Dancing Out of Bali

by John Coast

  "Ye gods, what a complicated affair! But that does sound a bit more practical."

  "Oh, comparatively speaking it would be easy. We'd have to be prepared only to cover our expenses, of course, but we'd get experience and lots of publicity, with photographs that we could use for impressing managers in the western world."

  "Is there anything I can possibly do to help?"

  "Yes, Jim. Just pat me on the shoulder occasionally when you see my eye looking wild and tell me I'm sane. Sometimes I can see nothing but troubles ahead. I need a little encouragement."

  The Yankee crew travelled all over Bali, spending a day or two with Theo Meier at Iseh and seeing festivals and music all over the island, but it was the Temple Festival in Pliatan and the Barong Play at Intaran, near Sanur, that most pleased Jim. One of his friends, on the other hand, was most delighted with a mask that he bought in Mas from Ida Bagus Ketut, and which he wore all the way down to Denpasar, sitting in the front of the jeep with me, leering out at the villagers we passed. This mask was of a hirsute, protruding-lipped being, clearly but recently emerged from the jungle and very hideous. Though children were quick to recognize that this was a foreigner playing with a mask, and jeered and shouted with raised arms as we went by, and though sometimes a villager whom we passed too closely might jump into the ditch in astonishment, there was a large percentage of Balinese who looked straight at the mask and remarked it with perfect indifference, doubtless thinking to themselves that this was just another of those hideous Europeans to whom they still could not get really accustomed. It was the least flattering reaction to the white people that I ever witnessed.

  The Temple Festival in Pliatan we first watched sitting on the grassy bank of the gorge above Tjampuang, near Ubud, together with the former doctor of the Yankee, Ted Lucas, for the whole procession would come to this place where the two rivers met, and here the Gods would be given their ceremonial bathing. The rock-bedded river streamed but a hundred feet below us, and immediately opposite was the fragile, swinging bridge of bamboo which joined the path and road to Tjampuang Temple on the gorge's farther cliff.

  At last we could hear the sound of music from afar, and very soon we saw the head of the mile-long procession appearing round the bend of the road. First came four men carrying great ceremonial spears with splendid red tassels, and immediately behind them in single file a long line of the prettiest young girls, all dressed in yellow-and-green cloth of gold, their faces painted white and their heads garlanded with sweet smelling flowers, white, golden-yellow and scarlet. The first child was perhaps five years old, and the tallest were the most beautiful virgins of the village. Somewhere about the middle of the line were our three Legongs, who looked like emeralds thrown on to a sleeve of warm brown velvet. Then came a company of young men, also dressed in brilliant colours, and behind them the Pliatan gamelan, banging away with all their might to give the greatest happiness to their temple's Gods. The metallophones were slung on bamboo poles, carried by other men, but all the heavier instruments had been left at home. The players strolled behind their bearers, playing with as great ease and verve as if they'd been seated on the verandah floor. Lebah and Kompiang had their drums slung round their waists, but the Anak Agung, in a gorgeous new kain woven by his sister, padded along barefoot, not feeling it necessary for himself to play in this greatly lightened and simplified version of the orchestra.

  Next to the gamelan, borne shoulder high, came the first shrine, shaped like a throne but in miniature, and here the deity sat invisible, enjoying with his people the festivities given that day in his honour. Glittering gold and white umbrellas on long poles shaded the various shrines and the Gods enthroned upon them, and men ran beside them with streaming white banners and more red and gilt spears as a guard of honour. And behind them came, spread out for almost a mile, a phalanx of villagers, cheerfully dressed, flowers in their hair, small children marching along with their mothers, the whole community joining together to give pleasure to their Gods. Almost at the back of the procession came the angklung orchestra from the bandjar, or village district, of Made Lebah, and this four-toned gamelan had a higher pitched, singing quality, and its weary bearers wiped themselves constantly with their towels, for they were horribly hot.

