ISLAND OF
BALI
Mlcau'.l. c:0\ ARULIUAS
WITH am At. tit' OK IMI(rtftt;R Ai'IIK «v
tins E CO V A ERVHIA S
CASSELL ANO C(ySII*ANY LIMITED
1.0 NOON TORONTO MKI.OOORNKt
ANO RYONRV
!Sl A\i> OF HAl I
CONTENTS
l\nu)in< nt>\
rART I
! i III Isi AM) %
n ■ hn riui'n u
i'lic Aii« le nt Sun i\ .il the RiJi Ar,.!. .N'oirv tm the IlMttry
u1 Hill. I lie thiti h. i he lAiinlHii. \X\if. (hiiiijmst til
Simlh llih
HI I HI (loMMfMrV V)
f lu- I hf Mjtkct The SiK ul (htict. Etiiiiicttc.
|..uii;u.n;t I Ilf C^nfr% The uf the
The l»iw‘ jiiil fiistiif. The ('tMtitti
IV ■ Ric i . WiiHic. ASi) W hai.th " >
The Stikili Hite CUiltiire. Putnlnitian til The
I’xoittiiiiit- (ktkr
V Kvirvdav I. iff. im Baii
TheUiiiiHr IUIukm: Cmikiuig;. (UnUtim attd Atlmmmtt
8H
CONTEN ri>
viii
VI The Family
Childbirth. The Life of Children. Adofcsccntc. The
Love Lite ol the Bulinesc. Mjrtuge
viI'Art and the Artist
The Place of the Artht in Balinese Life. The Stnrs- of
Development of Balinese Art. Old Hindu Bahnev Art
The Periml of Madjapahit. The Plastic Arts of ,\fo«Jerfi
Bali: Sculptiire and ATchitcetu/e; Painting; the Craftt
vm*lHE Drama
Muiic; the Village Orchestras; Stipplcmentars Xofn on
Balinese Music and Imtrmncnts. The Dance A F««. ni i*f
Balinese Life; the Ugnng; the Batts; the Kclmar The
Shadow-Play: Mysticism and SlapsfnL The (‘latiic
Drama: Kings and \X"artitirs; the Tupeng. the Balinne
Opera; the Ardja; the Djanger
PART U
IX 'Rites and Fkstivaijj
Socktyand Religion. T empfri and Temple Featit C*adi,
Demons Offerings and Ksaremns The Calendar Stwa
The High Priests and the Brahmatue Ritual. AdditumaJ
Notes
X ■ Witchcraft
Witches, Witchdoctors, and the Magk Theatre. The
Rangda and the Baiting, The T/aion Anng Play The
Sanghyang. Black and White Magk. How to Become a
Leyak. The Witch-doctors, Magic, and Medicine. Siflg<
byuigSemgs ^
IX
cos TEXTS
XI ■ Death and C/'ri;mation'
■n»f nrH/V; TJ.r SaiiL The Crcnutinn. 77jr Siwntkc of
Ihc Aficiimth. AdthUim.i} Sotes.
^^9
PART III
*C!I • NlflDKKN' RaII ANT’ THE FtTHRE,
file
AITH-M (H J’HtmHTTAI'H.S
CEOSSAHY
HHH-HX.KaI’HY
INDEX
fnlhms p;}f;c
fO
4i?5
/(jIItun pti;c .itD
ISl AND OF lUI.I
ILLUSTRATIONS
M \l' nr H.M.t
Thr Hur fttiuthpinr
Map nf thr Malay An.hi|Kl;»g{)
i hf Balisu ^r taisjjuts
Ihf iUatli in Samu js
TIk* A/MJanj; S2
Htiman MotUs woven on the Kamhen 2.|
Water hnff,llo^^
A Hahttese Tifi <13
A lypiial \'illage
Agriviilhua! Iniplaticiits
Rite Mntlier yt)
A Chanarv* {/aiiiihtirtg) fio
A 'lypical IVfcarairgaiJ I’laii «f Gctlog'v House ip
Pliiti of a l)|cr(S<-the House of a Man of hfcaits ()i
.Structure of a Bafrf
Kitchai Utensils 98
^{al}ucr of Orinkiiig (dcii^ scratched on a bamboo
drinking bottle) 99
a.LV SI RAT loss
Loom (Prahot 7’e/iiHjni loi
Ceremonial Costumes of W oman and Man n:
Gelung Aguag
Pusung Comljci
Bathing Sketch n-
Bathing Sketch nH
'Ihe Wedding of Rama and Sita (from a Balinese
jwiiitingl Ua
Mother and Child U"
Child j
Dagang
A Young Balinese
Amulet of laive Magic iArditina coiin
Kidnapping (fmm a BahiirNc p.imtmgi 14-
Onc of the Kates on the Kaljeng Drum it*^
rjiU of Woven Palm leaf t-j
TjiU of Palm leaf from the l op of an Offering i-ij
T/ilfs from fatinaks
T/tIfs from l^maks 1-5
Sapsap. Tftll Kates cut nut of Palm leaf
Tfilh painted on a Rite C^kc from Sclat
TfW from a Clay 'Pile tHi
fCarang Binfulu dtiselled on the Silver Sheath of a Km
Karang T/eiViri and Karang Touting t8$
A Hold'Up. a 'rcmplc Relief in Dlagataga ii6
Rdief in the Tonple of Kubutanibahan 187
Ardjuna 1^
ILI.VHTRATIOSS xni
Hhinia H)i
of Wniiu’Ji, nf Mtn. of IVvils i«)2
Mnfjf tui .1 C lnfh of Silk .md Gf>kl Hrfu.uk* i«r
Hl.u k'-iinfli‘> M W <itk i hnnj a Rdiiicsi* tii.inn'>uipt ) ;nj
n.llHM'-f At! .iff IT S’“'2
I’ttii Al.mn nttnns fmtn 'l.iinhak.iti (pljnh)s In W'.ilfa
Spirs !
A W tifd Rthrf from Sditliuii* (}>h«>fn l»\ \\".ilffi .Spio)
A I fill tif I tied Rur I'idui futm Htuli fphttfti In W.illcr
Spit ^
A i.jjvHu; app.ut'uflv irpif^ttifitn; a vt.ift-t {nif{,ilfi\
lif.id, fuiin fhr h.ilf .fipnii; nf S.ifia iplwtf?) hv W alfft
Spu . ’
I Intufh tnifiut, i Utulti RalituM* Sl.ifut* iu ffic mitud
Itniplr alitp flir tiKDUitJMi R.u]tdsN.n>
lAaitmctif nf .m Atuiiitf in flic rtiiin nf I’tn.di
tt.ultih, mai Rl.ddwtu
(!tiiilcntpt»iaiv Sl.ittu's .is fnnpU' tltrtiiafions
Ttutplr Htlicfs fttim Ntijfh Bali
Ntifth H.ilmtsf TtiiipU' HHiirfs I Inll.utdfrs littnkitig
iHTr and tf.iukmg .» iih*I(iu.u
Atitiifititud Jcmpk* Rchcfs
An Atnnkf fn ktrp find's cs away (wtHn! taivnig)
'Ilu* Supreme* Heing, "rintrya, in an angry hukhI
’’ nic I’rnitcss liatlies "
CkK'kfight
I'nigincnf nf an Old Rainting in the traditinnal style
A hfodcrii Fainting nf the Tjahn Ararig Flay, hy I Snhrat
Hie Jungle •> a dniMnng by a young Balinciic artist
ILLUKTRA'noXS
Detail of a Fine Gold and Silk Brotadc from Khm(;kung
'i wo VC'ayaijg Kulit, puppets of buffalo jwrchnicnt
Drummer
Flute-Player
Seating Arrangement of the Gong CJaftf
Shrine with Dancing Head-dress in the I'nnplc
Mertasari in Sanawang
JLegong Costume
Movanents of the Baris
Movcmaits of the ixgong
Portrait of Ayu Ktut
DJogH
Baris Gcd<f - Ceremonial War Dance
Mario Dancing Kchiyar
Wayang Kulit — drawing by Ida Eagm Mad^ Nadeta
A Make-up Artist preparing I'hinccis for a Perfomtaiicc
TTie Ardjfa, Romantic Balinese Opera - the Prince in¬
structing his Prime Minuter, the Fatih
Kanunun
Sangut, Ddiam
Tiral^i, Merdah
Sonar, as Twaidn is called in the ancient Wmiig
Cambuh
Comte Characters in the Top^
The Penged^dan
Princess and Attendant-a Scene fnm the Atdft,
Balinese Open
Ket^ in a H^anget Pttfommee
3iO
ai4
3a;
3:6
aafi
3SS
3a«>
a;o
»n
a 16
M7
3^7
MO
M5
HI
147
148
a$D
ifl
HIVSTRATIONS xv
Ground Plan of a 'Pypical Balinese 'Pcniplc 261;
A Typical Balinese 'I einple 266
Biifa 276
Arrangement of the Stage for ‘the Nyepf Festival 280
The Tilca, Kc>- to the Calendar 28^
Hie Birth of Batara Kjrla 2Q2
Hie Rose of the Winds, the Nawa f>angga 296
Ongltara 297
Onglcara Madi'i Mnlca and Ongkara Paxsab 29B
An Kdipsc Kala Rahu swallowing the Moon 299
Ratna Mcnggali (from a Balinese manuscript) 311
Lc)'ak (from a Balinese manuscript)
Rangda (from a Balinese manuscript) 3127
Rangda, Queen of Witches 334
The Sanghyang is about to start 33;
Three Old Women performing the Mendrft 335
Tumbals, Amulets against Witches 346
Tumbal 347
Ukur Kqseng and Ukur Selaka 366
Angenan 367
Bade, the Cremation Tower of a Nobleman 369
Head 37a
Patulangan, Saroopha^ used for Cremating Corpses of
the Nobility 374
A Cremation Prooestion, ai teen by a young Baliiieie
artist 375
An Auium or PaoiOGiuunD iy Ron CovminiiAi
foOowi paie aoe
'Ilic colunrcd il!)i''fs.itinn'. v,i.:r ; d t?,': ■■,,h ■ !►-
I he ^ ’uritSt N.i * IV.'' i: % h:.
ISLAND OF BALI
INTRODUCTION
'IbiiAy Ai.MCJST F.vKRYBony has heard of Bali. In some it means
a smart place tn gn, one «f the many jKjrts in a rnuml-lhc-world
cruise; tn others it l)rings mental iinagc.s of brown girls with
iH’antiful breasts, palm trees, rolling waves, ant! all the romantic
notions that go to make a Stmth Sea Island paradise. In general
the jKjpnIar knowledge of Bali ends there. But only six years ago,
when I sailed with Rose for the remote island, no one secmal
even to have heard of the place; we had to |ioint it out tin the
map, a tiny dot in the swarm of islands east of |ava. We had
seen a splendid album of Bali |>hotographs (Balt, by Gregor
Krause) , and gradually we had dev'clo{Kd an irresistible desire
to see the tslami, until one S|>ring day of 19^0 we found ourselves,
rather unc*xpcctctlly, on board the Cingalese Prince, a freighter
bound for the Dutch Kast Indies. In New York we were t<»lcl
that Malay was tlie language of the islands and that we must
learn it to be understood there. So on the six weeks’ voyage
through the Panama Cana), across the Pacific Ocean, and down
the China Sea, we took daily lotsons in elementary Malay from
a sailor on bc^rd, a young Javanese who joined the ship to sec
the world, but who was disappointed txxrausc, he said, all he had
seen was the sea around him, for when the boat docked he seldom
had a chance to go ashore. When we reached Java we fouiu) we
xviii ISLASD OF BALI
slioulci have been helpless without the little Mala\ we lud
learned on lx)ar<l ship.
We had our first unforgettable glimpse of Bali at dawn when
the little K.P.M. .steamer approached Bulelcng - a high dark
peak reflected on a sea as snuKith as }>olishctl steel, ssith the sum-
nut of the cone hidden in dark, mcialhc clouds As we were
rowed ashore, Bulelcng came out of the mist the eternal tin
roofs and dilapidated Chinese hou,scs. the concrete steamship
office, and the scraggy coolies of escry small jxirt of the Indies
I,andingon the primitive wooticn pier, we retened the itievitahlc
welcome of Patimah, a gay and dignified initldlc agetl Balinese
“ princess from whom one rents a car to go to the south of the
island. Patimah is a famous svoman talcs go abnil that she
was sas'Ctl by the Dutch from being hurnctl ahs c at the eremation
of her husband, the king of Bali Hie truth is that she svas visit¬
ing in Btilcleng at the time the Radja ' of k'lnngkung was killcil
with his whole court when he opposes! the Dutch army Patimah
escaped death by submitting quietly and remaining in Bulelcng.
There she marrictl a henpecked Moliainmctlan, cliangcd her re¬
ligion and became the prosperous owner of a silver and brocade
shop and of a fleet of fine motor-cars for hire. 'I*hc trasTlIer sue-
emn^ tasily to her charm, her lis'cly scnic of humour, and her
hospitality when she serves coffee on her veranda, and seldom
fails to buy a hammered silver bow'l or a brocade scarf. But some
Babbitt has taught unsuspecting Patimah that a typkal Amen-
can greeting is: " Shake the bottiel " followed by a significant
gesture of the hand. This is the only English the knows.
After the coffee interlude the traveller is hurried into hii car,
and while his baggage is being tied on, he is told that he it going
to Den Pasar, tm capild of the South, " centre of Balincte 03^
tare,” where are the only large, comfortable holeli. The m
darts through narrow streets lined with dingy httte ihopf of chn
aaxkesy and cotton goods run by emadated Chineae in imckr-
Kiirts or by Ataha with fbrhklcling bladk beardt. Javaneie in
»& 9dlHi hm to ilMtiwriHi It tom -Rii*,- « faUfai rata.
INTRODUCTION xix
black velvet skull-caps mingle with Dutch officials in pith helmets
and high starched collars, but the beautiful Balinese of steam¬
ship pamphlets arc not to be seen anywhere, 'rhe people on the
streets are ugly and unkcnjpt, and instead of the much publicized
beauties, there are only uninteresting women in not very clean
blouses, 'rhe car drives through Singaradfa, the capital, with its
neat Dutch bungalows, its gasoline stations, and the house of the
Resident, with its imposing driveway Ranked by two monstrous
cement snakes. l.caving the town, the car passes miserable vil¬
lages and occasional gingerbread temples with tin roofs; it climbs
the mountain side, the villages become more and more scarce,
it grows colder and colder, and soon the tourist is shivering in
a cloud of fog, He begins to suspect that he has been deceived.
A few wild-looking people wrapped in blankets ap|5car on the
road riding on small ponies, and soon a double row of wooden
shacks with more tin roofs announces Kintaniani, the village on
the rim of the crater of the Batur, where a beautiful view of the
wlcanocs has been promised. l*cn chances to one it will be foggy
and the tourist will see nothing, so he goes into the elaborate rest-
house of the K.P.M to have a drink and warm up.
Soon he is on the road again; the car winds and turns shatp
curves down the mountain, the fog vanishes, and the air becomes
warmer and clearer. Tropica! vegetation reappears, and riding
among tall palms and enormous ^nana trees, he enters Bangli,
which is at last like the Bali of the photc^aphs. With icsKmed
suspicions, he rides through many b«utifu! villages and fantastic
terraced ricehelds covered with every shade of tender green. At
a sharp curve a large tire sign indicates arrival at his destination
- Den Pasar. His car drives noisily up to the Bali Hotel, prklc
of the K.P.M., and he it shown to a clean and sanitary room
with a hospital bed through the middle of which, lengthwise,
stretches a hard, round bolster, the scKalled “ Dutch wife/* On
the veranda ctf the hc^ at tea time there are always Bidi-
neie girls who sell curios, plainly junk, but they aie not to Uame.
They have discovered that the tourists generally prefer hideous
XX
isi.Asn or- liMj
shitiidtcs matle by beginners nr the i:.n»iv wc.nuuix cbr.l with
anilines to the fine old pieces of wtHnl c.irvun; nr t«> the Minipfti
ous ancient textiles that now rarely find their way into the eunn
market.
Den Pasar is a ijlorifictl Hnlelcni* In the r,'rraf " ahm aluti.'”
the play£»fonnd of Den Pawr. stolul Hollanders plas tennis and
drink Ix’er near sounj; Balinese playiiifi soccer in strijn-d ssscat
.sliirts. shorts, and spiked sIuh-s, All amnntl the s»|natr air the
homes of the leadiiijc; white residents, neat aiul l»«mfi;enis. small
bungalows with eiiorinoiis pink einbioulerctl lainpsb.iih s on
every porch and well kept fiont gardens of nii}Hntcd roses I In*
business street leading to the market consists, as nt Bnleleiu:. nf
the same scpialid shops, provision stores, easohne pomps, a sm.dl
C^liinese hotel, and eurio stalls with mass ptcuhu lion " B.ihnrsr
art, all kept by the Mine ( diiiiesc eoinpr.idors. the s,imr lieaided
Bombay merehants with eagle like l»caks, ihcsscx! like Imrlcsijnc
comedians in ineoiigrnoiis t.ill fe//cs, cmhiouleic^l slippers, pink
sarongs, and Fairojicaii vests worn oscr shirts with tails cnit, Ivir
gaining cxeitally with husky bare breasted Balinese women
After the first Ix.’wildcring clays, svhen wc had reeosercti from
the shock of such distressing impressions as these, we licgan to
“discover “ the real Bali. Only a blmk awav from the scpiare,
on tlic dirt-jjavcsl lanes adfacent to the main asTfiiics, wliere tlie
{^cc is not broken by mad automobiles nmiiing os-erf pics and
chiclcais, wc fomicl the typical mud walls of the comtKnmds, tfic
thatched gates protected by rin^tcrious signs - a dead cbiekcn
naild flat on a wall, or a little white flag insaihed with catsalistie
^ibok Tlicsc were the proper setting for Hw litlic brown,
skinned iwmcm reluming from market with baskets of fmit on
"T *” loinclothi sitting in ^otips around
the tmkets in which they kept their favouHte fighting cocks Kn*
ffgrtic women throh rice or bathe quite unconcerned In the
™**^«v*"«* *»»«« twked children play in the
middlcofthestreetwithioickcttli^haveM From
INTRODUCTION xxi
behind the walls conic occasional tinkling sounds of practising
on a gamchn.
As we became more and more familiar with our new life, and
our cars grew accustomed to Malay, we made friends among the
Balinese. We were already weary of the stolid prudishness of
Dutch hotel life, and since we could not afford the high rates
much longer, we looked for another place to live. Houses for
rent that were not in the Arab, Chinese, or Ktirojxran tpiarter
were non-existent in those days, but .somehow we Ix’camc at¬
tached to the household of our first Balinese friend -- Gusti Alit
Oka, an intelligent and dapjw young man, prince by birth, car-
jK’utcr by profession, and musician by choice. 1 Ic agreed to rent
us one of the pavilions of his liousc and undertook to improve
our Malay. Our hmujchold consisted of the young prince's wife
and child, two widowed aunts, and an old sen'ant, a retainer of
his father, the great warrior who was killed with his brother the
Radja of Badung in their last dcs|K:ratc stand against the invad¬
ing Dutch army twenty-nine years ago, when our liost w'as a baby,
lake a true Balinese prince, Custi had his " man," an amiable
but exceedingly ugly retainer, by name Katcl, who followed his
master adnnringly whcrcv'cr he went. We settled in Gusti's
house, bought a few chairs and tables, bad hals made, and hired
a few nonclialant servants; a djongos who insisted bis name was
" Dog,” a cook, and a cliauffcur. We bought a decrepit Chevro¬
let and gave ourselves up to the full enjoyment of the island,
going from feast to feast, dances, and cremations.
It was my good fortune to have made friends in those days
with Walter Spies, Bali's most famous resident, lire son of a
German diplomat in Moscow at the outbreak of the World War,
Spies was already well known in Europe as a painter in 1933,
when I had admirdi and cut out reproductions of his paintings
of Russia from the Kumtblattt never thinking he was to beoome
one of my closest friends. As fine a musician as he is a painter.
Spies studied the music of the Tatars while interned in the Urals
xxn
I SI. AS n OF BAl.l
during the war years. After the war he ran .nM\ frr>tn clisiir^an-
ized Fairopc to the Fast until he reached fava. wherr he uas
called by the Sultan of Djokiakarta to nrgani/e and lca<j a ^^’cst
erii orchestra. He lived for )cars in the Sultan's cruirt Icarinng
their music. Then one day he went to Ikili un a s imI ami Ims
remained tlicrc ever since, and may. perhaps, for the rest of hi*
life. In his charming desil-inay-eare svas , Spies is fanuhar ss ith
every phase of Bahne.se life and has Ixren the ronsfant vuircc of
disinterc-stesf information to every arch.ttilogis|. anthoijwihicist,
musician, or artist who has come to Bah I lis assistam c is giscn
generously and without ex|xttiiig esen the ressartl of < rrdit
Nfucli of his enthusiasm and energy has gone to help the ssork
of others, but he has achiesements of his tmn lie svas the first
to appreciate and record Balinese music, he lias collet led even-
pattern of Balinese art, has eontrihuted to notch sciriitifir |our-
nals, has created the Bali Museum, of which he is the curator,
and has now built a splendid aquarium An authentic friaid of
the Balinese and loved by them. 1 feel he ha* ctintnliulctl more
to the prcitigc of the white man than the cnlnniat dcsjiofs w-lm
fail to impress the disaiminating Balinese by the policy used to
bluff natives into submission.
The montlrs svent by as we roamed all m-cr the island with
Spies, watching strange ceremonies, enjoying their mush:, lirten*
ing to fantastic tales, camping in tltc wilds of West Bali or on
the cmal rec^s erf Sanur. Walter loves to collect velvety dragon*
flia, strange spiders and sea-slugs, not in a natiiraliil'i’boa. but
in minutely accurate drawings. For days at a time he would sit
in his twt dravdng them, because once dead, their beautiful
xxiv I SLASH Of nM.l
lands were being sold at auctuni. Ncv^ly .uquircd bnnrirs im¬
ported articles “ took their precious cash, ami at tirsl the sihia
tion seemed dcsjicratc. ^^'e fcarcti sve had made a tmsiaVe m
returning, and to csc.ijK the tourist ridden, tommertial IVu
Pasar, we went to live with our friend Spies in his ix-autifnl house
in rjamptian, in the mountains near t ’hud \\*c remained there
for a fesv months among nesv Balinese friends, guiderl hv the
experience of Spies, svorfcing ,ind collecting the mafetial for this
b<Kjk.
But we missed our old friends and the actisits of our former
village home. W’c svcrc convinced that i! ssas m the rlntmt of
Badting, around Den Pasiir. despite the sujKrfuMl <haiu:cs, that
the most sumptuous feasts svcrc held ami dances and plass sscre
most frequent. I had now ,i tcaclicr ami translator ssho g.nr me
daily lessons and heljxxl svith manuscripts W ith Spies ami the
teacher, we moved the entire houseliold Kick to Belahtan. to our
old house, the home of Cnisti Oka. who hasl m the meantime
married a new wife, a lieatitiful young princess ( hir dear fr icml
Siloh Biang, Custi's first wife, had fought w ith Sagting. Iicr ns ah
and had run away to licr motha, hut our return hrought Sdoh
Biang hack. She preferred to remain with us in onr part of the
house rather titan with Ciisti and hts nesi' wife, and we often Itad
to act as mediators in their faintly quarrels At times this createti
difficult diplomatic situations, ^mc of our okl friatfls lud dtetl,
others had married or moved awny. and the little fbitceii wlio
only left our front {sorch to go to bed at night ttad grown into
serious young wtimen of thirteen or fourteen years of age. We
became again members of the quarter of the vtllage. the hmiJiat
of Betaliian, home of one of the finest orchestras on the islattd,
the gong belatuan, of which Custi was a member. We Itad open
door to the frequent local festivab. and within our etimpound we
had c^portunity to observe the daily life df the BalincK and to
ooBedt first-hand information for this book. The details ipven
here, however, cannot be taken as applying to the entire isbnd.
each community has its own code, and what is law in one place
JNTRODVCTION XXV
is often ignored in the next. \o two festivals arc carried nnt in
exactly the .same manner and there are m? two temples exactly
alike. 1 he general prineiple.s are the .same e\-crvwhere. hut the
details vary from place to place and frmn ca.ste to ca.sto, and the
tradition.s of the ancient monntain villages arc different from
tho.se of the di.strict.s tinder the inflnence of the former rnler.s; to
note fhetn all would retjnire an entire hook for ear;h en.stom or
ceremon)'.
Xof having made a sy,stcmatic .stndv of anthropology or of
Oriental religions, tlie ohjective of this hook is limited’’ to the
attempt to present a hi nils eve view of Haline, sc life and eiiltnre.
htifh oi which are inexttieahly homul to their eleeplv rooted he-
licks anti to their logical and harmoniou.s living, The Haline.se
stil! retain their traditions anti hold to their own manner of life,
hnt they are only too willing ftj adopt every new itk-a. gotul m
hatj, hrtmghf into their i.sland hy merchants’ tourists, misnifahle
education, am! missitmaries. 1’he tmly aim of this Imok. there¬
fore, is to ctilleet in one volume all that could he obtained from
personal experience hy an umseientifie artist, t>f a living enltnre
that is tiotnnetl to tlisappear niuler the merciless onslaught of
modern commerdalism and standardization.
PART I
NOTE ON PRONUNCIATION
The Balinese language is a difficult one to pronounce properly;
it abounds in subtle sounds — two sorts of d's, t’s, a% e’s, etc.
At present there is an officially recognized system, taught in
Balinese schools, for the spelling of Balinese words in Latin
characters. However, for English-speaking readers this system
would be confusing and a few of these rules of spelling have
been modified here for the sake of convenience.
In general all consonants are pronounced as in English. Tlie
Dutch dj which sounds like ; in jam " and the tj with a sound
of ch as in “ church ” have been retained because they arc
nearer the Balinese pronunciation of these sounds and in order
not to further confuse those accustomed to the Dutch spelling;
/ has been changed to y as in wayang, which is in Bali spelled
wajang; nj is changed to ny ~ i.e., njepi: nyepi - pronounced as
in “ canyon." The ng sound typical of Malay language.s should
be pronounced as one sound, as in “ ringing ” ~ peng’iwa and
not pen'giwa.
All vowels are pronounced as in Spanish or Italian: a as in
“ artistic," i as in “ miss," o as in " photo "; e, however, is short
and hardly pronounced unless accented, i i when it is as in
egg " or “ eight." The most important modification of the
Dutch spelling is that oe has been changed to u, pronounced
as in “ bull " or like the oo in fool." This is to be remembered
especially in connection with geographical names as they ap¬
pear in Dutch maps; for example, Kloengkoeng, Oeboed,
spelled here Klungkung, Ubud.
Always in a word ending in a, this letter has a sound rather
like the last a in “ America," or as in “ odd.” Other phonetic
signs have been omitted.
CHAPTER I
THE ISLAND
The Malay Archipelago lies directly on the volcanic belt of
the world. Like the backbone of some restless, formidable ante¬
diluvian monster, more than three hundred volcanoes rise from
the sea in a great chain of islands — perhaps all that remains of
a continent broken up in prehistoric cataclysms — forming a con¬
tinuous land bridge that links Asia with Australia. Because of
its peculiar and fantastic nature, its complex variety of peoples,
and its fabulous richness, the archipelago is one of the most fasci¬
nating regions of the earth. It includes famous islands like Java,
Borneo, Sumatra, New Guinea, the Philippines, and the hysteri¬
cal island-volcano of Krakatao, Such freaks of nature as the giant
dragon lizards of Komodo, the coloured lakes of Flores, the
4 ISLAND OF BALI
orangutans, the rafflesia (a flower over three feet in diameter) ,
and the birds of paradise, are to be found nowhere else. The
population of the islands ranges from such forms of primitive
humanity as the Negritos, the Papuans, the Kubus, who seem
only a few steps away in the evolutionary scale from the orangu¬
tan, to the supercivilized Hindu-Javanese, who over six hundred
years ago built monuments like Borobudur and Prambanan,
jewels of Eastern art.
Through the centuries, civilization upon civilization from all
directions has settled on the islands over the ancient megalithic
cultures of the aborigines, until each island has developed an
individual character, with a colourful culture, according to
whether Chinese, Hindu, Malay, Polynesian, Mohammedan, or
European influence has prevailed. Despite the mental isolation
these differences have created, even the natives believe that the
islands once formed a unified land. Raffles, in his History of Java,
mentions a Javanese legend that says '' the continent was split
into nine parts, but when three thousand rainy seasons will have
elapsed, the Eastern Islands shall again be reunited and the power
of the white man shall end.”
One of the smallest, but perhaps the most extraordinary, of the
islands, is the recently famous Bali — • a cluster of high volcanoes,
their craters studded with serene lakes set in dark forests filled
with saeaming monkeys. The long green slopes of the volcanoes,
deeply furrowed by ravines washed out by rushing rivers full of
rapids and waterfalls, drop steadily to the sea without forming
lowlands. Just eight degrees south of the Equator, Bali has over
two thousand square miles of extravagantly fertile lands, most
of which are beautifully cultivated. Only a narrow strait, hardly
two miles across, separates Bali from Java; here again the idea
that the two islands were once joined and then separated is
sustained by the legend of the great Javanese king who was
obliged to banish his good-for-nothing son to Bali, then united
to Java by a very narrow isthmus. The king accompanied his
THE ISLAND 5
son.to the narrowest point of the tongue of land; when the young
prince had disappeared from sight, to further emphasize the
separation, he drew a line with his finger across the sands. The
waters met and Bali became an island.
The dangers lurking in the waters around the island suggest
a possible reason why Bali remained obscure and unconquered
until 1908. Besides the strong tidal currents and the great depths
of the straits, the coasts are little indented and are constantly
exposed to the full force of the monsoons; where they are not
bordered by dangerous coral banks, they rise from the sea in
steep cliffs. Anchorage is thus out of the question except far out
to sea, and the Dutch have had to build an artificial port in Benua
to afford a berth for small vessels.
One of the volcanoes, the Gunung Batur (5,633 feet) , is still
active. In the centre of the old crater an enormous amphitheatre
ten miles across by a mile in depth rises like a dark blister, the
smoking cone of a more recent crater (see map) , its sides covered
with the black lava spilled out into the great bowl of the older
crater in the latest eruption. It is said that this lava has not yet
cooled deep down, and when the rain water seeps through the
cracks it turns into clouds of steam. Half-circling the new crater
is the peaceful, misty lake Batur, its shores dotted with the an¬
cient villages of the oldest present inhabitants of the island. In
former times the prosperous village of Batur rose at the foot of
the volcano, but today only the villages across the crater remain,
those on the safe side of the lake. One day the Batur began to
growl and in 1917 it burst into a violent eruption accompanied
by earthquakes. The whole of the island was affected, and 6 5,000
homes, 2,500 temples and 1,372 lives were lost. The lava en¬
gulfed the village of Batur, but stopped at the very gate of the
temple. The villagers took the miracle as a good omen and con¬
tinued to live there. In August 1926, however, a new eruption
buried the sacred temple under the molten lava, this time with
the loss of one life, an old woman who died of fright. The people
of Batur, unable to break the spell that links their destinies to
6 ISLAND OF BALI
the mountain, rebuilt their village high up on the rim of the outer
crater, renamed it Kububatur, and will probably remain there
until again driven away by the anger of the volcano.
According to legend, Bali was originally a flat, barren island.
When Java fell to the Mohammedans, the disgusted Hindu gods
decided to move tb Bali, but it became necessary for them to
build dwelling-places high enough for their exalted rank. So
they created the mountains, one for each of the cardinal points.
The highest, Gunung Agung, was erected at the east, the place
of honour; the Batur at the north; the Batukau at the west; and
since there had to be one for the south, the raised tableland
(Tafelhoek) of Bukit Petjatu became the scat of the patron of
the south.’^ The Batur is venerated in its neighbourhood, and
the Batukau is holy to the villages on its slopes, but it is the
Gunung Agung, Bali's highest mountain (10,560 feet) that is
most sacred to the whole of the island. Half-way up the moun¬
tain is the mother temple for all Bali, the great Besakih with its
impressive stone gate and its hundreds of towers thatched with
sugar-palm fibre. The Gunung Agung is regarded as the Navel
(pm6h) of the World. It is to the Balinese what Kailasa and
Meru are to the Hindus of India. As Mahameru it is the Cosmic
Mountain, the Father of All Humanity.
To the Balinese, Bali is the entire world. Knowledge of the
other nations of which they are conscious — China, Java, and
Europe — does not influence their belief in the least. They are
simply other worlds that have no relation to their own concep¬
tion of the earth. There is an old manuscript which gives a de¬
scription of the structure of the world. Although not very highly
regarded by scholars, it gives us the popular Balinese conception
of the cosmos, especially as it justifies their faith that Bali is the
world. The follo'wing are excerpts from a free translation:
At the bottom of everything there is magnetic iron, but in
1 In other versions, the mountains from East Java were moved to Bali. In flue
pata Yoga It IS recorded that the Gunung Agung went to the center, the Batur
V
THE BALINESE COSMOS
The World Turtle, Bedawang, and the Supreme Being, Tintiya
by Ida Bagus Togog, of Batuan
THE ISLAND 7
the beginning there was nothing, all was emptiness; there was
only space. Before there were the heavens, there was no earth,
and when there was no earth, there was no sky. . . . Through
meditation, the world serpent Antaboga created the turtle Beda-
wang, on whom lie coiled two snakes as the foundation of the
World. On the world turtle rests a lid, the Black Stone. There
is no sun, there is no moon, there is no night in the cave below
(the underside of the stone) ; this is the underworld, whose gods
are the male Batara Kala and the female Setesuyara. There lives
also the great serpent Basuki. . . .
“ Kala created the light and Mother Earth, over which extends
a layer of water. Over this again are consecutive domes or skies,
high and low; one of mud (which dried to become the earth and
the mountains) ; then the ' empty ' middle sky (the atmos¬
phere) , where Iswara dwells;- above this is the floating sky, the
clouds, where Semara sits, the god of love. Beyond that follows
the * dark ’ (blue) sky with the sun and the moon, the home
of Surya; this is why they are above the clouds. Next is the Per¬
fumed Sky, beautiful and full of rare flowers, where live the bird
Tjak, whose face is like a human face, the serpent Taksaka, who
has legs and wings, and the awan snakes, the falling stars. Still
higher in the sky gringsing wayang, the ‘ flaming heaven of the
ancestors.’ And over all the skies live the great gods who keep
watch over the heavenly nymphs.” ® Thus we have it that the
island rests on the turtle, which floats on the ocean.
As the last Asiatic outpost to the east, Bali is interesting to the
naturalist as an illustration of the theory of evolution. In 1869
Alfred Russell Wallace discovered that the fauna and flora typi¬
cal of Asia end in Bali, while the earlier, more primitive biologi¬
cal forms found in Australia begin to appear in the neighbouring
island of Lombok, just east of Bali. Here the last tigers, cows
2 This is from the T/atur Yoga, a popular manuscript which I translated for
the sake of practice on the language. It consists of ideas on cosmogony, mythology,
legends of the creation of man, etc., ending in a confused set of rules for crema*
tion and Balinese genealogies. The second half of the manuscript is extremely ob¬
scure, full of errors, and appears incomplete, perhaps owing to careless copying of an
older palm-leaf book.
8 ISLAND OF BALI
(banteng) , monkeys, woodpeckers, pythons, etc., of Asia are not
to be found farther east, and the cockatoos, parrots, and giant
lizards predominate. Bali has the luxuriant vegetation of tropi¬
cal Asia, while Lombok is arid and thorny, like Australia, Wal¬
lace drew a line across the narrow straits between Bali and Lom¬
bok, the deepest waters in the archipelago, to divide Asia from
Oceania.® Today, however, scientists are more inclined to regard
the islands as a transitional region.
As in all countries near the Equator, Bali has an eternal sum¬
mer with even, warm weather, high humidity, and a regular vari¬
ation of winds, but the unbearable heat of lands similarly situated
is greatly relieved by sea breezes that blow constantly over the
descending slopes of the four volcanoes that form the island.
The seasons are not distinguished as hot and cold, but as wet and
dry. It is pleasantly cool and dry during our summer months,
when the south-easterly winds blow, but in November the north¬
west monsoon ushers in six months of a rainy season so violent
that it makes everything rot away, growing green whiskers of
mould on shoes that are not shined every day. Then the atmos¬
phere becomes hot and sticky and the torrential rains that lash
the island cause landslides that often carry enormous trees into
the deep ravines cut into the soft volcanic ash by the rivers,
themselves red with earth washed from the mountain. Brooks
and rivers swell into huge torrents (bandjir) that rise unex¬
pectedly with a deafening roar, in front of one’s ^es, carrying
away earth, plants, and occasional drowned pigs, destroying
bridges and irrigation works. It is not unusual for a careless
bather to be surprised by a sudden bandjir and to be carried away
in the muddy stream.
It is only natural that in a land of steep mountains, with such
abundant rains, crossed in all directions by streams and great
rivers, on a soil impregnated with volcanic ash, the earth should
Inio-MalOTan (west of Bjdi) and Austro-
fttri ^ where he draws another Ihus to divide
the Malayan from the Polynesian islands.
THE ISLAND g
attain great richness and fertility. The burning tropical sun shin¬
ing on the saturated earth produces a steaming, electric, hot¬
house atmosphere that gives birth to the dripping jungles that
cover the slopes of the volcanoes with prehistoric tree-ferns,
pandanus, and palms, strangled in a mesh of creepers of all sorts,
their trunks smothered with orchids and alive with leeches, fan¬
tastic butterflies, birds, and screeching wild monkeys. This exu¬
berance extends to the cultivated parts of the island, where the
ricefields that cover this over-populated land produce every year,
and without great effort, two crops of the finest rice in the Indies.
Despite the enormous population, the lack of running water
has kept the western part of the island uninhabited and wild.
The few remaining tigers, and the deer, wild hog, crocodiles,
great lizards, jungle cocks, etc., are the sole dwellers in this arid
hilly country covered with a dusty, low brush. Curiously enough,
the Balinese regard this deserted land (Puhki) as their place of
origin. They explain in an old legend that a great city, which
still exists, once flourished there, but has been made invisible to
human eyes by Wahu Rahu, the greatest Brahmana from Java,
who was forced to flee from the capital, Gelgel, to save his beauti¬
ful daughter from the king (by caste his inferior) and who found
refuge in Pulaki by making the city invisible to the wicked king
and his followers.
Another arid region in contrast with the extravagant fertility
of the island is the peninsula of limestone called Tafelhoek
(Bukit to the Balinese) which rises to a height of 700 feet above
the sea. This curious tableland, which shows every indication of
having once been at the bottom of the ocean, is joined to the
mainland by a low, narrow isthmus, but its sides rise almost verti¬
cally from the sea, and on the extremity of a long narrow rock,
with a straight drop of 250 feet, is the fantastically situated
temple of Uluwatu, one of the holiest in Bali. This projecting
rock is believed to be the ship, turned to stone, of Dewi Danu,
the goddess of waters.
10 ISLAND OF BALI
The mountains with their lakes and rivers arc the home of the
gods and the sources of the land’s fertility, and they stand for
everything that is holy and healthy. To the Balinese everything
that is high is good and powerful, so it is natural that the sea,
lower than the lowest point of land, with the sharks and barracuda
that infest the waters, and the deadly sea-snakes and poisonous
fish that live among the treacherous coral reefs, should be consid¬
ered as fenget, magically dangerous, the home of the evil spirits.
Few Balinese know how to swim and they rarely venture into the
sea except to bathe near the shallow beaches, and then they go
only a few feet from the shore. There arc small settlements of
fishermen who brave the malarial coasts of Kuta, Samir, Benua,
and Ketewel, but in general fishing is done on a small scale, either
with casting-nets, or in beautiful prows shaped like fantastic
“ elephant-fish ” (gad/a-mina) with elegant stylized trunks, and
eyes to see at night. With their triangular sails apex downward,
they go far out to sea at sunset to procure the giant sea-turtles
required at the frequent banquets of this feast-loving people.
Most Balinese seldom eat fish and remain essentially a rice-eating
race. Their repugnance for the sea may be due to tlic same re¬
ligious fear of the supernatural that prevents them from climbing
to the summit of the great mountains. The Balinese feel that the
heights are for the gods, the middle world for humans, and the
depths and low points for the spirits of the underworld. They
dread the unholy loneliness of the beaches haunted by demons
and they beheve that the coastline is under the influence of Djero
Ged^ Metjaling, the Fanged Giant, who lives on the barren
island of Nusa Penida. They are one of the rare island peoples
in the world who turn their eyes not outward to the waters, but
upward to the mountain tops.
CHAPTER II
THE PEOPLE
Like a continual under-sea ballet, the pulse of life in Bali
moves with a measured rhythm reminiscent of the sway of marine
plants and the flowing motion of octopus and jellyfish under the
sweep of a submarine current. There is a similar correlation of
the elegant and decorative people with the clear-cut, extravagant
vegetation; of their simple and sensitive temperament with the
fertile land.
No other race gives the impression of living in such close touch
with nature, creates such a complete feeling of harmony between
the people and the surroundings. The slender Balinese bodies
are as much a part of the landscape as the palms and the bread¬
fruit trees, and their smooth skins have the same tone as the
earth and as the brown rivers where they bathe; a general colour
scheme of greens, greys, and ochres, relieved here and there by
bright-coloured sashes and tropical flowers. The Balinese belong
in their environment in the same way that a humming-bird or an
orchid belongs in a Central American jungle, or a steel-worker
belongs in the grime of Pittsburgh. It was depressing to watch
our Balinese friends transplanted to the Paris Fair. They were
cold and miserable there in the middle of the summer, shivering
in heavy overcoats or wrapped in blankets like red Indians, but
they were transformed into normal, beautiful Balinese as soon
as they returned from their unhappy experience.
12
ISLAND OF BALI
Today the beauty of the Balinese has been exploited to ex¬
haustion in travelogues and by tourist agencies, but as far back
as 1619 records mention that Balinese women were in great
demand in the slave markets of Bourbon (Reunion) , where
'' they brought as much as 150 florins." The traffic in Balinese
slaves continued until 1830, and today there is a colony of
Balinese in Batavia, the descendants of former slaves. Their
reputation for beauty is well justified: the majority of the popula¬
tion are handsome, with splendid physique and with a dignified
elegance of bearing, in both men and women of all ages. From
childhood the women walk for miles carrying heavy loads on
their heads; this gives them a great co-ordination of movement,
a poised walk and bodily fitness. Old women retain their strength
and do not become bent hags. We were astonished at times to
discover that the slender, straight silhouette we had admired
from a distance belonged to an old lady with grey hair, walking
with ease under forty or fifty pounds of fruit or pottery. Unless
physically disabled, elderly people never admit that they are too
old or too weak for activity; to " give up ” would be dangerous to
physical and spiritual health and would render a person vulner¬
able to attacks of a supernatural character.
Ordinarily free of excessive clothing, the Balinese have small
but well-developed bodies, with a peculiar anatomical structure
of simple, solid masses reminiscent of Eg}q)tian and Mycenaean
sculptures: wide shoulders tapering down in unbroken lines to
flexible waists and narrow hips; strong backs, small heads, and
firm full breasts. Their slender arms and long legs end in delicate
hands and feet, kept skilful and alive by functional use and dance
training. Their faces have well-balanced features, expressive
eyes, small noses, and full mouths, and their hair is thick and
glossy. Because they are tanned by the sun, their golden-brown
skin appears generally darker than it really is, and when seen at
a distance, people bathing are considerably whiter around their
middles, where the skin is usually covered by clothes, giving the
impression that they wear light-coloured pants. Watching a
THE PEOPLE 13
crowd of semi-nude Balinese of all ages, one cannot help won¬
dering what the comparison would be should men and women of
our cities suddenly appear in the streets nude above the waist.
Their character is easy, courteous, and gentle, but they can be
intense and can show strong temper if aroused. They are gay and
witty; there is nothing that a Balinese loves more than a good
joke, especially if it is off-colour, and even children make ribald
puns that are applauded by grown-ups. It is perhaps in their mad
sense of humour, the spirit of Rabelaisian fun with which they
handle even such forbidding subjects as religion and death, that
lies the key to their character. The adjective childish '' or
“ childlike,” so often misapplied to primitive peoples, does not
suit the Balinese, because even the children show a sophistica¬
tion often lacking in , more civilized grown-ups. They are re¬
sourceful and intelligent, with acute senses and quick minds.
Once, when I mentioned the goodness of a very short friend, the
immediate reply was: “ How could he be otherwise, he is so
small! ” One day Spies's monkey got loose and ran all over the
house upsetting and breaking things. All the Balinese boys
chased the monkey, but it let them come to within a few feet
of it and then leaped out of reach onto the roof or a tree. The
only one who did not join in the chase was Rapung, our teacher
of Balinese, because he was a newcomer to the household and
the monkey snarled and sprung at him every time Rapung passed
near where it was tied: they hated each other. When it became
plain that the monkey could not be captured so easily, one of
the boys had the bright idea of having everybody pretend to at¬
tack Rapung, imitating the monkey, making faces, and squealing
at him. Soon the monkey forgot that he himself was persecuted
and joined in the attack, but when he was most aggressive some¬
one grabbed him.
The pride of the Balinese has not permitted the development
of one of the great professions of the East: there are no beggars
in Bali. But this unique distinction is now threatened by tourists
who lure boys and girls with dimes to take their pictures, and
14 ISLAND OF BALI
lately, in places frequented by tourists, people are beginning to
ask for money as a return for a service. Ordinarily even a child
would be scolded and shamed by anyone who heard him ask
something from a stranger. A gift must be reciprocated and we
were often embarrassed by the return presents of our poor neigh¬
bours. We gave Ktut Adi, a little dancer of eight, a scarf of no
great value; one day soon after she came to us with a basket of
rice, some eggs, and a live chicken, carried by her mother because
the load was too great for her. Children of the neighbourhood
that Rose had treated for infected wounds always came back
with presents of fruit, cakes, or rice which they handed casually
to our house-boy, never mentioning them to us, as if they wanted
to avoid making a demonstration of their generosity. Even chil¬
dren have a strong sense of pride.
The aristocracy is despotic and arrogant, but the ordinary
people, although used to acknowledging the superiority of their
masters, are simple and natural in an unservile and unsubmissive
way. By the threat of passive disobedience and boycott they kept
the princes from overstepping their bounds. Europeans com¬
plain that the Balinese make bad servants; they are too free, too
frank, and do not respond to the insolent manner that the white
man has adopted as '' the only way to deal with natives.”
Their moral code consists in maintaining their traditional be¬
haviour, observing their duties towards their fellow villagers and
paying due respect to the local feudal princes. Among them¬
selves they are kind and just, avoiding unnecessary quarrels and
solving their disputes by the simplest and most direct methods.
The villages are organized into compact boards or councils,
independent of other villages. Every married man that is,
every grown man — is a member of the council and is morally and
physically obliged to co-operate for the welfare of the commu¬
nity. A man is assisted by his neighbours in every task he cannot
perform alone; they help him willingly and as a matt«r of duty,
not ^ecting any reward other than the knowledge that, were
they in his case, he would help in the same manner. In this way
THE PEOPLE 15
paid labour and the relation of boss to coolie are reduced to a
minimum in Bali. Since the world of a Balinese is his com¬
munity, he is anxious to prove his worth, for his own welfare is
in direct relation to his social behaviour and his communal stand¬
ing. Moral sanctions are regarded as stronger than physical pun¬
ishment, and no one will risk the dreaded punishment of exile
from the village, when a man is publicly declared " dead ” to his
community. Once “ thrown away,” he cannot be admitted into
another of the co-operative villages, so no misfortune could be
greater to the Balinese than public disgrace. This makes of every
village a closely unified organism in which the communal policy
is harmony and co-operation — a system that works to every¬
body’s advantage.
By their ingenuity and constant activity they have raised their
main occupation, the cultivation of rice, to levels unsurpassed by
other rice-growing nations. Being essentially agriculturists, they
are not interested in navigation and trade; living the easy life of
the tropics, they are satisfied and well fed. The majority work
the land for themselves, so they have not yet become wage-
earners and have enough freedom and leisure left to dedicate to
spiritual relaxation. They are extraordinarily fond of music, po¬
etry, and dancing, which have produced a remarkable theatre.
Their culture, unlike that of their cultural ancestors, the Javanese,
is not yet in frank decline. Even the common people are better
agriculturists, better craftsmen and artists than the average Java¬
nese. The Balinese are by no means a primitive people.
Moreover, unlike the natives of the South Seas and similar
races under white domination, the Balinese are not a dying
people; far from that, in the last ten years a constant increase in
the birth-rate has been recorded. The 1930 census gave the
population of Bali as 1,148,000 people, or about 500 to the
square mile, an enormous figure when compared with the 41
per square mile of the United States. This includes the foreign
population: 7,935 Chinese, 1,544 and other Mohamme¬
dans, and 411 Europeans, of which only a small percentage are
i6 ISLAND OF BALI
of pure European stock, the rest being Eurasians and certain
Balinese, Javanese, Chinese, and Japanese who are given equal
standing with Europeans by a decree making them “ Staatsblad
Europeanen.”
For those interested in knowing something of the racial origins
of the Balinese, it may be added that they are by no means a pure
race, but a complicated mixture of the native aborigines, with
superimposed layers of higher cultures of various types.’ The
Balinese are descendants of a pure “ Indonesian ” race mixed
with the Hindus of Central and East Java, who were themselves
Indonesians of Hindu culture, with Indian and Cliinesc blood.
To these mixtures are further added traces of the Polynesian and
Melanesian, the result being a picturesque variety of types among
the Balinese; from the noble Ilindu and Northern Chinese, to
the Malay-Javanese, Polynesian, and even Papuan. While some
have sleek hair, high nose bridges, and cream-yellow skins, some
are dark and curly-haired like South Sea Islanders. Some have
large almond eyes, often with the “ Mongoloid ” fold, convex
1 The ancient inhabitants of the Malay Archipelago were ** Indonesians/' also
called Malayo-Polynesians, Austroncsians, Malaysians, and so forih, Of these, pure
branches are to be found today in the Dyah of Borneo, the Eatak of Sumatra, the
Toradja of Celebes, and the Igorot the Philippines. They are called by anthropolcgisis
“Proto-Malaysians” to differentiate them from the “ Deutero-Makysians/' those
with Hindu, Chinese, and Arabic mixtures.
The original Indonesians perhaps came to the islands long before our era, prob¬
ably from Southern China about 2&00 b.c. (Heine-Geldem), found actremely primi-*
tive aborigines of the Vedoic or Nc^to twt already there, perhaps the most m-
developed form of humanity. The Indonesians spread their culttire over the iskiids
and introduced the cultivation of rice, outrigger canoes, donw^tic animals p%s,
dogs, chickens, and water-buMoes — ironwmk, mats, pottery, megalithic monn-
mente, and probably the making of tapa cloth. They were often head*hunters and
cymbals, and Dr. D. J. H. Nyessen suggests that they may have been the anrx^tors
or the Polynesians.
The islands were at the crossroads of the ancient sea-rontes, favoured by winds and
currents, so the natives mixed fr^y with the peoples of nei^bouiing rtgjioni* India,
China, Arabia, and the Melanesian and Polyneska islands. The Hlndm ettaWished
great colonies that became powerful empires, like Madkpalrit in Java and Srivijra
in Sumatra, and they exerted a marked iniuence upon the Indbnesiatis. but tSev
did not come in great numbers and were eventua% sb®c»be4 Tire mxm happem
to the Chinese, who had come to Java rinoe the banning of our aim it k
posriMe- that part of the army of Kublai Hian became inoorpomfed into fte native
population around 1292, when Chinese influenoe pzedo^^toi over the Hteiu.
I have hedti told by Chinese scholars that at one time dhey eonmdered BaM as tibrfr
colony.
THE PEOPLE i‘7
noses, and fine mouths; others have the concave, flat, broad
noses, the squinty eyes, bulging foreheads, and prognathic javs^s
of the more primitive Indonesians. Thus the Balinese of today
are the same people as the Hindu-Javanese of pre-Mohammedan
Java, in the sense that they both underwent the same racial and
cultural influences.
THE ANCIENT SURVIVAL: THE BALI AGA
At one time the island was populated by pure Indonesians, an
ancient people who filed and blackened their teeth. They lived
in small communities, family clans ruled by a council of Elders
who acted as the priests of their religion. Their cult centred in
the worship of the powerful spirits of nature, and especially those
of their ancestors, with whom they continued to live, a great
family of both the dead and the living. Occasionally, by means
of mediums and sacrifices, they brought their ancestral spirits
down to this earth to protect them. They buried their dead or
simply abandoned them in the jungle to be carried away by the
spirits, and it is possible that they even ate parts of the bodies in
order to absorb the magic power inherent in their ancient head¬
men.
The pure descendants of these people, calling themselves Bali
Aga or Bali Mula, the “ original ” Balinese, still live, isolated
and independent, in the mountains where they found refuge from
imperialistic strangers. Hidden in the hills of East Bali, near
Karangasem, lies the village of Tenganan, where the most con¬
servative of the Bali Aga preserve the old traditions with the
greatest zeal. Tenganan is a rabidly isolated community, socially
and economically separate from the rest of Bali, almost a republic
in itself. It is shut off from the world by a solid wall that sur¬
rounds the entire village, which is meant to keep outsiders away,
and is broken only by four gates, each facing one of the cardinal
points. Of these gates, three open to the gardens and plantations
of the village, but the main gate is so narrow that a stout parson
has difficulty in squeezing through. Such is the obsession for
i8 ISLAND OF BALI
isolation in Tenganan that there is an official specially appointed
to sweep the village after the visits of strangers, to obliterate their
footprints.
We became acquainted with I-Tanggu, a youngish man with
fingernails four inches long, who was the perbcfeel of Tenganan,
the representative of his village with the Dutch Government
We were surprised to find him quite sociable. Once we played
host to him in Den Pasar and from then on we were often in¬
vited to visit Tenganan. Unlike the rest of the villages in Bali,
there is hardly any vegetation around the Tenganan houses,
which are all exactly alike and are arranged in rows on each side
of stone-paved avenues. In the central place is the council house
where the Elders meet, a long shed about ten feet wide by some
seventy feet long, strongly built and apparently very old. Farther
along are other buildings for public use, the purpose of some kept
a secret. The most curious are the unique mill for grinding kemiii
nuts to obtain oil, and the wooden Ferris-wheel, usually dis¬
mantled, in which the women revolve for hours in a strange rite.
The dwelling of I-Tanggu is just like all the others: a small gate
reached by a flight of steps leads into a court in which are the
sleeping-quarters, the kitchen, and a long house for relatives and
for storage. There is also a small empty shrine where the spirits
may rest when they visit their descendants.
The people of Tenganan are tall, slender, and aristocratic in a
rather ghostly, decadent way, with light skins and refined man¬
ners. The majority of the men still wear their hair long. They
are proud and look down even on the Hindu-Balinese nobility,
who respect them and leave them alone. They live in a strangs
communistic or, rather, patriarchal-communalistic system in
which individual ownership of property is not recognized and in
which even the plans and measurements of the houses are set
and alike for everybody. The village of Tenganan owns com¬
munally enormous tracts of fertile and well-cultivated lands that
fill every need of the village and make it one of the richest in ffifi
THE PEOPLE 19
island. I-Tanggu told me this legend of how the land came to
belong to the village:
“ Hundreds of years ago, long before the Hindu-Javanese set¬
tled in Bali, the powerful king Bedaulu lost his favourite horse.
Broken-hearted, the king sent the men of whole villages in all
directions with orders to find the stray horse. The Tenganans
went eastward * until, after days of travel, they found the corpse
of the horse. The king asked them to name their reward, but
their spokesman said they wanted only the land where the horse
was found; that is, the area covered by the smell of the carcass.
Although the horse had been dead for many days under the
tropical sun, Bedaulu considered this a modest request and sent
an official with a delicate sense of smell to measure off the land,
starting from the place where the horse lay. Accompanied by the
chief of Tenganan, he walked for days, but no matter how far
the two went, the smell seemed to follow them. Finally the of¬
ficial was exhausted and could go no farther; he said he considered
the land already covered enough, and the Tenganans were satis¬
fied. When the official left, the chief pulled from under his
clothes a large piece of the rotten flesh of the horse.”
I-Tanggu told me the story as we went up to the top of a hill
to look at one of the remains of the famous horse; the penis,
'' which had turned to stone.” On the summit, under a large
tree, was the relic, a long river stone shaped like a phallus by the
action of water. Passing people had left offerings on top of it.
I-Tanggu also said that the people of Tenganan are not permitted
to work their vast lands with their own hands, but hire other Bali¬
nese to do the agricultural work for them. The aristocratic com-
2 The people of Tenganan claim to have come originally from the district of
Bedulu, named after King Bedaulii, near the once holy city of Pedjeng. The Bratan
people, a branch of the same family, are supposed to have gone northward in search
of the horse. But having failed, they did not dare to return and still live near Singjirpaiff
in Desa Bratan, where they constitute a special caste of silver-workers, and where
Patimah has her silver shops. The Tenganans still recognize their alliance with the
people from Bedulu and make special visits to them at the feasts of the temple of
Samantiga. The people of Bedulu also go to Tenganan on special occasions to make
offerings.
20 ISLAND OF BALI
munists of Tenganan go to the plantation only to make tuak, beei
from sugar palms.
On the way down the hill, I was allowed a glimpse of the sacred
temple of Tenganan, of which we had heard mysterious reports.
It was a small enclosure under a great banyan tree surrounded
by a low wall of uncut stones roughly piled up. Inside were a few
mounds of the same stones, reminiscent of altars, and in one of
them there was a larger stone with what appeared to be a natural
cavity. I could not go into the enclosure because no outsider is
ever permitted to enter it. I-Tanggu could not divulge the pur¬
pose of such a primitive “ temple " and could not even name the
deities worshipped there, but he added mysteriously that there
were three of them! It seems extraordinary that this pile of
stones is the only sacred, “ essential ” place of worship for the
Tenganans, who are expert carvers and fine artists.®
Just outside the village I had seen a regular Balinese-style
temple with fine roofs and elaborate carvings, but this, I-Tanggd
said with contempt, did not mean much to them and was more
for the use of their Balinese guests and coolies, perhaps as a con¬
cession to the official cult of the island, so that they would not
be considered as savages, people without a “ proper " temple,
» This extraordinary village must not, however, be taken as a typical Bali Aga
community. Tenganan was deliberately cut off from the natural development of the
rest of Bali and remains today a unique, rabidly conservative, and strictly tribal com¬
munity that seems to take pride in doing things differently,'^ even from the rest
of the Bali Agas. Institutions that are the very essence of Balinese culture, such as
the shadow-plays (wayang kulit), are unknown, while others are even forbiddox.
Many rites and festivals peculiar to Tenganan do not exist elsewhere.
Dr. E. V. Kom has made an exhaustive study of the Tenganan people (De
dooTpsiepvhliek Tnganan Pagringsingan), but their religious conc^ts remain ob-
scure, perhaps even to the Tenganans themselves. Like the other BaEnese they wor¬
ship the Gunung Agung and rule their life by the eternal principle of orientation — •
high and low, right and left. They venerate shapeless stones (batd menurun}, con¬
sidered to be the fragments of the famous horse of Outj6 Scira, stones that are the
symbols of origin ” of totemic groups that arc sharply diviaed into right ” and
“ left." The people of Ten^nan were influenced by custorted ideas from an early
version of pre-Madjapahit Hinduism and have a vague notion of the Hindu Trinity,
headed, however, by Indra, generally a minor deity, who is to the Tenptnans the
same as Siw^d^ra, the supreme god, '' Lord of the Centre," with the kvSn (home)
of Sangbjjfe " (Brahma) at the right and that of '' Idjeng " (Wisnu) at me left
One of met lonely temples, or, rather, tabooed enclosures, is supposedly the reflec¬
tion on this earth of the heavenly lake of Indra.
THE PEOPLE 21
The clubs of virgins (sekadaha) and of adolescent boys (seka
truna) , who are still untouched by the magical impurity sup¬
posed to come from sexual intercourse, are an interesting feature
of Bali Aga villages not to be found among the Hindu-Balinese.
In Tenganan a ceremonial meeting is held for them once a year.
The virgins wear golden crowns covered with quivering flowers
of beaten gold, and are dressed from the armpits to the ground
in bright silk scarfs which they hold between jewelled fingers,
often tipped with four-inch artificial fingernails made of solid
gold. They appear dancing the red/ang, arranged in line from
the smallest baby, a year old, perhaps, to the grown girls who on
past occasions have failed to obtain a husband. They dance ac¬
companied by the gameJan selunding, an ancient, rarely heard
orchestra that has great iron sound-plates, struck energetically
by the old men of the village with oversize wooden hammers.
This dance could not be more archaic and simple: standing in
a double line, they fling the scarfs slowly away, first to one side,
then to the other, half turning the body each time. In the long
intervals between movements they stand motionless with down¬
cast eyes until a change of position is announced by the orches¬
tra. Tliis is the whole dance; a slow-motion version of the stilted
feminine dances of Java, giving one an unearthly feeling of sus¬
pended movement, and bearing no relation to the exuberant
vitality of the Balinese dances we were accustomed to see.
Soon boys in their best clothes and wearing krisses begin to
appear and form a group at the other end of the dancing-space,
watching the girls. When enough boys have gathered, the music
stops and the audience, mostly women, shows a lively interest.
The music begins again, playing the theme for the abuang, a
dance in which the boys express their preferences. One by one
the girls step to the front to show themselves in a short posed
dance with their eyes on the ground and their arms tensely out¬
stretched. Each of the marriageable girls has her chance, but the
boys are shy and at first nobody takes up the challenge. It is only
after the girls have danced a second or third round that one of the
22
ISLAND OF BALI
boys overcomes his shyness, walks up to his favourite girl when
her turn comes again, and takes his place in a stately dance. If
she is pleased, she will continue to dance with him until the bar
The Abuang
of music is over, but if she dislikes the boy, she leaves the floor
and goes back into line while the crowd laughs at the rejected
suitor.
Marriage restrictions are peculiar in Tenganan; their isolation¬
ist law allows no one to marry outside the village, and even there
only within certain rules as to family and caste. There was, for in¬
stance, the daughter of the priest who was already past marriage¬
able age, but who could not find a husband since there were no
unmarried men of her class. This continual inbreeding perhaps
accounts for the decadent and aristocratic type of the people. A
Tenganan who marries outside the village or breaks one of their
taboos is thrown out of the village; such exiles have formed a
small village of their own just outside the main gate, but they are
never again admitted into the mother community.
THE PEOPLE 23
The Balinese have often accused the Tenganans of cannibal¬
ism, which is of course indignantly denied and about which the
Tenganans are extremely sensitive. But people from Karangasem
and even renegade Tenganans tell naive stories like this:
In olden days there were celebrations in which aged men were
sacrificed and eaten, and once there were none left in Tenganan.
For a long time the council had planned to rebuild the balS agung,
the assembly hall, already in ruins. The wood for the pillars
had been cut by the old men years before and was dry and well
seasoned. But when the work was started and the time came to
put up the pillars, the workers could not proceed, because nobody
knew which was the bottom and which the top of the logs. In
all Bali it is forbidden in a construction to stand a log upside-
down ” — that is, in the opposite direction from which it grew.
Work on the bale agung was interrupted and there was worry and
confusion, until a young man announced that, if they swore to
stop eating their old men, he would find a way to locate the right
end of the logs. After long deliberations the council agreed and
presently the young man produced his own grandfather, whom
he had kept hidden for years in a rice granary. The old man
measured each log, tied a rope in the exact centre, and had it
lifted up; the end closer to the roots was heavier and the log
tilted in that direction, so the council could proceed with their
work, and old men could continue to live.
I have been told by Balinese that in Tenganan today a corpse
is washed with water that is allowed to drip into a sheaf of un¬
husked rice placed under the body. The rice is then dried in the
sun, threshed, and cooked. After the burial a human figure is
made of the cooked rice which is served to the dead man's de¬
scendants, who proceed to eat it, each asking for some part — the
head, an arm, and so forth — a funeral dinner that may well
signify the ritual eating of the corpse to absorb its magical powers.
This, of course, is pure hearsay which I could not verify through
my Tenganan friends.
The Balinese also beHeve that human beings were sacrificed
24 ISLAND OF BALI
in Tenganan to make dyes for their famous ceremonial scarfs, the
kamben giingsing* a cloth that, because it is supposed to be dyed
with human blood, has the power to insulate the wearer against
evil vibrations and is prescribed at all important Balinese rituals.
These scarfs, in which the warp is left uncut, are much in demand
by the Balinese. The kamben gringsing is a loosely woven, nar¬
row scarf of thick cotton with intricate designs in rich tones of
rust-red, beige, and black against a yellowish background. The
Human Motifs woven on the Kamben Gringsing
process of dying and weaving is unbelievably long and compli¬
cated, and over five years are required from the time the cotton
IS prepared to the finished scarf, according to Korn. The threads
are left in each of the dyes for months, macerated in kemiri oil
for months to fix each colour, and then dried in the sun for
months after each stage. The design is obtained by the double
ikat process (ikat, to tie ”) : that is, the threads of both the
warp and weft are patterned previous to the weaving. To do this
stretched on frames, and groups of threads are
tightly bound with fibres at certain points before they are dipped
“ nrcbd. Single ikat, where only the wL is common
fero^hout ludon^a, and some are famous* like the laree shawls from
^ oLnS
^ T®gman, others faiown are from Guiiait in Tn;Hfl and
saiqile shawls made in 2kirtdi, Switzerland (accordSng to Dde). ^
THE PEOPLE 25
into the dye, so that the tied part remains uncoloured to produce
the design. This is repeated with each colour, the part already
dyed also protected by the fibre binding. When the threads are
finally coloured and ready to be woven, the design of the weft is
fitted exactly into the one on the warp, and a mistake spoils the
work of years. Taking into consideration the laboriousness of the
dyeing, the painstaking, difficult weaving, and the mystery that
surrounds the secret process, it is easy to understand why the
popular mind has endowed the ksmben gringsing with such ex¬
traordinary powers. In Tenganan the scarfs are an essential part
of ceremonial dress, and I-Tahggu told me that if he sold his he
would lose his place in the village council. Only the finest scarfs
are worn in Tenganan; imperfect ones or those in which the dyes
fail to produce the required tones are sold to outsiders.
In North Bali, on the slopes of the Batur, above Tedjakula, is
the Bali Aga village of Sembiran, where even the daily language is
different from that of the rest of Bali. There, as in Tenganan,
the “ temple " is a group of rough stone altars surrounded by a
neglected fence. It is hidden in the jungle near the edge of a
deep ravine, a dangerous haunted place, where not even the
people of Sembiran would venture alone. In Sembiran the dead
are not buried; after washing the corpse, it is wrapped in new
cloth, carried to the edge of the ravine, and deposited on a bam¬
boo platform with offerings, consecrated water, and the belong¬
ings of the deceased. There it is left for three days; if, after that,
it has not disappeared, this means that the spirits did not care to
take it, so it is thrown unceremoniously into the ravine to be
eaten by wild beasts.
There are many other mountain villages that have resisted the
influence of Hinduism. Although not as extraordinary as Teng¬
anan and Sembiran, they are equally conservative Bali Aga, like
Trunyan on the shores of Lake Batur, where the largest statue in
Bali is kept, that of Ratu Ged6 Pantjering Djagat, powerful
patron guardian of the village. There is Taro, the home of Kbd
Iwa, a fearful giant of pre-Hindu days who was so great that there
26 ISLAND OF BALI
was never, enough food to feed him and he went about eating
people. To provide him with a place to sleep, the villagers of
Taro built the longest council house in Bali. He is supposed to
have carved all the ancient monuments and sculptured caves
with his own fingernails. In the highlands between the Batur and
the Bratan, the Gunung Agung and the Batukau, there are many
Bali Aga villages, and in some, like Selulung, Batukaang, and
Tjatur, there are remains of ancient and primitive monuments;
stone statues and small pyramids, some of which are purely
Indonesian in character, while others show early Hindu, perhaps
Buddhist influence. In the Bali Aga villages there is much that
remains of the ancient race who once inhabited all of Bali, but
who.were to become the fascinating Balinese of today.
NOTES ON THE HISTORY OF BALI
It seems difficult to reconcile the soft-mannered, peace-loving
Balinese we know with the intrigue and violence of their turbu¬
lent past. For a thousand years the history of the island is a series
of wars and heroic episodes that reached a dramatic climax only
thirty years ago when the Balinese made a desperate but futile
last stand against a modem army.
Bali was under the rule of Javanese kings from the earliest days
of Hindu Java, but we first hear of Balinese dynasties in the tenth
century of our era. In 991 a.d. a child was bom of a Balinese king
and a Javanese princess. He was named Erlangga and was sent
to Java to marry a princess and to become a local chief in the
kingdom of his father-in-law. Dharmawangsa, the ruler, was
murdered suddenly and Erlangga took charge, saving the king¬
dom from total collapse and bringing it into even greater glory.
Erlangga ruled during thirty difficult years, creating a strong
bond between Java and his native Bali, which was then governed
by Erlangga’s brother in his name. Then, as befits a model hero
of Hindu ideas, Erlangga suddenly renounced the kingdom he
had made great and died a hermit under the guidance of his
religious teacher, Mpii Bharada. Erlan^a’s kingdom was nearly
THE PEOPLE 27
destroyed by a plague supposedly brought by the dreadful witch
Rangda, queen of evil spirits, who was, according to historians,
Erlangga's own mother. Out of the mythical struggle between
the magic of the witch and that of the great king, arose the legend
T/alon Arang (see Chapter X) that made Erlangga the most
famous figure of Balinese mythical history.
In later years Bali became independent of Java, but was again
subjugated in 1284 by the army of Kertanagara, the king of
Singasari (of the Tumapel dynasty) . Singasari was destroyed
eight years later by the new dynasty of Mad japahit, and Bali again
became free, only to be reconquered in 1 343 by General Gadja
Mada for King Radjasanagara, under whom the entire Archipel¬
ago became a vassal of Madjapahit. During the next hundred
years the power of the empire was undermined by civil wars and
revolts in the colonies, and soon the great empire went into de¬
cline. The Balinese revolted against Madjapahit time and again,
but the uprisings were put down in memorable battles, after
which military figures like Arya Damar and Gadja Mada became
rulers of Bali and to them the present Balinese aristocracy traces
its origin. Gadja Mada was sent to Bali to subjugate the king of
the Balinese Pedjeng dynasty, Dalem Bedaulu, who was sup¬
posed to have had the head of a pig. He was the owner of the
famous horse of Tenganan. Bedaulu was a semi-demoniac char¬
acter of supernatural origin who refused to recognize Madjapahit
supremacy. (See page 37.) He was defeated by Gadja Mada,
and Bali once more came under Javanese rule.
The expeditions of Gadja Mada were the last military displays
of the empire. In the meantime Mohammedan missionaries
were becoming influential in Java and were converting princes
who proclaimed themselves sultans of their districts, repudiating
their allegiance to Madjapahit. Soon peaceful propaganda
turned into armed force; Mohammedan fanatics made war on
Madjapahit, which finally collapsed after it was weakened by
internal trouble. Stutterheim is of the opinion that the empire's
destruction came gradually somewhere about the year 1520,
28 ISLAND OF BALI
However, in the more picturesque but less reliable historic rec¬
ords (babad) ' it is stated that Madjapahit fell in 1478 under the
reign of Bra Widjaya V (Krtabhumi, according to Stutterheim) .
Bra Widjaya was told by his chief priest that after forty days the
title of Radja of Madjapahit would cease to exist. The king had
such implicit faith in the prediction that at the expiration of that
time he had himself burned alive. His son, unable to withstand
the Mohammedan invasion and not daring to disobey the sen¬
tence of the priest, escaped to his last remaining colony; followed
by his court, his priests, and his artists, he crossed over into Bali,
settling on the south coast of Gelgel, at the foot of the Gunung
Agung. There he proclaimed himself the king of Bali, the Dewa
Agung, the hereditary title of the Radjas of Klungkung. The
Dewa Agung divided the island into orincipalities which he gave
to his relatives and generals to govern. By degrees these local
chiefs grew independent of the Dewa Agung and became the
Radjas of the smaller kingdoms into which Bali was later divided.*
It was of extreme significance for the cultural development of
Bali that in the exodus of the rulers, the priests, and the intellec¬
tuals of what was the most civilized race of the Eastern islands,
the cream of Javanese culture was transplanted as a unit into
Bali. There the art, the religion and philosophy of the Hindu-
Javanese were preserved and have flourished practically undis¬
turbed until today. When the fury of intolerant Islamism drove
the intellectuals of Java into Bali, they brought with them their
classics and continued to cultivate their poetry and art, so that
when Sir Stamford Raffles wanted to write the history of Java, he
had to turn to Bali for what remains of the once great literature
of Java.
