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BALIAn island 'paradise' that is said to hold an extraordinary secret.BY PHIL TRUPP |
I am, at last, standing naked in Bali.
I always knew I would. Long before James Michener's Tales of the South Pacific, I dreamed of "Bali Hai,"
an island of peace in a world at war. Of course, Michener's "special island" was in French Polynesia, 5,500
miles to the east. I am half a world away, dripping wet in my outdoor shower, beneath a full moon in this-the
real Bali, the threshold of the secrets and the contradictions of East meets West.
Here below the equator, where all the Earth's forces gather unpredictably, I feel an urgency, an impatience.
The moist night air is heavy with fragrance; it comes on with a rush: sandalwood, jasmine, frangipani-the
aroma of mystery, the scent of offerings to the gods.
Earlier, while driving to the Four Seasons Resort at Jimbaran, I glimpsed men squatting on their heels,
talking, smoking rough-cut cigarettes, casting shadows near the bamboo fires. And there, coming through the
open window, was the perfume, the essence of the island they call "the morning of the world."
I passed a walled village, or barljar, with its elaborately decorated temples. At the edge of the banjar were
cattle, goats, pigs, fighting cocks in thatch cages; farther on was a field of litter, and cremation grounds with a
tall bamboo pyre. The Bahagavad-Gita, a centerpiece of Hindu belief, says life and death are dreams; only
the eternal soul is real and so cremation, the release of the spirit, is a cause for celebration.
At the resort, I struggled to connect with the jitney driver on the way to my villa. I know almost nothing of his
language, and his knowledge of mine is sketchy. My inability to connect with him reinforces my position as a
stranger, as another seeker from the obverse world of the West. I wonder if I am a trespasser.
Inside my villa, beyond the beautifully painted wooden door, my western sensibilities fade. The garden is of
polished stone, flowers and statuary. At the far end of the patio is a deep plunge pool; a gargoyle issues clear
water into the stone basin fronting Jimbaran Bay. It has been a trying passage of 12,500 miles, and the
shower soothes my hot, tired body. Above the shower I notice a sculpted godhead and an offering of flowers
and incense. I close my eyes and thank all the gods who have brought me here to this icon of my early
dreams.
In the morning I wake before dawn. Across the bay, twin volcanoes stand darkly against the sky. A mist
swirls with the sun over the bay, dogs appear in the surf along the beach, and I eat mangoes and salax
(hardshelled grapes), sip bottled water and strong fresh coffee, and sketch the volcanoes as they slowly
disappear into the clouds, as if they had existed only in a dream.
Much in Bali tends to be dreamlike. In Vicki Baum's classic novel, Tale From Bali, the youthful hero, Raka,
tells his lover, Lambon, that heaven is a reflection of the island,
though heaven, like a mirror image on a placid lake, is upside down. I wonder if the reflection has become
clouded. I do not know, but I am determined to find out.
Travel has convinced me that most of us are chasing some personal vision ~] of paradise, and when we find it
we wish more than anything to lock the gate behind us. But the Balinese, resourceful as they are, keep
kicking the gate open. Though the island is ~i one of the smallest in the vast Indonesian Archipelago, it has
lured western travelers ever since it was colonized by the Dutch early in the century. By the 1920s, it was
fully "discovered," and a decade later had become "fashionable. "
The notion of paradise versus tourism seems incompatible, yet the : Balinese have managed to take
advantage of both. There is an odd quirk in the collective consciousness: It charges our sense of mystery and
cushions it with unlimited civilized comforts. A half-million tourists intrude on one's vision of what paradise
ought to be, but not so abruptly. A spell remains. The jarring aspects seem nonthreatening, and almost
everything coexists more or less gracefully with nature.
Ever since Batara Guru debated with his alter ego, Brahma, regarding the need for humankind on Earth, the
Balinese have been balancing their world against the outside. Bali, it seems, balances on the twin pillars of
art and religion. The former draws attention away from the less attractive aspects of tourism, while the latter
provides an immutable core of strength.
The art, so much more complex than that of the world I know, is everywhere. Never have I seen so much
public statuary, so many perfect gardens, so many ornate walls and spiritual symbols. Even in the crowded
tourist centers, the parade of native sarongs, worn by men and women, form a kind of organic mobile mural,
the colors and patterns as elusive as the disappearing volcanoes. In one town, I ask for directions and
receive a series of art-markers: "Go to statue of Vishnu, pass beneath Gate of Heaven, past three
temples...." Before long, I come to view the island as 2,100 square miles of living art, to which I hope to add
my tiny portion.
Yet, surprisingly, I can find no word for "artist" among the Balinese. The western concept of
artist-as-exclusive sensibility has no meaning here. Art is a kind of public utility, and everyone contributes.
