Features - May 18, 2006
Ritual is part and parcel of the daily life of a Balinese Hindu. Following the solemnity of Nyepi, the Day of Silence, on March 30, when Balinese entered the new year Saka 1928, adults and children burst into joyous celebration on May 3 with Galungan and 10 days later, with Kuningan on May 13.
Galungan and Kuningan were not only marked in the temples, but also in the streets. In Ubud, dozens of youths and teenagers joined the Barong dance -- a kind of mythical lion locally called Ngelawang -- and bystanders made "donations" to the dance troupes as they snaked their way down the streets to the accompaniment of traditional music.
Meanwhile, Balinese women carried meter-high offerings of fruit, flowers and food on their heads and marched in a colorful procession to Hindu temples across the paradise isle.
Another important part of the twin rites is the bathing ceremony of the Barong, which is conducted five days after Galungan and five days before Kuningan.
Galungan -- marking victory of good over evil -- always falls on a Wednesday. Kuningan concludes the rejoicing.
At Tanah Lot, the sacred mask depicting the mythical beast is cleansed in the Pemancekan Agung. The ritual is a joy not only for Balinese, but also for tourists visiting the enchanted, spiritual destination.
-- P.J. Leo
20.5.06
Part I: Dayu Siti's last stand
Features - May 14, 2006
I grew up in Bali terrified of witches and goblins (leyak).
One dark night in 1976, motorcycling home to Sidakarya from the Denpasar Dance Academy where I worked -- as Bali's first one-man, all-male legong -- an invisible "monkey" hopped onto my bike and the back wheel started to shimmy and shammy. I was completely freaked out for two kilometers.
I have never really recovered.
In those days -- the early 1970s -- many a night was whiled away in our neighborhood warung, listening to octogenarian Nini Tap‚'s stories about demon battles in the coconut groves of Mertasari, near Sanur, where I now live, and of the white witch of Intaran (Sanur) Dayu Siti and her legendary powers.
***
Twenty-five years later, I met Dayu Siti for the first time, in a back courtyard of our neighborhood palace: 85 years old, she was ensconced there as the step-grandmother of my work colleague, Gung Nik. We talked a bit, but I never got to know her.
Two weeks ago, Dayu Siti passed away, quietly. On the day she died, my family was having a huge tooth-filing ceremony -- a karya ayu, or beatific event -- and 30 of Dayu Siti's family were present. They didn't tell us of her death, as they didn't want to visit sebel (gloom) on the occasion.
I found out only after observing one old grandmother weeping, unusually and suddenly in the middle of a sea of otherwise jolly celebrants -- the news had spread quickly down the village lane and across the courtyard, and had finally hit her, like a night-bus. She was heart-broken -- she had been Dayu Siti's maid for 80 years.
***
I went to Jero Dalem Tanjung, Kepaon palace that night to pay my respects. The house was packed with nobles -- in batik, floral and black Majapahit funeral wear -- playing cards, singing hymns and gossiping.
I sat down next to the family patriarch and a mourning relative from Pemecutan Palace, the Kepaon family's ancestral home.
"When are you getting married?" they demanded seconds after I sat down.
"No time for love," I replied (it's my standard answer these days).
"But you're so handsome these days (translation: I've put on 30 kilos), I bet those Indian girls with the big tits are all over you."
There was no talk of the deceased.
I gazed around the courtyard of mourners -- the 300 or so relatives' I have grown up with -- and I thought, Really, for the Balinese, things done between ceremonies are just fill. Cremations are everything: between cremations and temple events the Balinese just idle, in neutral.
Everyone was having such a great time over cakes and coffee -- bonding, gambling, smoking -- and it would be like this for the next week at least; by which time someone else in the vast Pemecutan family diaspora will have passed on and it will all start again.
Over the evening, the life of Dayu Siti was discussed only in terms of her complicated and tenuous connection to this family: in fact, she was a brahmani lass from the mighty Brahmin stronghold of Intaran, in Sanur, who had married the old prince's brother. The family mostly talked of how pleased they were that emissaries from Intaran family had started to arrive.
***
The next day, I was double-booked for body-washings: for Dayu Siti, the white witch of Intaran, and the late high-priest, and for Ida Bagawan Putra Kemenuh, the patron saint of my clan of ksatria (princely) Dewa garden commandos. And both at 4 p.m.