THE DUTCH
The Balinese princes prospered and soon started out for new
colonies, extending their influence to the East and conquering
Raffles; The History of Java,
^ Baduug, Gianyar, Tabanan^ Mengwi^ BangU, Klung^uiig, Katang^scm^ Buleleiig^
suid Djimbiaiuu
THE PEOPLE 29
the neighbouring islands of Lombok and Sumbawa. In 1 510 the
Portuguese adventurer Alphonso de Albuquerque discovered
Sumatra and made voyages to the “ Spice Islands " to procure
valuable cargoes of pepper, cloves, and nutmeg, all the while
fighting pirates, hostile Malays, and Javanese. In 1597 a fleet of
Dutch ships, headed by a former employee of the Portuguese,
Cornelius Houtman, discovered Bali. He and his men fell in
love with the island and made excellent friends with the king, a
good-natured fat man who had two hundred wives, rode in a
chariot drawn by two white buffaloes which he drove himself,
and owned fifty dwarfs whose bodies had been distorted into re¬
semblance of kris handles. After a long sojourn in the island,
some of the Dutch returned to Holland to report the discovery ‘
of the new ‘‘ paradise others refused to leave Bali. The news
created such a sensation in Holland that in 1601 the trader
Heemskerk was sent to Bali with presents of all sorts for the king,
who in turn presented him with a beautiful Balinese lady.
The relations between the Indies and Europe later were dark¬
ened by the appearance of the Dutch East India Company, an
organization of merchants and traders whose goal was the un¬
limited exploitation of the islands. They promoted wars, seized
lands, established monopolies of opium (if a native was caught
selling opium he was put to death) , and collected revenues from
the natives that were even greater than those exacted by the local
princes. The traders used every possible means to gain the favour
of the Radjas in order to control Bali, bringing gifts to them of
Persian horses, gilt chairs, red cloth, wines, brass candelabra, and
so forth. Not meeting with much success, they resorted to politi¬
cal intrigue, selling arms to the enemies of the Balinese while
offering assistance against those they had armed, in exchange for
concessions.
Meantime the Balinese had completed the conquest of Lom¬
bok (1740) . There the Dutch tried to influence the Balinese
governors to become independent of Bali and join the " Honour¬
able East India Company.” After two centuries of ruthless opera-
30 ISLAND OF BALI
tion the company, already bankrupt and decayed, attracted such
unfavourable criticism that the Dutch Government was forced
to assume control, and in 1798 the Dutch East India Company
went into inglorious collapse.
In the following years trouble started for the Balinese; the
sultan of Surakarta, in Java, ceded to the Dutch “ rights ” he did
not have over Bali, but they took no steps to claim them. The
Balinese princes recognized Dutch supremacy, but retained their
local autonomy. In 1846 the question of the ancient right of the
Balinese to confiscate the cargo of wrecked ships brought the first
Dutch military expedition against North Bali, which, after a
series of battles, ended in Dutch control over the northern states
of Buleleng and Djimbrana in 1882. The Balinese princes were
made to sign a treaty in which piracy, slavery, and the exercise of
shore rights were forbidden and in which they promised not to
permit the establishment of any other European power in Bali.
In 1885 there was a rebellion of Sasaks, the vassals of the Bali¬
nese in Lombok, while in Bali internal wars broke out among the
various Radjas. Sasaks were brought to Bali and forced to %ht.
During these wars the united states of Badung and Klungkung
annexed Mengwi and they all turned against the troublesome
Radja of Gianjar. The Sasak chiefs complained to the Dutch,
asking to be freed from the tyranny of the Balinese princes. The
Dutch were becoming alarmed at the friendly advances of the
Balinese towards the English, and officials were sent to negotiate
a peace. They were unsuccessful and even apologies demanded
for insults to the envoys were refused.
THE LOMBOK WAR
In 1894 the Dutch landed an elaborate military expedition in
Lombok and sent an ultimatum to the Lombok Radja, who was
under the influence of Gusti Ged6 Djilantik, Radja of Karanga-
sem, a friend of the Dutch. The terms of the ultimatum were
accepted and the Radja agreed to pay a “ war indemnity ” of one
million guilders. Conferences were held between the Balinese
THE PEOPLE 31
and the Sasaks, and everybody seemed satisfied. The army re¬
mained in the capital for a few weeks giving military demonstra¬
tions while waiting for the payment of the indemnity. Soon there
were rumours of dissension between the old Radja and the
princes, and the Balinese began to appear less friendly; the camps
were no longer visited by the princes, and one day the women did
not even come to market. This was the signal for the Dutch to
prepare for the defence.
That night they were attacked by fierce rifle-fire through holes
made in the thick walls of the palaces and houses around the
Dutch encampments. Orchestras played continuously and all
night the great alarm-drums were beaten. The Dutch returned
the fire as well as they could in the darkness, trying to demolish
the stone walls of the palace, but without much success. Cap¬
tain W. Cool, an eyewitness, relates: “ The noise was deafening
and bullets were falling fast around us. . . . Added to all this
was the ear-splitting sound of the tomtoms and the war cries of
the Balinese as an accompaniment to the hammering and boring
of the walls.” Every bivouac was besieged by an invisible foe.
On the dawn of the third day the army retreated towards the sea,
leaving nearly one hundred dead and three hundred wounded.
Among the dead was General Van Ham, second in command.
A regiment was taken prisoner and was marched along the lines
of Balinese soldiers; Captain Cool tells us that '' they were all
armed, yet they maintained a respectful attitude. Not an offen¬
sive word was said or a threatening hand raised.” The starving
prisoners were fed with white rice and drinks of orange and
coconut water. The wounded were provided with fresh band¬
ages. After a sojourn in the palace they were released with a letter
from the Crown Prince stating that he was releasing the prisoners
as a gesture of friendship and as proof that he wished to end
hostilities. But the letter was ignored by the commander-in¬
chief, and at the seashore the decimated army erected new forti¬
fications protected by the warships at anchor.
When the news of the defeat reached Java and Holland, the
32 ISLAND OF BALI
press flared up with indignation against “ the sinister treachery ”
of the Balinese. Immediately large reinforcements of men and
heavy artillery were sent from Java. New fortifications were built
and the Sasaks were forced to fight against the Balinese. The
offensive was started against the capital, the army advancing
cautiously, bombarding the villages along the way, and burning
them to the ground after the Sasaks had looted them. Mataram
and Tjakra Negara, the two residences of the princes, were shelled
and the Dutch succeeded in blowing up their arsenals and
rice stores. The city of Mataram was captured first. Men and
women, caught unawares, stabbed themselves rather than fall
into the hands of the soldiers. Once occupied, Mataram was
ordered razed to the ground. Every wall was laid low and all the
trees chopped down. The work of destruction took over a month.
Next came the attack on Tjakra Negara, the last important city
of the Balinese in Lombok. They defended it tenaciously, but
could not long resist the effects of artillery, and every palace and
house that showed resistance was soon in flames. The Crown
Prince, Anak Agung Ktut, the greatest enemy of the Dutch, was
killed. The city was taken, the old Radja captured and exiled to
Batavia, where he soon died of a broken heart. Thus ended
Balinese rule in Lombok. The new conquest cost the Dutch 2 14
dead and 476 wounded, besides 246 who died of sickness and
fatigue.
CONQUEST OF SOUTH BALI
In Bali, things continued in a state of turmoil. The allied states
of Badung, Klungkung, and Bangli united to make war on
Gianyar. In 1900 the powerful prince of Ubud, Tjokorde Ged6,
influenced the Dewa Manggis, Radja of Gianyar, to ask for help
from the Dutch Government. An army was sent immediately to
protect Gianyar, which was automatically annexed by the EHitch.
In May of 1904 the small Chinese steamer Sri Koemala, com¬
ing from Borneo, was wrecked and looted in Sanur, on the south
Coast of Bali. The owners held the Dutch Government respon-
THE PEOPLE 33
sible and demanded three thousand silver dollars' damages and
the punishment of those culpable. Official embassies were sent
to obtain the amount from the Radja of Badung, Anak Agung
Made, who refused. The dickering went on for two years, but
finally the Dutch, angered because the prince could not be made
to pay, ordered the closing of Badung to all exports and imports
and asked the co-operation of the bordering states. All of the
independent princes refused to close their frontiers. That was the
beginning of the struggle for supremacy between the Dutch and
the Balinese Radjas. The people themselves were, for the most
part, indifferent. To them the victory of one side or the other
meant chiefly a change of masters, somebody else to whom to pay
taxes.
In the fall of 1906 the Radja definitely refused to meet the
demands and on the 1 5th of September a large military expedi¬
tion landed in Sanur, only three miles from Den Pasar, the capital
of Badung. Here the people remained indifferent to the presence
of the soldiers, because, being under the influence of the peace-
loving Brahmanas, they were unconcerned with the troubles of
the Radja. But at dawn of the following day an army of Balinese
with golden spears, coming from Den Pasar, made a surprise at¬
tack. The fighting went on all day; a few Dutch soldiers were
wounded, but hundreds of Balinese were killed in the unequal
fight, and by evening the Balinese were forced to retreat. The
Dutch remained in Sanur for a few days, occasionally giving con¬
certs for the Balinese, ironically playing the Sourire d'amour on
their brass band. When the advance on Den Pasar was started,
the army was opposed all the way, but when they came to the
palace of Kesiman, just outside the town, they found it deserted.
There the acting ruler had been killed by a priest in an argument
over whether they should oppose the Dutch. It is curious that
inside the palace they found two bronze cannon that had be¬
longed to Napoleon, bearing the date 1813 and the Napoleonic
“ N,” together with a number of muskets from 1620.
Early on the morning of September 20 the navy bombarded
34 ISLAND OF BALI
Den Pasar, shells falling on the palace and the houses of other
princes, setting them on fire. This caused the civilian population
to flee, leaving the Radja with only about two thousand men.
Soon after the bombardment the army was reported near Den
Pasar; the Radja expected that the attack would be directed
against the main entrance of the palace on the south side, as their
military law would require, but unexpectedly the army turned
and made for the north. Inside, the household had been worked
up to a state of frenzy, almost a trance; everything of value was
destroyed and the palace was set on fire. The king, seeing his
cause lost, told his followers that to defend the palace was hope¬
less, but anyone who wished could follow him into a puputan,
a “ fight to the end.” The only honourable thing left for him was
to die a dignified death, rather than be exiled like the Radja of
Lombok, to die away from Bali, and without the proper rituals of
cremation. In a moment the Radja, his Pungawas, his generals,
and all his relatives, men and women, were ready, dressed in their
best and wearing their finest gold krisses. The women were even
more enthusiastic than the men; they were dressed in men's
clothes, short white loincloths caught between the legs, covered
with jewellery, and with their hair loose. They carried krisses
and spears broken in half to be used more effectively at close
range. At nine in the morning the fantastic procession left the
palace, with the Radja at the head, carried on the shoulders of
one of his men, protected by his gold umbrellas of state, staring
intently at the road in front of him, and clutching in his right
hand his kris of gold and diamonds. He was followed by silent
men and entranced women, and even boys joined the procession,
armed with spears and krisses. They marched on through what
is today the main avenue of Den Pasar towards Kesiman, and
when they turned the comer, the Dutch regiment was only three
hundred yards away. The commander, astonished at the sight of
the strange procession, gave orders to halt; Balinese interpreters
from Buleleng spoke to the Radja and his followers, begging
them anxiously to stop, but they only walked faster. TTiey came
THE PEOPLE 35
within one hundred feet, then seventy feet, then made a mad
rush at the soldiers, waving their krisses and spears. The soldiers
fired the first volley and a few fell, the Radja among them.
Frenzied men and women continued to attack, and the soldiers,
to avoid being killed, were obliged to fire continually. Someone
went among the fallen people with a kris killing the wounded.
He was shot down, but immediately another man took his place;
he was shot, but an old woman took the kris and continued the
bloody task. The wives of the Radja stabbed themselves over his
body, which lay buried under the corpses of the princes and
princesses who had dragged themselves over to die upon the body
of their king. When the horrified soldiers stopped firing, the
women threw handfuls of gold coins, yelling that it was payment
for killing them; and if the liberating bullet did not come soon
enough, the maddened women stabbed themselves. When they
had nearly all been killed, a new group approached, led by the
Radja’s brother, a twelve-year-old boy who could hardly carry his
spear. The interpreters again tried to stop them, but were ig¬
nored, and they were all shot down.
The way to the burning palace was now free, except for the
hundreds of corpses that covered the road. Everywhere lay
broken spears and krisses with gold handles studded with enor¬
mous diamonds and rubies in pools of blood. On the side of
the Dutch there was only one man killed, a sergeant stabbed by
a woman.
In the afternoon of the same day the army attacked the palace
of the neighbouring Radja of Pemetjutan, but the Balinese met
them with artillery-fire that caused some losses among the Dutch.
Near the palace another puputan took place: the insane old
Radja, dressed in yellow silks and carried in a gold sedan chair,
followed by his wives and Pungawas, went out to meet the army
after setting the palace on fire. Soon all were killed. When the
palace was taken, the last obstacle to the conquest of Badung, the
tired soldiers returned to Den Pasar, but their victory tasted of a
terrible moral defeat.
36 ISLAND OF BALI
The people returned to their houses. All night long, hurried
wholesale cremations were held while the Dutch buried their
dead. The next morning a young Pungawa came to see the
commander. He said he had been away the day before and had
missed being killed with the rest, so he asked to be shot by the
soldiers. When he was refused, he drew his kris and stabbed
himself before he could be prevented. The Balinese then gave
up their arms.
A few days later Gusti Ngurah Agung, the Radja of Tabanan,
came with his son to speak to the Resident. He had changed his
gold umbrella for a green one in sign of submission. He wanted
to surrender on condition that he be allowed to retain his title and
have the same rights as the Radja of Gianyar and Karangasem;
Resident Liefrink replied coldly that he must be deported from
Bali until an answer to his request came from the Government.
He would be held in the palace for the night and on the next
day would embark for Lombok. Next morning both the Radja
and his son were found dead; the son was poisoned, supposedly
by an overdose of opium, and the old Radja had cut his throat
with a blunt sirih knife. Thus the state of Tabanan fell to the
Dutch.
Two years later the Dewa Agung of Klungkung remained the
only independent Radja, but he was insolent,'’ and the stories
of Lombok, Den Pasar, and Pemetjutan were repeated; an armed
force was sent to punish him and another great puputan took
place in the main avenue of BClungkung; the highest Radja in
Bali was killed, with his whole family.
Two of the women who survived the Den Pasar puputan,
sisters of the Radja, were aunts of Gusti Oka, the young prince
in whose house we lived. They are now white-haired old ladies,
bvf they remember every detail of the struggle and one showed
ipe two bullet wounds in her side. Gusti was only two years old
al tl^ time and he was rushed to another village with his little
pq^siB, the present Regent of Badung, but Gusti’s father was
Idled and his house destroyed. Another relative of the Radja
THE PJ50PLE 37
who survived the massacre told us she fainted when she was cut
in the face by the spear of a falling man. All she remembers was
" the cool hissing of the bullets ” in her ears; she added: “ lihe
music.” ^
The army remained in Bali until 1914, when it was considered
that Balinese resistance was sufficiently controlled, and the army
was replaced by a police force. The Dutch then reorganized the
Government of the island along the lines it had under the Radjas;
those who had been favourable to the Dutch, their allies in
Gianyar and Karangasem, were allowed to retain their autocratic
rights over the people of their districts and were given certain
supremacy over other ruling princes, mostly the descendants of
the former Radjas. They were made puppet regents, responsible
to the Government for the behaviour of their subjects and for the
payment of taxes, which they collect through relatives whom they
appoint as chiefs, pungawa, of the districts under their control.
Each regent is, however, supervised by a Dutch Controller, who
is supposed to act as his elder brother ” and whose orders are
called recommendations.
.NOTE ON MAYA DANAWA
Jane Belo in “ A Study of Customs Pertaining to Twins in Bali " (see
Bibliography) quotes the legend of Maya Danawa and the origin of
Ddam Bedauld from the Balinese manuscript Usana Bali:
It was long ago, in the time when the great mountain, the Gunung
had just been made. A fierce and terrible Detya, Maya Danawa,
\ras in power oyer the land. He was jealous of the gods and did not allow
me people to give them offerings. The gods banded together to fight the
demon and a war ensued in which many people were killed.
Batara Indra was able to overpower Maya Danawa, but in
killing him his plan was to make him alive again, dividing him into a
male and female part, to become the first Radja of Bali. The spirit of the
demon was placed in a coconut flower, and on the slopfes of the Gunung
Agung the gods came and blessed it, and out of the coconut flower they
38 ISLAND.OF BALI
made to come two children, a boy and a girl, who were called Mesula-
Mesuli.”
The boy and girl twins married and had children, also twins, who con¬
tinued to rule in Pedjeng. These twins also married and had more twins,
until a seventh generation of twin Mesula-Mesuli, The last male of these
twins rejected his black and ugly sister in marriage for a girl dancer, thus
breaking the line of royal twins. The last twin born was endowed with
great magic powers; he could allow a retainer to cut his head off and
replace it without harm to himself. But one day the head fell into a river
and was lost, carried away in the mshing stream of a sudden bandjii. The
retainer in desperation cut off the head of a pig and placed it on the
shoulders of the king, who from then on had to live on a high tower and
forbade his subjects to look up at him. He was seen, however, by a small
child who passed unnoticed and who spread the news of the pig-headed
king, who became then known as Bedauld, He-Who-Changed-Heads.
In the manuscript Tjatur Yoga we came across additional details of the
great war between the gods and Maya Danawa:
“. . . The gods were defeated by Maya Danawa and driven back to
where a spring of poisoned water had been created by the demon. The
thirsty gods drank and died, all except Indra, who struck the ground and
produced a spring of the elixir of immortality, arareta, with which he was
able to revive the gods.” The local of this spring is supposed to be the
holy spring of Tirta Empul near Tampaksiring. The gods attacked again,
Maya Danawa was wounded, and his blood flowed into the great river
Petanu that runs near Blahbatu. Today the waters from this river may
not be used to inigate ricefields because it is believed that rice watered
by it will, when cut, exude blood.
CHAPTER III
THE COMMUNITY
THE VILLAGE
The capitals of the princes’ districts, the seats of the regencies,
are commercialized half-European, half-Chinese towns like Den
Pasar and Buleleng; but the true life of Bali is concentrated in
thousands of villages and hamlets. With their thatched roofs
they He buried under awnings of tropical vegetation, the groves
and gardens that provide for the needs of the villagers. Out of
the chartreuse sea of ricefields they surge like dark green islands
of tall palms, breadfruit, mango, papaya, and banana trees.
Underneath the cool darkness, pierced only by the shafts of
sunlight that sift through the mesh of leaves, are the houses hid¬
den from view by interminable mud walls that are broken at regu¬
lar intervals by long narrow gates. All the gates are alik?: two
mud pillars supporting a small roof of thick thatch, giving access
40 ISLAND OF BALI
to each household by a raised doorstep of rough stones. In front
of every gate is a stone bridge, or, simpler still, a section of coco¬
nut tree trunk to ford the deep irrigation ditch that runs invari¬
ably along both sides of the road.
A simple village consists of family compounds, each com¬
pletely surrounded by walls, lined on each side of a wide well-
built avenue that runs in the direction of the cardinal points; from
the mountain to the sea, the Balinese equivalent to our “ north ”
and “ south.” The villages grew as they spread in these direc¬
tions, and the Dutch had only to pave the main streets and
extend them through the ricefields to obtain the five-hundred-
mile net of automobile roads that covers this small island.
The Balinese, being still essentially pedestrians, took good care
to shade the roads with large trees, and every morning and every
evening one sees the people in the streets, men going to work
nonchalantly beating rhythms on their agricultural implements,
or returning from the fields overloaded with sheaves of rice heavy
with grain. Poised women come and go with great loads or shiny
black clay pots on their heads. If it happens to be market day in
the village, at dawn the roads are crowded with husky people from
the near-by villages who come to sell their produce — piles of
coconuts, bananas, or vegetables, pottery, mats, baskets, and so
forth — carrying on their heads even the table that serves as a
stand. If there is a feast in the village temple, the people parade
in yellow, green, and magenta silks with fantastic pyramids of
fruit and flowers, offerings to the gods, in a pageant that would
have made Diaghilev turn green with envy.
Naked children play at the gates by the bell-shaped baskets
where the fighting cocks are kept. Each morning the baskets are
lined out on the street so that the roosters may enjoy the spectacle
of people passing by. Small boys wearing only oversize sun-hats
drive the enormous water-buffaloes, which in Bali appear in two
colours, a dark muddy grey, and a pale, almost transparent pink,
an albino variety. A water-buffalo will not hesitate to attack a
tiger; their ponderous calm and their gigantic horns jirft flw«.
THE COMMUNITY 41
inspiring to Europeans, who have been told that their odour
infuriates the buffaloes. They have often charged white people
for no apparent reason, although the smallest Balinese boy can
manhandle the great beasts. They love to lie in the water and be
scrubbed by their little guardians, who climb all over them and
hang from their horns when they take them for their evening
bath. The buffalo tolerates the children perhaps as a rhinoceros
tolerates the birds that eat the ticks on its back.
The Balinese raise a fine breed of cattle, a beautiful variety of
cow, with delicate legs and a long neck, that resembles overgrown
deer more than ordinary cows. Ducks are driven in flocks to the
ricefields, where they feed on all sorts of small water animals.
Their guardian is a boy or an old man who leads them with a
little banner of white cloth on the end of a bamboo pole topped
by a bunch of white feathers. This he plants on the ground and
he can then go away for the rest of the day, sure that his ducks
will not wander away. At sundown the trained ducks gather
around the flag waiting to be taken home. Wlien the duck-
guardian arrives, the flock is all together, and at a signal from the
flag, they march home, straight as penguins and in perfect mili¬
tary formation.
All Balinese domestic animals are rather extraordinary; chick¬
ens are killed constantly by rushing automobiles, but their owners
make no provision to keep them from the road except the low
bamboo fence that bars the house gate, and that is intended, per¬
haps, more for the pigs, which in Bali belong to a monstrous
variety that surely exists nowhere else. The Balinese pig, an
untamed descendant of the wild hog, has an absurd sagging back
and a fat stomach that drags on the ground like a heavy bag sus¬
pended loosely from its bony hips and shoulders.
The roads are particularly infested with miserable dogs, the
scavengers of the island. Most dogs are attached to the house
they protect and keep clean of garbage, but they reproduce un¬
checked and there are thousands of homeless living skeletons,
covered with ul<?ers and miange, that bark and wail all night in
42 ISLAND OF BALI
great choruses. The Balinese are not disturbed by them and sleep
peacefully through the hideous noise. The curs are supposed to
frighten away witches and evil spirits, but I could never discover
how our neighbours knew when it was an ordinary mortal and
not a devil that the dogs barked at; they always awoke when a
stranger came into the house at night. Such dogs were undoubt¬
edly provided by the gods to keep Bali from perfection.
The Balinese make a clear differentiation between the
dwelling-grounds and the “ unlived ” parts of the village, those
for public use such as the temples, assembly halls, market, ceme¬
teries, public baths. The village is a unified organism in which
every individual is a corpuscle and every institution an organ.
The heart of the village is the central square, invariably located in
the “ centre ” of the village, the intersection of the two main
avenues: the big road that runs from the Balinese ** North-
South ” and a street that cuts it at right angles from East-
West.” Consequently the crossroads are the centre of a Rose of
the Winds formed by the entire village; the cardinal directions
mean a great deal to the Balinese and the crossroads are a magic
spot of great importance.
All around and in the square are the important public places
of the village; the town temple (pura desa) (a) , with its hall of
THE COMMUNITY 43
assembly (bale agung) , the palace of the local feudal prince
(b) , the market (c) , the large shed for cockfights (wantilan)
(d) , and the tall and often elaborate tower where hang the alarm
tomtoms (kulhil) (e) to call to meetings, announce events, or
warn of dangers. Also important to the village life is the ever
present waringin (f) , a giant banyan, the sacred tree of the
Hindus, planted in the square. Under its shadow take place the
A Typical Village
A — Pura Desa
B — Puri
c — Market
G — Pura Dalam
shows and dances given in connection with the frequent festivals;
market is also held there in villages that do not have a special
market enclosure. In ancient villages the waringin grows to a
giant size, shading the entire square and dripping aerial roots
that, unless clipped before they reached the ground, would grow
into tmnks that unchecked might swallow up a village. A beauti¬
ful village waringin is an enormous rounded dome of shiny leaves
supported by a mossy, gnarled single trunk hung with a curtain
of tentacles that are cut evenly at the height of a man; but in the
waringins that have grown freely outside the village, the tree
spreads in every direction in fantastic shapes. The aerial fila¬
ments dig into the earth and grow into whitish trunks and
branches emerging at illogical angles and filled with parasite
ferns, a dreamlike forest that is in reality a single tree.
D — Wantilan
E — Kulkul Tower
F — Waringin
44 ISLAND OF BALI
Somewhere in the outskirts of the village are the public baths
and the cemetery, a neglected field overgrown with weeds and
decaying bamboo altars, with its temple of the Dead (g) and its
mournful kepuh tree, a sad and eerie place. The bathing-place
is generally a cool spot shaded by clusters of bamboo in the river
that runs near the village, where all day long men and women
bathe in the brown water in separate modest groups. Some vil¬
lages have special bathing-places with fancy water-spouts and low
walls of carved stone, with separate compartments for men and
women. Tedjakula in North Bali is famous for its horse bath, a
special compartment that is larger and even more elaborate than
the baths for the people.
THE MARKET
Important towns have great utilitarian markets of cement and
galvanized tin where shrewd Arabs and Chinese keep regular
shops of cloth and imported knick-knacks, but the average desa
holds market under the shadow of the waringin or under square
shades of straw mats like umbrellas. A few people sell there every
day; the “ big ” market takes place every third day of the religious
calendar. There are ‘‘ market associations ” organized in groups
of three desas that work together, holding market in rotation
every day in each of the three villages. The women are the
financiers that control the market; one seldom sees men in it,
except in certain trades or to help carry such a load as a fat pig.
Even the money-changers are women, who sit behind little tables
filled with rolls of small change, kepeng, Chinese brass coins with
a hole in the middle, worth a small fraction of a cent (about five
to seven to a cent according to the current exchange) . These
coins are strung into rolls of two hundred, called satak (one
string of twenty-five cents) . Prices in the market vary according
to the buyer; they are lowest to the villager in his home town,
slightly higher for the Balinese of other villages, and considerably
higher to foreigners. This is customary and understandable if
one takes into consideration the communal spirit of the village
THE COMMUNITY 45
and of the Balinese. It is significant that an average meal in the
market costs a Balinese only twenty-five kepeng or about two or
three American cents. The Balinese do not count in the present
Dutch monetary system of guilders and cents; among themselves
they use only the smallest unit, the kepeng, and the largest, the
ringgit, big silver coins (worth two and a half guilders) that are
normally divided into 1,200 kepeng. The Balinese cannot visu¬
alize a foreigner using kepengs and when I bought peanuts or a
banana at a food-stand and they did not have Dutch pennies for
change, the women vendors were amused to see me pocket a
heavy string of kepengs. Accustomed to dealing in hundreds and
thousands, they have acquired a surprising knowledge of mathe¬
matics, and the women can add, subtract, multiply, or divide
with the speed of an adding machine. To test this ability we
used to ask the women of our household for multiplications of
numbers of several ciphers; with mysterious operations of a few
kepengs spread on their laps, they always found a quick and ac¬
curate result.
The market reaches its height about noon, when it is hard to
walk through the crowd of semi-nude women. At that time the
animation is very great and the market resounds with the excited
bargaining, the constant coming and going of people, and the
squealing of the pigs that are mercilessly stuffed into baskets or
carried in the arms of the women like babies. The thousand
smells of coconut oil, flowers, spices, and dried fish combine to
make the pungent smell so characteristic of Balinese markets.
The soft browns and yellows of the women’s skirts and the bright-
coloured sashes they wear, the graceful movements and uncon¬
scious beauty of their poses, make of the market a show as inter¬
esting to watch as their luxurious and spectacular feasts. The
excitement subsides gradually in the late afternoon, when the
women return home loaded with the merchandise they have
bought or with the empty baskets balanced on one corner, in the
most absurd defiance of the laws of gravity, by the heavy strings
of kepengs that record the day’s sales. Most markets have a
46 ISLAND OF BALI
little shrine for the goddess of fertility and of gardens, Dewi
Melanting, also the deity of the market, to whom the vendors
make small offerings for good luck.
THE SOCIAL ORDER
It was surprising to discover the extent to which the question of
rank obsesses so simple and democratic a people as the Balinese.
In our house every time Gusti came near, everyone scrambled
down the veranda steps to place themselves at a level lower than
his. Once in Ubud we received a visit from two little girls, high-
caste dancers of ten. They were to spend the night in the house,
but they would not sleep unchaperoned and a servant was ap¬
pointed to watch over them; when they heard he was to sleep
in the attic, twenty feet up, they snatched their pillows and ran
upstairs, not to be defiled a second longer by an inferior located
above them. They perferred to sleep on a hard bench rather than
in the bed made for them, while the poor servant had to sleep
on the floor. Once we visited a high priest, who invited us to
remain for lunch; when the food came he apologized for having
to ask us to sit down, because, he said, “ the gods would not like
it " if he, a Brahmana, placed himself at a level lower than ours.
We observed similar situations over and over again among people
of all classes.
Five centuries of feudal domination by an aristocracy have
made the Balinese so conscious of caste, the determination of a
man's place in society by his birth, that the whole of their social
life and etiquette is moulded by this institution. A member of
the aristocracy is constantly on the look-out so that his inferiors
may keep to their appointed level and address him in the language
of respect. Princes still demand the adulation and kowtowing of
their former vassals, although now their power has ended and
their prestige is greatly diminished. Caste rules today are largely
restricted to the observance of established formulas of etiquette
even among the princes, who were always fairly liberal. Caste
relations are relaxed and simple compared with the absurd intoler-
THE COMMUNITY 47
ance of India. But the common people take for granted the
divine superiority of the aristocracy and are so thoroughly ac¬
customed to arrogance that they submit to the demands of caste
etiquette as a matter of duty.
By far the most strict of social taboos is that on intermarriage.
A man may marry any woman he wishes as long as she is of equal
or lower caste, but under no circumstances may a low-caste man
marry a woman of a higher class. For such a man even to have
relations with a woman of the royal or priestly castes was a crime
punished in olden times by the death of both; the woman perhaps
stabbed by a member of her disgraced family, the man thrown
into the sea in a weighted sack, the most degrading of deaths.
Today punishment is simply exile of the guilty couple to the wilds
of Djembrana or the little penal island of Nusa Penida. But like
everything else in Bali, special concessions can be made if the
difference of castes is not very great and the man is influential;
in some cases the affair has been settled by fines, annulment of
the marriage, or a special edict raising the man’s caste.
ETIQUETTE
Despite strict caste regulations, the code of etiquette is simple
and reasonable; a general air of frankness and friendliness pre¬
vails in daily intercourse, and it is only in the presence of an
arrogant prince that the common man has to humiliate himself;
even more polite treatment is given to a high priest. From the
beginning a stranger is struck by the extreme politeness and
gentle manners, even in the lower classes. The strongest criticism
that can be made of a person is that he has no manners. Such a
freak should be avoided.
One is greeted on the road with the words: “ Lungga kidja,
Where to? ” and a visitor is welcomed with: “ Wau rauh. Just
arrived.” These are formulas not to be taken in their literal sense.
A visitor takes leave by asking to be excused: “ Tiang pamit,” the
answer to which is simply " Yes,” “ Ingd.” There are no other
words for greeting or for good-bye. It is not polite to answer a
48 ISLAND OF BALI
question with monosyllables, and one should not point with the
index finger. It is better to use the words for the cardinal points
to indicate direction, but if one must point, it should be done
with the thumb, holding the rest of the hand closed.
The Balinese are constantly paying visits to one another, but
no one would dream of making a formal visit without bringing
along a gift of some sort: fruit, rice, eggs, or chickens, given
casually and received without a word of thanks. It is taken for
granted that the present is appreciated by the acceptance of it,
but if one wants to be over-polite, one says: “ Tiang nunas, I
want it ” or “ I like it ” (ideh in the common language) . An
object is handed with the right hand while touching the elbow
with the left, and it is received with the same gesture.
The gift-problem became acute for us as we entered into a
competition with our friends and neighbours for more and more
valuable presents. Someone would arrive with a basket of eggs
or rice; we repaid the visit taking a cheap head-cloth. On the
next visit they came with piles of fruit and even live chickens, so
we had to rush to the market to buy a batik shirt or a bottle of
Javanese perfume. We generally ended by exchanging brocades,
krisses, and so forth for pieces of silk, flashlights, and fountain
pens. The Balinese are very much concerned with the price paid
for an object, and they always insisted on knowing what we paid
for a present, until we realized that it was a great mistake to re¬
move the price tags. When we bought new glasses or new plates.
Dog, our house-boy, washed them carefully around the label so
as not to rub off the price.
It is necessary to be properly dressed to pay or to receive a visit.
The breasts of men and women should be covered by a special
breast-cloth, a saput for men and a selendang for women. People
in the house always dashed for their breast-cloth, usually an
ordinary foreign towel, when a special guest arrived. Immedi¬
ately the visitor was provided with green coconuts to quench his
thirst, with cigarettes and betel-nut. Up-to-date Balinese like to
offer soda-pop, coffee and Chinese pastries. The chewing of
THE COMMUNITY 49
betel-nut is the first gesture of hospitality and the main social
pastime of the entire archipelago. To chew betel, a piece of the
green nut of the betel palm is dabbed with a little lime, wrapped
in pepper leaves,sirih, and the whole chewed together with a large
wad of shredded tobacco that is held under a monstrously pro¬
truding lower lip. The combination of betel, sirih, and lime
produces an abundant flow of saliva, red as blood, and the betel
addict spits constantly, leaving crimson splotches wherever he
goes. After certain guests departed, our house-boy always had to
wash the veranda steps because they looked as if a murder had
been committed on them. Today betel-chewing is not favoured
by the younger generation, not only because it looks so disagree¬
able, but because it spoils the teeth. The older the person, the
fonder he is of betel, and the ingredients are always kept on hand
in boxes with little compartments or in special satchels of woven
pandanus. Old men without teeth have a special bamboo tube
with an iron rod to mash the various ingredients together. The
sirih, betel, and lime are presented to guests in little ready-made
packages often beautifully decorated with streamers of delicately
cut-out palm-leaf. They are called tjanang or basdh, a gift.
A host must act as servant to his guests, himself attending to
their comfort and not partaking of the refreshments. Meals are
also served by the host, even if he has servants and assistants, and
he can eat only after the guests have finished. If the visitors come
from another village, they are expected to stay for the night and
even for days at a time. Tbe place of honour in the house is then
assigned to them. After a reasonable period of time the visit is
repaid and the presents reciprocated.
Very strict are the rules between men and women. On public
occasions men and women keep to themselves in separate groups,
and people from Gianyar are shocked to see the sexes mingle in
Badung while watching a show. In the same manner the people
of Badung are disgusted because in Tabanan men and women
bathe near together. It is rude to look into a public bath and
even worse to enter it unless to bathe. Then the other bathers
50 ISLAND OF BALI
become figuratively invisible. Great courtesy is shown even
among people who are intimate and it is extremely unusual for
a man to “ get fresh ” with a girl in public; should it happen,
the man would be severely punished. Thus a woman can con¬
fidently remain in her house while her male relatives are away at
worh, and a girl can go anywhere without fear of being ap¬
proached by a stranger. Girls of high caste usually go chaper¬
oned. Lovers are particularly careful not to show their emotions
in public.
To neglect releasing a loud belch after a meal would be taken
by the host as a sign that the food was not satisfactory. In gen¬
eral the Balinese are very frank in actions that would be out of
the question among us, such as clearing the throat, spitting, and
so forth. These are perfectly normal actions no one needs to
conceal.
But the key to Balinese etiquette among the castes consists in
the language spoken and in keeping at the proper level. Under
no circumstance should a common man stand higher than an
aristocrat. If a lowly person has to pass a nobleman who is sitting,
he stoops in front of him until he is reasonably far away, and to
address his superior he must squat or sit on the ground clasping
his hands together in front of his chest or over his left shoulder.
To retire, after begging leave, he walks backwards, stooping and
holding his hands clasped.
LANGUAGE
When two strange Balinese meet, as for instance on the road,
they call each other as d/erd, a safe, polite way of addressing
someone whose title is unknown. Since there are no outward
signs of caste, the appropriate titles cannot be used and all the
words for “ you ” (t/af, nyai, nanf) are extremely familiar and
derogatory. Strangers talk in the middle language, a compromise
between the daily speech and the polite tongue. Should, how¬
ever, one be of low caste and the other a nobleman, it would be
wrong for them to continue talking in this manner, and one of
THE COMMUNITY
the two, probably the high-caste man, will ask the other: Antuh
lingg6? Where is your place (caste) ? ” which is answered by
the other man's stating his caste. Then the usual system is
adopted; the low man speaks the high tongue and the aristocrat
answers in the common language.
When I started to study Balinese 1 found it disturbing to hear
the people around the house talking in the daily language and
then suddenly shifting to high to address Gusti, our landlord-
prince, who answered them in the common language. The high
and low tongues are not two dialects or even variations of the same
languages, but two distinct, unrelated languages with separate
roots, different words, and extremely dissimilar character. It was
always incongruous to hear an educated nobleman talking the
harsh, guttural low tongue, while an ordinary peasant had to
address him in the refined high Balinese.
The low language is the everyday tongue spoken by equals at
home, at work, and at the market. It is undoubtedly the native
language of the island and belongs to the Malayo-Polynesian dia¬
lects, the aboriginal languages of the archipelago. The high lan¬
guage is similar to Javanese and is of Sanskrit-Javanese origin.
It is flowery, and rich in shades of meaning; I have been told that
to speak it well, one should know about ten different words to
express the same idea. Few Balinese can speak the high language
well, and the ordinary peasant generally ignores it, except perhaps
for standard expression to address a superior. The peasant
learned to listen only when he became a vassal of the Hindu-
Javanese feudal lords, who had to learn the language of the island,
but they demanded to be addressed in their own, high tongue by
the unworthy natives. The natural politeness of the Balinese
perhaps gave birth to the middle language, used when in doubt
of a man's caste.
It is an important rule that one may not use high terms when
speaking about oneself; it would be poor taste to call one's head
by the elegant term prabu, instead of the common word sirah, or
to refer to one's feet as tiokoi instead of batis. It would be a
52 ISLAND OF BALI
dreadful insult to speak of someone’s head as tandas, meaning
the head of animals.
The type of language used in conversation is prescribed by one
of the strict rules of caste etiquette, and the use of the wrong form
is a serious offence. A prince has to be addressed as “ highness ”
(Ratu or Agung) , but he and the people of his caste talk to every¬
body in the low language, except perhaps to their parents, elder
brothers, and members of the priestly caste, the Brahmanas.
Polite people (not all high-born people are considered polite) are
supposed to address old people in the high language.
There is still a fourth language, the Kawi, used on ritual occa¬
sions, in poetry and classic literature. It is archaic Javanese, in
which nine out of ten words are Sanskrit; but the knowledge of
Kawi rests almost entirely with the priests and scholarly Balinese.
The language problem of Bali has been further complicated
by the addition of Malay, now ofEcially the language of the
Dutch East Indies. It is taught in the schools and is spreading
rapidly among the Balinese youth because it is considerably
simpler than the difficult Balinese and is free of the caste regula¬
tions. Thus a modern Balinese scholar would require five lan¬
guages for social and cultural intercourse: the high, middle, and
low Balinese, plus Kawi and Malay. Such a linguist is not rare
today in Bali.
THE CASTES
The Hindu caste system as it is found today in Bali was not
firmly implanted until after the conquest by the famous Gadja
Mada. Then Hindu-Javanese rule was definitely established and
the island was divided into vassal territories paying tribute to the
local princes that were given control. The natives lived under a
class system of their own long before that time, however. They
had their ranks, with a sort of aristocracy that combined govern¬
ment and priesthood.
Hindu-Javanese penetration did not reach many of the remote
mountain communities, which remained outside the feudal ter-
THE COMMUNITY 53
ritories. There, even today, live the conservative old-fashioned
Balinese, entrenched against the landlords, regarding them as in¬
truders. In these villages the Hindu castes are not recognized
and the descendants of the primitive aristocracy proudly retain
their titles and their authority. At the top of the long list of native
ranks are the pasek and the bandesa, the heads of the two central
institutions of the old-style community: the temple of “ origin,”
and the assembly hall, ritually belonging to the “ right ” and
“ left.” I was told that a girl of these castes who marries a man
of the Hindu aristocracy is publicly renounced by her family and
spiritually thrown out ” of the village. Also held in respect are
the blacksmiths, a caste in themselves, pandS, the ancient fire-
priests who made the magic krisses, symbol of the family's virility.
Even Brahmanas, highest among all classes, must use the high
language when addressing a pande who has his tools in his hands.
In the tributary districts the natives co-ordinated their castes
with those of the new nobility, in a great scale of ranks that have
now become so muddled through intermarriage that they appear
confused even to the Balinese themselves. TTie original castes
still remain as subdivisions of the fourth and lowest of the Hindu
castes, the Sudras, who constitute about ninety-three per cent of
the population of Bali.
The Hindu-Balinese nobility is divided into the three well-
known groups: the priests, Brahmanas (Brahmins of India) ; the
ruling royalty, Satrias (Ksatriyas) ; and the military class, Wesias
(Vesiya) . They are supposed to originate directly from the gods.
According to the legends, the Brahmanas sprang out of the
mouth of Brahma, the Satria from his arms, and the Wesia from
his feet. Perhaps the reason why the common people look upon
their nobility with such respect is that they have still an unshaken
belief in their divine origin. The true Balinese religion consists
mainly in the worship of the family ancestors, with the patriarch-
founder of the village as the communal god. Thus it was easy for
the conquerors to establish their own dead kings as ancestral
gods, since they, too, descended from canonized kings and holy
54 ISLAND OF BALI
men who were in turn descendants of the highest divinities. This
fitted perfectly with the Balinese idea of rank and with their cult
of ancestors. In many legends the great kings and religious teach¬
ers of the past were considered as reincarnations of gods, so I was
never surprised when a priest or a prince assured me in all serious¬
ness that his family descended from Indra or Wisnu, or some such
divine character.
Such is the caste complex of some Balinese that I often found
silly boys from Den Pasar posing as members of the higher castes
when they visited a strange town where they were not known.
Some common people say that once they were of a higher caste
and that their present state is due to faults committed by their
ancestors. Good behaviour on this earth brings a raising of caste
in the next incarnation, and bad behaviour the opposite; conse¬
quently social position in the world of men is the result of behav¬
iour in former lives. Many Wesias claim that their families were
Satrias lowered in rank while they were ordinary humans; such
was the case of the ancestor of the royal families of Badung and
Tabanan, the legendary Arya Damar, who was lowered to a
Wesia. On the other hand, the Balinese insist that the Radja of
Karangasem was a Wesia who had himself elevated to the Satria
caste after the fall of the Klungkung dynasty.
The “ highest of the high,” the Brahmanas, claim descent
from the great priest Wau Raiih, who wandered all over Bali in
legendary times creating children with women of all classes, even
the servant women of his wives. These children, the future
priests, were the heads of the various Brahmana families, some of
which are higher than others, according to their purity of blood
on account of the origin of their various mothers. The Brah¬
manas are further divided into two sects; the Siwa and Bodda,
the descendants of the two famous brothers, the religious teach¬
ers Mpu Kuturan and Mpu Bharada, who created the laws for
the Balinese. A distinction is made between initiated Brah¬
manas, the priests, and the uninitiated.
THE COMMUNITY 55
It is generally recognized that the Brahmanas are higher than
the Satrias, but a great undercurrent of disagreement and animos¬
ity has always existed between them on this account. The Satrias
resented having to pay homage to the Brahmanas, and the leg¬
ends and historical records are full of instances of the feud cre¬
ated by their struggle for caste supremacy. Kings were deposed
by adventurers supported by Brahmanas; high priests cursed
rulers and drove them to commit suicide, and often they had to
flee and hide to protect their daughters from arrogant princes
who wished to take them as wives, thus affronting their superior
caste pride. Once in a d/auk performance I saw a typical story
enacted; The Radja of Bali, the Dewa Agung of Klungkung,
wanted to prove that Brahmanas were fakers when they claimed
supernatural powers. He placed a duck in a well and sent for the
highest priest in the country so that he could prove his magic
power by guessing what was in the well. The priest said that it
was a great serpent, a naga. The king laughed in his face and un¬
covered the well; a huge naga, fire streaming from its nostrils,
shot out and coiled around the king’s body and would have
crushed him to death if the priest had not killed the naga with a
miraculous arrow. From then on, the princes did not dare to
question the supremacy of the Brahmanas. This legend is still
commemorated at the cremation of Satrias, when the Brahmanic
priest shoots arrows at the naga banda, the serpent that conveys
the soul to heaven. (See page 387.)
But the dispute still goes unsettled, with the priest's sphere of
influence restricted now to purely religious duties. Brahmanas
are devoid of administrative powers, but serve as Judges in the
courts; they could not be sentenced to death and did not pay
taxes to the princes, but instead had to pray for the well-being of
the land. Their own regulations forbid them from attending
cockfights or making money in commerce. They are exalted and
aloof, but ordinary people secretly laugh at them; there is a popu¬
lar story, Pan Bunkling, in which the hero is constantly poking
fun at Brahmanas and their philosophy. The Brahmanas can be
56 ISLAND OF BALI
identified by the titles of Ida Bagus for men and Ida Ayu for
women, both meaning " Eminent and Beautiful.”
Satrias are supposed to be the descendants of the former rulers,
and many claim to be of the family of Sri Krisna Kapakisan, the
great overlord that ruled Bali at the time of Gadja Mada. He was
supposedly born of a heavenly nymph and a stone Brahmana
(Korn) . The Satria caste is divided into two main groups; the
Satria Dalem, the descendants of the ruling princes, and the
lesser Satria Djawa, those of the prime ministers’ families. Today
Satria blood is very mixed, owing to intermarriage with the lower
castes, some of which are considered even lower than the higher
Wesias. The Satrias are called by the titles of Ratu, Anak Agung,
Tjokorde, and so forth. Among the lesser groups are the Predewa
and the Pangakan (who bear the titles of Prebagus and Pre-
sanghyang) .
The members of the third caste, the Wesias, are better known
in Bali by their title of Gusti, also subdivided into many groups.
The highest, the Pregusti, are the descendants of Arya Damar,
the predecessor of Gadja Mada. The lower Wesias are the de¬
scendants of the lesser Javanese princes and Pungawas. The
Gustis are the majority of the Balinese nobility and are often po¬
litically influential.
Gertain professions are unclean, and if practised within the
village pollute the desa, such as the indigo-dyers, pottery-, palm-
sugar-, and arak-makers. Although Korn claims there are no real
outcastes in Bali, I was told by everybody that indigo-dyers belong
to a special caste, the pamesan, who are forbidden by traditional
law to use wood or cotton in their cremation bier, which should be
open, without a roof, and devoid of ornaments. They said that
the pamesan are often rich and careful to conceal their origin.
When it is mentioned that someone is a pamesan, it is done in a
pitying whisper. There was a scandal in Den Pasar about some¬
one who had maliciously accused another of being a pamesan.
This may perhaps point to a trace of the idea of the outcaste.
The aristocracy divides the population of Bali into “ insiders ”
THE COMMUNITY 57
(dalem) , which are themselves, those who live within the palace;
and the '' outsiders " (d/aba) , the common people. From the
point of view of the great majority of the Balinese, this is a fallacy,
since it is the nobility who are the real outsiders. The feudalism
of the Hindu aristocracy was curiously only superimposed on the
Balinese patriarchal communism, and centuries of feudal rule
have failed to do away with the closed independence of the village
communities. Thus the nobility is left devoid of voice where it
concerns the inner affairs of the community, despite the Punga-
was and Perbekels they appoint to keep an eye on the villagers.
THE ORGANIZATION OF THE VILLAGE
One moonlight night the “ tock tock ” of a kulkul attracted us
towards the temple of the wind-swept, ancient town of Kinta-
mani, on the rim of the foggy crater of the Batur. On the road
we joined an old man carrying a torch who informed us they were
calling the village members to the monthly meeting in the bald
agung, the '' great house,” the council hall of the community. It
was a long shed with a raised platform running along its entire
length and with a thick thatch of sugar-palm fibre, faintly lit by a
primitive oil lamp. There sat the village Elders, cross-legged, in
two rows facing each other, talking quietly, each in his allotted
place and carefully avoiding the empty seats of those who had not
yet arrived. Slowly the platform filled up. When everybody was
present, the old headman of the council called the roll while two
assistants went around with flashlights to see that everybody was
properly dressed: wearing the ceremonial breast-cloth, and a kris.
Thus the Elders of the old villages like Kintamani meet at each
full moon to partake of a ceremonial banquet in the company of
their gods. The assistants distributed the food from a large bas¬
ket, placing a heap of parched rice with a ring of beans around it
in front of each man, served by a specified ritual number of hand¬
fuls. After the distribution of food was over, the oldest member
sat at the extreme end of the bald agung in an attitude of prayer
and recited a rousing speech to invite the ancestral spirits, the
58 ISLAND OF BALI
pitara, to join in the banquet. With a clear voice he called;
“ Kaki! KakU Grandfather! Grandfather! " followed by the for¬
mula of invitation. Then he took his seat again at the head of
the council, by the side of the little raised wooden throne dedi¬
cated to the village forefathers. Then everybody relaxed, break¬
ing the tense silence; they discussed village affairs, the improve¬
ments of the temple, the coming feast, and gossiped for a while
before wrapping the remaining rice in banana leaves to take
home.
The ceremony was a clear example of the religious significance
of the social organization of the village; the close relationship
between the cult of the ancestors and the administration of the
community. A Balinese village is a self-contained, independent
community, a little republic ruled by a council of representative
villagers (krama desa) , in which everyone has equal rights and
obligations. The independent village is called a desa, a term we
shall employ to designate the legal, “ complete ” village that has
the three reglementary temples: (i) the civil temple (puradesa),
where the main celebrations are held and where the bale agung is
located; (2) the temple of “ origin " (pura pus6h, the “ navel ”) ,
the ancient shrine of the earlier days of the community, dedicated
to the symbolical patriarch-founder of the village; and (3) the
temple of the dead (pura dalem) , out in the cemetery.
Such a village is economically and politically independent of
all others, except for a curious relation of blood. It often happens
that various neighbouring villages are united by a strong bond
into an association of related villages which worship a common
original ancestor and with a common temple of “ origin,” located
in the oldest village of the group, which they recognize as a
“ head ” or “ mother ” village. From this it is supposed that the
other villages sprung, and when they grew became independent.
Such village associations co-operate with one another by sending
offerings and representatives to the temple feasts of the other
desas.
Just as the temple of origin is the shrine of the Great Ances-
THE COMMUNITY 59
tor, so the bal^ agung is the home of the spirits when they visit
their descendants, the symbolical throne of their authority. Like
ev^thing in Bali, the bale agung is divided into “ right ” and
“ left," with the chiefs and council members classified in the
same manner. They sit on the long shed either at the right or at
the left, on a spot set by their rank. New members act as attend¬
ants without a seat, but at the meetings squat on the ground out¬
side the shed, until a seat at the end of the club-house is left to
them by the death of a member. They advance progressively with
age, the entire line moving up each time there is a vacant seat,
until they reach the higher places towards the head of the bale
agung. TTie headmen keep a record of each member’s position
in the building, in which the names of the members are written
on the palm-leaf.
Every normal married man who owns a house or a plot of land
in the village territory is compelled to join the village association,
and his refusal would be punished by the denial of every assist¬
ance, confiscation of his property, and possibly even exile from
the village. Theoretically all the land in Bali belongs ultimately
to the gods, who lease it to the Balinese to work it and live from
it; consequently landownership in an absolute sense cannot exist
in the Balinese mind. Thus the desa authority, as representative
of these gods, controls the land of the village, the homes, private
and communally cultivated ricefields, grazing-lands, and the
grounds left wild (pet/atu) that provide bamboo, rotan, panda-
nus, wood, and so forth. From the lands adjoining the desa a
worthy member may obtain an agricultural plot or the ground
for his home. If someone has to move to another village and is
justified in leaving, he asks to be released from the association
and has the right to take with him the value of his share of the
village property, but his land and his house return to the desa.
His property is confiscated without compensation, Kom says, if
he leaves the society without explanation.
The headmen of the association, the Miang desa, rules the vil¬
lage in the name of the council. He is usually elected by common
6o ISLAND OF BALI
approval, but his office may be hereditary if the son of a popular
chief is believed to possess his father’s virtues. Should he be
found to be undesirable, he is politely asked to resign and a new
kliang is elected. A good village chief is a popular and influen¬
tial man although he may be poor and simple. Once elected and
after the choice has been sanctioned by the gods, he cannot de¬
cline to hold office, except under severe penalty. Even then his
services are not rewarded, and the advantages he enjoys by his
position are insignificant; he receives a slightly larger share of
land, perhaps a double share of the food distributed from offer¬
ings, and he is free of certain duties. He does not receive any
salary despite the burden of his obligations and responsibilities;
he has to administer the society, preside over the meetings, man¬
age and organize all of the desa festivals. He shares the executive
duties of the desa with the penyarikan, a lesser official (who is not,
however, under his authority) , a scribe and a number of messen¬
gers, none of whom are rewarded.
Under the rule of the princes the system was greatly under¬
mined, especially where the villages grew too large to be effec¬
tively managed by such a simple patriarchal organization. In the
conquered territories the lands were gradually taken away from
the desa and its authority was weakened until the function of the
desa is now reduced to the upkeep of the village institutions,
the celebration of village festivals, and religious ceremonies. The
desa remains, however, the bulwark of the adat law, the net of tra¬
ditional regulations owned by each village, in which all possible
cases are carefully worked out in the most remarkable simple
logic.
THE BANDJAR
As the desa Government lost control over the social and eco¬
nomic organization and as the village grew, simultaneously with
the power of the local prince, it became divided into smaller com¬
munities within the desa, quarters or wards, the bandjars: co¬
operative societies of people bound to assist each other in
THE COMMUNITY 6i
marriages, home festivals, and especially during the expensive
cremations. The various band/ars of a village take part in the desa
activities, assisting in the repair and improvement of the temples
and contributing to the village festivals. The bandjars have re¬
captured a great deal of the administrative power that the desa
lost to the princes, although they are subject to the present-day
Government (that of the Dutch through the princes) , but they
remain socially independent within their territory, with their
boundaries generally established by the main road on one side,
the lesser streets on another, and the rivers and ravines on the
outskirts of the village. They have often ricefields worked com¬
munally to provide for their banquets and to enlarge their in¬
come, which is mainly derived from fines and entrance fees, kept
in a communal bank that lends money to needy members. Every¬
one enjoys absolute equality and all are compelled to help one
another with labour and materials, often assisting a member to
build his house, to prepare his son's wedding, or to cremate a
relative.
Membership is compulsory; after marriage a man receives a
summons to join the bandjar. He is given ample time, but if after
the third summons he has not joined, it is considered that he de¬
liberately refuses to comply and he is declared morally “ dead,"
is denied even the right to be buried in the cemetery, and is boy¬
cotted from all communal activity.
Like the desa, the bandjai is ruled by a kliang band/ar, elected
by the members, with the choice approved by the gods through
consultations with mediums. The kliang of the bandjai is not re¬
munerated for his difficult work, except for the honour attached
to his position and certain insignificant concessions like extra rice
at banquets, a small percentage of the fines collected, and pres¬
ents from members who receive special services, like part of the
reward offered for lost cattle, for surveys, for assistance in mar¬
riages, and so forth. He cannot decline to serve and can be de¬
posed if found unsatisfactory.
The band/ar has considerable property: It owns its meeting-
62 ISLAND OF BALI
halls, the bal6 bandjar, a club-house without special religious
significance, with its drum-tower to call to meetings. The bale
bandjar is provided with a kitchen and with all sorts of cooking-
implements: pots and pans, chopping-blocks, knives, etc., which
are lent to members who require them. The bandjais also own
the village orchestras and the dancing-properties — costumes,
masks, and head-dresses — which are stored in a gedong, a brick
building where they are safe from theft or fire.
The men spend most of their spare time in the baU bandjar,
gossiping, trying out their fighting cocks, watching a rehearsal of
a play or of the orchestra, or just sitting. If the bandjar is prosper¬
ous, it takes great pride in giving elaborate banquets with music
and entertainment. These may happen at the great national
festivals, at the anniversary of their little bandjar temple, or at the
inauguration of a new roof, a new orchestra or dancing-group.
But also the private festivals of the members become bandjar
affairs, and bandjars like Belaluan, where we lived, celebrated
feasts with staggering frequency. Only the men may prepare
banquet food, and often we were awakened in the middle of the
night by the kulkuls calling them to kill the turtles and the pigs
for a feast. Banquet food takes long to prepare and the animals
have to be slaughtered in the middle of the night to ensure the
freshness of the meat and of the sauces in the difficult climate of
Bali. After two in the morning before a feast everybody was
busy; the men chopping meat, cooking, scraping coconuts, build¬
ing sheds and altars; the women carrying water, making offerings,
cutting out ornaments of palm-leaf or wrapping individual pack¬
ages of sirih and betel for the guests.
By noon the banquet took place, the men sitting in the bald
bandjar in two long rows facing each other with their individual
mountains of rice, pig, and turtle meats served in large squares
of banana leaf, drinking tuak and making loud jokes. When the
meal was over, kendis of water were passed so that the guests
could wash their hands and mouths. The rest of the day and
THE COMMUNITY 63
most of the night was spent watching cockfights, plays, and
dances.
Most important of band/ar property is a little communal
temple (pamaksan) . If the band/ar grows beyond the function
of village quarters, or “ ward,” its pamaksan temple may become
a temple of “ origin then they will build their formal village
temple (pura desa) , their temple of the dead, out in the cemetery,
and, having the three reglementary temples (kabyangan tiga)
that every complete community needs, they will ask for independ¬
ence from the village and will become a full-fledged free desa.
In the old mountain villages the desa system has remained un¬
touched by the influence of the princes. Before the advent of the
Dutch, they controlled their states through district landlords, the
Pungawas, usually members of the prince's family, who ap¬
pointed lesser tax-collectors, the Perbekel, one in every village.
A Perbekel ruled only with the interest of his master in mind,
often disregarding the local adat, with the result that he was re¬
garded as an intruder and remained a complete outsider in the
affairs of the village. Thus the system was saved because these
agents had to be content with collection of taxes and the enforce¬
ment of princely orders. But the Balinese could always find regu¬
lations to curtail the power of the princes, and if their demands
interfered too much with traditional institutions, the people
simply boycotted them and refused to obey.
Following the conquest of Bali, the Dutch found the desas
divided into many small spheres of influence: the princes, the
desa chiefs, band/ar heads, and so forth. In the hasty reorganiza¬
tion of the political system they centralized the Government for
control of the complex conglomerate of desas, logically enough,
following the system of the princes, creating Government dis¬
tricts headed by Dutch officials assisted by the former landlords.
They preserved the prince (Regent) , the Pungawa, and the Per¬
bekel to see that the taxes were paid. Finding the desa-band/ar
relationship incompatible with Western management, thejr re-
64 ISLAND OF BALI
divided the villages, often in an arbitrary way, and renamed the
towns and band jars, ignoring their traditional connections. The
desa became simply any “ big ” village, and the bandjai was sim¬
ply “ hamlet ” or “ quarter of the village.” What was close by
was joined together, and what was separated by distance was cut
off, forming the so-called Government desas and Government
bandjars. There are cases of bandjars merged into one, and small
desas degraded into bandjars or joined with other small desas to
mahe a large desa worthy of the name, despite the fact that it
might have more than one bale agung. These new villages exist
in official documents, but not in the Balinese mind, forcing the
people to make a strong distinction between the “ Adat Desa ”
and the “ Gouvermen’ Desa.”
LAW AND JUSTICE
A “ bad man ” does not have a chance in the strict communal
Balinese system. Everyone is so dependent on the co-operation
and goodwill of others that he whose conduct is not good, or who
in some way fails to be in harmony with his community, becomes
a boycotted undesirable.
In Bali moral sanctions carry greater weight than physical pun¬
ishment; fight faults bring automatic fines, the confiscation of
property, or temporary suspension from the society; but the pun¬
ishment for major offences range from the dreaded boycott from
all desa activities to permanent exile, total banishment from the
village. Since the death penalty has been abolished by the Dutch,
the fearful formula of declaring a man " dead ” is now the capital
punishment. A man expelled from his village cannot be admitted
into another community, so he becomes a total outcaste — a pun¬
ishment greater than physical death to the Balinese mind. It
often happens that a man who has been publicly shamed kills
himself.
In the adat law of every village the fine of conduct for every act
of the villagers is carefully set down. In a general way, the most
serious crimes are those that seriously impair the well-being of the
THE COMMUNITY 65
community and most especially acts that would weaken the vil¬
lage magic, such as temple vandalism, theft from the gods, arson,
running amuck, and murder, some of which may be punished by
the killing of the offender on the spot. Everybody has to report,
armed, immediately upon the signal of alarm (the fast continu¬
ous beating of the large kulkul) , to be ready to extinguish a fire
or to stop a man that has gone temporarily insane and has run
wild. In Den Pasar one afternoon the alarm call was sounded. It
was the siesta hour, but instantly everybody was up and out; they
grabbed sticks, spears, agricultural implements, or whatever was
at hand and rushed out, some on bicycles, towards the sound of
the kulkul. Everybody in the bandjai turned out and on the road
we even met the old judge, our neighbour, who could hardly walk,
but who tagged along brandishing a great sword. It turned out
to be simply a fire that was quickly extinguished with everybody’s
aid. When the excitement was over, we returned home with the
crowd, listening to their reminiscences of recent cases of alarm
and of men who ran amuck and were killed on the spot. Desecra¬
tion or theft of temple property, if at night, can also be punished
with immediate death. One night in a village near Kesiman two
men were caught in the act of robbing the temple. The alarm
was sounded and the villagers killed the two men as they put up
a fight. They showed us the weapons that were taken from the
thieves.
Other serious offences are the consistent failure to perform
village duties, disobedience to officials, refusal to pay fines, re¬
peated absence from meetings, theft of village property, especially
of legal village documents, adultery, incest, bestiality, rape of an
immature girl, witchery, the cutting of certain trees, theft of
irrigation water, or damage to another’s property, like allowing
cattle to trample a planted field. Crimes against the prince, or
even against Brahmanas, are severely punished, but they do not
affect the spiritual cleanliness of the village — one more instance
of the position of the aristocracy as outsiders. An old man told
us that in former times a prince might kill or mutilate a man for
66 ISLAND OF BALI
offences against caste, as, for instance, for a common man to have
had relations with a noble girl. A man who stole from the prince
might have had his hands cut off.
Once we had the opportunity to observe the old-fashioned
manner in which an ordinary thief is punished: Passing through
Silekarang, we met a strange procession led by an old man who
carried two sheaves of rice on a pole. There were flowers and
leaves decorating the sheaves, and he wore red hibiscus on his grey
hair. His wrinkled brown body was smeared with broad streaks
and crosses of white paint all over his face, chest, and back. He
was followed by a mock retinue of some fifty men carrying green
boughs, yelling and beating little bamboo kulkuls. They in¬
formed us that the old man had stolen the rice and that the
shameful parade was his punishment. Should he have refused
to comply, he would have been thrown out of the village. We
asked the men if a Jail term, as would be the punishment in Den
Pasar, would not be more severe or more effective than a single
afternoon of public disgrace, but they were all emphatic that it
was just the reverse; a thief, they said, treated in this manner will
never steal again, while locking him up in the Government jail
would not help anybody; they would give him free food, he would
not be shamed, and besides the company would make him worse.
As the parade resumed the march with the resigned old man
at the head, a compassionate passer-by handed him a little pack¬
age of betel and sirih to chew on the way. Later I was told in
Ubud of a similar case where the thief was paraded all over the
town with the pair of old shoes he had stolen, hung around his
neck. It was significant that during our entire stay in Bali, with
the house always open and filled with Balinese visitors, we never
lost anything.
THE COURTS
The Balinese like to settle their differences peacefully, and if pos¬
sible to come to an agreement among themselves. Otherwise they
apply to the village chiefs, the kliang or the penyarikan of the desa
THE COMMUNITY , 6j
or bandjar to act as mediators for a friendly settlement. Disputes
concerning ricefields or irrigation water are settled by the council
of a special agricultural society, the subak. Should it become
necessary to adopt a strong decision, the village council votes for
a verdict.
In any case the village heads leave no stone unturned for a
quick settlement of the affair to prevent its becoming involved
in a legal court procedure, which is always distasteful to them,
and it is only as a last resort, when all other resources have failed
and passions are very much aroused, that the Balinese will appeal
to the oEcial high tribunal, the keita.
The repugnance of the people against having to appeal to
the keita is only part of the Balinese policy of keeping the princes
from interfering too much in their affairs. The keitas are the
courts of the princes and they are generally composed of three
Brahmanic priests who act as judges. They are assisted by a num¬
ber of kantjas, “ lawyers,” and a scribe.
Trials take place in a special shed, built over a high stone or
brick platform. The Kerta Gosa, the court house of Mungkung,
one of the inevitable sights of Bali, is already famous because of
the lurid paintings that cover the entire ceiling, depicting the
punishments that await a law-breaker in hell. The court house is
beautifully decorated; two stone serpents flank the stairs that
lead to the platform where the judges sit on great gilt chairs.
A trial must be conducted with the greatest dignity and re¬
straint. There are rules for the language employed, the behaviour
of the participants, and the payment of trial expenses. It is inter¬
esting that court procedure resembles that of cockfights in its
rules and terminology. On the appointed day the plaintiff and
the defendant must appear properly dressed, with their witnesses,
and their cases and declarations carefully written down. An ab¬
sentee or one whose case is badly stated loses his suit. The
kantjas read the statements of each party and then those of the
witnesses in their successive order. No one is allowed to speak
unless he is addressed. Talking excessively or too loud, quarrel-
68 ISLAND OF BALI
ling, or pointing at the judges is punished by a fine. When the
case has been thoroughly stated, the witnesses have testified and
the evidence has been produced, the judges study the statements
and go into deliberation among themselves until they reach a
decision.
Besides the witnesses and the material evidence, special at¬
tention is paid to the physical reaction of the participants during
the trial, such as nervousness, change of colour in the face, or
hard breathing. Dr. Korn writes that in former times there was
a curious official, the batu tumpeng, also to be found at cock¬
fights, whose participation in the procedure was to sit silently,
watching and listening, so that he could form an unprejudiced
opinion. After the judges reached a decision they submitted
their verdict to the batu tumpeng and if he did not agree, they
had to confer anew. As an absolute neutral, he informed the
contestants of the decision.
The most important evidence is the swearing of the oath of
truth that either one of the two parties (it is never foreseen
which) will be required to take. After the verdict is announced,
the judges will specify the type of oath and who shall take it.
Then the date is set by the religious calendar. There are “ little ”
and “ big ” oaths, all terrifying in their content, but with varying
effects; some will affect only the person of the perjurer with minor
misfortunes, but in the “ big ” oath all of his descendants, even
unto the third generation, will be cursed by dreadful calamities.
Although the curse may be averted by obtaining an expensive
neutralizing formula from a dishonest high priest, taking an oath
is an extremely serious and dangerous performance that must be
accompanied by elaborate ritual. The man about to swear ap¬
pears in the temple with all his relatives, even small children, with
his head bare and wearing white clothes, symbol of cleanfiness.
He sits cross-legged among the offerings, holy water, and incense,
facing the penyarikan, who begins to read the text of the oath
in a loud, relentless voice, enumerating the calamities that will
curse him and his family, who appear anxious and worried. Then
THE COMMUNITY 69
the penyaiikan tears the palm-leaf in which the text of the oath
is written and puts the ribbons of it into a jug of holy water. The
man drinks the water and makes a reverence with a flower while
he is sprinkled with the remaining water, after which the pot is
dashed to the ground and broken. He and his descendants have
good reason to be frightened at the swearing of the oath; Krause
gives us the following version of it:
. . Perjurers and their accomplices shall be confounded by
every evil and be struck by lightning. When they go into the
forest they shall become entangled in the creepers, losing their
way, running here and there without finding the right road.
Tigers shall attack them. They shall dash against the rocks, their
skulls split open, and their brains spill out. On the crossroad they
shall be crushed by falling trees. In the fields they shall be struck
by lightning from a clear sky, be bitten by poisonous serpents,
and torn to bits by the horns of buffaloes. They shall fall into
deep rivers where pointed stones will cut their chests open, their
bones will be dislocated, and the blood flow from their veins.
Their corpses shall sink to the bottom of the waters. When they
are at sea they shall be attacked by crocodiles. The Sumdang-
Aal and the Peh fish shall bite them and the poisonous sea-serpent
Lempe strike them, and sea-monsters swallow them. In their
houses they shall be the prey of all sorts of sickness and they shall
die unnatural deaths. No one shall help them, and during their
sleep they shall die while dreaming, they shall die standing up,
they shall die while eating or drinking. Neither they, nor their
children, their grandchildren, nor their great-grandchildren, shall
again be men on this earth. They shall reincarnate as maggots,
clams, worms, and serpents. Such is the curse upon perjury as is
ordained by Ari Tjandana and Angasti, and the Eminent Gods of
the East, North, South, West, and Centre. . . . They, their
children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren shall know no
further happiness from now on.”
CHAPTER IV
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH
According to legend, the Balinese originally had only the juice
of sugar-cane as food. Out of pity for the human race, the male
god of fertility and water, Wisnu, Plutonic Lord of the Under¬
world, came to earth in disguise to provide them with better food.
He raped an unwilling Mother Earth to fertilize her and give
birth to rice, and she became known as Sanghyang Ibu Pretiwi,
the Smitten Grandmother. Then Wisnu made war on Indra,
Lord of the Heavens, to induce him to teach men how to grow
rice. Thus, as the principal source of life and wealth and as a gift
from the gods, rice was born from the cosmic union of the divine
male and female creative forces represented in earth and water.
Besides white rice (bras) , there are red (gaga) and black
(ind/in) varieties. These the Balinese conveniently co-ordinated
with their symbolic notion of the relation between colour and
direction by the explanation that the seeds were provided by
Sanghyang Kesuhum Kidul (Brahma) , the patron of the South,
who sent four doves with seeds of the four cardinal colours:
white, red, yellow, and black. Since there was no yellow rice,
the seed of that colour became tumeric (kunyit) , an important
condiment.
Poor people, or those living in districts where water is not
abundant, live on corn and sweet potatoes, foods considered in-
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH yj
ferior to rice, and taken to be transformed male and female at¬
tendants of Dewi Sri, wife of Wisnu, goddess of agriculture,
fertility, and success. To the Balinese Dewi Sri represents all
that is good and beautiful and she is their most popular deity.
She has been placed, perhaps with the advent of Hinduism, above
Dewi Melanting, the native goddess of seed and plants, who, as
daughter of Dewi Sri, remains the goddess of gardens and mar¬
kets. Dewi Melanting spends half the year above the earth and
the other half below; or, as Dr. Goris puts it, “ she has first to
undergo death under the black earth before she can come to new
life.”
Since man lives off rice and his body and soul are built from it,
rice itself is treated with reverence and respect and the whole
rice culture has developed into an elaborate cult. There are end¬
less magic-ritual acts to make the rice grow big and strong, or so
that water shall not be lacking, or to prevent the pollution of the
land and the loss of seed by theft, birds, and mice. From
planting-time until harvest the growth of rice is watched with as
much anxiety as the life of a child. The Balinese are famed as the
most efficient rice-growers in the archipelago. They raise two
crops of fine rice a year with such success that they have more
than sufficient for the needs of the population, often having
enough left over to sell or give away. Even agricultural experts
admit that modern methods could not improve the already ex¬
cellent results, due perhaps to the intense striving of the Balinese
for improvement, their communal, co-operative agricultural so¬
cieties, and their Burbank-like system of seed selection.