One is a sculptor, dancer, wood carver, painter, musician, puppeteer-whatever-and these talents are offered
up to fit community needs. They are given freely, as an offering to the gods. When the need is satisfied, one
returns to work and everyday life. But what about those I poor souls who lack artistic talent? Made' Bibia, a
specialist in 16th-century Topeng masks, answers frankly, "They are magicians, priests."
It is quite another story for the scores of western artists who live here. In the tiny village of Ubud, at a studio
high above a river and a terraced hillside of rice paddies, the young son of a European painter gives me
insight on art and the dues of paradise. "I didn't get a gift for my birthday or Christmas," the boy confides.
"But my dad finally sold a painting. Now I have this." He holds up a toy fire engine.
I am beginning to see that art, and just about everything else in Bali, is an offering or it is nothing. Ego is
suspended. Creativity proceeds selflessly.
"I do not know what means ego," says Ketut, who is one of the Kris dancers who turn their weapons on
themselves under the evil spell of Rangda in the ancient Barong and Rangda play. "I dance for ancestors, for
/~anjar," he insists.
Bali's second pillar, religion, is as omnipresent as the art, possibly more so. There are 30,000 known temples
on the island, and many smaller ones that have not been logged. There is perhaps more sacred ground here
than any other spot on Earth. Indeed, the Animus Hindus are devout people, with much of the spirit to attend
to, including the forces of magic. As a result, worship goes on around the clock. It is as natural as breathing.
During this visit in March, the New Year celebration, Nyepi, is under way. It marks the birth of the trinity of
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, all of whom are part of the supreme god, Widi.
Hoping to share in the festivities, I travel to the western end of the Badung Peninsula, in South Bali, where
the temple of Ulu Watu stands on a sheer cliff above the Indian Ocean.
Hundreds of worshippers in bright sarongs, sashes and flowers move purposefully over the narrow, dusty
road to the temple. Women walk arm-in-arm, the men cling together (intermingling of the sexes during
ceremonies is forbidden) and all bear pungent offerings of orchids, rice, fruit, betel nuts and icons arranged in
silver bowls or pedestal trays or humble thatch and banana leaves. I improvise my own modest offering-a
stump of incense, a few flowers, goat grass-and imitate those around me. I clasp my palms together, touch my
shoulders and forehead. A priest dispenses holy water from an ornate scepter. The water is cool against my
face. I place a few grains of rice on the wet spots, and I offer silent prayers for the thousands of Balinese who
died in the 1960s during a period of intense political strife. I offer myself to the great volcano Gunung Agung,
"the navel of the world."
Later I pause to watch a group of youngsters playing with a small monkey on the edge of the cliff above the
sea. They hardly notice me but look away when I try to photograph them. I make my way back through a
double row of stalls displaying cheap souvenirs, silks, all manner of clothing, carvings, blow-up Batman dolls
and Coca-Cola in oddly curved bottles. A pair of giddy Australian women returning from Ulu Watu ask if I
will snap their photograph.
"Been to the digs, mate?" asks one of the women, puffing on a long, brown cigarette. She grins wickedly, and
tugs at her cutoffs. "Kinda poofy, eh?" she winks.
Always the contradiction. By now I am used to it.
Noon. Only mad dogs and Englishmen are about. Temperature and humidity soar. I dive for shelter into a dim
bookstore in the town of Kuta. Sidney Sheldon, Jackie Collins and Danielle Steele stand beside wilted
guidebooks and stacks of postcards showing Kuta in a former incarnation. Across the street a sun-bleached
montage of playbills hype kung fu flicks and "trance processions" in which possessed souls utter strange
tongues and are transported to realms a round-eye cannot even imagine.
Yes, witches haunt every banjar, I am told by the lady who owns the bookstore. "You listen. Hear dogs, cats
yowling. Unhappy spirits," she says. I am reminded of the dwarf, Billy Kwan, in the film, The Year of Living
Dangerously, who tells a newsman new to Jakarta, "We are always surrounded by the unseen."
The unseen, I tell myself, beats Kuta's assault on the senses.
"Is it always like this?" I ask the bookstore lady.
"Yes," she nods. Then, more confidentially, she lowers her voice. "South is impure. Kelod. You must look to
the mountains. Mountains holy."
It's no wonder Balinese artists avoid horizons. They crowd the edges of their works with people and animals,
banjars, jungle and mountains. Always the mountains.
I wish to purchase a few books on local lore and proceed to bargain. In Bali just about everything is
negotiable, and sellers expect (and enjoy) hard bargaining. But I am in for yet another contradiction.
"Fixed price!" the bookstore lady exclaims adamantly.
"No fixed price," I counter, using customary etiquette.
"Books different. Books important. Fixed price!"
Who am I to push the negotiability of words and ideas? Happily, I pay fixed price.
