Anthropologists marvel at the adherence of Balinese Hindus to their faith in the face of overwhelming exposure to Western ‘culture’. The Balinese seem to have a unique ability to live in both worlds, to enjoy outside influences while maintaining the connection to spirit, ritual and the integral thread of religion that is so deeply woven into their community.
The same tattooed kids with streaked hair who strum old Elvis hits on their guitars on the street can be found a few hours later in full ceremonial gear playing the gamelan in street processions and queuing at the neighbourhood temple to pray. Little prayers decorate doorsills, sidewalks, walls and computers. Prayers flutter from tall bamboo poles, rooflines and cars. There are special days and prayers for books and metal objects. When Kasey went missing last week, Wayan made a special prayer for lost dogs and he instantly reappeared after a 14-hour absence. She was not at all surprised.
Prayer is as much a part of everyday life as breathing and bathing and preparing a meal. It must be among a child’s earliest memories — the scent of incense, the sound of temple bells, the sight of orderly rows of people with heads bowed and hands outstretched as they wait for the flicker of holy water from the priest. Toddlers follow their mothers on offering rounds, making graceful gestures with their tiny hands. Later they will learn to weave dozens of kinds of offerings, to perform the old dances, to move with confidence between the ornate instruments of the gamelan. It’s all a form of prayer. The Balinese have no terms of reference for people who don’t pray; they are beyond all understanding.
For two years I was an observer of Bali at prayer, admiring the regal women filing by with towers of fruit on their glossy heads, watching convoys of trucks packed with pilgrims roaring into the mountains or down to the sea. Then last year my staff sat me down with the dictionary and explained that someone had died in a traffic accident on the road leading to a friend’s house where I had been spending a lot of time. They wanted me to come and pray at the temple nearby, and were so relieved when I agreed that I understood there was probably some subtext involved too subtle to be explained.
Since then, from time to time, they’ve asked me to pray with them on special days or at special temples. I’m honoured to join them.
Once we went to a village temple where, after praying, we joined the community to watch a concert given by the children who were studying the traditional dances. There was the usual interminable wait, punctuated by small, exquisite children peeking at the audience through the curtains. The night air vibrated with the aroma of grilling satay, the perfume of temple flowers, the ringing of the prayer bell. Everyone was dressed in their best, down to the tiniest children. We sat on our shoes on the concrete floor of the wantilan. Babies slumbered across batik laps, plump dogs checked out the bungkus wrappers and one little boy howled in terror every time he looked at me.
Finally, the performance began. Two gamelans played alternately, and the brilliantly painted and costumed children performed remarkably well. There was no applause. The villagers of all ages watched each dance intently, as they must have done for generations.
I was struck by the timelessness of Balinese culture. Outside the wantilan it was the year 2003, complete with a global economy, microcomputers and space travel. Inside, it was 1903, or 1703. Apart from the electric light, the scene was as it had always been. Then when the dancing finished, people got into their Kijangs or mounted motorbikes and went home to watch video movies. The Bali paradox is alive and well.
Last week I went to Besakih for the first time. Nyoman and Wayan had of course been many times but this was to be the first visit for their children, aged 3 and 5. I picked them up at their compound before 7 in the morning. The journey had the flavour of a family outing from my childhood, complete with complicated preparations, an early start and excited children. The car was duly blessed and we loaded it with snacks, offering baskets and water and then tucked our appropriately attired selves into the battered little Suzuki.
It was a glorious morning. We drove up into the mountains, through village gardens dappled with sunlight. The crisp profile of Mount Agung dominated the horizon. Wayan handed round fruit and homemade tamarind sweets and pointed out the lakes and volcanoes to Putu and Kadek. In one place, a rather disturbed gentleman clad only in a pair of tattered pink knickers and with a hibiscus behind each ear stood shaking his fist at the traffic. "Orang gila," said Nyoman cheerfully.
In an hour we are at the Batur temple. Although it’s still early, the prayer enclosure is already crowded. We sit on our sandals on the cold concrete, waiting to pray. The air is crisp here and the children have never been so cool. They keep touching their skin with puzzled expressions. "Like AC outside," notes Wayan. Some women are wearing jackets over their flimsy lace kebayas. We pray, find the car again and retrace our way along Batur’s spectacular volcanic lip on our way to Besakih.
I’d been hearing for years about the massive crowds that gather to pray at the Mother Temple. The parking lots begin a long way from the entrance, and Wayan tells me that she has spent as long as 12 hours here, waiting to pray. We are lucky today, the parking lots are still empty. Dividing the load of a heavy offering basket and two children between us, we make our way up the hill past hundreds of little warungs selling toys and snacks. I offer to carry the basket at one point and manage for about 100 yards before allowing Wayan to reclaim it. It’s very heavy, the sun is hot and the stairs go straight up. All around me are women coping with big baskets on their heads, babies on their hips and leading toddlers by the hand, unfazed.
Nyoman leads us up the stairs and along a labyrinth of passages off to the right into a private clan temple. I learn later that there are dozens of these little oases in Besakih, dedicated to certain castes and areas of Bali, where prayers are offered before joining the crowds of pilgrims in the temple below.
This small temple is magical – a pocket garden of grass hedged with flowers, its ancient bales finely carved, a pot of water lilies in the corner. We light our incense at a special flame. The priest smiles kindly. There is only a handful of people there besides our little group. We sit on the cool grass with the offerings and incense before us and Kadek settles into my lap. Ritually we cleanse our hands in the smoke before raising them to pray. The next prayers are made with blossoms between our fingers, the final one with empty hands again. Then the priest blesses us with holy water. We drink it from our cupped hands, bless ourselves with it, and press grains of rice to our foreheads and throats.
The ancient carvings of the little temple stand in stark relief against the clear blue of the sky. Penjors snap overhead. Divine energy bathes the air around us. We sit quietly, sharing a scared time and place. Down in the parking lot it is the year 2003. Here, it is as it has always been.