The most striking element of the Balinese landscape is the
ever present ricefield, the sawa, a patch of land filled with water
held by dikes cut out of the red earth. Every available piece of
ground to which it is humanly possible to bring water, even to
mountain heights, is made use of. The receding man-made ter¬
races, like flights of gigantic stairs, cover the hills and spread over
the slopes and plains. When they are first filled with still water
they are like mosaics of mirrors that reflect the clouds. Later they
^2 ISLAND OF BALI
are sprinkled with the dainty blades of the newly planted rice in
an all-over pattern of chartreuse on a ground of brown ooze. This
thickens eventually into a tender yellow-green carpet which turns
to a rich gold ochre as the grain ripens, finally leaving only dry,
cracked mud after the harvest. The landscape is continually
changing, and as the crop begins or ends, a familiar surrounding
is so transformed as to become almost unrecognizable.
THE SUBAK
The rugged, mountainous nature of the island, closely furrowed
by deep ravines, makes irrigation extremely diEcult. Water is
led from the mountains to the various levels of cultivated land by
an elaborate system of canals, dams, bamboo pipes, and even long
tunnels cut through solid rock, to the dikes that permit the sawa
to be flooded or drained at will. Solid matter is filtered off and
pools are made for sand deposits to prevent the clogging of the
ricefields.
It is obvious that small landowners could not carry out, alone,
the tremendous task of attending to the work of irrigation. It
became necessary for them to organize into subaks, agricultural
co-operative societies, “ water boards that control the equitable
distribution of water to their members, all those who take water
from a common source. The objectives of the subak are to give
the small agriculturist the assurance that he will not lack water,
to police the dams effectively so that strangers will not divert the
water supply, to settle disputes, and to attend to the communal
rice festivals. In the village the society assumes full social, tech¬
nical, and administrative authority in all matters concerning irri¬
gation and agriculture.
Like the village and ward associations, the subak is presided
over by elected headmen, the kliang and penyarikan subak, with
their assistants (pangliman) . The subak leaders open and pre¬
side over the meetings, see that the decisions and rules are carried
out, impose fines and penalties, and act as treasurers of the or¬
ganization. They keep written records of the names of the mem-
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 73
bers and of all transactions and proceedings. The offices of the
suhak leaders are unrewarded, except, as in the case of other
societies, for certain privileges such as extra shares of water and
a small percentage of the fines collected. Every man who owns
ricefields is compelled to join the subak and to carry out orders.
Members may be allowed to buy off their services, but they must
be present when important repairs are made, even though they
may pay others to do their share of the work.
Once a month, or oftener if necessary, a general meeting is held
in the little temple of the subak, a small shrine dedicated to the
agricultural deities, built out in the middle of the ricefields. At¬
tendance is compulsory and an absentee who is not properly justi¬
fied is fined. When the members have gathered, the headman
reads the roll, communicates the improvements and repairs to be
carried out, reports on the relations of the society with higher
officials ^ and with other subaks, and accounts for money received
in fines and fees as well as what has been spent in materials, offer¬
ings, and so forth. Important decisions are reached by majority
vote. When all business is settled, the headman adjourns the
meeting and an informal social gathering follows in which to¬
bacco, sirih, and refreshments are served by appointed attendants.
If the subak is a prosperous one, there may even be a banquet.
Like other Balinese associations, the spirit of the subak is
essentially communal; all members abide by the same rules, each
one being allotted work in relation to the amount of water he
receives. Certain stipulations are made to prevent individuals
from holding more land than would be convenient to the com¬
munity. A man who has more land than he can work is com¬
pelled to share the produce with people appointed to help him.
RICE CULTURE
.Before any work is done in the ricefields, an acpedition composed
of the kliang, a priest (pemangku) , and four or five subak mem-
1 The various suhaks of a district are under the control of an official, the sedahan,
a sort of minister of agriculture, now under a Government salary.
74 ISLAND OF BALI
bers goes to the holy sources of water such as Lake Batur; or
Besakih in the Gunung Agung. They take offerings with them
to gain the goodwill of the deities of the lake or of the sacred
spring. Some water is brought back in a bamboo container
(sudfang) wrapped in a new cloth and hung with strings of
kepeng, topped by a bunch of beautiful mottled red and green
andong leaves for decoration.
At the return of the expedition the sudjang is deposited on an
altar in the temple of the subak. It is believed that the deities of
the holy water are embodied in the container, and a feast
(mapag) is given in honour of the divine guests. To entertain
them so that they will not leave, the subak members perform
dances and burn incense in braziers. The fields are sprinkled with
holy water and the rest is poured into the common canal of the
subak so that all the fields may benefit by it. The feast over, the
necessary repairs are made, with more offerings so that the water
will flow through the proper channels. Then the water is let in
to flood the dry soil, and all subak members meet again to take
a vow not to steal from one another. The land is cleansed with a
great offering to the evil spirits and cockfights are staged to satisfy
their thirst for blood.
When planting-time arrives, the land is ploughed over and over
again, and harrowed to incorporate with the soil the weeds and
rice straw that serve as fertilizer. In some places the land is
effectively ploughed, in a spirit of festivity and sport, in great bull
races (megrumbungan) held before a new crop is planted. The
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 75
expense involved in entertaining the many guests with a banquet
has made the bull races rare nowadays, but they are still to be
seen in North Bali, where there are many rich peasants. Besides
the amusement derived from the race, the chance for gambling,
and the utilitarian ploughing of the field, the feast is considered
a good investment, because the gods, pleased by the gay and
colourful spectacle, are expected to repay the donor with a plenti¬
ful harvest.
The race is held in a flooded ricefield between rival teams of
specially trained bulls. The oxen are crowned with ornaments
of tooled gilt leather, and silk banners decorate their yokes. Enor¬
mous wooden bells, often three feet across, are attached to their
necks. Bets are placed as the contending teams are lined up with
their drivers standing on the rakes to which the bulls are hitched.
At a signal from the referee, they are off with a speed one does
not usually associate with ploughing oxen. The yelling drivers,
on the rakes that glide along the mud, whip and entice the bulls
to run across the field, always with an elegant gait. Their heads
are raised high, forced up by the great thumping bells, giving
them an added elegance. However fast they may run, the referee
gives his decision not to the fastest, but to the team with the most
stately bearing.
It is typical of the Balinese to place style before mere physical
speed.
When the field is prepared, the mother-seed, which has been
picked from the largest and most beautiful ears, is soaked for two
days and two nights, then spread on a mat and sprinkled with
water until the germ breaks through. A nursery plot is prepared
in a corner of the field to receive the young sprouts, which must
be planted on a propitious day set by the religious calendar. They
remain in the nursery for about two months; then when they
have developed enough, they are pulled out, washed, pruned, tied
in bunches, and exposed to the air for one night. By this time the
sawas are clean and ready to receive the young plants; offerings
(sudjuk) to Dewi Sri are made again and the owner of the sawa.
76 ISLAND OF BALI
with his own hands, plants the first nine sprouts in a small group
at the uppermost corner of the plot. He begins with a single cen¬
tral one; then one to the right; one towards himself (in the direc¬
tion of the sea behind him) ; then to the left; towards the moun¬
tain in front; and finally to the four intermediate points, in the
following order:
9 5 6
412
8 3 7
This is to represent the Nawa Sangga, the magic rose of the
winds, the Balinese cardinal directions (pengider-ideran) :
kadja- kadja
kauh upwards to
Jcad/a-
kangin
kangin
right
Mod-
kauh
A more detailed explanation of this important ritual principle
by which the Balinese rule their actions will be given later, but
for the sake of convenience let it be understood that the points
correspond, in principle, to our North, South, East, West, and
Centre, remembering that the point called kadja, which we shall
call North, is invariably towards the Gunung Agung or the
local great mountain, and the klod, “ South,” is always towards
the sea.
After the nine cardinal points have been established, the rest
of the seedlings are planted all over the field, the plants stuck
into the mud in rows at intervals of one hand-span. Often the
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 77
owner of the field gives a party at this time to bring himself luck.
Soon the rice becomes green and new shoots appear, but then the
rice requires the utmost care; it must be properly weeded and
should have plenty of water. Offerings (sayut sarwa genep) are
made to protect the tender plants from caterpillars, and again,
after forty-two days, more offerings (dedinan) are made to cele¬
brate its feast day. In about three months the grain makes its
appearance; then the rice is said to be pregnant, and just as
women with child long for sour foods, the offerings made then
include sour fruits, as well as eggs and flowers. A stylized figure
of a woman (tjili) , made of palm-leaf, provided for this occasion
with male sex organs, is presented with the following speech re¬
peated three times: “ Pst, pst, look at the woman with testicles
(Psu, psu, d/ero, m'baleh loh mabutoh) Somehow this is sup¬
posed to help with the pregnancy of the rice. The three-month
feast day is celebrated with another feast called mebidjukung.
By this time the grain has spread all over the field, and the water
is drained off so that the rice may ripen quickly.
The menace of birds and mice then makes its appearance. To
scare the birds away, the whole sawa is covered by an intricate
network of strings hung with palm-leaves and all sorts of dangling
objects (cloth barred) , set in motion by a single rope operated
by a boy who watches the field constantly from a high platform
built for the purpose. Life-size scarecrows are erected, but soon
the birds become familiar with them and will not be frightened
away. Then watchmen circulate among the fields beating bam¬
boo drums and cracking loud bamboo slapsticks. Should the
sawa become infested with mice, a campaign is conducted against
them; large numbers are caught and killed, but a pair is set aside
and later released to atone for the killings. Then a ceremonial
cremation in miniature disposes of the dead ones. Should it
happen that rice is stolen, the sawa-owner takes food to the rice-
field and leaves it there, saying: “ Whoever stole my rice, let him
return and be content with this food. I ask that my rice may
multiply so that I shall get mine back.”
yS ISLAND OF BALI
When the grain is ripe, the subak members prepare for the
ngusaba nini, the great harvest festival. Cockfights are held
again in the rice temple and the following day is declared nyepi
for ricefields: a day of absolute stillness, requiring the suspension
of all activity, when no one may enter a field under penalty of a
fine. Two days before cutting the rice, small offerings are made
to the irrigation inlet, and boughs of the dapdap tree, decorated
with little faces of palm-leaf, are stuck at the four corners of the
field to keep evil influences away. The next step is the making
of the Rice Mother (nini pantun) , two sheaves of rice, one male,
the other female, the Rice Husband and Wife.® The two sheaves
are fastened together and tied to a branch, which is stuck in the
ground near the main irrigation inlet. Then the cutting of the
rice may proceed.
In Bali only men plant and attend to the rice, but women and
even children help with the harvest. Everybody wears coats and
great sun-hats of bamboo for protection against the burning rays
of the sun. The line of reapers moves like a living row of enor¬
mous mushrooms, cutting the rice with small iron blades set in
wooden frames, just large enough to be hidden in the palm of
the hand. The stalks are cut one by one and tied later into huge
bunches. When all the rice is cut, the Rice Mothers of the
various sawa-owners are dressed in a skirt of new white cloth
held at the middle of the sheaf by a rope of white yarn, a small
apron (lamak) , and a silk scarf. The head-dress is represented
by the ends of the stalks, ornamented with flowers and cut-out
palm-leaf in the form of a fan, often with a human face added,
drawn on a heart-shaped piece of palm.
2 The male is larger and consists of 108 stalks, while the female has only 54
stalks. The people of Badung agree that the sheaves are male and female, but in
Ubud, Gianyar, they claim it is only female. They also make two sheaves, one larger
than the other, but they are confused when pressed to explain the reason for the
two sheaves. They call the nini pantun also by the names of dewa padi or dewi istri,,
“ rice deity ” or divine wife.'' Nini pantun means simply rice mother." Perhaps
the association of feminine names and ideas has obscured the bisexual significance of
the two sheaves. Van Eck says that the Rice Husband and Wife are ceremoniously
wedded in the granary: '' Increase ye and multiply without ceasing.'^ I was told in
Gianyar that the rice stalks used to make the mother should be stolen from various
ricefields, but in Badung they appeared shocked at this idea.
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 79
We witnessed a harvest festival in Ubud: the dressed Rice
Mothers were ceremoniously assembled in the little rice temple
out in the fields, decorated for the occasion with pennants
Rice Mother
(penyor) — tall bamboo poles hung with lacy ornaments of palm-
leaf — and with beautiful lamaks, strips many feet long, made
of the young yellow leaves of the coconut or sugar palm pinned
together with bits of bamboo, covered with delicate patterns
8o ISLAND OF BALI
representing moons, stylized girls, trees, and so forth, cut out of
the mature leaves of palm, dark green lace against a background
of lemon yellow.
A Granary (Lumbung)
The crowd started for the village in a long procession with
music. The women cafried the offerings and the Rice Mothers
on their heads. The men wore hats freshly woven of coconut
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 8i
leaf, bristling with flowers and ferns. The parade stopped at the
village temple, where the decorated sheaves were blessed by the
temple guardian. This ceremony was called mendak nini, “ to
bring back the Mother.” Each family took its Rice Mother to
its own granary, which was also decorated with penyois and
lamaks to receive it. The Rice Mothers were deposited on cush¬
ions on special wooden thrones inside the granaries, and I was
told that they would remain there until eaten by rats. Not even
famine could justify eating the rice of the nini; whoever ate
the Rice Mother would be considered as low as a dog. After the
ceremony the cut rice was brought home to be stored in the
granary until needed.
The rice granaries (called according to size and shape lum-
bung, glebeg, djinan, klumpu, and klimking in the order of their
importance) are a good indication of the economic status of a
family. They are tall buildings with steep, high roofs of thatch
resembling the Melanesian yam houses in shape. A granary is
supported by four wooden pillars with wide circular capitals to
prevent rats from climbing up. Custom demands respectful
handling of rice. It must be fetched in silence and only in the
daytime. A person who climbs into a granary should be in a
normal state of physical and spiritual health and may not chew
betel-nut.
DISTRIBUTION OF LABOUR
In Bali one may see a woman laying bricks or breaking stones to
pave a road, or find men in the market in Den Pasar sitting at
their sewing-machines making blouses for women, but it would
be unthinkable for a woman to paint a picture or to climb a coco¬
nut tree; a man would be disgraced if seen performing work that
is the perquisite of women.
The labour allotted to each sex is sharply defined; all heavy
work requiring manly attributes — agriculture, building in wood
or thatch, the care of cattle — as well as most of the trades and
crafts, such as carpentry, wood- and stone-carving, painting, writ-
82 ISLAND OF BALI
ing, playing musical instruments, is the work of men. Women
own, raise, and sell chickens and pigs, but only men care for cows,
buffaloes, and ducks. Since men dislike working for wages, the
women of the lower classes are obliged to engage as coolies trans¬
porting building-materials, carrying coconuts to sell to the Chi¬
nese for making copra, delivering charcoal, or obtaining broken
coral from the beach to make lime. Although only men build
Balinese houses, women are the house-painters and work as
masons in constructions of Western style.
Domestic duties such as fetching water for the kitchen, thresh¬
ing rice, making flour, weaving, and making domestic offerings
are performed by women, but men take an equal interest in the
care of children and are proud to carry their sons everywhere.
While the daily food is cooked by women, only men may prepare
the pork and turtle dishes for banquets, and rice may be cooked
by both. When at harvest-time both sexes help cut the rice and
carry it home, every woman holds one of the heavy sheaves on her
head, and the men carry two, one on each end of a pole swung
across the shoulders. It is a rule that a woman carries only on her
head and a man on his shoulders, except for offerings and holy
objects, which must be carried on the head.
Children assist their parents in the daily work, the boys taking
care of the ducks and cows and weeding the ricefields; or, if their
father is a craftsman, they become his apprentices. Little girls
help their mothers to carry loads, to cook, to weave, or sell in the
market. The activity of the women seems to increase with age; by
far the most active person in our household was Gusti’s aunt, a
proud old woman over sixty. Women of the common class carry
even greater loads than the young, but she, being a Pregusti,
could not carry loads. Her hands, however, were never still and
she was reputed the best maker of offerings in the band/ar. En¬
dowed with a knowledge acquired only by age, elderly women are
essential to the religious festivals and many act as priestesses.
Although old men are mainly concerned with sitting in the
bale band/ar discussing literature, chewing sirih, and drinking
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 83
tuak, they also have duties to perform: they are the leading
members of the village association, the priests, witch-doctors,
story-tellers, and of course the teachers of writing, poetry, and
the arts. Old men are often duck-shepherds, guiding the flocks
of ducks to the fields and back.
At one time the dramatic arts were restricted to the men,
although older women danced in religious ceremonies. But to¬
day girls have successfully invaded the theatrical field. In general
the condition of Balinese women is better than in other Eastern
countries. A woman has definite rights; the income she derives
from the sale of her pigs, her weaving, or the garden produce she
sells in the market is her own, and she may dispose of her belong¬
ings without the knowledge of her husband. Most women are
not only economically independent, but contribute to the ex¬
penses of the household. A woman’s debts are her own and her
husband is not liable for them. The women keep the finances of
the family and control the markets.
THE ECONOMIC ORDER
With agriculture as the main occupation of the people and the
basis of wealth, the question of the ownership of land is of great
importance. Bali presents the amazing spectacle of a land where
the deeply rooted agrarian communalism of the people has con¬
tinued to exist side by side with the feudalism of the noble land¬
lords. We have seen that the true Balinese village is an independ¬
ent economic and social unit, ruled by a council of villagers with
voting power, equal rights for all, and ownership of land restricted
by village regulations. The lands are communally cultivated to
maintain the village festivals, and even the ground on which the
houses stand is village property that can be reclaimed if the tenant
abuses his privileges. Since the land and its products belong to
the ancestral gods, the idea of absolute property is not firmly
rooted among the Balinese. In our household nobody objected
when neighbours came and cut flowers and banana leaves without
permission.
84 ISLAND OF BALI
Alongside the Balinese commune is the contrasting influence
of mediaeval princes who have tried, without success, to abolish
the village organization and the religion that motivated it, to
replace it by feudal rule with an oEcial cult under their control.
Passive disobedience at first, and Dutch supremacy later, left
the princes in the position of impoverished nominal aristocrats,
who, despite the fact that they represent the Government, are
excluded from the administrative management of the villages.
Through their co-operative societies, the handjars and subaks, the
Balinese have recaptured some of their village autonomy. How¬
ever, the communal system has suffered considerably in the
feudal territories where the princes have held sway; the com¬
munal lands sometimes became part of the estate of the local
prince, who gave grants of lands to his vassals in exchange for
servitude, and gradually ownership of the land in these districts
became more and more individualistic, developing a class of
organized small landowners. Village ground cannot legally be
disposed of, but sawas have been pawned when there was great
need of ready cash. Land has never become a commodity, how¬
ever, and today the agriculturist is protected to a certain extent
by the law forbidding the sale of agricultural lands to foreigners,
perhaps one of the wisest laws passed by the Dutch Government.
Economic inequality is not as striking in Bali as elsewhere.
Until recently almost everybody wore the same type of clothes,
all went barefoot and lived in thatched houses. At first sight they
all seemed happy and prosperous. The majority of the popula¬
tion has a roof, enough to eat, and some big silver dollars buried
under the earthen floor of the sleeping-quarters. Yet there are
some who are extremely poor while others are considered rich.
There are people without lands or a house of their own, living a
parasitic life of slavery, a remnant of feudalism, attached to the
household of a master and eating whatever is given them. A rich
family is one who has sawas, a house with a gate of carved stone,
a large rice granary, an ornate family temple, and a well-built
pavilion for guests. They may have some fine cloths put away
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 85
and heirlooms in the form of gold jewellery, a kris with a gold
sheath and handle set with precious stones and a number of silver
or gold vessels, all of which can be pawned in one of the Govern*
ment pawnshops in case of need.
In general the Balinese have little need of cash to procure the
daily necessities of life. Normally the cost of living is extremely
low and food and the requirements for shelter are produced by
the Balinese themselves. A meal in a public eating-place may
cost as much as twenty cents, but, having rice, the cash expense
for food for an entire family in the home amounts only to a few
pennies, perhaps only enough to buy salt and spices. Fruit and
vegetables are grown in the gardens adjoining the house; pigs,
chickens, and ducks are raised at home to be killed on special
occasions or for offerings which the people themselves eat after
the gods have consumed the essence. Fuel consists of the fallen
dry leaves and stems of the coconut trees.
The housing-problem is simple. Entire families live together
in ancestral compounds, and a modest house can be built almost
overnight out of bamboo and thatch at a very low cost. People
without means or without a house simply go to live with a relative,
“ sharing a kitchen ” in exchange for small services and assistance
in the general housework, or procure land from the village and
gradually build their own household. The daily clothing consists
of a kamben, a piece of cotton worn like a skirt, and a head-cloth,
with an added shirt or blouse in the more “ modern ” districts.
A complete ordinary outfit of clothes costs about two guilders
($1.56 at the time of writing) ; one guilder for the skirt, fifty
cents for the headpiece and fifty cents more for the shirt. Amuse¬
ments are free and transportation is mainly by foot, leaving
medicines and luxuries to be bought for cash.
It was always a mystery to us how the Balinese made the money
they seemed to spend so lavishly in extravagant festivals and in
beautiful clothes. They never appeared to work regularly for
wages, and outside of the market, in which alone business was
transacted, they never seemed interested in commerce. The men
86 ISLAND OF BALI
were always busy in the ricefields, but rice cannot be considered
an important source of cash income. The Balinese grow rice for
personal consumption and for offerings, selling only what is left
over from the second planting, which they regard as unfit for
offerings to the gods.
Their main source of income is in the sale of cattle and pigs,
and of coconuts for making copra; a second source is from coffee,
rice, and tobacco which they sell for export to Chinese middle¬
men. The trades and crafts are incidental sources of income and
in the markets one may see people selling pottery, mats, baskets,
and so forth, together with the vendors of vegetables, dried fish,
spices, and flowers. Some craftsmen, such as the gold- and silver-
workers, the blacksmiths, carpenters, weavers of palm, and
pottery-makers, have regular incomes, but they remain independ¬
ent artisans. The Balinese men work for wages only spasmodi¬
cally and as an adventure. In the larger towns they engage as
chauffeurs, clerks, and servants — positions which are regarded as
superior. With the affluence of tourists, some now derive an in¬
come from the sale of sculptures, paintings, silverwork, weavings,
and so forth.
Ruled by the principle of live and let live, landowners allow
others without land to share their crop in exchange for help.
There are, however, organizations of labourers (seka medjukut)
who work the earth for a communal wage. They are paid by time
recorded by water-clocks (gand/i) similar to those used in cock¬
fights: a half coconut-shell with a small hole in the bottom, placed
in a basin of water, the time it takes to sink being the measure.
The fees are arranged by the head of the group.
At the present time, however, the economic balance has, tem¬
porarily at least, ceased to exist. With taxes and imported com¬
modities on the increase, and the price of Balinese products for
export at rock-bottom levels, the whole population has come
to find itself in need of cash, not in kepengs (Chinese cash
valued at a fraction of a cent with which they buy the daily
necessities) , but in Dutch guilders worth from five hundred to
RICE, WORK, & WEALTH 87
seven hundred kepeng according to the exchange. There is no
demand for their insignificant products, and the deflated Dutch
currency has become harder than ever to obtain.
The Balinese are more and more eager for the “ advantages of
civilization " in the form of inferior foreign cloth, bicycles, flash¬
lights, aniline dyes, and motor-cars, and if their miserable earn¬
ings are not taken away by the Arab merchants it is only because
they are already due for back taxes. Besides a tax on each house¬
hold, there is a sawa tax (pad/eg) and a tax (upeti) on dry
grounds bearing coconut and coffee trees. The most hated of
taxes is that paid every time a Balinese kills a pig, no matter how
small, for which he needs a certificate. This has led to clandes¬
tine slaughter and with it the reduction of the pig supply, and the
reward promised to denouncers has introduced the element of
discord into otherwise unified communities. Dr. Korn, the au¬
thority on Balinese sociology, says that the population would
prefer an export tax on cattle to the troublesome slaughter tax.
With the relentless drain of the island's wealth, poverty, too,
is on the increase and the Balinese are threatened with the loss
of their lands through failure to pay taxes. They have been
forced to sell whatever they possessed of value — antiques, fine
brocades, jewellery, and even the bits of gold that decorate their
krisses - to tourists and gold-hoarders, while theft and prostitu¬
tion are on the increase. It is to be feared that if present condi¬
tions continue, the simple and well-organized life of the Balinese
will be seriously disrupted and their institutions will collapse as a
result of the unavoidable social unrest.
CHAPTER V
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI
THE HOUSE
As an organic unit, the structure, significance, and function of
the home is dictated by the same fundamental principles of be¬
lief that rule the village; blood-relation through the worship of
the ancestors; rank, indicated by higher and lower levels; and
orientation by the cardinal directions, the mountain and the sea,
right and left. The Balinese say that a house, like a human being,
has a head — the family shrine; arms — the sleeping-quarters and
the social parlour; a navel — the courtyard; sexual organs — the
gate; legs and feet — the kitchen and the granary; and anus — the
pit in the backyard where the refuse is disposed of.
Magic rules control not only the structure but also the building
and occupation of the house; only on an auspicious day specified
in the religious calendar can they begin to build or occupy a
house. On our arrival we were able to secure a new pavilion in
the household of Gusti only because the date for occupation set
by the priest was still three months off. We were strangers im¬
mune from the laws of magic harmony that affect only the Bali¬
nese and we could live in the house until the propitious day when
the priest would come to perform the melaspasin, the ceremony
of inauguration, saying his prayers over each part of the house,
burying little offerings at strategic points to protect the inmates
from evil influences.
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 89
A Balinese home (kuren) consists of a family or a number of
related families living within one enclosure, praying at a common
family temple, with one gate and one kitchen. The square plot
of land (pekarangan) in which the various units of the house
stand is entirely surrounded by a wall of whitewashed mud, pro¬
tected from rain erosion by a crude roofing of thatch. The Bali¬
nese feel uneasy when they sleep without a wall, as, for instance,
the servants must in the unwalled Western-style houses. The
gate of a well-to-do family can be an imposing affair of brick and
carved stone, but more often it consists of two simple pillars of
mud supporting a thick roof of thatch. In front of the gate on
either side are two small shrines (apit lawang) for offerings, of
brick and stone, or merely two little niches excavated in the mud
of the gate, while the simplest are made of split bamboo. Directly
behind the doorway is a small wall (aling aling) that screens off
the interior and stops evil spirits. In China I had seen similar
screens erected for the same purpose and once I asked a Balinese
friend how the aling aling kept the devils from entering; he re¬
plied, with tongue in his cheek, that, unlike humans, they turned
corners with difficulty.
The pavilions of the house are distributed around a well-kept
yard of hardened earth free of vegetation except for some flowers
and a decorative frangipani or hibiscus tree. But the land be¬
tween the houses and the wall is planted with coconut trees,
breadfruit, bananas, papayas, and so forth, with a corner reserved
as a pigsty. This is the garden, the orchard, and the corral of the
house and is often so exuberant that the old platitude that in the
tropics one has only to reach up to pluck food from the trees
almost comes true in Bali.
Curiously, bamboo is not grown within the house. If it sprouts
by itself it is allowed to remain, but its growth is discouraged by
indirect means. Such is the magic of bamboo that only old
people may tackle the dangerous job of planting it or digging it
out, and the first lump of earth dug must be thrown as far away
as possible. It is said that if this earth touches someone, he will
90 ISLAND OF BALI
surely die, and it is only on certain days that work concerning
bamboo may be safely undertaken. Yet life in Bali would have
developed along different lines had bamboo not existed on the
A Typical Pekarangan — Plan of Gedog’s House
island. Out of bamboo they make the great majority of their arti¬
facts; houses, beds, bridges, water-pipes, musical instruments,
altars, and so forth. It is woven into light movable screens for
walls, sun-hats, and baskets of every conceivable purpose. The
young shoots are excellent to eat, while other parts are used as
medicine. I was told that the tiny hairs in the wrapping of the
new leaves are a slow and undetectable poison like ground glass
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 91
and tiger s whiskers. Bamboo combines the strength of steel with
qualities of the lightest wood. It grows rapidly and without care
to enormous size.
Plan of a Djerd, the House of a Man of Means
A — Kemulan e — Saren
B — Padmasana f — Tadjok
c — Mendjangan Seluang g — Taksii
D — Gedong for Gunung Agung h — Ngrurah
I — BalePiasan
Social and economic differences affect but little the basic
structure of the home. The house of a poor family is called
pekarangan, that of a nobleman is a djeio, and a Brahmana’s is
a griya, but these differences are mostly in the name, the quality
92 ISLAND OF BALI
of the materials employed, the workmanship, and of course in the
larger and richer family temple. The fundamental plan is based
on the same rules for everyone. Only the great palace (puri) of
the local ruling prince is infinitely more elaborate, with a lily
pond, compartments for the Radja’s brothers and his countless
wives, a great temple divided into three courts, and even special
sections for the preservation of the corpses and for the seclusion
of “ impure ” palace women during the time of menstruation.
The household of Gedog, our next-door neighbour in Bela-
luan, was typical; the place of honour, the higher “ north-east ”
corner of the house towards the mountain,’^ was occupied by the
sanggah JcemuJan, the family temple where Gedog worshipped
his ancestors. The sanggah was an elemental version of the
formal village temple: a walled space containing a number of
little empty god-houses and a shed for offerings. The main
shrine, dedicated to the ancestral souls, was a little house on stilts
divided into three compartments, each with a small door. There
were other small shrines for the two great mountains — the
Gunung Agung and Batur — and for the taJcsu and ngrurah, the
“ interpreter” and “ secretary ” of the deities. In Gedog's house
the altars were of bamboo with thatch roofs, but in the home of
Gusti’s uncle, the noble judge who lived across the road, the
family shrine was as elaborate as the village temple, with a moat,
carved stone gates, brick altars, and expensive roofs of sugar-
palm fibre. Such a temple is not a modest sanggah; but receives
the more impressive name of pameiadjan. Noble people pay
special attention to the shrine for the deer-god Mendjangan
Seluang, the totemic animal of the descendants of Madjapahit,
the Javanese masters of Bali.
Next in importance to the temple was the uma met6n, the
sleeping-quarters of Gedog and his wife, built towards the moun-
^ Endless ill luck would follow whoever ignored the laws of rank and built a
dwelling at a level higher than a temple. The Balinese have resented the building of
a Government rest-house on a hill above the holy temple of Tirta Empul in
Tampaksinng, and our servant Pugog insisted he could not bring his wife to Tjampuan
because the temple across the ravine was at a lower level than the house, and inter¬
course with a woman there could only result in a catastrophe.
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 93
tain side of the house. The meten was a small building on a plat¬
form of bricks or sandstone, with a thick roof of thatch supported
by eight posts and surrounded by four walls. There were no
windows in the meten and the only light came through the nar¬
row door. When one’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness
inside, one could see the only furniture, the two beds, one on
either side of the door. In more elaborate homes the platform of
the metdn extends into a front porch with additional beds. In
Den Pasar, where modernism is rampant, many a front porch
is embellished with framed photographs of relatives, made by the
local Chinese photographer. By the door of Gedog’s meten hung
a picture of him with his wife and children in ceremonial clothes,
violently coloured with anilines, sitting dignified and stiff against
a background of stormy clouds, draperies, columns, and balus¬
trades. The generous photographer had added all sorts of extra
jewellery with little dabs of gold paint. I have seen the most
amazing objects hanging in the porches of Balinese homes: dried
lobsters, painted plates representing the snow-covered Alps,
Chinese paintings on glass, old electric bulbs filled with water,
aquatic plants growing out of them, postal cards of New York
skyscrapers, and so forth; objects prized as exotic, rare things,
as we prize their discarded textiles and moth-eaten carvings. In
one-house we found a picture of Queen Wilhelmina; we asked
who she was and the quick reply came: “ Oh! itu gouvermen —
That is the Government.” The metSn is the sanctuary of the
home; here heirlooms are kept and the family's capital is often
buried in the earth floor under the bed. Normally the heads of
the family sleep in the met6n, but being the only building in
which privacy can be secured, they relinquish it to newly-weds
or to unmarried girls who need protection. They shut themselves
into it at night, but otherwise the entire life of the household is
spent outdoors on the porch or in the surrounding open pavilions,
each provided with beds for other members of the family.
The other three sides of Gedog's courtyard were occupied by
three open pavilions; on the left was the bale tiang sanga, the
94 ISLAND OF BALI
social parlour and guest house, and two smaller pavilions were
on the right (bale sikepat) and back (bale sekenam) where
other relatives slept with the children and where the women
placed their looms to work. In the lowest part of the land, to¬
wards the sea, were the kitchen (paon) and the granary (lum-
bung) . Rice was threshed in a cleared space (tongos nebuk
padi) behind the granary. As in every household, there were two
small shrines (tugu) , one west of the meten, the other in the
middle of the courtyard, the pengidjeng perhaps dedicated to
the spirit of the land, “ His Excellency the Owner of the
Ground ” (Ratu Medrwe Karang) .
Such is the general pattern of the home of a family of the
average class that has ricefields and is economically comfortable.
The better homes often have more elaborate pavilions, one of
which may become a lodji (a Dutch word) by enclosing half of
the pavilion with four walls, leaving the other half as an open
veranda. This will provide a second sleeping-quarter for a mar¬
ried son. In the houses of the well-to-do the social hall is often a
great square pavilion (bale gede) with an extraordinarily thick
thatch roof supported by twelve beautifully carved posts. A well-
built bale, the archtype of Balinese construction, is a masterpiece
of simplicity, ingenuity, and good taste. It consists of a platform
of mud, brick, or stone reached by three or four steps and covered
by a cool roof of thick thatch. The roof is supported by more
or less elaborate wooden posts (tiang) , the number of which
determines their name and function. Thus a bal6 is called sike
pat, sekenam, tiang sanga, or bale gede, according to whether
there are four, six, nine, or twelve posts. Definite rules dictate the
dimensions and designs of these posts, 23 lengths of the index
finger (tudjoh) , or about seven feet, being the standard height
of a house post. It has already been mentioned that the house
must stand “ upright that is, the bottom of the posts should
be the end nearest to where the roots were in the tree. The roof
is built of lalang grass sown on the long ribs of coconut leaves,
placed close together like shingles and lashed to the bamboo
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 95
skeleton of the roof with indestructible cords of sugar-palm fibre,
with an extra thickness of grass added to the four corners. Then
the roof is combed with a special rake and the lower edge is
' -0 , Vi'' iS *•***»» »“
Structure of a Bale
neatly evened with a sharp knife. Such a roof, often a foot and
a half in thickness, will last through fifty tropical rainy seasons.
The beams that support the roof are ingeniously fitted together
without nails, and are held in place with pegs made of heart of
96 ISLAND OF BALI
coconut wood. Generally one or two sides of the bale are pro¬
tected by a low wall and between the house posts are built-in
beds or platforms of wood with springs of bamboo, also called
bales, where distinguished guests sit cross-legged to eat, or where,
with a mattress added and screened by a curtain, they are put up
for the night.
In Belaluan everybody was up even before the first rays of the
sun outlined the Jagged tops of the coconut palms, awakened by
the raucous crowings of the fighting cocks. In the indigo semi-
darkness of the dawn the women were busily sweeping the yard
and bringing water from the village spring. The first thought of
the men was for their pets; to line up the bell-shaped cages of the
fighting cocks out on the road by the gate so that the roosters
might “ amuse themselves watching people go by.” The cages
of the cooing doves were strung up on high poles for them to
enjoy the morning air and the sunshine, and the flocks of pigeons,
trained to fly in circles over the house, were released for their
morning exercise. As protection from birds of prey, they had
small brass bells around their necks that produced various hum¬
ming sounds as they flew round and round until they tired, when
they came down to be fed.
After a refreshing bath the men started for the fields without
breakfast, taking along a snack -rice boiled inside of little
diamond-shaped containers of palm-leaf called ketipat. More
substantial food was taken to them later if they had to remain in
the fields all day, but they returned at noon for lunch if there was
not much work or if the sawas were near. Meanwhile the women
fetched sheaves of unhusked rice from the granary, spread them
on the ground to dry in the sun, filled the gebah — the large water-
basin in the kitchen and started the fire for the day^s cooking.
A kitchen is a simple roof of coarse thatch supported by four
posts, with a bamboo platform at one end - the kitchen table -
and a primitive mud stove at the other. Often a crude figure is
modelled out of the same clay of which the hearth is made to
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 97
preside over the kitchen. It is called brahma, not the supreme
lord of the Hindus, but simply meaning “ fire,” an animistic fire
god.
The food that Balinese gourmets eat at festivals is as elaborate
as any in the world and will be described later in detail, but the
daily meal is extremely simple. A mound of boiled cold rice with
salt and chili-pepper was sufficient, our house-boy Dog claimed,
to keep body and soul together for a Balinese like himself. The
daily diet of Gusti and his noble family was the same cold white
rice (nasi, a synonym for food in general) , helped, however, by
a side dish of vegetables chopped together with a dozen or so of
spices, aromatics, grated coconut and the hottest chili-pepper in
the world.
Gusti’s wives did the cooking; Siloh Biang prepared the rice
while Sagung scraped coconut in a kikian, a board bristling with
little iron points, chopped the ingredients for the sauce, or fried
them in coconut oil in an iron pan (pengorengan) . Some eat
their daily rice simply boiled in a clay pot, but in our household
they preferred it steamed; they washed the grain repeatedly until
the waters lost their milky colour and came out transparent, boiled
it for a while, and when it was half done put it into a funnel-
shaped basket (kukusan) covered with a heavy clay lid (kekeb)
and steamed the whole over a special pot (dangdang) of boiling
water. From time to time some of the boiling water was poured
over the rice with a ladle of coconut shell to prevent it from
drying up and sticking together. The result was a deliciously dry,
separate rice that served as a medium for the peppery sauces.
The food was prepared with cleanliness, everything carefully
washed first, and the food covered until eaten with squares of
banana leaf.
As soon as the rice was done, they prepared a tray of offerings
(ngedjot) for the spirits that haunt the house: little squares of
banana leaf, each with a few grains of rice, a flower, salt, and a
dash of chili-pepper. No one could eat before the little portions
were distributed in front of each of the house units: at the cn-
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 99
ing was placed on the ground. Nobody cared, however, since
they were intended for evil spirits, which might, perhaps, be
embodied in the dogs.
There were no set meal hours and they ate whenever they felt
hungry. A little before noon the men returned from work after
Manner of Drinking
(design scratched on a bamboo drinking-bottle)
taking a bath in the spring or in a river and sat casually some¬
where near the kitchen, often turning their backs silently on each
other because a person who is eating should not be spoken to.
Each was given his portion of rice with its complementary sauce
in a square of banana leaf which he held in the hollow of the
left hand while the right acted as spoon and fork. The use of
dishes and cutlery is to the Balinese an unclean and repulsive
foreign habit. Balinese who use plates invariably place a square
100
ISLAND OF BALI
of banana leaf over them. When finished, the leaf dishes were
simply thrown to the pigs; no dishes were left to wash. A kendih
of water was passed around after the meal, each drinking in turn
and at a distance from it, letting a continuous jet of water fall
into the open mouth, the lips never touching the spout. (When
we tried to drink like the Balinese we succeeded only in choking
or drenching ourselves.) The mouth and fingers were rinsed,
and after emitting a loud belch of satisfaction the men took a
nap or went to the bale bandjar to chat before resuming work,
Generally the women ate after the men were finished, then fed
the pigs, and spent the rest of the afternoon weaving, threshing
rice, or simply delousing each other, a great social pastime.
For a while it seemed as if the art of hand weaving would be
wrecked by the ever increasing importation of foreign cloth.
Chinese silk thread was hard to obtain, aniline dyes gave brighter
hues and were infinitely easier to handle than the old vegetable
dyes, and Japanese rayon for a few cents a yard looked almost
like real silk. In later years, however, the affluence of tourists has
increased the market for Balinese handicrafts and many women
derive an income from selling garish brocades. On our second
visit the women of our household took to weaving and every
afternoon the characteristic rhythmic sounds of many looms
came from all directions.
On the Balinese loom (prabot tennun) the warp is stretched
between a heavy wooden structure (t/et/aga and pendalan) and
a sort of yoke {6poi) shaped like a Cupid’s bow held by the
woman’s back. After the bamboo spindle (tunda) has gone
through the warp, the weave is tightened with a long ruler (be-
lida) of polished hard wood that slides over a bamboo drum
(pengrorogan) , while the threads are separated with a bamboo
tube (bungbunggan) provided with little bells that jingle at
every move. Thus the work is made easier by the rhythmical
sequence of three sounds: the tinkling of the bells, the sound
of the hollow bamboo as it is struck by the ruler, and the ener¬
getic double knock to tighten the weave. Weaving is the main
lOl
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI
occupation of the women of caste who feel above doing heavy
house labour, but they are not lazy and take to weaving with
tenacity. In our house the wives and aunts of our host, all noble¬
women with servants to do the housework, remained all day
A — Pendalan
B — Tjetjaga
c — Pengrorogan
D — Selaran
E — Bungbunggan
F — Yeriring
G — Belida
H — Srat
I — Sumpil
j — Apit
K — Epor
L — Tunda
glued to their looms and often continued working into the night
by the faint light of a petrol lamp.
Towards evening the ground of the house shook, resounding
with deep, rhythmic thumping — the women threshing the rice
for the next day's meal. Two women pounded the rice in wood
mortars with long, heavy pestles, each dropping her pestle alter¬
nately in unfailing, perfectly timed intervals, catching it on the
rebound with the other hand. Then the rice was separated from
102 ISLAND OF BALI
the husk by swishing it around in flat bamboo trays, the centrifu^
gal force throwing the chaff towards the outside.
Everybody bathed again when the work for the day was done;
by then the sun had begun to set and the atmosphere had cooled,
so it was time to put on clean clothes, tjempaka blossoms in the
women’s hair, great hibiscus behind the ears of the men, and to
go visiting or take a stroll and be admired. Back from work, the
men sat in groups at the gates or in the middle of the road talk¬
ing and fondling their fighting cocks until the sun dropped be¬
hind the curtain of coconut palms. Sunset ^ comes suddenly in
the tropics and in a few seconds it was night, when the lamps
were lit and it was time to eat dinner, the cold food left from
lunch. There were many ways of spending an evening; .elderly
men fond of tuak, palm beer, belonged to “ fuak associations ”
and met at the bale band jar, summoned by a special tomtom.
Or if there was a rehearsal of the village orchestra or a meeting
at the bald bandjar, the men sat talking things over until they
were tired, going to bed about nine or ten. But if there was a
feast in the neighbourhood, or one of the frequent theatrical
performances, the whole family went to watch the show, re¬
maining until it was over, long after midnight.
BALINESE COOKING
Although the daily meal was frugal, the Balinese seemed ex¬
ceptionally well fed, and people were always nibbling at some-
2 The Balinese divide the day into eight periods (dauh) established by the posi¬
tion of the sun in the sky:
“ One o'clock " (dauh pisan) about 6 a.m., when the sun appears be¬
hind the trees.
“Two o'clock" (dauh roh) about 8 a.m.
“ Three o'clock " (dauh teJu) 10 a.m.
“ Four o'clock " (dauh tepat) at noon.
“ Five o'clock " (dauh lima) about 2 p.m.
“ Six o'clock ” (dauh nam) at 4 p.m.
o'clock " (dauh pitu) at 6 p.m., when the sun goes down.
“ Eight o'clock '' (dauh kutus) ■ when it grows dark and the lamps are lit.
Generally the Balinpe simply point to the place of the sun in the sky to indicate
an hour. The night is divided thus: from sunset (penalekan) , then midnight (tenggah
lemang), to gaJang tanah, before dawn, when the earth becomes visible, Fxiederich
mentions that in Badung there was a special kulkul in a clock-tower in which the
hours were struck,
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 103
thing. They were continually eating at odd hours, buying
strange-looking foods at public eating-booths, in the market, at
the crossroads, and particularly at festivals when the food-
vendors did a rushing business in chopped mixtures, peanuts,
and bright pink drinks. Every day a young vendor came into the
compound and invariably found many customers. For five cents
she served a large piece of delicious roast chicken with a strong
sauce, accompanied by a package of rice that sold for an extra
penny. Even small children, accustomed to look out for them¬
selves, bought their snacks from the street vendors, waiting
silently for their orders to be mashed and wrapped in neat little
packages of banana leaf, paying for them with the kepengs they
kept tied in their sashes.
Balinese food is difficult for the palate of a Westerner. Be¬
sides being served cold always, food is considered uneatable
unless it is violently flavoured with a crushed variety of pungent
spices, aromatic roots and leaves, nuts, onions, garlic, fermented
fish paste, lemon Juice, grated coconut, and burning red peppers.
It was so hot that it made even me, a Mexican raised on chili-
peppers, cry and break out in beads of perspiration. But after
the first shocks, and when we became accustomed to Balinese
flavours, we developed into Balinese gourmets and soon started
trying out strange new combinations. Siloh Biang understood
our appreciation of their delicacies and often brought Rose new
dishes to taste. Babies are fed the peppery food as soon as they
are weaned and will not touch food without spices and peppers.
Most Europeans, used to beef and boiled potatoes, simply cannot
eat Balinese food, but on the other hand no Balinese of the aver¬
age class can be induced even to touch European food, which
is nyam-nyam to them — that is, “ flat and tasteless.”
A Brahmanic priest we occasionally visited told us that under
no circumstances may Balinese eat the following; “ human flesh,
tigers, monkeys, dogs, crocodiles, mice, snakes, frogs, certain
poisonous fish, leeches, stinging insects, crows, eagles, owls, and
in general all birds with moustaches ”! We assured him nobody
104 ISLAND OF BALI
ate such things, but he remarked that it was well to keep it in
mind anyway. Being of the highest caste and a priest besides,
he could not touch the flesh of cows, bulls, and pork, eat in the
streets or in the market, drink alcohol, or even taste the food
from offerings from which the essence had been consumed by the
gods. Members of the high nobility — Brahmanas and Satrias
— are forbidden to eat beef, but many of the lesser Gustis do not
mind eating it.
Outside of these prohibitions the common people eat every¬
thing that walks, swims, flies, or crawls. Chicken, duck, pork,
and more rarely beef and buffalo are the meats most commonly
eaten, but the people are also fond of stranger foods such as
dragon-flies, crickets, flying ants, and the larvae of bees. Dragon¬
flies were caught in a most amusing manner; boys and girls
wandered among the ricefields waving long poles, the ends of
which were smeared with a sticky sap. The supposedly “ rank¬
conscious ” dragon-flies must always stand in the highest branches
and all the boy had to do was to hold the stick above the place
where a fly stood; it flew onto the sticky end of the pole and was
caught in the trap. Great numbers were obtained in this curious
manner, their wings taken off, and the bodies fried crisp in coco¬
nut oil with spices and vegetables. Great delicacies are also
the scaled ant-eater (klesih) , the flying fox (a great fruit bat) ,
porcupines (landak) , large lizards (aJu) , wild boar, squids, rice
birds, from the glatek to the minute petingan, which was eaten
bones and all, and all sorts of crayfish. In every food-stand we
saw small fried eels from the ricefields, looking suspiciously like
shrivelled baby snakes. Although dogs are included in the list
of what not to eat, they are eaten in some of the remote villages
in Klungkung and Gianyar, but the rest of the Balinese will have
nothing to do with people of such disgusting habits.
With meat eaten only occasionally, the diet of the Balinese
consists, besides rice, corn, and sweet potato, of vegetables and
fruits, of which they have a great variety. Besides eggplant,
papaya, coconut, bananas, pineapples, mangoes, oranges, mel-
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 105
ons, peanuts, and so forth, there are others unknown among us,
such as the delicious breadfruit (timbul) , jackfruit (nangka) ,
acacia leaves (twi) , greens (kangkung) , edible ferns (paku) , and
extraordinary fruits such as salak, a pear-shaped fruit that grows
on a palm, tastes like pineapple, and is covered by the most per¬
fect imitation snakeskin; the delicate djambu, fragrant wani, the
rambutan (a large sort of grape inside of a hairy transparent pink
skin) , the famous mangosteen (manggis) (for which a prize was
offered by Queen Victoria to anyone who found the way to bring
the fruit in good condition to England) , and the stinking durien
(duren in Bali) . A good deal has been written both in favour of
and against this spiky sort of custard apple, whose putrid smell
has been compared with every decaying or evil-smelling thing
from goats to rancid butter. The meat of the durien is a creamy
custard, the undefinable flavour and texture of which develops
into a passion among those used to eating it. Most Europeans,
however, object to its offensive smell to such a degree that they
forbid their servants to bring durien within a distance of their
house. The fruits are eaten raw and the vegetables are boiled
or fried after being washed carefully in a special bowl. The
Balinese peel vegetables away and not towards themselves, as is
done in the West. Although the Balinese are not fond of sweets,
they make a delicious dessert of coconut cream with cinnamon,
bananas, or breadfruit steamed in packages of banana leaf.
We have seen that the women are reduced to the routine of
cooking the everyday meal, but when it comes to preparing ban¬
quet food, it is the men, as is universally the case, who are the
great chefs and who alone can prepare the festival dishes of roast
suckling pig (be guling) and sea-turtle (penyu) , the cooking
of which requires the art of famous specialists. Few bandjars en¬
joyed as great a reputation for fine cooking as Belaluan; there the
great banquet dishes were prepared most often because the
bandjai was prosperous, and there lived famous cooks who were
always in great demand to officiate at feasts. People spoke with
io6 ISLAND OF BALI
anticipation when Pan Regog or Made directed the preparation
of epicurean dishes such as “ turtle in four ways ” or the delicious
sate Jerabat.
On the road coming from the seaport of Benua we often met
men from Belaluan staggering under the weight of a giant turtle
flapping its paddles helplessly in space, and then we knew they
were preparing for a feast. For days before the banquet of the
band/ar four or five stupefied turtles crawled under the platforms
of the bale band/ar awaiting the fateful moment when, in the
middle of the night, the kulkul would sound to call the men to
the gruesome task of sacrificing them. A sea-turtle possesses a
strange reluctance to die and for many hours after the shell is
removed and the flaps and head are severed from the body, the
viscera continue to pulsate hysterically, the bloody members
twitch weirdly on the ground, and the head snaps furiously. The
blood of the turtle is carefully collected and thinned with lime
juice to prevent coagulation. By dawn the many cooks and as¬
sistants are chopping the skin and meat with heavy chopping
axes (blakas) on sections of tree-trunks (talanan) , are grating
coconuts, fanning fires, boiling or steaming great quantities of
rice, or mashing spices in clay dishes (t/obek) with wooden
pestles (pengulakan) .
The indicated manners of preparing the turtle are the afore¬
mentioned four styles;
lawar: skin and flesh chopped fine and mixed with spices
and raw blood;
getjok: chopped meat with grated coconut and spices;
urab gadang: same as above, but cooked in tamarind leaves
(asam) ;
kiman: chopped meat and grated coconut cooked in coconut
cream.
Coconut (nyuJi) is an essential element for fine Balinese
cooking. Grated coconut meat is mixed with everything, frying
is done exclusively in coconut oil, coconut water is the standard
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 107
drink to refresh one's guests, and a good deal of the food is
cooked in rich coconut cream, santen, made by squeezing the
grated coconut over and over into a little water until a heavy
milk is obtained. Food containing coconut does not keep and
must be eaten the same day.
Sant6n enters also into the composition of the other delicacy
essential to banquets, the sate lembat or leklat This is a delicious
paste of turtle meat and spices, kneaded in coconut cream, with
which the end of a thick bamboo stick is covered and which is
then roasted over charcoals. The satd lembat is presented with
an equal number of ordinary sate, little pieces of meat the size
of dice strung on bamboo sticks “ en brochette ” and roasted over
the coals, eaten dry or with a sauce. Rose was always poking
around where cooking was going on, and to her I owe the follow¬
ing recipe for preparing the sate lembat given to her by the Bela-
luan cooks, who warned her, however, that it was a most difficult
dish to prepare:
Take a piece of ripe coconut with the hard brown skin between
the shell and the meat and roast it over the coals. The toasted
skin is then peeled off and ground in a mortar. Next prepare the
sauce: red pepper, garlic, and red onions browned in a frying-pan
and then mixed with black pepper, ginger, tumeric, nutmeg,
cloves, sra (pungent fermented fish paste) , is^n and tjekoh (aro¬
matic roots resembling ginger) , ketumbah, ginten, and so forth,
adding a little salt, all mashed together with the toasted coconut
skin, and fry the mixture until half done. Take red turtle meat
without fat, chop very fine, and add to the sauce in a bowl, two
and a half times as much meat as sauce. Add one whole grated
coconut and mix well with enough sant6n to obtain a consistency
that will adhere to the sticks, not too dry or too wet. Knead for
an hour and a half as if making bread. Meantime sticks of bam¬
boo of about ten inches long by a half-inch thick should be
made ready and rounded at one end. Take a ball of the paste in
the fingers and cover the end of the stick with it, beginning at
the top and working down gradually, turning it all the time to
io8 ISLAND OF BALI
give it the proper shape, then roast over the coals until done.
The sat6 can be made of pork or chicken, but turtle remains
the favourite of the Balinese of Den Pasar. Turtles are expensive
(about twenty dollars for a good-sized one) , and ordinarily pork,
chicken, or duck is the dish served at more modest feasts. They
may be prepared in the form described above, in sates, iawar,
getjok, or simply split and roasted with a peppery sauce. Duck
is stuffed and steamed (bebek betutu) . Although the expres¬
sion: “ He has to eat banana leaves " is used to give emphasis to
someone’s extreme poverty, a delicious dish and a great delicacy
is the kekalan, made of tender shoots of banana leaves cooked
in turtle blood and lime juice. Balinese cooking attains its apo¬
theosis in the preparation of the famous be guling, stuffed suck¬
ling pig roasted on a spit, the recipe for which was also given
to Rose by the Belaluan cooks:
After the pig has been killed, pour boiling water over it and
scrape the skin thoroughly with a sharp piece of coconut shell.
Open the mouth and scrape the tongue also. Cut a four-inch in¬
cision to insert the hand and remove the viscera. Wash the in¬
side of the pig carefully with cold water. Run a pointed stick
through the mouth and tail and stuff the pig with a mixture of:
red chili-pepper (lombok)
garlic
red onions
tumeric (kunyit)
ginger (djahd)
salt
Chop all these ingredients fine.
bogaion, tiuke (nuts resem¬
bling ginger)
tjekoh (an aromatic root of
the ginger family)
black pepper (meritja)
sra (concentrated fish paste)
aromatic leaves (saladam or
ulam)
and ketumbah, a variety of
peppercorn.
mixing them with coconut oil.
Stuff the pig with the mixture, placing inside a piece of coconut
bark, and then sew up the cut. To give the skin the proper rich
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 109
brown colour, bathe the pig, before roasting, in tumeric crushed
in water, and rinse off the excess root. Make a big wood fire and
place the pig not directly over it, but towards one side. Forked
branches should support the end of the stick that serves as a
spit, one end of which is crooked to be used as a crank by a man
who turns the pig constantly (guling means to turn) , while
another man fans the fire to direct the flame and smoke away
from the pig. The heat should be concentrated on the head and
tail and not in the middle so as not to crack the skin of the
stomach.
After a few hours of slow roasting the juiciest and most tender
pork is obtained, flavoured by the fragrant spices, inside of a
deliciously brittle skin covered with a golden-brown glaze. Few
dishes in the world can be compared with a well-made bd guling.
When the food is ready and the guests are assembled, sitting
in long rows, they are served by the leading members of the
band/ar and their assistants, who circulate among them carrying
trays with pyramids of rice and little square dishes of palm-leaf
pinned together with bits of bamboo, containing chopped mix¬
tures, sates, and little side dishes of fried beans (botor) , bean
sprouts with crushed peanuts, parched grated coconuts dyed
yellow with kunyit, and preserved salted eggs. Others pour
drinks; tuak (palm beer) , brom, a sweet sherry made from fer¬
mented black rice, or more rarely arafe, distilled rice brandy.
More frequently water alone is served; it is only old men who
are fond of alcoholic drinks, drinking, however, with moderation
and never becoming drunk. During our entire stay in Bali we
never saw a man really drunk, perhaps because the Balinese
dread the sensation of dizziness and confusion, of losing control
over themselves.
COSTUME AND ADORNMENT
At home and at work the Balinese like to be free of excessive
clothing; ordinarily the dress of both men and women consists
simply of a skirt called kamben (the women wear an underskirt —
110 ISLAND OF BALI
tapih) of Javanese batik or domestic hand-woven material, and a
head-cloth. The women wear this skirt wrapped tight around
the hips, reaching down to the feet and held at the waist by a
bright-coloured sash (buhng) . A long scarf (kamben tjeiik) in
pale pink, yellow, or white cotton completes the costume. Young
girls love gay batiks from Pekalongan, full of birds and flowers
in red and blue on a white ground, or hand-woven skirts of yellow
and green for feasts, but older women prefer conservative brown
and indigo or black silk enlivened by a green, yellow, or peach
sash. The scarf is generally thrown over one shoulder or wound
around the head to keep the hair in place, but it also serves as a
cushion for a heavy basket carried on the head, or to wrap over
the breasts when appearing in front of a superior or entering the
temple, because, although the Balinese are accustomed to go
nude above the waist, it is a rule of etiquette, for both men and
women, that the breast must be covered for formal dress. This is
purely a formula and does not imply that it is wrong to go with
uncovered breasts; often the cloth is worn loosely around the
waist, leaving the torso free; but even modernized Balinese, who
generally wear a shirt or blouse, wrap the breast-cloth across their
chest or around their middles when they wish to appear properly
dressed.
For daily wear the men also wear a kamben, a single piece of
batik reaching from the waist to a little below the knees, tied in
the front and leaving a trailing end that falls into pleats. The
kamben can be pulled up and tied into an abbreviated loincloth
when the men work in the ricefields. An indispensable part of
the men s dress is the head-cloth (udeng) , a square piece of batik
worn as a turban and tied in an amazing variety of styles. Each
man ties his udeng in a manner individual to himself, taking
good care that the folds form a certain pattern and that the end
sticks out just right. Conservative Balinese wear the udeng with
a corner high like a crest, but the young generation prefers small
tight turbans with the four points neatly arranged in different
directions. Children generally wear only a lock of hair on their
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI iii
foreheads, but little girls learn feminine propriety by wearing a
skirt many years before the boys. Priests dress all in white and
one can recognize a high priest (pedanda, “ staflF-bearer ”) be¬
cause he goes bareheaded and carries a staff (danda) topped by
a crystal ball (suryaJcanta, “ the glitter of the sun ”) , symbol of
his authority.
It is unfortunate that new fashions in dress are introducing a
new sort of class-consciousness. Young elegants feel superior and
“ emancipated ” from the old-style peasant class when they wear
a Malay sarong, a tube of cloth worn snug at the back, folded
in front in two overlapping pleats and held at the waist by a
leather belt. With the sarong go a pair of leather sandals, a
common shirt, too often with the tails outside, and a European-
style coat. This is the costume of school-teachers, clerks, chauf¬
feurs, and those in frequent contact with Europeans, who will, in
the long run, set the fashion for the rest of the population.
All women in North Bali have worn the Malay blouse (bad/u)
for over half a century, since they were ordered to wear blouses
by official decree to protect the morals of the Dutch soldiers."
Women of the Southern nobility started to wear bad jus, and the
fashion is rapidly spreading all over Bali. The Balinese form of
bad/u is clumsy and ill-fitting and does not suit the huskier Bali¬
nese women as it does the slim Javanese. Many women cannot
afford more than one bad/u and often let it go without washing.
A girl who looks elegant and noble in the simple and healthy
dress of the country, appears vulgar when “ dressed up " in a
tight bad/u of cheap cotton, not always clean, usually worn
pinned up at the breast with a rusty safety-pin.
Those accustomed to associate nudity with savagery often
refer to the Balinese as “ charming primitive people unconcerned
with clothes," but however scant and simple their daily costume
may be, they love dressing up, and for feasts they will wear as
elaborate a dress as they can afford, or bonow one rather than
appear poorly clothed to parade at the feast. At temple feasts,
weddings, and cremations one still sees middle-aged men in the
112 ISLAND OF BALI
elaborate ceremonial dress of former times: the white kamben
with a trailing end, a rich piece of brocaae (saput) tied over the
breast with a silk scarf (umpal) in which is stuck the ancestral
Ceremonial Costumes of Woman and Man
kris, weapon and ornament, the sheath of precious wood and
ivory, the hilt of chiselled gold glittering with rubies and dia¬
monds, crimson hibiscus over their ears. Few costumes in the
world have the dignified elegance of the ceremonial costume of
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 113
a noblewoman: the underskirt dragging on the ground in a train
of silk and gold; the torso bound from the hips to the armpits;
first is a strong bulang, a strip of cloth fifteen feet long, covered
by a sabuk, another strip of silk overlaid with gold leaf; with gold
plugs through her ears, her hair dressed in a great crown of real
and gold flowers, with the forehead reshaped with paint and
decorated with rows of flower petals, two small disks of gold
pasted to the temples; walking with poise in a procession with
other girls dressed like herself, in a display of style, beauty, and
114 ISLAND OF BALI
dignity. The costumes for dramatic performances are as spec¬
tacular as any in our ballets; diadems of fresh flowers and helmets
of gold set with coloured stones, the body wrapped from head to
Pusung Gondfer
foot in bright-coloured silks to which bold designs in glittering
goldleaf are applied by a special process in truly theatrical style.
A Balinese woman is seldom without flowers in her hair, and
during festivals one sees a bewildering variety of head-dresses.
They are then well aware of their beauty and take special pains
with the arrangement of the hair, fixed ingeniously without pins
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 115
and without the help of a mirror. The hair is combed back with
a fan-shaped comb, the end rolled into a bundle (pusung) that
protrudes to the left and is held in place tucked under strands
of the woman’s own hair. Unmarried girls leave a loose lock
(gond/er) that hangs down the back or over one shoulder. Or¬
dinarily the flowers are simply caught between the hairs, some¬
times suspended in the gond/er or over the forehead, dangling
from a single invisible hair.
Each t}^e of head-dress receives a special name, from the
simple flower arrangement worn at lesser feasts to the gelung
agung, the diadem worn by noble brides. The gelung agung is
an enormous crown of fresh flowers; sprays of jasmine, sandat, and
bunga gadung, mixed with flowers of beaten gold mounted on
springs that quiver at the slightest motion of the head. A beauti¬
ful forehead that describes a high arch coming down at the
temples is obtained by painting it with a mixture of soot and oil.
Little acacia blossoms or yellow flower petals are carefully pasted
in a row in the blackened area to emphasize the outline of the
brow. They are called tiangana, meaning a “ constellation.”
Girls who have reached puberty cut two locks of hair, brought
from the middle of the head, over the ears in two curls (semi) ,
stiffened with wax to keep them in place.
Men do not wear any ornaments except flowers and perhaps
a bracelet of akar bahar, a black sort of coral supposed to prevent
rheumatism, but women love jewellery and it is extraordinary
that outside of dancers or children the Balinese are one of the
rare people in the world that do not wear necklaces. In ancient
times men and women wore ear-rings, and ancient statues show
that, hke the Dyaks of Borneo, they distended their ear-lobes
until they hung below the shoulders, weighted down by heavy
gold ornaments. Today some men have pierced ears because
when children they wore leaf-shaped ear-ornaments (rumbing)
of gold set with precious stones.
Little girls distend the holes of their ear-lobes with rolls of
dry leaf or with a nutmeg seed until the hole is large enough to
n6 ISLAND OF BALI
receive the large rolls of Jontar leaf for everyday or their replicas
of gold (subang) for feasts. The subangs are hollow conical
cylinders of beaten gold three inches long by one in diameter,
closed at one end, imitating in shape the palm-leaf subang. Only
girls wear them and after marriage they consider the wearing of
subangs a coquetry that is out of place, although married women
of high caste may wear them at feasts. Rings of gold set with
rubies are popular, but the most fashionable today are those set
with an English gold guinea. Bracelets are in good taste only if
made of gold and tortoise-shell set with rubies, star sapphires, or
little diamonds.
The Balinese are as fastidious in the care of their bodies as
they are about dress, and people of all classes, conditions permit¬
ting, make almost a cult of cleanliness. They bathe frequently
during the day, whenever they feel hot or after strenuous work,
but two baths a day are the rule, in the morning and evening,
before each meal.
Many villages have formal baths with separate compartments
for men and women, divided by carved stone walls and provided
with water-spouts in the shape of fantastic animals, or simple
natural pools or streams fitted with bamboo pipes and low walls.
Often the favourite bathing-place is a shallow spot in the river
where men on one side, women on the other, squat on the water,
remaining for a long time in animated conversation, scrubbing
themselves with pumice stone that removes superfluous hair and
invigorates the skin, or rubbing their backs with a rough stick
or against a large stone placed there for the purpose. In a river
near Gianyar we often saw a group of women sitting in the water
in a circle, their feet radiating from the centre, gossiping until
after dark.
There are strict rules of etiquette for bathing-places; for ex¬
ample, sexual parts should be concealed even among persons of
the same sex. A man simply covers himself with one hand not to
offend his fellow bathers. It would be unthinkable for a man to
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 117
look deliberately at a nude woman although she may be bathing
within sight of everybody in the irrigation ditch along the road.
It is customary to give some indication of one’s presence on ap¬
proaching a public bath. Women wade into the water raising
their skirts to a respectable level, a little above the knee, and
after considering the possibilities of the place sit suddenly in the
water, quickly taking off the skirt. The process is reversed in get¬
ting out of the water: the skirt which has been lying on a stone
or held in one hand, is gathered up in front of the bather and
dropped like a curtain as she stands up. She wraps it around her
hips and walks off without bothering to dry herself.
Besides the ordinary village bathing-places there are sacred
pools and bath-houses, some of which have magic or curative
ii8 ISLAND OF BALI
qualities. There it is customary to leave a small offering for the
spirit of the spring before bathing. The most famous of these is
the sacred pool of Tirta Empul in Tampaksiring, one of the
holiest temples of Bali, where a special compartment has been
devised for menstruating women.
The Balinese admire a smooth, clear skin the colour of gold,
and pretty girls have a mortal dread of being sunburned, so they
do not like to go unnecessarily into the sun. The skin is kept in
condition by rubbing and massaging while bathing, afterwards
anointing the body with coconut oil and hoieh, a yellow paste
that refreshes the skin when hot or gives it warmth after exposure
to the rain. Boieh is made of mashed leaves, flowers, aromatic
roots, cloves, nutmeg, and tumeric (kunyit) for colouring.
EVERYDAY LIFE IN BALI 119
In olden times men wore the hair long, but nowadays the
younger generation cuts it short like Europeans. The women's
hair should be long, thick, and glossy, heavily anointed with per¬
fumed coconut oil in which flowers are macerated. The hair is
kept in condition by washing it in concoctions of herbs.
When a Balinese has nothing to do he squats on the ground
and pulls hairs from his face with two coins or with special tweez¬
ers, and women remove the hair under the armpits with porous
volcanic stones. Some men wear moustaches, which are con¬
sidered elegant, but only priests wear beards. It is a sign of dis¬
tinction to wear the fingernails long, often four inches or more,
showing that the wearer does not have to do manual work.
Priests may wear the nails of both hands long, but the average
well-to-do Balinese lets them grow only on the left hand. In
Tenganan I have seen young girls wearing nail-protectors five
inches long made of solid gold.
The teeth are ceremoniously filed at puberty to shorten them
and make them even. Old-fashioned Balinese blacken them with
a sort of lacquer that supposedly protects the teeth from the devas¬
tating effects of betel-nut. However, since betel-chewing is losing
favour, young people keep their teeth white by polishing them
with ashes, although in many cases the molars are blackened, and
the front teeth left white. 'The custom of filing and blackening
the teeth, which is widespread throughout Malaysia, has its roots
in animistic ritual, to avoid having the long, white teeth of dogs.
In Bali today the teeth are filed mainly for aesthetic reasons, since
long teeth are ugly.
It is plain that the refined and sensitive Balinese make the
most of their daily routine, leading a harmonious and exciting,
although simple existence, making an art of the elemental neces¬
sities of daily life — dress, food, and shelter.
CHAPTER VI
The Wedding of Rama and Sita (from a Balinese painting)
THE FAMILY
“ After the world, the mountains, and the cardinal directions
were created, and there were trees, fruits, and flowers, the gods
made four human beings out of red earth, whom they provided
with utensils to work with and houses to live in. Batara Siwa,
the Supreme Lord, next made four mature girls for wives of the
four men. The god of love, Batara Semara, made mating a pleas¬
ure so that the women would be fertilized, and eventually the
four couples had many children: 117 boys and 118 girls, who
121
THE FAMILY
grew, became adolescent, married, and had children. But there
remained a girl without a husband. Broken-hearted, she went
into the forest and there found the stump of a jackfruit tree
(nangka) which Siwa had carved, to amuse himself, into the
likeness of a human being. The girl made love to the wooden
figure and became pregnant. Out of pity for her, Semara gave
life to the figure so that she also could have a husband, and the
couple became the ancestors of the ngatewel clan,” whose totem
is the nangka tree.^
Another legend tells us that '' the gods concentrated to make
human beings and produced two couples; one yellow in color:
Ketok Pita and Djenar; another red: Abang and Barak. From
the yellow couple was born a boy, Nyoh Gading, ‘ Yellow Coco¬
nut,' and a girl named Kuning. The second couple had also two
children, a boy named Tanah Barak, ' Red Earth,’ and a girl
Lewek. Yellow Coconut married Lewek; Red Earth married
Kuning; and their descendants did the same until the population
of Bali was created.” ®
There are endless tales like these relating the origin of the
Balinese to magic or ordinary unions of the eternal male and
female principles, elements of great importance in the religion
around which their life revolves. Their supreme deity is Siwa,
the esoteric combination of all the gods and all the forces of na¬
ture, he who is the hermaphrodite (wandu) in the sense that
within him are the male and female creative forces, the complete,
perfect unity. Men and women must imitate their gods to attain
some of that divine “ completeness ” by uniting to form families
that worship common ancestors in the family shrine of each
Balinese household. The various families that compose a village
all worship in turn a common ancestor, the village god repre¬
sented by the “ Navel,” the puseh, the temple of common origin.
Family ties are consequently the most important factor in Bali¬
nese life; a continuous sequence that relates the individual to his
1 The author's free translation from the T/atur Yoga,
2 Korn: Het Adatrecht van Bali,
122
ISLAND OF BALI
family, to his community, and to the total of the Balinese people
in a relationship that represents race and nationality to them. A
woman who marries a Chinese, a Mohammedan, or a European
automatically ceases to be a Balinese.
A Balinese feels that his most important duty is to marry as
soon as he comes of age and to raise a family to perpetuate his
line. A bachelor is in Bali an abnormal, incomplete being devoid
of all social significance since only settled married men can be¬
come members of the village association. Even pedandas, the
high priests, do not conform to the ascetic abstention favoured by
orthodox Hindus and invariably marry.
Thus every Balinese centres all his hopes in having children,
preferably male children, who will look after him in his old age,
and, most important of all, sons who will take the proper care of
his remains after he is dead, performing the necessary rites to
liberate his soul for reincarnation, so it will not become an aimless
wandering ghost. From paintings and temple reliefs, they are
familiar with the fate that awaits the childless in Hades, the
swarga, where a woman who dies without children is condemned
to carry a gigantic worm suckling at her useless breasts. A man
who does not obtain children from his wife has the right to
divorce her and get back the money he paid for her; or if she dies
or runs away, he remarries as soon as possible. Often the sterile
wife will herself suggest and even provide for a second wife for
her husband. There are, however, many childless couples that
because of personal attachment or for economic reasons remain
monogamous and are content to borrow or rather be given a child
by a neighbour or a relative to bring up as their own.
CHILDBIRTH
To follow the development of their sexual life we shall begin the
cycle of birth, childhood, adolescence, marriage, and birth again,
Mth the event of pregnancy, a great blessing to every Balinese
household.
Most people we talked to had a quite correct idea of the physi-
THE FAMILY 123
ology of procreation; they said that the man's seminal fluid
(semara, named after the god of love) , coming in contact with
the female semen, turns into blood in the womb, forming a
ball which, fed by the woman s own blood, eventually takes
human form and develops into a child. Along with this almost
scientific notion goes the belief that a child is the reincarnation
of an ancestor whose life-giving spirit comes down to earth in the
form of dew, which is inadvertently eaten by the parents, the
process of gestation taking place after intercourse.®
^ With children generally welcome, birth control is rarely prac¬
tised, although it is not unknown to unmarried girls who do not
want to become pregnant. Apparently the only method of pre¬
vention they know is for the woman to stand up after intercourse
and free herself of the seminal fluid. There are medicines to
cause abortion and to make a woman sterile, but both ideas are
criminal and fall within the category of black magic.
