As life progressed I learned more about the culture of Bali. I learned that children were carried everywhere, held in the protective arms of a family member until three months old. I listened as a priest, dressed in white, chanted a mantra in an ancient language, and watched while an entire village clasped its palms together in prayer. I marvelled at the vibrant offerings prepared for the temple, and the simple gesture of a welcome smile. I saw dance and dramas to evoke the spirits, and shadows that fired the imagination. I learned to love the island.
Festival offerings for the gods.
Bali's rugged eastern mountains viewed from Kintamani.
These days, I understand Bali a little better than I did on that first early morning in Batur—like a wised-up city boy initially enamoured with the country farm, I now recognize an earthly pragmatism which goes beyond the geographic splendour of rural living. Life is not easy for everybody on Bali. Their deep and sensual religion offsets the daily hardship of a lifestyle that in many quarters remains largely unchanged since the 17th century. Yet I continue to recognize within the culture an extraordinary sense of community, one which transcends our Western ideals of liberty and individualism and puts cooperation above competition. This, perhaps more than anything else, is the real substance of Bali's beauty. It is an island populated by a people who know how to live together. Few cultures can say the same, even though many may try.
Jukung - traditional Balinese fishing boats.
"No feast is complete in Bali," wrote the Mexican expatriate Miguel Covarrubias in 1937, "without music and elaborate dramatic and dance performances; no one would dream of getting married, or holding a cremation, or even of celebrating a child's birthday, without engaging troupes of dancers and actors to entertain the guests and neighbours." Dance and drama remain central to the Balinese way, colourful spectacles in the life of the culture. In fact Covarrubias and his wife became such enthusiastic theatre-goers during their time on the island they "sometimes had to make a point of staying home to catch up with lost sleep". The Mexican chronicler wrote in his still definitive book, Island of Bali: "Even the tired peasant who works all day in the fields does not mind staying up at night to watch a show, and the little children who invariably make up the front rows of the audience remain there until dawn for the end, occasionally huddled together taking naps, but wide awake for the exciting episodes of the play." Next to having good orchestras, a fine group of dancers is an imperative need for the spiritual and physical well-being of the community. When a society has enough money for the elaborate costumes needed for public appearance, the village banjar or community association gives an inauguration festival to bless the clothes. All actors, dancers or story-tellers undergo the same ceremony—in the case of a dancer, a priest uses the stem of a flower to inscribe magic syllables on the face, head, tongue and hands in order to make the dancer attractive to the eyes of the public. It is not only on this occasion that dancers pray for success; before every performance they make small offerings to the deities of the dance.
The legong, for which this girl is dressed, is often said to be the finest of all Balinese dances. Three little dancers, usually portraying an air of infinite boredom, sit on mats in front of the orchestra. They are dressed from head to foot in silk overlaid with glittering gold leaf and on their heads they wear great helmets of gold ornamented with rows of fresh frangipani blossoms. The girl who sits between the two legongs, their attendant or tjondong, waits until the moment is right, then to the accompaniment of the gamelan orchestra gets up lazily and stands in the middle of the dancing space. "Suddenly," writes Miguel Covarrubias, "at an accent from the orchestra, she strikes an intense pose: her bare feet flat on the ground, her knees flexed, she begins a lively dance, moving briskly, winding in and out of a circle, with an arm rigidly outstretched, fingers tense and trembling, and her eyes staring into space. At each accent of the music her whole body jerks; she stamps her foot, which quivers faster and faster, the vibration spreading to her thigh and up her hips until her entire body shakes so violently that the flowers of her headdress fly in all directions. The gradually growing spell breaks off unexpectedly and the girl glides with swift side-steps, first to the right, then to the left, swaying from her flexible waist while her arms break into sharp patterns at the wrists and elbows. Without stopping, she picks up two fans that lie on the mat and continues dancing with one in each hand, in an elegant, winding style."
Images of Bali, a kaleidoscopic culture where children are reserved a special place close to the gods.
History
"Bali is neither a last nor a lost paradise, but the home of a peculiarly gifted people of mixed race, endowed with a great sense of humour and a great sense of style—and with a suppleness of mind which has enabled them to take what they want of alien civilisations which have been reaching them for centuries and to leave the rest."
Beryle De Zoete and Walter Spies,
Dance and Drama in Bali, 1938
Bali, around 1720, as depicted by Dutch cartographers. Photograph courtesy of Antiques of the Orient.
As a pearl develops from a single gritty core, so Bali's culture has grown from a nugget of indigenous belief, on to which has been slowly layered centuries of Javanese, Buddhist and Hindu civilisation. This grafting on of alien civilisation to animist beliefs has given us the Balinese culture which we know today.
As early as several centuries before the birth of Christ the island is thought to have been populated by herders and farmers, people who used bronze and iron to make implements and jewellery—early grave sites found in the mountains have revealed ancient stone seats and altars, as well as coffins sculpted in the shape of giant turtles. Certainly these people engaged in some form of ancestor worship, but beyond that little is known about Bali's first inhabitants, except that they were probably descended from migrants who moved south from Yunnan in China over a period of several thousand years BC.
Goa Gajah, the 11th-century elephant cave, so-called because reliefs carved around its mouth were at first thought to resemble elephant ears. The cave is thought to have been created during the period of Bali's first contact with the Hindu and Buddhist population of Java.
Today some Balinese communities still claim ancestry from those early migrants. Called Bali Aga, or Bali Asli, they continue to live in villages isolated and independent from the general island system. These clans—one based in Trunyan on the shores of Lake Batur, another in Tenganan close to Candi Dasa, and the third at Sembiran on the northern coast near Tejakula—maintain a mountain aloofness from their fellow Balinese that sometimes borders on the brusque. The Tenganan clan still forbids marriage outside the village, a ruling which seems destined to ensure their gradual demise; the one at Trunyan shuns the conventional cremation rites of the rest of Bali and instead leaves the bodies of its dead to decompose on a ceremonial hillside next to Lake Batur.
Of the few clues to the island's