  And after we had seen the procession break off and descend to the holy place at the rivers' junction, we drove back into Pliatan to observe in the flower- and matting-strewn courtyard of the temple itself the immense variety of the offerings that had been placed there on bamboo altars early that same morning. Everywhere there hung in the atmosphere the perfume of the acrid-sweet tjampak, mixed with the heavy sweetness of the frangipani and sundat flowers. Coconut oil was wafted to us from all sides—from the hair of the people, from the cooking in the warongs. From the altars and offerings arose the musky smell of burning incense, the reek of pork fat and fried chicken; and a tinge of sour sweat and clove-tinted cigarettes still hung in the humid air. As for the offerings, these varied from humble wooden platters on which were placed cones of glutinous rice, some crisp rice cakes, a splash of fruits and a lacy pattern cut from young palm leaf for pure decoration; up to tall, elegant bowls with long stems, painted yellow and red, on top of which were piled in absolute symmetry pyramids of fruits and meats and flowers and cakes, up to five or six feet high, each gaily coloured cake facing outward, like pink, white, red and saffron wheels of sugar, and between each of which, on a wooden splinter, there was mounted a single blossom; and these cakes, being light, were piled on top of layers of purple mangosteens and hairy, red rambutan fruits, on thorny, stinking durians, on limes, mountain oranges, yams, on the brown, lizard-skinned salaks, all balanced on a base made from six bunches of bananas and two great jackfruit. At the very tip of the pyramid were whole clusters of pink and white frangipani blossoms and deep orange heads of marigolds threaded on to a delicate bamboo frame shaped like a fan, and round the lowest layer of bananas were squeezed in bunches of pork sate, with joints of fried duck and chicken.

  "If only I could paint," said Jim. "Truly, Tahiti has never had such colours as these. I simply can't believe what I'm seeing."

  The Festival at Intaran, however, we visited only at night. Sampih had heard the news that there was to be a Sanghyang, or trance dance of small girls; an unknown dance called Baris China, and on the second afternoon there was to be a Barong Play with kris dancers.

  These festivities took place before the village temple, on an open piece of grey and dusty ground, where the usual coconut frond awning had been erected, and round which there were more warongs than usual because Intaran was only seven kilometres from Denpasar, and many visitors on bicycle and by horse cart were expected. The temple in the background, the great banyan tree and the solid throng of villagers, made a superb stage setting.

  On the first night, then we watched the Sanghyang. But although the choruses of men and women sat apart on the ground, chanting in turn, and showed us how clearly the Monkey Dance had borrowed its music from this source, the two young dancers dressed in white Legong-style costumes performed quite prettily but did not even pretend to go into trance. As for the Baris China, whose name had intrigued us, it was a dull strutting up and down of a dozen youths behind a leader, all of them wearing soft black hats pulled down over their eyes, black cotton coats and trousers, with long and straggling false moustaches, while the leader himself wore also an enormous bushy beard. Altogether, they looked like caricature bandits.

  So energetically curious were the crowd that we all of us gravitated towards a warong, having first looked around to see which warong had the prettiest owner. There we had a pleasant hour or so of drinking, while the girl, a certain Nyoman, smiled invitingly at us and forced on us her cakes and Zawar as well as arak and brum. And as anybody who has been to Bali understands, it is conversations such as these at a warong, with much laughter and innuendo, where Balinese keep drinking and eating alongside you, joining in the talk with absolute unsel
f-consciousness, which constitutes so large a part of the charm of living in the place.

  "That was one hell of an attractive girl,” Jim kept saying hopefully in the jeep as we drove slowly home so as not to spray dust over the gaily dressed crowds.

  "She was decidedly provocative, Jim. But one of the men at the warong mentioned that her husband is in jail at the moment for being concerned in a gang murder."

  "I don't believe it He" turned to Sampih. "Well, young brother Sampih, what about fixing me up with a date tonight?"

  "Jim wants you to help him replace those shadowy and luscious figures that we sometimes see flitting in and out of the back gate of our compound after dark—the ones that seem always to be moving in the direction of the guest house, Pih."

  "Hell!" said Jim. "Let's talk about something else. But anyhow, you're bringing us down again tomorrow afternoon to this village to see the Barong Play, aren't you?"

