find myself yawning a lot throughout the day. It’s difficult, however, to find a completely quiet time (or even a mostly quiet time) which might be conducive to such a slumber although I can’t blame it entirely on the roosters … just mostly. As it turns out, there is a symphony of sounds in Ubud with many players rounding out the sounds of the cocks’ crows. Actually, from my perspective at the moment, cacophony is a more accurate description than a symphony. 

 

The chickens are the roosters’ Robert Palmer girls and back up their men with gusto from 3 am throughout the day. When the roosters cease the ongoing announcements of their existence (what else could they possibly have to crow about?) at 6 pm and tuck in their little ladies with them, the street dogs take up their instruments barking and howling beginning at 11 pm. With the recent festivities, the practice sessions of the neighborhood gamelan orchestra might as well be held on my balcony.  They begin their rehearsals late in the evening and practice late into the night.  Like any musician’s rehearsals, there are many mistakes and much stopping and starting so it’s nothing like being treated to a free concert. The gecko who lives in my soaring ceiling is like the triangle, playing his instrument only on occasion, but distinctly and clearly when he does pipe up.  The roosters and chickens begin again at 3 am reaching the climax of their pre-dawn solo three hours later. I already mentioned the percussionistic broom which plays its part at 6:30 am. The occasional pig snorts and squeals.  Around 7 am, a single gong takes the stage, banging in a monotonous tone, presumably calling people to temple. On my first night in Ubud, I had dinner next to a rice paddy and was treated to a beautiful chorus of frogs and crickets. I haven’t heard them since that night and miss them. Of course, that was also the day that I was charmed by the roosters so perhaps I’m only fond of the frogs because of they performed on a “one night only” basis.

After getting over seeing a chicken alive and then eating it, the first obvious solution to my problem was to start requesting rooster dinners. But I clearly can’t devour all the roosters in Ubud and eliminating the ring leaders would still leave the rest of the orchestra.  Therefore, I must obviously make peace with their presence here. I think I’ll put on some Puccini now, burn some incense, have a cup of hot tea and add my instrument to the mix.  Perhaps then I’ll be able to see the roosters in the same charming light I did the first day.

If you would like to experience the sounds of a typical Ubud morning at Suartha Pension,  click here.  Please pardon the “shoddy” footage as this is really intended to be more of an audio file … and I was, naturally, half-asleep when I captured it.

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(written August 17) On August 17, Indonesia celebrated her 63rd year of independence from the Dutch.  At different points in history, Java, Bali’s island neighbor to the west, has been under the control of France, Britain and other European countries, but the Dutch ultimately controlled the entire East Indies through much of the 19th Century until August 17, 1945.  For more about Indonesia’s history and independence, check out this link.http://www.baliblog.com/travel-tips/indonesian-independence-day.html. 

 

 

To celebrate, I went to the Ubud soccer field to watch the traditional game panjat pinang which literally means climbing the palm tree.   Here is an excerpt from an article in the Jakarta Post on August 16 about the game: 

“Aug. 17 in many parts of Indonesia is an occasion for joyful activities in which citizens from all levels of society participate in our traditional Independence Day games. The most popular game is undoubtedly the panjat pinang (climbing the slippery pole) competition.

The panjat pinang competition is often the highlight of Independence Day celebrations, and individuals and groups struggle together to reach the top of a greased pinang (betel) nut palm trunk where they reach the prizes which might be anything from a set of keys to a new motorcycle to towels and plastic buckets.

It is unclear where and when the panjat pinang competition originated but it has probably been a part of the Independence Day celebrations since early on. There are generally no rules regulating the pinang trunk climbing competition, but the challenge of the game makes cooperation and strategy an essential requirement of success. It is impossible to climb up the 5 to 8 meter slippery pole on your own. The only way to reach the top is to team up and create a human pyramid around the base of the pole.

In this way, the lightest member of the team can climb on the shoulders of his teammates and reach the top without having to scale too far up the greasy pole. Cheers, jubilation and chaos usually reign the moment the winner begins to throw down prizes from the top of the pole.

Many Indonesians agree that the greased pinang trunk climbing competition quintessentially captures the spirit of Indonesian independence. The struggle for independence is similar to the struggle to reach the top of the slippery pinang pole. Circumstance and necessity obliged people to team up and organize and the majority of the people happily let a small minority stand on their shoulders to reach for the prizes of independence. Moreover, those who reach the pinnacle must throw down the prizes to share with everyone on the ground.”

Click here to see a video of the Indonesian Panjat Pinang game.

After all the prizes from the poles were cut down and the Panjat Pinang game was over, the students, dressed in their sharp uniforms, assembled on the field while the marching band entertained us. It was starting to sprinkle so I sought shelter for me and my camera gear on a chair under a canopy set up in the center on one side of the field.  Although I had no idea what was going to happen, instinct told me not to sit in the front so I sat in the second row.  

Shortly after I sat down, a few men dressed in various types of military uniforms assembled in the front row. Soon after a very well dressed and groomed man walked up and was clearly given very deferential treatment by the others.  He sat down with the men in the front row about 6 feet from me.  I could tell he was important and began to suspect I was near royalty.  Sure enough, when I asked some people seated nearby, they confirmed his identity as the King of Ubud. Whatever ceremony was about to take place had not yet began so I boldly took the opportunity to seek a quick audience (oh yes I did!) and ask permission to take a photo. The King was gracious and posed for a portrait. 

Right after I took my seat, two beautiful well-dressed ladies took seats right in front of me. You guessed it.  I was seated immediately behind the Queen!  I waited until after the ceremony to take her portrait, but I couldn’t resist documenting her lovely hair clip in the meantime.  After all, I had the perfect vantage point. 

Beside being a great source of laughs, the day was a photographer’s smorgasbord.  I’ve experienced so much in the past few days in Ubud that I’ve been rather long-winded in my blogs lately. Today I think I’ll give it a rest and just let the pictures do the talking.  I hope you enjoy seeing them as much as I enjoyed taking them.
 
(In addition to the following photos, you can see more of this event on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.)
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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