Identical ceremonies, back to back: one princely, one priestly.
I did the Kepaon family first.
The courtyard was much as the night before -- macho men, robust palace ladies strapped into lacy black bustiers, lots of slouching and smoking and loose talk -- except that the temple section of the palace was alive with activity. An angklung orchestra was parked inside the temple gate.
I had missed the body-washing but was in time for the ngajum ceremony, during which family members put sewing needles into the joints of the astral body effigy -- kajang pengawak -- set up on a bed in a pavilion in the family temple. I caught the prince genuflecting gently to the astral body effigy as he backed out of the pavilion and returned to his post.
The atmosphere was noisy and heavy, but reverent -- black reverent.
***
In Ketewel, 20 kilometers away, the priestly ngajum ceremony was a "white" affair. I had changed, in the parking lot, like Clark Kent, into white and checkered garb. The mood inside the geria palace was incredibly refined and still.
In the extensive ceremonial courtyard, hundreds of devotees of the much-loved begawan priest were all sitting quietly along the bases of the various pavilions.
Six high priests and their wives sat in the biggest, northernmost pavilion, chatting about bell-ringing protocol and such. Next to them, two high priests were incanting Vedic chants in front of a truck-load of offerings, high on a white-and-yellow festooned platform.
The deceased's widows were busy doing a full range of complicated and beautiful ceremonies. Three gamelans played from various courtyards. Fifty choristers in white traditional kebaya blouses were seated in the family temple, from where the soft harmonies of an ancient gambang orchestra drifted through the gaps in the courtyard activity.
The effect of all this ambrosia of the gods and the temple-garden beauty was dizzying.
I sat at the feet of Pedanda Kemenuh, the nabi (guru) of the deceased priest and a former sergeant major in the army. I was served coffee and cakes by Desak, my saintly and long-suffering maid from my years living in Sanur in the 1980s.
"Why did all the ladies unfurl their hair and rub the feet of the corpse?" I enquired politely, as I sipped my coffee.
"Oh them," the pedanda replied, "they were the deceased's daughters and his students, performing a final act of filial piety."
It had been a profound defining moment in the body-washing ritual, you can imagine, but the high priest just dismissed it, as a bit of minor theatrics. They're often glib like that.
***
The difference in the all-black ksatria ceremony and the all-white brahmana (priestly) version of the same ngajum couldn't have been more pronounced. As Miguel Covarrubias famously wrote in his book Island of Bali (1936): "What is a rule in one village, is an exception in the next."
***
The next day I was double-booked again.
I chose the Ketewel cremation, selfishly, because it promised to be more theatrical and gorgeous and I knew the deceased.
***
Later that day, returning home from the incredible Ketewel cremation -- more of that next issue! -- I got news of a miracle at Dayu Siti's cremation.
Her hair hadn't burned on the funeral pyre!
The unburned hair had been taken back to the palace where it is to be enshrined as a pratima (votive object) in the royal chapel this week.
Will holy miracles never cease?
Stay tuned next issue for part two of "Dayu Siti's Last Stand"!
-- [signature - Made Wijaya]
I grew up in Bali terrified of witches and goblins (leyak).
One dark night in 1976, motorcycling home to Sidakarya from the Denpasar Dance Academy where I worked -- as Bali's first one-man, all-male legong -- an invisible "monkey" hopped onto my bike and the back wheel started to shimmy and shammy. I was completely freaked out for two kilometers.
I have never really recovered.
In those days -- the early 1970s -- many a night was whiled away in our neighborhood warung, listening to octogenarian Nini Tap‚'s stories about demon battles in the coconut groves of Mertasari, near Sanur, where I now live, and of the white witch of Intaran (Sanur) Dayu Siti and her legendary powers.
***
Twenty-five years later, I met Dayu Siti for the first time, in a back courtyard of our neighborhood palace: 85 years old, she was ensconced there as the step-grandmother of my work colleague, Gung Nik. We talked a bit, but I never got to know her.
Two weeks ago, Dayu Siti passed away, quietly. On the day she died, my family was having a huge tooth-filing ceremony -- a karya ayu, or beatific event -- and 30 of Dayu Siti's family were present. They didn't tell us of her death, as they didn't want to visit sebel (gloom) on the occasion.
