Serendipity

The plan today is to walk to Denpaser. There is a museum there which we hope will give us a nice introduction to the Bali behind the traffic. We are staying, currently between Kuta and Denpasar in an area with more local life than tourist facilities. Which was, of course, the plan. Later we will spend some time in Ubud and, possibly, Lombok. 

I am not expecting much today. The write up on the museum was not promising and the walk to Denpasar, wobbling on the side of busy roads trying not to fall into the drain, is also not filling us with hope. But we do it anyway. Our theory is that we will see more local life walking than taking a taxi there and back. 

In actual fact we do see local life, we find side streets which, though still riddled with motorbike traffic, are at least flanked by Balinese houses and families and everybody says hello to us. Without fail. And the museum is very informative - though I will use tomorrow's blog to tell you about it as there was simply too much today to fit into one entry.

Because, as my title indicates, today, having failed to penetrate the intricacies of the full moon ceremonies, today we really do chance upon something truly Balinese. Or at least, something that fits our definition of what we think Balinese should be. Which may, or may not be the same thing.

As we walk we see up ahead an intricate gold 'temple' being carried in the streets. There are a number of people following it, in traditional dress of long  sarongs and diamond shaped tops, or t shirts for the men. Many of the men are also wearing bandanas. They are not hipsters. They are, as we later find out, mourners. Though not in the British definition. The atmosphere, and the music being played, feels jubilant. We assume it's a continuation of last night's celebrations, thank our lucky stars, and speed our steps towards the procession. We shelve our plans for Denpasar for now, forget our route, or indeed where we are, and follow the procession. For one thing it's too good a chance to muss, and for another, anything which can hold up the traffic is On Our Side. It's nice to see the seething throngs of traffic subjugated to culture. We were beginning to think Bali had been wholly conquered by it.

The procession weaves and twists it's way towards the field which will be its ultimate destination, the priest sprinkling holy water at every corner. At this stage we are still not aware it's a funeral, and speculate that the priest is blessing local businesses and temples. Possibly we are getting a little confused here with Chinese New Year. What is in fact happening, as we will discover later, is that the procession weaves to confuse any evil spirits, who might be following, with the holy water acting as a double deterrent.

Eventually the procession arrives at a field which we imagine might be part of the temple grounds. It is at this stage that we realise what we are witnessing is a cremation. There is a pyre made of coconut wood, with a high canopy erected over it, for protection of the deceased. The music, live and played on a mixture of drums, large hanging gongs and pipes, continues beneath a tree. The men carefully remove a long box covered in cotton from the temple and carry it round and round GE pyre, the women following carrying ceremonial umbrellas, offerings made of baskets of palm and banana leaves, full of flowers, ceremonial coins and plaited figures and decorations. Some of the men carry incense. They process around the pyre, following the body for some time, the priest sprinkling further holy water. There is no sign of tears or even a sense if sobriety. A group of women sit to one side, watching the proceedings and chatting and laughing together. Most of the men have moved out towards the edge of the field and even the roadside, where we stand at a respectful distance, looking on. It feels a little wrong, to be watching a funeral as though it were a performance, but nobody seems to mind. In fact we are smiled at and, later even invited to go closer.

After a while of processing around the pyre, the men place the coffin onto the pyre and then, with some care and some difficulty, proceed to remove the body, wrapped in white cotton and place it directly on the pyre. Everyone maintains a respectful distance. The pyre is crafted like a box so that the flames and the body are enclosed.

At this stage, there is a long period in which the women make and give offerings, which are placed on the body, the priests offer incense and more holy water, and there is general industrious activity around the body.

Finally, everyone moves away, a gas cylinder is attached to what looks like a blow torch style fire lighter. The whole construction is ingenious. When the man lights the pyre the flames are perfectly contained. Coconut wood doesn't burn, so the pyre is a neat, carefully crafted affair. 

The body is burned to help free the spirit from materialistic influences and allow it to leave the body is has been tied to for so long.

"Hey Madam, Sir!"

A man approaches us with can beaming smile.

"You do not need to stand so far away." He says, "you can go closer. Its OK."