  At four o'clock the following afternoon we drove down again, but the warongs and their women had not yet been set up. Seated in the dust of a broad village lane was a Semar Pegulingan, an Orchestra of the God of Love, the more minor-keyed gamelan which should correctly accompany both Barong and Legong, but which is too gentle and ethereal to play music for the Kebiar or warlike Baris. It was an ancient orchestra, out of tune and ill-balanced, but it played with a flowing rhythm and the tunes of the Barong Play are among the most simple and beautiful that there are.

  For more than an hour the music played intermittently, and the sun began to go down so that I feared there would be no Kris dance in the dusk. But at last four figures appeared, the Sandaran, strange in their bell-like headdresses and white masks with enigmatically smiling lips, and swaying and cautious they advanced to the music, soon to be followed by four Djauk dancers, with masks that were red and wrathful and bulging eyed, and together these two oddly assorted quartets danced their prelude, vanishing as inexplicably as they had come.

  Then the music for the entry of the Barong started, repetitive, insistent, throbbing, and at the far end of the spear-flanked lane, where two boys stood supporting the traditional gilt umbrellas, we saw the two Barong dancers climbing inside the bamboo-framed monster, whose coat was of long and shaggy duk, that hairy fibre which grows at the base of the sugar-palm's fronds.

  The dancers twitched the monster's frame comfortably on to their shoulders, and advanced toward the umbrellas. The Barong's mask was of scarlet and had a long black beard of human hair, in which had been threaded white frangipani blossoms; his eyes were round and staring, his teeth were dazzling white. Above the mask was a great shoulder piece of gilded buffalo leather, surmounted by two long-stemmed golden flowers, all of which topped the mobile head and bristly black ears. The body was more than a fathom in length, ending in a great arched tail of painted hide, from which there hung a small and sparkling mirror; indeed, the whole Barong was as if armoured with gold-painted leatherwork studded and flashing with encrusted glass. The men inside wore brightly striped cotton trousers, of red, white and black, which gave to the body a bizarre four legs.

  Now, as the brute stood between his umbrellas, he tentatively lifted his forefeet, while his jaws chattered and his teeth snicked at possible enemies, for the front dancer within held two wooden handles which governed the motions of the puppet head and controlled the gnashing or humorous jaws.

  Around the ring of spectators advanced the Barong. Hesitating, its forefeet pawed and stamped uncertainly, then the great animal tripped and scampered in with surprising lightness and speed, while the whole body seemed to come to life. First its head reared up on high, tilted questioningly to one side, next it crouched down, alert, jaws clacking and savagely defensive. Sometimes, as it capered around in a most undignified gait, the body would be stretched out to its full length, looking huge, but a moment later the men inside it would concertina up, the man in the tail squatting sideways on the ground so that the Barong looked like a dragon reluctant to move, its vast rump hugging the floor, its scarlet-masked head peering round and looking down suspiciously. In happier moods the whole of its hind quarters shimmied and shivered in an ecstasy of anticipation.

  When it was almost dark, and when the atmosphere was thick with the dust stirred up by the cavorting, skittish Barong, a throaty, ghastly, choking voice was heard, followed by a torrent of the high, neighing laughter of an idiot. Rangda was coming! Out on to the floor she presently stamped, strutting and shaking, one hand on hip, one hand waving her death-dealing weapon, a piece of white cloth, which alternatively could make her invisible. Her fierce, tusked mask with its great mop of bristling white hair and rolling red and flame-flecked tongue, was affixed to a body equally awe-inspiring, and the small children shrank, laughing nervously, from her path. Pendulous black and white striped breasts hung down in front of her body, which was entirely covered in coarse, long hair, and her hands ended in jagged claws six inches long.

  Round and round each other in the gloom the two monsters circled, the good Barong's jaws chattering with rage like castanets, the evil Rangda challenging him, shrieking out her maniac laughter, leaning over backwards with hands outstretched, leaning over forward again, hands on her knees, shaking with her terrifying mirth. And as we watched, all at once Rangda's body seemed to stiffen, and she fell to the ground in a dead trance.

