The dogs woke me in the very small hours with furious barking.
Usually this means a particularly large lizard is taunting
them from the kitchen wall, but this sounded different somehow.
I muttered my way out of bed and opened the door to the patio.
A few feet away, Daisy the dachshund was locked in mortal
combat with a green pit viper.
This dog is bred to kill everything that moves, and the green
pit viper is said to pack a deadly venomous punch. It was
not a good combination. They had already managed to bite one
another. Even half-asleep I realized that we couldn’t
have a wounded viper wandering around, and sadly dispatchedit.
The next few hours were a bit desperate as I dosed the little
dog the best I could and waited for the rest of the world
to wake up and help me.
Knowledgeable friends rallied round and Daisy was well enough
to chase a chicken less than 36 hours later. I thought
this was the end of the tale, but my staff looked unhappy.
Then the next day the glass door of my oven exploded into
a thousand shards as I walked past the stove. Wayan
and Nyoman began muttering darkly. The next day they
asked if they could bring a dukun (shaman) around to visit.
He was a pleasant chap, carrying a staff intricately carved
and painted as a serpent. He encouraged me to
pick it up, and it seemed to vibrate in my hands with a life
of its own. Then he went off for a stroll around the
garden, watched closely by Wayan and Nyoman. On his
return, he announced that a Rsi Gana upacara was necessary
to placate the spirits of the river and the nearby temple.
(“I knew it!” Wayan declared. She had always
suspected that the correct ceremonies hadn’t been performed
when the house was built.)
Whipping out pens and paper, my staff questioned him closely
about the offerings. Large numbers of chickens, coconuts
and ducks were mentioned. It was to be a large ceremony,
with effects lasting for 15 years, necessitating many offerings,
a padanda and a gamelan. My queries about how much all
this was going to cost were met with shrugs and rolling eyes.
No one seemed to know. But I had helped find jobs for
Wayan and Nyoman’s siblings, and now both families rallied
round to make the hundreds of offerings that would be needed
for the upacara.
As event manager, Wayan juggled endless lists and human resources
within a radius of about 30 kilometres for the next few weeks.
Oddly shaped bundles began to pile up in the pantry.
There was much discussion about the price of ducks, which
had doubled now that the bird flu scare had dried up the supply
from Java. Nyoman built several tall bamboo alters in the
garden, and constructed a new wall around the temple.
A large table was balanced over the fish pond and covered
with woven mats. Invitations were sent out to Balinese and
international friends, and my best kebaya was hung ready.
The anticipation in the air was evocative of children waiting
for Christmas.
I woke early on the morning of the upacara and opened the
door to a radiant garden. Behind the temple I thought
I saw a tall man in pakaian adat, waiting with a smile for
the ceremony to begin. But when I looked harder there was
nothing but shadows; it must have been a trick of the morning
light. I walked through the garden in the sun, confirming
my stewardship of this land and my intention to live harmoniously
with all the creatures I shared it with. The light shimmered
around me and I knew that my intention had been acknowledged.
My private little ceremony was quickly over, but the main
event was about to begin.
The offerings began to arrive at 06:15. Nyoman’s
small pickup truck was piled high with baskets of offerings
and recently deceased fowl. His female relatives and
I carried it all through the gate on our heads, and I left
them arguing about how it should be arranged while I went
to bathe and change. Twice the truck returned with more
offerings. The alters were piled high now, and much
of the grass was hidden under hundreds of painstakingly constructed
trays, baskets and freestanding offerings. Wayan
roared up on her motorbike and hustled me off to the temple
up the road to pray. We were the only supplicants.
Ibu Mangku did the honours, pausing in her prayers to sprinkle
liquid on the ground from an array of Fanta bottles topped
with ornate garuda-head stoppers. “Arak,”
whispered Wayan.
By the time we’d prayed at two more temples on the street,
my garden was full of excited Balinese and the first trickle
of tamu guests. A small gamelan was set up on the grass.
The padanda arrived half an hour early, escorted by five young
men. She was a striking woman of middle age, and when
she donned her regalia a mantle of energy seemed to rise up
around her. She seated herself on the table over the
pond and rang her bell, summoning the spirits.
The gamelan crashed and several of the women began to chant.
The ritual that followed was complex and powerful. The bell
clanged in hypnotic rhythm and smoke swirled up from the incense
along with the prayers. Burning bamboo exploded and
a trail of white feathers was strewn around the alter as the
priestess expertly flipped flowers over the piles of offerings.
The ceremony took over two hours. After the blessing, we tucked
into boxes of fragrant Balinese food as the women circled
the alter with torches, staffs and holy water. Then
the young men escorted the padanda home, the guests left and
the old women began to dismantle the offerings. I lay down
for a dream-filled nap. The moment I woke, Wayan instructed
me to bathe again before Ibu Mangku returned for the final
prayer at dusk. The long day ended in yet another gentle
shower of holy water.
When I opened the door next morning, shafts of sunlight speared
through the jungle and across the garden to warm my feet.
The light seemed to shimmer a little near the alter, and my
eye caught the graceful curve of a small green snake.
He looked at me for a moment, then disappeared through the
grass down toward the river.
