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Galungan
The following day is quiet. Most stores stay closed as people go to visit friends and family. But the reprieve is short; soon each household will start preparing a new round of offerings for Kuningan. These gifts to the gods will take every possible form: fruits, clothe, flowers, woven palm-leaves, sculpted rice crackers, music, and dance; in essence, everything Bali has to offer.
Milestones
Balinese child-rearing practices stress the constant presence and affection of family and friends. Babies are held almost constantly, safe from both spiritual and physical danger. This protectiveness is especially important for very young infants, whose souls are not completely settled in their new forms and are therefore vulnerable to malevolent spirits. For the first few months of life the child is not allowed to touch the ground and receives few outside visitors. At twelve and forty-two days after birth, ceremonies are performed both to protect the child and to cleanse the mother, who is considered impure after giving birth. The most elaborate ceremony is held at three months, when the child officially joins his community.
When I arrived at the family compound, special precautions were still in place because of the infant's presence. I stopped to touch the kitchen pavilion, a brief gesture that insures the guest's spiritual cleanliness. The child was nowhere in sight, kept inside with his immediate family before his big debut. A group of priests soon arrived to prepare for the complex ceremony, which began with a procession around the family compound. The group stopped to sprinkle holy water, carefully purifying every corner of the home. Next the three-month old child was brought outside and formally introduced to his village community. His parents placed small gold rings around his ankles and wrists. Then in the safe embrace of his young cousin, the child touched the ground for the first time. A woven basket, traditionally used for keeping chickens, was briefly lowered over the pair and then lifted to symbolize the child's world becoming open and unbounded. On the ground beneath them was the image of a turtle, which in Balinese mythology carries the world on its back.
To give the baby boy a taste of what he has to look forward to, he was presented with offerings representing all the fruits of Balinese life. A coconut was cracked open so he could taste the sweet juice for the first time. An egg, a mangosteen, a roasted chicken, and various other foods were briefly touched to his lips.
The rain drizzled continuously and the baby cried, but the ceremony pressed on. The child and his entourage moved back and forth between the family temple and a small pavilion where a priest performed blessings. Most of the guests opted to keep dry and stay out of the way. Their presence was important, but the actual motions of the ritual were left to priests and immediate family.
While the baby's three-month ceremony involved a lot of waiting around on my part, my second ceremony of the week came as a surprise. My teacher, Subandi, woke me at 6 AM to go play music for a tooth-filing ceremony. The traditional accompaniment for this occasion is gender wayang music, an old and very technically challenging form of Balinese music performed by either two or four musicians. As a gender (pronounced 'gen-dayr' with a hard 'g') player, Subandi is expected to play for many ceremonies in the village. Normally he would do this with his father or another local musician, but recently he has been inviting me to come play as well. Here we are playing a short piece called "Krepetan," which literally means, "the sound of a crackling fire."
We played non-stop for the entire ceremony while a group of men took turns chanting and singing text from the Hindu epics. The desired effect of all this sound and activity is called ramai, which means busy and full. Nobody was listening all that carefully (which was a relief for me); we were there to create an appropriately ramai atmosphere for the pleasure of both humans and gods.
A village official was on hand to take care of the paper work. The woman left the compound in a small parade, now an adult in the eyes of her community. The procession was our cue to play fast and loud for a few minutes, then our part was done. I was left to sip my coffee in a stranger's home, while villagers toted off the instruments and life went back to normal.
The Singapore Run
Among Bali expats, the Singapore visa run is a rite of passage: everyone does it sooner or later. This week it was my turn.
Bali and Singapore are both small islands in the Malay Archipelago, which stretches from the tip of Malaysia to the top of Australia. Their ethnic and linguistic heritages are connected, but today they represent different worlds. Bali is an unindustrialized and culturally homogonous island, one among thousands in a sprawling nation. Singapore is a country about the size of New York City that is packed with glass high-rises, boutique outlets, and a cosmopolitan blend of Chinese, Indian, Malay, and European ancestries. Traveling between them brings out the contrast. I left a country where traffic is a chaotic free-for-all, all transactions are subject to negotiation, and bustling activity is a highly prized cultural aesthetic. I arrived in a place where order and obedience are ingrained at every level of society, a place where chewing gum has been outlawed to keep the subways clean. In Bali most traffic violations can be settled with a well-placed ten-dollar bill. In Singapore, simple transgressions like eating on the bus and biking on the sidewalk carry $500-$1000 fines.