I found out only after observing one old grandmother weeping, unusually and suddenly in the middle of a sea of otherwise jolly celebrants -- the news had spread quickly down the village lane and across the courtyard, and had finally hit her, like a night-bus. She was heart-broken -- she had been Dayu Siti's maid for 80 years.
***
I went to Jero Dalem Tanjung, Kepaon palace that night to pay my respects. The house was packed with nobles -- in batik, floral and black Majapahit funeral wear -- playing cards, singing hymns and gossiping.
I sat down next to the family patriarch and a mourning relative from Pemecutan Palace, the Kepaon family's ancestral home.
"When are you getting married?" they demanded seconds after I sat down.
"No time for love," I replied (it's my standard answer these days).
"But you're so handsome these days (translation: I've put on 30 kilos), I bet those Indian girls with the big tits are all over you."
There was no talk of the deceased.
I gazed around the courtyard of mourners -- the 300 or so relatives' I have grown up with -- and I thought, Really, for the Balinese, things done between ceremonies are just fill. Cremations are everything: between cremations and temple events the Balinese just idle, in neutral.
Everyone was having such a great time over cakes and coffee -- bonding, gambling, smoking -- and it would be like this for the next week at least; by which time someone else in the vast Pemecutan family diaspora will have passed on and it will all start again.
Over the evening, the life of Dayu Siti was discussed only in terms of her complicated and tenuous connection to this family: in fact, she was a brahmani lass from the mighty Brahmin stronghold of Intaran, in Sanur, who had married the old prince's brother. The family mostly talked of how pleased they were that emissaries from Intaran family had started to arrive.
***
The next day, I was double-booked for body-washings: for Dayu Siti, the white witch of Intaran, and the late high-priest, and for Ida Bagawan Putra Kemenuh, the patron saint of my clan of ksatria (princely) Dewa garden commandos. And both at 4 p.m.
Identical ceremonies, back to back: one princely, one priestly.
I did the Kepaon family first.
The courtyard was much as the night before -- macho men, robust palace ladies strapped into lacy black bustiers, lots of slouching and smoking and loose talk -- except that the temple section of the palace was alive with activity. An angklung orchestra was parked inside the temple gate.
I had missed the body-washing but was in time for the ngajum ceremony, during which family members put sewing needles into the joints of the astral body effigy -- kajang pengawak -- set up on a bed in a pavilion in the family temple. I caught the prince genuflecting gently to the astral body effigy as he backed out of the pavilion and returned to his post.
The atmosphere was noisy and heavy, but reverent -- black reverent.
***
In Ketewel, 20 kilometers away, the priestly ngajum ceremony was a "white" affair. I had changed, in the parking lot, like Clark Kent, into white and checkered garb. The mood inside the geria palace was incredibly refined and still.
In the extensive ceremonial courtyard, hundreds of devotees of the much-loved begawan priest were all sitting quietly along the bases of the various pavilions.
Six high priests and their wives sat in the biggest, northernmost pavilion, chatting about bell-ringing protocol and such. Next to them, two high priests were incanting Vedic chants in front of a truck-load of offerings, high on a white-and-yellow festooned platform.
The deceased's widows were busy doing a full range of complicated and beautiful ceremonies. Three gamelans played from various courtyards. Fifty choristers in white traditional kebaya blouses were seated in the family temple, from where the soft harmonies of an ancient gambang orchestra drifted through the gaps in the courtyard activity.
The effect of all this ambrosia of the gods and the temple-garden beauty was dizzying.
I sat at the feet of Pedanda Kemenuh, the nabi (guru) of the deceased priest and a former sergeant major in the army. I was served coffee and cakes by Desak, my saintly and long-suffering maid from my years living in Sanur in the 1980s.
"Why did all the ladies unfurl their hair and rub the feet of the corpse?" I enquired politely, as I sipped my coffee.
"Oh them," the pedanda replied, "they were the deceased's daughters and his students, performing a final act of filial piety."
It had been a profound defining moment in the body-washing ritual, you can imagine, but the high priest just dismissed it, as a bit of minor theatrics. They're often glib like that.
***
The difference in the all-black ksatria ceremony and the all-white brahmana (priestly) version of the same ngajum couldn't have been more pronounced. As Miguel Covarrubias famously wrote in his book Island of Bali (1936): "What is a rule in one village, is an exception in the next."