In Bali a woman with child is free of rigid taboos, and her life
is carried on as usual. Omens are taken carefully into considera¬
tion, and special attention is paid to exorcizing obnoxious spirits,
the butas, that persecute her at this critical time, but her real
enemies are then the leyaks, the witches that infest Bali, whose
main diet consists of the blood of pregnant women and the
entrails of unborn children. However, for a small sum her hus¬
band can procure amulets from the local priest or witch-doctor;
magic words and symbols drawn on a piece of paper or cloth,
hung at the house gate or carried on her belt to keep the leyaks
away. Ordinarily a pregnant woman may do as she pleases,
and in Badung she may even enter the temple. In later months,'
for obvious reasons, she may be more secluded and has to observe
certain prohibitions, the natural ones of diet and hygiene; bathe
oftener and avoid certain foods, such as too much pepper, octo-
s Jmc Belo (“The Balinese Temper”) reports that a woman is popularly sup¬
posed to have wthin her a manik, a “ gem,” which grows into a child after it is “ hit ”
^ng se^l mtecourse, and that after the birth of the child she gets a new manik.
The people of Badung with whom I discussed the subject never mentioned the manik
which they perhaps translated for my benefit as the “ female semen.” The T7^ani^ idea
IS qmte in the manner of thought of the Balinese and could symbolize the ovum
124 ISLAND OF BALI
pus, eggplant, and a kind of mango. But, as in Malaya and other
parts of Indonesia, her husband may not cut his hair until after
the child is born.
When the time approaches for childbirth (medal, lekad; i.e.,
“ to come out ”) certain magic (penyesah) is practised so that
the child will be born easily. Particularly effective is a shoot of
coconut palm naturally ingrown into a loop. This is soaked in
water and held over the woman’s head so that the water will drip
into her mouth. It is recommended also to pass or stand under
the cage of a dove that has a natural bald spot over the heart.
Sexual questions are simple and natural matters to the Bali¬
nese, and our friends discussed them freely when, in the evenings,
they gathered on our front porch to talk. Once when the con¬
versation was led onto the subject of childbirth the women de¬
scribed their own experiences eagerly while the men added details
the women had overlooked. The most convincing authority was
Rapag, a boy of fourteen who had witnessed the birth of his four
sisters. They said that most women have their children easily,
and as an example they told of a woman who lived next door who
had had her child unexpectedly while she was alone in the groves.
She carried the baby home and they claimed that two days later
she was already selling in the market.
Frequently even the assistance of a midwife is dispensed with
and only expert women relatives aid the woman. As a rule the
husband should be present. There is no special place where the
child should be bom. When the time comes, the woman is
placed half-seated on a new mat, supported from the bach by a
woman, while another helps her, through massage, to deliver the
child. The umbilical cord (udal, unsang) is tied and cut with a
sharp knife made of bamboo (iron may not be used) . Then the
child is washed, and there is a curious ruling that demands that
Ae woman drink - or just taste - three times out of the water.
The placenta, together with the umbilical cord, some blood
THE FAMILY 125
(gateh) , and afterbirth water (yieh nyom) * are placed in a “ yel¬
low coconut ” {nyoh gading) , which is wrapped in sugar-palm
fibre and buried in front of the sleeping-quarters [met6n) , that
of a boy at the right, that of a girl at the left of the entrance. A
fire is built over the place where the coconut is buried and a
bamboo altar with offerings is erected over the spot.
At first the child is fed with a porridge of boiled rice flour
(bubur) or a little palm-sugar and meat from a young coconut.
In easy cases the woman recovers on the same day and is able
to walk and give the breast to the child. They believe that the
first milk is “ hard ” and indigestible, and before feeding the
baby, the mother milks her breast, making the first milk fall on
the house wall. The only explanation for this strange idea is the
eternal answer that it is custom. Ordinarily, they say, a woman
will have “ pains in her insides ” for about three days, after which
time she can perform her usual work. It is not considered that
the mother’s milk is sufficient for the nourishment of the child;
she gives the baby the breast every time he cries, but he is also
fed with bubur, and even with a banana previously chewed by the
mother.
The child is weaned after three birthdays (otonan) , two and
a half of our years, when the mother puts a mixture of lime and
palm-sugar to her nipples; but it is not unusual to see children of
four being suckled still.
Special songs are used to amuse or put the child to sleep, Bali¬
nese nursery rhymes (tjetjangkrima) sung to a slow beautiful
tune. Here is an example: —
Tadpoles, fishes, and beetles from Bedulu, where are you go¬
ing southwards? To where the boats land. What will you sell
there? My insides that have fallen out. How far did they fall?
As high as a thousand pigs. What doctor gave you medicine?
The one with the beard and the topknot. Mffiere does he
4 There are special ritual names for the umbilical cord (sukbir) ; the placenta
{djaher or banaspati); the blood (barak); and the water (moJcaer).
126 ISLAND OF BALI
live? In front of the little warn tree where the kulkul hangs.
With what do they beat the kulkul? With sticks of heart of
sandalwood and tengulun. Who beats it? The big ironsmith
who is there crouched asleep.” ®
After the birth of the child, he and his parents become impure
(sebel) , the man for three days, during which it would be danger¬
ous for him even to climb a tree, the woman and the child for
forty-two days. Offerings are made during this time: when the
navel of the child has healed; when he is twelve days old; and at
the expiration of the forty-two-day period, when the husband,
the mother, and the child are restored to normalcy by the priest,
who blesses them in an elaborate ceremony of purification.
The birth of a freak, whether from a woman or from an animal,
is an evil omen for the community, the presage of an approaching
disaster that can only be averted by elaborate purification cere-
monies. But should an unfortunate woman give birth to a boy
and girl twins {kembai buntjing) , the entire village falls under
the curse of the “ child blunder,” manak salah, as the dreadful
calamity is called. The incestuous union ” of the brother and
sister in the mother’s womb is a wrong that can only be wiped out
by the most complete and troublesome of exorcisms.
As soon as the happening is discovered, the alarm-drum is
sounded to declare the village polluted (sebel) ; the temple doors
are closed and hung with forbidding pandanus leaves, a sign of
taboo (sawen) , so that no one will enter. No celebrations of any
sort can be held and the entire social life of the village is paralysed
until the long crisis that ensues is over and the village is again
made normal.
The guilty parents and the baby twins are rushed to some un¬
holy spot, generally the cemetery or more rarely the crossroads.
5 “ T)ingtjm^ kola beduda di BedauW, nyai kidja menglodan? Tiang kadap ka
Iseng basang subalaboh. Lamon apa laboh6? laengtjeMng
adji au. Balian apa kenubadm? Balian djengot maka kuntjung. Apa mediwane^? Waru
I les tenlilun. Ny^n^kenepak?
THE FAMILY 127
together with the house in which the twins were born, which is
dismantled and hastily rebuilt there. The couple and the twins
are condemned to live in exile for forty-two days, guarded by a
number of watchmen, who remain with them until the period of
banishment is over, when the house is ceremonially burned to the
ground before they all return to the village to perform the
128 ISLAND OF BALI
metjaru, the great ceremony of purification. (See “ Nyepz,” page
277)-
It is at this point that serious trouble starts for the unfortunate
father of the twins; he must pay all expenses for the costly purifi¬
cation offerings and ceremonies by selling his property if he has
no ready cash. If the amount obtained is not enough, the towns¬
people have to raise the rest, but should the man be totally desti¬
tute, the village advances the money. In old times the man be¬
came a slave of the village until he could buy his freedom with
labour, but today in many places he is allowed to beg from house
to house, authorized by a special permit from the village heads.
Since the purpose of his begging is for the good of the commu¬
nity, no one may refuse him, no matter how small the con¬
tribution.
This strange calamity is only for the common people. Among
the nobility the birth of such twins is generally a happy omen
and people of high caste claim that should the boy and girl twins
marry each other, the union would bring prosperity and happi¬
ness to the country and they would become rulers. A nobleman
explained to me that when a couple of his class has led a model
life of faithfulness unto death, they will reincarnate as twins
“ again married in the mother’s womb,” returning to their old
home. Despite this idea, however, the marriage of twins has
seldom happened and my Balinese friends knew of only one case
where a noble boy married his twin sister.
A logical explanation of these curiously contradictory customs
has been given by Jane Belo in her thorough “ Study of Customs
Pertaining to Twins in Bali ” (see Bibliography) ; on the native
side, as originated by the dread of brother and sister incest so
widespread among primitive peoples, a breach of marital taboos
and consequently a crime. The native idea came in conflict with
the general policy of establishing the superiority of the ruling
class, who tried to liberate themselves from the curse by legalizing
the birth of such twins and declaring that such was the desirable
way for Radjas to have children; consequently for the common
THE FAMILY 129
people to have children like them was an affront to their superi¬
ority. Jane Belo points also to an endless variety of concepts
relating to twins in Bali, differing from district to district and
even from one village to the next — a typical attitude in regard
to everything in Bali, with the general trend as described above.
However, the birth of twins of the same sex (kemhai) does not
bring pollution to the village and passes as an ordinary happen¬
ing, although again, as in everything else, there are exceptions to
the rule.
THE LIFE OF CHILDREN
Forty-two days after birth, when the child is blessed by the priest,
he is given anklets and bracelets of brass and silver in place of
the black strings that he wore tied around his wrists since he was
seven days old. His ears are pierced, and a thread is passed
through each hole so that three months later he can wear little
flower-shaped ear-rings of gold. Around his neck is tied a neck¬
lace composed of various amulets that will protect him and in¬
fluence his growth; a silver tube containing a dried piece of the
child’s own umbilical cord, some coloured glass beads, a piece of
black coral (aJcar bahar) , an ancient coin, and a tiger's tooth or
a piece of tiger bone. This is all the child wears until he is about
seven years old, but little girls are given a skirt and a sash three
or four years before. The repugnance of the Balinese for actions
characteristic of animals causes them not to permit children to
crawl on all fours, and before the child is three months old he may
not even touch the earth and is carried everywhere.
Offerings are made when the child is three months old (nelu-
buhnin) and again at his first anniversary (otonan) when the
child is 210 days old, one Balinese year. Then he is dressed in
rich brocades and is given gold bracelets, anklets, a necklace set
with rubies and sapphires, and a gold disk with a ruby in it, which
is pasted on the child’s forehead. His hair is then cut (ngutangin
bok) , and his head is shaved clean except for a lock of hair on
the forehead that is never cut; otherwise he would become ill.
130 ISLAND OF BALI
On this date the priest blesses the child again, while offerings
are made to the family shrine, to the sun, and to the evil spirits.
The well-to-do make a big occasion of the first birthday and
give a banquet with theatrical performances, but it is a rule for
all to give a shadow-play as a part of the ceremonies. After the
first anniversary less attention is paid to birthdays; the third year
has a special significance and perhaps the mother will make some
offerings in subsequent years, but grown people forget about
them and soon lose track of their ages.
On his first birthday the child receives his magic name from the
priest, who writes various propitious names, obtained through a
divination, on pieces of palm-leaf which he burns. The name
given to the child is that which can be made out most clearly
from the charred remains, or the one that takes the longest time
to burn. This is a secret name that no one ever hears and soon
even the father forgets it. A baby is simply called the child of
THE FAMILY 131
so-and-so/’ but eventually he is given a personal name by his
parents. Even this name has an influence over his life and should
he become sick often, the name is to blame and a more appropri¬
ate one is chosen by the priest or the witch-doctor. Boys and
girls are called by their names, but it would be poor manners to
do so after the child has grown up. A personal name is private
property and it is always patronizing to call a person by his name.
High-caste people keep their names secret and go through life
called only by their caste titles.
Most commonly used are the words that refer to the order of a
person’s birth: the first child of Sudras is called Wayang; Putu
or Ged6 for high castes; the second child is Made or Nengah; the
third is Nyoman; and the fourth is Ktut The order is repeated
for subsequent children. Satrias add the word Ngurah to their
other titles to indicate the purity of their descent (for example,
Anak Agung Ngurah Cede) . The words for father (bapa) and
mother (memd) have a very elastic application; every uncle and
aunt is called bapa and inem6, and every cousin is a brother
or sister, but a well-bred young man calls his father guru
{“ teacher ”) . Elderly people are called grandfather (pekak) or
grandmother (dadong) as a sign of respect in the same way that
a young man calls his older friends “ elder brother ” (bli) , while
a girl is called “ sister ” (embok) . After a Sudra couple have
children their name changes to '' Father or Mother of so-and-so.”
Our servant Dog, the father of little Muluk, was called Panmuluk
and his wife was known as Menmuluk, Gusti’s wife, a woman of
high caste, was called Gusti Rake, but after she became the
mother of Gusti Gede she became known as Gusti Biang Rake,
biang being a polite term for “ mother.”
From the time the child can walk, he is left to himself and falls
in the care of other children. Small girls know how to take care
of babies with the same proficiency as their mothers and it is
common to see babies carried on the hips of girls only slightly
older. The child learns early to be self-sufficient and is free to
wander all over the village and to do as he pleases. A child is
132 ISLAND OF BALI
often called idewa, “ a god he is not considered responsible for
his actions, because, as they say, '' his mind is still undeveloped ''
and it is the god within him that acts through his body. At home
there is no regular discipline and no pampering; the parents do
not intimidate their child, but rather coax him into obedience as
an equal. And he is never beaten; if a mother loses patience and
strikes her child, he would, in all probability, strike back and she
would be mortified and would grieve over her rash impulse. The
sensible Balinese say that if a child is beaten his tender soul will
be seriously damaged.
Frequently the father is inclined to be more demonstrative
than the mother, and it is common to see a man with his child
in his arms, taking him everywhere and talking to him as if he
were a grown-up. It is extremely rare to hear a child cry. Thus
the child grows among other children as a member of a children’s
republic, with an independent life of its own. Often groups of
children go out on expeditions, remaining away from home all
day. When they get hungry they can buy food from a public
stand with the pennies that are given to them every day. Only
by the independence and lack of pampering can one explain the
well-mannered seriousness and the self-sufficiency of Balinese
children. With no special behaviour set for children apart from
that of grown-ups, the mentality of a Balinese child develops
quickly. Nothing is hidden from him; he listens to all conversa¬
tions of grown people and observes the acts of animals, so his
sexual education begins as soon as he is able to talk. A child in
Bali knows facts about which an adolescent in the West is totally
ignorant, and we knew children under five who could make erotic
jokes. Their sense of responsibility became patent to me when
I became the guest of a small boy in whose house I had spent the
night. The next morning he took me for a walk to see his village,
showed me the temples, and introduced me to the local prince;
then we went to the market to see the good-looking girls of the
village and he told me the story of the love affairs of each, while
THE FAMILY 133
he bought fried peanuts from his favourite vendor to treat me.
He even offered me some of his own cigarettes; it is normal for
little boys and girls to smoke and they show preference for a cer¬
tain brand of tobacco perfumed with cinnamon and cloves in
little cigarettes wrapped in corn husk that sell six for a penny.
A boy assists his father in the work at home and in the fields,
and cares for the cattle, driving the cows and buffaloes and bath¬
ing them at sunset. He learns his father’s trade, and by the time
he is about eight or ten he has a good knowledge of practical mat¬
ters. Besides the hybrid education that the Balinese now receive
in the Dutch schools, a boy learns to read and write in Balinese
characters from his father or his guru; mythology, ethics, and
history he learns from watching plays and puppet shows, where
he can pick up literary terms and become a scholar. Little girls
learn from their mothers to cook, weave, thresh rice, and make
offerings. Although the higher education is rather the attribute
of men, women are not barred from acquiring knowledge, and
even peasant women show high spirits and a keen mentality.
ADOLESCENCE
A boy comes of age gradually and unconsciously, but the first
menstruation of a girl (nystjal) is an important event and when
this condition arrives to the daughter of a prince, the village
kalhil is beaten to announce that the little princess is now a
woman of marriageable age. As soon as the fact is discovered, the
girl is secluded in the sleeping-quarters, and the veranda is en¬
closed with screens of woven palm-leaf, leaving a small entrance.
Men are strictly forbidden to go into the place. The girl becomes
automatically sebel, unclean, and remains in seclusion until the
menstrual period is over and until the auspicious day when she
will be purified by the priest. Then a great feast is given by her
family to celebrate her reappearance into the world as a mature
woman.
We assisted at the purification feast of Mad6 Rai, one of the
134 ISLAND OF BALI
legong dancers of Belaluan, who had just come of age. When
we arrived at her house, Made Rai was being dressed inside the
house, surrounded by busy women who came and went with
clothes, jewels, and flowers. The platform of honour of the bale
gede, the reception hall, was filled with great offerings of palm-
leaf, fruit, and flowers, and the high priest, the pedanda, waited
to perform the purification, sitting cross-legged on the high bale
with an air of aloof importance, his intriguing paraphernalia
ready in front of him. Madd Rai made her triumphal appearance
among exploding firecrackers, carried on the shoulders of Regog,
the strong man of the bandjar, and dressed in the ceremonial
costume of her class: a skirt of prada, silk with applications of
goldleaf, a scarf of brocade around her budding breasts, subangs
of gold in her ears, and a crown of gold flowers. She was de¬
posited on a mat before the priest, who proceeded with his
maweda, magic prayers recited with an accompaniment of mystic
gestures with the hands. The priest sprinkled her with holy
water and occasionally flung flowers towards the girl. Certain
offerings, “ moons ” of palm-leaf and long brooms, sexual sym¬
bols, were held in front of her while she fanned their essence
towards herself with graceful gestures of her dance-trained hands.
The holy water that the priest had consecrated was poured on
her hands through a rice-steaming basket (kukusan) ; she drank
the water with reverence, wiping her wet palms on her forehead.
This ended the ceremony and Made Rai could then go to pray
at the temple of origin of her family (pura dadia) . She was taken
in procession, carried on a palanquin preceded by flags and
spears. On arriving at the temple she knelt on a cushion in front
of the principal shrine and she prayed with the other members
of her family, while the old men sang kekawin poems that de¬
scribed the beauty of the dedari, the nymphs of heaven. The
procession returned home and the guests were entertained with
plays and dances to celebrate the fact that Made Rai, the little
girl that a few days before roamed unconcerned all over the
band/ar, had become a beautiful woman of fourteen.
THE FAMILY 135
The custom of filing the teeth has a deep significance among
primitive peoples, usually as a form of initiation ceremonies at
puberty. Others tattoo or scar their bodies, and even Westerners,
who are horrified at the absurd customs of savages, practise initia¬
tion tortures in the form of sabre duels, beatings, featherings, or
simply breaking their noses at college football games.
The Balinese file their teeth when a boy or a girl comes of age;
not in sharp points like some Africans, or down to the gums like
the Sumatrans and other Indonesians; but they simply file off a
small portion of the upper incisors and upper canines to produce
an even line of short teeth, also wearing them down to smooth
their outer surface. Undoubtedly the custom of filing the teeth
(mesangi, mepandes) had its origin in initiation rites. As we
have seen, the teeth are not only filed to make them beautiful,
but also blackened, and it is possible that, like the custom of
cutting the rice stalks at harvesting-time with a small blade care¬
fully hidden in the palm of the hand, the filing and blackening
of the teeth may in some way be connected with the fear of of¬
fending, or hurting, the rice soul. Today, as I have said, young
people are giving up chewing betel-nut, and the custom of black¬
ening the teeth is disappearing. It is mostly elderly people who
display black caverns for mouths, oozing with blood-red betel
juice.
The filing should be performed preferably at puberty, but the
ceremony is expensive because of fees, guests, banquet, offerings
and so forth, and usually only the well-to-do can afford it then.
Although it is not longer regarded as essential, many people have
their teeth filed later in life if they were not filed during youth.
It is believed that a person may be denied entrance into the spirit
world if his teeth are not filed, and often the teeth of a corpse are
filed before cremation so that he will not look like a demon, a
raksasa, the long canines of whom stick out through the cheeks
like a wild boar’s.
The filing takes place on an auspicious day after the person is
blessed by a pedanda. The boy or girl may not go out of the
136 ISLAND OF BALI
house the day before and Van Eck tells of a Brahmanic rule that
demands that the person remain in the dark for three days. The
operation is performed by a specialist, generally a Brahmana,
who knows formulas by which his tools — files and whetstones —
are blessed “ to take the poison out of them,” to make the opera¬
tion painless. The patient is laid on a bale among offerings, the
head resting on a pillow which is covered with a protective scarf,
gringsing wayang wangsul, one of the magic cloths woven in
Tenganan, the warp of which is left uncut. The body is wrapped
in new white cloth and assistants hold down the victim by the
hands and feet. The tooth-filer stands at the head of the bale and
inscribes magic syllables (aksara) on the teeth about to be filed
with a ruby set in a gold ring. The filing then proceeds, taking
from fifteen minutes to a half-hour, endured stoically with
clenched hands and goose-flesh, but without even a noise from
the patient, who is given a rest from time to time, so that with
the help of a mirror he can see the results. Often he makes sug¬
gestions and even complains when the teeth are not yet short
enough.
During these pauses the patient spits the filings into a small
“ yellow ” coconut adorned with a palm-leaf fan and flowers.
When the filing is over, the boy or girl, paler than usual, but
apparently not suffering pain, takes the coconut with the filings
over to the family temple, where it is buried Just behind the an¬
cestral shrine. We questioned a girl who had just come out of
the trying experience about her sensations and she assured us
that she felt “ shivers,” but no pain; she seemed happier and
smiled more freely than before.
Among the puritanical Bali Agas of the mountains, adolescent
boys (truna) and girls (daha) are considered pure people not
yet contaminated by sexual intercourse. In those ancient villages
the inhabitants are divided into four separate clubs: of men, of
women, and of “ virgin ” boys (seJca truna) and girls (seka daha) ,
whose purity is jealously preserved, since they have special rites to
THE FAMILY 137
perform in the systematic village magic: the care of divine heir¬
looms too dangerous for less pure people to handle. Conse¬
quently, in the strict communities of the Bali Aga, sexual licence
on the part of a boy or girl is a crime against the village magic
and is proportionately punished.
This is not the case, however, among the ordinary Balinese
villages, where boys and girls lead a freer sexual life. There mat¬
ters of sex are not solemn, mysterious prohibitions, and it is nat¬
ural that in coming of age they should continue to have sexual
relations that started in the character of play, incompletely of
course, during childhood.
The average Balinese does not attach great importance to
virginity and it is not difficult for a divorcee, a widow, or even
a woman who has committed adultery to marry again. Low-
caste girls have many occasions to meet boys and often carry on
affairs, kept secret because of natural shyness. The Balinese are
extremely discreet in their intimate relations; lovers are never
seen together in public, and it would be unpardonable manners
for a man to make insinuations to a girl in public. It is not un¬
usual for girls to take the lead and “ make eyes ” (saling sulang)
at boys, or give encouragement to a shy suitor with some sort of
small present.
Girls of high caste are usually chaperoned and their chances of
meeting boys are considerably fewer'. For the princes, whose
mentality is more “ Oriental ” than that of the less prejudiced
average Balinese, a virgin (gentan, in the absolute sense of the
word) is highly desirable. Where feudalism still holds sway, a
prince may order a subject of his to reserve his pretty daughter
for him when she comes of age, and there are cases of Satrias and
Brahmanas who kidnapped a girl of their own caste immediately
after the first menstruation. Such cases are shocking to most
Balinese, however, and there are rules and penalties against pre¬
mature marriages. In general, the average marriageable age is
eighteen for boys and sixteen for girls. A noble Balinese friend
once told me that he could tell a virgin at first sight from the
138 ISLAND OF BALI
texture of her skin, the shape of her breasts, the muscles under
her arms, and even the shape of the mouth; but he added sadly
that now that so many girls wear blouses it has become more
difficult to tell!
Young people meet at the market, at harvesting-time, when
everybody helps to cut the rice, at the river, and so forth, but
especially at the frequent village celebrations and nocturnal
theatrical performances, when the boys meet their friends and
make new conquests. An attraction at all festivals is the pretty
dagangs, girls who run small stands of food, drinks, cigarettes,
and siiih. They sit behind little tables illuminated by petrol
lamps, scraping coconuts, grinding sauces, and serving drinks,
surrounded by a circle of admirers who squat on the ground,
joking with them on the pretext of buying a pennyworth of pea-
THE FAMILY 139
nuts or a package of cigarettes. Some girls know that it is best to
remain cold and indifferent, attending to their business, while
others are gay and friendly and can answer cleverly to the boys’
wisecracks.
To the Balinese, the average features of Nordics are not to be
admired; sharp noses, prominent chins, white skin, blue eyes.
blond hair, and so forth are distasteful to them. They compare
blond hair to that of albinos’, but red hair is still worse, since only
witches and some devils have red hair. Only dogs, monkeys, and
evil characters have long, prominent teeth and hair over their
bodies. For the Balinese taste, the skin should be smooth, clear,
and devoid of superfluous hair, which they call bulu, “ feathers,”
to differentiate it from the “ proper” hair of the head, which is
called lambut. The hair of women should be thick, black, and
glossy; goddesses are represented with hair down to their knees.
The complexion should not be too dark and a girl with a golden
140 ISLAND OF BALI
skin is considered beautiful even if other requirements are miss¬
ing. The face should be round, the eyes bright and almond-
shaped, but not too large, while the mouth must not be too
small, with full arched lips and short even teeth. The already
mentioned outline of the forehead is important. It must be high
and narrow, in a deep arch coming down to the temples. Moles
and beauty spots are admired, and it is believed that a woman
who possesses a small mole in the area of the lips is destined to
marry a Radja who will have to remain faithful to her. Perfume,
either in the form of aromatic oil or as fresh flowers, is necessary
to enhance one's attractiveness, and whenever there is a crowd
the pungent smell of tjempaka and sandat blossoms, mixed with
that of coconut oil, fills the air.
The body should be small but well proportioned, the hips and
waist narrow, and the breasts round and full; a woman should
never be too fat nor too thin. Women are less particular about
their men and the rules are not so well defined; vitality, strength,
a well-proportioned body, and a smooth skin devoid of hair are
the physical requirements of a man in a woman's eyes.
THE LOVE LIFE OF THE BALINESE
Romanticism only flourishes where traditional barriers for the
free and natural relations between men and women are strongest.
Consequently the practical and unrestrained Balinese in love
does not idolize the woman he desires, but goes directly to the
point. If he feels strongly attracted by a girl, he does not pretend
a platonic interest and must culminate his desire by sleeping
with her. A direct solicitation constitutes his declaration of love:
Do you want? (Kayun? Nyak?) ." The only words in Balinese
for “ love," kayun, suka, deman, nyak, all mean “ desire," “ to
like," and “ to want," while stronger terms like lulut and tresna
have a certain illegal connotation, as in adultery (mamitia) .
Without a word in their vocabulary for the abstract idea of ro¬
mantic love, the Balinese does not develop a morbid unhappiness
when failing in love. A man who is refused by a girl may be
THE FAMILY 141
unhappy for a while even as among us, but soon he will forget
her and fall in love with a less recalcitrant girl.
Should the man be accepted, the affair may be developed into
attachment that will in most cases lead to marriage. It is not in¬
frequent that the couple may live together - gendak - before
marriage, although not exactly in sin, since gendak is permitted
as a sort of a trial marriage, not yet made legal in public and be¬
fore the gods. Often in a prearranged marriage the couple is al¬
lowed gendak, and there are regulations that protect the woman
against desertion and that make children born in the gendak
period legal. Even among the more puritanical Bali Agas gendak
appears in the traditional village law, as in the following excerpt
from the law of the village of Lumbuan in the Bangli mountains:
“. . . the desa orders a man accused of intimacy with a woman to
take her as wife, making the offerings and ceremonies mentioned
above. Should the man refuse to marry her, he has to pay the
penyeheb (a roast pig) and tumbakan (a cow), while the woman
will pay only the tumbakan to clear her impurity and the pollution
of the village (sebel). Should there result a child, it belongs to the
woman. If it is not known who the man was, the woman is respon¬
sible and must provide the penyeheb and tumbakan within an al¬
lotted time.” (Bawanagara, T. 11, No. 8/9, 1933.)
This attitude must not be interpreted as one of promiscuity;
the Balinese like to marry young, and a man after love has usually
marriage in view. However, a girl is not too easily persuaded and
puts off her suitors, often too long, and .the boy is either bored
and leaves her or is obliged to use stronger methods.
Shy people who are after success in love may employ the serv¬
ices of professional matchmakers (tjeti) or those of a magician
to make a reluctant girl yield. To appear beautiful in the eyes
of a desired person certain amulets are employed, most often
ancient Javanese bronze disks with a hole in the centre like
Chinese coins, which are carried on the belt. Those used by men
(pipis ard/una) have an image in low relief of their semi-divine,
1^2 ISLAND OF BALI
romantic hero Ardjuna, while those used by women are the so-
called “ moon-coins ” (pipis bulan) . The moon-coins I had oc¬
casion to observe seemed to me simple old kepengs in which the
border was not properly centred, producing an accidental design
like a new moon. These coins, in reality ancient amulets, are
believed to have been made by the gods and not by humans; I
was told that they are found lying around the temple at night if it
is the wish of the gods to present one with a magic coin. The
lucky owners often lend them or rent them to prospective lovers
for rather high prices. They are kept wrapped in a little rag,
covered with ointments and flower petals so that they will not
“ die ” and become useless.
In more difficult cases an infatuated person has recourse to
powerful love magic (guna pengasih) ; incantations that resem¬
ble other sorts of secret magic and that consist of a charm
(serana) and a spoken formula (mantra) . Typical charms are
twin coconuts or twin bananas, and even more effective are the
saliva of a snake, the tears of a child, the oil from a coconut that
has been dragged around by a child, or that from a coconut tree
THE FAMILY 143
under which a pregnant woman has sat. “ The silken net " (i
djaring sutia) , the crawling serpent ” (i naga bilad) , and the
“ constant weeping ” (i tuntung tanggis) are among the names
of formulas used to obtain a difficult girl. The desired person
must be anointed inadvertently with the above-mentioned
charms after the corresponding magic formula has been recited
over them.
There are other ways to get a girl, such as the pengatjap,
“ stealing her thoughts through concentrated mental effort ”
(kenah) ; thinking of the beloved at all times: when eating, put¬
ting food aside for her, and on going to sleep calling her mentally
until she is made so unhappy and uncomfortable that she cannot
work, eat, or sleep until she is with the man who operates the
magic.
I was told of a special magic way to obtain a girl for “ only one
night,” which is to remain throughout the night looking in¬
tensely at the flame of a lamp made out of a new coconut, freshly
made oil, and a new wick, remembering the girl's face. On the
following day she will not be able to refuse the man. A girl will
also fall in love with a man who succeeds in feeding her a sirih
leaf (to chew with betel-nut) on which has been inscribed an
image of a tjintia, “ the Unthinkable God,” with enormously
exaggerated sexual organs.
Besides these innocent and harmless procedures, there is a
black and evil sort of magic (pengiwa) when a man or a woman
wants to take revenge on a lover; to tie a hair of the victim to a
bird which is afterwards released will make the person lose his
mind. Another way to make a lover go insane is to make an im¬
age of the person using something that belonged to him: a piece
of his underclothes, hair, nail-clippings, or earth from his foot¬
print, but with the head either at the place of the sex or at the
feet; the whole then inscribed with magic syllables and a formula
said over the image.
Menstrual blood anointed on the head of a man infallibly des¬
tines him to be henpecked.
144 ISLAND OF BALI
The love technique of the Balinese is natural and simple;
kissing, as we understand it, as a self-sufficient act, is unknown
and the caress that substitutes for our mode of kissing consists
in bringing the faces close enough to catch each other s perfume
and feel the warmth of the skin, with slight movements of the
head (ngaras, diman) in the manner which has been wrongly
called by Europeans “ rubbing noses.” In general, the love prac¬
tices of Westerners seem to the Balinese impractical and clumsy,
especially in relation to intercourse, for which the general
adopted form is the man kneeling, the woman reclining, a pos¬
ture such as Malinowsky describes of the Trobriand Islanders in
his Sexual Life of Savages. The Balinese believe that too hasty
intercourse can only result in a deformed child. I have insisted
that the Balinese are frank in sexual matters, although the termi¬
nology for the sexual act is governed by definite rules: there are
extremely refined terms like the classic akrida; usual ones,
metemu, “ to meet and unmentionably coarse ones (meka-
tuk) . There are, besides, terms used for animals, such as me-
tungan and mesaki.
The taboo against incest (salah timpal) extends to certain
spiritual relations; it is incest to sleep with the daughter of one’s
teacher, who is considered as his pupil's spiritual father. A real
child cannot marry an adopted brother or sister, and among the
Bali Agas cousins are equally forbidden to marry, although the
rest of the population does not always agree, especially the no¬
bility, among whom such marriage is often considered desirable.
Tabooed for sexual relations are albinos, idiots, lepers, and in
general the sick and deformed. Making love to a woman of a
higher caste is a dreadful breach of caste rules and a dangerous
one if discovered — I have mentioned that in old times the
couple was killed — although it is not unthinkable that a Sudra
boy may have a secret love affair with a noble girl.
It is my impression that sexual abnormality is not prevalent
among the Balinese and if it exists at all among the common
people is due purely to mercenary reasons. The people are nat-
THE FAMILY 145
urally languid and affectionate; it is usual for people of the same
sex to embrace each other, to hold hands, to huddle together for
a nap at public places; and even old men are often seen walking
down the road hand in hand. This has given outsiders the im¬
pression that Balinese boys are effeminate, although, on the other
hand, I have been asked by a naive Balinese why it is that white
men so often prefer boys to girls. I could only deny his strange
idea, but later I found the explanation when I observed the
alarming number of mercenary homosexuals around the hotels
at night. In general the idea of homosexuality is inconsequential
to the Balinese, and a boy known as a professional homosexual
eventually falls in love with a girl, marries her, and becomes
normal. There are in Bali curious individuals called bentji, in¬
terpreted by the Balinese as “ hermaphrodites ” — a condition
which is characteristic of gods, but bad and ridiculous among
humans. The bentji are men who are abnormally asexual from
birth (impotent, according to the Balinese) , who act and dress
like women and perform the work of women. In Den Pasar there
was one of these pitiable creatures, a man who dressed like a girl
and talked in falsetto, selling food at a public stand in the main
street. It was a great Joke of the village boys to sit by the bentji
and make him offers of marriage. He answered coyly and even
seemed to enjoy the puns.
Prostitution had not, until recent years, flourished in Bali, but
there are in the Balinese language terms that differentiate be¬
tween a woman who prostitutes herself for pleasure (demangan,
djalir) and a mercenary prostitute (nyudal, nayang) , a type that
is rapidly increasing in the centres where there are foreigners.
Bestiality (salah karma) is a dreadful crime against the spir¬
itual health of the community and is supposed to make the
country “ sick ” (panas) with epidemics, loss of crops, and so
forth. In former times both animal and offender were thrown
into the ocean; today the animal is generally drowned and the
man exiled or put in jail. In any case a great ceremony of purifi¬
cation with animal sacrifices (met/aru) is necessary to cleanse the
146 ISLAND OF BALI
land. Bestiality is so horrifying to the Balinese that they can only
explain it as bewitchment on the part of the man, to whom the
animal appears as a beautiful woman.
MARRIAGE
As with everything in Bali, marriage customs differ from district
to district and from caste to caste; from marriages by free choice,
and others prearranged by the parents, to kidnapping with vio¬
lence. Often what is commonplace in one village is unknown in
another, and no general rule can be established that applies to
the entire island. I shall attempt, therefore, to give only a general
outline of marriage practices and to note what we had oppor¬
tunity to observe in the districts in which we lived: Badung and
Gianyar. It is in detail, however, that the ceremonies vary; the
fundamental principles for the different sorts of marriage remain
the same everywhere.
Ngrorod. In Bali the honeymoon usually precedes the wed¬
ding; the average boy in love with a girl makes his marriage ar¬
rangements directly with her, and outside of his father, perhaps,
and a few friends from whom he needs help, he keeps his inten¬
tions secret until the day, previously agreed upon between the
boy and girl, when he will steal her. Shy couples simply run away
together to the house of a friend, as a rule in another village,
where they spend their honeymoon in hiding. But the Balinese
love spectacular kidnappings. The girl arranges for her clothes to
be taken secretly to their future hide-out, and on the appointed
day she is captured somewhere on the road, in the fields, or in
the river by the kidnapping party, led by her suitor. She is ex¬
pected to kick and bite her abductors in sham self-defence, and
although there may be witnesses, no one would dream of inter¬
fering, unless they are relatives of the girl, in which case they are
supposed to put up a great fight. In Den Pasar it is stylish to rush
the girl away by hired motor-car.
At her home, as soon as her disappearance is discovered, her
THE FAMILY
H7
Kidnapping (from a Balinese^ painting)
enraged father is supposed to run up the alarm-drum-tower and
beat the hilkul, asking who took his daughter; but of course no
one knows. Even a searching party may be organized simply for
the fun of it; after a while they return breathless but empty-
148 ISLAND OF BALI
handed. Should it be known, however, that the girl has been
abducted against her will (melagandang) , the pursuit is real and
the kidnapper may be badly beaten and even killed if caught by
the girl’s relatives. In Badung even forceful kidnapping is legal
if the girl is taken in daytime and not from her house; then, as
often happens, if the girl chooses to remain with her forced hus¬
band, the marriage is legalized by the proper offerings and cere¬
monies and by the payment of a stipulated amount to her family;
otherwise the marriage is annulled and the boy fined or jailed.
Special offerings (sesayut tabuh rah and makak-kalaan) have
been taken beforehand to the hide-out, and once safely there, it
is law that the couple must consummate the wedding before the
offerings have wilted. This is extremely important as these offer¬
ings alone make the marriage binding. They constitute what is
called “ the small legalization ” (masakapan alii) , and without
them the union would be considered an ordinary, illegal affair.
Thus the couple is made husband and wife before the gods, and
it appears as if the elaborate ceremonies (makasapan, nganten)
that follow every wedding are rather the official, public confirma¬
tion of it. They consist in the eternal purification by a priest’s
prayers and holy water, plus additional magic acts to ensure the
couple a lucky and fruitful marriage. The great marriage cere¬
mony is supposed to take place within the customary forty-two
days after the kidnapping, but in some cases it has been per¬
formed considerably later if there is not enough money immedi¬
ately available for the expensive festivities.
The couple remains in hiding, going out as little as possible,
until the ransom money has been paid to the girl’s father, all
arrangements are concluded, and a lucky day established for the
return of the couple. Representatives of the boy — his father or
his friends — go, if possible on the day the girl is taken, to inform
her parents and to try to placate them, since tradition demands
of them to appear outraged although they may approve of the
boy. The girl’s relatives do not participate in the marriage cere¬
monies, and it is significant that after marriage the girl takes leave
THE FAMILY 149
of her ancestral gods and adopts her husband’s. The emissaries
go to the girl’s house wearing krisses and in refined language they
point to the virtues of the boy, to his good intentions, and to the
advantages of the union. Reluctantly the girl’s father gives in,
but not until the amount of the " bride-purchase ” money
(patumbas wadon) has been settled. I was told in Den Pasar
that the sum may vary from ten thousand to forty thousand
kepeng, eight to thirty-two ringgit (silver dollars) ® or even to as
much as a hundred ringgit, which in normal times would be
equivalent to 1 2 5,000 kepeng, quite a fortune for people that buy
with kepeng the daily necessities of life.’^
Mapadik. It may happen that the head of a prominent family
of caste requests the daughter of a friend or relative as wife for
his son to bring two great families closer together by a bond of
blood. Such prearranged marriages are decided upon at times
when the boy and the girl are still children, and the marriage is
performed as soon as possible after the girl comes of age and be¬
fore they fall in love with someone else. This must not be mis¬
construed as a form of the much publicized child-marriage of
India; such marriages are rare, they do not take place until the
girl is a woman, there is no law that enforces them, and there is
® Normally a ringgit is worth one gold dollar: two and a half guilders. There were
500 kepeng in one guilder in 1930, although in 1933 the Dutch guilder had gone up
to 700 kepeng.
T In Buleleng brides are more expensive than in South Bali; Lieffrink stated the
price there as from 400 to 600 ringgit, and Van Eck put it between 100 guilders to 600
(or from 40 to 240 ringgit), but Dr. Korn, the latest authority, mentions in his
Adatrecht that in Balinese law documents the sum is seldom above 20,000 kepeng
(16 ringgit), and consequently the price would be lower for a girl of low caste. The
price is further depreciated for widows, the divorced, and so forth, while the rate
goes up to foreigners, for palace women, or in case of forceful kidnapping. Perhaps
the rate is exaggerated and it is possible that brides are getting cheaper with the gradual
impoverishment of Bali. It is not without reason that Korn believes that the ransom
money cannot be taken literally as a price for the girl, since the trousseau she takes
along is often more valuable than the money paid for her. The ransom for a widow
is not paid to her parents but to her parents-in-law. In prearranged marriages (mapadik)
there is no ransom money, since many presents and personal services are made by
the bridegroom to the girl's father. There is no money paid if the bride's father has
no male descendants and he wishes to adopt his son-in-law as a sentana, a legitimate
son for the purpose of inheritance. Kom suggests that the money is paid rather as
ransom to the house gods and not to the parents.
150 ISLAND OF BALI
always divorce to undo an undesirable union. Besides, if a girl
suspects she is to be married against her will, she can arrange
secretly to be kidnapped by a boy she likes. The mapadik mar¬
riage, or marriage by request, takes place more often with willing
grown boys and girls of the nobility, to whom it is always desir¬
able to marry within their caste, being of course more dignified
than the customary ngorod, marriage by elopement. The father
of Gusti’s second wife, a noble chief (pungawa) , once lamented
that all his three daughters had been stolen in ngorod and that
his hopes that Sagung might have been asked for were frustrated
when Gusti took her. Mapadik marriage is in general the old-
fashioned, respectable way for the feudal aristocracy to marry and
perhaps originated with them, although, curiously enough, it is
still prevalent among the Bali Agas of the mountains.
Arrangements for the mapadik are started by the boy's father,
taking a ceremonial present of clothes, a ring, food, and sink to
the girl's relatives, who accept by chewing the sirih and giving in
return a present in the girl’s name. These acts establish the mar¬
riage contract, although it can be dissolved by infidelity on the
part of either of those concerned. The boy continues to visit at
the house of his future bride, bringing presents regularly and per¬
forming small services for his prospective father-in-law.
It is not uncommon that a betrothed couple may be permitted
prenuptial intercourse (gendak) until the time comes for the
official legalization, the great marriage festival. Among the aris-
toaacy, to whom the girl’s virginity is of importance, the deflora¬
tion of the bride acquires a certain ritualistic, barbaric aspect.
In Ubud, where old-style customs are still maintained, I was told
of the procedure by which a mapadik marriage is consummated,
a description which agrees with that given by De Kat Angelino in
his Huwelijksrecht: ®
. . . The girl is dressed and then wrapped in yards of cloth
like a mummy, until she is unable to move. She is locked in the
metdn from the inside with a number of female attendants. The
8 Quoted by Kora in Het Adafrechf van Bali.
THE FAMILY 151
groom arrives in gala dress and wearing his kris, followed by his
retinue, and when he comes to the locked door, he sings in
kidung, answered in song by one of the old women inside.
“ I, So-and-so, son of So-and-so, request to be allowed to enter
this house. Whoever is inside please open the door."
“ He who wants to enter must be an important person who can
pay me ten ringgit; then I shall open.”
“ If you unlock the door, one hundred gold pieces is not too
much; much less the ten ringgit you request.”
The servant opens the door and receives the money from the
bridegroom, who enters with his friends. They pick up the help¬
less bride, lay her on the hale, cut the wrappings, and leave the
couple alone. After a period of time the groom steps out and
announces the marriage consummated; female attendants ex¬
amine the girl to verify her defloration, and the couple is bathed
— the man in the river — and dressed again. They stand in front
of the offering called sesayut tabuh rah, “ to end virginity,” and
are blessed by the priest. Ten days later they dedicate the offer¬
ing tetebasan and prepare for the great legalization ceremony,
which takes place in five days.
Masakapan. It is essential that the great wedding festival take
place on a propitious day set by the high priest, the pedanda.
Mapadik marriages are calculated to take place on the fourth or
the tenth month, but for ngorod the date is set on a good day of
the week called ingkel wong, one out of every six weeks, in which
affairs concerning human beings are propitious (there are, be¬
sides, weeks set aside for domestic animals, for birds, trees, fish,
and bamboo) . After their honeymoon a runaway couple returns
to the home of the boy’s father for the legalization ceremony,
brought in grand procession, carried on palanquins to the ac¬
companiment of cymbals and gongs, kulkul beats, and fire¬
crackers.
In Pemetjutan we assisted at the belated marriage feast (masa¬
kapan) of a Gusti people. Among the higher castes, who like to
J52 ISLAND OF BALI
appear rich and extravagant, there is considerably greater cere¬
mony than at the weddings of the common people. Often formal
invitations written on palm-leaves are sent to near relatives, in
which is stated the nature of the wedding present that they
should bring along — the one I saw asked for four ducks — thus
keeping the present tactfully within the means of the donor and
avoiding repetitions. In this manner the relatives co-operate in
meeting the expenses, for among such families there are always
innumerable guests of rank to be lavishly entertained with ban¬
quet food and theatricals. Early in the morning the house of our
aristocratic friend in Pemetjutan began to fill with impressive
noblemen dressed in their best and wearing jewelled krisses, who
arrived with retinues of women and attendants bearing presents.
The teeth of the bride and groom had not yet been filed and the
greater part of the morning was spent in the hair-raising task,
while the wayang music played in a corner of the crowded court¬
yard, mingling with the crashing of the cymbals and gongs of the
orchestra that played out on the street. The male guests sat in
the places of honour drinking coffee, eating pastry, and chewing
betel-nut, listening casually to two professional story-tellers that
sat in the middle of the court reciting the erotic passages of the
great literary classic, the Ard/una Wiwaha, also a rule at wed¬
dings, one man chanting verses in musical kawi language, while
the other translated with rich and expressive tones into guttural
everyday Balinese. The women wandered about among offerings
and presents, in and out of the meten where the bride was being
dressed, while the boy’s father played host, seeing that everybody
was taken care of, and directing the assistants who distributed
trays of food and poured drinks.
After the teeth-filing was over, the bride and groom simulated
domestic activities: she washed a handful of rice and cooked it
in a clay pot over a small fire; the groom cut a branch of twf,
the sort of acacia leaves used as a vegetable, which they cooked
together in another pot. Next they were led to a platform erected
in the courtyard, a bed with mattress and pillows in which was
THE FAMILY 153
placed the offering tetagpuM, two truncated cones wrapped, one
in black, the other in red thread, each topped by a fan of palm-
leaf. They sat on the bed, the boy cross-legged, the girl kneeling,
and made reverences (sembah) , bringing their joined hands
three times to their foreheads, each time holding between their
middle fingers little sampian, fans of palm decorated with flowers.
Next the food they had cooked together was brought to them on
silver platters, and, with their necks joined by a Tenganan scarf
with the warp left uncut, they had to feed each other some rice
and twf. Their movements were hampered by the scarf and they
were shy and clumsy. The guests thought this extremely funny
and laughed heartily, making the couple turn red with embarrass¬
ment. They gave each other water to drink from a kendih, but
the crucial test was the mutual chewing of sirih, betel-nut, to
which they were not accustomed. The boy chewed the siiih re¬
luctantly, making wry faces, handing some already chewed to his
bride. This concluded the first half of the ceremony, until the
afternoon, when the priest would come to perform their ritual
purification.
I was told that among the common people the girl walks three
times around the offerings [pangulapan) holding the tetagpuM
in her arms, while two of the boy’s relatives hold a string across
her path. She walks on until the string breaks (benang tebusan) .
Later the couple walks again three times around a small dadap
tree specially planted for the occasion, the girl with a platter of
rice on her head, the boy carrying on his shoulder a pole loaded
with good stuff such as coconuts, a chicken, and a duck. Then
they sit side by side behind the priest or witch-doctor (balian)
and pray while he dedicates the offerings. They also take a meal
in pubhc — an act which appears to have a special significance,
since only a married couple would ever be seen together eating in
public.
The blessing by the priest to purify the couple that we wit¬
nessed, at the wedding of a prominent prince of Gianyar, was
exceptionally elaborate. Three great sheds had been specially
154 ISLAND OF BALI
built: one for the ceremony, another for the banquet, and a third
for the entertainment. The principal shed was surrounded by
offerings brought by the prince's vassals, and there were tables
and chairs for the guests of honour, Balinese noblemen and
Dutch high ofBcials, while the populace crowded on the outside.
Facing towards the right of the mountains, kangin, was a high
platform filled with all sorts of great marriage offerings, and in
the middle of the platform sat the venerable high priest of the
prince’s family among his ritual accessories. To the left of the
shed was an altar for the sun, fifteen feet high, and at the right
a story-teller gave a performance of wayang lemah, a shadow-
play without a screen.
A murmur of admiration arose from the crowd as the bride
and groom came out of the house, resplendent in gold and jew¬
ellery. They stood first at the right of the priest, who faced away
from them. Old women attendants burned coconut husks and
sticks of incense, then touched their hands and feet with an egg
and with some of the offerings. Then they moved to the other
side, at the left, and knelt on the ground making reverences, the
sembah, with fans of palm-leaf adorned with flowers of different
colours. There were two chairs ready behind the priest, and the
couple sat on them, the groom at the right, while the attendants
waved symbols of purity — a live white chicken and a white duck
— in front of them. They were given various sorts of holy water to
drink and various foods to eat — eggs, rice, and sat6s. 'The priest
turned towards them, shook a long grass broom at the couple,
and gave them salt to taste. Next he sprinkled them with holy
water and later drenched them with ladles of it, poured through
a rice-steaming basket, held by the women over their heads, just
as in the coming-of-age ceremony of Made Rai. A sort of shield
of palm-leaf was waved at them and each took a blade out of it
and placed it folded in the head-dress. More prayers were said
by the priest in the direction of the couple, and on finishing he
gave each a flower which was also placed in the head-dress.
Next came curious actions with two ropes made of red, black.
THE FAMILY 155
yellow, and white string, weighted at the ends with kepengs.
These were passed under the arms and across the backs of the
bride and groom, the four ends held by the priest while he re¬
cited a prayer. Then the ends of the ropes were crossed over their
chests and thrown back. The priest gave the couple a ladle of
holy water to drink, and continued praying while the couple
fanned towards themselves the essence of the prayer, doing the
same again when the priest held in front of them a bundle made
of the coloured ropes, which in the meantime had been removed
by the attendants. The ceremony concluded with a long prayer
(maweda) performed by the priest towards kangin; a combina¬
tion of Sanskrit formulas recited silently, accompanied by swift
and intricate gestures of the hands, alternated with ringing a bell
and flinging away various sorts of flowers. After the purification
the banquet was served and the guests spent the rest of the night
watching plays and dances.
The woman “ follows ” the man and lives in his home. Either
the eldest or the youngest son inherits the paternal home, but
other sons usually build a house of their own on an empty lot
given by the village to a newly-wed couple. The first duty of the
man is then to build a temporary sanggah kemulan, his family
shrine, made of bamboo and thatch, which is replaced later on
by a more solid structure of brick and wood, when the old one has
fallen into decay. It may happen, however, that a man commits
nyebuhin, going to live in the house of the girl with whom he is
infatuated. A man who runs after a girl in this manner is dis¬
graced; he loses all rights to the paternal home and lives as a
servant of the girl’s family. The opposite may also happen and a
ngungahin marriage takes place, when a girl, supposedly be¬
witched, forces herself upon a man.
Ordinarily there is at home a strong feeling of equality, of
politeness, and friendly frankness in the relationship between
husband and wife, and the woman is by no means the proverbial
slave of Oriental countries. She is well aware of her rights, she
156 ISLAND OF BALI
manages the house and the finances of the family, and at times
she even keeps her husband. We have seen that the majority of
the women of average class work and have their own incomes.
They own their clothes, their jewellery, and the household uten¬
sils, as well as the pigs and chickens of the house. The man, of
course, owns the house itself, the ricefields, the cattle, and his
implements, and inheritance is invariably along the male line.
The woman has absolute rights over her income and owns her
share of the money earned by their combined efforts, although
the husband is the administrator of this money. In general the
man is the acknowledged master of the household and represents
the family before the law and before the gods, who are his own
ancestors.
But once a month, during menstrual time, a wife’s life is not a
happy one; to her physical handicap is added the powerful taboo
of pollution (sebel) which then falls upon her: she is forbidden
to go into the temple, into the kitchen or the granary, or to the
well. She may not prepare food nor, of course, make offerings or
participate at feasts, and the wife of a high priest may not even
speak to her exalted husband. No man would dream of sleeping
in the same room with a woman in this condition; the average
man moves into the house of a friend, but the wife of a nobleman
has to look for a place to sleep, far from her husband. In the
palace of a prince there is often a secluded compartment where
his wives retire while menstruating. When the period is over, a
woman has to be purified again with sprinkling of holy water be¬
fore she can resume normal life. Perhaps because the Balinese
believe that a man can be bewitched, losing all his will to the
woman who can anoint his head with menstrual blood, they have
such mortal horror of being near a woman during the time of
menstruation.
The Balinese are reputedly polygamous, but the great majority
- about ninety-five per cent - have only one wife. It was gener¬
ally believed that there are considerably more women than men
in Bali, but the last census (1930) gives the figures as 561,874
THE FAMILY 157
males as against 576,543 females, or 49.35 per cent men and
50.65 cent women, a percentage of women that is even below
normal. Men of the nobility often have two, three, four, and
even more wives, and old records mention Radjas with as many
as two hundred. This is a thing of the past, however, and there
are few people today who can afford more than one wife. But
the Balinese are naturally polygamous and it is common for men
to have lovers and for women to take the extra-marital relations
of their husbands as natural.
If a man brings home a second wife, the first is not expected to
show jealousy, but unpleasant situations develop if the man takes
a new wife without the knowledge of his first wife. Such was the
case in our household and we often had to mediate between the
two wives of our host in violent squabbles that exploded for
the most trivial causes. I remain under the impression, however,
that it was often wounded pride rather than sentimental jealousy
that brought about the tense situations, and with other families
of polygamous Balinese we knew this was so. The younger wife of
a friend took care of the elder wife's child, and when they visited
us together one would have taken them for sisters, such was the
affection they showed for each other. Often another woman with
whom to share the house means company and help to the first,
and thus she is welcomed, especially if the new wife was chosen,
as often happens, by the first wife.
Two wives in one home have separate houses to sleep in and
often they do not even live together. Many Balinese live with
the first wife in the ancestral home and keep their subsequent
wives in other houses and even in different villages, visiting them
once in a while and only bringing them together at festivals where
they all must pray together. They agree that this is the most
convenient arrangement, and our harassed host confided to me
that in future lives he would be wiser and would marry only once.
The free and easy status of women of the average class is not
enjoyed by women of the aristocracy; their husbands are abso¬
lute masters and they live restricted and secluded in the palace.
158 ISLAND OF BALI
the puri, usually going out only in groups to festivals. The first
wife of the same caste as the husband (padmi) enjoys a higher
status than a second wife (madewi) , even though she may be
of high caste also. Then there are those with a considerably lower
status, the wives of low caste (penawing, slir) , who are regarded
as legal concubines. The prince does not usually appear at his
wedding ceremony with a bride of low caste, and she is cere¬
monially married to his kris or to a tree. The wives of a prince
live together in the pun and each has her own hale, placed ac¬
cording to rank, where the prince visits them by turns. A low-
caste wife of a nobleman receives the title of djeio, and there are
special titles to establish the status of their children. The son of
a nobleman and a woman of lower class is of the caste of the
father unless there is a great difference between them.
A man is not morally bound to be faithful to his wife, but in¬
fidelity on the part of the woman is a dreadful crime, punished
legally in old times with the death of the guilty couple. I was
told of the case of a man of the aristocracy of Badung who found
his wife in compromising circumstances with a man of his caste,
a relative besides. Out of his mind with rage, he clubbed them
to death, then sent for the pungawa to give himself up. Calmly
he asked for the alarm-drum not to be sounded, as is done in cases
of violence when a man temporarily loses his mind and runs
amuck. His wish was granted and he was led to jail. When the
trial came up, his crime was taken lightly by the noble judges and
he was given a short jail sentence. It is possible that in “ civi¬
lized ” society he would have gone free.
Ordinarily in a case of adultery the husband simply “ throws
his wife away ” (makutang) . Divorce laws are simple and easy.
A man may claim divorce if his wife is sterile, quarrelsome, or
lazy, but a woman has also the right to divorce an impotent man,
or one who has some occult illness, is cruel to her, or fails to
support her, although many women support themselves and
there is no standard established as to what is non-support. A
woman who wants a divorce simply leaves her husband's home.
THE FAMILY 159
although he may try to bring her back by force. In any case she
has to return the money dowry.
The divorce is performed by the village authorities (in whose
judgment the case rests) by slight ceremonies, the most impor¬
tant of which is the breaking of a “ yellow ” kepeng (pipis kun-
ing) by the husband and wife, to represent, perhaps, the break¬
ing of the magic circle (completeness) of marriage.
Outside of caste and incest ® taboos, there are no great mar¬
riage restrictions in Bali and there seems to be no objection to
marriage with cousins, divorcees, a woman thrown out by her
husband, and even with widows, against whom there was once
revulsion on the part of the nobility, due to the now defunct in¬
stitution of mesatia (suttee), by which the widows of a prince had
to follow their dead master into the spirit world. A widow may
marry when and whom she pleases as long as she has the permis¬
sion of her family, her relatives-in-law, and her son, or of her own
relatives if she has returned to her ancestral home. Marriage of a
Balinese woman with foreigners — people of another race or re¬
ligion — is permitted, although by the marriage the woman loses
the right to be called a Balinese — again an emphasis on the im¬
portance of ancestral relations.
® There is first- and second-degree incest. It is first-degree incest for a man to have
relations with his mother, sister, half-sister, or the mother of his half-brother or sister.
Second-degree incest is relations with aunts or with his father's or mother's cousins.
Jane Belo: Study of a Balinese Family." The American Anthropologist, Vol.
38, No. 1.
CHAPTER VII
ART AND THE ARTIST
THE PLACE OF THE ARTIST IN BALINESE LIFE
Everybody in Bali seems to be an artist. Coolies and princes,
priests and peasants, men and women alike, can dance, play mu¬
sical instruments, paint, or carve in wood and stone. It was often
surprising to discover that an otherwise poor and dilapitated vil¬
lage harboured an elaborate temple, a great orchestra, or a group
of actors of repute.
One of the most famous orchestras in Bali is to be found in the
remote mountain village of Selat, and the finest dancers of legong
were in Saba, an unimportant little village hidden among the
ricefields. Villages such as Mas, Batuan, Gelgel, are made up of
families of painters, sculptors, and actors, and Sanur produces,
besides priests and witch-doctors, fine story-tellers and dancers.
In Sebatu, another isolated mountain village, even the children
can carve little statues from odd bits of wooi some to be used
as bottle-stoppers, perches for birds, handles, but most often
sirnply absurd little human figures in comic attitudes, strange
animals, birds of their own invention, frogs, snakes, larvae of
insects, figures without reason or purpose, simply as an outlet for
their creative urge. In contrast to the devil-may-care primitive
works of Sebatu are the super-refined, masterful carvings from
Badung, Ubud, Pliatan, and especially those by the family of
ART AND THE ARTIST i6i
young Brahmanas from Mas who turn out intricate statues of
hard wood or with equal ability paint a picture, design a temple
gate, or act and dance.
Painting, sculpture, and playing on musical instruments are
arts by tradition reserved to the men, but almost any woman can
weave beautiful stuflFs and it is curious that the most intriguing
textiles, those in which the dyeing and weaving process is so com¬
plicated that years of labour are required to complete a scarf, are
made by the women of Tenganan, an ancient village of six hun¬
dred souls who are so conservative that they will not maintain
connections with the rest of Bali and who punish with exile who¬
ever dares to marry outside the village.
The main artistic activity of the women goes into the making
of beautiful offerings for the gods. These are intricate structures
of cut-out palm-leaf, or great pyramids of fruit, flowers, cakes, and
even roast chickens, arranged with splendid taste, masterpieces
of composition in which the relative form of the elements em¬
ployed, their texture and colour are taken into consideration. I
have seen monuments, seven feet in height, made entirely of
roasted pig's meat on skewers, decorated into shapes cut out of
the waxy fat of the pig and surmounted with banners and little
umbrellas of the lacy stomach tissues, the whole relieved by the
vivid vermilion of chili-peppers. Although women of all ages
have always taken part in the ritual offering dances, in olden
times only little girls became dancers and actresses; but today
beautiful girls take part in theatrical performances, playing the
parts of princesses formerly performed exclusively by female im¬
personators.
The effervescence of artistic activity and the highly developed
aesthetic sense of the population can perhaps be explained by a
natural urge to express themselves, combined with the important
factor of leisure resulting from well-organized agricultural co-
operatism. However, the most important element for the de¬
velopment of a popular culture, with primitive as well as refined
characteristics, was perhaps the fact that the Balinese did not
i62 island of BALI
permit the centralization of the artistic knowledge in a special
intellectual class. In old Balinese books on ethics, like the Niti
Sastra, it is stated that a man who is ignorant of the writings is
like a man who has lost his speech, because he shall have to re¬
main silent during the conversation of other men. Furthermore,
it was a requirement for the education of every prince that he
should know mythology, history, and poetry well enough; should
learn painting, woodcarving, music, and the making of musical
instruments; should be able to dance and to sing in Kawi, the
classic language of literature. There is hardly a prince who does
not possess a good number of these attributes, and those de¬
prived of talent themselves support artists, musicians, and actors
as part of their retinue. Ordinary people look upon their feudal
lords as models of conduct and do not hesitate to imitate them,
learning their poetry, dancing, painting, and carving in order to
be like them.
Thus, not only the aristocracy can create informal beauty, but
a commoner may be as finished an artist as the educated noble¬
man, although he may be an agriculturist, a tradesman, or even
a coolie. Our host in Bali was a prince and a musician, but there
were others of the common class who were among the finest musi¬
cians of the neighbourhood. Of the leaders of the famous orches¬
tras of our district, one was a coolie, another a goldsmith, and a
third a chauffeur.
Until a few years ago the Balinese did not paint pictures or
make statues without some definite purpose. It has often been
stated that there are no words in the Balinese language for
“ art ” and “ artist.” This is true and logical; making a beautiful
offering, and carving a stone temple gate, and making a set of
masks are tasks of equal aesthetic importance, and although the
artist is regarded as a preferred member of the community, there
is no separate class of artists, and a sculptor is simply a “ carver ”
or a figure-maker, and the painter is a picture-maker. A dancer
is a legong, a d/anger, and so forth - the names of the dances
they perform.
ART AND THE ARTIST 163
The artist is in Bali essentially a craftsman and at the same
time an amateur, casual and anonymous, who uses his talent
knowing that no one will care to record his name for posterity.
His only aim is to serve his community, seeing that the work is
well done when he is called to embellish the temple of the vil¬
lage, or when he carves his neighbour’s gate in exchange for a
new roof or some other similar service. Actors and musicians
play for the feasts of the village without pay, and when they per¬
form for private festivals they are lavishly entertained and ban¬
queted instead. Foreigners have to pay a good amount for a
performance: from five to thirty guilders according to the quality
of the show and the pretensions of the actors; but a Balinese who
calls the village’s orchestra or a troupe of actors for a home fes¬
tival provides special food, refreshments, siiih, and cigarettes
for them. If he pays a small amount besides, from a guilder to
five, it is not considered as remuneration, but rather as a present
to help the finances of the musical or theatrical club. Whatever
money they receive goes to the funds of the association to cover
the expenses of the feasts given by the club or to buy new cos¬
tumes or instruments.
Nothing in Bali is made for posterity; the only available stone
is a soft sandstone that crumbles away after a few years, and the
temples and reliefs have to be renewed constantly; white ants
devour the wooden sculptures, and the humidity rots away all
paper and cloth, so their arts have never suffered from fossiliza-
tion. The Balinese are extremely proud of their traditions, but
they are also progressive and unconservative, and when a foreign
idea strikes their fancy, they adopt it with great enthusiasm as
their own. All sorts of influences from the outside, Indian,
Chinese, Javanese, have left their mark on Balinese art, but they
are always translated into their own manner and they become
strongly Balinese in the process.
Thus the lively Balinese art is in constant flux. What becomes
the rage for a while may be suddenly abandoned and forgotten
ivhen a new fashion is invented, new styles in music or in the
164 ISLAND OF BALI
theatre, or new ways of making sculptures and paintings. But the
traditional art also remains, and when the artists tire of a new
idea, they go back to the classic forms until a new style is again
invented. They are great copyists and it is not surprising to
find in a temple, as part of the decoration, a fat Chinese god
or a scene representing a highway hold-up, or a crashing plane,
events unknown in Bali, that can only be explained as having been
copied from some Western magazine. Once a young Balinese
painter saw my friend Walter Spies painting yellow high-lights
on the tips of the leaves of a jungle scene. He went home and
made a painting that was thoroughly Balinese, but with model¬
ling and high-lights until then unknown in Balinese painting.
Artistic property cannot exist in the communal Balinese culture;
if an artist invents or copies something that is an interesting
novelty, soon all the others are reproducing the new find. Once
a sculptor made a little statue representing the larvae of an insect
standing upright on its tail; a few weeks later everybody was
making them and soon the statue market was flooded with Bran¬
cusi-like little erect worms on square bases.
Unlike the individualistic art of the West in which the main
concern of the artist is to develop his personality in order to
create an easily recognizable style as the means to attain his
ultimate goal — recognition and fame — the anonymous artistic
production of the Balinese, like their entire life, is the expression
of collective thought. A piece of music or sculpture is often the
work of two or more artists, and the pupils of a painter or a
sculptor invariably collaborate with their master. The Balinese
artist builds up with traditional standard elements. The arrange¬
ment and the general spirit may be his own, and there may even
be a certain amount of individuality, however subordinated to
the local style. There are definite proportions, standard features,
peculiar garments, and so forth to represent a devil, a holy man,
a prince, or a peasant, and the personality of a given character is
determined, not so much by physical characteristics, but rather
by sartorial details. The romantic heroes, Ardjuna, Rama, and
ART AND THE ARTIST 165
Pandji, look exactly alike and can only be recognized by the head¬
dress peculiar to each. A strong differentiation is made between
“ fine ” and “ coarse ” characters; Ardjuna, for instance, is re¬
fined, with narrow eyes and delicate features, while his brother,
the warrior Bhima, has wild round eyes and wears a moustache.
He is further identified by his chequered loincloth.
The Balinese obtain their artistic standards of beauty from
ancient Java, and for centuries there has been only one way to
treat a beautiful face; which they have, curiously enough, come
to identify with themselves. Once, discussing the facial charac¬
teristics of various races with the Regent of Karangasem, a man
of high Balinese education, he asked me how I drew a Balinese.
He disagreed with my conception and proceeded to draw one
himself, a face from the classic paintings and a type that could
not be found on the whole island. Within these conventions,
Balinese art is realistic without being photographic — that is,
without attempting to give the optical illusion of the real thing.
Thus there is no perspective and no modelling in painting, and
sculpture is highly stylized. They admire technique and good
craftsmanship above other points, and when I showed a Bali¬
nese friend a beautiful sculpture I had Just acquired, he found
fault with the minute parallel grooves that marked the strands
of hair because in places they ran together.
Balinese art is not in the class of the “ great ” arts like great
Chinese painting — the conscious production of works of art for
their own sake, with an aesthetic value apart from their function.
Again, it is too refined, too developed, to fit into peasant arts;
nor is it one of the primitive arts, those subject to ritual and tribal
laws, which we call " primitive ” because their aesthetics do not
conform to ours. Their art is a highly developed, although in¬
formal Baroque folk-art that combines the peasant liveliness with
the refinement of the classicism of Hinduistic Java, but free of
conservative prejudice and with a new vitality fired by the ex¬
uberance of the demoniac spirit of the tropical primitive. The
Balinese peasants took the flowery art of ancient Java, itself an
i66 ISLAND OF BALI
offshoot of the aristocratic art of India of the seventh and eighth
centuries, brought it down to earth, and made it popular prop¬
erty.
Although at the service of religion, Balinese art is not a re¬
ligious art. An artist carves ludicrous subjects in the temples or
embellishes objects of daily use with religious symbols, using
them purely as ornamental elements regardless of their signifi¬
cance. The Balinese carve or paint to tell the only stories they
know — those created by their intellectuals, the religious teach¬
ers of former times.
THE STORY OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF
BALINESE ART
The art history of Bali runs parallel to the history of the island
itself. When Bali became a colony of Java, the conquering aris¬
tocracy brought their art with them, and every political event in
Java has had a powerful influence in the development of Bali¬
nese culture. Thus, the early classic period of Javanese art corre¬
sponds also to a classic period in Bali, and when the mother
country suffered disturbances and transformations, these were
reflected in Balinese art, until Islamism and political chaos
severed all connections between the two islands, and Hinduism
had to find refuge in Bali. As the island became the centre of a
new empire and no longer a province of Java, the Balinese na¬
tives took over the art of the exiled aristocracy, transformed it
to suit their taste, and a typical Bahnese art came into being.
Nothing definite is known of the art of pre-Hindu Bali, but
we know that the old Indonesian had a culture of its own, per¬
haps like the present one of the people of Nias and the Bataks
of Sumatra, to whom the Balinese are in many ways akin. They
worked metals, especially iron for the making of magic krisses;
cultivated rice, had a well-organized administration, kept do¬
mestic animals, and made splendid textiles. Outside of a stone
sarcophagus, some bronze bracelets and arrow-heads found in
Petang, probably belonging to people of Hinduistic affiliation,
ART AND THE ARTIST 167
no material traces of their megalithic monuments remain, or
have yet been found, perhaps because archaeological excavation
has hardly begun in Bali. But a great deal of the old Indonesian
spirit has remained in the daily life of the people, not only among
the Bali Agas, but also alongside the Hinduism of the ordinary
Balinese. As we shall see later, there are definite traces of what
could have been the art of pre-Hindu times found today in the
offerings, in the patterns of textiles, in certain sculptures, and
the like.
Antiques are scarce in Bali, although there are thousands of
mossy and battered statues all over the island, often of a more
primitive style than the usual contemporary art. But a newly
made statue appears of great age after six months of exposure to
the damp climate of Bali, and, on the other hand, many ancient
statues resemble those made in recent years. Many of the in¬
numerable remains found in the temples, in jungles, or imbedded
in the trunk of a waringin may easily be contemporary.
We made a sport of going out with Walter Spies into remote
districts to find objects of what we called “ native " Balinese
style, and often located figures in wood, stone, and even clay
that showed no trace of Hindu influence. There were demons,
girls, primitive animals, and alarm-drums with faces carved on
them that were reminiscent of Dyak, Batak, and Polynesian art.
Spies is an enthusiast for the “ megalithic ” art and he has dis¬
covered many strange stones with primitive carvings, such as
the stone in Bebitera, or the magnificent stone altar in Batukan-
dik in the little island of Nusa Penida: a pyramid twelve feet
high surmounted by the torso of a woman with large breasts,
supporting on her head a stone throne like those from Nias, with
two roosters standing on her shoulders, their heads resting on
the palms of her hands. The style of the monument is decidedly
Indonesian and so are the two little shrines, also in the same vil¬
lage, with well-defined signs of being one male, the other female.
I was invited to accompany Assistant Controleur Grader and
Spies on an expedition into the wilds between the mountains
i68 ISLAND OF BALI
Batur and Bratan; descending slippery ravines, into jungles, and
up steep hills, we found many old statues overgrown with vege¬
tation, some of which seemed from early Buddhist days, while
others looked as if Hinduism had never penetrated into those dis¬
tricts. Particularly interesting were the pyramids and strange
carvings in wood in Sanda and Selulung; or the Polynesian-look-
ing statues in Batukaang and Pengadjaran.
Perhaps the most remarkable of antiquities in Bali is the great
bronze drum kept in the Pura Panataran Sasih in Pedjeng, the
former home of the demon-king Maya Danawa. Some Balinese
say that it is one of the subangs (ear-plugs) of the moon, while
others say it is a Sasih, the “ moon " itself, that fell down to
earth and was caught in a tree. It remained there giving a blind¬
ing light, preventing some thieves of the neighbourhood from
performing their nocturnal work. One of them, bolder than the
rest, decided to extinguish the source of light and, climbing on
the tree, urinated on it. The '' moon ” exploded, killing the thief,
and fell to the ground in the shape of the present drum, which
explains why it is broken at the base. The people rescued it and
placed it on a high latticed shrine in the temple. The drum is
of the style of the so-called Chinese drums of the Han dynasty
often found in Indo-China and even in Java, but it is the largest
and most beautiful I have ever seen. The Pedjeng drum differs
somewhat from the usual Han drums; it is elongated, with three
^eat handles, rather like the bronze drums found in Alor, the
island near Timor, where they are still used as money, some
being worth as much as three thousand guilders.^ The drum is
decorated on its sounding surface with a beautiful star in high
relief surrounded by a border of sweeping spirals, and on its
sides with borders between parallel lines rather like the popular
design called spears (tumbakj by the Balinese: ttttttt.
