By Dave Barton
By LP Hastings
By Sarah Bennett
By LP Hastings
By Jena Ardell
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
By Joel Beers
I wiped rivers of sweat from my face and smoothed back my damp hair. Squinting through the eye-watering smoke and commotion, I couldn't figure out which was hotter: the searing Indonesian sun or the towering flames erupting from a ceremonial fire in front of me.
My Bali adventure had begun five days before when my Garuda Indonesia flight neared the coastal city of Kuta. I was alone and traveling to a country falling apart over the government's efforts to retain control over East Timor. The international press had reported that Bali was mostly unaffected by the atrocities unleashed against the East Timorese many islands away. But this didn't make an American woman traveling alone in a strange country feel any less apprehensive.
As the plane floated earthward, I gazed down at the hazy, Third World lights of the city below. Bali was meant to be my vacation in tropical paradise after months of working at an isolated Antarctic research station. For weeks, I had meditated on travel-poster images of serene palm trees and perfect beaches; the reality was far different.
A day passed—a day spent hiding in the air-conditioned safety of my hotel room—before I ventured onto the dusty, buzzing streets of nearby Sanur. Each previous attempt had been parried by oppressive equatorial heat that left me dripping in a matter of minutes. I have never felt so exposed and so out-of-place in my entire life as I did that second day, on the streets. As I walked past some local boys hanging in the shadows of an alley, one of them smiled and said plainly, "Here is a white woman." The dark possibilities in that adjective and noun—"white woman"—whirled through my head.
Moments later, like a door flung open, I came upon the noise and commotion of the main drag. Mopeds buzzed like chain saws in an endless, frenzied river. Vendors perched on the shabby, narrow sidewalks, sitting and talking in Balinese, smiling in anticipation as I approached. I moved around them, fending off their sales pitches. "Transport?" they would ask. "Very cheap!" Sometimes several jumped to their feet at the same time in an effort to corral me. I learned quickly to decline politely by uttering, "Tidak terima kasih" —no thanks—as I dipped my shoulder and hurried past with feigned purpose.
Bali had me off-balance, but my wariness was countered by an intriguing sense of having landed on another world. Many days later, I found myself and my bag deposited on a street corner in Ubud, the artistic center of Bali, about an hour's drive up the dense jungle slopes of the island's active interior volcano, Gunung Agung. I walked across the street, past eager purveyors of transport, and into the first hostel I came across. Passing from the busy streets through moss-covered stone walls was like passing a sound barrier. A peaceful, temple-like garden welcomed me, and so did a withered old man with a smile stretching the lines on his face. He led me through a maze of pathways, through lush tropical flowers and colorful birds in hanging cages to my bungalow. After getting me settled, he asked if I would attend the cremation ceremony the next day. I knew nothing of it and said I wasn't sure. He insisted that it was not to be missed: the event was for a member of the royal family.
Relaxing under the rhythmic, cooling drafts of the ceiling fan, I consulted my travel guide about the beliefs surrounding death among the Balinese. Although there are ceremonies for every stage of life, the last ceremony—the cremation, or pitra yadna—is the biggest and most important. Such intense effort and creativity are required that the planning may consume years. During this time, the body may be temporarily buried. An exception is made for the Brahmanas, members of the highest Balinese caste; their bodies are cremated almost immediately. On the day of the big event, the body is carried from the home to the cremation site in a multilevel, hand-built tower made of bamboo, which is decorated profusely and ornately with brightly colored cloth, paper, tinsel, mirrors and flowers. The height of the tower and the number of men required to carry it represent the importance of the deceased. The tower is hauled carefully along the streets to prevent the spirit from being shaken loose; a spirit so dislodged may lose its way into the afterlife. A priest is likely to be hanging precariously from the tower, sprinkling the crowd with holy water, while a musical group, or gamelan, follows, adding uplifting music to the procession. At the cremation site, the body is placed inside the funeral sarcophagus, which takes the form of an elaborately decorated animal—a bull for the Brahmanas, a winged lion or elephant-fish for other castes. Then the whole kit and caboodle—sarcophagus, body, tower and all—is set aflame, sending the soul to heaven. The eldest son has the final, honored task of poking through the ashes to make sure nothing of the body remains unburned. Morbid, I thought to myself as I gazed at the ceiling. And fascinating.