Face to face

Yudhie, Titi, Ibu and Romanós, at Pura Besakih

First things first. That means, we must go to the spiritual center of the Balinese people, the mother temple of Pura Besakih. Like Shinto, the native religion of Japan, and even remotely like the animism of the Native Americans, Balinese Hinduism is more than a personal religious faith. It is a bond between the people and the land, even between the individual and the people and the land. The whole island is full of spirits, like the eldila of Malacandra in C. S. Lewis’ novel Out of the Silent Planet. Rather than a demon-haunted universe, as is pictured by some faiths, for the Balinese, though there may be demons, there are also what we might call angels, ‘angels in the architecture’ as it were. And Bali is one of the best places on earth to see such angels. And if the invisible world isn’t made visible enough for you in the monuments at Besakih, then just to see the people of this island is enough, joyful yet solemn in their awe and veneration of the Most-High, manifested in their very surroundings.

Our journey to Pura Besakih started out in an ordinary way. Like any field trip, everyone wasn’t ready at the same time. Sitting together in the balé, Ibu and Yudhie and—over on the side, looking rather bored—our driver, waited for us to get all our gear together. Titi made sure we had plenty of snacks with us, as the drive there and back would be lengthy.

Bali's mountainous interior

Besakih is in the mountains, actually on the slopes of Mount Agung. On the way there we passed through villages where we sometimes stopped to buy additional refreshments at stalls like the one pictured. The interior of the island is all mountainous and lush with flowering plants and fruit trees. Coffee trees are also here in abundance. Not just Java, but Bali as well, are the coffee islands. And what coffee! I never tired of kopi manis, similar to Greek or Turkish coffee, but sweeter.

Just before we arrived at the pura, we stopped once more to buy some special oranges, and a few souvenirs, T-shirts and post cards. There are no fixed prices in Bali just as elsewhere in Yndonesia. You pay what you want to pay and if the seller accepts, it’s a deal. The haggling is always friendly, everyone satisfied.

When we arrived at the temple complex, our driver parked the car and waited for us until we returned. Balinese Hinduism shares sacred writings with India, and some customs, but in most other respects it seems to be an entirely original spirituality. Yes, cows are respected, their flesh never eaten, but you rarely meet with any except in the countryside, on farms.

The heroes and gods of the Hindu epics, the Mahabharata—my favorite—and the Ramayana, are venerated and depicted in Balinese fashion in statuary and paintings, but the temples do not seem to focus on these forms, but rather on more subtle representations of the Divine Nature. Except for their more elaborate shrines, this also reminded me of Shinto, a nearly imageless spirituality, where the immanence of God makes extensive iconography redundant.

The temples of Bali are not essentially buildings that you enter for worship, but rather elaborate gateways that you pass through in your ascent upwards. Here, the Most-High really is.

We were met almost immediately by peddlars and guides of all ages, from little girls who could not have been more than four or five years old but who spoke perfectly clear English (and other languages), having memorized the phrases they needed to sell their souvenirs. ‘Only ten thousand rupiah. Please, buy my postcards. Only ten thousand.’

That is just a few cents more than an American dollar, and there were six or eight color postcards in cellophane envelopes. If I’d known these babies would be selling them, I wouldn’t have paid twenty thousand for the same ones at our last road side stop! Actually, you wanted to buy something, just because these kids are so cute, but you only have so many hands and pockets to carry things in. Two items, though, were indispensable.

For us men, Yudhie and me, we were not dressed appropriately for entry into the pura. We had to rent sarongs to wear over our trousers. Because it was drizzly on and off, we also rented umbrellas to stay somewhat dry.

Then, a young man who would be our guide just showed up. It all happened rather gradually, but at a certain point I realized what was happening, and I knew that at the end he would be asking for some payment, but I didn’t mind. He was a handsome young Balinese, probably in his thirties, wearing traditional clothes. He told us that he comes to the pura one day a week to act as a guide to pilgrims and tourists. He took all the photos of us at Besakih, and I took those that just show the temples.

It was at Besakih that I finally learned the significance of what the immigration officer at the Jakarta airport said to me, ‘When you’re in Bali, tell them, my name is Nyoman.’ The similarity of this very common Balinese name to my English name, Norman, was the joke. Not only was the name of our guide, Nyoman, but also the name of the artist at the temple art gallery from whom I purchased a hand-drawn and colored miniature painting. But the joke was on the officer, because I’m not a ‘Nyoman’ but a ‘Wayan.’