Furthermore, there are strangely primitive, or rather conven¬
tionalized, human faces in low relief that have no obvious rela¬
tion to Chinese art and that are strongly Indonesian, with the
1 Ernst Vatter: Ata Kiwan.
ART AND THE ARTIST 169
characteristic leaf-shaped ornament worn behind the ears, the
lobes of which are exaggeratedly distended by the weight of
unusual ear-rings. The general style, the motifs, and the work¬
manship of the drum are all definitely related to the unique
bronze axes from the island of Roti, also near Timor, which were
unfortunately destroyed in the fire of the pavilion of the Nether¬
lands in the Paris Colonial Exposition of 1931 where they were
exhibited. The axes and the drums seem to belong, rather than
to a definitely Chinese culture like the Han, to an ancient, mys-
lyo ISLAND OF BALI
terious Indonesian bronze age.® The Pedjeng drum is regarded
with great reverence, and people often bring it offerings.
Another motif which appears to be of native origin is the
figure called tjih, a silhouette of a beautiful girl with a body
shaped like a slim hour-glass (two triangles meeting at their
apex) , with rounded breasts, long thin arms, great ear-plugs,
and wearing an enormous head-dress of flowers. Tjih shapes are
made in wood, of Chinese coins sewn together, woven into tex¬
tiles, modelled in clay to surmount tiles for roofs, and made into
clay banks for pennies. They are painted on rice cakes for temple
ornaments in Selat, and made out of palm-leaf for certain agri¬
cultural ceremonies of the old mountain villages or as containers
for the soul of the dead (adegan) for cremations. Tjilis form
the central motif of lamaks, those beautiful but perishable orna¬
mental strips of palm-leaf, about a foot and a half wide by some
ten to twenty feet long, made for feasts by the women, pinned
together with bits of bamboo strips of busung, the tender yellow
blades of the sugar or coconut palm, taken from the tree before
the leaf opens. This is decorated with a delicate geometric pat-
tern, a mosaic of bits of the green leaf of the same palm, cut with
a knife into elaborate ornaments which are pinned on the yellow
background, forming borders like the ones on the Pedjeng
drum, ornamental strips (bebatikan) , groups of rosettes called
moons (buMn) , the tjili, and a stylized tree (kayon) . These
mapificent ornaments, perhaps the purest examples of the
Balinese native art, last only for one day, and after hanging for
an afternoon on an altar or a rice granary, by evening they are
completely wilted. Spies has collected every different type of
lamak design for a period of years and he has hundreds of them
He claims that every community has a peculiar design not found
The figure of a tjih seems to have a strange hold on the im-
DSng^on ilpNorSem*^nMm*and'TJf V weapons unearthed near
ART AND THE ARTIST 171
agination of the Balinese, perhaps because it is the shape of the
“ Rice Mother ” (nim pantun) , a sheaf of rice dressed into the
shape of a tjilL This would indicate that the mysterious figure
was connected with, or derived from, the deities of rice and
fertility, either Dewi Sri or Melanting, also goddesses of beauty
and seed respectively. Again, the shape of the great offerings
(kebogan) , a pyramid of fruit topped by a fan of flowers and
palm-leaf, is also a tjili, so stylized however that only the pyram¬
idal skirt and the flower head-dress remain. This became evi¬
dent when we saw in Kesiman, alongside the usual form of
offerings, one six feet tall made into a realistic t/ili, her skirt
of melons, ears of corn, oranges, djambu, and salak, her torso of
frangipani flowers (dfepon) , and her face a smiling wooden
mask with great ear-plugs and a fan of flowers as a head-dress.
Tjihs are often so stylized that simply a palm-leaf fan with two
loops (the ear-plugs or breasts) is called a tjili. I became in¬
tensely intrigued by the persistence of this shape in so many of
the ritual objects and was determined to find in it some religious
significance; I asked all sorts of people about tjilis, from high
priests to old women offering-makers, but they all insisted that
they were purely ornamental forms appropriate for offerings be¬
cause they were beautiful. The word tjili means “ small and
nice,” rather in the sense in which we use the term cute.”
Whatever its origin, the tjili is today nothing more than a beau¬
tiful abstract feminine motif.
OLD HINDU BALINESE ART
Already in the records of Chinese travellers of the fifth century
it is mentioned that in the country of “ Poli,” perhaps Bali,
there were Hindu princes, and that the travellers were received
by priests who danced around them blowing conch-shells. Bali
was already a colony of the Central Javanese kingdom of Ma-
taram, the earliest recorded ruler of which was, according to
Stutterheim, King Sandjaya or Sanjaya (a.d. 732) of the Sail-
endra dynasty, who ruled also over southern Sumatra. The
172 ISLAND OF BALI
Sailendras where Mahayanic Buddhists, and their highly de¬
veloped art was like that of the great Gupta period of India.
Sivaism was introduced towards the middle of the ninth century
TjHi of Woven Palm-Leaf
and, by degrees, the power of the Sailendras waned, but it was
within this period, from the seventh to the ninth centuries, the
golden age of Javanese art, that the finest monuments of Java
ART AND THE ARTIST 173
were built, the Buddhist Boiobudui and the Sivaist Lora Djo-
ngrang in Prambanan. Soon this great civilization disappeared
mysteriously and Bali came under the rule of independent kings
TjUi of Palm-Leaf from the Top of an Offering
in Pedjeng and Bedulu. From their time we have remains of the
classic style in the neighbourhood of the present villages of
the same names, sorne in ruined temples, in caves, or among the
174 ISLAND OF BALI
ricefields, in the strip of land between the rivers Pakrisan and
Petanu, where so many of the antiquities of Bali are found.
Towards the beginning of the eleventh century there was a
renaissance in East Java, in Kediri, brought about by the Bali¬
nese-born king Erlangga. Under him Bali became again an in-
Tjilis from Lamaks
tegral part of Java and classicism received a new impetus. It
was Erlangga who instituted Javanese as the official language
0 Bali. Tantric black magic seems to have played an important
part in Erlangga s time, and while he was having trouble with
his greatest political enemy, his own mother, who had sworn to
destroy his kmgdorn by the black arts, Erlangga’s brother ruled
a 1 m his name. This brother was buried (according to Stutter-
eim) in the spectacular “ Kings’ tombs ” in Gunung Kawi near
I amrvo IrCI-rTf-irf ^
Among the important relics of the
following:
ancient period are the
iy6 ISLAND OF BA. LI
Gunung Kawi: On the banks of the river Pakrisan, descending a
steep ravine, is a group of sober, undecorated monuments shaped
like the ancient burial towers (tjandi), hewn out of the solid rock,
each inside of a niche, four on one side and five on the other. To the
right of the main group is a sort of monastery with coves also carved
out of the rock, arranged around a central cell with a platform in the
centre. The monuments are supposed to belong to the eleventh
century, when cremation had not yet been introduced into Bali, and
Lekkerkerker thinks the cells were probably destined to expose the
corpses to be obliterated by decay and wild animals, such as was the
custom among Indonesians, and as is still practised in Sembiran in
Bali and by the Toradjas in Celebes, where it is now forbidden by the
Dutch. The monuments were only discovered in 1920, but the Bali¬
nese knew them, and saw them with reverence because they attrib¬
uted them to the giant of mythical times, ECbo Iwd, who is supposed
to have carved aU the ancient monuments with his own fingernails.
The natives formerly called the tombs Djalu, but the present place-
name, Gunung Kawi, means “ mountain of poetry ” or “ mountain
of antiquity.”
Buldt Darma: In Kutri near Bedulu there is another antiquity of
the classic period, also related to Erlangga. It is the beautiful statue
of Mahendradatta, Erlangga’s mother, as the goddess of death,
Durga. It is preserved in the sanctuary of BuTdt Darma, which ar-
chseologists believe to be the burial site of Erlangga’s mother. The
statue is badly worn, but it can still be seen that it was of the purest
classic lines.
Goa Gad/a: Together with Gunung Kawi, the best known relic of
the ancient art is the famous “ Elephant Cave ” near Bedulu. Goa
Gad/’a is a great hollowed rock, perhaps the former residence of a
hermit, elaborately carved on the outside, covered with representa¬
tions of stylized rocks, forests, waves, animals, and people running
in panic because directly over the entrance is the head of a great
monster with bulging eyes who splits the rock with his enormous fat
hands. Nieuwenkamp says that it may represent Pasupati, who
divided the mountain Mahameru into two parts and, taking them
in his hands, placed each half in Bali as the Gunung Agung and the
art and the artist 177
Batur. There are a number of ancient stone water-spouts outside
the cave, and on the inside is a statue of Ganesa in a central niche,
with a Imga on either side. The Goa Gad/a dates also from the
Sapsap, Tjili Faces cut out of Palm-Leaf
eleventh century and perhaps receives the popular name of “ Ele¬
phant Gave because of the statue, inside, of the god Ganesa,
shaped like an elephant. But Goris attributes the name to the fact
that the river Petanu, which mns near the cave, was called in old
times Lwa Gad/a, the elephant river.” Elephants have never ex-
lyS ISLAND OF BALI
isted in Bali and the elephant motifs that appear so frequently in
Balinese art were importations from India or Java. As of Gunung
Kawi, Kbo Iwa is also, according to popular belief, the author of
the cave. Other hermitages with rock reliefs are the one near by
called Toya Pulu; the Goa Racksasa near Ubud; Dfakut Paku, both
on the river Ods (Uwos) ; and the caves near Kapal in Badung.
Ped/eng; In the ricefields approaching Pedjeng there is a beautiful
stone water-spout in the shape of a youthful hermit holding in his
hand a small human figure out of whose body once issued a stream
of water. Farther on, in what appears to be the former site of a
temple, are scattered fragments of classic statues; an altar of human
skulls; the vague silhouette of a slim woman, covered with damp
moss, fallen and half buried. The most complete statue is that of a
wild Taksasa crowned with skulls and about to drink from a larger,
stylized human skull. In Pura Panataran Sasih, the temple where
the bronze drum is kept, there are a number of ancient statues, the
majority being commemorative statues of former kings.
Panulisan; In the mins of pura Panulisan on the mountain of the
same name, are some fine statues of kings from the eleventh century.
The temple was destroyed by an earthquake and despite the fact
that it is regarded as of great holiness, an extravagant stairway of
cement has been built to reach it, but the temple has not been
repaired. Today one may visit the ruins only with a written permit
from the local pungawa.
Other statues worthy of mention are the figures of Durga in
the temple Pondjok Batu on the road to Tedjakula in North
Bali and the great statue of Dewa Ratu Pantjenng Djagat, over
twelve feet high, the largest statue in Bali, kept jealously out of
sight in the tower (mem) of the temple Trunyan, a Bali Aga
village on the eastern shore of Lake Batur. The statue is con¬
sidered very old and is held to have magic power. No one is
allowed even to go into the tower, unless it is the selected vir¬
gin boys (truna) of the village, who on certain dates clean
and paint the statue with a mixture of chalk, honey, and water,
accompanied by elaborate carefully observed ceremonials. An
ART AND THE ARTIST 179
excellent description of this interesting feast has been written
by Walter Spies in “Das Grosse Fest auf Trunjan" (see
Bibliography) . The ancient Balinese also left a number of an¬
cient bronzes cast by the cire perdue process, some in the form
Tjilis painted in Black and Fuchsia on a Rice Cake (D/ad;an) from Selat
of plates with inscriptions, drums, and little statues of deities
and kings, some classic in style like the beautiful ones found
in Java, others of a more primitive, perhaps local style. All of
these antiquities are not in museums, but are still the property
of the people, kept in the temples and honoured because of
their antiquity, brought out of their wrappings once a year on
the occasion of the temple feast of the village.
i8o ISLAND OF BALI
THE PERIOD OF MADJAPAHIT
After the death of Erlangga, Java went once more into deca¬
dence as a power, and various frustrated attempts to regain its
former glory followed. During this period the hold on Bali
relaxed and the island regained its political independence until
the fourteenth century, when the new East Javanese empire of
Madjapahit finally conquered its enemies and became supreme
over the archipelago. Bali was made a vassal of Madjapahit,
A.D. 1343, after vigorous campaigns against the famed Dalam
Bedaulu, last of the Pedjeng dynasty and now classed as a myth¬
ical demon of great power.
After Bali was conquered, the generals of Madjapahit es¬
tablished a new dynasty of Javanese colonial rulers in Gelgel
near Klunghung. A century later Madjapahit collapsed under
the pressure of Islam, and Javanese rule finally gave way to a
number of independent Balinese feudal lords, the descendants of
the Javanese nobility, who were scattered all over the island. But
in the period of years between the classic Sailendras and parvenu
Madjapahit the art of Java suffered a great transformation, which
was similarly felt in Bali. Under King Rayasanagara (Raja-
sanagara) , better known by his native name Hayam Wmuk,
Madjapahit became the most powerful empire of Indonesia, but
being strong nationalists, the Javanese of Madjapahit had re¬
pudiated the esoteric classic spirit and had reverted to native
ideas, with the result that their art became strongly Javanized.
Having lost its austerity and primitivism in the process, their
art became earthly and realistic, taking the character of a sen¬
suous folk-art, intricate and essentially decorative, with a pre¬
dominance of flaming motifs, volutes and spirals, leaves and
flowers, animals and scenes from daily life; losing altogether its
religious character.
Balinese art of the epoch.of Madjapahit and its continuation
went even further in the love of unrestrained decoration and
developed a freer and more fantastic art than that of Java of
ART AND THE ARTIST i8i
the same time. Although resembling the style of the ruins of
Panataran in East Java, Balinese art is not the art of Java trans¬
planted into Bali, but a parallel art, made even more Baroque
by additional decorative elements from China. Tropical vege¬
tation in stone invaded the architecture in the same way that
Tjili from a Clay Tile
the living creepers and parasites would engulf an abandoned
monument in the hothouse atmosphere of Bali.
THE PLASTIC ARTS IN MODERN BALI
Sculpture and Architecture: The primary function of the average
sculptor is to enhance the public buildings of his community
with florid decoration and judging from the profusion of siich
carved temple and palace walls, gates, drum-towers, public baths,
court houses, and so forth, seen even in the remotest districts,
one comes to the conclusion that there must be an enormous
i82 island of BALI
number of sculptors in Bali. Domestic architecture is simply of
wood and thatch with secondary walls, undecorated for the most
part, and is the concern of carpenters and thatch-workers. For¬
merly the vassals of the feudal princes built great palaces for
them, many of which are still among the finest examples of Bali¬
nese architecture, but today the artistic activity of the people
goes into the care of their places of worship and other communal
buildings, still erected and repaired with great intensity.
In Bali there is no special class of architects, and the sculptors
are in charge of designing, directing, and even working them¬
selves in the construction of a temple, assisted by a number of
stone- and brick-workers. A master carver should be able to plan
beautiful gates, which are the most important examples of Bali¬
nese architecture. In Mas, a village of Brahmanas, we saw once
an architectural drawing, rather resembling our architectural proj¬
ects, for a temple gate to be erected in the village. The drawing
was made by Ida Bagus Ktut, carver, actor, and musician, mem¬
ber of a whole family of artists; the position and shape of the
stones and the carvings on what was to be in sandstone were
drawn in great detail on European paper with black ink, with
the parts to be made of brick painted red. I believe, however,
that this drawing was exceptional, and usually the work is started
without a drawn plan. For the making of the great towers for
cremation, for example, the master builder simply has the de¬
sign and the proportions already worked out, as the Balinese say.
“ in his belly.”
The only stone to be found in the island is a soft sandstone, a
conglomerate of volcanic ash called paras, quarried on the banks
of rivers. The stone appears to be softer when freshly taken from
the ground and becomes harder with time under favourable con¬
ditions. Dr. Stutterheim claims that the stone was protected in
old times by a coating of cement, but I had no occasion to verify
this and I never found evidence of such cement being used by the
present-day Balinese. It is perhaps the softness of this, the only
stone in Bali, that is responsible for the over-intricate art of the
ART AND THE ARTIST 183
Balinese, making it possible for them to give full vent to their
naive delight in covering all available space with decoration.
The stone is cut and shaped with adzes, directly on the spot
where it is quarried, and made into blocks of various sizes ac¬
cording to requirements. For the large statues of demons that
guard the entrance of temples, the great block of paras is roughly
shaped to resemble its ultimate form, and when it is considered
that enough surplus stone has been removed, it is carried to its
destination on stretchers of bamboo — not an easy task, since
the quarries are generally at the bottom of deep ravines. I have
seen as many as fifteen men struggling up a narrow and slippery
path with a great block of stone. The schematic mass of the
future devil is placed where it is to remain and is finished on
the site.
The blocks of stone for construction are put together without
mortar, but it is essential for the stability of the building that
the joints should have a perfect fit. This is accomplished by
rubbing the two stones together, wearing their surfaces down
with great quantities of water. The same process is employed to
join baked brick. In this manner the building rises slowly, the
workmen protected from the sun by shades made of the woven
leaves of the coconut palm and a considerable period of time
often elapses before a new temple is finished. The alternate
masses of red brick and sandstone are carved last, often leaving
the roughly shaped masses of stone for years without decoration.
The stone-carvers follow definite rules when they begin to
cover a temple or a palace gate with decoration. For instance,
there should be a karang tjewiri over the gate, the face of a leer¬
ing monster with a hanging tongue and long canines. On less
important spots the central motif of a pattern is a karang bintulu,
a curiously popular design consisting of a single bulging eye
over a row of upper teeth, the canines of which are developed
into fangs, surmounted by the representation of a mountain. To
finish a corner there is a special motif, a karang tjuring, the upper
part of a bird’s beak, also provided with a single eye and pointed
184 ISLAND OF BALI
teeth. For the same purpose there is a variation of this same
motif, a karang asti, the jawless head of an elephant. The word
karang means a reef, a rock, but it also is the word for setting
jewels or for a flower arrangement. It has been attempted to
give these ornaments an esoteric religious meaning (according
to Nieuwenkamp) , the representation of the souls of inanimate
objects — rocks, mountains, plants — of which they form a part;
when a Balinese was pressed to explain why they did not have
Karang Bintulu chiselled on the Silver Sheath of a Kris
lower jaws, he replied that it was because they did not have to
eat solid food! This is, in my opinion, a typical Balinese wise¬
crack and not an indication of any such symbolical meaning.
These motifs are the starting-point for the intricate volutes,
leaves, flowers, flaming motifs, and so forth, strongly reminiscent
of those used in ancient Java, but also found in Siam, Cambodia,
and even in the objects of the Dyaks of Borneo, a people unin¬
fluenced by Hinduistic art. All-over patterns are called karang,
while the carved borders in the mouldings are named patia, of
which there is a patra olanda (from the Portuguese word for
Holland?) and a patia tjina, a “ Chinese border.” Here and
there small panels are carved with representations of episodes
from their literature: animals from the tantii stories, the Bali¬
nese /Fsop's fables; suggestive scenes from the Aidjuna Wiwaha
in which the nymphs of heaven make passionate love to Ardjuna
ART AND THE ARTIST 185
while he is in deep meditation; or a battle from the Ramayana
or Mahabharata, with comic scenes in which the retainers of
the heroes, the clowns Twalen and Delam, wrestle and bite each
other.
The Southern style of architecture (Badung, Gianyar, Ta-
banan, Bangli, Klungkung) is characterized by masses of red
brick relieved by intricately carved ornaments in grey sandstone
Karang Tjeiviii and Karang Tjuring
in a considerably more restrained style than that of the North
of the island (Buleleng) , where it breaks out into a gaudy riot
of gingerbread decoration in a stone so soft that travellers have
mistaken it for sun-dried mud. The gates of a North Balinese
temple are tall and slender, with a flaming, ascendant tendency
as if trying to liberate themselves from the smothering maze of
sculptured leaves and flowers, out of which peer, here and there,
grotesque faces and blazing demons, their shape almost lost
in the flames that emanate from their bodies.
The North Balinese take their temples lightly and often use
the wall spaces as a sort of comic strip, covering them with
openly humorous subjects: a motor-car held up by a two-gun
bandit, seen undoubtedly in some American Western in the
movie house of Buleleng; a mechanic trying to repair the break¬
down of a car full of long-bearded Arabs; two fat Hollanders
i86 ISLAND OF BALI
drinking beer; a soldier raping a girl; or a man on a bicycle with
two great flowers for wheels. Fantastic pornographic subjects
are always a source of hilarious comedy and in many temples in
both North and South Bali such subjects are found as temple
decorations. As if the mad tangle of stone vegetation were not
enough, in North Bali they outline the decorations with white
paint to make them even more conspicuous, and in villages like
Babetin, Ringdikit, and Djagaraga the overpowering decoration
A Hold-up, a Temple Relief in Djagaraga
is painted in bright blue, red, and yellow, giving as a result the
wildest and most unrestrained effects.
The art of wood-carving has suffered a curious transformation
since our first visit to Bali in 1930. Tlien the majority of the
objects carved in wood were made for utilitarian purposes: from
carved doors and beams for houses, musical instruments, masks
for dramatic shows, handles for implements, to little statues of
deities and other ritual accessories. These were of the conven¬
tional contemporary Balinese style; flowers and curlicues in high
relief for flat surfaces (ukiran) , and for sculpture in the round
(togog) , statues of divinities, demons, and other characters of
mythology dressed in classical attire and profusely ornamented.
Furthermore, all wood-carvings were meant to be covered with
paint, lacquer, or goldleaf and only in exceptional cases was the
wood left in its raw state. There were unusual pieces, but they
were freaks among the predominant styles.
Travellers had started to buy Balinese carvings, however, and
ART AND THE ARTIST 187
on our return to Bali three years later, the Balinese sculptors were
turning out mass-production “ objets dart ” for tourists. Even
before arriving in Bali for the second time, we found the curio-
shops of Macassar and Java filled with statuettes of a decidedly
commercial style which was totally new to us. Before this we
had made acquaintance with Gusti Ngurah Cede, an old man
of Pemetjutan rated among the best sculptors of South Bali.
Although Gusti Gedd was so old that he talked with difficulty,
Relief in the Temple of Kubutambahan
he could carve the most delicate motifs in hard wood with a
precision and sureness envied by the younger sculptors. He had
started to make realistic little statues of nude girls, bathing,
combing their hair, or in the process of undressing, masterfully
carved out of a fine-grained white wood, figures that found ready
sale among travellers. This was perhaps the beginning of a new
art in which the sculptor began working for a new public:
tourists who had little appreciation of the technical perfection
demanded by the Balinese, or foreign artists who preferred line
and form to intricate ornamentation.
This necessarily introduced the mercenary element into Bali¬
nese art, until then non-existent; prices were boosted and the
sculptor suddenly became aware that there was a good income
in making statues. On the other hand, this same condition gave
i88 ISLAND OF BALI
the art a new impulse, and sculptors sprang up like mushrooms.
Soon every important artistic centre, such as Den Pasar, Mas,
Batuan, Pliatan, and Ubud, was turning out quantities of carv¬
ings in new styles, mediocre heads of d/anger dancers snatched
up by round-the-world tourists, stereotyped slim figures from Mas
exported to Java and Holland; while the splendid sculptors from
Badung and Batuan carved coconut shells from Bangli and so
forth.
Gusti Cede was also the master of a school of sculptors and
every morning boys from the town went to his house to re¬
ceive lessons and to assist him. Some of his pupils were already
fine carvers and could turn out statues almost as finished as those
of the master. In his school we had the opportunity to observe
the technique of wood-carving, which is considerably more re¬
fined and requires greater skill than the carvings in paras stone.
Hard woods such as teak (djati) , jackfruit (nangka) , and the
compact sawo, a beautiful dark red wood, are invariably used
and the sculptor must have a sure hand, trained by the experi¬
ence of years, and a good knowledge of the art of cutting into
the grain of the wood. He uses every conceivable form of knives,
chisels, and gouges; round, straight, slanting, V-shaped, and so
forth, some of which are intended for exceptionally deep carv¬
ing. A complete set of tools consists of some thirty instruments
and a wooden mallet. The carving technique consists in chip¬
ping bits of wood gradually with the highly sharpened instru¬
ments, not by hand pressure, as among us, but with light taps
of the mallet, obtaining in this manner delicacy of touch and
greater control over the material. If the statue is not to be
painted or gilded, it is made smooth with pumice and given a
high polish by rubbing it with bamboo.
Painting: Unlike the arts of the theatre, music, and sculpture,
painting was little in evidence as a living art on our first visit
to Bali. Outside of painting artifacts of daily use and scant deco¬
rations for temples, the Balinese made only paintings of two
ART AND THE ARTIST 189
sorts: ider-ider, strips of hand-made cotton a foot wide by some
fifteen or twenty feet long, hung at festivals under the roofs, all
around the pavilions in houses and temples; and langse, wide
pieces of painted cloth used as hangings or curtains. There were
often calendars (pelelintangan) used to establish the horoscopes
of children, divided into squares with symbolical designs, one
for each of the thirty-five days of the month. Often the paint¬
ings represented scenes of mythology, episodes and battles from
the literary epics; but there were seldom scenes from daily life
and never of contemporary subjects. The characters shown were
invariably gods, devils, princes, and princesses with their retain¬
ers, dressed in the ancient costumes of Hindu-Javanese times.
Their attitudes were stilted and the subjects standardized, but
at times the restricted artist found an episode where he could
give vent to his erotic sense of humour and he took good ad¬
vantage of a love scene or a mishap to one of the retainers of the
heroes. Erotic paintings were met with at times, scenes of fan¬
tastic attitudes in love-making, which they assured me would
prevent the house where they were kept from burning!
Only the old paintings showed skill and taste; the modern
ones sold at the lobby of the Bali Hotel were coarse, hastily
made, and with a sad poverty of subject-matter. Painting was at
a standstill, no longer in demand from the Balinese themselves
and suffering from lack of freedom of expression. Only rarely
did we find pictures with style, but the reason for this was the
systematic and mechanical manner in which they were made;
a master painter drew the main outlines and gave the final
touches, leaving his children and apprentices to fill in the colours.
Once in Gelgel, centre of painters of the conventional style, the
two children of a painter had a heated argument because one
had painted with blue the flesh parts of a figure and insisted he
was right.
The following are among the invariable rules to be followed
by painters of the conservative style: all available space must be
covered by the design, even to the blank spaces between the
19° ISLAND OF BALI
intricate groups of figures, which are filled with an all-over pat¬
tern of clouds to indicate the atmosphere. When there are
Ardjuna
Itnvenfcnfr the next by
a ronvenhonal row of mountains or flames, with the heroes re
peated m various attitudes. “
ART AND THE ARTIST 191
Battle scenes are crowded^ bloody, and desperate, a tangle of
arms, legs, and blood-spattered bodies, with all the space around
filled with flying arrows and strange weapons. Faces are drawn
in three-quarters, rarely full face, and never in profile. The
characters are refined — gods, princes, and heroes —
192 ISLAND OF BALI
and “ rough ” (kasar) ones — devils, giants, retainers. Coarse
characters have wild bulging eyes and fierce mouths full of
pointed teeth, their attitudes are violent, their colour dark, and
their bodies thick and hairy. The refined ones have long, thin
arms and legs, delicate hands with curved fingers reminiscent of
Indian frescoes, and their attitudes are studied and graceful.
Their noses are fine and their mouths full and smiling, even in
the midst of a fierce battle. They all wear elaborate clothes and
jewellery of a type found only in ancient sculptures.
An important distinction is made between the eyes of men
and those of women, which are always downcast — a straight line
for the upper lid and a curved one for the lower lid — while the
eyes of men are of the same'shape but inverted, with the straight
line for the lower lid, giving them a proud and inquisitive look:
Everything is restricted for the painter: his subjects, his types,
his compositions, and even his colours: light ochre for the flesh
of refined characters and darker brown for evil ones; jewellery is
yellow, costumes are either in red and blue or more rarely yellow
and green. The Balinese painters use five colours: red (baiak) ,
Chinese vermilion called kentju; blue (peJung) , vegetable indigo;
yellow (kuning) made from a sort of clay called atal; mineral
ochre (kuningwadja) ; black (selem) , soot with vegetable juices;
and white (putih) from calcinated pig’s bones. They can make
green (gadang) by mixing atal and indigo, and brown (tangi)
by mixing black and vermilion. These colours come in the form
of stones which have to be laboriously ground together with the
medium, a sort of fish-gelatine from China called ant/ur. For-
medy paintings were made on hand-woven cotton cloth or on
bark paper made by the Toradjas of Celebes, but today imported
ART AND THE ARTIST 193
cloth or paper and even three-ply wood are used. The cloth is
prepared with starch and glossed with a smooth shell. The pre¬
liminary outline is drawn in ochre with a bamboo style (penelak)
or with a lead pencil, and the colours then applied with a home¬
made brush (penuli) , a piece of sharpened bamboo, the fibres
of which have been loosened by pounding with a stone. The
picture is finished with steady black lines drawn with the bamboo
pen, with a second outline in reddish brown inside the black one
for all the parts that represent flesh or wood, and the whole
glossed once more.
Highly specialized branches of the graphic art are the illus¬
trations of palm-leaf manuscripts (lontar) , and the making of
leather puppets for shadow-plays (wayang kulit) . In Singaradja
there is a library of these manuscripts, the Kirtya Liefrinck van
der Tuuk, where are preserved some splendid old lontars with
illustrations (or copies of them) such as the famous Dampati
Lelangon, taken from the palace of the Radjas of Lombok at
the time of the war; the Tetumbalans of Kamenuh and Sawan,
the Bhima Swarga, Pari Bhasa, Adi Parwa, and so forth. These
are masterpieces of the art of illustration, with miniature pic¬
tures incised with an iron style on the blades of the lontar palm,
the scratch filled in with a mixture of soot and oil. These manu¬
scripts are in the form of books. The lontar leaves are cut evenly
into strips an inch wide and from a few inches to two feet in
length. They are preserved between two boards of some precious
wood cut to the size of the leaves and bound together by a cord
that passes through a hole in the centre of each leaf.
The shadow puppets, the wayang kulit (described later in
greater detail) , are fashioned from buffalo parchment, cut out
with special iron dyes into the most delicate lace and painted.
The style of the wayang is highly conventionalized although it
is considerably more realistic than its ancestor, the Javanese
wayang. It is curious that the art of painting pictures is not
altogether dependent on the wayang forms, as it happens to be
in Java, where the whole of the art consists in reproductions of
194 ISLAND OF BALI
stylized wayangs; their outline is always in profile, while in Bali¬
nese paintings a face in profile is never found. However, the
influence of these forms in the aesthetic education of children
was patent when Jane Belo distributed paper and water-colours
among the children of the small village of Sayan, to see what
children without artistic training would do; the majority turned
out pictures that were arrangements of elementary interpretations
of wayang shapes.
Together with sculpture, painting underwent a liberating revo¬
lution after boys from around Ubud started to paint pictures in
a “ new ” style. These were curious scenes from daily life on
backgrounds of Balinese landscapes and village scenes, a mixture
of realism and of the formal stylistic, with naive figures of ordi¬
nary Balinese: a woman feeding chickens, men working in the
fields, a cremation, and a dance performance, subjects that were
never attempted before by Balinese painters.
This developed rapidly into a more mature, naturalistic style,
producing a new crop of fine artists, each with a definite indi¬
vidual mark, such as I Sobrat, Mad6 Griya, and Gusti Nyoman
from Ubud, Ida Bagus Anom from Mas, and the group of young
painters from Batuan who draw fantastic forests and strange
figures in half-tone against solid black backgrounds. These artists
were encouraged by Spies and the Dutch painter Bonnet, who
bought their pictures and provided them with materials; being
careful, however, to keep undesirable influences from them, and
helping them to sell their work in the museum of Den Pasar, a
clearing-house where only pictures of high quality are exhibited.
New materials increased the possibilities of the newly liberated
art. The introduction of European paper, Ghinese ink, hair
brushes, and steel pens resulted in a new style of pictures in black
and white, mosaics of delicate black lines with washes of various
tones of greys and black, often touched with gold and red. But
there are also formal paintings on wood or cloth done in the old
Balinese pigments in which they attempted to give atmosphere
ART AND THE ARTIST 195
and mood through colour: night scenes in beautifully har¬
monized colours that are decidedly a step forward from the
limitations of the pure vermilion, blue, and ochre of the old-style
paintings. Besides the scenes from daily life, the modern Bali¬
nese painters paint episodes of mythology in which the general
conception has become freed from the old conventional rules.
There are the same elegant gods, beautiful princesses, and other
fantastic characters, painted among jungles in which every tree
and plant is drawn with each leaf carefully outlined and shaded,
jungles that have been wrongly compared with those of the
douanier Rousseau, but which resemble more the drawing of
Beardsley and Persian or Indian miniatures, none of which the
Balinese artists have ever seen. Favourite subjects are from the
Balinese yEsop's fables, the tantri stories, in which the artists find
amusing incidents between animals living in the tapestry-like
forests of fantastic leaves and flowers.
The birth of individualism rescued Balinese painting from
its latent state and placed it on the same level as the emanci¬
pated sculpture — new arts that, considering the searching in¬
tensity and liveliness of the Balinese spirit, will perhaps develop
unpredictable achievements.
The Crafts: Perhaps one of the most charming qualities of the
Balinese mentality is the happy combination of the primitive
simplicity in which they live, with a highly refined and rather
decadent taste. The Balinese are a people who retain a close
contact with the soil, living practically out of doors in simple
thatched houses, using artifacts belonging to a primitive culture
and going ordinarily almost nude; but they gather for festivals in
elaborate buildings of carved stone and dress in silks and gold to
enjoy themselves, worshipping the forces of nature by means of
flowers, good food, music, dancing, and works of art that only
the most highly developed technical skill can produce.
In sharp contrast with their super-elaborated sculpture, paint¬
ing, and dramatic arts, are the purely functional objects of daily
196 ISLAND OF BALI
use found in every home implements of labour, simple but
effective tools made of bamboo, wood, and iron, walls of split
bamboo, cool mats for sleeping made of finely woven pandanus
leaf, light but strong baskets and pocketbooks, and clay vessels
to keep water cool. The common objects of daily requirements
are beautiful in their simplicity, in the handling of elemental
materials such as wood, bamboo, palm-leaf, and clay. In con¬
trast are the lavish taste, labour, and money spent on their ob¬
jects of luxury: their temples and musical instruments, their
jewellery and textiles worn on ceremonial occasions, their
weapons, and so forth. Their love of display often goes to ex¬
tremes, as in the case of the costly towers, biers, and other
accessories for the cremation of their dead, which are destroyed
in a few minutes after hundreds of guilders and months of labour
are spent to produce them.
I have mentioned the gringsing cloth, the scarfs from Tenga-
nan, which are one of the rare examples in the world of the art
of “ double ” ikat — that in which both the warp and the weft of
the cloth are patterned by the elaborate process of dyeing only
sections of the threads before weaving by binding them with
fibres, the designs of both being made to fit afterwards when the
scarf is woven. The ikat process is characteristic of Indonesians,
although today the laborious double ikats are made only in
Tenganan in Bali. Single ikats in cotton — those in which only
the warp is previously patterned — are still made in Nusa Penida
and in Mas, but in Klungkung they make “ ikated silks of
amazingly elaborate patterns.
Klungkung is also famous for its brocades (sungket) in red
silk with woven designs in gold and silver thread. The Balinese
often decorate pieces of silk by the tie-and-dye process (piangi) ;
the fabric is knotted tightly in certain places and dipped in the
dyes so that when the knots are loosened, a regular pattern re¬
sults, leaving uncoloured patches where the dye could not pene¬
trate. Interesting also are the striped and chequered cloths in
cotton and silk made all over the island, some of which are very
ART AND THE ARTIST 197
popular, and the open-work scarfs (kamben tjerik) worn by the
women around the breasts for feasts. There is a peculiar cloth
Motif on a Sungket Cloth of Silk and Gold Brocade
in black and white checks (kamben polen) like the enlarged
design of gingham, to which is attributed magic protective quali¬
ties. It is worn for certain magic dances like the bans tekok
198 ISLAND OF BALI
djago and is the garment of magic characters such as Bhima,
Twal^n, and Merdah.
Although not a part of the weaving art, the gilt cloth (kamben
piada) used for theatrical performances is also important. This
is coloured silk boldly patterned with applications of pure
goldleaf (piada) glued onto the fabric with Chinese gelatine
(ant/ur) by a special process. It is curious that despite the fact
that every Balinese wears Javanese batik for everyday dress, there
is no evidence of their having adopted this popular process of
decorating cloth. I have found strange batiks in a rough hand-
woven cotton of a non-Javanese style, but I could never discover
proof that they were made in Bali.
The Balinese also excel in the art of working metals, from
the simple agricultural implements of iron, the parts of musical
instruments, and the accessories of priests (bells, incense-
burners, lamps, tripods, and so forth) cast in brass, to the extrava¬
gant gold and silver platters (lelantjang) , water-bottles (kendih),
and vases (sangku and batil) , the knives and scissors for cutting
betel-nut (tjaket) of wrought iron inlaid in silver, and the rich
and elaborate rings, bracelets, ear-plugs, and flowers for the hair
in hammered and chiselled gold set with rubies and star sap¬
phires.
But the most important examples of Balinese craftsmanship
are their krisses, the famous weapons of important Indonesian
men, nowadays worn only as symbols and as ornaments. An in¬
herited kris that has descended in a family for generations be¬
comes not only their most important heirloom, but also the
tangible part of the family deity and has come actually to be
worshipped as an ancestral god, a bataia kawitan, in whom the
magic strength of the forefathers continues to live. Thus the head
of a prominent Balinese family regards his kris as an important
appendage and a symbol of himself. Today in the old villages
it is compulsory for every man to wear his kris to attend a meet¬
ing; the kris must be worn at marriage and for all ceremonial
or state occasions. Whoever cannot appear in person, sends his
AKl AiVJU THE ARTIST 199
kris to represent him, as for instance a judge who is sick and
cannot attend a trial. In certain cases the marriage of a prince
to a woman of the lower castes is performed by proxy in the
form of the kris of her future husband. A new kris must be
made “ alive ” by a priest, who blesses it in a special ceremony,
reciting magic formulas over it and inscribing imaginary signs
over the blade, while its owner dedicates an offering. Ancient
krisses are kept alive with offerings of flowers and incense; a
neglected and rusty kris is said to be dead.
The economic status of a man is determined by the richness
of his kris, and a good part of his fortune is invested in the gold
and jewels that decorate it. Only the blade is sacred, and the
gold parts, the precious stones and ivory can be pawned in case
of need and turned into cash. There are krisses worth thousands
of guilders, covered with beaten gold, with handles shaped like
gods or demons and set with enormous rubies and rose diamonds.
Such are the famous krisses of the kings of South Bali taken by
the Dutch as war booty at the time of the great mass-suicide of
Den Pasar in 1906, now among the star pieces of the Batavia
Museum. These fancy jewelled krisses were made to be worn on
state occasions, while simpler ones were used for actual fighting,
with more practical wooden handles shaped to ensure a good
grip.
Gold hilts with precious stones are of course the most stylish,
but there are also some made of horn, ebony, and other precious
woods, with a heavy base (bebataran) of gold set with rubies
and a small ring, of gold and rubies also, between the hilt and
the blade. There is a great variety of kris handles, but a par¬
ticularly interesting model is that called kotjet-kotjetan, the
representation in ebony of the chrysalis of a large beetle with
long antennae.
The sheath not only protects the kris from outside influences,
both physical and magic, but also insulates the vibrations ema¬
nating from the kris itself, which may act dangerously on human
beings. The sheaths of the super-ornate krisses are of wood
200 ‘ ISLAND OF BALI
covered with gold and silver, topped by a large crosspiece of
ivory or ebony. The Balinese also made krisses of great sim¬
plicity, with the sheath and handle of a beautifully mottled
precious wood called pelet which they obtained from Java. Old
men claim that a fine piece of pelet for the crosspiece of the
sheath or for the handle brought as much as fifty guilders in
former times.
The shape of krisses is native Indonesian, free of all Hindu
influence. It is found all over the archipelago from the Malay
Peninsula to the Philippines and is invariably known by the
name of his. The Balinese form differs from that of the other
islands only in details, and especially from the Javanese kris
mainly in that it is considerably larger and more elaborate,
although old Javanese blades are found in Bali, provided, how¬
ever, with the richer Balinese hilts and sheaths.
The blade is the most important part of the kris; it can he
straight and simple at times, but most often is fierce-looking,
shaped like a flame, perhaps a form derived from a mythical
serpent, a naga, since often there are krisses, not only in Bali
and Java, but also in other parts of Indonesia, in which the body
of the naga forms the blade, widening as it nears the top to
make room for the curved neck and head of the naga. The
upper part of the blade is full of barbs, dents, and curlicues
wrought into the iron in an endless variety of styles, each with a
special name, mysterious shapes that must once have had a now
lost significance. There are also krisses with representations in
high relief of elephants, bulls, winged lions (singha) , and geese
(angsa) , which could possibly, at one time, have been related
to the family totem. The extraordinary watered patterns (pamor)
of silvery metal against a background of blue-black iron which
have made krisses famous is the result of beating over and over
alternating layers of meteoric nickel and iron layers until a fine
moire-like pamor is obtained, brought out afterwards by blacken-
ing the iron layers with a mixture of antimony and lemon juice.
The kris is preserved from rust by a coating of coconut oil.
201
ART AND THE ARTIST
The blacksmiths, makers of krisses, belong to a special caste,
the pande, aristocrats among the lower classes who worship the
fiery volcano Batur and are regarded as powerful magicians who
understand the handling of iron and fire, two elements held in
reverence since earliest times. The distinguished pandas are
even respected by the proud Brahmanas, who consider them¬
selves the highest form of humanity, and who are required to
address a pande in the high language when the smith has his
tools in his hands. It is said (according to Korn) that a pand^
Blacksmiths at Work (from a Balinese manuscript)
who engaged a Brahmanic priest to oEciate for him (“ took
holy water from a Brahmana ”) would lose his pande power ”
(Jcepandean) and might even become a monkey.
TTiere are many popular beliefs concerning the life and power
of krisses. It is said that a witch-doctor, through trance, can
communicate with the spirit of a given kris and learn its past
history. It is also believed that the strange fascination that a kris
has on certain individuals is the cause of the temporary mad¬
ness of a man who runs amuck (amok) . He is not responsible
for his acts because he is compelled by a bloodthirsty kris to run
wild, killing people. Often ancestral krisses are held to have
come from the heavens as a gift from the gods, and these krisses
are powerful amulets against all sorts of calamities. In Ubud I
was told of a man who fell asleep under an old waringin tree
and dreamed that the spirit of the tree ordered him to cut certain
roots for an offering. Imbedded among the roots, he found an
old kris blade. Afraid to keep it, he turned it over to the feudal
202 ISLAND OF BALI
lord of the district, the Tjokorde of Ubud, who placed it in a
special shrine in his family temple. But the temple caught fire,
and from then on, every place where the kris was kept soon
went up in flames. Through trances and consultations it was
learned that it was necessary to placate the spirit of the waringin
tree by planting a sprig of it in Ubud. Then the fires stopped,
but the magic kris would not tolerate anything above it and had
to be kept in a roofless shrine. The kris cannot go through door¬
ways, and when it is moved out of the temple it has to be carried
over the wall by a bridge.
The historical tale of Ken Arok, the bandit who became a
famous Javanese king of the thirteenth century, one of the great
classics of Kawi literature, is in reality the story of a magic kris:
The child of simple peasants of Tumapel, Ken Arok ran away
from home and joined bandits and gamblers, whom he robbed
and deserted after he had learned all he could from them. He
continued in his career of crime, holding up people and raping
girls, but his personality and charm enabled him always to find
someone who would shelter him, until one day he fell in with
the great Brahmana Lohgawd, who claimed descent from Wisnii.
Lohgawe was so completely won by Ken Arok that he ended by
adopting him as a son and introduced him into the court, into
the private service of King Tunggul Ametung. The king’s wife
was the beautiful Ken Dedes, said to be the reincarnation of
Dewi Sri because from her womb irradiated a glowing light.
She was the daughter of a Brahmana and consequently of a caste
superior to the king who had stolen her, causing her affronted
father to curse the king to die by a kris.
Ken Arok immediately fell in love with Ken Dedes and she
with him. His Brahmanic friends saw the opportunity for venge¬
ance and enticed Ken Arok into making love to her, telling
him that he who possessed her would own the world. They did
not discourage Ken Arok when he decided to kill the king and
marry Ken Dedes. With this purpose in mind, Ken Arok or¬
dered a magic kris from Mpu Gandring, most famous of black-
BALINESE ART
above: Two Alarm Drums from Tambak^n “
below: a Wood Relief from Selulung, strongly reminiscent of the ^
ings of Borneo and Nias
(Photos by Waiter Spies)
above: a Tjili of Fried Rice Flour that tops an offering from Duda
below: a Wood Carving apparently representing a water-buffalo's head,
from the bale agung of Satra
Contemporary Statues used as temple decorations
Temple reliefs from North Bali
Balinese Temple Reliefs — Hollanders drinking beer and
cranking a motor-car
North Balinese Temple Reliefs
TWO MODERN WOOD-CARVINGS
left: The Supreme Being, Tintiya, in an angry mood
RIGHT. An Amulet to keep thieves away
above: “ The princess bathes ” — an illustration from the famous palm-
leaf manuscript Dampati LeJangon
below: Cockfight — an india-ink drawing on paper by a young Balinese
artist
above: Fragment of an Old Painting in the traditional style
below: a Modern Painting of the T/aJon Arang Play, by I Sobrat,
young artist of Ubud
The Jungle
• a black and white drawing by a young Balinese
artist
above: Detail of a Fine Silk and Gold Brocade from Klungkung. The
wayang figures are woven into the fabric by the ikat process - the silk
threads are dyed with the pattern before the cloth is woven
BELOW. Two Wayang Kulit, puppets of buffalo parchment, cut out with
dyes and painted
ART AND THE ARTIST 203
smiths, whose krisses had the power of killing at the first thrust.
The blacksmith asked for six months in which to complete the
kris, after which time Ken Arok came impatiently to collect it.
In a fit of temper, because the kris was not ready, Ken Arok
stabbed the blacksmith with it. Before dying Mpu Gandring
cursed Ken Arok to be killed by the same kris, and his children
and grandchildren also to die by it.
Ken Arok lent the kris to Kbo Idjo, his best friend, who was
so fascinated by it that he wore it everywhere, boasting that it
was his. One night Ken Arok took the kris from his friend and
killed the king, leaving the kris near the body. ECbo Idjo was
accused of the murder and was killed with the kris. Ken Arok
could then marry Ken Dedes, who knew who had murdered her
husband. The marriage was made possible by a proclamation
of the Brahmanas declaring Ken Arok of divine ancestry. The
wedding took place despite the fact that Ken Dedes was about
to give birth to a child of the dead king.
The child was born and was brought up as a son of Ken Arok,
who named him Anusapati, but the young prince always felt
an instinctive dislike for Ken Arok. Ken Dedes gave birth to
four children by Ken Arok, but he took a second wife, Ken
Umang, by whom he had a child, Tohdjaya, who became his
favourite. Ken Arok grew in power and proclaimed himself
Radja of Tumapel, a title nobody dared to challenge. Instigated
by Brahmanas who had been humiliated by the ruler of the
empire of Singasari, of which Tumapel was a part, Ken Arok
made war on him, slaying his troops and causing the king to
commit suicide with his whole retinue. Ken Arok became su¬
preme ruler of Singasari, changing his name to Radja Rajasa.
But his reign lasted only seven years. Ken Dedes had grown
tired of him, and one day she told her son Anupasati of the
secret of his birth and of how Ken Arok had murdered his
father. Anupasati obtained the famous kris from Ken Dedes and
had Ken Arok stabbed in die back during a meal, by one of his
servants.
204 ISLAND OF BALI
Anupasati then became King Anusanatha, but his half-brother
Tohdiaya hated h.m and one day, in the excitement of a cod-
’‘'■‘s from Anupasali and
killed him with It T^e feud continued between the sons of the
two wives of Ken Arok when Tohd jaya became king. Anupasatf
sons plotted against Tohdjaya but they were discoverS a ‘d
blled. A revolt took place, and when Tohdjaya was fleeing in a
sedan chair, one of the carriers lost his loincloth, remaining
naked. The kmg aughed so, that the carrier became infuriated^
seized the king s kiis, and killed him with it. The story of the
kns proceeds until the full curse of the blacksmith is co^Ieted
CHAPTER VIII
THE DRAMA
No FEAST IS COMPLETE IN Bali without Hiusic and elaborate
dramatic and dance performances; no one would dream of get¬
ting married, or holding a cremation, or even of celebrating a
child’s birthday, without engaging troupes of dancers and actors
to entertain the guests and the neighbours. During the anniver¬
sary feasts of the temple there are always dances that last
throughout the night and may even continue for days, with a
different type of show every afternoon and night. At the great
feast of Taman Badung, the death temple of Den Pasar, there
were shows every night for an entire month.
The Balinese love night-life and it was rare when after ten at
night someone did not come to us with news of a show some¬
where, or when we did not hear distant music in the village. We
became such enthusiastic theatre-goers that we had, sometimes,
to make a point of staying home to catch up with lost sleep.
Even the tired peasant who works all day in the fields does not
mind staying up at night to watch a show, and the little chil¬
dren who invariably make up the front rows of the audience re¬
main there until dawn for the end, occasionally huddled to¬
gether taking naps, but wide awake for the exciting episodes of
the play.
206
ISLAND OF BALI
MUSIC
THE VILLAGE ORCHESTRAS
Although we had heard enthusiastic reports about the splendid
music of Bali, its subtle beauty and vigour came to us as a
revelation on our first night on the island. It is customary to
hold a concert of Balinese music in the hotel gardens the night
that the weekly boat arrives from Surabaya bringing new visi¬
tors. We had experienced disappointments on such occa¬
sions elsewhere and we were fully prepared to hear another of
the denatured versions of native entertainment usually concocted
for tourists. We distrusted the twenty-five or thirtyyoung men
who, nude above the waist and wearing sashes of blue silk, sat
cross-legged around a square formed by impressive instruments
in elaborate carved frames.
There were metallophones, instruments with bronze keys like
xylophones, sets of polished bronze bowls arranged from low to
high like the notes of the scale, great bronze gongs, and many
kinds of small cymbals. There were also two long drums wrapped
in black and white chequered cloth.
Quietly, as if to indicate the piece to be played, someone started
to beat out a tune on one of the high metallophones; others
joined in, gradually increasing the volume of the playful melody,
and soon they were all playing music the like of which we had
never heard. It was a pure music like tinkling bells, interwoven
with the fast humming of the cymbals, onomatopoetically called
t/dng-t/^ng, and punctuated here and there by booming gongs,
die whole controlled by the masterful leadership of the two
drummers, who, with the tips of their fingers, beat impossible
rhythms on the double heads of their drums, each differently
tuned. Suddenly, with a crash, they all struck a sonorous chord
and stopped, all but the four boys playing on the reyong, who,
in perfect unison and as if moved by a single impulse, beat the
inverted bronze bowls with padded sticks, ringing out rippling
THE DRAMA 207
chords, sinuous melodies that broke at unexpected places into
resonant accents or rolled into fast syncopation.
When the reyong solo was over, the rest joined in again, build¬
ing up the themes until they reached a furious climax that faded
away into the original theme, but enriched by rhapsodical orna¬
mentation on the high instruments against the measured basses
and occasional reverberations of the deep gongs. It was an
Oriental ultra-modern Bach fugue, an astounding combination
of bells, machinery, and thunder.
All of the pieces they played that evening were masterpieces
of musical structure, simple, but rich and alive, violent and at
the same time refined, having little in common with the spirit of
the over-refined, somewhat precious music we had heard in Java.
The performance, we found out afterwards, was given by one
of the finest gameJans, orchestras, in the island — the gong Bela-
luan, pride of the quarter of the town that was later to become
our home. One of the leaders of the gong was Gusti Oka, the
young prince who became our host. When he rented us part of
his house, we went to bed every night to the music of the orches¬
tra that rehearsed only a few doors away in the bale bandjar, the
communal meeting hall of Belaluan.
The ambition of every bandjar is to own the best orchestra in
the neighbourhood. It is only very poor and neglected communi¬
ties that do not have two or three orchestras of their own to play
for their feasts and ceremonies. As soon as they can afford it,
after their temples are in good order, the most pressing need is
to organize musical clubs, procure instruments, and train musi¬
cians. Every member of the village association takes an equal
pride and interest in the gamelan and they contribute gladly, with
labour and even with money, to obtain the expensive bronze
gongs and bars, to make and carve the frames of the instruments,
and to secure teachers to train the musicians. Often the villagers
own the instruments of a former orchestra that has fallen into
neglect and have to call upon outside orchestras for their feasts;
but let them be spurned by a successful modern group in a rival
2o8 island of BALI
bandjar, and they will reorganize their gamelan at once — every¬
body helping with equal enthusiasm. The old instruments are
returned, new frames are made, and all the missing pieces are
replaced.
To organize a new musical club a community first selects a
head man and a treasurer. The new musicians are chosen from
among the young men of the bandjar, who are directed by others
with musical experience. It is an honour to belong to such a
group, and the members are not paid, but themselves contribute,
in whatever way they can, to the acquisition of the instruments!
In the group there are even men who do not play, but who are
content to carry the instruments from place to place.
The cost of a fine set of instruments often amounts to quite a
fortune. The estimated value of the gong Belaluan was put at
about fifteen hundred guilders. The actual monetary expenses
were paid in instalments, and even after four years of profitable
playing for the hotel, there still remained four hundred guilders
unpaid. Of this apparently exaggerated figure a considerable part
goes to buy a good set of large gongs, which are no longer made
and are now a rarity and at a premium. The Balinese can make
the bars of the metallophones, but the large gongs came from
Java, from Semarang, where the last great makers of gongs lived.
The richly carved frames of teakwood covered with pure goldleaf
are also expensive. In former times it was a favourite hobby of
the princes to form large orchestras and play in them themselves,
but they are not quite so prosperous now, and today the organiza¬
tions are more often independent, and it is the community that
owns the orchestra. In Bali the orchestra consists of the set of
instruments rather than of a group of musicians who own their
instruments, as it is understood among us. In their zeal for im¬
provement, the group of Belaluan went even further; fine cos¬
tumes were made for the players and a special house was built
to store the instruments, a shed for rehearsals. They even under¬
took to finance the repairs of the little temple of the bandjar, a
THE DRAMA 209
good example of the love of the Balinese for their music and the
pride they show in their orchestras.
When the orchestra is assembled and the musicians are sufE-
ciently trained, rehearsals called by a special tomtom (kulkuT) are
held every night after the work of the day is done. Although it
is a requirement in the education of every prince to be able to
play many instruments, the musicians are generally ordinary vil¬
lagers without distinction of caste, and the strict rule that a man
of low caste must always sit at a lower level than a nobleman is
completely ignored; in an orchestra, at least as long as a perform¬
ance or a rehearsal is in progress, a prince becomes democratic.
Each musician trains a substitute, often a child, to take his place
in case of disability; in this way a musical school is formed. A
good musician is not satisfied to play one instrument; he must be
able to play all equally well and must know the music of other
types of orchestras than his own.
The leaders are the two drummers, the best musicians of the
group, selected by the group for their musical knowledge. It is
generally the orchestra leaders who compose the new pieces. Of
the two composers in Belaluan, one was a chauffeur and the other
a poor neighbour of ours who worked occasionally carrying loads
to the ships. I was told that I Lotring, leader of an orchestra with
a great reputation (the famous pelegongan of Kuta, revived
through the efforts of Colin McPhee) , spoke and thought of
nothing but gamehns and music, and it was said that he dreamed
his compositions. I Lotring is the author of a masterpiece of
rhythm called Gambangan. New compositions are elaborated
gradually by the leader through criticism and suggestions from
other orchestra members.
Rehearsals often last a period of months before a new piece has
been rounded out enough to be played publicly. Modifications
and improvements are made during the course of the rehearsal;
often a drummer stops the rehearsal, walks to one of the high
keyboards, and plays his suggestion for a change. The group
310
ISLAND OF BALI
either approves or rejects the proposal, and there are no outbursts
of artistic temperament.
The Balinese do not write down their music. I asked if it was
not difficult to memorize such long and intricate compositions
and was told that “when the piece has been rehearsed long
Often the ^oup was visited by the leaders of famous orchestras
from other villages who were invited as guests of the community
to teach new compositions. The leaders of the gong Ringdikit
from North Bali came to Belaluan to exchange pieces: while
they taught the dynamic and revolutionary style of the North,
they learned the classical pieces of the South. The musicians of
Belaluan, on the other hand, went to other villages to break in
new organizations and were always lavishly entertained. Once in
our village we witnessed a contest between two famous gongs;
211
THE DRAMA
the rival orchestras were installed at either end of a large shed
specially built for the occasion. A great crowd surrounded them.
In the middle sat an impressive jury made up of the local princes
and pungawas. The orchestras in turn played their best com¬
positions while the audience remained silent. At the end the
jurors went into deliberation and awarded the decision to the rival
gamelan, who had come all the way from the district of Tabanan.
Despite the fact that there is no trace of Occidental influence
in the music of Bali, even those who hear it for the first time are
carried away by it. Musicians who have gone to Bali have become
ardent admirers of Balinese music. Walter Spies was the first
to take an interest in it and to write transcriptions, Leopold Sto¬
kowski wanted to bring a Balinese orchestra to America, and
Colin McPhee has spent years in Bali compiling material and
writing down the music. However, the laws of Balinese music
are different from those of the West. There is in Balinese music
a unified range of sonorities tending towards one sound; with the
exception of certain bamboo xylophones, an incidental bamboo
flute, or a two-string violin, all of the instruments are metals
struck with mallets; there is a general tone-colour of metallic per¬
cussions — tinkling, acid sonorities that can be clashing and vio¬
lent or soft and delicate, but are never sweet and plaintive. Their
musical phraseology is simpler, more confined within a margin
of sobriety, than our expansive and unrestrained music.
The Balinese have developed their music to the point of having
a special type of orchestra for every purpose, each differing from
the others in sonority, in the instruments composing it, in the
pieces played, and even in scale. (The Balinese scale, with cer¬
tain exceptions, consists of five notes, named from low to high:
ding, dong, deng, dung, dang, corresponding to our E, F, G,
B, C.) The concert ’’ orchestra is entirely different from the
one used for feasts, cremations, and processions. The same holds
true for the music employed for the various styles of plays and
dances; the orchestra for marionette shadow-plays is radically
different from the one used for the dances of vonnp pirls whirh
212
ISLAND OF BALI
is again different from that used for heroic plays. The general
tone of Balinese music does not produce the nervous shock on
Westerners such as the more “ Oriental ” Chinese or Indian
music does. Balinese music is readily acceptable to Western ears
perhaps because their compositions are performed by large musi¬
cal ensembles in polyphonic harmonies and rhythms which are
in a way reminiscent of our symphonic music.
SUPPLEMENTARY NOTES ON BALINESE MUSIC AND
INSTRUMENTS
In a general way, a Balinese composition is divided into four parts; a
light solo to introduce the piece (geginaman); an introductory theme
(pengunkab); a central motif (pengawak), the “body” of the piece;
and a rhapsodical finale in which the motives are developed (penget/et).
The melodies are classified by types according to their character: the
fluid, delicate motifs (memanisan); the playful love themes (pengipuk),
a sort of “ allegretto ” or “ scherzo the strong melodies for masculine
dances (bapang and gilak) and the violent war music (bate! or kale).
Besides this generic distinction, the pieces have names of their own, such
as “ the roll of the waves,” “ langkwas flower,” and so forth.
The basic instruments of Balinese orchestras can be roughly divided
into the following groups: (i) Instruments with metal keys of various
sizes and pitch; the higher ones of nine notes (gangsa d/ongkok) that
play themes and variations; those of five notes in lower key to play basses
(gangsa gantung, t/alung, d/ublag, and d/egdgan); and the gender, with
ten or thirteen notes which are played with both hands. The others are
played with one mallet held in the right hand while the sound is stopped
with the fingers of the left. (2) The suspended gongs (gong, kumpur,
kemong, or bende) to play deep accents. There is also the reyong and
trompong, sets of twelve (or thirteen) and ten bells respectively, which
are shaped like the gongs, but which are arranged in a frame in progressive
scale. Themes and chord are played on these instruments. (3) Drums
(kendang) to lead the orchestra, mark the rhythm, and underline the
accents. They come always in pairs, a “ male ” and a smaller “ female.”
The dmms are wrapped in black and white chequered cloth to insulate
them against evil vibrations. (4) Accessory percussions: a small gong
(kempli) held on the lap and beaten with a stick; sets of cymbals (t/eng-
to beat fast rhythms; and various sorts of bells and small metal
tubes (kemanak) to produce incidental tinkling sounds. Besides these,
THE DRAMA 213
there are other instruments, such as the bamboo flute (suling) and the
two-string violin (rebab), which are used mainly as a lead for the melody.
The flute is often a solo instrument. They do not form an essential part
of the orchestra.
Flute-Player
The gong kebiyai, to which the orchestra of Belaluan belongs, is the
large modern “ concert ” orchestra par excellence, where the art of en¬
semble playing, the colourful orchestration, and the vitality of the music
show to best advantage. Music played by thefcebiyar consists for the most
part of new compositions based on older pieces, in free variation. The
style of the South is more conservative and delicate than that of the
North, which is loud, syncopated, and with revolutionary tendencies.
Among the most famous gongs, during my stay in Bali, were the gong
pangbung from Tabanan, those of Belaluan, Peliatan, and Sdat in the
North. The kebiyai is obviously a modem form of the gong gedd, the
old-fashioned grand orchestra indispensable to temple feasts, where they
314 ISLAND OF BALI
play throughout the night. The melodies of the gong ged6 have an even,
loud stateliness, without the delicate modulations of the kebiyar. In the
old-fashioned gong the drums are beaten energetically with a stick and
the hand while large cymbals clash loudly throughout the piece. The
tiompong, which does not appear in the kebiyar, plays the leading mdody.
A 'forerunner of the gong gedd is the gong luang or berong, an almost
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forgotten, archaic orchestra using a scale of seven notes. The only one
which to my knowledge still exists is in the village of Krobdkan in
Badung, where it plays occasionally.
The pelegongan, the accompaniment for the famous legong, the arche¬
type of the delicate, feminine dances, is a large ensemble playing music
regarded as fine and classical by the Balinese. The style of the pelegongan
is basic for a great deal of the music, and some of the finest standard
compositions belong to it. It is used also in the t/alonarang, djauk,
barong, and other dances of a similar character.
There is another type of orchestra, the pe/ogedan, which has the same
tonal style as the pelegongan, but much simpler, in which all the sound-
THE DRAMA 215
ing keys are made of bamboo slats placed over bamboo resonators. A
large, deep-toned bamboo key replaces the gong (kumpur). (It is used
to accompany the light d/oged and gandrung dances, described else¬
where.) This orchestra and the archaic gambang are the only ones in
which every sounding key is not made of metal. An ancestor of the
pelegongan type of orchestra is the ancient semar pegulingan, which ap¬
pears sometimes at temple feasts. The scale of this orchestra resembles
that of the pelegongan, but it may have seven as well as five notes.
The gender wayang is an orchestra composed of four genddr (two in
North Bali) to accompany the semi-ritual shadow-plays (wayang kulit) .
The genddr is of great importance not only for the fine quality of its music
but because it is prescribed for practically all home ceremonials, even in
the daytime and without the marionette performance. It appears to be
simple, but it is supposed to be the most difficult to master. Its music is
perhaps the most refined and delicate, with liquid shades and suspended
tempos. The gender is played something like a piano; that is, the themes
and harmonies are executed on one instalment with both hands. Its scale
is different from the others.
The angJdung, the most frequently played, is a very ancient portable
orchestra used to create excitement and for marching. It has no dancing
accompaniment of any sort. The fact that its scale is restricted to four
notes is a sign of its antiquity. The angklung takes its name from a curious
instalment still played in West Java that consists of lengths of bamboo
arranged loosely on a frame so that when shaken they produce a certain
chord. Colin McPhee located an angklung orchestra with a complete set
of these strange instruments in the old village of Tjulik in East Bali,
where it is still played. Ancient Javanese records mention that the ang¬
klung was used in vrar and to precede the ruler to announce his arrival.
Other archaic orchestras still in existence in Bali are the selunding,
which has great iron keys, and the gambang, already mentioned, played
only at cremations in Badung and in Bangli. The keys of the gambang
are all made of bamboo with the exception of one instrument that has
metal keys. A stately melody is played on the metal instrument against
an exciting, warlike background played on the bamboos. The Balinese
say that it is very difficult to learn tae gambang because the performer
must think of poetical texts (kidung) to learn the themes. The poems
suggest the melody, and the measure and punctuation serve as guide to
the rhythm and pauses, so the player thinks of words as he plays. That
2i6 island of BALI
the gambang is not exclusively Balinese is shown by the fact that there are
reliefs in the East Javanese rain of Tjandi Panataran depicting gambangs.
THE DANCE
A FOCUS OF BALINESE LIFE
Next to having good orchestras, a fine group of dancers is an
almost organic need for the spiritual and physical life of the com¬
munity. Besides the passion they show for their music and danc¬
ing and the important part these play in the ritual, to have a
skilful and famous group of dancers brings pride and social pres¬
tige to the village ward, the bandjai. The young men of today are
fond of football games, but all other attempts to introduce foreign
amusements have failed in Bali. The rare movie shows in the two
large towns are patronized almost exclusively by the foreign popu¬
lation, and not even the rich princes like phonographs, although
there are excellent records of Balinese music. I do not know any¬
one who has a radio.
Balinese dancing is essentially for exhibition; dancing to enter¬
tain an audience and for display of skill, a stage of development
that belongs to an advanced civilization, but that in Bali goes
hand in hand with the ritual-magic dances characteristic of primi¬
tive peoples. Thus the survival of the primitive in a developed
society, a characteristic of everything Balinese, shows itself in the
dancing as well as in the general mode of life. In the religious
dances the community amuses itself at the same time that it tries
to propitiate the gods and ward off evil spirits. There are even
violent self-sacrificial dances in which the performers in a trance
simulate self-torture with knives or walk on fire to appease the
bloodthirsty evil spirits and to show their supernatural powers.
The Balinese attribute a divine origin to music and dancing.
It is said that Batara Guru, the Supreme Teacher, invented the
first instruments, and that Indra, the Lord of the Heavens, origi¬
nated dancing when he created the incomparably beautiful
dedari, the nymphs of heaven, to dance for the pleasure of the
THE DRAMA 217
gods. In the Ardjuna Wiwaha it is mentioned that the seven
principal dedaii were made from a precious stone that was split
into seven parts. Before dancing for the assembled gods, the
nymphs, the legend says, walked three times around them in the
usual respectful manner; the gods became lovesick, and since
their dignity prevented them from turning around, Indra sprung
many eyes, and Brahma developed four faces.
Balinese dancing was, perhaps, originally restricted to the
ritual, but the religious dance has become more and more theatri¬
cal; characters that were once frightful demons are now tamed
to perform for the amusement of the crowd. There are, however,
still many purely religious or magical dances; local priests
(pemangku, kabayan, and so forth) of the old communities still
dance solemnly at temple feasts, in front of the altars, holding
incense-burners, even going into a trance and walking in fire.
Only in Bali have I seen wrinkled old women with white hair
dancing to amuse the gods, splendidly unashamed of what would
be normally the attribute of youth. At temple feasts they per¬
form the mendet and the ledjang, two dances mainly for “ aged ”
women — married women — with offerings of food to the visiting
deities.
Although there are dances of a purely demonstrative type that
interpret the music, dancing in Bali cannot be considered as an
art separate from the theatre. In fact, the arts of the theatre are
so closely allied that there is no word in Balinese meaning “ thea¬
tre.” No Balinese would think of separating a show into its com¬
ponent parts or, on the other hand, think a show complete that
did not contain music and dancing. They divide their theatre
rather according to the style of the story, which in turn dictates
its music and the style of its technique. So, for example, the
stories of the Ramayana take the shadow, or wayang wong form,
the historical plays are the topeng, and love stories the ard/a, and
so forth. The following are the most important Balinese dances
and plays:
2i8
ISLAND OF BALI
LEGONG Music: full peJcgongan orchestra. Dance-pantomime by
two or three young girls playing Lasem and Semaradhana stories.
TjALONARANG Pclcgongan with large flutes. A great exorcizing
drama of the story of Rangda Tjalonarang, with dialogue, singing,
and dancing.
BARONG Pelegongan (called bebarongan in this case), A dance-
pantomime of the adventures of a fantastic, holy animal, ending
usually in a wild kris dance (rebong, ngurelc) by men in trance.
Also an exorcism.
DjAUK Pelegongan orchestra. Dance-pantomime by male masked
actors. Danced in the Jegong technique, with any story. Masks
do not represent special characters. Characteristic head-dress.
DjOGED Ped/ogedan, an orchestra of the pelegongan type, but made
of bamboo. A purely demonstrative, flirtatious dance without a
story. Called gandrung when performed by a boy in girl’s clothes.
MENDET and REDjANG Orchestra; semar peguJingan or pelegongan.
Two offering dances performed by elderly women and priests dur¬
ing temple feasts.
SANGHYANG Music: songs by a chorus of men and women. An
exorcizing trance dance of the legong style performed by little
girl mediums.
WAYANG KTJLIT Orchestra: gender wayang. Shadow-plays by pup¬
pets. Stories of the Mahabharata, Ramayana, and others. A story¬
teller chants recitative.
WAYANG WONG Gender wayang with drums and other percussions.
Ramayana episodes by masked actors dancing and singing in
classic Kawi.
BARIS Gong. Ritual war dances with spears (baris ged6). There
is a modernized version (baris penddt) in which heroic plays are
performed in dance-pantomine with incidental dialogue and
singing.
TOPENG Gong. Masked actors pla5dng local historical plays (ba-
bad); mostly pantomine, but with dialogue by the comic char¬
acters.
KEBiYAR Gong kebiyar. A modern dance purely demonstrative in
character, performed by a boy dancer who interprets musical
moods.
GAMBUH Gamelan gambuh; flutes, violin, and percussions. The
THE DRAMA 219
classic technique for dramatic performances. Stories from the
MaJat, with much singing. Other plays of a similar character are
the tantri, tjupak, basur, and parwa.
aiudja Gamelan ard/a; flutes and percussions. The ard/a is a mod¬
ernized gambuh playing romantic stories like T/andra Lasan,
Salya, Sidapaksa, Galolikuh, and Chinese tales like Sampik and
Tuan Wei.
bahong landong Gamelan batel; flutes and gongs. Giant puppets
of a religious character, playing humorous stories, the adventures
of an old woman (d/ero Juh) and a black giant (d/ero gedd).
DjANGER Gamelan d/anger; flute, gong, and drums. A modern mu¬
sical comedy with many foreign elements, performed by boys and
girls.
KETjAK Large groups of men singing in chorus, moving and danc¬
ing to the rhythm of the music. Occasionally performing episodes
of plays. Derived from the sanghyang and d/anger.
All these forms will be described later, divided for easier recog¬
nition according to our custom under the headings of “ dance,”
“ plays,” “ opera,” and so forth, by their most characteristic
features.
Like music, dancing has developed to a standard of technical
perfection that makes of it a difficult science, requiring years of
special physical training and practice. Although strict rules are
followed and the structure of the dance is made up entirely of
traditional gestures that leave no room for improvisation or indi¬
vidualistic styles, there is a certain margin of freedom allowed for
the dancer. Sound and gesture become one, definite movements
ruled by the most rigid discipline. The excellence of a performer
does not depend only on his skill, but also on his personality, his
emotional intensity, and the expressiveness of his features. Only
clowns (bebanyolan) have no special technique and no program.
Personality and the spirit of surprise are expected of them.