  Murmuring voices arose on all sides of us, and a pemangku priest strode forward, white-robed, for this, though not so rare an occurrence, nevertheless meant that the play could not go on to its normal finish. Suddenly a ring of near-naked men ran up, crazed brown creatures flourishing their bright krises, furious and screaming, surrounding the prostrate Rangda, shouting at the priest, threatening the close-packed spectators: for they were the Kris dancers and they had been baulked of their prey. They had been on the verge of going into trance themselves, after which they would have flown to the aid of the Barong and hurled themselves against the Rangda, whose magic power would have turned their krises against their own bodies.

  And urged on to hysteria by the argument and noise and confusion and darkness, some of the more eager kris dancers, although Rangda their enemy lay flat at their feet, started jumping up and down, plunging their krises into their chests, groaning and shrieking as they repeatedly, viciously, tried to stab themselves. Their eyes were mad and tortured and the crowd broke away, for this was not a usual thing, and therefore unpredictable.

  Then the pemangku and his followers seized the men who had thus vainly gone into trance, it being necessary for four or five of them to grip and subdue the twitching, convulsive body of one kris dancer. Into the face of each man the pemangku flicked liberal splashes of holy water, and incense from the sacred fire was held to their noses by the pemangku’s wife. There was a chaos of noise, for the whole village seemed now to be present, shouting out advice, milling around in the dust, seeking with their priest for the correct formula to solve a peculiar situation.

  Our guests were mightily puzzled by what they had seen, but impressed by its obvious sincerity.

  "It's probably a very good omen for the village," I hazarded. "The Barong, their protector, was so magically strong that he did not need the Kris dancers' help to demolish Rangda. It would seem that the balance of good over evil in Intaran is certain."

  A day or so later the Yankee set sail. All the crew members gave us encouragement by saying that our dancers would be an inevitable success in their country, and on the evening before they left Benoa, the whole Pliatan club was invited on board to have their first experience of American food such as hot-dogs and ice cream. The Balinese were very impressed by the Yankee, and as we watched Skipper Johnson manoeuvre out of the harbour, handling his more than a hundred-foot craft with as much ease as if it had been a rowing boat, the Anak Agung turned to us and said heavily, "A great shame, this sailing of the Yankee. Why could not Jim have arranged that we all signed on as deck-hands so that we could get to America that way?" "Don'
t worry, Agung Adji," I replied. "We'll go abroad if you are patient. But we'll go in a four-engined airplane."

  "Beh! Very atom," he said. For the word atom had just entered the Balinese vocabulary, meaning the very latest thing in modernity and up-to-dateness.

  7

  Invitation to Malaya

  *

  In the month of November a light rainy season came upon us again after seven months of warm and dry weather. The club was busy building a high thatched shelter in front of the puri, when a letter came from Kuala Lumpur, signed by Noel Ross and Ben Joppe, asking for a date when I could fly over to Singapore in order to discuss all the artistic and financial details connected with a tour of Malaya. They seemed to be planning at the highest level, for they mentioned that both Sir Henry Gurney-later ambushed by Chinese Communists and murdered—and Mr. Malcolm Macdonald, had signified their willingness to sponsor such a good-will visit, while Mr. Loke Wan Tho, the rich Chinese owner of the Cathay Building in Singapore and a generous patron of the arts, was showing some readiness to discuss underwriting the tour's preliminary costs.

  This invitation could not have come at a better time for us, for the Colombo Exhibition was being held soon in Ceylon, to which it was also proposed to send Balinese dancers. And to date Pliatan, a village considered outside the artistic control of Denpasar's officialdom, had been ignored, and the group that had been chosen to go to Colombo was the centre of much political wrangling, in the very vociferous heart of which was our acquaintance, Nyoman Kaler and a transient Sumatran journalist. To keep the peace in Denpasar, these two had been forced to ask Lotring's rival group to join them, and we heard that extraordinary hybrid rehearsals were even now taking place, with dancers trying to fit their steps to one another's quite different styles, and with a composite gamelan being joined together under Lotring and Kaler, picked form diverse villages and "parties.” Under the circumstances it was not surprising that only a very unenviable standard was reached.