by John Coast
"Read it!" he said.
I read out,"'Technical Experton Cultural Relations and Information for Countries Abroad.'That means I'm called an expert on channelling this country's culture to countries abroad."
He snatched the purloined document from me, furious and ashamed, for he had published my contract in his column without properly reading it. But reasoning with him, alas, was hopeless; he was tormented with suspicions that might not disappear until his grandchildren's time.
I reported this interview to Ruslan, who, seeing at last that I was serious—for after all, if no-one in the Government had the moral courage to defend me merely because I had a white skin, it was as good as inviting one of Bali's hoodlums to add me to his list of "enemies of the Republic" to be patriotically shot in the back-seeing this, then, Ruslan did now agree to allow his Information offices in Bali to publish a statement to protect me. But, on talking this over with Indrosugondho and Sutarjo as we flew the length of Java on our way to Denpasar, a day or so later, they said simply, "We're now a political football between the President's group and the group who hate him. Ja, sudah! That's all there is to it!"
Arrived in Bali they paid their respects to all the local authorities, and calming statements went out through the local Information offices and over the radio. Then we all went to Pliatan, watched the rehearsals and the last costumes being made, and within three days the two Directors-General had returned to Java, where their families awaited their news anxiously.
Soon after they had gone, the Speaker of the Indonesian Parliament came to Bali and asked to see our dancers. But with him came not only Anak Agung Gde Oka of Gianjar, but Sutedja, too. After the dances Sutedja came forward cheerfully, smiling and misleadingly friendly as always when we met in person, and together we discussed the Bumblebee Dance. He, like many of the young moderns, was curiously Puritan.
"Don't you think that during the flirtation the male dancer comes just a little too close to the girl?" he asked.
"How many centimetres apart would you like them? We'll measure 'em with a yardstick if you like," I replied. And we both laughed.
Yet seriously I was perplexed how best to explain to him that people abroad might find it strange were two bees to flirt with several yards between them; nor could I usefully inform him that the one part I had contemplated cutting from the Kebiar was that where Sampih flirted with the drummers—this short sequence, of humour to the Balinese, had caused more than one spectator to ask me whether Sampih was not, perhaps, just a little bit—er—queer? Yet Sampih was the most natural of young men and such a suspicion could never have entered a Balinese head.
Every Sunday the Nationalist leader, Mantik, with his friend Nyoman Oka, came and ate with us in Pliatan and watched the training and packing and costuming and filling-in of forms with friendly admiration. Nyoman Oka, had we had the fortune to have met him earlier on, we would have tried hard to take with us as our manager, for he spoke admirable English.
It was the forms, though, that nearly defeated us. Though the Immigration Office moved en bloc one day to Pliatan and worked right through the entire group until each passport was filled in and ready, the three-pageAmerican visa application forms were our nightmare. An idea of our difficulties can be gathered from considering just one question. "How old are you, Agung Adji? What was the date of your birth?" He thinks solemnly for a while, turning to his brother for assistance, trying to calculate by asking his brother how old he was at the time of the puputan, the mass suicide, in Denpasar in 1906. Then: "I must have been born in 1902."
I start to fill this in, but glance at his passport and see there the year 1897 given as his year of birth.
"But Agung Adji—your passport says you were born in 18971" "Masa! But that cannot be true. I do not feel that old today. Truly, it must have been 1902.
"Oh, all right. Maybe they won't notice anything. Or maybe we can change the passport later. Now, what month and what day?"
"Adoh! Is the day of the month necessary, too? How should I know?
How should any of us know? Who keeps such dates in Bali?"
And when we started composing dates, we found that eight out of the first twelve men said that they had been born on December 12th for this was a lucky month and a date of good omen....
On July 25th part of my "end play", my strategic withdrawal. We had sold our house in Kaliungu; we had found a buyer for the jeep, who would receive it on the day we left; we had rented the garage for another year, and the furnished room at the end of it we made over to young Pudja and Tompel, leaving money for them in the bank so that they could clothe themselves and continue their schooling; to each of the servants we gave four months wages and presents, but our dear Rantun and Budai came with us to the puri in Pliatan. It was sad, this sale of our house. But in our absence we feared for its safety.