Obviously there is Javanese influence discernible in the Bali¬
nese school of dancing, but they have drifted so far apart in spirit
and in social function that they have little in common today. In
Bali dancing is still a hving popular art, while in Java, where
220
ISLAND OF BALI
dance of the higher order was dying until rescued in recent years
by the sultans, today it is only in the high courts of the Javanese
princes that fine dancing can be seen. In Java the fine dancer is
a specialist attached to the court, often a prince himself; in Bali
he is an ordinary villager with talent and skill who performs for
the prestige of his community and for the entertainment of his
neighbours. In Bali as well as in Java, it is a part of the education
of a prince to dance, act, and play musical instruments, but in
Bali a prince who organizes a theatrical group mingles with the
common people and performs for their amusement. It is amus¬
ing to hear the Javanese and the Balinese deride each other s
theatre: the Balinese think the dances of Java are meaningless,
dull, and dead, but the Javanese are shocked at the “ noisy
music of Bali and look upon their dancing as the product of rude
and primitive peasants.
The Balinese have constantly injected new life into their thea¬
tre, in contrast to the Javanese, who, perhaps because of Moham¬
medan influence, have allowed the art to come to a standstill so
that their acting suggests imitation of the movements of their
archaic marionette shows (wayang purwa) . The Javanese actor
cannot express emotion except by the most conventional gestures,
and his face remains fixed and mask-like. The Balinese act in an
exactly opposite manner. They are gay, exuberant, and fond of
gestures and slapstick comedy. Javanese masks are stylized, with
long, sharp noses and slit eyes that eliminate all sense of the
realism frowned upon by Islamism. The Balinese make masks of
amazing expressiveness, often realistic in character, studies of
standard types. I have seen a masked play with masterfully
carved masks that were caricatures of Chinese, Arabs, and
Europeans.
A theatrical group is organized by the villagers into a society
along the same lines as a musical club. Contributions of money
are made, instruments procured, and musicians trained. The
future dancers are selected from the boys and girls of the com¬
munity, taking into consideration their pleasing personal appear-
THE DRAMA 221
ance, their physical fitness, and their potential talent for a par¬
ticular dance. For that most typical of Balinese dances, the
legong, for example, the little girls chosen should be from five to
eight years of age, and if they can be found to look alike, it is
taken for granted that they will make a very fine legong.
When the dancers are assembled, a teacher is called to train
them. He is generally a former great dancer or an orchestra
leader who knows the dance to the last detail. The most ele¬
mentary routines are taught at first, and repeated until the dance
has “ gone into the pupil.” The teacher is often assisted by his
more accomplished pupils, slightly older dancers from other vil¬
lages. The method of training consists in guiding the movements
of the pupil, leading them energetically by the wrists until by
sheer repetition the pupils acquire the “ feeling ” of the gesture
and can do the movements by themselves. At the beginning the
teacher chants the tunes, but formal rehearsals with the full or¬
chestra are held later.
The teacher works tirelessly for weeks and months at a time
and it is typical of Bali that he is not necessarily paid for his ef¬
forts. If he receives a monetary reward for his work, it is insig¬
nificant and is meant rather as expense money while in a strange
community. Instead of a fee, he is lavishly feasted and treated
as an honoured guest. If his home is in another village, he is
lodged in the bandjar where he teaches and at the end of every
rehearsal is presented with trays of Chinese cakes, coffee, ciga¬
rettes, and betel-nut. It is not unusual for a famous teacher like
Ida Bagus Boda of Den Pasar to be called to give the finishing
touches to a well-trained group. The various styles of teaching
are so definite that it is not difficult for a Balinese connoisseur to
guess the teacher of a given legong.
Physical training plays an important part in the dancer's educa¬
tion; while the pupil learns the elemental sequence of the dance,
the basic steps, and general movements of the arms, he exercises
regularly to acquire suppleness of every muscle and control over
each member until his body becomes practically double-jointed.
222
ISLAND Ut BALI
The legs, however, are used with a minimum of importance in
the dance, except for locomotion, and in certain sitting dances
like the kebiyar are not used at all. It is said that such movements
are possible only because of the extreme youth of the dancers.
It is true that a legong dancer retires at twelve or thirteen, or per¬
haps continues in another type of dance, and that a fully grown
girl is often considered too big to dance, but there are old women
who are fine dancers and a good baris performer is usually a man
past middle age. A solo dance often lasts more than an hour, and
even children can dance incessantly for long periods of time with¬
out showing traces of exhaustion. This resistance often amazes
travellers, but the Balinese explain that the dancer is unconscious
of the real work and falls into a sort of self -induced trance where
only the rhythm of the dance exists, and the dancer then moves
in a world where fatigue is unknown. Legong dancers are very
popular in the community; they are looked upon as people out
of the ordinary and are exempt from heavy work. They have
many suitors, and a prince frequently marries a legong dancer as
soon as she becomes of age.
When a society has enough money for costumes and the danc¬
ers are ready to make a public appearance, the village association,
on an auspicious day, gives an inauguration festival (malaspa-
sin) . The costumes are blessed before they can be worn for the
first time, and the group makes offerings to launch the new or¬
ganization successfully. An actor, a dancer, or a story-teller un¬
dergoes the same ceremony by which a priest or magician adds
power to his soul. In the case of a dancer the ceremony is a magic
purification and beautification in which a priest with the stem of
a flower inscribes magic syllables on the face, head, tongue, and
members of the future dancer to make him attractive to the eyes
of his public. It is not only on this occasion that dancers pray for
success; before every performance they make small offerings to
the deities of the dance, Dewa Pergina, and to the nymphs of
heaven, the dedari Supraba and Tilotama. In the temple Mer-
tasari in Semawang (near Sanur) there is a small stone shrine
THE DRAMA 223
shaped like a dancing helmet (gelunggan) , and often legong
dancers go there to deposit offerings. Once a year, a day (tumpak
wayang) is dedicated to the theatre, when all theatrical accesso¬
ries, the costumes, masks, and marionettes as well as musical
instruments, receive offerings, perhaps to restore their original
effectiveness. On this day theatrical organizations all over the
island give feasts, but no performance of any kind is permitted.
There is also a day when literary manuscripts receive offerings^
the day is dedicated to Saraswati, goddess of learning, science,
and literature, when no one may read.
The size of the crowd is the only indication of whether a per¬
formance is successful or not. The Balinese do not applaud or
show their appreciation of a performer in any other way. This
seeming lack of encouragement does not influence the enthusi¬
asm for the art, and it is my impression that the dance and the
theatre of today are even more developed than in the past. Judg-
224 ISLAND OF BALI
ing from old reports, it seems that there are more performances,
the shows are more elaborate and varied, and their are many new
styles besides that of the jealously preserved classic theatre.
There is hardly a village that does not have some sort of dancing
organization, and even the fact that the old custom of exempting
actors and musicians from payment of taxes has been abolished
by the Government has not diminished interest in dancing and
acting. There is not even the incentive of commercial gain for
the individual; the small amounts received at private festivals go
to the society’s fund for new costumes, new instruments, and the
communal feasts.
THE LEGONG
As the archetype of the delicate and feminine, the legong is the
finest of Balinese dances. Connoisseurs discuss the comparative
excellence of various legongs as intensely as we discuss our danc¬
ers, and I have heard solemn arguments among princes as to
whether the group of Bedulu was finer than that of Saba, or the
school of Sukawati superior to that of Badung.
The legong is performed at feasts, generally in the late after¬
noon when the heat of the day has subsided. At the first rumour
that there is going to be a legong in the central square or, if it is
at a private feast, in the middle of the street, the crowd begins to
gather. Women and children come first to secure the best places,
crowding around a long, rectangular space left free for the dance.
The dancing-space is often decorated with a canopy of palm-leaf
streamers or shaded by an awning of black, red, and white cloth,
the tail of one of the giant kites. On one end of the “ stage ” the
orchestra entertains the gradually growing crowd with preludes
until it is time for the show to begin.
Three little dancers, with an air of infinite boredom, sit on
mats in front of the orchestra. They are dressed from head to
foot in silk overlaid with glittering goldleaf and on their heads
they wear great helmets of gold ornamented with rows of fresh
frangipani blossoms. Enormous ear-plugs of gold, an inch in
THE DRAMA 225
diameter, pierce their prematurely distended ear-lobes. Their
melancholy little faces are heavily powdered, and they wear a
white dot (piiasan) , the mark of beauty in dancers, painted be-
Legong Costume
tween the eyebrows, which are shaved and reshaped with black
paint.
The rich costume of the two principal dancers, the legongs,
consists of a wrapped skirt, a tight-sleeved vest, from which hangs
a long, narrow apron, and yards of strong cloth cut in a narrow
strip that binds their torsos mercilessly from the breast to the
hips. This is in turn covered by another sash of gilt cloth. The
226 ISLAND OF BALI
tight, corset-like binding gives line to the dancers’ bodies and
supports their backs. The costume is completed by a stiff short
vest of tooled and gilt leather worn over the shoulders, a collar
set with coloured stones and little mirrors, a silver belt, and scarfs
and ornaments of tooled leather hanging from each hip. The
little girl who sits between the legongs, the t/ondong, their at¬
tendant, is dressed in simpler clothes.
When a large enough crowd has assembled, the orchestra be¬
gins the dance music and the tjondong gets up lazily and stands
in the middle of the dancing-space. Suddenly, at an accent from
the orchestra, as if pierced by an electric current, she strikes an
intense pose: with her bare feet flat on the ground, her knees
flexed, she begins a lively dance, moving briskly, winding in and
out of a circle, with an arm rigidly outstretched, fingers tense and
trembling, and her eyes staring irito space. At each accent of the
music the whole body of the tjondong jerks; she stamps her foot,
which quivers faster and faster, the vibration spreading to her
thigh and up her hips until the entire body shakes so violently
that the flowers of her head-dress fly in all directions. The gradu¬
ally growing spell breaks off unexpectedly and the girl glides with
swift side-steps, first to the right, then to the left, swaying from
her flexible waist while her arms break into sharp patterns at the
wrists and elbows. Without stopping, she picks up two fans that
lie on the mat and continues dancing with one in each hand, in
an elegant winding stride.
At a cue from the music, the two other girls straighten up and
begin to dance with their hands, neck, and eyes, still kneeling on
the mat. Then they rise and dance with the tjondong, forming
intricate patterns with six arms and thirty fingers until the
musical theme ends. Then the tjondong hands a fan to each of
the legongs and retires into the background.
The orchestra plays a more vigorous melody and the legongs
dance again, with the open fans fluttering at such a speed that
their outline is lost like the wings of a humming-bird flying sus¬
pended in space. The two dancers seem the double image of one.
THE DRAMA 227
so much alike are their movements, their necks snap from side
to side in such perfect accord; synchronized in double time to the
flashes of their eyes. The most absolute discipline controls their
sharp, accurate movements. Each motion follows the last in
perfect rhythmic sequence, technical perfection transformed into
beauty and style. At times the music becomes playful and deli¬
cate; the two girls come together, bringing their feces close to
each other and delicately “ rubbing noses ” (ngaras) , following
this by a flutter of the shoulders, a thrill of pleasure. This repre¬
sents a love scene, a kiss, done to a special musical theme
(pengipuk) .
After a pause the orchestra plays the Lasem theme and the
actual play begins. The story is based on an episode from the
Malat, the Balinese Thousand and One Nights, in which Princess
Rangkesari is stolen by the arrogant King Lasem, her despised
suitor, while he is waging war against her father. Rangkesari
spurns Lasem’s advances even after he promises to give up the
war if she will yield to him. He threatens to kill her father, but
still she will not submit. Enraged, the king goes to carry out his
threat, but during the battle that ensues, a blackbird flies in
front of him, a bad omen, and Lasem is killed.
The dancers enact the various characters of the story that
everyone in the audience knows by heart. The acting of the
legong is abstract pantomime with such stylized action and
economy of gesture that it becomes merely a danced interpreta¬
tion of the literary text, which is recited by a story-teller, who
chants the episodes and dialogues while the dance is in progress.
The dancer who plays Lasem enters, followed by Rangkesari
(the two legongs) . Lasem, tugging at her skirt, tries to force the
princess, but she strikes him with her fan. This is repeated until
Lasem grows impatient and, after a struggle, retires enraged.
The princess is left alone, wiping her tears with the edge of her
apron and slapping her thigh with a fen, a gesture of grief. As
the girl kneels, Lasem reappears, angry and defiant, on his way
to continue the war against Rangkesari's father; the closed fan
228 ISLAND OF BALI
becomes a kris which he points threateningly at his imaginary
enemy. In the following episode the attendant, the t/ondong,
puts on her arms a pair of golden wings made of leather, to por¬
tray the unlucky crow; she dances sitting on the ground, fluttering
her wings with lightning speed, advancing on her knees with
birdlike leaps, and beating the earth with her wings. Lasem hesi¬
tates for a moment at sight of the ominous bird, but goes on with
his kris drawn; the bird dashes at him, obstructing his progress
and hampering him in the battle. The dramatic end of the epi¬
sode is left to the imagination, and the three little girls end with
a relaxed dance of farewell. The performance has lasted well
over an hour and at the end the girls appear perfectly calm, un¬
fatigued after their strenuous dance.
From the treatment of the story, conventional dance formulas
to represent actions and emotions explained by a story-teller, one
could deduce that the legong is an elaboration of the archaic
shadow-plays, the wayang kulit. It hints at an attempt by human
beings to perform dramatic stories like those played by mario¬
nettes, as is perhaps the case of the Javanese wayang wong — “ hu¬
man wayang ” — or actors that play in the wayang style. It is
interesting to note that while the old records speak of other forms
of Balinese theatre, no mention is made of the legong, which may
not, after all, be an ancient dance.
A very popular dance that seems related to the legong is the
djoged, performed by a girl in a variation of the legong costume
and in the traditional legong steps. The dance is considered
erotic by the Balinese because the girl entices the men from the
audience by “ making eyes ” at them during the course of the
dance. The man invited must dance with her in postures that
represent a love game of approach and refusal (nibing) , in which
the man tries to come near enough to the girl's face to catch her
perfume and feel the warmth of her skin, the Balinese form of a
kiss. As the audience becomes worked up, other men ** cut in ”
and dance with her. I have seen performances of djog6d that had
Portrait of Ayu Ktut
THE DRAMA 229
an intoxicating effect on the crowd, especially in the more de¬
cadent form called gandrung, when it is a boy in girl's clothes
who performs. Fights among the men of the audience at gan¬
drung dances are not unheard of, a procedure which is ex¬
tremely un-Balinese. The djoged could easily be a modernized,
decadent version of the ancient mating dance still to be found
in the village of Tenganan, stronghold of native tradition. There,
once a year, a dance called abuang is performed in which the
unmarried girls of the village appear dressed in their best, wear¬
ing gold flower head-dresses (reminiscent of the paper scallops
that decorate the back of the djogSd head-dress) and meet bache¬
lor boys who posture with the girl of their preference in a short
dance in which the gestures make one think of a chaste and re¬
strained djoged. Curiously enough, the djogSd is forbidden in
Tenganan.
But there is still another dance, undeniably of ancient origin,
that is even more closely related to the legong: the sanghyang
dedari (to be described later) , a magic dance in which the little
230 ISLAND OF BALI
girls dressed in legong costumes go into trance, supposedly to be
possessed by the spirits of the heavenly nymphs, to bring luck
and magic protection to the village through their performance.
The steps of the sanghyang are exactly the same as those of the
legong and it is disconcerting and eerie that at no time have the
little girls received dance training, and that when in trance they
are able to perform the difficult steps that take months and even
years of practice for an ordinary legong.
THE BARIS
An indispensable part of the ritual feasts of the old villages is the
haiis gede, a stately war dance in which ten or twelve middle-aged
warriors with their heads covered with flowers, wearing magic
scarves, and carrying long spears tipped with peacock feathers,
dance in double line, grimacing and striking heroic poses until
the music becomes violent, when they enact a sham battle with
their black and silver spears.
No dance in the world can be more manly than the haiis. Just
as the legong is the representative feminine dance, so the bans
typifies the strong elegance of the male and is the source of
material for all masculine dances. When the first turkey came
to Bali, the Balinese inmediately named it siap ban's, the “ ban's
bird.” Remaining essentially a war dance, the style of the ritual
ban's was later adapted to the performance of heroic plays in the
ban's pendet, in which individual dancers play the military heroes,
using dramatic dialogues to accompany their movement.
Every well-educated prince must be able to dance the bans
when he enters middle age, having undergone a rigorous train¬
ing to obtain the necessary skill and flexibility. To be in trim to
dance the ban's, one must be able to sit on one’s heels keeping the
knees spread wide apart in line with the body. A good dancer of
ban's, besides a finished physical training and an expressive face,
must also have a cultivated, sonorous voice. It is essential that
an actor with a “ fine ” face, who plays youthful heroes, have a
high-pitched voice, while an actor who plays “ strong,” rough
Baris Cede — Ceremonial War Dance
THE DRAMA 231
characters should have a deep, resonant voice to match the
qualities of his face. A good dancer of ban’s, according to Bali¬
nese standards, is rare. We never tired of watching the princes
Dewa Cede Rake of Batuan and Gusti Ngurah Regog of Tegal-
tamu when they acted together.
The music for the baris, played by a gamelan gong, consists of
striking standard melodies with contrasting interludes that indi¬
cate the steps and the moods portrayed by the dancer. Every
part of his body, from his toes to the tips of his fingers, is in
action during the dance. Every muscle of his face is controlled
at will to render the storm of passions expressed by the quick¬
tempered warrior; expressions of admiration and wonder at an
invisible magic world all around him, surprise and rage at im¬
aginary enemies, pleasure, tenderness, and love. But as the
music grows more violent, the dancer becomes more and more
tense, raising himself on his toes until he gives the impression
of growing in height; his eyes seem ready to jump from their
sockets, his whole body trembles, making the flowers of his head¬
dress shake violently. So raised on his toes and with his whole
body at high nervous tension, he slaps his thigh and points an
accusing finger at his enemy, as with wild yells of “ Wah! ”
“ Adoh, adoh! ” he draws his kris and struts aggressively towards
his foe, who comes forward at the same moment; before they
meet, the dancers stop defiantly, cursing each other, and when
the clash comes, with tiger-like grace they perform a stylized duel
to music, in which the routing of one of the characters indicates
the end of the dance.
The ritual baris gede, bans tumbak, has an exorcizing character
and is invariably danced at important cremations and in the feasts
of the un-Javanized villages. It appears to be a native of Bali. There
is a particularly magic baris, called baris tekoik djago, in which the
dancers are dressed in magic black and white chequered cloth
(polen) and gringsing scarfs, which is prescribed for cremations in
Badung; but in Sanur there is a group that dances in all-white
clothes.
232 ISLAND OF BALI
The characteristic part of the ban's costume is the head-dress with
its high triangle of white cloth (udeng-udengan) , worn at the back
of the head, and a diadem of fresh tjempaka flowers in the front, set
in wires and arranged in rows, ending in spirals at each side of the
head. The dancer of ban's pendet wears skin-tight trousers (d/'aler)
and a little coat with tight sleeves {kwatji) . Over his breast a scarf
(umpal) is tied, and from it hang many narrow strips (lelant/ar) of
cloth overlaid with goldleaf, giving the dancer the aspect of an
enormous gilt cabbage. On his back he wears a kris with gold
handle. The word baris means “ in line,” “ military formation.”
THE KEBIYAR
Individualism is not encouraged in the essentially communal
Balinese society, but from time to time the genius of an artist
breaks through the conventional mould and emerges as a power¬
ful personal influence. Some years ago a young man of humble
birth startled South Bali with a new dance which combined the
rugged manliness of the heroic dances (ban's) with the delicacy
of the legong. Its novelty consisted in the fact that the dancer
never raised himself from the ground, moving only from the
waist up, giving greater emphasis to the movements of the torso,
arms, and hands and focusing attention on the dancer's facial
expression. In using his body like a sensitive musical instru¬
ment, the young dancer interpreted even the most delicate moods
of the island’s finest orchestra, the gong Pangkung of Tabanan.
Eventually he joined the gong Belaluan, and his fame spread to
the foreign visitors on the island. The name of Mario became
as well known to the world traveller as that of Mei Lan-Fang,
Shan Kar, or Escudero.
At the regular weekly concerts of the Belaluan gong given at
the hotel, Mario sat cross-legged in the centre of a square formed
by the instruments of the orchestra. He was dressed in a long
piece of brocade wrapped around his waist like a skirt, with one
end trailing on the ground, and a sash of gilt cloth bound his
torso. Jasmine and t/empaka flowers were stuck in his small
turban, and over his left ear he wore a trembling great hibiscus
1 niL UjKAM A 233
of hammered gold mounted on springs. In his right hand he
held a brocade fan. He sat there motionless, in concentrated
intensity, until at a signal from the drummers the orchestra
struck a sudden crashing chord. Mario straightened like a
startled cobra, tense and nervous, holding the fan over his head
as if to shade his eyes. The opening theme was fast and furious.
and Mario began to dance, waving his fan energetically, darting
glances from side to side as if at an imaginary enemy. The
tempo increased to a frantic climax, broken suddenly by a melo¬
dious solo on the reyong. Mario relaxed and danced delicately,
his expression softened, and his movements became languid.
With half-closed eyes he swayed from left to right, his elbows
almost touching the mat, fanning himself or deftly arranging
the flowers on his head-dress with quivering fingers. The high
keys introduced the main theme; Mario flung his train to one
side and hopped on his crossed legs around the square, bobbing
up and down. In a coquettish mood he paused in front of the
musicians, a smile on his face and his head jerking from side to
side, finally centring his attention on the leading drummer, who.
234 ISLAND OF BALI
captivated by the infectious rhythm, beat his drum, furiously
swaying and shaking to Mario’s movements. Throughout the
dance there were sharp contrasts, changing moods that followed
the music, alternating “ strong ” motives with amorous, playful
ones, the dancer wriggling like a trained cobra, swaying in a
way that recalled the dance of a praying mantis to fascinate its
prey, or stiffening with commanding elegance.
We became great admirers of Mario and never missed his
Friday performance. We even bought picture postcards of him
which we tacked on the wall. One day a serious young man with
a flower over his ear and his pink shirt-tails out came to the
house to see Gusti, the orchestra leader and our host. He bowed
politely and sat down to wait. After a short while I went into
the house and found Gusti’s old aunt trying eagerly to say some¬
thing to me in Balinese, which in those days we had not learned
to understand. She repeated the phrase over and over, each time
pointing first to the postcard on the wall, then to the veranda,
until it dawned on me that our visitor was the dancer Mario.
After that we became close friends, and when he came from
Tabanan he spent a good deal of his time with us. One day
Mario did not come; someone said he was very ill, so we went
to Tabanan and brought him to the Dutch doctor in Den Pasar.
The doctor forbade him to dance and he was ordered to the
hospital. Twice he ran away to Tabanan because he missed his
wife and also because he would not drink milk. We went again
to Tabanan and brought her along and arrangements were made
so she could stay at the hospital to take care of Mario and so that
he could have hubur, rice porridge, instead of milk. After leav¬
ing Bali we had word occasionally that he had not improved and
had been sent to a specialist in Java. Mario never danced again.
On our return to Bali two years later, he was still in a Surabaya
hospital, and although some months later he came back, partly
cured, he was unable to ever dance again and is now teaching
dancing in Tabanan.
Interest in kebiyaz waned after Mario’s illness. To dance the
THE DRAMA 235
kebiyar it is necessary to have what the Balinese call a “ good ”
face, expressive and mobile, and to possess elegance, intensity
and personal magnetism, besides highly finished technical train¬
ing. Mario had great musical knowledge and one of his special¬
ties was to play the trompong while he danced, twirling the sticks
in his fingers and moving with great agility along the scale of
inverted bronze bowls. The kebiyar was very popular during
Mario's time, especially among the men. It was frequently per¬
formed as an interpretation of kekawin, epic poems chanted in
the archaic language by expert story-tellers, while Mario trans¬
lated into movement the episodes of the poems with that curious
detachment of pure rhythm and abstract gesture so typically
Balinese. Good dancers of kebiyar are rare today; of Mario’s
pupils, only one, I Gusti Rake, also of Tabanan, has inherited
Mario’s intensity and style, and he is becoming as famous as
Mario once was. .
THE SHADOW-PLAY
MYSTrCrSM AND SLAPSTICK
Perhaps poetry and the drama were born in Bali with the intro¬
duction of the great epics of the Hindus, the famous Rama-
yana and Mahabharata. They came by way of Java as propa¬
ganda for the ancient Hindus and as part of their religious
teachings. The semi-divine protagonists of the poems, the princes
Rama and Ardjuna, gods reincarnated to save the world, soon
captured the popular imagination with their romantic adven¬
tures and their fantastic wars against evil. They not only be¬
came the idols, the heroes, models of conduct for the Balinese,
but were accepted as the ancestors and ideal of the race.
The early rehgious teachers of Java rewrote the great Indian
works into the local literary language, the Kawi, archaic Javanese,
in which nine out of every ten words are Sanskrit. The rich and
flowery Kawi is today the classical language of poetry (Jcawi
means “ poet ”) used by Balinese intellectuals, who have con-
236 ISLAND OF BALI
tinued to practise it, keeping it as alive as it was in Java during
the golden age of Hinduism before it fell into neglect at the ad¬
vent of Islamism. It was not without reason that Raffles wrote
in his History of Java: “ The ancient mythological poems are
preserved in Bali in more correct form than in Java.”
The poems are written in stanzas based on the Sanskrit metre
(sloka) , which the Balinese have developed into as many as forty-
seven different poetical measures that are particularly well suited
to singing. These are given out to the masses by story-tellers
who chant the Kawi texts while an interpreter explains them in
ordinary Balinese. The people soon learned the Kawi poems by
heart, although they do not understand the actual words and
chant them purely for the sake of their musical metre. Today
even boys of the common classes gather at night for hours to
sing in Kawi, though the meaning of the songs may be obscure
to them. Musical accompaniments were eventually added to
the epic songs, and story-telling developed into a fine art in the
form called kekawin, in which a large orchestra plays interludes
between the episodes and dialogues recited and translated by
two story-tellers.
The episodes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata re¬
main the most important literary works that the Balinese have
appropriated for their own literature, and they have influenced
the theatre to a great extent. But there are countless other
stories, Javanese, native, even Chinese, that make the bulk of
the literature of Bali, now being compiled by the Kawi scholars
of Bali, Java, and Holland,
Out of an ancient shamanistic performance in which the an¬
cestors were brought to this world in the form of shadows to
communicate with their descendants, came the wayang kiilit,
the shadow-plays — a performance by marionettes (wayang)
that cast their shadows on a screen and are manipulated by a
mystic story-teller, the dalang. In olden times the wayang may
have represented the forefathers and the dalang the priest, but
in all probability the Hindu teachers of early times took advan-
Wayang Kulit — a performance of the shadow-play drav
on hand-made paper by Ida Bagus Made Nadera,
youthful native artist
above: a Make-up Artist preparing Dancers for a Performance
below: The Ard/a, Romantic Balinese Opera. The prince is instructing
his prime minister, the patih
THE DRAMA 237
tage of this form of expression to propagandize religion and
adapted the stories of Hindu mythology into dramatic perform¬
ances for the masses, illustrating the episodes of the life of Rama
and Ardjuna with marionettes. As the popularity of the wayang
grew, it became stylized theatre with a moral lesson, but it has
never lost its mystic function. A performance of wayang is pre¬
scribed in ceremonials at important stages of the life of the Bali¬
nese like children's anniversaries, the coming of age of girls,
teeth-filings, marriages, cremations, and temple feasts. The
wayang may be performed in the daytime, without a screen and
without an audience, but with a specified story, as magic sup¬
port to the ceremony. Hardly a night goes by when the fluid
music of the wayang cannot be heard somewhere. The fantastic
adventures of the little leather puppets have a powerful hold
on the imagination of young and old alike, who seem to prefer
a wayang show to the more spectacular performance by human
beings.
Travellers watching a shadow-play become bored after a short
time and cannot understand why the great crowds sit listening
with profound attention to the plays that do not end till dawn.
But to the Balinese the wayang is more than vague shadows on
a screen. It is the medium of their classical poetry, for their
ribald humour; and, most important of all, it is the greatest
factor in the spiritual education of the masses. In a performance
given by an inspired story-teller, there prevails the curious mix¬
ture of mysticism and of slapstick humour that the Balinese love
so. Every object and every move of the marionettes has a sym¬
bolical significance aside from the purely entertaining aspect of
the show. The dalang is an artist and a great spiritual teacher.
Years of training, a thorough knowledge of the stories and their
moral value, are required of a good dalang. His popularity de¬
pends on his inspiration, his humour, and his ability to handle
the marionettes while he improvises comic dialogues. But his
reputation also depends on his sakti, his magic power. He is in¬
variably the star of the show.
238 ISLAND OF BALI
Before the dalang can perform publicly, he must be ordained
by a priest in the mawinten ceremony, when mystic syllables are
inscribed on his tongue with the stem of a tjempaka flower
dipped in honey. Then he can perform the magic tjalonaiang
and may wear the knot (prut/ut) worn on the hair by priests.
There are no announcements made when a wayang show is
to take place. Somehow the rumour spreads from person to
person and there is a crowd even before the dalang arrives. By
the time he begins to stretch his screen, a great mob has gath¬
ered, sitting quietly on the ground, giving no signs of impatience
at the customary endless wait for the play to begin. It seems as
if they deliberately waited until midnight to start, timing the
show to end at dawn. Women and children sit in the front
ranks facing the screen, the men are divided between the last
rows and backstage,” the side of the screen where the dalang
sits, where they can watch the actual puppets. In Java it is a
rule that the men look at the puppets, while the women see only
the shadows.
The screen (kelir) is a piece of white cloth stretched on a
wooden frame and lit by a primitive oil lamp (damai) that
hangs directly above the dalangs head. The shadows are thrown
on this screen by means of the lamp. At the foot of the screen
is a section of the soft trunk of a banana tree, where the sup¬
ports of the marionettes are stuck to hold them in position when
they are not in motion. The dalang sits cross-legged next to a
long, coffin-shaped wooden chest (kropak) , where he keeps his
puppets. Behind the dalang is the orchestra, the genddr wayang,
four xylophones, each played by a musician. Between the toes of
his right foot, the dalang holds a piece of horn, a hammer, with
which he knocks out rhythms on the wooden chest — indications
to the orchestra.
When everything is ready, at the tock-tock of the dalangs
toe-hammer, the orchestra begins to play the delicate, watery
music of the wayang, rich tone-colours and suspended tempos
like bells and fountains playing a Debussian melody. A strange
THE DRAMA 239
shadow appears suddenly on the screen. It is a leaf-shaped
silhouette in which the trunk, branches, and leaves of a tree
can be distinguished. There are various theories as to its sig¬
nificance; it may represent a mountain, a forest, the Tree of
Life, or the gate to the Supernatural; but in Bali it is simply
called kayon, a tree, or babad, the story. The mysterious shadow
sways in circles and waves to the compass of the music, its
trembling shape distorted and thrown in and out of focus by the
flickering flame of the lamp, until it stops and is fixed motion¬
less in the middle of the screen. Whatever mystic significance
the kayon may once have had, it is now only the link that con¬
nects the various parts of the play; standing still in the centre
of the screen it indicates the beginning and the end; by its mo¬
tions or by the angle at which it is set it may show the mood
of the scene to follow or represent wind, fire, water.
When the kayon is removed, the dalang brings the mario¬
nettes out of the chest, one by one, taking his time to introduce
the characters. The shadows of each puppet are fixed on the
screen by sticking the ends of their support into the banana
stem. On the right the dalang places the good and noble charac¬
ters: the gods, kings, princes, princesses, and their attendants.
On the left the evil characters are lined up: giants, demons,
witches, and the villains of the play in general. The puppets
are lacy silhouettes in profile, delicately cut out of buffalo parch¬
ment and beautifully painted. They are handled by three long
supports of horn or bamboo, one for the body and one for each
arm. Only their arms are jointed, and their acting is reduced
to rhythmical arm gestures, while the dalang recites their lines.
In Bali, but not in Java, some comic characters can move the
lower jaw.
The puppets are then removed, leaving the screen empty,
and the play begins. It may be the episode from the Ramayava
in which the divine prince Rama tries to rescue Sita, his beloved
bride, from the clutches of the giant Rawana, the raksasa king,
a monster of wickedness and lechery. Here Rama is assisted by
24° ISLAND OF BALI
a great army of monkeys in terrific battles in which “ they dis¬
charged so many arrows that they could not see each other any
more. Millions of monkeys and lahasas alike are slain before
av^^na is killed and Sita rescued. The most picturesque hero
of the war is the monkey-general, Hanuman, who performs
THE DRAMA 241
miraculous feats of agility and strength, as, for instance, his
famous leap across the ocean to Rawana’s island to discover
where Sita is held. When Hanuman is sent to bring healing
herbs from the forest he is unable to recognize the magic plants
and, angered, tears out the entire mountain top and brings it
back with him.
Or the episode represented may come from the Mahabharata.
Then the plot deals with the feud between two rival princely
houses: the Pandawas, five brothers who are models of virtue
(the mystic Yudistra, Bhima, uncouth warrior and powerful
magician, the romantic lover Ardjuna, and Nakula and Saha-
dewa) , against their hundred cousins, the jealous and treach¬
erous Korawas, headed by the unprincipled Duryodana. The
Korawas, through trickery and intrigue, succeeded in ousting
the Pandawas from their kingdom and banishing them into the
forest for twelve years. During their exile the princes acquire
the magic strength to wage the Great War, the Barata Yudda,
against the evil Korawas, who are finally exterminated after a
battle so fierce that it makes “ the rivers stand still, the sun pale,
and the mountains tremble.”
The symbolical struggle between absolute virtue and absolute
evil is the backbone and the characteristic of the Hinduistic
literature of Bali. Each character is sharply defined; he is either
a fiend or a hero. But the figures of Hindu origin have always
remained aloof and esoteric to the Balinese, who have provided
the wayang with more interesting and amusing characters of
their own.
These are the parekan, the servants or attendants of the prin¬
cipals. On the side of truth and righteousness are Twalen and
his son Merdah, while Delam and Sangut are the retainers of
the “ left,” the villains. Twaldn is a ponderous black monster
with a pot-belly, a great wit, and a magic air about him. He is
the really intelligent character of the wayang, who by his re¬
sourcefulness and knowledge of the occult saves every situation
and makes the hero appear as the conqueror of every combat.
242 ISLAND OF BALI
His rival, the wild-eyed, stiflf-mustachioed red monster Delam
with his little legs and enormous mouth, assisted by his Sangut'
is a well-matched foe for Twalen. They fight constantly by magic
means, by words, or by action in bawdy slapstick clowning; the
puppets are banged together as the dakng improvises riotous
dialogues, keeping the audience in hysterics. But in the end
Twalen always wins, the triumph of the magic of the “ right ”
over the “ left.”
The fascinating parekan are the favourites of the people and
it can be said that the whole show is a pretext for their mad fun¬
making. Twalen and Delam, and their Javanese equivalents, are
unknown in the original Hindu epics; they are undoubtedly
native characters, perhaps ancient deities degraded to the rank
of retainers of the Hindu hero-gods, reshaped by the adapters
of the stories into ridiculous, clumsy monsters of ill manners
to establish their relation to the Hindu gods. Certain legends
mention Twaldn as having a divine origin. The Balinese say that
he was a sori of Tintiya, the Original God, and consequently a
brother of Siva; but being given to worldly pleasures and liking
I tilL UKAMA 243
forbidden foods too well, he did not care to become one of the
high gods and preferred to remain a servant, so that he could
eat and drink all he wanted. In exchange for his renunciation,
he was given the power always to come out victorious over his
enemies. Because of his exorcizing powers, Twalen can purify
the country of evil. He probably represents the old Indonesian
magician who vanquishes evil monsters, and his role was adapted
to assist the prince against the forces that stood in the way of
his spiritual improvement. With its elaborate magic, religious
significance, its undiminished popularity, and as the probable
ancestor of the Balinese theatre, the wayang remains the most
important form of Balinese entertainment.
THE CLASSIC DRAMA
KINGS AND WARRIORS
Conservative Balinese, fond of the classic literature in the fine
old language, like to watch archaic dramas with long dia¬
logues in BCawi and with a great deal of singing. There are vari-
244 ISLAND OF BALI
ous styles of classic plays, each with its own technique, and with
special stories and costumes. For instance, episodes from the
Ramayana are played only in wayang wong style (perhaps a de¬
velopment from the shadow-plays) in which masked actors in
elaborate costumes enact the struggle between Rama and Ra-
Semar, as Twalen is Called in the
Ancient Wayang Gamhiih
wana, while the rowdy monkeys play tricks on each other and
the clowns Twalen arid Ddam provide hilarious comedy. The
music of the wayang wong is, like that for the shadow-plays,
mellow and delicate, played by the same genders augmented by
drums and gongs to provide dramatic accents. The human
wayang is not, however, as popular today as the shadow wayang
and is rarely played.
The romantic and heroic adventures of Pandji, the native
Ardjuna, the dashing young prince of the MaJat stories, are
THE DRAMA 245
played in the gambuh, the ancestor of the Balinese opera. The
gambuh is played by middle-aged actors who represent kings
and prime ministers, singing and chanting long Kawi recita¬
tives to the accompaniment of great bamboo flutes or a two¬
stringed violin, and drums and cymbals. The style of singing
gambuh is curiously dissonant and archaic, with great contrasts
of deep voices mingled with high falsettos, whines, and loud
cries that grow into a jumbled chorus at the exciting moments
of the play. There are other classic plays, more or less in the
style of the gambuh, but with their own stories, such as the
tantii, tjupak, and so forth.
A great favourite is the famous Ardjuna Wiwaha, one of the
Kawi classics, a masterpiece of romantic poetry, but when played
in the bans pendet, it becomes a mixture of love story and rough-
house. The favourite episode of the Balinese is the one in which
Ardjuna, in deep meditation on a mountain top, seeks to obtain
a divine weapon with which to vanquish the demon Deyta Wata
Kewatja, who has insulted the gods by demanding that the most
beautiful dedari, the nymph Supraba, be given to him in mar¬
riage. The long penance of Ardjuna worries the gods, who de¬
cide to send the most beautiful dedaii to bring him out of his
abstraction so that he may help them to make war against the
demon. The nymphs find him in a deep trance and all imme¬
diately fall in love with him. They display their charms and
employ every artifice to attract his attention, but they cannot
break his penance.
In the play the main bans dancer sits with closed eyes and
hands clasped in an attitude of prayer while his patih and Ker-
talah make poor attempts at meditation. Two beautiful girls
appear; they are Supraba and Tilotama, the nymphs, who dance
in front of him, embracing and kissing Ardjuna, who remains un¬
moved, while the clowns appear indignant at his indifference.
The dedari go away broken-hearted, when suddenly a blood¬
curdling roar is heard off-stage. The clowns are paralysed with
fear. A monster with the head of a wild pig leaps into the arena.
246 ISLAND OF BALI
He is Mang Mang Murka, the patih of Detya Wata Kewatja.
Ardjuna shows signs of coming to life as the clowns run madly
about trying to find a place to hide and getting caught unex¬
pectedly in the path of the monster. Ardjuna wakes, takes his
magic bow, and kills the hog with a symbolical arrow given him
by the gods.
THE TOPENG
The most popular afternoon (matinee) entertainment, espe¬
cially with the more serious type of men, is the topeng, a masked
play dealing with the exploits of local kings and warriors, epi¬
sodes of the wars and intrigues of Balinese history (babad).
Two or three actors, usually aged men, play all the parts and
impersonate all sorts of characters with great skill, from the half¬
witted servants and petulant prime ministers, to the heroic kings
and cultured young princes. It was like magic to see an old man
transform himself into a graceful young prince simply by put¬
ting on a mask and dancing with delicacy, only to come out
again as a lisping and idiotic clown.
There is a curious variety of topeng, the pad/egan, played by
a single actor who impersonates all the characters. For this the
usual curtain booth for the actors’ changes is erected at one
end of the “ stage,” while the orchestra plays at the other end.
The actor sits inside the booth, already in costume but not yet
wearing a mask; there he prays, making an offering to the
characters about to be played. He lights a stick of incense, dedi¬
cates the small offering he has brought with him, and decapi¬
tates a small chicken, spilling the blood on the ground. The
gamelan begins to play. The masks are arranged in the required
order on a basket, each wrapped in a piece of cloth. The actor
takes the first mask, puts it on, still wrapped, holding it with his
teeth by a wooden knob, or a leather strap, fixed to the back
of the mask. Before uncovering it, he stiffens and seems to go
into a sort of trance, '' to enter into the chiaracter,” making
dancing gestures with his head and hands. Suddenly he tears
THE DRAMA 247
off the cloth, gets up, and after dancing for a short while be¬
hind the curtain, makes his appearance. This is done for each
character, and each mask is carefully wrapped and put away after
it is used. This is not for showmanship since it is always done
inside the booth and out of sight of the public.
Comic Characters in the Topeng
As the play develops, the various characters are introduced,
starting with the usual clowns, the servants of the prime minis¬
ters of the kings involved.
Only the clowns speak in topeng performances and they wear
half-masks that leave the mouth free, while the finer characters
use pantomime. The absurd clowns are clumsy, with stiff wild
hair and bulbous noses; one is a shy little man with eyes bulging,
who lisps and moves with birdlike gestures; the other is a coarse
character with terrifying hollow eyes, large holes in his mask,
through which the actor's own eyes can be seen. He has an
unkempt moustache and a monstrous hare-lip. After them ap¬
pear the refined old men with red faces and masses of white hair,
high-tempered prime ministers, and young princes with smiling,
248 ISLAND OF BALI
delicate white features. The personality of each character is
sharply defined, with peculiar mannerisms expressed in stylized
acting and through extremely realistic masks.
But the curious part of the performance comes at the close.
Children in the front ranks begin to show alarm and, when the
The Pengedjokan
play is about to end, some get up and leave. The gamehn plays
a special melody and the curtains part again. This time the
pengedjokan appears; he wears the white mask of a grinning old
man with protruding teeth, a mysterious smile, friendly and
terrifying at the same time. He shakes constantly with laughter
and shows a large roll of kepeng, pennies, with which he tries
to lure the children, who all run as if for their lives. He goes
THE DRAMA 249
after them, chasing them far into the road, and if he captures
one, carries him back to the dancing-place and gives the money
to his frightened victim. I asked repeatedly for the significance
of this curious character, but I never received a satisfactory
explanation. The pengedjokan’s other names are Djero Dalam
Pegek and Djero Dalam Truna (truna: bachelor) , perhaps de¬
rived from some authentic character, a bachelor king of legend
who liked children, but frightened them because of his appear¬
ance. To be a bachelor after middle age is considered abnormal
in Bali. The mask is very holy, or rather has magic power, and
no one would dream of selling it. In general a good set of
top6ng masks is a treasure, since only the bests sculptors can
make them. Learned Balinese have a high regard for the topeng
as an art.
THE BALINESE OPERA: THE ARDJA
A performance by a good ard/a ensemble is a social event in
the village. It is at ard/a shows that young people meet and love
affairs are started, helped by the romantic atmosphere of the
love stories and the late hours. The performance never begins
before midnight, and the villagers wait patiently, gossiping,
flirting, listening to music, or munching peanuts until the actors
have eaten their interminable dinner and are finally dressed.
The play begins with the appearance of the tjondong, the
female attendant of the putri, the eternal princess. The part of
the tjondong is usually played by a middle-aged, homely, male
actor dressed as a girl, who walks in an effeminate way, singing
praises to his mistress and begging her to come out. She is
finally persuaded; the curtains of the little booth at the end of
the dancing-space part and the much heralded beauty appears.
In progressive ard/as she may be a young girl dressed in gold,
with a great flower head-dress; but generally beautiful young
girls cannot sing very well and in “ good ” ard/as the part is
played by a male actor famous for his high falsetto. Slowly the
two work their way across the stage, dancing and posturing, the
250 ISLAND OF BALI
servant occasionally kneeling before the princess, all the while
singing and talking in high, wailing voices. After this, they go
“ off-stage '' simply by sitting on a mat in front of the orchestra.
Deep hollow laughter is heard from behind the curtain, fol¬
lowed by a song announcing the patih, the prime minister of
the great prince, the hero of the play. The patih draws back the
curtain and after what seems like unsuccessful attempts to come
out, he finally emerges, very impressive and sure of his impor¬
tance. He struts and grins, singing his own praises, laughing
pompously. His abused and browbeaten younger brother Ker-
talah comes out meekly after him. He is a pitiful little figure
dressed in an old football sweater and what look like the old
clothes of the patih. Instead of a gold kris, he carries a stick
or some sort of agricultural implement. His face is crossed with
dabs of white paint over his nose and upper lip to indicate that
he is a clown. They hold long dialogues, giving hints of the
story to follow. The patih in his hollow, pretentious manner
postures and struts like a turkey; Kertalah lisps or stutters. They
joke about topical and local matters, much in the style of circus
clowns, with the patih playing “ straight ” and acting as foil for
the clown. They are the favourites of the crowd and every time
an “ off-colour ” joke is made, it is the women and children who
laugh the loudest, while the men blush.
Finally it is time for the prince, the ratu, to appear; the patih
recites his praises and with clasped hands begs him to enter.
He describes the prince's beauty as contrasted with his own
ugliness, and flatters him, in standard phrases such as: “ I am so
happy to be the patih of such a prince, ha, ha, ha! Come out.
Excellency, the road is clear, please come out, I wait for my
master.”
The prince appears, glittering with gold and tinsel, singing
in kawi, dancing in the refined style. The patih and Kertalah
follow every one of his gestures in awe, trying to imitate them,
but succeeding only in a burlesque. By now it is about three in
the morning and time for the story to begin. The ardja stories
Princess and Attendant — a Scene
the Aidja, Balinese Opera
THE DRAMA 2^1
are romantic episodes of memorable love aflFairs of princes and
princesses, generally full of fantastic situations and with a dis¬
tinct erotic flavour. The distinguished characters speak and sing
in kawi, which is translated into common Balinese by the come¬
dians for the benefit of the unscholarly crowd. The comedy is
incredibly funny and rough slapstick, sprinkled with all sorts of
bawdy jokes.
Besides the traditional stories, there are popular new plays
such as Sampik and Tuan Wei, adaptations of Chinese love
stories that started in 1924 as bastard performances with actors
in European clothes playing on mandolins. Eventually these
stories became thoroughly Balinese and were incorporated in
the ard/'a.
THE DJANGER
An inevitable sight for the newly arrived tourist every Saturday
morning was the d/anger. Under the hanging roots of a great
waiinging, or banyan tree, in the central square of the village,
sat a dozen boys and a dozen girls in groups of six, forming a
square, the girls facing the girls, the boys opposite each other;
a dance master, the daag, sat in the centre. The boys wore blue
sashes and red hibiscus over their ears; the girls had great fan¬
shaped head-dresses of flowers and were wrapped in gilt cloth
from the armpits to the feet. The boys shouted and shook
while the girls sang with baby voices, flinging their hands and
flashing their eyes. After a while a girl appeared dressed as a
prince, singing and posturing, quarrelling with a wild-looking
bird, an actor with a frightful mask, wings, and a bright-coloured
tail. The show ended with the death of the bird, shot by an
arrow of the prince. Half of the tourists looked on, while the
other half snapped pictures furiously. The performance was
picturesque and Justified the fee, but somehow it did not ring
true. Despite the fact that the elaborate show was held on the
open road, it attracted only a few children, and the dancers
seemed bored and indifferent.
252 ISLAND OF BALI
On our first night in Bali, strolling on the outskirts of Den
Pasar, we heard again the same syncopated, persistent beat of
drums and gongs we had heard in the morning. Following the
sound, we came upon a great crowd watching a show, and after
a good deal of pushing, we managed to make our way to the
front rows. There were the dancers of the morning, hut it was
the d/anger for the Balinese. Instead of tourists comfortably
seated on folding chairs, the nude torsos of a great mob of eager
people pressed us on all sides until we could not move a hand
and were nearly suffocated by the constant blast of human
breath, overpowered with heat and the heavy perfumes that
emanated from the dense crowd. Children climbed on walls
and trees or crawled over our feet, trying desperately to see
something. Instead of the “ traditional ” costume worn for
tourists, the girls wore tight chiffon blouses, their flower crowns
framing their heavily powdered faces. The boys were dressed
in European shirts, neckties, shorts, golf socks, and football
shoes. Over their shoulders they wore a sort of chasuble of black
velvet with appliques of gold braid, spangles, and epaulets of
gold fringe. They had red flowers on their bare heads and in¬
congruous false moustaches on their chalky faces. Only the
dance master wore the usual theatrical costume of brocade, but
with an added shirt and bow tie. Like the others he wore a huge
moustache.
We never discovered the purpose behind the absurd costume;
perhaps it was only fun, perhaps to caricature Europeans. But
the insanity of the costume was surpassed by that of the per¬
formance: to the serpentine melody of a bamboo flute and the
syncopated beat of drums and gongs, the girls sang nonsensical
songs about flowers, rice cakes, and so forth, many words with¬
out meaning, simply to create rhythm: “ djange - djange -
djangerere . . .” while their hands flew, the flowers on their
head shook, and their eyes snapped in unison with their neck
The boys, the ketjak, swayed and shook, shouting: “ Ketjakke-
tjakketjak - tjak! tjipo - oh! tjipo - oh! a-ha-aha! ” much in the
THE DRAMA 253
manner of a college yell, but growing faster and faster, under¬
lining the tempo of the gongs and drums. The dance master
darted wild glances in all directions with gestures of anger and
astonishment, moving like a frantic automaton. The whole
moved with the rhythm of a locomotive at full speed — Balinese
jazz that intoxicated both performers and audience in a spell of
syncopated movement. At calmer moments two girls stepped
out of the ranks and danced around the dance master, who
registered amazement when the girls made love to him. Then
the most incongruous nonsense ensued: like a flash, the ketjaks
jumped to their feet in acrobatic poses, athletic pyramids, a boy
in a back-bend while another stood on his chest. They climbed
on each other’s shoulders, shaking and shouting. Suddenly the
dance master whirled on his seat as if he could not stand it any
longer, and yelled: “ Daaag! ” The whole show stopped dead.
After a pause the play began, an aidja story with the usual
princes, prime ministers, and clovras.
254 ISLAND OF BALI
Later I found out that the djangei was a recent development.
It had started suddenly, when, about 1925, the first company of
Malay operettas (stambul) visited the island. The Balinese im¬
mediately created their own version of the pantomime, and the
djangei spread like an epidemic; everywhere djangei groups were
formed and soon every bandjai could boast a djangei club. It
was the first time that boys and girls joined to dance for the fun
of performing together, their first social dance. Every district
developed its own style. In Buleleng there was a group in which
the girls wore shorts, showing their legs, a rather shocking exhi¬
bition for the Balinese, who called it djangei meJalong, the
“ naked djanger,” but it was popular among the rich Chinese
of Buleleng. The djangei was then the most popular enter¬
tainment. Nobody cared to see anything else and every girl in
Bali hoped to become a djangei and hummed the songs all day.
We feared that the djangei would kill other forms of Balinese
dancing, but on our return two years later, we were surprised
to find that there was no more djangei; all the famous groups
had stopped. Some of the girls had married, and since there
was no more demand, the groups were not reorganized. The
most exhilarating show of the Balinese was dead and forgotten.
Only a sleepy group remained: the djangei for the tourists, still
avidly photographing what they called “ temple dancers.”
With the passing of the djangei, the classical forms of theatre
regained popularity, and during our second visit it was the aidja
that had again become the favourite. The style of the djangei
was a puzzling departure from the refinement of the Balinese
theatre. The singing was obviously derived from the magic
sanghyang songs, and the costumes and acrobatic figures might
have been copied from the Westernized Malay shows, but the
general mood, the seating arrangements, and the movements can
only be explained as a throw-back to the Polynesian spirit.
The case of the djangei was an interesting example of the atti¬
tude of the Balinese towards their arts: their love of novelty and
THE DRAMA 255
easy following after all new ideas, which are soon assimilated
into their traditional forms. This enables the islanders to create
new styles constantly, to inject new life steadily into their cul¬
ture, which at the same time never loses its Balinese character¬
istics.
PART II
CHAPTER IX
RITES AND FESTIVALS
Religions were born of man’s desire to understand and con¬
trol the mysterious process of nature. Fear of the eerie, un¬
seen forces that cause birth, reproduction, and death, awe before
the power of fire, wind, and water, made him worship the ele¬
ments of the teeming world in which he lived. Only by the
existence of psychic forces and powerful spirits could he explain
the perpetual motion of the sun and the moon, the roll of the
sea, and the movements of the clouds, the wind that shakes
the trees, lightning, thunder, and rain. Health, fertility, and
success he attributed to his magic harmony with these forces,
while for earthquakes, volcanic disturbances, epidemics, and the
loss of crops he blamed the anger of spirits whom he had failed
to propitiate.
Eager to place his fate in the hands of superior beings who
would take care of his needs and on whom he could place the
responsibility for his failures, man created a pantheon of super¬
natural beings — protective gods and adverse evil spirits — whose
goodwill he aimed to gain by rites, offerings, and sacrifices. Un¬
consciously, by elaboration and by the adoption of new elements
into the pantheon, he ended by developing an elaborate system
of ritual and magic acts. Thus the primitive Balinese made of
their island a magic world populated by gods, human beings,
and demons, each occupying a level allotted by rank: the deified
26o island of BALI
spirits of their ancestors dwelling in the summits of the vol¬
canoes that form the island; ordinary human beings living in the
middle world, the land that lies between the mountain tops and
the sea, which is the home of devils and fanged giants, the
enemies of mankind.
Placed between these two poles from which emanate oppos¬
ing forces (the positive from the mountains and the negative
from the underworld) , the entire life of the calm and sensitive
Balinese — their daily routine, social organization, their ethics,
manners, art; in short, the total culture of the island — is moulded
by a system of traditional rules subordinated to religious beliefs.
By this system they regulate every act of their lives so that it
shall be in harmony with the natural forces, which they divide
eternally into pairs: male and female — the creative principle;
right and left; high and low — the principles of place, direction,
and rank; strong and weak, or healthy and sick, clean and un¬
clean; sacred and powerful or unholy and dangerous; in gen¬
eral: Good and Evil, Life and Death.
SOCIETY AND RELIGION
The conglomerate of religious principles manifests itself in
elaborate cults of ancestors and deities of fertility, of fire, water,
earth, and sun, of the mountains and the sea, of gods and devils.
They are the backbone of the Balinese religion, which is gen¬
erally referred to as Hinduism, but which is in reality too close
to the earth, too animistic, to be taken as the same esoteric re¬
ligion as that of the Hindus of India. Since the earliest times,
when Bali was under the rule of the great empires that flourished
in the golden era of Hinduistic Java, the various forms of Java¬
nese religion became in turn the religions of Bali, from the
Mahayanic Buddhism of the Sailendras in the seventh century,
the orthodox Sivaism of the ninth, to the demoniac practices of
the Tantric sects of the eleventh century. In later times Bali
adopted the modified, highly Javanized religion of Madjapahit,
when Hinduism had become strongly tinged with native Indo-
RITES AND FESTIVALS 261
nesian ideas. Each of these epochs left a deep mark in Balinese
ritual; to the native Balinese cults of ancestors, of the elements,
and of evil spirits, were added the sacrifices of blood and the
practices of black magic of the Tantric Buddhists, the Vishnuite
cult of the underworld, Brahmanic juggling of mystic words and
cabalistic syllables, the cremation of the dead, and so forth, all,
however, absorbed and transformed to the point of losing their
identity, to suit the temper of the Balinese.
It is true that Hindu gods and practices are constantly in evi¬
dence, but their aspect and significance differ in Bali to such
an extent from orthodox Hinduism that we find the primitive
beliefs of a people who never lost contact with the soil rising
supreme over the religious philosophy and practices of their
masters. Like the Catholicism of some American Indians, Hin¬
duism was simply an addition to the native religion, more as
a decoy to keep the masters content, a strong but superficial
veneer of decorative Hinduistic practices over the deeply rooted
animism of the Balinese natives.
Religion is to the Balinese both race and nationality; a Bali¬
nese loses automatically the right to be called a Balinese if he
changes his faith or if a Balinese woman marries a Mohammedan,
a Chinese, or a Christian, because she takes leave forever of
her own family gods when she moves into her husband’s home
and instead worships his gods from that time on. The religious
sages, the Brahmanic priests, remain outsiders, aloof from the
ordinary Balinese, who have their own priests, simple people
whose oEce is to guard and sweep the community temples, in
which there are no idols, no images of gods to be worshipped.
These temples are frequented by the ancestral gods, who are
supposed to occupy temporarily the little empty shrines dedi¬
cated to them, when visiting their descendants. The Balinese
live with their forefathers in a great family of the dead and the
living, and it would be absurd for them to try to make converts
of another nationality, since the ancestors of the converts would
still remain of another race apart.
262 ISLAND OF BALI
Rather than a sectarian Church system, separate from the
daily life and in the hands of a hierarchy of priests to control
and exploit the people, the religion of Bali is a set of rules of
behaviour, a mode of life. The resourceful Balinese fitted their
religious system into their social life and made it the law (adat)
by which the supernatural forces are brought under control by
the harmonious co-operation of everyone in the community to
strengthen the magic health of the village. Like a human being,
the community possesses a life power that wears away and must
be fed by the regular performances of magic acts of the “ right,”
the side of righteousness. The life power is seriously impaired
by the magic evil, that of the “ left,” or by the polluting effects
of sickness and death. Bestiality, incest, suicide, and temple
vandalism are among the acts of individuals that would make
the entire village sebel, or magically weak. The spiritual health
is also undermined by the gradual predominance of evil forces,
the demons and witches that haunt the village. Some of these
are easily disposed of, but the main concern of the Balinese
centres in the propitiation of the protecting ancestors who de¬
scend to this earth on special holidays and at the anniversaries
of the innumerable temples, when they receive offerings and
entertainment from the people. By these ceremonies and temple
festivals the populace hopes to entice the spirits to remain among
them; the beauty of the offerings, the pleasant music, the elab¬
orate theatrical performances, aim to keep them from growing
bored and leaving.
Motivated by this background of religious beliefs, the Bali¬
nese found it necessary to establish a system of communal co¬
operation to provide for the magnificent festivals that are such
an important part of their life. The spirit of co-operation soon
extended to their personal and economic life and developed into
a primitive agrarian commune in which every village was a so¬
cially and politically independent little republic, with every
citizen enjoying equal rights and obligations. These villages
RITES AND FESTIVALS 263
were ruled by councils of village members and ofiEcials who
governed as representatives of the ancestral spirits. Since the
land, source of all wealth, also belonged to the ancestors, indi¬
vidual ownership of land was not recognized, and it is remark¬
able, but typical, that the village officials still govern as a duty
to the community and without remuneration.
Furthermore, the Balinese have been extremely liberal in
matters of religion. Every time a new idea was introduced into
the island, instead of repudiating it, they took it for what it was
worth and, if they found it interesting enough, assimilated it
into their religion, since no one knew what power there might
be in the new gods. In this manner, from all the sects and cults
that at one time or another reached the island, they selected
anew the principles that best suited their own ideas and accumu¬
lated a vast store of religious power. Buddha became to them
the younger brother of Siva, and if the efforts of the Christian
missionaries who are attempting to convert the Balinese succeed,
it is not unlikely that in the future “ Sanghyang Widi,” the
exalted name that the missionaries have adopted for Jesus, will
become a first cousin of Siva and Buddha and will enjoy offer¬
ings and a shrine where he can rest when he chooses to visit
Bali.
TEMPLES AND TEMPLE FEASTS
The temple is certainly the most important institution on the
island and the clearest illustration of the spirit of the Balinese
religion. There are temples everjwhere, from the modest family
shrines in every household, to the extravagant temples of the
princes and great town temples; large or small, plain or richly
carved temples found in the ricefields, in the cemeteries, in the
markets, on the beaches, in caves, among the tangle of gnarled
roots of old waringins, on deserted hill tops and even on the
barren rocks along the coastline.
When we discovered that the Balinese did not seem to mind
264 ISLAND OF BALI
in the least our going in and out of the temples, we started visit¬
ing them systematically, looking for unusual statues or reliefs,
and although from the beginning we received the impression
that there were not two temples exactly alike, we became aware
that there were features common to all; unlike the forbidding,
sombre temples of other Oriental countries, the Balinese temple
is a gay, open-air affair; one, two, or three open courtyards sur¬
rounded by a low wall, each court leading into the next through
more or less elaborate stone gates, and with a number of empty
sheds, pavilions, and shrines in varied styles, the majority cov¬
ered with thatch, some with only one roof, others with as many
as eleven superimposed roofs like pagodas.
There were no soot-blackened rooms filled with incense smoke
for mysterious rites performed in front of great idols; as a matter
of fact, there were no idols at all worshipped in any of the hun¬
dreds of Balinese temples we visited. In many there were ancient
statues from former times, together with many shapeless stones
kept as amulets by the community, which, because of their
antiquity or because they were found in extraordinary circum¬
stances, came to be regarded as gifts of the gods, or as their name
(peturun) indicates, as heirlooms from their ancestors. The
gods are invisible and impalpable and in all Bali there is not an
image of a Hindu deity worshipped for the sake of its represen¬
tation. Most often not even the priests in charge were aware
of the names of the divinities represented.
Our interest in temples grew when we tried to understand
the rules that dictated their intriguing design, but the first at¬
tempts left us only more confused than before. Explanations by
the pemangkus, the temple-keepers, did not agree and the dis¬
crepancies were often greater than the points of agreement.
With Spies I started into a more systematic search; we went into
a temple, sought the pemangku, and drew a plan in which the
names and purposes of each unit were indicated. Repetitions
started to appear in many plans, and when we had gathered
many ground plans of various sorts of temples we traced the
RITES AND FESTIVALS 265
common features in them. From those that appeared most fre¬
quently I set myself to the task of reconstrueting one “ ideal ”
Balinese temple.
Most typical was the temple with two courtyards, the outer
A — Split gate, tjsndi bentar
B — Kulkul tower
c — Kitchen, paon
D — Bale gong
E — Bale for pilgrims
F — Ceremonial gate, padu raksa
G — Side gate
H — Paruman or pepelik
I — Ngrmah alit
s —
j — Ngiurah gede
K — Gedong pesimpangan
L — Padmasana
M — Gunung agung
N — Meru
o — Gunung batur
p — Maospait (mendjangan seluang)
Q — Taksd
R — Bald piasan
court called d/aban, “ outside,” and the other the dahm, the
“ inside.” Entrance into the first court was gained through the
tjandi bentar, the “ split monument ” or split gate (A. See plan) ,
whieh was like the two halves of a solid tower cut clean through
the middle, each half pushed apart to give access into the temple.
266 ISLAND OF BALI
That the t/andf bentai represented the two halves of a unit was
obvious; in most of them each side was elaborately carved, often
with the design also cut in two, as in a temple near Mengwi
where half of a monstrous face adorned each side of the gate.
Furthermore, the two inner sides were invariably left smooth,
clean surfaces that shone by contrast with the elaborately carved
rest of the temple. This we decided was an inviolable law until
we found one tjand'i bentar in Pura Bangkung, in Sukasada,
North Bali, with its inner sides carved. This exception, how¬
ever, is not important, given the anarchy that prevails in North
Balinese temples, and since there is no rule in Bali without its
exception.
In the right-hand corner of the first courtyard, or outside the
gate, is the high tower (B) where hang the village drums
(kulkul) . Inside the outer court are a number of simple sheds:
a kitchen (paon) where the food for feasts is cooked (C) , the
bale gong, a shed for the orchestra (D) , and another bale (E)
used as rest-house by the people and for the making of offer¬
ings. The outer courtyard is generally devoid of ornamenta¬
tion except for a number of decorative frangipani trees.
Another monumental gate, the padu laksa (F) , leads into the
second court, the temple proper. This gate is a massive struc¬
ture identical in shape and design with the reunited halves of
the tjandi bentar, but raised high above the ground on stone
platforms, with a narrow entrance provided with wooden doors
and reached by a flight of stone steps. On each side of the stairs
is a statue of a fierce giant, two raksasas to guard the entrance.
Directly behind the door is a stone wall (aling aling) covered
with reliefs of demons. These are meant to keep evil influences
from entering the temple.
All sorts of theories have been advanced as to the significance
of these two gates, the most characteristic structures in the
temples. It has been said that the tjandi bentar represents the
two halves of the mountain Mahameru, which was split by
Pasupati (Siva) in order to place each half in Bali, one as the
A Typical Balinese Temple
RITES AND FESTIVALS 267
Gunung Agung and the other as the Batur. A scholarly Balinese
told me that it represents the two halves of a complete thing,
the male at the right, the female at the left; or it is perhaps
symbolical of the splitting of the material world to permit the
entrance into the mystery with the physical body. Dr. Goris
suggests as the origin of these gates the remainders of the old
tjandis, the burial towers of the former kings, a logical explana¬
tion because of the cult of deified kings linked to the ancestor-
worship and, further, because of the identical shape of the Bali¬
nese temple gates and the old tjandis, a shape of temple gates
which dates back to the most ancient of Javanese temples. The
tjandi form appears throughout Balinese ritual as the symbol
for the universe: a pyramid of receding platforms — the founda¬
tion of the earth and the mountains — the intermediate space
between heaven and earth, and the stratified heavens, repre¬
sented by the pagoda-like roofs (tumpang) , or by gradually de¬
creasing stone mouldings.
The first courtyard is only an antechamber for the preparation
of feasts and for other social purposes. It is in the inner court
that are erected the altars and shrines that serve as rest-houses
for the gods during their visits to this earth. The principle of
orientation — the relation of the mountains to the sea, high and
low, right and left — that constitutes the ever present Balinese
Rose of the Winds (nawa sanggah) , rules the orientation and
distribution of the temple units. The principal altars and shrines
are arranged in two rows on the honoured sides of the court:
kadja, upward to the mountain, and kangin, to the right of this
direction.
First in importance is the gedong pesimpangan (K) , built in
the middle of the kangin side, a masonry building closed by
wooden doors dedicated to the local deity, the ancestor-founder
of the community, often named after the village, as, for in¬
stance, in desa Dedap he is called Ratu Dalam Dedapan. Inside
there is often a stone phallus (Iingga) and, since the building
can be locked, there the relics and heirlooms of the temple are
268 ISLAND OF BALI
also kept: ancient statues of stone, wood, or gold, old bronzes
and so forth.
Most impressive are the meius, high pagodas of wood resting
on stone platforms, always with an odd number of superimposed
receding roofs (from three to eleven) made of thick layers of
idjuk, the everlasting and costly fibre of the sugar palm. These
roofs are arranged along an open shaft through which the gods
are supposed to descend into the meru. The temple of Besakih,
the greatest in all Bali, on the slopes of the Gunung Agung,
consists practically of merus, and other important temples have
three, five, seven, or nine merus, but our typical temple has one,
built in the principal place, the centre of the kadja side of the
courtyard. The meru is supposed to represent the great cosmic
mountain Mahamem and is the seat of the high Hindu gods.
A curious feature of merus is the miniature iron implements
buried under the building, together with little gold and silver
roast chickens, lotus flowers, crabs, shrimps, and so forth. Again,
where the rafters of the uppermost roof meet, there is a vertical
beam of sandalwood with a hole in which is deposited a small
covered Chinese bowl of porcelain containing nine precious
stones or nine pripih, plates of various metals inscribed with
magic words.
Never missing are two shrines for the great mountains: one
for the Gunung Agung (M) and other for the Batur (O) (or
for the Batukau in the villages in its neighbourhood) . They
resemble little merus of one roof, also made of idjuk and ending
in tall phallic points. Of great importance is the padmasana
(L) , the stone throne for the sun-god Surya, which stands in¬
variably in the uppermost right-hand corner of the temple, with
its back directed always towards the Gunung Agung. The form
of the padmasana is again the representation of the cosmos. On
a wide platform shaped like the mythical turtle bedawang, with
two stone serpents coiled around its body, rest three receding
platforms, the mountains, the whole surmounted by a stone
chair with a high back.
RITES AND FESTIVALS 269
Other shrines that are never missing are the little houses for
Ngrurah Alit (I) and Ngrurah Cede (J) , the “ secretaries ” of
the gods, who watch that the proper offerings are made, and the
stone niche for the Taksu (Q) , the interpreter of the deities. It
is the Taksu who enters the bodies of meiums when in a trance
and speaks through them to make known the decisions of the
gods to the people. There is still one more shrine, the Maospait
(P) , dedicated to the totemic gods of the settlers from Ma-
djapahit, the " original deer ” (med/angan seluang) . This can
be recognized by a small sculpture of a deer's head or by the
stylization of antlers carved in wood.
There are, besides, other pavilions; one in the middle of the
temple which serves as a communal seat for the gods, the pepelik,
or paruman (H) , and the bale piasan (R, S) , simple sheds for
offerings.
This lengthy description is still far from complete and is
limited to the main features of a would-be average temple, but
unfortunately such typical temples could hardly be found in
Bali. Despite the rules, practically every temple has curious
contradictory individual features; besides, such is the variety of
types of temples and so great the local differences, that only
for the purpose of a general understanding of the spirit of Ba¬
linese temples can this “ typical ” temple be of use. To note
down all the variants of Balinese temples would require a great
volume.
Besides the family shrines, every Balinese “ complete " commu¬
nity, a desa, should have at least the three reglementary temples:
first a “ naval ” temple, pura puseh, the old temple of the original
community from which the village sprang; a second, pura desa,
the town temple for official celebrations of the entire village,
which, in case it has a bale agung, the old-fashioned assembly
hall of the village Elders, receives the name of pura baI6 agung;
and third, a pura daJara, the temple of the dead, built out in
the cemetery, dedicated to the deities of death and cremation.
It often happens that the pura pus^h, despite its being the most
270 ISLAND OF BALI
important centre of worship, is located in another village or even
in another district, because it was from there that came the
settlers of the later village. In some places the pura puseh and
the pura desa are combined into one, with only a wall separating
the two departments. There are still the private temples of the
princes; the royal temples (pura panataran) , and the pura dadia,
the private temple of origin of the family, the connecting link
between the scattered branches of a common stock. Other im¬
portant temples are the pura bedugul, the rice temple of each
agricultural guild; the pura pamaksan, little temples of each vil¬
lage ward (bandjai) , from which the pura puseh evolves; hill
temples (pura bukit) , sea temples on the beaches (pura segara) ,
temples for the deities of seed and markets (pura melanting) ,
bathing-temples, temples in lakes, caves, springs, trees, and so
forth. (See additional Note i, page 308.)
Except for the old pemangku, the keeper and officiating priest
of the temple, who can be seen there occasionally sweeping the
yard, the temples are ordinarily deserted because the Balinese
go into them only for public gatherings, festivals, and meetings.
Pemangkus are simple people of the common class with old-
fashioned manners, polite, good-natured, and with a charming
modesty, who live near the temple and perform all of its duties,
from sweeping it to invoking and impersonating the deities. The
haughty Brahmanic priests, the pedandas, refer to them con¬
temptuously as d/ero sapuh, “ sweepers,” but the pemangkus are
the really active priests of the people’s ritual and alone officiate
at temple feasts, when the pedandas do not take an active part.
Furthermore there are villages where the pedandas are even
barred from the temple.
The office of the pemangku is often hereditary, but he may
also be chosen by some mystic while inspired by the spirits. He
dresses in all-white clothes with a characteristic coat with tight
sleeves and wears his head-cloth in the old-style high crest.
Pemangkus lead a normal routine life without great religious
restrictions, attending to their personal affairs until the date for
RITES AND FESTIVALS 271
the feast of the temple approaches, when they will become the
centre of all activity.
Every temple celebrates its birthday (odakn) on the anni¬
versary of its consecration, with a great feast that constitutes the
principal social event for the entire community and in which
everybody in the village takes part with equal enthusiasm.
For days before the temple feast of Kengetan, as typical as
any, the men attended to the decorations of the temple, build¬
ing the temporary bamboo altars, erecting awnings for enter¬
tainers, adorning the shrines with flags, pennants, and penyors,
cooking the food for the feast, and dressing up the statues of
the demons that guard the entrance with a skirt of chequered
black and white cloth and a great red hibiscus behind each ear.
At the same time the women prepared the offerings and made
lamaks. The pemangku was on duty from early morning to re¬
ceive and bless the offerings that each woman brought. By after¬
noon a great crowd of people in festival dress had gathered and
the dagangs had set up their food-stands. All day long the
women arrived with offerings on their heads, walking like sail¬
ing ships, requiring the help of two other women to support the
fifty pounds of fruit and flowers so that the bearer could come
out from under the heavy load to deposit it on the special shed
erected for the purpose.
