by John Coast
"Nothing, Tuan,” he replied. But his eyes were wary.
"He looks like a man who has not slept for a week."
"Perhaps that is it, Tuan. A little fever, maybe. That is probably it."
But when we arrived at the jeep, rude though direct questions are,
I asked Raka again what was the matter. His disquiet had infected me.
And these were the bad days. "What is it, Raka?"
"Nothing, Tuan. It is nothing."
"Are you sick? Have you not been sleeping?"
He gave a nervous laugh, saying almost under his breath, "It is not so easy to sleep in the sawahs."
“Sleep in the rice-fields? What do you mean?"
"Oh, I do not know. I dare not guess. It is better that I say nothing.
Certainly it must be a misunderstanding, and my brother Rai thinks he can settle the matter."
"If you tell me this much, I think I should know it all. Is there no way we can help?"
Then: "I have been sought,” he said, very simply.
Instinctively my voice went lower now.
"By whom?"
"I don't know. It was some nights ago. Some strange men came to the village from the west. A man gave the alarm on the kulkul drum. The village collected at the kulkul tower with sticks and knives, but the men had fled. We thought they were thieves, perhaps."
"And then?"
"Ah-h, that is the thing, Tuan John. The next night a band of men came from the direction of my rice-fields. We could see electric torches coming from afar, moving toward my puri. We all ran away, eastward, to the sea. Later some villagers saw the band going away. It is said they were all dressed in black, and they talked fiercely and several of them carried guns. For the last three nights my family have all slept in the rice-fields to hide. We take it in turn to watch. Where these men came from we dare not guess. But I have told the punggawa and the police. They promise to send a bicycle patrol here every night as soon as they can spare the men. But there are many such incidents these days. Since then we have not slept; we are afraid."
"But you are not rich, Raka, and Saba has no politics. I cannot believe that they are after you."
And I told him about the coming of the new Military Commander, our friend Islam Salim, to try to hearten him. But Raka's brother,
Gusti Rai, who was listening from a little distance now came up to us, spitting out a piece of grass he had been chewing.
"Tuan, we cannot afford to take stupid risks. This is a time of, well—this may be because Saba has always, for many, many years, been friendly to foreigners. Perhaps this has been misunderstood. Perhaps some people have even thought you were a Dutchman coming to see us. But in Blahbatuh the young nationalists are my friends. I have been to ask their help. It will be better soon. But first we must be patient; and for the moment we choose to sleep in the sawahs."
Slowly we turned the jeep around, and Raka made a gallant attempt to talk normally to us.
"Come and eat here next Friday. There is a small festival in the temple in the rice-fields to the west. I have asked the Ida Bagus from Blangsinga village to dance the Kebiar. Also, there may be some trances."
"Thank you, Raka. We'll try to come. But I think we'd better meet you at the temple and not bother you for a meal on such a day. Perhaps someone from your puri could guide us over the rice-fields. And now—we ask leave to go." "Peace on your going."
Feeling very sorry for Saba we headed the jeep next in the direction of Pliatan. We wondered what we could do to help our friend Raka. And since we had heard that President Sukarno was coming to Bali soon on one of his semi-annual visits, I thought it might be a good idea to try to persuade him to see the Saba Legong. If the President favoured the village Legong, automatically the position of Raka would be secure.
Arrived in Pliatan we drove straight to the fat headman's house, for I had decided by instinct and from what I had read in Colin McPhee's book that he was still my best hope. Entering his puri by the small side gate—for in Bali ceremonial gateways are for decoration, not for everyday use—we found our friend at home with a towel wrapped around his vast middle, a pair of spectacles on the tip of his nose, sitting at a table and laboriously copying out some document for a peasant who sat hopefully on the floor below him.
"Greetings, Anak Agung,” we called, for he was of high caste. "Greetings, Tuan John. Greetings, Nyonya.” He hurried to his feet, turning chairs on the porch in our direction, hastily pulling on a soiled shirt. "Where have you come from?"
"From Saba."