***
The next day I was double-booked again.
I chose the Ketewel cremation, selfishly, because it promised to be more theatrical and gorgeous and I knew the deceased.
***
Later that day, returning home from the incredible Ketewel cremation -- more of that next issue! -- I got news of a miracle at Dayu Siti's cremation.
Her hair hadn't burned on the funeral pyre!
The unburned hair had been taken back to the palace where it is to be enshrined as a pratima (votive object) in the royal chapel this week.
Will holy miracles never cease?
Stay tuned next issue for part two of "Dayu Siti's Last Stand"!
-- [signature - Made Wijaya]
9.5.06
Hendrik Pali: Working to preserve Sumba culture
Features - May 03, 2006
Emanuel Dapa Loka, Contributor, Bekasi
Something disturbs Hendrik Pali when it comes to the culture of his ancestral land, Sumba, East Nusa Tenggara province.
He has witnessed with his own eyes how the place receives inadequate attention from society in general, the government and the church.
"Owing to extreme poverty, Sumba people choose to gather grass for their horses or to take care of their plantations instead of participating in dancing exercises, for instance," said Hendrik.
The simple logic is that first the stomach has to be satisfied before esthetic matters can be appreciated.
Hendrik compared the situation with his experience when he was a member of the dance troupe of (the late) Bagong Kussudiardjo in Yogyakarta.
There he noticed professional values at work. "Instructors were given a cash reward and trainees had to pay monthly contributions. That reflected public awareness and support," recalled Hendrik, 59, owner of the Ori Angu (Embracing Friends) dance studio he set up in 1980.
It is impossible for his group, with school dropouts as members, to imitate the sophistication of Bagong's management. Consequently, his 30 or so students train in traditional dance and new works free of charge.
Originally concentrating on dancing, his studio later expanded its activities to cover weaving for the supply of dance costumes and scarves.
With his studio already established for 25 years, Hendrik continues to be a lone fighter working without adequate aid. Despite his enormous spirit, bright ideas and lavish energy devoted to the preservation of local culture, he sometimes feels helpless in the absence of financial support.
"Fortunately, some tourists often visit us to help our survival. Once we were almost forced to close down," he said, seriously.
Just as he was about to give up, Hendrik related, the words struck him: "If you close your studio, who else is willing to care about this culture?"
As though in the middle of a dialog, he said to himself, "You're right! Culture is a nation's mirror image, without which it would be uncivilized. Isn't it we ourselves that must do something about it?"
Apart from that, Hendrik has maintained his group because dancing has been a long-time hobby.
Born and brought up in East Sumba with its observance of custom rituals, he has been familiar with dance since childhood. His six children share his talent without the benefit of special training.
"They are instinctively capable of dancing," noted the former primary school teacher now promoted as school supervisor.
In his observation, the government has, for a long time, paid almost no heed to Sumba's art and culture, now left to grow like paddy surviving amid weeds.
The government, he says, should support troupes such as Ori Angu, which is only proper because the local administration has always sought his help when it holds ceremonies with regional dances and songs.
East Sumba has various dances, five of which form the basic part of the local performing art: kabokang, kadingang, haramu, wulumanu and putiliku. From these standard dances, new choreographed works have been created for particular purposes such as welcoming guests, making offerings or conducting religious worship, processions and harvest festivals.
However, his preparedness to fulfill such requests requires sacrifices. With his team and dance equipment sent to celebrate official events, he has frequently received only words of gratitude.
"The authorities should provide aid for our costumes and musical instruments. They don't appreciate our needs yet," he added.
The same is true of the church, which gives less thought to how the traditional art can be preserved, while in fact such dances have become its basic requirement. The church has determined to use local art as a means of religious propagation.
Sadly, no aid and other attention have been given for the continued existence of the performances, which are also performed by teenagers in some families.
In consolation, the government has devoted some attention by deciding to include regional dances and songs in the extracurricular programs of primary and upper school levels.
For weaving art, aid has also been made available to weaving groups at low rates of interest.
Meanwhile, better communications and transportation facilities have made the 11,845-square-kilometer island's culture more accessible to outsiders.
Sumba is also identical with its beautiful woven textiles. These handicrafts incorporate unique processes that involve motif design, choice of color, fabric treatment for storage and washing, as well as marketing.