The pemangku sat in front of the central god-house praying
and ringing a bell, surrounded by the new arrivals, who sat in
rows behind him after leaving their offerings, the men cross-
legged, with bared heads, behind the kneeling women. They
prayed (mabakti) three times, taking a flower between the
middle fingers of their joined hands, bringing it to their fore¬
heads, and flinging it in the direction of the shrine. The women
sang wangesari songs in chorus while the pemangku and his as¬
sistant went around the praying people pouring holy water with
long-handled ladles into their outstretched hands, drinking it
with reverence, and wiping their wet hands in their hair. Serious
272 ISLAND OF BALI
babies in silks and gold necklaces also kneeled, repeating every
gesture of their elders. Outside the temple the crowd gathered,
listening to the stately music of the gong or watching a show.
Sometimes the men staged cockfights (also a part of the ritual)
or flirted with the vendors.
In a quiet corner an old pemangku proceeded to imbue with
the spirits of the local deities the temple aitjas, a pair of beauti¬
fully carved little statues, male and female, of painted and gilt
sandalwood. They were usually locked into the central shrine,
wrapped in many cloths and kept in a special basket, but they
were taken out on the day of their feast and made “ alive.”
While an old man chanted the ancient song Sinom Surakarta,
the old pemangku recited a special prayer of invitation to lure
the deities to occupy the artjas so that in this more tangible form
they would preside over the feast in their honour, be taken out
in procession, and in general serve as a point of sight towards
which the ceremony was directed. (See Note 2, page 310.)
The gamelan angkJung played outside the temple while the
people began to form for the great procession to take the gods
for a symbolical bath (melis or makies) to the nearest big river.
The march started, headed by many bearers of flags, pennants,
and spears, followed by a long line of girls, their torsos wrapped
in silk scarfs of yellow, green, and magenta, marching in single
file with the offerings and pots of holy water on their heads.
Then came the little statuettes of the gods, decorated for the
occasion with fresh flowers, carried on cushions on the heads
of a group of picked girls and shaded by three-staged umbrellas
of state. Older women followed, also carrying offerings, and the
procession was closed by the group of men and the orchestra,
which played an obstinate marching rhythm on the gongs. The
correct thing would have been to take the gods to the seashore,
but Kengetan was far inland and there it was customary to go
to the river for melis. In Den Pasar, on the occasion of the great
feast of the temple Taman Badung, from a height I saw a great
procession over a mile long, a fact verified by the mileage posts
RITES AND FESTIVALS 273
on the road, a fantastic spectacle in the late afternoon sun, pre¬
ceded by hundreds of fluttering flags and tall pennants, white
umbrellas, and spears, moving slowly towards the sea to the ac¬
companiment of gongs. On arrival at the beach in Kuta, after a
walk of five miles, the art/as received offerings, the priests prayed
towards them, and the people sang songs of praise and danced
mendet to entertain the gods, returning at dusk to continue the
feast through the night.
In Kengetan it was already dark when the procession returned
to the temple, its arrival greeted with exploding firecrackers and
clattering kulkuls, while the orchestras played furiously all at
the same time. The parade stopped at the temple gate in front
of the pemangku, who waited, seated in front of a mat spread
with offerings. He proceeded to welcome the aitjas, once more
addressing a prayer to them, ringing his bell, and offering rice,
money, eggs, and wine, decapitating a little chicken to spill the
blood on the ground. In that instant an old woman attendant
stiffened and became possessed, followed by the pemangku, who
also fell into a trance. They both danced like somnambulists,
the woman with closed eyes, the pemangku staring wildly and
holding an incense brazier in his hands, in this manner leading
the carriers of the aitjas into the temple.
Inside, they stood in the middle of the lamplit court, and the
gamelan played a dance theme; elderly women began to dance a
solemn mendet (or gaboi) , one holding a bottle with a carved
spout, another with a piece of banana leaf folded hke a spoon
containing arak (rice brandy) , a third performing intricate steps
balancing miraculously on her head a brazier filled with glowing
coals. They danced back and forth from one end of the court
to the aitjas, each time pouring holy water and arak on the
ground in front of the deities. At intervals a group of young
girls walked forth with silver platters containing offerings and
deposited httle trays of palm-leaf with food and flowers (t/anan) ,
samples from the large offerings, on the floor, while the pemangku
fanned their essence in the direction of the gods.
274 ISLAND OF BALI
Only a few people witnessed the ceremony because the ma¬
jority were outside watching a play. Throughout the night
mediums went into a trance and became possessed by the spirits
of the d/ero Taksu, the “ interpreter ” of the deities, in order
to inform the people if the offerings had been well received and
to obtain advice from the gods. The medium was the pemangku
himself, going into convulsions, rolling his eyes, and foaming at
the mouth as the spirit of the Taksu entered his body, making
incoherent guttural sounds which were taken as the voice of the
spirit. Once I saw a pemangku become possessed by the spirit of
some sort of tiger, growling and running on all fours in the
temple yard under exploding firecrackers, picking up fire with his
hands and eating the sparks. The medium came out of the
trance painfully, and in an epileptic fit, as the spirit left his body.
Gradually he calmed down, got up exhausted, and was helped
out of the temple. The crowd remained divided, watching the
performances or talking in groups outside the temple, not much
interested in the ceremonies or in the spectacular trances. Often,
especially at the feasts of the death temples, they performed
savage kris dances, which will be described later.
In Kengetan the gong played all night the stately, ancient
music, and as dawn approached the old pemangku moved
around quietly supervising things, putting out the lights and
preparing for the final ceremony, the adoration of the rising
sun, when mendet was danced again by middle-aged women and
offerings were dedicated in the direction of the first rays of sun
that appeared on the horizon. This ended the feast, and by
morning, when the essence of the offerings had been consumed
by the gods, the women came to collect their respective offerings
and take them home.
Such is the general pattern along which a temple feast moves,
but, again, each community has its own way of doing things and
no two feasts are carried out in exactly the same manner. Dif¬
ferences are particularly striking in the villages of the moun¬
tains, as in Paksabali and Bugbug, two communities in East Bali,
RITES AND FESTIVALS 275
where they stage wild battles of the gods, the artjas, which are
placed inside baskets wrapped in polen cloth and topped with
bunches of leaves. The baskets are firmly attached to bamboo
stretchers carried by half-naked men who rush at full speed
against others carrying “ rival ” deities, trying to knock each
other down. A crowd armed with spears joins in the free-for-all
while firecrackers explode, and everybody yells, pushes, and
tramples everyone else. The excitement is followed by an equally
mad kris dance.
GODS AND DEMONS: OFFERINGS AND
EXORCISMS
Good and evil, right and left, gods and demons, are banded into
two opposing factions, constantly at war, in which the weapons
are their magic powers and the stakes the lives and interests of
the Balinese themselves, compelling them to propitiate both
sides so as not to attract the wrath of either party. Only by the
proper balance between the negative and positive forces are they
able to maintain the spiritual harmony of the community. This
is particularly important at certain times, such as childbirth,
menstruation, death in the village, or when a crime that dis¬
turbs the magic balance of the village has been committed;
circumstances that weaken and pollute the protective life power
of the individual or of the village and render them vulnerable
to the attacks of evil.
The antithesis of the state of normalcy, of health and cleanli¬
ness (sutji, ening) is for a person or a community to be sebel,
unclean, physically and spiritually polluted and run down, a con¬
dition that must be cured by cleansing factors and ceremonies
to give added strength to the soul — the making of offerings, the
use of purifying water and fire, and the recitation of secret magic
words by a qualified priest, the three elements of Balinese ritual.
To counterbalance the healthy influence of the gods who
produce cleanliness, luck, and fertility, there are evil spirits re¬
sponsible for all illness and misfortune. Among the countless
276 ISLAND OF BALI
demons that crowd the spirit world of the Balinese, some, like
the raksasas, are inoffensive giants and ghouls that belong to
literature, but the invisible causes of evil are disagreeable butas
and kalas, symbols of malice and coarseness, that haunt deso¬
lated places, the seashore, and the deep forests and infest the
dangerous ” parts of the village, the crossroads and the ceme¬
tery. The butas and kalas have no other mission on earth than
to annoy and persecute humans, making people ill, disturbing
and polluting everything. They can go into people’s bodies
and make them insane or turn them into idiots.
The tangible gifts to the gods, the offerings (pebanten) (see
page 310) like the presents given to human beings, consist of
fruits, cakes, rice, flowers, money, chickens, and pigs. They are
given in the same spirit as presents to the prince or to friends, a
sort of modest bribe to strengthen a request; but it is a condition
that they should be beautiful and well made to please the gods
and should be placed on well-decorated high altars. Their devils,
however, the Balinese treat with contempt, and the offerings in-
RITES AND FESTIVALS 277
tended for evil spirits are generally a smelly mess of half-decayed
food which is disdainfully thrown to the ground. The deities are
served with the essence (sari) of the oflFerings, which is fanned
towards the place they supposedly occupy, carried by the rising
smoke of the incense. Ordinary people take what is left — the
material part is later taken home and eaten. Thus both gods
and the donors enjoy the banquet. The magic people, the many
Balinese possessed by supernatural powers, are not allowed to
touch these left-overs from the feast of the gods, the food with¬
out the essence.
Offerings to evil spirits are in themselves polluted and are left
to be eaten by the village scavengers, the hungry dogs. The
devils receive elaborate sacrifices on certain occasions and on
special days, every fifth (klion) and every fifteenth (kad/eng-
klion) day; but, as they are greedy by nature, the little offerings
given them every day — a few grains of rice, a few flower petals,
and a coin or two — are enough to distract them from their evil
intentions. They become particularly obnoxious at sundown,
and on these special dates the women of each household place
in front of their gates trays of food, flowers, and money, next to
a burning coconut husk.
Great calamities will fall upon the village when the butas
predominate or when they are angry. Then they cause epi¬
demics, the loss of crops, and so forth, and only by the most
elaborate ceremonies of purification and great offerings of blood
sacrifices can the pollution of the village be wiped out.
Nyepf. Once a year, at the spring equinox, every community
holds a general cleaning-out of devils, driving them out of the
village with magical curses and rioting by the entire population.
This is followed by a day of absolute stillness, the suspension of
all activity, from which the ceremony takes its name. Nyepf
marks the New Year (see Note 5, page 313) and the arrival of
spring, the end of the troublesome rainy season, when even the
earth is said to be sick and feverish (panas) . It is believed that
278 ISLAND OF BALI
then the Lord of Hell, Yama, sweeps Hades of devils, which fall
on Bali, making it imperative that the whole of the island be
purified.
There is great excitement all over Bali at this time, and on
the days before nyepi everybody is busy erecting altars for the
offerings and scaffolds for the priests at the village crossroads.
Since no cooking is allowed on nyepi day, the food for the next
day is prepared and there are melis processions all over Bali to
take the gods to the sea for their symbolical bath. The celebra¬
tion proper extends over a period of two days: the met/aru, the
great purification offering, and nyepi, the day of silence. On
the first day the Government allows unrestricted gambling and
cockfighting, an essential part of the ceremony, because the land
is cured by spilling blood over impure earth.
In Den Pasar round after round was fought all morning;
crowds of men gathered in the meeting hall of every band/ar,
each bringing his favourite fighting cock in a curious satchel of
fresh coconut leaves, handle and all, woven over the cock's body,
its tail left sticking out so as not to damage the feathers. Each
satchel was cut open and the cocks presented to the audience
to announce the matches. The betting began; excited enthusi¬
asts waved strings of kepengs and silver ringgit and yelled at
each other, A vicious steel blade five inches long and sharp as a
razor was attached to the right foot of each cock in place of
the natural spur, which was cut off. When both contenders
were ready and the bets had been placed, the referee and the
time-keeper went to their places and gave the signal to start, beat¬
ing a small gong.
The two cocks, held by their owners, were brought to the
middle of the arena, provoked against each other and released.
The audience became tense, and the cocks attacked each other
with such fury that the eye could not follow them; there were
only flashes of the polished steel of the spurs in the cloud of
flying feathers. Each round lasted only a few seconds; suddenly
the two cocks stopped and stood motionless in front of each
RITES AND FESTIVALS 279
other, both streaming blood, until one staggered and fell dead,
the winner crowing and still pecking furiously at the corpse.
It frequently happens that both cocks are wounded but the
survivor is healed and often lives to fight many battles. A cock
is disqualified if it runs away at the beginning; otherwise the
fight is to death. When a cock is wounded but it is considered
that it can go on fighting, its owner gives it strength to go on
with special massages, blowing his own breath into its lungs;
then it is not rare for a badly wounded cock to come out tri¬
umphantly over an apparent winner. Should both cocks refuse
to fight, they are placed inside a basket, where one cannot avoid
being killed. Hundreds of roosters are sacrificed in this manner
in every village on the day before nyep'i.
The Balinese cannot understand the attitude of the senti¬
mental Dutch, who have forbidden cockfights. To them a
rooster is as dead in the kitchen as after a cockfight; besides,
cockfights are staged as a religious duty, as a sport that gives
an opportunity for a little gambling and as a way to provide
food for the next day. The dead roosters are taken home and
cooked for the nyepi meal. After the cockfights, in Den Pasar
it is customary to give a banquet for the children of each band/ar,
a double row of beautifully decorated trays filled with sweets
and cakes served to them by the band/ar officials.
Before sunset the evil spirits had to be lured and concentrated
at the great offering, the metjam, then cast out by the powerful
spells of the priests of the village. Facing towards kangin, the
East of Den Pasar, were tall altars filled with offerings: one for
the Sun and for the Trinity (sanggah agung) , one for the an¬
cestors, and a third for the great kalas, the evil gods. In the
centre of the ground an elaborate conglomeration of objects was
arranged: food of all sorts, every kind of strong drink, money
and house utensils, hundreds of containers of banana leaf with
a sample of every seed and fruit that grew on the island, and a
piece of the flesh of every wild and domestic animal in Bali
(a small piece of dried tiger flesh was pointed out) ; all arranged
28o island of BALI
in the shape of an eight-pointed star representing the Rose of
the Winds, the whole surrounded by a low fence of woven
palm-leaf.
The colours of the four cardinal points were indicated by a
sacrificed black goat for kadja, the North, a white goose for
5AN6GAR AGUN6
ALTAR FOR
OFFERINGS
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SEVEN PEOANOA SIWA AND ONE
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Arrangement of the Stage for the Nyepf Festival
iangin, the East, a red dog for Mod, the South, and a yellow
calf for Jcauh, the West. Small pieces of black, white, red, and
yellow cloth were placed over each of the animals to give further
emphasis to their colour. A chicken with feathers of five colours
was placed in the centre, next to a small circular Rose of the
Winds made of rice dyed in the eight different colours of the
cardinal directions, with a centre of mixed rice of the eight col-
RITES AND FESTIVALS 281
ours. The collection of all these ingredients had taken months
and the majority were wilted and decomposing. On the ground
at the right of the met/aru was spread a bit of rice flour in which
an image of Batara Kala was drawn and consecrated by a priest,
surrounded by a little bamboo fence to keep the dogs from
walking over it.
Facing the offerings were the scaffolds for the priests. First
a long shed in which eight pedandas, the Brahmanic high priests,
sat in a row, wearing their red and gold mitres and with their
elaborate paraphernalia of state, ready to pray and dedicate the
offerings for the gods. On the end of the shed was a smaller,
lower shed where sat the sunguhu (see page 312) , the low-caste
priest in charge of dedicating the offerings to the evil spirits, his
specialty. These nine priests chanted powerful mantras, ac¬
companied by swift gestures of the hands and fingers, and rang
their bells alternately. There were seven pedanda siwa, one
pedanda budda, and one sunguhu — a priest for each of the
cardinal directions.
The demons were thus lured to the great offering and then
expelled from the village by the curses of the priests. The Regent
of Badung joined in the prayers with his entire family, kneel¬
ing in front of the Sun-altar and making reverences while the
nine priests rang bells and chanted formulas. When they fin¬
ished, “ new fire ” and holy water were given by the priests to
the heads of each band/ar, and the poor were allowed to loot the
offerings for money and other useful objects. Firecrackers ex¬
ploded in every direction and all the kulkuls in Den Pasar were
beaten furiously, the populace ran all over town in groups, often
with their faces and bodies painted, carrying torches on the end
of long poles, beating drums, gongs, tin cans or anything that
made a noise, yelling at the top of their lungs: “ Megedf,
megedi! Get out! Get out! ” — beating the trees and the ground,
to scare away the unsuspecting butas who had assembled to par¬
take of the offerings. From a dark corner came a deafening din
that seemed produced by the frightened devils themselves, but
282 ISLAND OF BALI
our flashlight revealed a gang of naked children beating empty
gasoline cans.
The noisy torch parades swept over town until they were ex¬
hausted, long after midnight.
The following day, nyepi, was supposed to be one of absolute
stillness, a day when no fires, no sexual intercourse, and no work
of any sort were permitted. There was no traffic on the roads and
only by special permit and the payment of a heavy fine could the
cars of foreigners drive through a town. In most Balinese vil¬
lages the people were not even allowed out of their houses,
especially in North Bali, where the nyepi regulations are strict.
In Den Pasar it was forbidden even to light a cigarette, but
people went out visiting as on a holiday. Curious tug-of-war
games (med-medan) were organized there for the amusement
of the young people; in bandjai Kaliungu, men on one side,
girls on the other, pulled a long rattan until one side defeated
the other, but in bandjai Sesdtan a shouting crowd of boys stood
facing a group of girls; the boys charged as in a football game
and captured one girl, who then had to be rescued by her friends
in a rough free-for-all. Everybody tugged and pulled and the
poor prisoner, wild-eyed and with her hair loose, was so roughly
handled in the desperate effort to free her that she fainted. But
someone walked over to her and unceremoniously emptied a
bucket of cold water on her head so she would revive and the
game could proceed; when the girl was rescued the men cap¬
tured another. Although the unique game is not played out¬
side of the neighbourhood of Den Pasar and then only on
nyepi day, the Balinese insisted it had no significance of any
sort and that its object was purely play.
THE CALENDAR
The calendar that regulates the social and religious life of Bali
is an intricate mechanism by which not only all communal and
private festivals are established, but even the most ordinary
actions of the Balinese are determined. No Balinese can hope
RITES AND FESTIVALS 283
for success in any undertaking unless it is performed on the exact
auspicious day set aside on the calendar for the purpose; a
wedding, a tooth-filing, a cremation, the occupation of a new
house, take place only during special weeks dedicated to the
affairs of human beings, while there are other similar weeks and
days for activities concerning cattle, fowl, fish, trees, and bam¬
boo (consecutive periods of seven days called ingkel: wong,
sato, mina, manuk, tarn, and buku) .
The Balinese use two simultaneous systems of time-calcula¬
tion: one, the saka,^ the Hindu solar-lunar year, similar to ours in
duration, twelve months, " moons,” by which they observe the
full (pumama) and the “ dark ” or new moons (tilem) im¬
portant for agriculture, for nyepf, and for the festivals of the
mountain people. The other, the wuku year, the so-called native
or Javanese-Balinese year of 210 days, is not officially divided
into months, but into weeks, ten of them running parallel and
simultaneously, from a week of one day in which every day is
called luang, a week of two days, one of three, of four, five, and
so forth, up to a week of ten days. Each day of each of the ten
weeks receives a special name, the combination of names deter¬
mining the character of a date as a lucky or unlucky day. Thus
every day theoretically receives ten different names, plus the
month of the saka year and the “ age ” of the moon, according
to whether it is crescent or waning; for instance, Sunday, the
4th of November of 1934, the beginning of the wuku year, was,
according to them: saka year 1856, wuku of sinta, ingkel wong
(good for humans) , reditd, paing, paseh, tungleh, sri, sri, danggu
— only one endowed with the sakti and the knowledge of a high
priest could keep track of such a tangle of names. Ordinary
Balinese reckon simple dates, auspicious days for making offer¬
ings and for the principal feasts, by the combination of day-
names of the seven- and five-day weeks, by which names every¬
day dates are recorded. The common people also observe the
week of three days by which the village market day is established,
^For further information on the Balinese calendar, see Note 5, page 313.
284 ISLAND OF BALI
held in rotation every day in one of the villages that work in
groups of three.
Other date names are used mainly for magic and religious
purposes, making of the calendar a science so complicated in
itself that it is practised mainly by specialists, generally the
Brahmanic priests and witch-doctors, who, by the ownership
of intricate charts (tika) with secret symbols painted on paper
or carved in wood, and of palm-leaf manuscripts (wariga) by
which the lucky or unlucky dates are located, make the people
dependent on them for this purpose, because the Balinese are
obliged to consult them for good dates for every special under¬
taking and have to pay for the consultation.
GaJunggan. Nyepf is the acknowledged New Year feast of the
solar-lunar year, but the Balinese celebrate another “ new year ”
in the great holiday of galunggan, when the ancestral spirits
come down to earth to dwell again in the homes of their descend¬
ants. The ancestors supposedly arrive five days before the day
of galunggan, receive many offerings, and go back to heaven
after ten days, five days before kuninggan, the feast of all souls.
Every home and all implements were provided with offerings
for galunggan, the old utensils renewed and the baskets washed.
On all the roads, at the gate of every home, tall penyors were
erected, meant perhaps to be seen from the summits of the
mountains where the gods dwell, together with a little bamboo
altar from which hung a lamak, one of those beautiful mosaics
on long strips of palm-leaf. For this occasion the lamaks were
over thirty feet long and had to hang from the tops of the coco¬
nut trees.
Everybody wore new clothes and the whole of Bali went out
for a great national picnic. Everywhere there were women with
offerings on their heads and many old men dressed for the occa¬
sion in old-fashioned style, gold kris and all, although with an
incongruous imported undershirt. The younger generation pre¬
ferred to tear all over the island in open motor-cars, packed like
le tika, key to the wiiku calendar
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286 ISLAND OF BALI
sardines, dressed in fancy costumes, many young men in absurd
versions of European clothes, the girls wearing their brightest
silks and their best gold flowers in their hair. After visiting the
village temple the gay groups went to the many feasts held on
this and the following days all over the island. At this time the
peculiar monsters called baiong — a great fleece of long hair
with a mask and gilt ornaments, animated by two men — were
'' loose ” and free to go wherever they pleased. Everywhere on
the road one met the cavorting holy barongs, who had become
foolish for the day, dancing down the roads and paths, fol¬
lowed breathlessly by their orchestras and attendants.
In the temple of Gelgel, the former capital, there was a great
feast where plays were given and violent kris dances ” were
staged — when crazed men in a trance pretended to stab them¬
selves and tore live chickens with their teeth to show their
wickedness; but a more serene feast was celebrated in the jungle
temple near the summit of the Batukau. There the mountain
people brought offerings to the Batukau spirit while the Elders
prepared the banquet in the spring underneath giant tree-ferns;
performing afterwards a majestic bans dance, each dressed in
black and white magic cloth, mimicking a stately battle with
their long spears.
Ten days after gaJunggan came the day kuninggan, when new
offerings and new lamaks were made and coconut husks were
burned in front of every gate. This was the date of the temple
feast of Tirfa Empul, the sacred baths near Tampaksiring, and
all morning people bathed unashamed in the purifying waters,
men on one side, women on the other, after leaving an offer¬
ing for the deity of the spring. They turned their backs on the
crowd, unconcerned under the spouts, each of which is sup¬
posed to have a special purifying or curative quality. Eventually
the local prince arrived with his wives and with an impressive
retinue of servants. Also the barongs of the district came pranc¬
ing down the hills to offer their respects and snap their jaws
while a pemangku offered their prayers, manifesting their tern-
RITES AND FESTIVALS 287
peraments by making the men under the fleece fall in a trance
and throw epileptic fits.
The following day was the feast of Sakenan, the temple of
the little island of Serangan, just off the Badung coast. Since
the night before, the island was jammed with pilgrims and
orchestras, and the next morning the short stretch of sea be¬
tween Serangan and the mainland was filled with fantastic boats
shaped like fish with their triangular sails up, overloaded with
richly dressed people. On arrival they waded to the temple, the
women balancing offerings on their heads while lifting their
brocade skirts out of reach of the water.
One boat brought the holy baiong landong, four giant pup¬
pets who performed in the temple. They were DjeroMh, a
ribald old woman with a protuberant forehead, enormously dis¬
tended ear-lobes, and deep wrinkles outlined in gold all over
her white mask; a lecherous black monster with prominent teeth
called D/erogede; a young prince, Mann, and his beautiful prin¬
cess, Tjil'i Towong Kuning, richly dressed in green and gold,
who wore great flower head-dresses over their yellow masks.
Normal-size attendants held gold umbrellas of state over the
giants as they waddled towards the temple in ceremonial proces¬
sion with music and a retinue of men bearing spears tipped with
red fur. After dedicating an offering, the giants danced to the
accompaniment of gongs, flutes, and drums; the old rascal
D/erogede talked and laughed in a deep thunderous voice, while
Djeioluh leaped, hooped, and yelled in a shrill falsetto, all be¬
having in a manner quite undignified for their holy character.
Their remarks were of the sort that made my polite Balinese
friends blush, especially in the episodes when the prince made
love to the princess. TTie performance over, the men that ani¬
mated the giant puppets came out from under their skirts,
leaving the lifeless forms to rest in a comer of the temple.
The crowds returned home in the late afternoon, this time
on foot, because the tide had gone out, leaving solid ground
where before only the white boats could pass. There was a
288 ISLAND OF BALI
long line of happy people in the orange light of the sunset,
walking on the mud among thousands of strange vermilion
crabs that peered out of their holes, constantly waving a mys¬
terious single purple claw.
When a Balinese speaks of his gods, collectively called dewas,
he does not mean the great divinities of Hinduism, but refers
to an endless variety of protective spirits — sanghyang, pitaia,
kawitan, all of whom are in some way connected with the idea
of ancestry. The rather vague term dewa includes not only
the immediate ancestors worshipped in the family temple, or the
nameless forefathers, founders of his community, to whom the
village temples are dedicated, but also certain Hindu charac¬
ters of his liking whom he has adopted into the Balinese race and
has come to regard also as his ancestors. Rama, for instance,
the hero of the Ramayana, is Wisnu reincarnated into a brave
prince who came to earth to save the world. In a later crisis
the god once more took human form and came to Bali to put
things in order (as Gadja Mada, according to Friederich) , be¬
coming the ancestor of the present Balinese. From the cult of
deified dead kings the nobility has accepted the idea of their
divine ancestry so naturally as to assure one in all earnest from
which god they trace their descent. This notion has extended
to the people and I have heard even the Bali Aga Elders of
Kintamani invoke Batara Rama as grandfather ” (kaki) .
The ancestors, being closest to the people, have remained
the first gods, arid their cult formed the link between this earth
and the spirit world. The introduction of great ceremonies for
cremation of the dead was easily correlated to this idea because
the purpose of it was to consecrate the soul of a deceased family
head in order to release and convey the soul to the heaven where
it will dwell as a family god, a dewa yang (see Note 6, page 316) ,
when it receives a place in the family shrine.
The deities of the Hindu pantheon are mostly those wor¬
shipped in India, the high “ Lords ” — batara — but in Bali
RITES AND FESTIVALS 289
they acquire a decidedly Balinese personality. Centuries of re¬
ligious penetration did not convince the Balinese that the
batams were their gods; they were too aloof, too aristocratic, to
be concerned with human insignificance, and the people con¬
tinue to appeal to their infinitely more accessible local dewas
to give them happiness and prosperity.
The bataias remained remote in the popular mind, regarded
rather as deified foreign lords like their princes, and as far as
the Balinese are concerned, their functions ended when they
created the world with all that it contains. The bataias appear
in Balinese literature with such human characteristics and are
so susceptible to the passions of ordinary mortals that they be¬
come merely mythological figures losing their esoteric signifi¬
cance. Typical is the amusing episode in the T/atur Yoga in
which Batara Guru, the Supreme Teacher, quarrelled with
Batara Brahma for the privilege of making men:
“ After Siwa had created the insects, Wisnu the trees, Isora
the fruits, and Sambu the flowers, Batara Guru discussed with
Brahma the creation of human beings to populate the new
world. Brahma admitted he did not know how and asked Batara
Guru to try first. The latter then made four figures, four men
out of red earth, and went into meditation so that they could
talk, think, walk, and work. Brahma remarked that if those were
human beings, then he could make men, and taking some clay,
he proceeded to make a figure that resembled a man. Batara
Guru was annoyed and made the rain, which lasted for three
days, destroying the figure Brahma had made. When the rain
stopped, Brahma tried again, this time baking the figure. On
seeing the man of baked clay, Batara Guru boasted he would
eat excrement if Brahma could give it life, but Brahma succeeded
in making it alive by meditation and demanded that Batara
Guru make good his boast. Enraged, Batara Guru took some
clay and made images of dogs that became living dogs, and
wished that forever after they should walk, whine, bark, and eat
excrement."
290
ISLAND OF BALI
SIWA
An average Balinese knows, however vaguely, the names of
countless bataias. He is well aware, for instance, that Batara
Brahma is the god of fire, that Surya is the Sun, Indra the Lord
of Heaven, and Yama that of Hell, Durga the goddess of death,
Semara the god of physical love, and so forth (see Note 7, page
316) ; but unless he has had a certain amount of theological edu¬
cation, to him the Batara Siwa is simply another of the remote
high gods, although the highest in rank; a sort of Radja among
the bataias.
However, to the learned Brahmanic priests Siwa represents
the abstract idea of divinity that permeates everything — the
total of the forces we call God. Siwa is the source of all life,
the synthesis of the creative and generative powers in nature;
consequently in him are the two sexes in one — the Divine
Hermaphrodite (Windu) , symbol of completion, the ultimate
perfection. As male Siwa is the mountain, the Gunung Agung,
the Lingga, Pasupati, the father of all humanity, all phallic
symbols. He is also the Sun, the Space, and as Batara Guru, the
Supreme Teacher, he is the maker of the world. As female he
is Uma, mother of all nature, Giri Putri, goddess of the moun¬
tains, Dewi Gangga and Dewi Danu, deities of rivers and lakes.
These, his feminine manifestations (sakti) , are taken by the
common people as his literal wives, but the learned interpret
these wives, and his connubial relations with them, as the two
eternal principles: male and female, spirit and matter, united
for the constant production and reproduction of the universe,
the exaltation of the union of the sexes for procreation.
The well-known Indian trinity, the supreme gods Brahma,
Vishnu, and Siva, are in Bali expressions of the one force called
Siwa, but there is also a trinity in Bali: Brahma Siwa (Brahma) ,
Sada Siwa (Wismi) , and Piama Siwa (Iswara) . In the mind
of the common people even this trinity becomes, with typical
Balinese miscomprehension, a deity in itself called Sanghyang
KITES AND FESTIVALS 291
Trimurti or Sanggah Tiga Sakti, “ the Shrine of the Three
Forces.”
Thus Siwa '' is fire (Brahma) who through smoke (vapour)
becomes water (Wisnu) ” which in turn fertilizes the earth
(Pertiwi) to produce rice (Sri) . Ideas such as this, juggled
cleverly by the high priests, repeat themselves in endless se¬
quence to form the intricate Brahmanic philosophy. All the
gods that overcrowd the Balinese pantheon are thus manifesta¬
tions of Siwa, but they are not always on the side of righteous¬
ness, because the good creative and reproductive forces can be
polluted and turn into evil and acquire a destroying, angry form.
Thus the reversed form of Siwa is Kala, Lord of Darkness, bom
out of Siwa to destroy the world, just as Siwa's wife Uma became
Durga, goddess of death, completing the cycle from life to
death. In the Balinese manuscript Usana Djawa we find the
story of the birth of Batara Kala:
Siwa had created creatures with no ethics and without a code
of morals, who went naked, lived in caves, and had no religion.
They mated under the trees, left their children uncared for, and
ate whatever they found, living like beasts. This made Siwa so
angry that he decided to create a son to destroy the unworthy
human beings and told his wife Uma of his intentions while
mating with her. She withdrew indignant and in the struggle
Siwa's sperm fell on the ground. He then called the gods to¬
gether and told them, pointing to the sperm, that should it de¬
velop life the result would bring them into great difficulties.
The alarmed gods began to shoot arrows at it; the sperm grew
a pair of shoulders when the first arrow struck it, hands and feet
sprang out after the second, and as they continued to shoot
arrows into it, the drop of sperm grew into a fearful giant who
stood as high as a mountain, demanding food with which to
calm his insatiable hunger. Siwa called him Kala and sent him
down to earth, where every day he could eat his fill of people,
and the human race rapidly dwindled away. Wisnu, alarmed,
called upon Indra for help to save mankind, and it was decided
ISLAND OF BALI
trcivilize them by sending to
the law of life, agnculture, and the arts
with the necessary tools.
The Birth of Batata Kala
the high priests and the BRAHMANIO
ritual
RITES AND FESTIVALS 293
human being, to warrior, statesman, scholar, priest, and after
death a god. Simply having reached this position, the highest
during life in the long and arduous scale of evolution, endows
pedandas with a magic character and justifies — in their own
eyes at least — their superiority over all living men.
Thus the high priests are, to the Balinese, extraordinary beings
who, by their caste, knowledge, systematic preparation, and old
age, are immune in handling the dangerous secret formulas of
the higher ritual. An ordinary person, unprepared and not
possessing the capacity to store the necessary surcharge of magic
energy, would be destroyed, blown out like a weak fuse under a
high charge of electricity, should he attempt to use this magic
to control the unseen forces. With the proper training, how¬
ever, people of all castes may become priests; a common man
can study to become a witch-doctor, for pemangku or for sung-
uhu, and a mystic prince with a vocation may become a resf,
but only a Brahmana can be an authentic pedanda. Although
the low-caste priests control the ordinary temple and community
ritual, have direct dealings with the ancestors, and are able to
intimidate demons with formulas of their own, they are re¬
stricted to officiating for people within or below their caste,
while the Brahmanic priests serve all those who can afford their
fees.
The pedandas still exert a powerful influence on Balinese life
despite the fact that their relations with the people were never
intimate; they represent the law, and the judges of the high
native courts {laadkeita) are still pedandas in the majority.
They purify persons or dwellings, bless people after illness or
accident, and can avert curses or spells. On account of their
knowledge of the calendar they must be consulted every time it
is necessary to determine the exact lucky or unlucky date on
which to begin or to which to postpone a significant undertaking.
Mountain people ignore them entirely, but they are essential to
all ceremonies of the nobility, and even the poorest commoner
will make great sacrifices to be able to call a pedanda to officiate
294 ISLAND OF BALI
at his private affairs, particularly at cremations, to assure his dead
ones of the correct send-off into the nether world. To use the
services of a pedanda is a luxury that brings social prestige.
A pedanda ’s life is strictly regimented and full of prohibitions.
We visited occasionally the good-natured, sociable pedanda of
Sidan, who often remarked with a deep sigh of regret that the
life of a priest was a difficult one because he had always to
think of the gods. At lunch in his house, when he had a goose
“ cut ” in our honour, he condescended to eat with us, but had
to sit at a higher level, “ otherwise the gods would not like it.”
With a grand disdainful gesture he threw a few grains of rice at
the hungry dogs that surrounded us, explaining that he had to
share his food with these evil spirits in disguise; then he pro¬
ceeded to enumerate the many taboos he had to observe when
eating: he could not sit at a public eating-place or eat in the
market; he ate facing east and not until he had made his morn¬
ing prayers. Beef, pork, and food from offerings were forbidden
to him and he could not touch alcohol. Under no circumstances
could he walk under dirty water. He was fat and old and he
loved to ride in motor-cars, but since so many drain-pipes have
been built recently at high points over the roads to connect the
ricefields, he encountered great difficulties when travelling by
motor-car. Every time he came to a pipe the car stopped. He
stepped out and climbed to the top with great effort, to come
down panting on the other side.
A pedanda marries, generally only once, a woman of his own
caste, who becomes automatically a priestess (pedanda istn) ,
who must help her husband in the ritual and who may herself
officiate on certain occasions. High priests do not observe sexual
abstinence, although it is recommended in the scriptures. An¬
cestry is one of their great concerns, and the standing of the
various Brahmanic families is determined by their purity of
lineage. Balinese Brahmanas all claim descent from the myth¬
ical Wau Rauh, the highest priest of Madjapahit, who in coming
to Bali took wives from the various castes. His descendants es-
RITES AND FESTIVALS 295
tablished themselves at various places in Bali and founded the
Brahmanic clans we find today, from the purer Kamenuh, to
the Keniten, Gelgel, Nuaba, Mas, Kayusunia, Andapan, and so
forth.
Pedandas should dedicate their entire life to meditation, the
study of theology, and the practice of the ritual. During life
they are supposed to be models of knowledge, purity of thought
and of actions, but unfortunately this is not always the case
and, as everywhere else, there are priests who take advantage
of their position and by their mysterious hocus-pocus exploit the
people. In Bali, however, this occurs on a considerably smaller
scale than in countries dominated by an organized clergy. The
Brahmanas jealously keep the inner knowledge of the official
religion for themselves and the common people believe in them,
but continue to regard them, like their princes, as foreigners
aloof from the true life of Bali.
The Brahmanic priesthood is today divided into two great
groups: the Siwaites (siwa or siwa sidanta) , and the so-called
Buddhists (bodda) ; not true followers of Siwa and of the
Buddha, but simply sectarian divisions of the same religion
(see page 318) . The pedanda siwa wears his hair long, tied in
a knot on the top of his head, while the pedanda bodda has his
cut shoulder-length; otherwise their office and ritual are the
same with only small differences in detail, in phraseology, and
in the texts used by each. To the average Balinese this division
means so little that he will call a priest of either sect to officiate
for him regardless of whether he is siwa or bodda, simply because
of personal preference or family tradition or because the priest’s
house may be nearer. To him two priests of two sects are un¬
doubtedly more effective than one, but this is an expensive
luxury that only the princes can afford. The present Regent of
Gianyar always engaged both a pedanda siwa and a pedanda
bodda, who sat side by side. He went even further and had
also a Satria priest, a resi, and a sunguhu to take care of the evil
spirits, so that every sort of priest was represented. In Badung
296 ISLAND OF BALI
I have seen ceremonies with nine priests ofEciating, one for each
of the cardinal points.
From India the Brahmanic priests inherited a good portion
of the sacred Sanskrit writings of the Hindus, such as portions
of the Vedas, called in Bali Weda, containing the most power¬
ful secret formulas for the private use of the priests; the Brah-
manda-Pmana, a treatise on cosmogony, mythology, and mythic
mbja
{wwris C
TW Mcutifatii)
The Rose of the Winds, the Nawa Sangga, with the Cardinal Direc¬
tions, Their Patron Gods, Their Corresponding Syllables, and the
Colour of each
chronology; and the Tutuis, the doctrinal writings of the
pedandas. In this manner the priests preserved the knowledge
of Sanskrit, the really sacred language of Bali, which is, how¬
ever, only known by the name of sloka, the metre in which
Sanskrit works are written. The learning of Sanskrit is kept a
secret among the priests and should not be confused with the
Kawi, which is only the classic language of poetry, well known
to the nobility and to scholars in general.
From the scriptures the priests obtained the all-powerful
mantras, formulas of magic words recited, or rather mumbled
inwardly, accompanied by special gestures to give added em¬
phasis to this abracadabra. Mantras consist of litanies of praise,
each phrase preceded by mysterious sounds, syllables that are
RITES AND FESTIVALS 297
repeated in rhythmic sequence and that perhaps produce the
ecstasy by which the priests commune with the gods. There
are ten of these magic syllables (adasa aksara) , the proper use
of which is kept a strict secret, because “ they can become ex¬
tremely dangerous in the hands of the ignorant.” They form an
integral part of the nawa sangga, the ever present Rose of the
Winds, together with the gods, patrons of each direction, and
the colour of each point of the compass (see page 296) .
The synthesis of this is contained in the Word of Words of
the Yogis: Om, pronounced in Bali ong, consisting of the
sounds ah — u—m, or, as the Balinese say, ang, ung, mang, and
again sada siwa, prama siwa, and maha siwa, or, further still,
Brahma, Wisnu, Iswara, the eternal Trinity manifested through¬
out the universe: heaven, earth, and underworld; fire, water,
and wind; male, female, and hermaphrodite. The symbol for
this sound, called ongkara;
is composed of an upright dash (nada) , a lingga or phallus; a
crescent moon (arda t/andra) , symbolic of the female creative
organ; and the circle (windu or wandii) , symbol of completion
— the hermaphrodite — thus the word ong is Siwa.
Typical of the Balinese attitude on secret religious science
are the endless juggling and speculations of Brahmanas with
these symbols. The ongkara is used in countless ways in per¬
sonal magic as an amulet and in practically all accessories of the
298 ISLAND OF BALI
ritual; for instance, two ongkaras facing or turned away from
each other:
-
ongkara madu muka
ongkara pasah
Like a living being, the ongkara has a crown (the upright
dash) , a forehead (the circle) , eyes (the half-moon) , besides
a mouth, trunk, stomach, and legs — the various sections of
the lower character.
The magic formulas are the essential part of the religious
service of the high priests, the often mentioned maweda, through
which the pedandas make the “ pure ” holy water (tirta) used
in such profusion in the ritual that the Balinese have come to
call their religion agama tirta, the “ science of the holy water.”
The making of this holy water is the principal function and main
source of income of the pedandas, who sell it to the people,
often for exorbitant prices.
There are various kinds of holy waters in varying degrees of
power depending on the standing of the priest who makes it,
the ritual undergone, the formulas used for its consecration, and,
of course, the price paid for it. Simple yeh ning, clean water,
can be procured from a holy spring such as the one high up on
the slopes of the Gunung Agung or near the crater lakes, or can
be made by a low-caste priest by placing flowers of three colours
in ordinary water and reciting a mild prayer over it. Water from
a “ yellow ” coconut (nyoh gading) may be used in an emer¬
gency, but all these are poor substitutes for the real thing, the
tirta made by a Brahmanic priest through the complete per¬
formance of the maweda, the religious service. Thus tirta pelu-
katan, the water that has the power of curing almost any sort
of spiritual impurity, is sanctified by the embodiment of the gods
in it, through the person of the high priest, and is the water
essential to important ceremonies. Humans may procure a more
expensive and considerably more powerful tirta: the toy a pang-
rites and festivals 299
entss, in which only the holiest formulas are employed and
which contains ingredients such as rice dyed yellow, powdered
sandalwood, inscriptions (pripih) on thin plaques of gold, a
ring set with a jewel, and even powdered ruhies.
There is still another holy water of limited power that gives
immortality, the toya amreta or amerta, which is, however, re-
An Eclipse — BCala Rahu Swallowing the Moon
served exclusively for the gods. In relation to this elixir of im¬
mortality there is a legend that gives the cause of eclipses: “ The
demon Kala Rahu came once, out of curiosity, to take a peek
at heaven; there he saw a vessel of amreta and, thinking himself
unobserved, stole it and tried to drink from it. But Wisnu saw
him and with a single blow cut off the demon s head. Kala
Rahu had taken one drink in his mouth, but did not have time
to swallow it, so his body died, but his head continued to live,
and now, as revenge, he swallows the sun and the moon, pro¬
ducing the eclipses. Thus when an eclipse occurs, the Balinese
are frightened and they aU go out of their houses to make all
300 ISLAND OF BALI
the noise possible, beating kulkuls, tin cans, drums, and gongs,
to frighten away the bodyless head of Kala Rahu and free the
threatened sun or moon.
The religious service of the pedandas, the maweda, consists in
the recitation of the mantras, the magic formulas, accompanied
by ritual actions and significant gestures of the hands and fingers
(mudra) to give a physical emphasis to the spoken word.
Through concentration culminating in a trance, the priest be¬
comes the deity itself, entering the body of the priest and act¬
ing through it to consecrate the water and emanate divine vibra¬
tions.
A performance of maweda by an able priest is one of the most
beautiful sights in Bali. Such finished training, such showman¬
ship, enters into its execution, and the hand gestures of the
priest are so thoroughly imbued with rhythm and beauty, that
the maweda is more than a simple prayer; it is a whole spectacle,
a pantomimic dance of the hands. I have once seen a revealing
film of a Nepalese Buddhist priest dancing with his entire body
while he recited Sanskrit mantras and performed the symbolical
hand gestures, and I have wondered if this was not the origin
of the great art of Balinese dancing. Volumes have been written
on the hand expression of the Hindus; The Minor of Gesture of
Comaraswami is already a classic; the beautiful hands of Indian,
Tibetan, Chinese, and Indonesian Buddhist statues and frescoes
are well known, and in Java we find the statues of the Buddhas
of Borobudur in the positions of the mudras. De Kat Angelino
in his Mudras gives us the most thorough study up to date of
the Balinese maweda, painstakingly illustrated by Tyra de Kleen.
Only a moving picture, however, could give an idea of its eerie
beauty.
The most important activity in the everyday life of the
pedandas is the performance of a domestic maweda, done every
morning and on an empty stomach. Every fifth day (klion) and
on days of full and new moons, the maweda is essential and
more complete, with the full regalia of important occasions.
RITES AND FESTIVALS 301
The priest has first to purify himself thoroughly by reciting
cleansing mantras for each action of his morning toilet. He
washes his hair, rinses his mouth, polishes his teeth, and rinses
his mouth again; washes his face, bathes, rubs his hair with oil,
combs it, and then dresses. For each move he has to recite a
short mantia, one for each garment he wears.
Meantime on a high platform his wife has arranged his para¬
phernalia (upatara) ; trays with flowers (night-blooming flowers
if the ceremony is to take place at night) , gold or silver vessels
containing grains of rice and sandalwood powder, his holy-water
container (siwamba) with a silver sprinkler (sesirat) and a long-
handled ladle, (tjanting) , his prayer bell (gantha) , an incense-
burner (pasepan) , and a bronze oil lamp ( pedamaran) . Put
away in baskets at one side of where the priest will sit are the
attributes of Siwa he will wear during the ceremony; the bawa,
a bell-shaped mitre of red felt with applications of beaten gold
and topped by a crystal ball, the “ shimmer of the sun (suiya-
kanta) , and a number of strings of genitri seeds (ear-rings,
bracelets, neck and breast beads) ornamented with pieces of
gold set with linggas of crystal, phallic sjonbols.®
Once seated cross-legged among the upakara, the priest pro¬
ceeds to purify his person; he lays a prayer cloth over his lap
and with his hands on his knees he mumbles a formula and asks
of Batara Siwa to descend into the water-vessel and into his
body. He stretches his hands over the incense smoke, uncovers
the tray in front of him, and mumbles the mantra asta mantra,
the hand-cleansing formula, rubs the palms of his hands with a
flower and sandalwood powder, “ wiping out impurity,” and re¬
cites a formula for each finger as it is passed over the palm of
each hand, taking flowers which he holds over the incense smoke
3 T^ese are the attributes of the pedanda siwa; the pedanda bodda's holy water
vessel is called pamandiyanga, and in place of flowers for praying he uses a “ thunder¬
bolt/' a bad/ra of bronze identical with those used by the Tibetan lamas and the
priests of the Shingon Buddhist sect of Japan. He has a sort of banner on a stand
made of bronze which is turned successively to the four winds during the course of
the ceremony. The pedanda bodda wears his hair loose and remains throughout the
service with his head uncovered.
302 ISLAND OF BALI
and then flinging them away saying: “ Be happy, be perfect, be
glad in your heart/’
To induce trance, the priest uses pranayama, breath control,
closing each nostril alternately with a finger, breathing deeply,
and holding his breath as long as possible, then exhaling through
the other nostril. With a blade of grass he inscribes the sacred
ong in the holy water, prays again with a flower which he drops
into the water-container, then takes his bell in the left hand and
strikes the clapper three times with another flower held in his
right hand. Now his breath, his voice, and his spirit (idep) are
in unison with the deity.
The priest proceeds, mumbling his guttural prayers, ringing
the bell alternately with swift, intricate gestures of the hands
and fingers, taking flowers at intervals, dropping them into the
holy water or holding them over the lamp and the incense, and
flinging them away. He rings the bell louder and quicker and
stops suddenly.
During these preliminaries he gives signs of the oncoming
trance; he gasps, his eyes roll back, and his movements take on
a tense, unearthly air. Now the deity is within him and he
sprinkles holy water and flings flowers, not away, but towards
himself. He touches his forehead, throat, and shoulders with
sandalwood powder and puts on the attributes of Siwa: he ties
a long blade of alang aJang grass around his head, wears the beads
over his ears, across his breast, and on his wrists, and places his
red and gold mitre on his head. He mumbles inwardly his most
sacred prayers and, with apparent physical effort, he leads his
soul from his “ lower body ” into his head, holding a rosary of
genitri seeds and raising his hands slowly upwards. This brings
him into the complete trance; he trembles all over and, rolling
his eyes in ecstasy, he pronounces the prayers “ for the world ”
in a deep, strangely changed voice. Thus the water in the con¬
tainer becomes toya pelukatan, Siwa’s water.
Such is the power of concentration of the pedandas during
these trances that once; at the preliminary ceremonies for the
RITES AND FESTIVALS 303
cremation of the Regent of Buleleng’s daughter, a small pavilion
caught fire near where the high priest performed the maweda,
almost burning, prematurely, the corpse lying in state; the priest
went on with his prayer totally unmindful of the wild screams
of the women attendants and the rushing relatives, who ex¬
tinguished the flames.
To become himself again, the priest sprinkles water towards
him and “ drives back his soul into the stomach.” He takes off
his ornaments and pins a little bouquet of multi-coloured flowers
over his hair knot. This ends the ceremony, and he sprinkles his
relatives and neighbours with the remaining holy water.
Despite the secrecy with which the priests surround the knowl¬
edge of the Sanskrit mantras, a good many of them have been
studied and translated by Dutch and Javanese scholars, such as
De Kat Angelino, R. Ng. Poerbatjaraka, and Dr. R. Goris, and I
refer those interested in mantras to their works. Most sacred of
all the aphorisms of the pedandas, and as typical as any, is the
kuta mantra: “ om, hram hrum sah, parama-shiva-dityata
namah: Om, hram hrum sah, praise be to the all-high Shiva,
the Sun ” (Goris) .
Religious knowledge is transmitted from father to son or from
teacher (guru) to pupil (sisiya) . The priest then becomes his
pupil's absolute master and his father; even in case there be no
blood relationship between them, marriage with the teacher's
daughter would be considered as incest, a most dreadful crime.
All Brahmanas are eligible to become pedandas with the ex¬
ception of lepers, madmen, epileptics, the deformed, and those
who have received dishonourable punishments. The pupil learns
Kawi first, the classic language, to study the preparatory texts;
is taught the moral principles by which to rule his life, which
are, according to De Kat Angelino, the capital sins: crime, greed,
hypocrisy, envy and ill temper, morbidness; the five command¬
ments for the outer world: Thou shalt not kill, not steal, be
chaste, not be violent, adhere to the principle of passive resist¬
ance; and those for the inner self: avoid of impure foods, or
304 ISLAND OF BALI
anger, remain conscious of the teachings, and be in unison with
the teacher.
Later on, he studies Sanskrit (sloka) and learns the Wedas.
Eventually he is initiated by his teacher in a most elaborate cere¬
mony, which I know only by hearsay, in which the teacher leads
the hands of his pupil with his own hands to perform his first
maweda. The pupil makes repeated reverences (sembah) to
his teacher and to the sun, washes and kisses his teacher's feet,
and receives his priestly credentials, a secret document contain¬
ing powerful formulas written on a blade of lontai palm. I have
been told that the pupil “ dies " symbolically during the cere¬
mony and is reborn as a priest, and that his body is then washed
and treated exactly like a corpse.
As conclusion, we find that the amazing conglomerate of
traditions, beliefs, and philosophies that together constitute the
Balinese religion, one that is as complex and tangled as can be
found anywhere today, alone is the most powerful motivating
force to the entire life of the island. Our knowledge of Bali is
as young as the history of its contacts with the West, and a good
deal will have to be unravelled before we can have a clear pic¬
ture of that unique product of tropical Asia, the character of
the Balinese, which is reflected in the fantastic interpretation of
religious ideas from India, China, and Java. These were at times
assimilated with a sense of practical logic, at times obviously
misunderstood; but the result was a healthy and thoroughly
Balinese manner of belief. Despite Hinduistic deviations, re¬
ligious symbols and ideas retained much of their original, primi¬
tive simplicity, and fanaticism and idolatry did not overshadow
the ancient animist worship of nature and of the elements.
Whatever the source of these ideas may be, the Balinese
worship the sun, the earth, and water as sources of life-giving
fertility; fire is a purifying element. The sea receives offerings
once a year in a great feast in Lebih on the Gianyar coast. Also
sources of fertility, and the dwellings of the gods, are the moun-
RITES AND FESTIVALS 305
tains, which are venerated in every temple and private shrine.
The highest mountain, the Gunung Agung, is the navel, the
focal point of their world. A cult in itself has developed around
the planting, growing, and harvesting of rice; old banyan trees
are seen with respect, and many contain a little altar among the
maze of their aerial roots where passing people leave offerings.
Once a year all food vegetation, and coconut trees in particular,
have a feast in their honour; they are given offerings and each
tree is “ dressed up ” with a gay skirt and a scarf. We have seen
that wood for house posts must be erected in “ correct ” posi¬
tion, the way the tree grew and not “ upside down.” Not every¬
one can cut down a tree; specialists are called because they know
the formulas and the magic to be performed after a tree is felled
(placing a small green bough in the stump) to prevent the tree
spirit from taking revenge, making the cutter lose his hair or be
reincarnated in a prematurely bald-headed person. It would be
dangerous for a person who is sebel (spiritually unclean) to
climb trees. Everywhere there are temples dedicated to the
nameless spirits of the mountains, of the sea, of old caves, an¬
cient trees, lakes, springs, and even shapeless stones and other
inanimate objects.
Although invisible and elusive, the gods of the Balinese are
not unlike living human beings; they can be invited to dwell on
this earth, to visit the temples and homes, when they are re¬
ceived as honoured guests with music, banquet food, and enter¬
tainment. They are not opposed to coming in contact with
ordinary mortals, and to help them they often take part them¬
selves in the ceremonies. But the gods are worshipped only in
spirit and nowhere are their images or representations considered
as holy in themselves unless it is supposed they are temporarily
occupying them. By contrast, they have to tolerate and pacify
evil spirits, who are as unavoidable as illness and trouble, but
whom they treat with contempt. These evil forces at times
pollute and disturb everything: people, temples, houses, the
whole organism of the island in general, are subject to critical
3o6 island of BALI
moments, becoming weakened and unclean, and it is the office
of their priests to cure this condition by neutralizing the evil
forces, cleansing and strengthening the village or the individual
thus defiled by spiritual sickness.
Thus, Balinese religion remains a colourful animist cult in
which are interwoven the esoteric principles and philosophy of
Hinduism, but this condition is by no means limited to Bali;
Javanese Hinduism was of this sort, and even in India we find
a parallel in the simultaneous worship of primitive demons, an¬
cestors, and elements, belonging to the Dravidian lower classes,
intermingled with the Brahmanic philosophy. To the Indian
masses as with the Balinese, Siva and Vishnu may be dignified
gods of a higher rank than the more accessible local deities, who
remain, however, closer to the common people, perhaps because,
like themselves, they are of a lower caste.
For the purpose of a general insight into the mechanics of
Balinese religion we have prepared the following chart:
Left (KIWA) Right (TENGEN)
Evil, negative forces Good, positive forces
The forces of the left produce As opposed to the state of sebel,
the state of magic uncleanliness, the forces of the right produce
weakening the soul power. A the spiritual and physical health,
dangerous vibration called SEBEL cleanliness (ening, sutji, nir-
in human beings makes unholy mala), that can be developed
(tenget or angker) — that is, by acquisition of magic power
charged with dangerous vibra- (sakti, wisesa) to resist the evil
tions — the places they frequent, forces.
Demons: Gods:
KALAS and BUT AS, producers of BATARASand SANGHYANG,butpri-
impurity and ill health, living in marily the ancestral spirits (pi-
the low, unholy grounds like the tara) , sources of life and magic
sea, the beaches, the forests, and power, dwelling on mountain
the crossroads. Symbols of mal- tops, at the origin of the rivers
ice, coarseness, failure, misfor- and lakes. Ancestral gods, moun-
RITES AND
tune, sickness, and destruction.
Exorcized with offerings of puri¬
fication and blood sacrifices
(metjaru) made when the
community or the individual is
SEBEL, or vulnerable to their at¬
tacks, owing to weakening causes
such as death of relatives, birth
of twins, incest, menstruation,
etc. Accumulation of evil forces
requires the periodical purifica¬
tion of the land, the village, or
the individual.
FESTIVALS 307
tain gods, gods of fertility, of the
earth, of water, the sun, male and
female gods, symbols of right¬
eousness, beauty, good harvests
— in general, of prosperity and
health. Harmony with the gods
is achieved by propitiation
through the “ clean (sutji) or
“pure” (sukla) offerings and
the proper rituals, observance of
the traditional village law
(adat), of the relation of man
with the cardinal directions:
high and low, right and left;
furthermore, by the use of water
and fire for purification, together
with magic formulas.
The sharp division between the
forces of the right and left, clean
and unclean, weak and strong,
high and low, day and night,
sickness and medicine, the sun
and the moon, in total, life and
DEATH, male and female, become
reunited into a supreme force:
The Hermaphrodite (windu),
that which contains the male
and female creative elements:
SIWA
3o8
ISLAND OF BALI
ADDITIONAL NOTES
1. Balinese Temples. Perhaps the aboriginal form of Balinese temple was
a square of consecrated ground in which were erected sacrificial altars,
piles of stones, surrounded by a rough stone fence. Temples of this
sort are still to be found in Tenganan and Sembiran, two villages that
preserve much of the ancient religion. There are temples along the coast
in the vicinity of Sanur reminiscent of these primitive temples, like the
one on the beach of Sindu that consists of rough pieces of coral in shape¬
less piles, vrath a number of primitive statues as the sole decoration. The
ovmers afterwards added shrines of dressed stone; then lately, to be
modem, they built altars of cement, resulting in what looks like an
object lesson in the progress and evolution of Balinese temple architec¬
ture.
There is a strong Polynesian flavour in these primitive temples. Ralph
Linton (Ethnology of Polynesia and Micronesia, The Field Museum,
Chicago) says: “ In the Cook groups the temples were usually stone en¬
closures or platforms often without houses. ... In the Society group
. . . they were low walled enclosures with a platform or pyramid at one
end. ... In the Marquesas there were two sorts of temples, the public
ones . . . and the mortuary stone platforms which bore houses . . .
that had excessively high roofs so that the early writers often refer to
them as obelisks. In Hawaii . . . the most important temples were stone
walled enclosures containing a number of houses for the priests and im¬
ages. . . . None of the images or objects symbolizing the gods seem to
have been considered divine in themselves. They were simple bodies
which the gods could occupy at will.” These striking similarities between
the Balinese and Polynesian religious spirits extend into the cult, into the
social organization, and even into the physical type of the Balinese.
The Bali Aga, who were never subjected to the political and religious
influence of the Javanese lords, build great austere temples with peculiar
features such as the little bridge (titi gonggang), a stone placed over a
hole directly in front of the temple gate, over which can pass only the
" pure ” — the gods and the virgin boys and girls of the village. Inter¬
esting also are the divisions of the Bali Aga communities: first into two
great groups, right and left, each with its priests; then into four separate
groups that meet in representative halls built in the temple: the married
men who sit in council at the bal6 agung; the married women who sit in
the bale loh; and the adolescent boys and girls with their special club¬
houses, the bal6 truna and the baW daha. In Bali Aga villages the balS
agung is still the heart of the political and religious life of the community
RITES AND FESTIVALS 309
and great bale agungs can always be seen in the first courtyard of their
temples. Most striking examples of such temples are in Taro in the
Gianyar mountains, where the largest and the most beautiful bale agung
in Bali is to be found, and in Trunyan on the shores of Lake Batur.
North Balinese temples depart considerably from the normal structure
of the Southern temples already described. TTiey are built on the slope
of a hill with the temple proper placed on the highest part in a curious
ascendant tendency, culminating in high monuments of carv'ed stone
reached by successive flights of stairs.
Typical is the Pura Medrwe Karang, the “ temple of the Owner of the
Land " in Kubutambahan. Here steps lead into a wide, totally empty
court, and more steps give access into the second court, the temple
proper. In this court there are only two small bales for offerings, one on
each side of a great monumental stone base consisting of three wide plat¬
forms strongly reminiscent of a pyramid. In this temple the essential
little shrines of South Balinese temples do not exist; instead, the pyramid
is surmounted by a great padu raksa, the great gate of other temples,
with a stone throne, a padmasana, in place of the customary doonvay.
On each side of the padii raksa are tw’O god houses with roofs of sugar-
palm fibre. There is, besides, a great split gate, t/andf bentar, but instead
of serving as the outer entrance to the temple, it is built over the second
platform of the pyramid, directly in front of the central monument.
There are no merus in North Balinese temples, and many of the most
important elements of the Southern temples are lacking. It is usual, how¬
ever, to find the padmasana, the throne of the sun-god, the split gate, and
the great monumental gate occupying a place and with a function quite
diflferent from those in other Balinese temples. It seems as if the North
Balinese adopted these features of the temples with a curiously distorted
point of view.
Balinese texts often mention the sad-kahyangan, the six holy national
temples, over the significance of which no one agrees. Most important
of these is the great Besakih, situated exactly half-way up the slopes of
the Gunung Agung. Besakih is Bali's most impressive temple in its aus¬
tere simplicity and its grandiosity, with hundreds of black merus rising
from everywhere to the misty sky and with a single unadorned great gate.
Rather than one temple, Besakih is a cluster of temples, one for each
of the different Balinese states, and once a year (at the full moon of the
“ fourth ” month), the Radjas of Bali, now the regents, make offerings
there for the whole of the Balinese people.
Other temples classed among the sad-kahyangan, some of which are
debatable, are: Pura Batukau, near the summit of the mountain of the
310 ISLAND OF BALI
same name; Ulu Watu, magnificently situated at the edge of a projecting
cliff with a perpendicular drop into the sea of 250 feet, on the limestone
tableland called Tafelhoek (Bukit Petjatu) (a great festival is held there
on the day anggara-klion of the week madang siha, twenty-one days after
gaJunggan); the bathing-temple of Tiita Empul in Tampaksiring; Pura
Panataran Sasih in Pedjeng; Pura Sakenan in the island of Serangan; Yeh
Djeiuk in Gianyar; Giralawa in Klungkung; Pakedukan in Tabanan;
Samanfiga in Bedulu, and so forth.
2. Axtjas. The concept that the spirits can be brought down to earth to
be embodied in a receptacle, a stylized human figure or a mask among
the primitive animists such as the Africans and Oceanians, appears in
Bali in the art/a cult. Aitjas are generally statuettes of sandalwood, of
gold, or of old coins sewn together, always male and female, and often
represent Rama and Sita, the reincarnations of Wisnu and Sri.
Attjas of ancient Ghinese cash, kepeng, with faces and hands of carved
wood or gold are called dewa lambut sadana and are supposed to bring
luck and riches to their owners. Our having acquired an old rambut
sadana created considerable disturbance among our neighbours; when
our servant first saw it, he asked us excitedly to sell it to him at twice the
price paid for it. He told others in the house and they often came asking
to see it. Someone even offered to make me a new one since “ mine was
already falling to pieces.” We had to hide it, and it was some time before
the matter was forgotten.
The statuettes fit into a base carved like an animal, the “ mount ” or
vehicle of the deities when taken out in procession. Most often these
bases are shaped like bulls, deer, or mythical animals, nagas or singhas,
but often the mount is a composite animal, as for instance half-bull, half¬
fish, in all probability the ancient totems of the families who own the
aitjas. There is still a trace of totemism in Bali; people of the ngatewel
caste claim descent from a jackfruit tree, and my friend Gusti Oka told
me members of his family may not eat singing doves.
That the aitjas, when imbued with the spirit of the deity, become
highly temperamental was shown at the temple feast of Taman Badung,
the death temple of Den Pasar, when about forty of the town’s aitjas were
taken out in procession. Absent was the feminine deity from the Givil
temple, who “ refused to join in the procession because she was not on
good terms with her husband, the art/a of Taman Badung.”
3. Offerings. The ever present offerings (pabantdn) made to the gods
and evil spirits should not be taken literally as factual food for them, but
RITES AND FESTIVALS 311
rather as a tax, a traditional habit of the people to give back something of
what rightfully belongs to the spirits; from lie simplest, the little squares
of banana leaf with a few grains of rice (ngedjot, t/anan) made daily to
Ratna Menggali
(from a Balinese Manuscript)
the house or left in passing a magically charged spot; the more complete
portions of food (kawisan, pangulapan, prasad/engan, sorohan); to the
great pyramids of fruit, flowers, and roast chickens (kboogan, pad/egan),
the intricate constructions of cut-out palm-leaf (sampian, d/erimpan,
sesayut), and the great monuments of cooked pig’s meat (sate gedeh)
312 ISLAND OF BALI
decorated with lacy garlands of pig’s fat and stomach tissues (omentum)
which can be seen at great festivals.
Ordinary offerings to the house and for temple feasts are made by any
woman; but for special occasions an offering, to be effective, must con¬
form to certain specifications based on the influences that rule the day:
the calendar, the cardinal directions, numerology and so forth. Each day
of the week has its colour and numerical value that dictate the flowers to
be used and the number of units in the offering. These rules are often
specified in the adat, the traditional village law, but they are better known
to professional offering-makers, Brahmana women (fdayu), who are en¬
gaged for a fee to direct the making of them.
Offerings are sharply divided into “unclean,” evil-spirit offerings
(met/aru, banten sor, pasegan) and “pure” (sukla) offerings for the
gods.
4. The Sunguhu. Sunguhus are low-caste priests whose main office is
lie dedication of devil offerings in ceremonies of purification. Although
Sudras, the sunguhu are a proud caste in themselves and claim descent
from Sanghyang Tunggal and from Sanghyang Meleng, the Sun. The
paraphernalia of the sunguhu, although generally poor and in deplorable
condition, and their ritual are practically identical with those of the high
Brahmanic priests; but accessories peculiar to sunguhus are the conch-
shell blown by an assistant during his prayers, and the double drum
similar to that of the Tibetan lamas, which in Tibet are made of two
sections of the top of human skulls.
Like the high priests, they wear their hair long and in a knot, worn
low at the back of the neck and not on top like the pedandas, because
the worthy I Tusan, patron saint of blacksmiths and the greatest iron¬
worker of ancient Gelgel, was unjustly exiled by a pedanda, who in time
repented and, troubled in his conscience, tried to restore I Tusan, going
into the forest in search of him. The blacksmith agreed to return only
on condition that the pedanda carry him on his back. He had to comply
and all the way the blacksmith hung on to the priest’s topknot, pulling
it down his neck (De Kat Angelino; Mudras auf Bali) .
Dr. Goris (Secten op Bali) is of the opinion that they were the priests
of the wesnawa sect, now disappeared, the worshippers of Wisnu and Sri,
His attributes — the conch-shell, the turtle, the fiery wheel (t/akra) — are
all Visnuite symbols. Furthermore, his spoken formulas, like those of the
high priests, are in Sanskrit. He is in charge of the offerings of the Under¬
world, in contrast to pedandas, who dedicate the offerings to the Sun
and Sky,
RITES AND FESTIVALS 315
All legends of the origin of sunguhus agree that they were high priests
degraded in rank because of some fault or because they worshipped
demoniac characters. The Usana D/awa mentions that they were Brah-
manas degraded because they worshipped the devil Dalem hlur Samp-
langan. Sunguhus also claim to be descended from the two sons of the
great religious teacher Mpu Bharada; one branch of the family was de¬
graded. They claim further that they were pupils of Mpu Kuturan,
Bharada’s brother, but never attained great wisdom and did not become
full-fledged high priests, but only bud/angga bali, a term for sunguhus
for which there is no satisfactory explanation (a child of a Brahmana and
a Sudra becomes a bud/angga). Another manuscript states that the
sunguhus were descendants of I Guta, a fallen dweller of the sky, who
on earth became a man-eating raksasa. He became a servant of Mpd
Djidjaksara, cousin of Mpu Kuturan and Bharada. He imitated his master
at offlce, but was caught in the act and from then on was allowed to
ofEciate as priest of the devil offerings (Korn: Adatrecht van Bali).
5. The Calendar. The Solar-Lunar Year. The Hindu saka (Sanskrit:
gaka) year by which the mountain people, the Bali Aga, still reckon time
and set the dates for their temple festivals is divided into twelve months
(saseh) the names of which are simply the Balinese numbers from one
to ten: 1, kasa; 2, karo; 3, katiga; 4, kapat; 5, kalima; 6, kanam; 7, kapitu;
8, kaulu; 9, kasanga; 10, kadasa; with two additional names, desta and
sada, to make up the twelve months. These two last names are corrup¬
tions of the Sanskrit names of the eleventh and twelfth months. The
ritual Sanskrit names of the months are, as the Balinese pronounce them:
s’rawana, badra wada, asud/d, kartika, margasira, posya, maga, palguna,
madumasa, wesaka, djiesta, and asada.
These months consist of 29 or 30 days counted from each new moon.
The year has either 354, 355, or 356 days, a difference of 9 to 11 days from
the true solar year. This is corrected by the addition of an extra month
(saseh nampeh) every thirty months, corresponding to about two and
a half of our years. There are thirty lunar days in each month, but one
day is jumped over every 63 days (nine weeks of seven days) to correlate
them with the 29 or 30 solar days in each month (Goris: “Bali’s
Hoogtijden ”) .
Nyepf, the most important yearly feast, the purification of tire entire
island, marks the spring equinox and is the only national festival of the
saka calendar. It falls on the first day, the “ dark moon ” of the ninth
month (tilem-kasanga), despite which it is regarded as the beginning of
the year. The nyepf ceremony here described, which took place on the
^14 ISLAND OF BALI
17th of March 1934, marked the end of the saka year 1855 and ushered
in the new year 1856.
The /avanese-Balinese Year. The wuku year probably came into use at
the time of Madjapahit’s domination of SouA Bali, and today it is the
system used universally in Bali, except for the mountaineer Bali Agas,
who still reckon their feasts by new and full moons. The wuku is simply
divided into weeks (wukus) and does not obey any astronomical or other
natural rules. Of the ten simultaneous weeks contained in a wuku year,
the most important is the week of seven days, corresponding to ours, the
names of each day being, like our days, dedicated to the planets: Sunday
(reditd), the Sun; Monday (soma), the Moon; Tuesday (anggara).
Mars; Wednesday (budda). Mercury; Thursday (wrespati), Jupiter; Fri¬
day (sukra), Venus; Saturday (sanist/ara), Saturn.
There are thirty seven-day weeks in a wuku year (sinta, landap, wukir,
kurantiJ, tolu, gumreg, wariga, warigadian, d/ulung wangf, d/ulung sung-
sang, dunggulan, kuninggan, Jangkir, madang siha, d/ulung pud/ut,
pahang, wurkulut, marakeh, tambii, madang kungkang, mahatal, ud/eh,
menahil, prang bakat, bala mukf, ugu, wayang, kulawu, dukut, and watu
gunung.
The origin of the names of these weeks is told in the legend of Sinta,
a woman who became pregnant after she dreamed she slept with a holy
man, giving birth to a beautiful child. One day Sinta lost her temper
when the boy became unruly and struck him, wounding him on the
head. The boy ran away and his grieved mother searched for him in vain
for years afterwards. The grown boy had in time become the powerful
ruler of the country of Oiling Wesi, where he was known as Watii
Gunung, “ Stone Mountain,” because he was supposed to have obtained
his powerful magic from the mountain where he had undergone penance.
One day the wandering mother, always in search of him, came to Oiling
Wesi accompanied by her sister Landap. The two women were still
beautiful and Watd Gunung became so impressed by the strangers that
he married both, having in due time twenty-seven children by his mother
and aunt. By a scar on the head of Watii Gunung, one day Sinta became
aware of the incest committed, and to avert disaster it was decided that
Watii Gunung had to marry the goddess Sri, the wife of Wisnu, thus
becoming himsdf like a god, free of the curse on incest. He had the
audacity to request her in marriage, but was, naturally, refused, causing
Watd Gunung to declare war on the gods. Wisnu took personal com¬
mand of the armies sent to punish his arrogance and finally defeated
Watd Gunung after obtaining the secret of the magic that gave him his
RITES AND FESTIVALS 315
powers. To celebrate the victory it was decreed that his twenty-seven
sons be killed, one every seven days. Sinta wept for seven days and was
received into heaven, so Wisnu added her name as well as that of her
sister Landap and of Watii Gunung to the twenty-seven and established
the thirty weeks as everlasting signs of his victory.
Parallel and simultaneous to the seven-day week mn the other nine
weeks — from the week of one day to one of ten days — of which those
of five, three, and six days are the most frequently used by the people.