A cloud crossed the face of our headman.
"I was forgetting," he replied, somewhat over politely. "The Tuan is a great admirer of the Saba Legong."
"We both are. What do you think of it, Anak Agung?" "I have not seen it."
This time the coldness of his reply was unconcealed.
Wondering whether this was another old rivalry, I turned to other topics. We discussed the now imminent rains and the excellence of Rantun's cooking. We walked around his compound, which consisted of eight separate houses, some new, some dilapidated, a kitchen, a wash house, a large bate where women were pounding rice by hand with long bamboo pestles heavily weighted at the ends, and a walled off house temple. There were many children, two rows of fighting cocks in their cages, several girls sitting down weaving at hand looms, and two great trees of pomelos, known as Bali limes, which are like sweet and pink-fleshed grapefruit.
At last we were seated again, drinking coffee, and I dared continue.
"What about the future of your Djanger, Anak Agung?"
"Adoh!" A large sigh. "What can I say? The girl who was kidnapped was my elder brother's child. If we cannot protect our own family, the village certainly will not permit their daughters to join the Djanger club. When the present girls are married in their turn, no fresh ones will come forward to take their places. So, the Djanger is finished."
At which he smiled cheerfully, which is the polite way to hide sorrow or regret, since it is considered childish and stupid to be miserable over something that you can do little or nothing to change.
There was another pause. Luce admired some fine orange-coloured hibiscus outside the house temple gateway.
"If you like that hibiscus, Nyonya, I would be glad to give you a cutting. But you must take it on a Thursday. Thursday is the auspicious day of the week for taking cuttings."
"You are very kind, Anak Agung,” said Luce. "Another time I may remind you of it."
Then, hoping that I was not moving too rudely, I made an attempt to come to the point.
"Excuse my ignorance, Anak Agung, but I keep thinking of what I have read about Pliatan's famous gamelan in the years before the war. Although you do not need it for the Djanger—and we must say frankly that we do not think the Djanger a real dance—would it not be possible to start rehearsing your gamelan again?"
The Anak Agung rested his hands on his paunch, thinking; then answered, "I would have to persuade the club. But for what reason should I press them to begin rehearsing again? It is known that Pliatan only has a Djanger now."
"Couldn't you train some other dancers, as well? Has Pliatan only talent for a Djanger? And what has happened to Sampih—whom Colin McPhee entered as a member of your club? We heard he was a wonderful Baris, and still we haven't seen a Kebiar worth anything at all."
The Anak Agung became animated.
"Does the Tuan know my friend Tuan Colin McPhee?"
"Alas, no, Anak Agung. But thanks to him I know you and Sampih and others by name."
He smiled at me, very charmingly, with a most subtle expression on his round face. "think the Tuan has much to say to me. What is the Tuan planning—why am I being asked all these questions?,
"It is quite simple," I said carefully. "I want you to rehearse your famous gamelan, trai
n new dancers and work together with me. As you progress, we will look for tourists to bring up to watch the club at work, and you will fix a fee for them to pay. Then the club will gain heart from receiving extra money, other than from the Djanger's performances. And if we get on happily with one another and are satisfied with our work—well, my great ambition is to take a really first-class group of dancers abroad.,
Anxiously I watched the Anak Agung's reaction to this proposal, for on this could hinge everything. But he beamed, wagged his head several times without saying anything, flavouring the idea, and then he said, "Beh! I would like to go abroad again. The Tuan knows that in the Dutch time we were taken by Tjokorda Sukawati to the Paris Exposition with the orchestra you are talking about? But we were hidden away, we Balinese, like serfs, and we saw little of Paris or foreigners. But today, Indonesia is a free country and it would be all quite different." He chuckled. "It is a fine idea. I think I can persuade the club to such a scheme.,
"Wonderful. You call the club together and let me know their opinion. Then we'll try working together for a month to see how we tjotjok-fit together.,"
Tjotjok! That is certain! I will call the club tonight. And tomorrow I will come by the morning bus to Denpasar and tell you what is decided.,
We got up to leave, the Anak Agung accompanying us to the jeep, sighing to himself, recalling already, perhaps, his few glimpses of Paris in 1931.