For the nobility, the fabrics have crocodile and turtle motifs to symbolize magnificence, influence and grandeur, which has been preserved by convention.
With increasing demand, though, many craftsmen try to cut corners by mixing colors with chemicals, which can lower product quality and uniqueness.
"If only they used traditional materials derived from plant roots; the quality of woven Sumba fabric would be maintained," Hendrik concluded in a tone of concern.
Emanuel Dapa Loka, Contributor, Bekasi
Something disturbs Hendrik Pali when it comes to the culture of his ancestral land, Sumba, East Nusa Tenggara province.
He has witnessed with his own eyes how the place receives inadequate attention from society in general, the government and the church.
"Owing to extreme poverty, Sumba people choose to gather grass for their horses or to take care of their plantations instead of participating in dancing exercises, for instance," said Hendrik.
The simple logic is that first the stomach has to be satisfied before esthetic matters can be appreciated.
Hendrik compared the situation with his experience when he was a member of the dance troupe of (the late) Bagong Kussudiardjo in Yogyakarta.
There he noticed professional values at work. "Instructors were given a cash reward and trainees had to pay monthly contributions. That reflected public awareness and support," recalled Hendrik, 59, owner of the Ori Angu (Embracing Friends) dance studio he set up in 1980.
It is impossible for his group, with school dropouts as members, to imitate the sophistication of Bagong's management. Consequently, his 30 or so students train in traditional dance and new works free of charge.
Originally concentrating on dancing, his studio later expanded its activities to cover weaving for the supply of dance costumes and scarves.
With his studio already established for 25 years, Hendrik continues to be a lone fighter working without adequate aid. Despite his enormous spirit, bright ideas and lavish energy devoted to the preservation of local culture, he sometimes feels helpless in the absence of financial support.
"Fortunately, some tourists often visit us to help our survival. Once we were almost forced to close down," he said, seriously.
Just as he was about to give up, Hendrik related, the words struck him: "If you close your studio, who else is willing to care about this culture?"
As though in the middle of a dialog, he said to himself, "You're right! Culture is a nation's mirror image, without which it would be uncivilized. Isn't it we ourselves that must do something about it?"
Apart from that, Hendrik has maintained his group because dancing has been a long-time hobby.
Born and brought up in East Sumba with its observance of custom rituals, he has been familiar with dance since childhood. His six children share his talent without the benefit of special training.
"They are instinctively capable of dancing," noted the former primary school teacher now promoted as school supervisor.
In his observation, the government has, for a long time, paid almost no heed to Sumba's art and culture, now left to grow like paddy surviving amid weeds.
The government, he says, should support troupes such as Ori Angu, which is only proper because the local administration has always sought his help when it holds ceremonies with regional dances and songs.
East Sumba has various dances, five of which form the basic part of the local performing art: kabokang, kadingang, haramu, wulumanu and putiliku. From these standard dances, new choreographed works have been created for particular purposes such as welcoming guests, making offerings or conducting religious worship, processions and harvest festivals.
However, his preparedness to fulfill such requests requires sacrifices. With his team and dance equipment sent to celebrate official events, he has frequently received only words of gratitude.
"The authorities should provide aid for our costumes and musical instruments. They don't appreciate our needs yet," he added.
The same is true of the church, which gives less thought to how the traditional art can be preserved, while in fact such dances have become its basic requirement. The church has determined to use local art as a means of religious propagation.
Sadly, no aid and other attention have been given for the continued existence of the performances, which are also performed by teenagers in some families.
In consolation, the government has devoted some attention by deciding to include regional dances and songs in the extracurricular programs of primary and upper school levels.
For weaving art, aid has also been made available to weaving groups at low rates of interest.
Meanwhile, better communications and transportation facilities have made the 11,845-square-kilometer island's culture more accessible to outsiders.
Sumba is also identical with its beautiful woven textiles. These handicrafts incorporate unique processes that involve motif design, choice of color, fabric treatment for storage and washing, as well as marketing.
For the nobility, the fabrics have crocodile and turtle motifs to symbolize magnificence, influence and grandeur, which has been preserved by convention.
With increasing demand, though, many craftsmen try to cut corners by mixing colors with chemicals, which can lower product quality and uniqueness.
"If only they used traditional materials derived from plant roots; the quality of woven Sumba fabric would be maintained," Hendrik concluded in a tone of concern.
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