The group, too, now concentrated more and more inside the puri walls. One of the metallophone players had reported an armed band near his house at night, and though I thought this a wild story and most improbable, I suggested that the outlying club members sleep in the puri if they wished, and this they did, gossiping on the rehearsal verandah floor till the small hours nightly, wrapped up in their blankets. They thus acted as guards for the costumes, which would have been irreplaceable had anyone destroyed them at this stage; Luce and I, in fact, slept in a well-roofed shack with all the costumes beside us, sharing our room with some gigantic rats, and delighted with the Anak Agung's gift to us of a new cement lavatory, so modem as to possess everything except a door. Ten crowded days among the men and women of the puri we spent, waking as the cocks crew immediately outside our windows, hearing the rhythmic pounding of the rice each morning, and on our porch daily were the three little girls, chattering and squealing and joking, while Luce helped them fit their costumes, sew their smart new kebaya blouses, and fold their kains tidily in the Javanese way for travelling.
On the last day of July Suprapto arrived to take over. The group were to sail on August 7th, though we had carefully spread the tale in Denpasar of a later date; and they would go on board in Singaradja, being taken north in Indonesian Army trucks up the Kintamani mountain road, thus avoiding enemy territory, Denpasar. Luce and I were flying a day or two earlier to Djakarta, for the K.L.M. charter was still not synchronized, and I was almost ill with worry about it.
For three final days we rehearsed in Pliatan, and then it was finished. The show then ran one hour and forty minutes precisely, or two hours with the one intermission. If they rehearsed any more, they would be in danger of becoming stale. They were ready for the Djakarta palace, ready for London.
On our last day, while the club packed their costumes and the gamelan, and we our own belongings, a young Frenchman, Louis Guerin, walked into the puri. He was from the France Soir, he informed us, and could he take some colour film for television use in Paris? Alas, M. Guerin, we replied, you see that we are packing up. But we sent him to Saba to take his pictures there, and he gave us some Paris addresses of impresarios, for we hoped to meet there.
Then we handed over to Suprapto, urging him always to work through the Anak Agung, pointing out the few troublemakers whom we knew of in the club, asking him to watch over the masked dancers with special care, for they all were older men and came from outside Pliatan itself. And hating to go, already depressed at the thought of missing the music of water in the rice-fields and the everyday beauty of this richly-blessed island, we tore up our Balinese roots on August 4th, 1952, with us two of the Anak Agung's bebek tutu, the smoked duck, to eat with Luce's family in Djakarta.
At the President's palace, the arrangements for our dancers were simple. On Independence Day, in an all-Indonesian programme, they would perform two dances on a stage built around the base of a giant tree on the palace lawn; and if the President so desired, a full dress rehearsal would be given on the night after. As I left the palace one day, the eye of th
e Palace Secretary lit upon me.
"And is it settled—who goes along with you?" he purred.
"Why, Indrosugondho and Sutarjo, two persons of Indonesian race," I said. "Not one as the President's original letter suggested." "Hah! But what of my letter permitting one or two of those others from Denpasar to go along too?"
"I don’t know. I know only that we have the forty-four dancers and musicians required by the contract. We found no lack of law and order in Bali, so maybe it wasn't necessary for those others to come along. They never approached us."
And "Check!" I whispered, under my breath. But the next move would have to be 'Mate.
Then I telephoned Hawtrey in London again, and he told me that the Winter Garden Theatre was available and that the decor was coming along nicely, designed from our sketch. Couldn't I come on ahead, he asked? Impossible, I replied. Well, never mind, everything looked all right, but nobody in the Indonesian Embassy knew anything about the theatre or Balinese dancing.
On my last trip it had been decided that I must look after the group in Djakarta, and I had sent an authority to the Embassy in London to carry on the negotiations with Hawtrey, based on our previous correspondence. I had even phoned the Embassy and gratefully heard that they would guarantee to look after us, although the notice was indeed rather short. We had sent cables setting out our accommodation and food needs, asking primarily for the whole group to be in one warm hotel near the theatre, and for two large rice meals a day. Now, suddenly, we received news that the Indonesian Embassy possessed their own impresario, one de Marney, and that Hawtrey had withdrawn.