There is of course a connection between the island's infamous strictness and its equally infamous wealth. Singapore's shrewd leadership decided from the beginning that to keep their tiny, resource-poor nation afloat, they would make it welcoming to foreign trade and investment. Today it is rated the world's easiest country for doing business: regulations are minimal, taxes are low, transportation is great, and of course the rule of law is absolute. But what does someone like me do in the world's most business friendly city? Most of Singapore's tourist attractions aren't exactly geared towards budget travelers. The city's latest development is a fully integrated urban resort, a play land of casinos and celebrity restaurants topped off with a park that spans three skyscrapers.
Luckily Singapore has more to offer than futuristic urban scenery and high-end outlets. Beyond the gleaming edifices to financial capitalism are a number of neighborhoods reflecting the city's diverse population. In Little India, celebrations were underway for a Tamil harvest festival. Cattle were decorated with bright colors and honored with offerings.
The best place to appreciate this cultural mélange is the city's food centers. The first few times I wandered into one of these sprawling dining areas, I walked around in circles just trying to take in my options. The offerings covered all of Southeast Asia as well as endless variations of Chinese and Indian cuisine. Soon I learned to just go for the first thing that looked intriguing or for whatever vendor had the longest line.
For me, the food centers capture what is fun and unique about Singapore. The scene is a blend of your typical food court in a western shopping mall and the kind of bustling open-air market you find elsewhere in Asia. The tables are clean and the prices are fixed, but rather than a series of fast food chains, you find tiny food stalls churning out super tasty food at bargain rates. I could picture these same vendors hawking their wares from a street cart or an improvised tin structure, but this being Singapore, they are organized into government-run food centers.
A model of Singapore at the city's Urban Redevelopment Authority
The image of Singapore as an obsessively organized and strictly managed country may be a little inflated, but things do tend to run pretty smoothly here. The city is like a massive conduit, with people, goods, and money constantly flowing in and out. Who knows how many travelers came and went, how many cargo ships unloaded, or how multi-million dollar financial transactions occurred during my three days in Singapore? I was just another element in flux, dropping off my passport on Monday, picking up my visa on Wednesday, and heading straight for the airport. I landed in Bali in the middle of the night and was surprised to realize that I was coming home. The experience of leaving and coming back solidified for me the fact that I live here. It didn't feel like arriving in a foreign land. I already had currency in my pocket and a visa in my passport. As soon as the plane landed I could switch on my Indonesian cell phone and call my friends who were waiting to take me home. I guess this is where I live.
March of the Barong
For an island people, the Balinese have relatively little connection with the ocean that surrounds them. Most people can't swim and are generally fearful of the water. Seafood is not a major part of the diet. In Balinese Hinduism, the island's towering volcanoes are a much more significant feature of the spiritual landscape. There are, however, a handful of religious occasions that bring people down to the water. One of the most dramatic is a cleansing ceremony that takes place every Sasih Kenam, which is the sixth month of the lunar calendar. For this occasion, each temple parades its Barong through the streets and down to the sea. This mythical beast is typically some combination of lion, bear, tiger, and boar, although there are many variations. The Barong often appears as a benevolent character in dance dramas and is believed to protect the village from malevolent forces.
At the village temple, we were joined by a small gamelan orchestra that served as a kind of marching band. Here is the music that accompanied our parade:
Like so much Balinese ceremonial music, the tune is simple and repetitive. You will never encounter this style of music outside of a ceremony in Bali; it wouldn't make any sense in a concert hall or on a world music compilation album. It isn't performed for tourists or taught in universities. This style of music exists solely for its ritual context. In this role, as part of a mile-long parade of banners, offerings, and mythical beasts, its effect is quite powerful. And before you think the music is a breeze to play, consider this: to make the ensemble portable the main melody is broken down so that each player contributes just one tone. Each man marches along with a single tuned going in his hand and must strike his note so that it connects with the others in a seamless melody. This is musical collectivism at the extreme.
