Passing by Ubud

After experiencing the ancient beauty of Pura Besakih, we climbed back into the car just as the rain began to pour in earnest. Everyone but our driver was slightly wet to almost drenched—Yudhie and me after we gave up our umbrellas—and a little bit tired as well. We paused for a moment to have some snacks, and then weighing the possibilities against the weather and the time before nightfall, Ibu asked us if we would like to stop in Ubud before we turned the car around and headed home to Singaraja. It would take us yet further from home, but there was time, and we could at least see a little of the famous monkey forest, and also shop for some souvenirs at the pasar near one of the entrances.

The interior of Bali is a mountainous paradise, just as the guide books tell. We were only here for two days, nothing like long enough to make even a decent beginning of seeing the island. Though we flew in on the 27th and were leaving on the 31st, we still had to make a trip from Bali back to the island of Java sometime between those two dates. Today was day one, and so our itinerary would be Besakih and Ubud, but not spending too long at either. My New Year’s resolution? To return to Yndonesia, and Bali, in the coming year, and to stay longer. The enchantment of this place seems to stem from the fact that in spite of modern intrusions, the people here still live in the High Middle Ages. For me, that’s home.

It was still raining mildly when our driver found a place to park near one of the entrances to the Monkey Forest in Ubud. Ibu and Titi wanted to remain in the car, but encouraged Yudhie and I to go out and look around, perhaps buy some things we wanted at the pasar. The word pasar is the same as the English word ‘bazaar’ just pronounced and spelled differently. Every street, actually, anywhere you go in Bali, and even in Yndonesia, seemed to be a bazaar to me. People are selling everything everywhere, from small shops, to stalls, to baskets carried on their heads or backs. The whole country is an example of ‘free enterprise’ gone wild. I really liked it, though. It seems the most natural way to live, totally free.

Before Yudhie and I visited the bazaar, I went scouting around to see what was there, and also photographed some of the monuments and carvings right near where we were parked. The entrance was flanked by two Chinese ancients who seemed to be either guarding the sanctuary or welcoming you to it. There were a lot of stone monkeys carved on various walls and gateposts. I’d heard the phrase ‘stone monkey’ used to name a musical group in the late 1960’s, and when I saw the real thing, I remembered them and wondered if they took the name after visiting here. Of course, there’s also the story of Sun Wukong, a character in the Chinese novel Journey to the West, who was a stone monkey.

Since arriving in Yndonesia, I’d been looking for an opportunity to buy a sarong or two for myself. That is the piece of fabric that is traditionally worn by men and women. It is wrapped around your bottom half and after folding it back and forth a few times in front, it is tucked into the waist, or knotted, to keep it from falling off. It allows for a lot of freedom of movement, and in a hot climate feels less ‘crowded’ than wearing trousers. Except in businesses that are organized ‘Western style’ even the men will wear sarongs to work, with a standard top, a T-shirt, a regular shirt, and a jacket. They’re usually patterned, mostly by a process known as batik. I should’ve bought the blue and white one too, but I didn’t.

Instead, I bought a very colorful and complex patterned one, I suppose you could call it a ‘formal sarong’ whereas another one I saw was made of coarser material and was simply floral in white and shades of blue. I could’ve bought them both, but I didn’t. Yudhie bought a similar one but of more subtle design. I actually liked his better than mine, and as you can see, he’s a natural at wearing one, whereas on me, it looks ridiculous, just another bulé trying to ‘go native’… Well, actually I am going native, I’m just not quite comfortable with the way I look. You know, too tall, too white, too self-conscious. But I’ll get over it. We spent the evening visiting with Ibu, wearing our new sarongs. She was quite pleased that we did.

Here we are, dressed for the evening visit…

Next… Changes, changes

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

First light in Bali

We passed our first night pleasantly. The morning came early here in Bali as well. The unofficial national bird of Yndonesia woke me up promptly at four in the morning, but there was no call of the mu’ezzin in the pre-dawn darkness. Bali is a land of the gods, a Hindu land, but even here the One God is acknowledged, the lesser gods being His manifestations. I lay there quietly listening to the cock in Ibu’s courtyard enjoying himself. Yudhie slept through it all, no doubt having gotten used to it in childhood, but also, because he is a deep sleeper. As soon as it was light, I got up, bathed, and had a first look around the compound. I don’t know what else to call it. Several houses with many small attachments all connected around two courtyards and ringed by paved walks flanked by rambutan and mango trees, fragrant campaka and other flowering plants unknown to me, and everything within enclosing walls.