"What can this mean?" everybody seemed to be asking me.
I told them that I'd spoken to Hawtrey only the previous evening, and he'd said all was going well. De Marney must be one Derrick de Marney, who was making films, when I last knew him, from an office in Bond Street. I advised doing nothing that could embarrass the Embassy at this late stage, saying that in London we'd soon find out what was wrong.
On August 12th Luce and I were at Tandjong Priok harbour, waiting on the baking hot docks amid the garbage and bustle of the Javanese labourers for the ship from Bali to come in. Not till well after midday did we climb up the gangplank, running into the arms of the Anak Agung, who shouted with pleasure and told us that all was well, the gamelan, the costumes, the baggage, all safe thanks to our excellent manager, Suprapto. With the Anak Agung and the little girls squeezed into a jeep from the Ministry, we led the way to their hotel, whose garden actually adjoined the front drive of the American Embassy. Amid great excitement they settled in, sitting out at first on chairs on the lawn, not yet daring to walk out in the traffic-jammed streets of so great a city.
The British visas were a modest labour compared with the American. But thanks to the personal interest of the ambassador and the patience of Vice-Consul Josephs, after two whole days of interpreting, fingerprinting and signing, the forty-four American visas were safe in the fat dispatch case of Suprapto. Then the tailor who had earlier flown to Bali came in with their suits, fitting and altering where necessary; then came the suitcases ordered by Suprapto; and then came, too, my opportunity for handing over my accounts of the Bali work of the last months.
But though all went well with the group's expenditures in Bali, my own Ministry now vexed me by again becoming cautious vis-a-vis the Parliament. They asked me to relinquish my salary while abroad, for it would prevent press attacks (it didn't!) and make their position impregnable in the face of aggressive members of the House. I agreed; but had I known that they would have desired this, I would surely have added another clause to our contract with Columbia Artists, for in communal Balinese style and as a member of our Pliatan family, I had rashly allowed for no producer's fee at all. And then they asked me to sign a note to the effect that I would try to pay back the whole Government subsidy. I reminded them of my former offer, but they said no, this was a better plan, for it would again guard their position from criticism. I signed, therefore, with a resigned shrug; for as I pointed out, what could I do if the Balinese were to ask to come home after the first few months, or if no fat fees came our way from films or television?
Then came the palace performance before the whole Diplomatic Corps and all Indonesian officialdom on Independence Day; and on the next evening, before the President, the American Ambassador, Ruslan Abdulgani and other staunch allies, we played the programme through exactly as planned for the theatre. At the end of the performance, the President wished the group God speed, complimenting and thanking us graciously for our long-suffering work.
However, there was already reason for our backers to show confidence. Not only had I heard from Freddie Schang that the sale of tickets was building up very encouragingly, but The New York Times had devoted an editorial to us, hailing our advent as an historic landmark, as the first east-west cultural mission. And Colin McPhee had risked his reputation by backing us indirectly through a long article that had appeared under his name in the Times, also.
Then came the last minute rush. Only now did our Directors General receive their appointments which would guarantee their financial independence while on tour; and we were helped, in this contradictory Djakarta arena, in a score of ways by friends who were members of the same party of people as the newspapers which were vilifying us! At the very last moment we collected the hundreds and hundreds of artificial frangipani, hibiscus and tjampak blossoms, made by some Djakarta Chinese especially for us. And at five o'clock on our last afternoon a tea party was given for the whole company in the palace gardens, where the President allowed himself to be photographed with the three Legongs, his adopted daughters. After the tea, Luce and I tried to express our thanks to the President for his help, and for the encouragement he had given us all along, standing behind our idea like a rock.
Came the dawn of August 21st, and we were all at Kemayoran Airport, sitting, waiting, gazing out at our chartered Skymaster which yesterday we had carefully helped load with our own hands. With us were our oldest allies, Ruslan Abdulgani, Dr. Subardjo, Harjoto from the Information Ministry, Tjokro from my own Ministry. The Anak Agung gave me a nudge.