New Years in Japan
It just wouldn't be right to pass an entire year without wearing a winter hat, so I flew up to Tokyo this holiday season for some cold weather and quality girlfriend time. My stay happened to coincide with Japan's biggest holiday: New Years. While people around the world took to the streets and had a raucous time, most Japanese gathered with their families to eat traditional foods and watch the very popular New Years TV special. The closest we got to any end-of-the-year revelry was at Tokyo's fish market, the worlds largest, where mobs of shoppers surged through narrow alleyways in search of candied chestnuts, pickled radishes, octopus legs, and the perfect slab of tuna. The market reaches its peak frenzy in the end of December before closing for the holidays. Fish egg sellers stood on crates calling out prices while eager buyers waved money in the air. One vendor selling sweet omelets, a New Years staple, had people waiting around the block, with flags marking the path of the line as it crossed busy intersections. After forcing our way through the crowds and waiting an hour to get sushi, we picked up some New Years treats of our own and made for the exit.
After living in Bali these past months, Japan had the appearance of a completely secular society. Tokyo's Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines seemed to exist primarily as tourist attractions. They were often crowded, but mostly with young people taking pictures. New Years presented a different scene. At midnight people all over Japan gathered at Buddhist temples to ring bells. We'd read that they are supposed to ring 108 times but there were clearly more than 108 people queued up at the local temple. Here is the pagoda where they rang in the New Year.
I returned home a couple days later with a slightly revised impression of Japanese culture and spiritual life. Tokyo may have all the trappings of an industrialized western city, and its people may come across as highly rational and non-religious, but it is still home to a strong and deeply foreign culture. The beliefs and practices of Japan's unique blend of Shinto and Buddhist tradition live on in their own curious way. For example, the lead researcher in my girlfriend's neuroscience lab, a professional scientist mind you, always submits her journal articles on auspicious days determined by an antique Japanese calendar system.
Bali is often touted as a land where traditional culture lives on undiminished by the flood of foreign influence. Here, religion remains a dominant force in everyday life, demanding a never-ending cycle of offerings and ceremonies. This 'Island of the Gods' is a truly remarkable place, but it is nice to see how another Asian island has continued its own traditions amidst such different economic and political circumstances. And there is no better time to see this than New Years in Japan.
Other highlights...
The anonymous lunch: at this Ramen spot you order on a machine, then mark your flavor preferences on a card, and finally receive your bowl of noodles through a curtain at a counter with wooden dividers between each patron.
The Japanese spa: here we are at a traditional hot-spring Inn, where scalding hot mineral-rich water is pumped into pools where you sit with a small towel on your head and take in the view of Fuji-san. Very decadent.
Music in the Air
Two Days in Tabanan
Balot's village happens to be near one of the most important (and photographed) temples in Bali. So after a quick sound-check we headed down to the coast to see Tanah Lot at sunset. The temple is perched on a rock outcropping in the sea that is accessible only at low tide. As I mentioned before, homes and other structures are oriented along a mountain-to-the-sea axis. Many major temples are therefore found high in Bali's volcanic peaks or along its rocky coast. Tanah Lot is one of the major seaside temples; it has island-wide significance rather than being associated exclusively with a single village. Because of its exotic setting and relative proximity to the resort areas of south Bali, Tanah Lot has become a major tourist destination. It is now surrounded by hawkers, shops, and a luxury hotel complete with a golf course. But the tourists are here for a reason: the place is beautiful.