It seems that ‘Nyoman’ is an ordinal name, indicating what position in the family you are among your siblings. Basically the Balinese only have four first names. The first child is Wayan or Putu, the second child is Made or Kadek, the third is Nyoman or Komang and the fourth is Ketut. The fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth will be another Wayan, Made, Nyoman, Ketut and Wayan again.

The temples of Pura Besakih from the heights

After learning this, I understood that Ibu is a fourth child in her family, or maybe an eighth, because her name is Ketoet (the old style spelling, but pronounced the same). If I had been born in Bali in my family, my name would have been Wayan or Putu, as I am a first-born. This system of naming kids by a pattern of ordinals also happens in other parts of Yndonesia. Yudhie’s friend Dwi, for example, is the second child, and ‘Dwi’ means ‘two.’ His older brother is ‘Eko’ which means ‘one.’ This happens even in families that are not native Indonesians. Dwi’s family is Chinese Indonesian, a very common nationality here.

Somehow, Ibu and Titi went off on their own. I think Ibu wanted to rest and then visit only the lower parts of the pura, while Yudhie and I followed Nyoman up the mountain, climbing stairway after stairway, passing through gate after gate, as he explained to us some of the significances of the temple. Nyoman was quite surprised that we were already familiar with much of what he had to tell us, so he began to dialog with us more personally, rather than give us the ‘standard’ tourist infopedia.

Pura Besakih shrouded in mist

When we finally reached the top level, we were invited to offer prayers to our God at the shrine, and receive the customary blessing of the priest. Nyoman knew that we are Orthodox Christians, but that didn’t seem to matter. God is God. We bowed and prayed toward the East, as is the custom of both the Balinese and the Orthodox. Then we offered incense and flowers that were blessed and handed to us by the priest. I also made a monetary offering into a slotted treasury.

The priest then gave us flowers to put behind our ears, blessed us with holy water—which we also drank, just as it is done in Orthodoxy—and offered us consecrated, uncooked rice in a shallow dish of water. We stuck a few grains of rice on our foreheads, which afterwards we removed and consumed. As we had never been to a Balinese temple before, Nyoman told us what to do.

The similarities, though subtle, to our Orthodox Christian faith, both in the ceremonies of piety and even in the structure of the pura, reminded me of what Ibu had been telling me. Balinese Hinduism, she says, is not the same as the Hinduism of India, because it is superimposed on an earlier tradition which stems from ancient Christianity, which she believes was brought to these islands even before the first waves of Hindu and Muslim traders and conquerors arrived. Her hope is that her people will come to recognize Jesus Christ as the One they call Sanghyang Widi Wasa, ‘All-in-One God,’ Acintya, ‘Unthinkable,’ and Tunggal, ‘Unity.’

As we descended the steps of the pura, we talked to Nyoman about personal matters, and I gave him some money for his help. We looked around for Ibu and Titi but didn’t see them. We had already given back our sarongs so we couldn’t go back into the temple to look for them, and we’d returned the umbrellas too—and it started to rain, and rain hard, so we hurried over to a balé to wait it out until Ibu and Titi showed up.

They did appear very shortly after, and at the same time the rain slowed to hardly a drizzle. There was Ibu happily and excitedly talking to our guide Nyoman. When she finished and returned to us, her eyes were gleaming. ‘Why, that young man Nyoman comes from the same people as I do!’ I don’t pretend to understand the Balinese kinship system, but however Nyoman was related to Ibu, it made her very happy. And it made us very happy too. It was a misty, moisty early afternoon when we visited Pura Besakih, and I can’t think of better weather to visit such a place.

My heart is stirred by a noble theme: I address my poem to the King; my tongue as ready as the pen of a busy scribe. Of all men You are the most handsome, Your lips are moist with grace, for God has blessed You forever (Psalm 45). Yes, the One we call the King is enthroned at Besakih as well, and there for His people, His lips are moist with grace. Today, through the veils of incense and flowers, in the days to come, they will see Him face to face.

Next… Passing by Ubud