"I trust that that Hanuman is now content," he said. For in the last months the club had nicknamed me Hanuman, after the heroic White Monkey prince who came to the aid of Rama in the Ramayana epic, and who always achieved the impossible in a flash of time. At 7.45 a microphone from the Djakarta radio. The stewards explained to the Balinese how to fasten their seat belts. They were offered peppermints. The little girls sat just in front of us, solemn-eyed and for once almost too excited to chatter. They stared out of one window, waving to Anom's father, Dewa Gde Putu, who was watching the take-off. He was staying behind to guard the families of the group in Bali while we were away. The plane door clanged to. As if on a reflex, the Anak Agung, Luce, Sampih and I looked at one another; lndrosugondho and Sutarjo, too, smiled their relief. And the plane, piled high with gamelan instruments and costumes in crates and our noble protective Barong, lumbered thunderously down the runway.
The mouths of the Balinese formed silent "Peace on your Stayings."
I turned to Luce with fingers crossed."Checkmate!" I said.
10
London Interlude
*
When Schang had originally insisted that we try the company out in London, Luce and I had been delighted. For London is my city and I wanted to introduce my Javanese wife to my friends and show her, not the Tower of London or West minster Abbey, perhaps, but the ballet at Covent Garden and the restaurants of Soho. She, now, had to meet my family. As for the Anak Agung, on hearing the news he had said, "Pantas sekali—just as it should be. Now I shall have the pleasure of seeing John's country, too."
The four days flight from Djakarta was very tiring indeed. Suprapto and I were soon weary performing the impossible feat of disentangling more than forty Balinese at each night stop and finding them their ho
tel rooms, while they waited in the lobbies with infinite patience and a trusting helplessness. And arriving in Damascus on the third evening, hot though it was and gale-tossed over the desert though our plane had been, we made each man dress up in his European clothes, for the tying of ties and the use of braces and waistcoats were all quite new to them. Tjokorda Oka fussed noisily around old Serog, grinning, saying to us, "When Serog went to Paris in 1931, Tuan, nobody showed him how to untie his tie; so he kept it on, night and day, for over two weeks."
But it was the air sickness that was defeating us, and as I looked at the children, my heart quailed at the thought of having to ask them to rehearse the very day after they arrived—but our opening night was to be only one day later. They had become a wan, miserable collection, unused as yet to the poor imitation of Balinese food which the K.L.M. stewards tried hard to supply. And our flight over the burning hot desert before Damascus, where for hours the plane had sideslipped and shuddered and swooped aloft like a drunken feather, had vanquished practically all of us. Little Raka had lain pale and quiet, her head in Luce’s lap; Sangayu, the Oleg from Sayan, had bandaged her eyes so that she should see nothing; the big-eyed Anom had been unable to eat anything at all, looking very pathetic, and Oka, the strongest character of the three, had sat with me and we had been quietly sick together. If adversity sometimes unites, it can also, if air sickness be its form, disintegrate, and especially if the victims are Balinese dancers.
Touching down for an hour in Rome, we had a most cordial and friendly welcome from the Indonesian younger generation from the Embassy there, and later that same evening the Balinese managed to rouse themselves a little when the red-roofed rash of London suburbia began to reveal itself below, and from the men the expletive Beh! kept exploding forth, as mile after mile of endless city rolled into view. It was seven o'clock on the evening of this fourth day when our plane came to rest at London Airport. One or two photographers clicked agilely around the children as we carried our handbags across the asphalt to the waiting room; and after a while they filed off through the immigration offices, dragging themselves along with apathy, their stomachs still queasy, the ground treacherously unlike the feel of the warm wet soil of Bali. In between peering over official shoulders, interpreting, there was time to exchange a few words with de Marney, who with a handful of officials from the Embassy, was there to meet us. An hour or so later, still in a daze, the whole party of us were seated outside in two long buses. "All aboard, Suprapto?" "All aboard."