That night we played for the pre-wedding reception. Because the ceremony itself takes an entire day, many couples here opt to have the party the night before to spread out the festivities. We had a long night of music ahead so Balot secured us a pitcher of arak, the traditional Balinese hard liquor. This clear drink is distilled from palm wine, and while not as strong as most western sprits, it definitely does the trick. When the Balinese drink everyone shares the same glass, so there's no sense nursing your cup of arak, it's down the hatch so the next guy can have his turn. We had the help of a friend who decided to be our 'manager' for the night, which really meant being our bartender and sometimes playing the shaker. Here he is serving up the next round.
The next morning I got up early to watch the men of the village prepare food for the wedding. When someone in the community gets married everybody helps out, so the men spent the day cooking while the women welcomed guests and served food. With their help Balot's family could host and feed over 400 people without hiring any outside help. Each guest brought gifts of sugar, coffee, rice and other goods. After the wedding these were distributed to the community members in way of thanks. The cooking took place across the street in the village banjar. When I arrived at 6am they had already slaughtered a pig and were busy butchering the meat for various dishes. Ground pork was mixed with coconut and spices, then grilled on skewers to make sate.
The food was mostly ready by 8am so we had pork and rice for breakfast. People here don't care if food is piping hot and fresh from the kitchen. They also have no problem letting it sit out all day; so we ate the same dishes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Women kept the serving dishes full at all times and a couple of Balot's uncles were always frying up more vegetables in the family kitchen. The reason they could feed so many people is that the guests didn't all come at once. All day a steady trickle of visitors arrived with baskets of goods on their heads.
The ceremony itself lasted the whole day, without any kind of decisive "I Do" moment. In the morning the wedding party traveled to the woman's family home, where village elders met to discuss and give their blessing to the new couple. Back in Balot's home there were a series of ceremonies in the family temple. I kept waiting for some excitement but it never came: no cheering, no big sloppy kiss, no tossing of rice and garters. Balot explained to me that the wedding is really not about the couple; it is about securing the approval of their gods, family, and village community.
During the afternoon ceremonies, Balot and some friends provided gamelan music. They played a rare and sacred form of music from east Bali called selunding. It is the only ensemble in Bali that has iron keys instead of bronze. The blackened metal and unfinished wooden casings give the instruments a more 'earthy' look than the glittering bronze ensembles. Some of the mallets are literally pieces of drift wood Balot found on the beach. The selunding's mellow sound and simple music match its look. The stripped down orchestration also makes it easy to see the basic layered structure present in all gamelan music. The selunding is played by just five people, without any of the flutes, gongs, drums, and other instruments that fill out larger ensembles. The five musicians can be divided into three layers. The man sitting front and center is playing the basic melody. The players on his left and right play interlocking parts that elaborate this melody. The back row provides the basic structure, usually playing just one note for every four notes of the melody. This design, sometimes called 'stratified polyphony' can be found in virtually all Balinese music, but it is especially transparent in the selunding.
Once I took out my recorder the musicians insisted on doing an interview. Apparently there is an Indonesian pop star whose name sounds a lot like mine, that is why they introduce themselves as 'Jan Casela.'
Bali Eats pt.2: A Feast
We started around 4pm by chopping vegetables for the various spice mixtures. The main condiment for Balinese food is an uncooked chili sauce called sambal. The basic ingredients are chili peppers, garlic, shallots, ginger, lime, and shrimp paste that has been grilled to a crumbly texture. These are all minced and mixed together with plenty of coconut oil and salt. All men in Bali seem to possess immaculate mincing technique. The first time I watched my friend Cadet prepare sambal, I was sure he would take off a finger. Here he is absent-mindedly dicing up chile peppers while carrying on a conversation.
One of the dishes for this feast was a kind of meatball soup called garang asam. This called for a separate spice blend that was less chili based and also included turmeric and peppercorns. The soup's main ingredient was unripe papaya, which when stewed reminded me of turnips. It is common here for 'young' fruits, as they call them, to be used as vegetables. While the papaya was softening in the broth, chicken was diced up and run through a food processor. The ground meat was then mixed by hand with fresh grated coconut and the spice blend. We rolled this mixture into small meatballs, which were added to the stew pot.