Soon he regrets this offer, because we pepper him with questions. He confirms it is a cremation,

"For a man" he says, "an old man"

He goes on to tell us that a funeral here is not a sad occasion because the spirit is not dead. It is only sleeping before it continues out to be reincarnated or, if the man has reached the end of the cycle or birth and rebirth, to 'Moksha'. I wonder if the lack of tears is easier to sustain because the man had lived to grow old. Would it be different if he were a child or a young man? In the west we make these distinctions. We talk about untimely deaths. But who are we to say they are untimely. Surely, though, there must, if not openly, be some sadness on the part of those the spirit is leaving behind? Is it hard not to cry? Do bereaved spouses cry secret tears? Or is the belief system so devout, so deeply held, that it is really OK, truly not a tragic occasion. People here are very devout. It's quite possible.

M asks about the proliferation of black t-shirts worn, especially, by men.

"No" says our new friend, "black is for sorrow and our cremation ceremony is not sorrowful. Normally the family chooses a colour to be worn."

Sure enough many people are in green and orange. This, the man confirms, is his colour. But why the black?

"It is from the west." replies the man, sadly. 

This is sad. Black means something not in keeping with the culture here. It makes no sense. Like the roaring traffic behind us, it jars. A clash, rather than a merging, of cultures.

"He will be reincarnated?" I say knowledgeably, watching the flames so obediently contained in their box of coconut wood.

The man grins and shrugs.

"We don't know" he says, rather obviously. I like his honesty. It is possible to be devout yet practical. Who can fathom the mind of God?

We turn to leave. This will be the first of several ceremonies. It's over now, but there will be another in a few days and in a year. Like the Baba Nyonya culture, death is as important as a wedding. Anniversaries are marked and celebrated. Ceremonies are performed to ensure safe passage for the soul.

Balinese culture seems both alive and well - and under threat. We continue our walk to Denpasar through main streets and even little lanes swamped with traffic. If you step back to admire the roof of a temple or view a statue outside it, you get run over. 

We walk through the quietest back streets we can find. Children play outside houses, giggling if we reply to their shouted 'Hello's. The ladies in the little shop where we buy water are making offerings out of plaited palm. When I say that are beautiful they smile and blush.

"For temple" they say, making s praying motion. I smoke my understanding.

Later, a man cutting his hedge notices us looking at some guardian statues outside a gate. We are not sure whether it is s temple.

"Here" he says, "traditional Balinese house. I show you. " 

He leads us into a courtyard surrounded by small buildings. He explains that this is a family home, where grandparents and grandchildren and all the levels in between live together. In the courtyard are several icons with incense duly burning, making the house almost indistinguishable from a temple. In fact so much of the Bali we have seen so far, particularly given the ubiquitous traffic, is indistinguishable from a temple. Along the road at almost two step intervals there are icons or small alters and on the ground are hundreds of small banana leaf woven baskets full of flowers, the odd coin and, occasionally, a cigarette or a small circular biscuit. You can tread on them if it happens accidentally, we find. But if you do it on purpose it's very bad luck. And very bad manners, come to think of it. 

Bali feels to me like a culture at odds with its own development. Traffic has taken over and threatens the infrastructure and the peace. I can't square what I see with what I understand of Balinese beliefs. 

But how much is this a personal judgement? I did not feel this way about the combination in Georgetown, of Nyonya culture, mosques and Bollywood. Do I want Bali to be a Paradise of my own imagination? 

"It's so sad" says M teetering precariously on the edge of an open drain in order to avoid a speeding motorbike, "Bali was a green paradise. What happened? Why didn't the government regulate the traffic more effectively? They had paradise. And they let it slip through their fingers. They didn't even know they were losing it."

But maybe people here are pleased to have motorbikes and he able to get around. It's a big island. Perhaps it's nice to have a roaring tourist trade. To be prosperous. Maybe, for the people who live here, it IS paradise.

That may be a little patronising. And when our host, Sinja (pseudonym), takes us out in the evening to sample some delicious Indonesian street food, he gets caught in traffic and complains about it like a true Londoner.

And yet. And yet. No one walks in South East Asia. People are amazed when we walk 13 kilometres in the heat (which s what we do today)

 But they are equally amazed when we walk 100 metres. People get in their car and drive down the road. They go to market a block from their house on a motorbike and ride through the market stopping at stalls without ever leaving the seat of their motorbike. How has this happened? How has it happened this quickly? And what is it doing to people's health, the flora and fauna, even the temples?

We have learned a few things on our travels. Death is not always sorrowful. Religion is not always divisive. Breakfast is not always cornflakes. 

But traffic is always destructive.