“Till tomorrow, then. We beg leave to go.,
“Peace on your going.,
In the jeep I said to Luce, "Now we have Saba and Pliatan—two irons in the fire. But I like this old headman. I think we're all going to tjotjok like anything.,
Soon after breakfast the next morning the Anak Agung arrived, stepping with a puzzled air over our stepping-stones in the still dry compound. In the old Balinese manner he carried one end of his long kain in his hand as he walked. Behind him there came a tall, dour-faced man. We called for cups of coffee and sat down to satisfy Eastern etiquette by talking for a while of nothing that was related to our purpose.
"Beh!" said the Anak Agung. "The Tuan has some noble moon orchids."
His eyes flew around the house, looked pityingly at my thatch, taking in every detail. After a few minutes Rantun entered with the coffee and at once our guests came to life.
"Beh! Young sister Rantun!" they both exclaimed.
Rantun smiled and nodded and addressed the Anak Agung so enthusiastically that the coffee was almost lost, and the tall, hitherto solemn-faced individual who had come with the Anak Agung now became animated too, slapping his knee, asking questions like a machine gun of Made Rantun. Finally, shaking his head, the Anuk Agung said, "Now only Sampih is lacking. Then Tuan Colin's family would be complete. I was his friend; Rantun was his cook; and Made Lebah, here," he indicated the tall man, "was his chief instructor of Balinese music and his chauffeur."
I could be patient no longer—for what could be a better omen than this?
"But, Anak Agung," I asked rapidly, "did the club meet and did you decide anything last night?"
I could almost feel the disappointed surprise of the Anak Agung.
Could not this young foreigner restrain his impatience for half an hour? Why should we rob ourselves of the pleasant anticipation of the news soon enough to be imparted? Oh, well. These white men were all the same. He sighed, put on his most imposing manner, and said, "The club decided to start rehearsing again. Lebah here is my right hand man in the club. But first we must wait for an auspicious day the omens need not be perfect, but good—so I hope we shall begin within two weeks."
The Anuk Agung here was referring to the need of consulting an astrologer, who would advise the club when would be a lucky day to start work. In Bali, as in much of Asia, astrology plays a big role in both personal and national decisions.
"But, Tuan, the club makes one request. That you and the Nyonya don't come up until several days after we've started. The club would be ashamed."
"Easily agreed!” And then: "What will you choose first for a new dance, Anak Agung?"
"We thought we would make a Legong. A real classical Legong. Then you can have pleasure making comparisons."
This was to pull our Saba-prejudiced legs.
"And for the guru—who will you ask to come? The little girls, too, have they been found yet?"
"Slowly, slowly, Tuan. Little girls are not hard to find in our village. As for the teacher, perhaps the Tuan knows of Lotring? Long ago he and his wife made a Legong in Pliatan."
"Yes—we met Lotring when we lived at Kuta. We know his house.
He won't be there, but we'll drive you down now, if you like, to look for him."
"That would be good."
So we climbed into the jeep, and when we had arrived in Kuta and walked down the hot sandy path between grey-white walls of coral to Lotring's compound, the teacher was not at home. Four delicate metallophones for the Shadow Play music lay dismantled on the floor of his house, awaiting tuning. The children told us he had gone back to Sempidi, where a new dance he was making was nearly ready.
"If we take the sea road through the rice-fields it's only fourteen kilometres to Sempidi. Let's go now, Anak Agung. Lotring never can be found at home."
So we bumped along through miles of flat, water-filled sawahs beneath a hot blue sky, at last emerging on the main road to Tabanan, turned right to Sempidi, and very soon found Lotring seated before a coffee stall. He was so astonished to see the four of us together that he forgot all manners. "Beh! Greetings, greetings! What brought you all here today? Heh! Elder sisterth-"is to the woman at the warong, “four more glasses of tuak for my friends."