Despite the amount of time and number of ingredients that went into the garang asam, it was really only a side dish. The main course was grilled chicken, slathered with butter and burnt to a crisp on a charcoal grill. Their version of barbeque sauce is a sweet soy sauce with a strong molasses flavor. By sundown the last of the chicken came off the grill and all the food was laid out on a small pavilion.
Before we ate, small servings of rice and chicken were piled on banana leaves and placed around the compound as offerings. Then woven baskets were lined with banana leaves and piled with food. The children were served first. They crowded around their trays and ate quickly so they could get back to running around and banging on gamelan instruments. Once the kids finished, the adults put out a second round of food and had their own more leisurely meal. We sat around our communal plates until well after dark, or in my case, until I had to go to my next rehearsal...
I promise the next post won't (just) be about food.
Bali Eats Pt.1: Rice
Most family houses in Bali seem to have warm rice sitting in the rice maker at all times. Family members serve themselves whenever they like, typically eating in private. Ritual feasts are the opposite; rice is piled in communal baskets that people sit around and eat from with their hands. In both cases the rice is truly the centerpiece of the meal, with meat and vegetables adding a little extra flavor. Condiments are rare except a little chili sauce for extra spice. This has taken some getting used to; in my world, rice is not something you eat plain. It always has sauce heaped on top or fried goodies mixed in with it. Here people will happily eat a plate of plain rice like I would gnaw on a baguette.
I live in the main rice-growing region of Bali, where low-lying plains are watered year round by mountain streams. The course of this water is completely controlled by Balinese farmers so that it flows from one field to the next, all the way to the sea. Individual fields, called sawah, can be flooded or dried out using dams and channels. Every farmer participates in an irrigation cooperative that maintains these waterworks and organizes offerings for the rice goddess, Sri. This system, which exists completely outside other political and religious structures, has existed in Bali for at least 1000 years.
These seedlings are then transplanted by hand to the rest of the sawah. The shoots in this picture
The new plants grow very quickly. Here is the same field in October and then November
During this time they require little maintenance. Early on farmers will cultivate around the shoots with a hoe. Later they will patrol the fields with a flag scaring off birds. In three months the grains are ripe and ready to harvest. The sawah is dried out and the plants turn from rich green to golden yellow.
The stalks are cut and threshed by hand. While many modern agricultural practices are in use here, mechanization is virtually absent. It isn't economical given the surplus of cheap labor in Bali. A gas-powered tiller is the only machine you see in the rice fields. After being harvested, the separated grains are sifted and bagged to be sent to the mill. The leftover stalks are burned where they lay. The field will then either be fallow for a time, planted with a cash crop like soybeans, or flooded and tilled in preparation for a new rice crop.
In some of these pictures you can see motorbikes passing in the background. This field seems to be the last holdout on what is now a busy street, a reminder of how much this place has changed in a generation. I spoke with one elderly farmer who remembers when this whole area was just rice-fields. The pattern of development has been piecemeal and erratic, leaving single fields like this one entirely surrounded by roads and buildings.
Loss of farmland coupled with rising population has pressured Balinese farmers to raise their output through new means, such as chemical fertilizer and genetically modified seed. Using today's fast-growing hybrid varieties, each sawah can produce three crops in a year. Traditional Balinese rice grows slower and is only harvested twice a year. You can still buy the traditional varieties, which include red and black rice, but they cost almost twice as much as regular white rice.
Traditionally, Bali has never had trouble meeting its own rice needs. Highly developed growing techniques, combined with ideal levels of rainfall, and volcanically enriched soil make Bali's farmers some of the most productive in the world. This agricultural surplus helps to explain the richness of the arts and culture on this tiny island. Even the farmers practicing rice cultivation have leisure time for arts and crafts. Aside from planting and harvesting, farming here is not labor intensive. In the morning and evening I usually see a few workers out weeding and building up the terraces, but most days when I walk around my neighborhood the fields are deserted. I forget sometimes that these rows of green steps represent the basis of human life on this island. The elegant terraces just seem like part of the natural scenery, a beautiful and productive landscape sculpted by generations of Balinese rice farmers.
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