Afterwards, I drive with Wayan Sirka to Legian, north of Kuea. He is 27 years old, slender, with a wide brow,
set jaw and very finely shaped hands. He has the intense gaze of the Ksatrias, Bali's warrior caste. This is
appropriate, since one needs warrior blood to take on the heart-stopping, free-for-all traffic.
He selects a Chinese restaurant for our lunch break. Inside it is clean, well-lit. The saltwater aquariums lining
the far wall hold Nassau groupers and green and pink tropicals; they swim about languidly, waiting to become
a meal.
"Wayan Sirka, do you ever wish to leave Bali?" I ask, knowing it is a pushy, western-type question.
"No," he grins. "Must help elder father."
"Oh? How old is elder father?"
Wayan Sirka must think hard; birthdays are vague and generally abstract events here. "Fifty," he says after
a while. "Very old." He falls silent, picks at his lo mein, then looks up. "What is snow?"
I laugh as if everyone should know what snow is, even eight degrees below the equator. "It's frozen rain." As
soon as I say it, I realize I haven't answered the question properly.
Wayan Sirka has a puzzled expression.
"Fall like ashes?"
"Yes, like ashes from a volcano."
"When snow, people work?"
"Often we have to." I explain that snow is wet, cold, a little sticky. "Children build statues with snow."
"Ah! I like see snow. But must care for elder father," he says, neatly putting aside any further talk of leaving
the island.
Dessert is local-an oddly sweet combination of melon balls floating in coconut milk and liberally spiced with
tiny black telash biji seeds.
"Not easy to know Bali," Wayan Sirka says at last. "Like box. See outside, but do not know what is inside."
I am discovering that what is inside Bali must be reflected inside of me, perhaps upside down.
"Bali come to you like dream," Wayan Sirka assures me.
His remark forces me back to introspection. Bali's secret, the one I have waited so many years to discover,
is hidden beneath layers of perception. I must break through, overcome my own opacity.
And the surest route for me is music. Long before I was a writer, I was a musician. So when the gamelan
orchestra and dancers arrive at the Four Seasons Hotel one late afternoon, I am seated front row center,
tape recorder switched on.
The legong dancers explode onto the patio. They are draped in silk and gold brocade, their features
heightened by vivid strokes of color. They are whirling rainbows gesticulating with an overpowering energy.
Their painted fingers bend and twist in impossible ways, eyes dart side to side, expressions changing like
shadows on the sea, as if each were an encapsulated event with its own beginning, middle and end.
The musicians, in white linen with golden headwraps and red hibiscus in their dark hair, build the momentum
of their percussive melody. There is an invisible sensuality between dancers and musicians. Sheets of
high-pitched sound drive the dancers faster, until sound and motion are inseparable.
At some point I realize that one particular dancer, now flying my way like living fire, has captured me. Slowly
it dawns. I am hypnotized./ She spins toward me, barefooted, a blur of color and heat and-surprise!-she
showers me with fresh flower petals. I sense that people are staring, I do not care. I am captivated,
breathless.
Then it comes again, that rude splash of western reality. A tall gentleman approaches my dancer with a jolly,
ginned-up smile. "I say, are you a girl or a boy?"
Her eyes turn away. The spell has been broken.
But I am most eager to try my hand with the gamelan players. Except for a string instrument and a wooden
flute, all the instruments are percussive:
xylophone-like brass bars mounted on carved wooden stands; gongs; twinheaded hand drums; and a
fascinating set-up called cengceng, a circle of small brass cymbals mounted upside down on a flat wooden
base. The cengceng player cradles two free cymbals between thumb and forefinger, and strikes them against
the array of mounted cymbals. The instrument sounds like its name. The cymbals go cengceng-cengcenging
away as the player uses fingers to dampen or open up the sound. I am told the cengceng player is actually the
leader, setting tempos and timbre.
I sit cross-legged on a palm mat and take up the cymbals, as instructed by the elder statesman of this
particular orchestra. He speaks no English, but I can imitate the rhythm he shows me. He counts a pattern
that to western ears is notated as 7/4 time: 1, 2, 3, 4 -1, 2, 3. It feels like a pop beat with a little waltz tagged
on at the end. The other players nod approvingly.
The music begins. My cengceng master marks the beat with an up and down motion of his arm. It is a simple,
insistent rhythm, and I swing into it. The big brass gong swells around the high-pitched melody instruments,
and the constantly busy gambang kayu players strike their xylophone-like brass bars with slender mallets.
We are all moving with the tempo, in time, and the beat becomes more urgent. I close my eyes and become
one with the sound, and the improvised whole rolls across the hills like a spirit set free. It is the sound of the
laughter of the gods.
At last, I believe I know the secret. Like music, it comes from beyond, flowing as clear as irresistible gravity.
Its face is every face, abstracted and finally made recognizable by my own heartbeat.
The secret is Bali. Bali is soul.