It probably wasn’t on this first look, but maybe the next morning as I was taking the same walk, I passed the house directly next to ours, which is the first Orthodox church in Bali. Inside through the open doors and unshuttered windows I could just barely see the top of Ibu’s veiled head as she stood in prayer before the Holy Place. I think her daughter Titi, and maybe her granddaughter, were there as well. I did not join them, but instead I went over to the traditional Balinese family shrine in the corner of the compound, with its wrought iron gates and vertical altars decked with holy fabrics and offerings, entered, venerated the ikons, and prayed my morning prayers. I had learned, during my walk with Ibu my first morning in Bali what these shrines were, what they represented, for her people. I now understood why the shrines were essential, whether for Hindus or for Orthodox Christians.

That first morning, Ibu caught me looking around before Yudhie had emerged from our house, and she and I went for a short walk down Gang Satu, the lane off Jalan Kresna, the street where we live. It is a quiet neighborhood. A few children were already up and about. Little dogs played here and there. An occasional motorcycle drove by. Ibu showed me the trees and taught me what each one was. We encountered her neighbor standing in the gateway to his home, and he invited us in. He wanted to present me to his family shrine, and explain to me the meaning of each part of it. He is a Balinese Hindu, and so I learned the traditions of that faith with regard to each part of the shrine. The altar with the grey and white checkerboard fabric is always to the family guardian spirit, their naga, or dragon. Another altar was to their ancestors, and others were to gods specially venerated in that family.

The highest and most magnificent altar, fashioned as a very elaborate throne with its back facing exactly East, was to God Most-High. The neighbor didn’t speak English, but Ibu translated his Balinese. All family shrines in Bali have this throne, always facing in the same direction. It is the padmasana, and Sanghyang Widi Wasa, God Most-High, sits there ikonically. Speaking Balinese, I could still recognize him say the name Jesus as he told us, ‘that is where the Lord Jesus sits.’ He knew that Ibu his near neighbor is a Balinese Orthodox Christian and probably assumed I was too. Like all the people we met in Bali, and most that we met in our travels on the other islands, this neighbor tried his best to welcome us and treat us with respect, including acknowledging our religious faith. Yndonesia is a religious land, a land of the gods under God Most-High. You can’t escape Him by going there. The people won’t let you.

Ibu and I continued our walk and our conversation. A passing motorcyclist stopped in front of us suddenly, and a man in his early forties dismounted and greeted Ibu. He was her student when she was a teacher! That’s how connected people are here. Ibu is eighty-two years old! and still a man remembers her, though she lives in America ten months out of the year, and for the past twenty-five years. The government awarded her the property she and her family now occupy because of her contribution to the advancement of the country. Not only does the compound where we lived belong to her, but also the greenway between Gang Satu and (I think) Gang Dua, as well as at least one house on Gang Dua. That house is occupied by her son Moda and his wife and children. We stopped by their house on our morning walk, and I met the family, but Moda was still sleeping in, so he’s not in the picture.

When we returned from our walk, Yudhie was up and was about to take his bath. Ibu brought me into the dining area of the kitchen and we had breakfast, she and I, until Yudhie joined us. Such variety of food, always cooked, always starting with rice, even in the morning! Kopi manis was brought me that morning and every morning, sweet, very sweet Balinese coffee. Later, while we waited for everyone to get ready for our first day trip—to the mother temple of all Bali, Besakih—Yudhie and I sat together out in the balé, a kind of covered patio with a raised floor, and continued having teh manis, sweet tea (for Yudhie) and kopi manis (for me), along with some sweets. Members of the household who were leaving for work—Titi’s husband—or for school—her daughter—came over to say good morning and see you later, and then got on their motorcycles and drove off. Even in Bali, motorcycles rule.

Next… Face to face