We sat down on the bench running in front of the stall and slowly the Anak Agung began to explain.. that the gamelan club wanted to train new dancers... that the English Tuan wanted to try to help... so we were wondering whether perhaps Elder Brother Lotring would honour the club by coming to teach again in Pliatan....
"Hah! So that's it. When?"
"The gamelan will be rehearsing soon; and we have three little girls in mind whom we think suitable. But you must see them first, of course."
"I could not begin soon.” Automatically Lotring's hand strayed to his sireh pouch. "For weeks I have delayed going to Bangli. I have been called by the Lord Raja. I must see what it is that he desires. Perhaps he wants a Baris dance-perhaps a little music. But I must expect to be gone a month."
His sireh now ready he slipped it into his mouth, watching the Anak Agung out of the comer of his eye. I had the impression that this was all a game—that Lotring had no intention of going to Pliatan. "Arroh! that is ill news," answered our headman. Yet I could hear no surprise and fancied that I could almost detect a note of relief in his voice. "I will tell the club tonight. Then perhaps I must come to seek you again."
"It is indeed a shame,” said old Lotring; and yet I could have sworn his eye was merry. Effusively we took leave of one another, Lotring joking to the last, asking us, "And my teeth? Perhaps the Tuan found some growing in Denpasar?"
At first there was a silence in the jeep. Then the two Balinese started talking rapidly together, laughing and quite unperturbed, it seemed. But perhaps this was their way of telling me that it was not possible to make a Legong.
"So what now? No teacher, no Legong?"
"Who said so, Tuan? The best Legong teacher perhaps in all Bali lives in Pliatan itself. Her name is Gusti Made Sengok and she will teach our Legong."
"I am stupid, then. I do not understand. Why did we come all this way to look for Lotring?"
It was a very Balinese reply. Oh, it was good manners... Lotring had taught them long ago, before modernizing himself and when he still listened to his wife's advice... they had known that Lotring was very busy and had gambled on his not being able to come... so now everybody was happy... respect had been shown to Lotring,
the Pliatan teacher would be used...
We dropped our cheerful friends in the Denpasar market place, for they had shopping to do before the bus left at one o'clock, departing packed to the roof with its passengers, and on its roof baskets of fruit and fish and pottery and even bicycles.
"Just let us know when we may come and hear your music, Anak Agung."
"Certainly; it will be soon. We go now."
On the day of the Saba Temple Festival a puncture delayed us and it was eleven o'clock before we arrived. However, the moon was just coming up and we feared no incidents of violence during a festival, because no nationalistic youth, however disposed to violence, would dare risk the wrath of the gods by desecrating their celebrations.
The puri was deserted, but in the water garden we found Raka's servant asleep on a bench and guessed that he had been left there to guide us. I woke him.
"Adoh! But you are late, Tuan. The Legong is over. I heard the music just now. But if we hurry perhaps you will see the Ida Bagus dance his Kebiar."
So saying he led us, barefoot, through rice-fields. With my torch I picked out a path about ten inches wide which lay along the top of the earth banks between the fields; it was sometimes slippery with mud, sometimes prickly with coarse grasses.
Some of the rice had just been planted and was barely discernible by night against the shimmering water, but when we passed the tall, ripe padi we could see that whole fields were alive with fireflies, mysteriously and silently flying through the rice stalks, making patterns of great intricacy with their glowing taillights as they heard us coming. We walked in single file and the hum of the great crowd in the temple came loudly to our ears.
This temple lay on a grass oasis in the middle of the sea of rice-fields. Thousands of gaily dressed people, with sweet-smelling flowers in their hair, made walking almost impossible. On all sides the warong women were selling drink and food, while men and boys played games with cards and counters in numberless temporary shacks. The air was filled with smoke, the scent of flowers and coconut oil. Our guide pushed and dragged us through the good-humoured mass, sometimes shouting back at us, "Can you not hear, Tuan? That is the Kebiar music that has started. We will miss everything. Adoh! this crowd..."