The ten weeks are as follows:
1- day week, ekowara, in which every day is luang.
2- day week, duwiwara, the days of which are called: m’ga and p’pat.
3- day week, triwara: paseh, beteng, kad/eng.
4- day week, tjaturwaia: sri, laba, d/aya, mandala.
5- day week, pant/awara: manis, paing, pon, wage, Hion.
May week, sadwara: tungleh, ariang, urufcung, paniron, was, raaulii.
y-day week, saptawara: reditd, soma, anggara, budda, wrespati, sukra,
sanist/ara.
8- day week, astawara; srf, indra, guru, yama, ludra, brahma, kaZa, uma.
9- day week, sangawara: danggu, d/angur, gigis, nohan, ogan, erengan,
urungan, tulus, dadf.
10-day week, dasawara: penita, pati, suka, duka, srf, manii, menusa,
erad/a, dewa, raksasa.
Galunggan comes on the day budda-klion, week of dunggulan, when
the ancestral souls of those cremated receive offerings in the temple, or in
the cemetery for those still buried, while the evil spirits are also given
offerings, alAough thrown on the ground. It is believed that the three
days before galunggan are dangerous and unholy because Batara B&la (or
Batara Galunggan) then comes down to earth in the form of Sanghyang
tiga Wisesa to eat people. The ancestors go back on the day called
ulihan ball (soma-klion, kuninggan), but the offerings are renewed on the
day fumpak kuninggan (sanist/ara-klion, kuninggan), ten days after
galunggan day. This festival is, perhaps erroneously, called the New Year
of flie wuku calendar, and, like nyepi, it falls somewhere in the middle
of the year and not in the week of sinta, the first of the year.
Other holidays, or, rather, important days propitious for offerings and
other activities, are: Kad/eng-klion, every 15 days; Tumpak (sanistjara-
klion), every 35 days; Budda-klion, every 42 days; Anggaia-kasih (anggara-
klion) , every 35 days; and Budda-wagd, also every 35 days.
If one asks an ordinary Balinese for the number of days in a month, the
3i6 island of BALI
answer is that it has 35 days, thus conflicting with the knowledge that
saka months have 29 or 30 days and that there are no months in the
wuku year. This confusion is perhaps because 10 months of 35 days total
almost the correct duration of one solar-lunar year — 354 days; then, 6
months of 35 days make exactly 210 days: one wuku year. Furthermore,
there are many holidays, like the important Tumpak, recurring every 35
days, or 6 times during a wuku year.
From this is deduced that in the original Balinese calendar there were
probably only 10 months of 35 days and that the two extra months of the
saka were added later when the calendar was modified and the Hindu
calendar was adopted, leaving memory of a month of 35 days. We have
seen that there are only Balinese names for ten of the twelve months,
and Dr. Korn mentions that in Tenganan they say that the last two
months were given to them as a present by Begawan Seganin Ening.
Thus it is easily possible that the Balinese compromised and divided their
year of 210 days into 6 months of 35 days. They do not make astronomi¬
cal observations to calculate the solar-lunar year, but use special tables
and charts called pengalihan bulan.
6. Ancestors. It is interesting that after cremation a deified ancestor
becomes a dewa-yang, a word that bears a striking resemblance to the
term wayang, over which there is a controversy. The wayang are the
shadow-play puppets which are recognizedly related to the ancestors.
Other names for the ancestral souls are pitara, kawitan, and m’pu way-
angan, and the “ heaven ” where the ancestors live is called Jangit gring-
sing wayang “ the flaming heaven of the wayang.” The local gods, also
ancestors, are called Sanghyang, a word made of the old relative pronoun
sang and hyang, or yang, a native term for divinity, from which the word
wayang could easily be derived. Dewa is a Sanskrit synonym of yang,
and dewa-yang could have become ’wa-yang.
7. The following are among the most important Balinese Gods:
SURYA — The Sun, chief of the Balinese pantheon. The only Hindu god
actually worshipped in the temples.
BATARA GURU — The Supreme Teacher, master of Brahmanas. Most gen¬
erally identified with Siwa. Represented as a bearded hermit seated
on a lotus (padma) . Batara Guni has four arms, two clasped in atti¬
tude of prayer and the other two holding a rosary on the right, a
bmsh for swatting flies (pet/ut) on the left.
BRAHMA — Who is the fire itself (agni), and who as lord of cremation
RITES AND FESTIVALS 317
is called pil\d japati. Brahma has no particular cult except as '' fire/'
Represented in Bali with only one head; the deib^ with four faces,
TjATUR MUKA, is, in the popular mind, a deit\^ in itself, not identified
with Brahma.
wiSNU — God of waters, giver of fertility, and lord of the underworld.
His wife is dewi sri, goddess of beauty and agriculture; their daugh¬
ter, DEwi xiELANTiNG, goddcss of sccds, gardens, and markets. Wisnu
is represented as a young man riding on the mythical bird Garuda,
Sri as a beautiful woman with full breasts, long hair, and slim arms.
The agricultural temples are dedicated to her.
INDRA — The active and warlike lord of heaven, of winds and storms,
guardian of the heavenly spirits, the widedaras and wtoedaris.
DURGA — The terrible goddess of death who receives the souls of the
deceased and turns them over to yama for judgment. She is wor- .
shipped in the temples of the dead in the cemeteries.
kala — God of darkness, the destroying form of Siwa, good turned into
evil. Kala is represented as a fearful giant, always hungiy^, living in
the centre of the earth.
YAMA — Lord of hell, demoniac judge and punisher of souls.
UMA — Mother of all nature, wife of Siwa. Uma is Durga as Siwa is Kala
in their beneficial form. Other wives of Siwa are giri putri, goddess
of the mountains, dewi gangga and dewi danu, deities of the rivers
and lakes.
semara — God of love (the physical form), whose wife is dewi ratih,
the moon.
saraswati — Goddess of science and literature.
ISWARA, SORA Or ISORA, MAHADEWA, SAMBU, RUDRA 01 LUDRA, and KWERA,
are lesser gods, deities of the cardinal points, the nawa sangga.
PASUPATi — Siwa as a phallic symbol.
KUMARA “ the god protector of children.
WARUNA — god of the sea.
ANTABOGA — The World Serpent guardian of the nether world, also
known as basuki or gasuki.
sanghyang ibu pertiwi — Mother Earth.
sanghyang duwring akasa — the space, the firmament.
TrNTiYA — (tjintya, SANGHYANG tunggal), the Almighty. Frequently
represented as a nude white male figure, flames emanating from his
head, temples, shoulders, elbows, penis, knees, and feet. A figure
that appears in endless variety in magic amulets (see tumbals,
GANA — the elephant-headed god, once worshipped in Bali, but now
3i8 island of BALI
remaining only as a protective magic amulet; also called ganapati,
the Ganefa of India.
BATASA BUDDA — not the Buddha, but in Bali a sort of protective, al¬
though malignant, deity, not clearly defined. Not generally known,
but some of those people who knew the name identify it with the
BARONG.
8. Dr. Goris (Secten op Bali) points to traces of former sects that were
in time absorbed or that became obsolete and disappeared. All Brah-
manic priests outside of the bodda belong to the siwa sect and aU
knowledge of former divisions is now lost to them. The classification of
Dr. Goris is:
a) Ciwa Siddhanta, the most important group, to which the majority
of the priests belong. Characteristic of this group is the use of
formulas. The siwa priest prays with a bell and flowers, and wears
a red and gold mitre topped by a crystal ball. His receptacle for
holy water is called siwamba. A typical text of this sect is the
manuscript Bhuwana Kosa, one of the tuturs, from which many
of the later manuscripts were taken.
b) Pagupata, now totally disappeared, with but a trace of it in the cult
of the lingga, the phallus, as a symbol of Siwa.
c) Bhairawa, a sect given to black magic of the left and worship of deities
of death. Now extinct as a separate group, but that it was impor¬
tant is revealed in the witch cult, with its leyaks, rangdas, and
barongs. Much of the ritual terminology comes from the Tantric
manuscripts to which this black magic of Buddhism belonged.
(See Note i, page 354.)
d) Wesnawa, traces of which are the cults of Wisnu and Sri, deities of
agriculture, fertility, and success, with the pecularity that Wisnu
appears as lord of the underworld.
e) Boddha (or Sogata). The bodda priest officiates with his head bare,
prays with a bell and a special weapon (bad/ara) instead of flowers,
and his holy-water container is called pamandiyanga. He uses spe¬
cial mantras, his hand positions are different in the prayers, and he
has his ovm literature.
f) Brahmana, now thoroughly merged with the Siwaites, but typical
Brahmana are the speculations about the sacred syllable ong, thdf
Om of India.
g) Rsi (rest), Satrias who by study and meditation become high priests,
pedandas, who are not, however, Brahmanas, but princes who
KITES AND FESTIVALS 319
through a model life and renunciation of their earthly privileges
acquire holiness. They may recite ordinary Brahmanic mantras like
the pasut/ian, the purifying formula^ but are forbidden to use the
Wedas. The only pedanda resf to my knowledge was the old priest
of Sidan, Tabanan, who died recently, although he probably left dis¬
ciples. Friederich relates that in 1845 the prince Ngurah Cede
Pemetjutan had himself ordained as a resi, but retained his state.
Sots, the old sun-worshippers, now merged with the Siwaites. The
cult of Sur}^a, the sun god, is, according to Goris, an ancient cult
related to the Indian sun cult, which is in turn of Persian origin.
The pedanda siwa. is supposedly the Sun Priest, Sun Servant, and
Son of the Sun.
Ganega, worshippers of Gana, the '' Disturber of Disturbances,” an
ancient Hindu cult of pre-Madjapahit times and now extinct. The
only traces of it are occasional ancient statues of Ganeja, the ele¬
phant god, and the images of this god that appear in magic amulets.
CHAPTER X
WITCHCRAFT
WITCHES, WITCH-DOCTORS, AND THE
MAGIC THEATRE
A performance of wayang kulit, the shadow-play, is such an
ordinary occurrence in Den Pasar that it was unusual and in¬
triguing one evening to find the town aroused by news of a
shadow-play to take place that night in the outskirts, and we
tagged along with the Balinese members of our household to
watch the show. The streets were filled with people from the
neighbouring villages, all going our way, and we found the open
square of Pemetjutan, where the show was already in progress,
jammed with an eager crowd trying to push their way within
hearing-distance of the little screen, a focus of flickering light
for a restless, dark sea of human heads.
We were accustomed to see sober groups sitting quietly even
at performances of the most famous story-tellers, but on this
occasion the crowd was so great that we could not approach the
screen near enough even to distinguish clearly the shadows of
the leather puppets. So unusual was the sudden interest in the
performance that the high-collared, helmeted Dutch officials,
ordinarily unconcerned with the “ nonsense of the natives,”
asked nervous questions among the crowd. Everything in the
performance went on as usual, except for a line of Balinese
characters painted across the screen which said: “ I, Ida Bagus
WITCHCRAFT 321
Ktut, dare to tell.” . . . We inquired what he dared to tell
and from various sources we pieced together the following story:
For many months a feud had raged between hvo enemy fac¬
tions of leyaks, witches, the spirits of living people given to black
magic. This everybody knew because in Pemetjutan the hyaks
in battle were seen every night in the form of blue flames dart¬
ing among the coconut trees. The villagers fell sick by the score
and many died suddenly of mysterious, unexplained deaths, but
the wounds that had killed them became evident if the bodies
were washed with specially blessed coconut water. The leader
of one faction of witches was a well-known dealer in coffee, a
woman of low caste named Makatjung, famous for her strong
character and her natural magic powers. Her child had suddenly
died, and in her despair Makatjung refused to leave his grave;
night came and she fell asleep over it. In a dream the child
spoke to her and blamed for his death a princess of Djerokuta,
also reputed in the neighbourhood to be a powerful witch. Mad
with rage, Makatjung went to the princess and accused her of
the murder of her child. The princess did not deny it, and the
leyak war was on.
It was supposed that the tide had turned against the faction
of the noblewoman, and Matakjung, to make her victory known
to the public, had engaged the daring story-teller to re-enact the
events in a wayang performance and give out the names of her
enemy’s allies. To add to the suspense, it was rumoured that
the story-teller, the son of Badung’s most famous witch-doctor,
had stolen the names he was about to make public from his
father’s records of clients for formulas of witchcraft. Everybody
had gathered to learn the names of the village’s leyaks, whisper¬
ing advance guesses, and many were in fear of being named.
The show dragged on through the night and we did not stay for
the outcome. The next day people were reluctant to talk about
it and someone remarked indignantly that it was wicked to make
public accusations in this manner. We heard no more of the
feud until three years later when we assisted at the cremation of
322 ISLAND OF BALI
the princess of Djerokuta, believed by everybody to have been
killed by the superior magic of the low-caste Makatjung.
A Balinese prince well known for his eccentric intrigues once
announced he was to give a demonstration of how a man became
a leyak and invited the entire foreign population of Bali to
witness the phenomena. He seemed particularly anxious to at¬
tract even the casual tourists that came to the Bali Hotel, On
the appointed night not only the Government officials, tourists,
and illustrious Balinese had congregated in the darkness of the
cemetery, but a great rowdy crowd of Balinese who had heard
the rumour had gathered, equally curious, although less skep¬
tical of the supernatural performance than the whites. They
climbed trees, tearing branches and flashing lights into each
other's faces, until the infuriated prince banned all flashlights.
The prince’s motive came out clearly when before starting the
demonstration, he asked the guests for a contribution of one
guilder and twenty cents to pay for the offerings that had to be
made, should the man succeed in becoming a leyak.
After an endless wait the crowd gasped when a greenish light
became visible at one end of the graveyard. As it approached
it looked more and more suspiciously like a piece of banana leaf
with a light behind it. A Dutch official next to me, who had
retained his flashlight, aimed it suddenly at the ghost, who dis¬
appeared behind the low mound of a convenient new grave.
The undaunted prince contended indignantly that the leyak
was frightened and would not appear again, so he did not collect
the fee. Thus ended our only opportunity to make the acquaint¬
ance of a leyak.
The existence of these leyaks is to the Balinese an incontest¬
able fact. They are held responsible for most of the evils that
afflict Bali, including sickness and death. Like the vampire,
they suck the blood of sleeping people and are particularly fond
of the entrails of unborn children. Every Balineso has stories
WITCHCRAFT 323
to tell of personal encounters with leyaks in various forms, and
from my friends I often heard stories such as these:
Walking on a lonely road at night, a man from Sayan was
confronted with a monkey that seemed intent on blocking his
LeyaJc (from a Balinese Manuscript)
path. He moved to the right of the road, but the monkey stood
in front of him and leaped to the left when he tried to pass on
the left side. In sheer desperation he grabbed the monkey’s tail,
but the animal disappeared, leaving the panic-stricken man with
the tail in his hands. He dropped it and ran for his life; the fol-
324 ISLAND OF BALI
lowing morning he went back to the place of his adventure to
reassure himself that it was all a hallucination, but there he found
a scorched loincloth exactly where he had dropped the monkey’s
tail.”
“ Another night, in similar circumstances, three men stole a
chicken apparently lost on the road. They took it home, killed
it, cleaned it, and stuffed it with leaves and spices, ready to cook
the following day. Next morning they found an unknown dead
man in place of the chicken, his stomach and intestines removed
and the cavity filled with leaves and spices.”
“ A tiger once ran into the school of the mountain village of
Baturiti. The alarm-drum was sounded and the tiger was killed.
When the villagers proceeded to skin the animal, they found,
between the skin and the flesh of the tiger, a kompet, the palm-
leaf bag with betel-nut, tobacco, and pennies that every Bali¬
nese carries.”
“ Rapung’s uncle, the temple-keeper and a famous story-teller,
had great magic powers but he did not practise evil magic. When
he was deprived of his office as keeper of the temple because of
a scandalous love affair, he created such a disturbance that he
was thrown into jail. Although supposedly locked up in a cell,
he was seen at night in the village and it was said that often he
slept in his own house. He used his magic knowledge mainly as
a defence against his enemies, and, as in the case of the Peme-
tjutan wayang show, he gave the names of leyaks in wayang per¬
formances through the Twaldn puppet. Once his lamp went out
during the performance and, without stopping, he spit on the
wick and the light flared up again. He held a memorable battle
with a leyak chief disguised as a one-winged garuda bird and
fought him in the form of a baldheaded raJcsasa. He was defied
by the chief of Blahbatoeh, a famous witch; the story-teller took
up the challenge and turned into a sea that engulfed the leyak,
turned into a mad motor-car.”
Most frequently leyaks appear as dancing flames flitting from
grave to grave in cemeteries, feeding on newly buried corpses,
WITCHCRAFT 325
or as balls of fire and living sbadowlike white cloths, but also in
the shapes of weird animals: pigs, dogs, monkeys, or tigers.
Witches often assume the form of beautiful mute girls who make
obscene advances to young men on lonely roads at night. Leyaks
are, however, progressive and now they are said to prefer more
modern shapes for their transformations; motor-cars and bicycles
that run in and out of temples without drivers and whose tires
pulsate as if breathing. There are even leyak airplanes sweeping
over the roof-tops after midnight. Children cry during the night
because they see leyaks that become invisible on approaching
to gnaw at their entrails. Then the child becomes sick and soon
dies; that explains the high death-rate among children.
The ever unwilling patients of the modern hospital in Den
Pasar claim to have seen strange shadows under doors and flocks
of monkeys that grimace at them through the windows; the
congregation of sick, magically weakened people naturally at¬
tracts legions of leyaks and for this reason they fear having to go
to the hospital. Witches congregate under the kepuh trees
always found in cemeteries, but they are also attracted to the
“ male ” papaya tree (that which bears no fruit) and like to carry
on their orgies of blood and their love affairs under its shadow;
consequently these trees are never permitted to grow within the
village limits.
I was told that to see the leyaks that happen to be about, one
must stand naked and, bending over suddenly, look between
one’s legs. They can be recognized by the flames {end6h) that
issue out of their hanging tongues and from the top of their
heads. This does not work with foreigners, because the leyaks
“ are shy and do not show themselves to outsiders ”; thus, even
the Balinese who fear leyaks so that they dare not mention the
word leyak are not in the least impressed with the bravery of a
skeptical stranger who walks alone at night into a cemetery or
some such Jeyak-ridden place.
326
ISLAND OF BALI
THE RANGDA AND THE BARONG
Queen of the leyalcs and undoubtedly the most interesting
character on the island is the blood-thirsty, child-eating Rangda,
the witch-widow mistress of black magic.
A curious ceremony in the temple of a neighbouring village
introduced Rangda to us. It was well after midnight, and al¬
though the date for the temple feast was still far off, there was
a crowd, mostly women, in the courtyard sitting in a circle
around a man who appeared to be in a trance. Next to him sat
the old pemangku, the temple priest, quiet and concentrating,
attending to the incense that burned in a clay brazier before a
monstrous mask with enormous fangs. The community, it
seemed, was having a wave of bad luck and they were asking
Rangda to advise them, through the medium, of what she re¬
quired to leave them alone. The stillness of the night, the in¬
cense, and the dim light of the petrol lamp, all aided the feeling
that the spirit of the dreaded witch was really there. Soon the
oracle began to twitch and foam at the mouth, making painful
efforts to talk. The mask was placed on his head and the priest
listened with intense interest to the incoherent groans, muffled
by the mask, which he translated in a monotonous voice as the
words of Rangda, now in the body of the medium. After the
offerings that she demanded were enumerated, she reproached
the villagers for neglecting to give a performance of T jalon Arang,
the play in which her triumphs are enacted. To end the cere¬
mony the musicians played and Rangda danced; then the man
was taken out of the trance and Rangda, presumably, went back
to her abode in the summit of the highest mountain, the Gunung
Agung.
Time and again we saw Rangda appear in various magic plays;
she was invariably represented as a monstrous old woman, her
naked white body striped with bkck. Rings of black fur circled
her long, hanging breasts, realistically made of bags of white
cloth filled with sawdust. She was entirely covered by her white
WITCHCRAFT 327
hair, which reached to her feet, allowing only the bulging eyes
and twisted fangs of her mask to be seen. Her tongue hung out,
a strip of leather two feet long, painted red and ending in flames
Rangda (from a Balinese Manuscript)
of gold. A row of flames came from the top of her head. She
wore white gloves with immense claws and in her right hand
she held the white cloth with which she hid her horrible face
to approach her unsuspecting victims. This cloth became a
deadly weapon if it struck.
The character of Rangda has its origin in historical facts, now
328 ISLAND OF BALI
interwoven with fantastic myth. (See page 354.) At the begin¬
ning of the eleventh century a Balinese prince became the king
of Java, the great Erlangga. His mother, Mahendradatta, was a
Javanese princess who ruled Bali with her Balinese husband,
Dharmodayana, until the husband, suspecting her of practising
evil magic, exiled her to the forest. When Erlangga’s father
died, leaving Mahendradatta a rangda, a widow, she conspired
to use her band of pupils trained in the black arts to destroy
Erlangga’s kingdom. Professor Stutterheim says that her chief
grudge against Erlangga was that he had failed to bring pres¬
sure upon his father not to take another wife. Moreover, none
of the nobility would marry Rangda’s beautiful daughter, Ratna
Menggali, out of fear of the old witch, and her caste as a Javanese
princess required a noble marriage or none at all. Before Rangda
was vanquished by the superior magic of Mpu Bharada, Er¬
langga’s teacher, she had killed nearly half of Erlangga’s sub¬
jects by plagues brought by her leyaks. (According to Stutter¬
heim, the sanctuary of Bukit Dharma near Kutri, Gianyar, is the
burial place of the famous witch. There is kept a weather-beaten
but still beautiful statue of the witch, remembered as the Queen
Mahendradatta in the shape of the goddess of death, Durga.)
The following is an extract of the current Balinese version of
the story of Rangda (translated from the Kawi by R. Ng. Poer-
batjaraka, in De Calon Arang) :
" The old witch rangda Tjalon Arang had sworn to destroy the
happy and prosperous Daha, Erlangga’s kingdom, because of
fancied insults to her beautiful daughter Ratna Menggali — the
noblemen of Daha had refused her in marriage for fear of her
mother’s evil reputation. Tjalon Arang went with her pupils to
the cemetery and they prayed and danced in honour of Bega-
wati, the deity of black magic, to help them destroy Daha. The
goddess appeared and danced with them, granting her permis¬
sion, warning the witch, however, to preserve the centre of the
kingdom untouched. The witches danced at the crossroads and
soon people fell ill in great numbers.
WITCHCRAFT 329
“ On discovering the cause of the epidemic, Erlangga ordered
his soldiers to go and kill the witch. They stole into her house
while she slept and stabbed her in the heart, but Tjalon Arang
awoke unhurt and consumed the daring soldiers with her own
fire. The witch went once more into the cemetery and danced
with her pupils, dug out corpses, cutting them to pieces, eat¬
ing the members, drinking the blood, and wearing their entrails
as necklaces. Begawati appeared again and joined in the bloody
banquet, but warned Tjalon Arang to be careful. The witches
danced once more at the crossroads and the dreadful epidemic
ravaged the land; the vassals of Erlangga died before they could
even bury the corpses they bore to the cemeteries.
“ The desperate king sent for Mpu Bharada, the holy man from
Lemah Tulis, the only living being who could vanquish the witch.
Mpii Bharada planned his campaign carefully. He sent Bahula,
his young assistant, to ask for the witch’s daughter in marriage.
Highly flattered, the mother gave her consent and after a happy
and passionate honeymoon Bahula learned from his wife the
secret of Tjalon Arang’s power, the possession of a little magic
book, which he stole and turned over to his master. The holy
man copied it and had it returned before the disappearance could
be noticed. The book was a manual of righteousness and had to
be read backwards. The holy man was then able to restore life
to those victims whose bodies had not yet decayed. Armed
with the new knowledge, he accused the witch of her crimes,
but she challenged him by setting an enormous banyan tree on
fire by a single look of her fiery eyes. Bharada foiled the enraged
witch by restoring the tree, and she turned her fire against the
holy man. Unmoved, he killed her with one of her own mantras;
but she died in her monstrous rangda form and Bharada, to
absolve her of her crimes and enable her to atone for them, re¬
vived her, gave her human appearance, and then killed her
again.”
It is only in the legend that Rangda could be vanquished; the
Balinese perform the story of her struggle with Erlangga in a
330 ISLAND OF BALI
play, but always stop before the point where the tide turned
against the witch.
THE TJALON ARANG PLAY
It is in a performance of Tjalon Arang, the legend of Rangda,
that the Balinese theatre reaches the height of its magnificence.
It combines the fine music and delicate dancing of the legong
with the elaborate staging, the acting, singing, and comedy of
the classic plays, besides the element of mystery and suspense.
The Tjalon Arang is not an ordinary play, but a powerful
exorcism against leyaks, because by dramatizing Rangda's tri¬
umphs, the Balinese aim to gain her good will. Preparations for
staging the great show start days before; it is essential that a
“ male ” papaya tree, which bears no fruit, be first transplanted
from the wilds to the middle of the dancing-grounds, because
such a tree is the favourite haunt of the leyaks. A tall house on
stilts is built at one end for Rangda, reached by a high runway
of bamboo, flanked by spears, pennants, and umbrellas, all sym¬
bols of state. The entire dancing-space is covered by a canopy
of streamers made of palm-leaf and tissue-paper flags; as many
petrol lamps as are available in the village light the stage.
By midnight the audience is assembled, waiting patiently,
listening to the special Tjalon Aiang music, perhaps the finest in
Bali, played by a full legong orchestra augmented with large
bamboo flutes. A full moon is propitious for the performance
and the company waits until the moon comes out from behind
the black clouds, silhouetting the temple roofs, the palm trees,
and the long aerial roots of the village banyan tree, a hanging
black curtain of long tentacles against the sky, the perfect set¬
ting for the magic play. Offerings are made beforehand and con¬
sultations are held so as not to offend Rangda and to ascertain
whether it is safe to hold the performance.
The show begins after midnight and lasts until dawn, when
the witch makes her appearance. The play approaches our dra¬
matic literature more nearly than anything else in Bali. It relates
WITCHCRAFT 331
the episodes of the struggle between Rangda and the great
Erlangga. Dancing interludes by six little girls, the pupils of the
witch, alternate with slapstick, the encounters of the king’s sub¬
jects with Jeyaks, and with dramatic songs by the prince sent to
kill Rangda. She is impersonated by an old actor gifted with
such great powers that he is able to withstand, in his own body,
the dangerous spirit of the witch herself.
Towards dawn the atmosphere becomes surcharged with mys¬
tery as the old actor goes into Rangda’s house to enter into the
trance. Watchmen are appointed to wake all the children that
have fallen asleep lest their tender souls be harmed; a priest
stands ready to conjure Rangda, who will make her triumphal
appearance at the end of the play. A flickering lamp can be seen
through the curtains of the house, and there is an occasional
groan from the actor as he undergoes the painful transformation.
Meantime below, as the music becomes violent, the prince ad¬
vances across the dancing-space with his kris drawn. With a
yell of defiance he starts up the bridge, just as a blood-curdling
howl is heard inside the house, the voice of Rangda. Unex¬
pectedly, fireworks, strung on invisible wires all over the trees,
begin to explode over the heads of the crowd. The audience is
on edge as the curtains part and the frightful form of Rangda
appears, shrieking curses upon the prince, who is put to flight
as the old witch descends, bellowing, amidst clouds of smoke,
sparks, and explosions.
The climax is a critical moment, as it is never known what will
happen next. It is not unusual for Rangda to run wild and go
about the village moaning, or to disappear into the blackness
of the ricefields. The actor, who is possessed by the spirit of the
real Rangda, is hard to bring under control. I have been told
of an old actor from Tedjakula who, after impersonating Rangda,
ran amuck and went insane when captured. He is said never to
have regained his mental balance. To the Balinese this was,
once more, the evidence of the danger of releasing uncontrolled
magic powers.
332
ISLAND OF BALI
THE BARONG
The witch has a contender for supremacy in a fantastic ani¬
mal, a mythical “ lion ” called Barong. Because of an ancient
feud with Rangda, he sides with human beings to thwart her
evil plans, and the Balinese say that without his help humanity
would be destroyed. While Rangda is female, the magic of
the “ left,"" the Barong is the “ right,” the male. Rangda is the
night, the darkness from which emanate illness and death. The
Barong is the sun, the light, medicine, the antidote for evil.
Every community owns a set of the costumes and masks of
both characters. These masks have great power in themselves
and are kept out of sight in a special shed in the death temple
of the village. They are put away in a basket, wrapped in a
magic cloth that insulates their evil vibrations, and are uncovered
only when actually in use, when the performer-medium is in a
trance and under the control of a priest, and not before offer¬
ings have been made to prevent harm to the participants. At
the feasts of the death temples their masks are uncovered and
exhibited in one of the shrines. It is a good precaution to sprinkle
these masks with holy water when someone is sick in the village.
Like the Rangda, the Barong is treated with great respect and
the Balinese address him by titles such as Banaspati Radja,
“ Lord of the Jungle,” or as Djero Cede, “ The Big One,” rather
than as Barong, which is only a generic name for his sort of
monster. (See Note i, page 354.)
Despite his demoniac character, the Barong materializes in
a trance play in which he is made to act foolishly and to dance
for the amusement of the crowd. His costume consists of a great
frame covered with long hair, with a sagging back of golden
scales set with little mirrors. A beautifully arched gold tail sticks
out of his rump arid from it hang a square mirror, a bunch of
peacock feathers, and a cluster of little bells that jingle at every
move. Under a high gilt crown is his red mask, too small for his
body, with bulging eyes and snapping jaws. The power of the
WITCHCRAFT 333
Barong is concentrated in his beard, a tuft of human hair deco¬
rated with flowers. The Barong is animated by two specially
trained men who form the front and hind quarters of the animal,
the man in front operating the mask with his hands.
In Pemetjutan the Barong play began with a performance of
d/auk, a group of boj'S wearing grinning white masks, who danced
to the delicate tunes of a legong orchestra called in this case
bebarongan. After the dance the two Barong performers went
under the costume that lay inanimate on two poles, the mask
covered by a white cloth. Like a circus prop-horse, the Barong
danced, wiggling his hind quarters, lying down, contracting and
expanding like an accordion, snapping his jaws, and in general
behaving in a comic, rather undignified manner for his awesome
character. After his gay outburst of animal spirits, he began a
long dance, staring around as if astounded by magic visions that
filled the air. He was constantly on the alert for invisible enemies,
growing more and more alarmed, clicking his teeth like casta¬
nets as the tempo of the music increased. Firecrackers began to
explode at the far end of the arena, startling the Barong, and
when the smoke cleared, the figure of Rangda appeared, yelling
curses at the Barong, who appeared humiliated by her insults.
But eventually he reacted and they rushed at each other, fight¬
ing and rolling on the ground until the Barong was made to
bite the dust.
In the meantime a group of half-naked men sitting on a mat
went into a trance. They w'ere the assistants of the Barong
against Rangda. A priest consecrated some water by dipping the
Barong’s beard into it, and sprinkled the men, who shook all
over as if in an epileptic fit. With their eyes glued on the
Rangda, they got up, drawing their krisses, advancing like fidgety
automatons towards the witch, who awaited them ready with
her white cloth, her weapon, ready in her raised hand. Suddenly
she ran after them, but just then one of the priests on watch
noticed something unusual in her behaviour and passed the
word that she was out of control. She was caught by a group
334 ISLAND OF BALI
of strong men and led away, but not before she had put a spell
on the entranced men by joining the thumbs of her outstretched
hands and yelling a curse.
By the spell, the krisses in the hands of the men turned against
them, but the magic of the Barong hardened their flesh so that,
although they pushed the sharp points of the daggers with all
their might against their naked chests, they were not even hurt.
This was the explanation the Balinese gave of the strange exhi¬
bition and it seemed inconceivable that they were faking, such
was the earnest force with which they seemed to try to stab them¬
selves. Some leaped wildly or rolled in the dust, pressing the
krisses against their breasts and crying like children, tears stream¬
ing from their eyes. Most showed dark marks where the point
of the dagger bruised the skin without cutting it, but blood
began to flow from the breast of one, the signal for the watch¬
men to disarm him by force.
It is said that only by a complete trance can the dance be per¬
formed with impunity; otherwise a man will wound himself
or hurt others. They were closely watched and if one of them
gave signs of returning to consciousness he was quickly and
violently disarmed. Possessed as they are, they have super¬
natural strength and it takes many men to hold them down.
Even after the kris has been wrenched away they continue to
dance with a blank stare and with the right fist still clenched
as if grasping the kris handle. To take the men out of the trance,
they were led, one by one, to where the Barong stood; some¬
one sucked the bleeding chest of the wounded man and stuck
a red flower in the cut. The pemangiu wiped the face of each
man with the beard of the Barong dipped in holy water, and
^adually the hysterical men came out of the trance, dazed,
simply walking away as if they did not know what had happened
to them.
Rangda, Queen of Witches
above: The Sanghyang is about to start
below: Three Old Women performing the Menddt
WITCHCRAFT
335
THE SANGHYANG
Towards the end of the Balinese year, during the last months
of the rainy season, epidemics of malaria and tropical fevers make
their appearance because evil spirits and leyaks are in the ascend¬
ancy; then even the earth is said to be sick. It is believed that
the fanged demon living on the little island of Nusa Penida,
Djero Cede Metjaling, comes to Bali then in the form of a fiery
ball that, upon coming ashore, explodes into a thousand sparks
that spread in all directions. As their glow dies, they release evil
forces that go to spread illness and misfortune. This is a pro¬
pitious time for Jeyaks to prey on human beings; because of the
predominance of evil forces, the village is then magically weak¬
ened. The dogs gather at the crossroads and howl all night and
the owls hoot, predicting deaths in the village. Quantities of
offerings are made to placate the devils, and the benign spirits
are implored to come down to earth, through the body of a
medium, to advise and protect the distressed community.
A performance of sanghyang dedaii (see page 357) is one of
the most effective exorcisms; two little girls, trained to go into a
trance, are chosen from all the girls of the village for their psychic
aptitudes by the temple priest, the pemangku, to receive in their
bodies the spirits of the heavenly nymphs, the beautiful dedaii
Supraba and Blue Lotus (Tundjung Bird) . Choruses of men
and women are formed and the training begins. Every night,
for weeks, they all go to the temple, where the women sing
traditional songs while the men chant strange rhythms and
harmonies made up of meaningless syllables, producing a synco¬
pated accompaniment for the dance that the little girls, the
sanghyangs, will perform. By degrees the little girls become more
and more subject to the ecstasy produced by the intoxicating
songs, by the incense, and by the hypnotic power of the pem-
angJcu. The training goes on until the girls are able to fall
into a deep trance, and a formal performance can be given. It
is extraordinary that although the little girls have never received
336 ISLAND OF BALI
dancing lessons, once in a trance they are able to dance in any
style, all of which would require ordinary dancers months and
years of training to learn. But the Balinese ask how it could be
otherwise, since it is the goddesses who dance in the bodies of
the little girls.
When the girls are ready, they are taken to the death temple,
where a sanggar agung, a high altar, has been erected, filled with
offerings for the sun. The pemangku sits facing the altar in front
of a brazier where incense of three sorts is burned. The little
girls wear ear-plugs of gold, heavy silver anklets, bracelets, and
rings. Their hair is loose and they are dressed in white skirts.
They kneel in front of the altar on each side of the priest. The
women singers sit in a circle around them, while the men re¬
main in a group in the back. Their jewellery is removed and is
put in a bowl of water; small incense braziers are placed in
front of each girl. After a short prayer by the priest the women
sing:
Fragrant is the smoke of the incense, the smoke of the sandal¬
wood, the smoke that coils and coils upwards towards the home of
the three gods.
We are cleansed to call the nymphs to descend from heaven.
We ask Supraba and Tundjung Biru to come down to us, beauti¬
ful in their bodices of gold.
Flying down from heaven, they fly in spirals, fly down from the
North-East, where they build their home.
Their garden is filled with golden flowers that grow side by side
with the pandanus, the scorpion orchids, the tigakant/fl, pineapples,
soli and sempol, their tender leaves gracefully drooping; drooping
they spread their perfume through the garden.
Our thoughts shall rise like smoke towards the dedaii, who will
descend from heaven. . . . (See Note 3, page 357, for the Balinese
text.)
Soon the girls begin to drowse and fall in a sudden faint. The
women support their limp bodies in a sitting-position, and after
a while the girls begin to move again, as if suffering intense
WITCHCRAFT 337
pain, then trembling all o\‘er and swaying faster and faster, their
heads rolling until their loose hair describes a wide circle. From
this time on the girls remain with closed eyes and do not open
them until the end of the ceremony, when they are taken out
of the trance. With their bare hands they brush off the glowing
coals from the braziers, making inarticulate sounds that are
taken to be mantras, magic formulas, mumbled by the heavenly
nymphs that ha\'e entered their bodies. From now on they are
addressed as goddesses. W^'omen attendants remove their white
skirts and replace them with gilt ones. Their waists are tightly
bound in strips of gold cloth, and each girl is given a jacket, a
golden bodice, and a silver belt, in all a legong costume. The
jewellery that lay in the bow'l of holy water is put on again. The
holy head-dresses of gold are brought in on cushions decorated
with fresh frangipani flowers, and the girls are guided so that
they can put them on themselves while the women sing about
the beauty of the head-dresses and the elegance of their clothes:
The head-dress, the head-dress circled with jasmines, the garuda
mungkuT ornament on its back, enhanced with sempol and gambir
flowers, crowned wdth fragrant sandat and yellow pistils of merak.
Tightly bound in their sashes they dance in the middle of the
court, they dance slowly and glide from side to side, sway and swung
in ecstasy. . . .
The pemangku, until then motionless and concentrating, now
takes a coconut with the holy water about to be sanctified, water
in which have been placed various sorts of flowers and three
small branches of dadap bound in red, black, and white thread.
Then he asks the sanghyangs to turn the water into an amulet.
The sanghyangs begin to dance with closed eyes, accompanied
by alternating choruses of the men who sing in furious synco¬
pation: “ Kechak-kechak-kechak — chakchakchak-chak! — and
by the women who sing:
The flower menuk that makes one happy, the white flower, it is
— it is — it is white and in rows, like the stars above, like the con¬
stellations, like the constellation kaitika, that scintillates, they scin-
338 ISLAND OF BALI
tillate, scintillate and fade away, fade away and disappear, disappear,
disappear because of the moonlight.
Lengkik, lengkik, lengkik, says the plaintive song of the lonely
dasih bird that was left behind. Oh, how he cries! He cries, cries
like the cry of a child who must be amused, amused by the dancing
of the dedans. Lengkik, lengkik, swing and sway in ecstasy. . . .
The sanghyangs may suddenly decide to go to another temple
or tour the village, chasing the leyaks, followed by the singing
men and women. The sanghyangs must not touch the impure
ground outside the temple and are carried everywhere on the
shoulders of men. They stop at a second temple, where a pile
of coconut shells burns in the centre of the court. The sang¬
hyangs dance unconcerned in and out of the fire, scattering the
glowing coals in all directions with their bare feet. They may
even decide to take a bath of fire, picking up the coals in both
hands and pouring them over themselves.
When the fire is extinguished, the girls climb onto the shoul¬
ders of two men who walk around the courtyard, the girls’ pre¬
hensile feet clutching the men’s shoulders, balancing them¬
selves and dancing gracefully from the waist up, bending back
at incredible angles. In this manner they give the illusion of
gliding through the air. The temperamental girls may suddenly
decide that the dance is over. Then they must be taken out of
the trance with more songs; and the sanghyangs become ordi¬
nary girls again, they distribute the flowers from their head¬
dresses as amulets and sprinkle the crowd with holy water:
Beautiful goddess stand up, goddess, stand up. The singers have
come and are singing the sanghyang.
Come, goddess, goddess, we ask of the nymphs to come to us for
a while and go around, go around.
Oh, beautiful goddess! take the holy water from the altar, the
holy, the clear, the immaculate water with frangipani, white madurf,
white hibiscus and blue teleng. The water in tihe gold coconut, the
liberating water, the water made in heaven.
WITCHCRAFT 339
Sprinkle it over yourself and go and spray the singers. Then go
home, go home to the Indraloka.
Go and bathe in the garden and adorn yourself with white orchids,
then go home, goddess, go home, back to heaven, and disappear into
space, go into space.
The wind blows, fly with the wind goddess; the body remains to
take again its human form. . . .
The ceremony lasts for two or three hours, but despite the
intensity of the performance the little girls give no evidence of
exhaustion and the explanation they give comes back to our
minds: the dancers, fascinated by their own rhythm, move in a
supernatural w'orld where fatigue is unknown. In ordinary life
the little girls are normal children. However, they are forbidden
to creep under the bed, to eat the remains of another person’s
food or the food from offerings, and must be refined in manners
and speech. Their parents are exempt from certain village duties
and are regarded highly by the rest of the community.
BLACK AND WHITE MAGIC
Every Balinese believes that his body, like an electric battery,
accumulates a magic energy called sakti that enables him to
withstand the attacks of evil powers, human or supernatural, that
seek constantly to undermine his magic health. TTiis sakti is not
evenly divided; some people are born with a capacity to store a
higher charge of magic than others; they become the priests,
witch-doctors, and so forth, endowed with supernatural powers.
' The sakti can be trained to serve them at will by the systematic
study of the arts of magic and meditation, but people whose
hearts are contaminated by evil use the magic science to harm
their enemies, or simply to satisfy their lowest instincts.
The Balinese use the term sakti like our “ holy ” or “ sacred,”
but meaning, rather, charged with a magic (positive or nega¬
tive) power that emanates from people as well as from objects
like Rangda and Barong masks, or from places regarded as
magically dangerous (tenget or angker) , like caves, rivers, and
340 ISLAND OF BALI
ancient remains. One often hears of the sakti of living people
who could hardly be regarded as holy, like our coffee-dealer
Makatjung; I was told of an old prince who was so sakti he could
floor anyone by simply staring at him.
The normal way to bring out the dormant sakti is to undergo
mawinten — the initiation ceremony of priests, magicians, dan¬
cers, and actors, to give them the luck, beauty, cleverness, and
personal charm that enable them to be successful. Story-tellers
and singers of epic poems (kekawin) have magic syllables in¬
scribed on their tongues with honey to make their voices sweet.
The ceremony is performed by a priest who, after cleansing and
purifying the person through a maweda, writes invisible signs
over his forehead, eyes, teeth, shoulders, arms, and so forth,
with the stem of a flower dipped in holy water.
An explanation of the Balinese attitude in regard to personal
magic can be found in the principle that constantly obsesses
them — strong and weak, clean and unclean. Thus, the indi¬
vidual is magically strengthened when he is in the state of psychic
purity (dning, sutji, niimala) acquired through the performance
of the cleansing ritual. The antithesis of this is the often men¬
tioned sebel condition, uncleanliness, when a run-down soul
renders one vulnerable to the attacks of evil. A person becomes
sebel automatically at the death of relatives, during illness or
menstruation, after having children, and so forth. In cases of
bestiality, temple vandalism, incest, the birth of twins of each
sex, the entire community becomes polluted and has to be puri¬
fied by complicated and expensive sacrifices. Not even the deities
are free from becoming sebel, and, like any other woman, Rangda
and the death goddess Durga are sebel once every month.
The ancient Indian idea that a positive force, when tempo¬
rarily distorted and reversed, is turned into an evil, negative
power is the backbone of the magic science of Bali. Even the
gods have phases of wickedness, their kiodha or Todia mani¬
festations, when a creative spirit becomes a fearful deity of death
and destruction. Siwa in his angry form is Kala, and Uma,
WITCHCRAFT 341
Siwa’s wife, becomes Durga; Wisnumurti or Brahmamurti are
the krodha manifestations of the gods Wisnu or Brahma, and
the average Balinese has come to regard them as many-armed,
ten-headed demons of mythology, because their freakish appear¬
ance is incompatible with his idea of divinity. The notion re¬
mains, however, that a formula of magic intended to give the
spiritual health for which they strive, if turned backwards (as in
the case of Rangda's book on magic) , becomes a powerful source
of evil magic. Thus magic is sharply divided into good magic
of the “ right,” penengen, and magic of the “ left,” pengiwa,
black and evil; both based on the same principles and almost
identical in procedure.
THE PENGIWA. HOW TO BECOME A LEYAK
The learned, those possessing a highly trained mystic power,
often become “ infected in their heart ” and misuse their knowl¬
edge to transform themselves into werewolves who revel in crime
and blood, reverting to the wicked instincts of demons. They
instruct pupils in the secret magic and become chiefs of legions
of leyaks.
When I first became interested in magic, my Balinese friends
tried to dissuade me, claiming that unending calamities would
befall me if I persisted. None would admit he knew anything
about how to become a leyak and in general the subject was
delicate as a matter of conversation. Eventually someone
brought me a manuscript for sale, probably stolen, obviously be¬
longing to the magic lore. The very sight of it frightened them,
and it was with certain difficulty that I induced my usually skep¬
tical teacher of Balinese to help me translate the text. Even he
deliberately distorted the order of the syllables and I had to
correct them afterwards, checking and rechecking individual
words. Later on I obtained another palm-leaf book which was
considerably more accessible because it contained magic of the
“ right,” and from the two I tried to procure a general cross-
section of magic procedures.
342 ISLAND OF BALI
The process of becoming a leyak is long and arduous and can
only be achieved gradually. First the pupils learn by heart magic
words from the old manuscripts, which, repeated in rhythmical
sequence while in the attitude of meditation, nglekas, put the
student into a state of feverish trance. This is done while making
an offering — cones of steamed rice dyed in certain specified
colours, special structures of palm-leaf, amounts of old bronze
coins, and a sacrificed chicken of a defined colour. These rites
should be performed after midnight in a propitious place for the
transformation. Most frequently named locales for becoming a
werewolf were the cemeteries, the death temple, the crossroads,
the place where two rivers meet (t/ampuan) , where corpses are
cremated, in the bale agung, in empty lots where people have
never lived, in the family shrine, magic spots of any kind.
The pupil achieves communion with the evil deities by de¬
grees, but before he is successful, he undergoes strange tests of
fortitude:' giants appear to him and pretend to chop off his head
with great axes, monstrous snakes will coil around his body, but
he must remain unmoved. Should he laugh if mice appear from
all corners playing on great flutes, the fruit of his efforts will be
lost. The formulas recited during the early stages of training are
simple repetitions of the standard holy syllables (ong, ang mang,
ong, ang mang) or meaningless words such as: ong, ngong
breng nengang, ring pang ring pung, sigang sigung, m’ngang
m’ngang hem mengung, djingal d/ingul, leng her." Often
strange words appear that seem to be onomatopoetic sounds of
the animal one wishes to become, as in the case of transforming
oneself into the monkey Luntung Bengkur, a favourite of leyak
women, the formula for which is: “ AH! hrenh hrang hrung,
UHl hek kwek kwek,” repeated three times.
So much for the simple leyaks that turn into birds, pigs, mon¬
keys, snakes, or even tigers. There are more powerful and dan¬
gerous transformations for the later stages of training, for more
defined demons and “ rangdas,” able to cause all sorts of super¬
natural phenomena. In my manuscript for black magic there
WITCHCRAFT 343
were forty-eight sorts of transformations, each more powerful
than the last, but also more difficult to attain, often with minute
instructions for the favourable conditions in which to try them
safely and with repeated warnings that they were not to be at¬
tempted by the unprepared. The offerings required were elab¬
orate and expensive; the amounts of money specified often
mount into the many thousands of feepengs. I n these the formula
becomes a forceful prayer of self-exaltation:
“ ONG! My will is [to become] Sang Kundewidjaya-murti. Fire
from my immaculate abdomen, ONG! White fire from my heart,
red fire from my liver, yellow fire from my kidneys, black fire from
my lungs, fire from my navel, fire from the crown of my head — ang
ang ang ang ang, fire from my head flare up to heaven, fire of five
colours rise as high as a mountain. All you witches (leyak, desti,
teluh, trangyana) , all devils of the universe, collapse! Fearfully they
all pay homage to me, the whole world reverences me. ONG! Noth¬
ing can outshine my brilliance — go on [the power of the formula],
go on, go on! ”
(ONG, idepaku wmawak Sang Kundewidjaya-murti, midjilaken
gem ring serira sasti. ONG, gem putih ring pepusuh, genf abang
ring hati, genf kum'ng ring ungsilan, gem ireng ring amperu, gem
perebuta ring nabf, metu ring siwedwaranku, ang ang ang ang ang,
djemidjil gem ring siwedwaranku, murub dumilak ring akasa, man-
tjewama nipanira miber aku ring akasa, dumilak tedfanku ring
djagat, murub kadi gem segunung, sarwa leyak, desti, teluh, trang¬
yana, sarwa buta pisatja, dengen, sarwa mambekan ring d/agat, rep
sirep, pada nembah ring aku, ONG, sidi swasti bawanku, set, ser,
ser.)
The release of this magic fire that comes from the lower in¬
terior being is an important factor in the transformation. It is
sent off to go and cause the destruction of the victim. In the
manuscripts often appear phrases like this to drive this force:
. . fly through the air, soar in the sky, ascend, ascend, ascend,
fly in circles, go on, go on, go on, go and bum so-and-so [the victim’f'
name], launch my invincible formula.”
344 ISLAND OF BALI
( . . . teJca ber, angawang ring gegana, bid/ur, bid/ur, bid/ur, ser, ser,
ser, tefca geseng sianu, angenter mantra mawisesa.)
With every formula comes a prayer so that the witch can re¬
turn to normalcy — that is, become human again and reacquire
cleanliness. This is done by driving the magic fire back into one’s
abdomen. Here is a typical example:
“ ONG! Brahma (fire) return to my abdomen and disappear [the
abnormal state], become human again, clearly human, and there
shall be no trouble. Lost, lost, lost, clean, clearly a man.”
(ONG, Brahma mulih ring serira teka sedep telas, muksaning djari,
teka puma, teka udep, teka udep, teka udep, ening d/anma d/ari.)
Every witch-doctor and even high priests should undergo these
transformations in order to know what they have to fight against.
I was told by an old medicine-man, who claimed to have tried
them often, that the process is extremely painful; it starts with
violent headaches; gradually the tongue swells, becoming longer
and heavier until it hangs out of the mouth uncontrolled. He
added that the transformations are dangerous because, with each,
one's life wears away and becomes shorter, like burning up one’s
soul-power. The Balinese claim that certain people have greater
aptitude for becoming leyaks than others; women, for instance,
require less study than men, and persons devoid of the groove
between the lips and the nose have leyak tendencies. The leyak
cult is full of rowdy sexual manifestations; leyaks appear naked
and with tremendously exaggerated sexual organs that emanate
fire. Like the witches of the West, they fly naked over house¬
tops and hold orgies and black masses.
PENENGEN, THE MAGIC OF THE RIGHT
Against the dreaded pengiwa there is a neutralizing magic used
by priests and witch-doctors to protect their clients from leyaks,
a magic as powerful as that of the witches and consisting of the
same elements as the magic of the “ left ” — formulas (mantra)
charms (serana), and amulets (penawar, sikepan, pergolan,
WITCHCRAFT 345
tetulak) . Typical charms are " yellow ” coconuts, dadap leaves,
onions and salt, flowers, rubbings of gold, rain-water that col¬
lects in plants, camphor, a lamp burning perfumed oil, twin
bananas and twin coconuts, over which a formula is recited.
These amulets are often pictures of monsters and fantastically
distorted deities, surrounded with cabalistic symbols, drawn on
a piece of new white cloth or on a thin plaque of silver or copper,
worn at the waist, hung over the house gate or in front of the
rice granary. The images drawn on these little flags, called
tumhai, may represent the weapons (senyata) of the gods, or
may be pictures of Batara Kala, Batara Gana, or curious repre¬
sensations of that intriguing and abstract Balinese divinity Tin-
tiya, known also as Sanghyang Tunggal — the Unthinkable, the
Solitary, the Original God. Tintiya appears often in ritual ob¬
jects in the form of a nude male white figure, bristling with
trident-shaped flames emanating from his head, temples, shoul¬
ders, elbows, penis, knees, and feet. His hands are clasped in an
attitude of prayer and his right foot rests on a fiery wheel, a
tjaha. The Tintiyas used as amulets of magic are fantastically
distorted, often in absurd positions, with many heads, or simply
Tintiya heads attached to abstract and geometrical shapes.
“ Rangdas ” and monsters of all sorts used as tumbals are aimed
to ward off, by sympathetic magic, the ghosts and werewolves
that annoy and persecute the Balinese.
The magic formulas of the “ right ” are most often simple
prayers, litanies of names of protective spirits and curses to in¬
timidate and confound the leyaks. The examples here are taken
at random from my manuscript of penengen;
. . you of the wicked heart, your eyes be blinded, your hands
be paralysed, your feet be useless.”
(Ih, deiiya mata malem, lima Jangah, batis djodjo.)
. . The high and learned who understand the formulas watch
over my body day and night, in good and in bad, they watch over
me so that I shall not die in my dreams, die in health. Do not be
afraid.”
Tumbal
(Ne manusa luwih penguruh merta sandi mantra, ngid/ing sai, ring
awakd petang lemah, ala-ayu, and nunggu aJ:d apangeda mati ngipi,
mati ngawag-ngawag, tan kuwasa molah. )
. . ONG! the Original Word, whose brilliance is like the air
that fills the sky, a spell is on my house, a great forest surrounded by
tigers. A thousand witches bow down to me meekly and fearfully
[because] the amulet given to my enemies by the gods is worn out
and spoiled. . .
348 ISLAND OF BALI
(Ong, saremula, suted/aniya kadi Icangin ngibehing akasa, tulah
tumpur umahku alas agung matjan mengideiim, l^lo tumpuragung
siu leyake membah, sing serana punah pegawen sandelung, paweh
dewa punah, teka punah.)
. . Ong! ang ung mang ang ah. I am Sanghyang Sukla the
Powerful. I descend with the sun and the moon, I am above Kala
Rahu. My head-dress has a white diamond and the gods love me.
Sanghyang Tintiya and Sarad Manik contemplate me, my parasol
is yellow and Brahma admires me. Fire descend! Clean the country
and burn all the devils, burn all the witches, burn Banaspati Radja,
burn them all! . .
( Ong, ang ung mang ang ah. Aranku Sanghyang Sukla Wisesa, tum-
urun aku ring Smy^a amor ring Sanghyang Ulan, anunggang aku Kala
Rahu, gelunganakd winten petak, sarwa dewa kasih, anelengaku
Sanghyang Tintiya, wetu Sarad Manik, apayong aku d/enar, anelang
aku ring Brahma, metd genf melesat sedjagat, sekuwihning buta
peresel geseng, leyak geseng, Banaspati Radja geseng, teka ges-
eng. . . .)
In many of these formulas the leyaks, demons, and even the
higher spirits are mercilessly abused and there are often phrases
by which the exalted magician places himself on equal footing
with the gods and even above them. Thus it is easy to under¬
stand why the Balinese fear uttering the formulas and why they
feel that only the highly prepared or the naturally magic people
like the priests may do so with impunity. Many priests and
witch-doctors sincerely believe they possess in themselves powers
equal to the spirits', but the ordinary people, who look in awe
at all this hocus-pocus, either buy the amulets already strength¬
ened by the formulas of a priest or witch-doctor or, always re¬
sourceful, depend on oflFerings, trances, and dramatic exorcizing
performances of plays and dances like the tjalon arang or the
sanghyang, when the deities themselves provide the necessary
amulets.
WITCHCRAFT
349
THE WITCH-DOCTORS, MAGIC, AND MEDICINE
There were two medicine-men, two kalians among the friends
that often visited us. One of these was a learned, serious, middle-
aged man who practised medicine and was progressive enough
to adopt some Western medicines like quinine tablets for malaria,
to which, however, he added Balinese magic by reciting formulas
over them. He liked to discuss the methods of foreigners and
often came to us to ask for medicines. The other kalian was the
extreme reverse; he enjoyed the terrifying reputation of teacher
and chief of bands of leyaks, and our friends had warned us in
whispers that many of the old women of our le^'ak-ridden neigh¬
bourhood were his pupils; nobody had the slightest doubt of
his great magical powers. His appearance was as demoniac as his
reputation: enormous fingernails on knotty long fingers, half-
extinguished little eyes burning still with a wicked gleam, and a
great, bloody cave for a mouth, entirely toothless and always
crimson with betel juice. He dressed smartly in a blue silk saput,
and his gestures showed a rather studied elegance. He was gay
and solicitous, but he loved to appear mysterious at times.
Our two friends belonged to the two arch-types of Balinese
kalians. One was the inspired mystic who works through fits
of temperament and trances to fight the evil forces and who by
his inherent sakti is able to dominate the supernatural spirits.
Shamanism is his medium; he can see “ far away ” by going into
a trance and looking into a mirror or a container with water.
Through his self-induced trances he comes in contact with his
assisting spirit, perhaps his father s, a former great kalian, whose
reputation establishes the prestige enjoyed by the son; thus
possessed by his assisting spirit, he is able to go into the spirit
world and fight the wrongdoer. During the trances the kalian
growls and mumbles monologues similar to those in plays, in
which he relates his adventures in Hades. Often he dances en¬
tranced, elegant versions of duels with malignant spirits. I was
told that such a kalian can see a guilt in the eyes of a boy or a
350 ISLAND OF BALI
girl who is still " pure " — that is, uncontaminated by sexual
intercourse. By going into a trance, balians are also able to trace
the past history of an old kris or some similar object.
While the intuitive witch-doctor (balian ngengengan) works
mainly through his inspiration and his inherent saktf, the learned
balian (balian wisada) , “ who can read,” depends for his effec¬
tiveness on a mixture of practical medicine and religious magic
learned from palm-leaf manuscripts (lontai or rontal) . Although
not a priest, he knows all the good and evil gods and the manner
of their approach; he understands the calendar and knows the
proper formulas and magic words, cabalistic symbols, and so
forth, which he combines with real medical knowledge, of mas¬
sage, herbs, and roots. Thus, assisted by the faith of his patients,
he can perform real cures.
A balian inherits his father’s wisdom, his sakti, and the acces¬
sories of his ritual: magic stones and coins which are placed in
water that is given to the patient to drink, calendars and charts
for horoscopes, but mainly old treatises on magic and medicine,
the possession of which alone already gives balians certain
powers. Besides the aforementioned manuscripts on “ right ”
and “ left ” magic, they own special books on love magic (pen-
gaseh) , collections of models for pictorial amulets (tetumbalan) ,
and books on medicine and medical recipes (wisada and tetulak) .
These are copied when the old ones have become too worn, and
the discarded palm-leaves are burned to prevent them from fall¬
ing into the wrong hands; the burned remains are then eaten by
the owner in order not to waste any of their magic power.
Balians do not divulge their secrets readily; they claim that
they would lose their power to recover their human identity after
a trance and would go insane if they revealed their formulas or
sold their books. They have successfully injected fear of their
dangerous practices among the common people, who shudder
even at the sight of their magic books. The profession of balian
is surrounded with an air of mystery, and although there are
many kindly and respectable balians, it is believed that there
WITCHCRAFT 351
are also wicked ones who use magic to do physical harm to a
client's enemy. For this purpose they are said to employ the uni¬
versal system of sympathetic magic by which through the pos¬
session of something that belonged to or formed part of the
victim — clothes, locks of hair, nail-cuttings, saliva, and even the
soil taken from a footprint — they can gain control of the phys¬
ical and mental condition of the person. Through sympathy be¬
tween the victim and something of his — his image, a photo¬
graph or a doll containing any of the above ingredients — his soul
is captured and tortured because he feels the harm done to his
image. Consequently the Balinese carefully collect and bury
all nail-cuttings, hair, tooth-filings, and so forth.
Just as the Balinese believe that foreigners are immune from
the attacks of witches simply because they are of a race apart,
so they believe that European medicines and the knowledge of
white doctors, pills, liquids in bottles, and bitter or smelly pow¬
ders, can be effective only to cure the people who invented them.
Furthermore, the lack of showmanship of doctors, of dramatic
hocus-pocus with which to paralyse the evil forces which they
believe cause illness, leave them without faith in their curative
ability. Many refuse absolutely to be cured by Europeans, others
accept treatment out of politeness, and the few that go to the
hospitals do so only after everything else has failed them. It is
natural that medical treatment fails then to cure an advanced
stage of illness.
In case of serious sickness a folded leaf of pandanus is hung
on the gate as a sign of taboo (sawen) to inform the village.
Then only relatives may enter the house and may only approach
the sick person after stamping their feet on the kitchen floor to
shake off whatever evil influences may still cling to them. A
bdian is called, and if his magic succeeds in effecting a cure,
the patient gives many offerings and has to undergo purifying
ceremonies to lose the sebel.
The Balinese attach great significance to any sort of physical
sickness and, having no great hardships to discuss, to complain
352 ISLAND OF BALI
of illness, no matter how slight, is a favourite subject of conver¬
sation. Colds, cough, stomach-ache, neuralgia, and other minor
ailments make them miserable, although they can cure them
effectively with domestic concoctions of herbs, roots, barks,
flowers, and especially by massage, which they have developed
into a real science. However, despite the appearance of being
an unusually healthy race, the Balinese are victims of many
serious afflictions for which they know no cure.
Worst among these are the widespread venereal diseases;
syphilis and gonorrhoea seem to prevail although in an inherited,
latent state. Supposedly of ancient introduction, the diseases do
not appear in malignant forms and the Balinese seem to have
developed a certain immunity that makes them carriers despite
a healthy appearance. It is common to see the whitish veil of
gonorrhoea in the eyes of elderly people and often a boy or a
girl of our band/ar broke out in sores of an unmistakable origin
and had to be sent to the hospital for inoculations. But the re¬
luctance of the Balinese to undertake foreign treatment, the for¬
bidding cost of Salvarsan, and the natural promiscuity do not
help the situation.
The violent rainy seasons bring epidemics of tropical fevers,
and malaria takes many lives, especially of children. The Bali¬
nese attempt to cure the fevers with concoctions of dadap leaves,
onions, anise, salt, and coal from the hearth, which, after strain¬
ing, is given to the patient to drink, and he is put to sleep. It is
also effective to rub the sides with a paste of mashed dadap
leaves, onions, anise, and tinke, a sort of nutmeg, and to rub the
back with coconut oil with scrapings of dadap bark; but quinine
is rapidly gaining popularity. The Balinese love a clear skin and
they are disturbed by the prevalent skin diseases, from the ugly
but harmless kurab, a skin discolouration produced by a para¬
sitic fungus, to itches, framboesia, and tenacious tropical ulcers.
The kurab (called bulenan when in small patches) appears as
whitish spots on the brown skin and spreads all over if not
checked. It is cured by mbbing the affected areas with lalang
WITCHCRAFT 353
grass, but it has been discovered that it disappears quickly with
salycilic alcohol from the Chinese druggists. Itches are cured
with lemon juice, coconut oil, and frequent baths in hot water
in which legundi and ketawaU leaves are macerated.
People after middle age complain of “ bone trouble,” rheuma¬
tism, due to the extreme humidity of the island, and as a pre¬
ventive they wear bracelets of kayu uli, a sort of black coral from
Borneo. It is said that the pain can be driven out by marking
the feet with a hot iron, which does not hurt the patient because
“ the teeth of the fire are taken away by a mantia.” Headaches
are cured by massage, but it helps to spray the forehead with a
mixture of crushed ginger and mashed bedbugs. For stomach¬
ache they drink the red infusion of medaiih bark from Java. A
cough is relieved by drinking an infusion of blimbing buluh
flowers mixed with parched, grated coconut, also sprayed exter¬
nally on the throat. Head colds are cured by massage, but it is
good for sneezing to smell a piece of teloi bark three times. Such
are the most common of domestic remedies, but for each illness
there are seven medicines used consecutively when the preceding
ones fail to give relief. The keystone of Balinese medicine is the
principle of “ hot ” and “ cold,” irritating and refreshing, also
applied to foods. Thus a heated or irritated condition is cured
by a cooling medicine.
The Balinese are helpless in the case of infected wounds, but
it is always a means of breaking the ice with a foreign neighbour
to ask for medicine for an infected cut covered with a greenish
mess and wrapped in a dirty rag. Rose treated many such cases
soon after our arrival in Belaluan and eventually we had a great
circle of faithful friends who brought presents of food to show
their appreciation. On our return trip we found that the full
responsibility for such cases had fallen on our American friends
Jack and Katharane Mershon, former dancers, who had settled
on the malarial Sanur coast, where they conducted an impro¬
vised but effective free clinic. They spent their spare money on
medicines and took turns every day treating scores of people.
354 ISLAND OF BALI
often coming from afar with the most frightful sores. The dis¬
interested work of the Mershons made them the idols of the
neighbourhood and they are known only as tuan doctor and
nyonya doctor. There is of course a fine modern hospital in Den
Pasar, but the Balinese prefer the more informal, sympathetic
clinic of the Mershons.
ADDITIONAL NOTES
1. Rangda and Barong. The origin of the fascinating Rangda is now con¬
fused, fantastic myth, a sample of which is the following tale as it was
told to me by an old man of Den Pasar;
A concubine of King Erlangga gave birth to a pair of pigs, a dreadful
omen of approaching calamity. The Brahmanas were consulted and they
advised turning the pigs loose in the forest. The pigs played havoc with
the trees, and to prevent further destraction, Sanghyang Berawi (Bega-
wati) turned them into two beautiful women, whom she named Tjumpu
Mas and Tanting Mas. She gave them a small book of lontar palm and
ordered them to study the powerful magic formulas contained in it.
Tjumpu Mas decided to remain in the jungle, keeping the book with
her, but Tanting Mas went to the country of Lemah Tulis, where she
married the holy man Begawan Mpii Gandu. “ Because the holy man
could not bear Ae fire of Tanting Mas,” he went to live in the forest as
a hermit. There he met an endeh, the dancing flame of a witch, that
turned out to be Tjumpu Mas, his wife’s sister, now a proficient witch.
So impressed was the holy man with her beauty that he married her on
the spot, but on the following day, when he went to perform his daily
purification, he found among his cleansing paraphernalia the entrails of
a corpse, freshly dug out of the cemetery by Tjumpu Mas. Enraged at
the profanation, the priest declared a magic war on the witch and turned
into a great cremation tower to intimidate her. She became fire that con¬
sumed the tower, leaving her a rangda, a widow. The Rangda later be¬
came pregnant, changed her name to Sirowalii (also meaning “ widow ”),
and lived on as queen of the forest of Alas Trung in the country of Dirah,
becoming known as the “ Widow from Dirah ” (Rangda ning Dirah, or
Girah). Her child was bom in the jungle and grew up to be the famed
beauty Ratna Menggali.
There are many varied versions of the tale, in one of which Tanting
Mas and Tjumpu Mas are the result of the dreaded male and female
twins, Tanting Mas the male who struggles Avith his twin sister for
WITCHCRAFT 555
supremacy, becoming Banaspati Radja, “ Lord of the Jungle,” the
Barong’s name. This would explain the origin of the Rangda and
Barong if it were not for the fact that the Balinese are thoroughly con¬
fused in reprd to their identit}’; I have been told that Erlangga himself
turns into a Barong to fight Rangda and that Batara Budda and the
Barong are the same. It is obvious, nevertheless, that they are not purely
Balinese: Rangdas are unknown in the oldest villages and the character
and appearance of the witch presents a striking similarity with the wild¬
eyed, fanged demons of Tibet and northern India, where Tantric Bud¬
dhism holds sway. In Nepal there is a long-haired devil called hkahe who
dances like Rangda, holding a white cloth which it uses as weapon.
Both the Rangda and the Barong seem to belong to the Tantric Buddhist
lore, perhaps to the now disappeared Bhairawa sect that flourished in
Bali in Erlangga’s time.
Bhairawa Buddhism remains the deliverance element in the Hindu-
Balinese religion, a short cut to the release of the soul from the cycle
of reincarnations, attained not by simple propitiation of gods, but by
direct control of the supernatural by man’s own magic powers. The
Bhairawas paid homage to a sort of Durga — Sanghyang Berawi or
Begawati, their deity of evil and death — and they influenced the higher
cult with a new demonology', death cult, magic science, and magic
terminology. It imparted a strong magic flavour to the national religion,
but it disappeared as a separate sect. According to Lekkerkerker and
Stutterheim, Buddhism, or, rather, Buddhist magic, was introduced in
Bali about a.d. 96, perhaps by the apostles, the brothers Mpu Kuturan
and Mpti Bharada from Kediri (Daha) . To them is attributed authorship
of the civil and religious laws of Bali. Mpu Bharada, hero of the Tjalon
Arangand teacher of Erlangga, was the magician who vanquished Rangda
and today remains the most important figure in the magic lore.
A good deal of speculation revolves around the significance of the
word Barong, for which there is no acceptable explanation. The Malay
for “ bear,” baruang, has been su^ested, but Malay was a recently in¬
troduced language and there were no bears in Bali. The classic Barong
is called barong ketet or kekek, but there are also Barongs in the form
of tigers (barong mat/an), of pigs (barong bangkal), of lions (barong
singha); and once we saw one in the shape of an elephant (barong
gad/a). There are also Barongs in human shape like the giant puppets
( barong landong) who, holy as they are, perform ribald slapstick comedy.
The main characters of the barong landong are Djero Cede, “ The Big
One,” an evil giant identified with the fanged monster Djero Cede
556 ISLAND OF BALI
Metjaling, the demon of Nusa Penida, and Djero Luh, “ The Female,”
a lewd old woman. Most intriguing Barongs are those reported in Tru-
nyan by Walter Spies (Das grosse Fest im Dorfe Trunjan) ; in this an¬
cient Bali Aga village a great festival is held in which the trunas, the
virgin boys, with their naked bodies covered with dried banana leaves,
which give them the appearance of great cabbages, and wearing frightful
primitive masks, run around the temple grounds whipping savagely any¬
one who comes within tlieir reach. These fierce monsters are called
barong berutuk, a term for which there is no interpretation. Two of
these are the druwend, the male and female berutuk Radjas, and are
reminiscent of the Djero Gedd and Djero Luh of the barong landong.
They are seen with respectful awe by everybody, and leaves from their
dresses are supposedly infallible amulets. Daring people try to steal bits
of leaf from their dresses, but are mercilessly whipped by the other
berutuks, who seem to respect only the village elders and the small chil¬
dren. The ceremony ends at sunset, when the monsters are disarmed of
their whips and the now confident crowd can approach to watch the
lecherous love dance of the male and female druwends, after which the
entranced performers tear off their banana-leaf coverings and, com¬
pletely naked except for their grimacing masks, jump into Lake Batur
and swim for a while with the masks on, returning in the dark to have the
sacred masks respectfully put away after the priests make offerings to
them.
In behaviour and appearance the ordinary Barong resembles the Chi¬
nese lion or chimera called gee-ling that performs wild antics during the
Chinese New Year to the tune of gongs, drums, and firecrackers. In Bali
during the first month after galunggan, considered as the New Year, the
Barongs are permitted to wander over the streets and roads making upa —
that is, performing for pennies. The most sacred part of the Barong is
its beard of human hair coquettishly decorated with fresh flowers.
Penawar water, a protective amulet, is made by dipping this beard into
ordinary water while saying a prayer. Hairs from this beard are worn
around the wrists as amulets. TTiere are also extraordinary Barongs that
are covered with crow and even peacock feathers instead of the usual
fleece of horses’ tails or fibres. I was told of a village who wished to have
a Barong of crow feathers; the villagers only had to pray for them and one
morning they found the temple yard strewn with the most beautiful
shiny black feathers.
Balinese with imagination have told me that the Barong is Mpfi
Bharada, who fights Rangda in this form; that he is Banaspati, the Lord
of the Jun^e, who is madly in love with Sanghyang Berawi and who
WITCHCRAFT 357
assumes the Barong shape to make love to her, but she will have none of
it and turns into a Rangda to punish his insolence.
2. Sanghyang. A variet}- of sanghyang is the sanghyang deling found
in Kintamani and other villages around the crater of the Batur. The
girls are put into the trance by means of two dolls representing the deities,
strung through their middles by a cord, the ends of which are attached to
short sticks tensely held by two boys. The string with the dolls is thus
held taut in front of the two kneeling girls, songs are chanted, and the
boys go into trance; their arms become rigid and commence to shake,
causing the dolls to dance back and forth across the cord. As the boys
shake more and more ^'iole^tly, the vibration increases and the dolls leap,
whirl, and clash against each other. The girls have become drowsy and
suddenly faint, going into the trance to be dressed and dance as in the
ordinary sanghyang.
Anodier variety is the sanghyang d/aran, in which the temple priest,
the pemangku, becomes himself the sanghyang, possessed by an ancestral
deity, a Gandarwa on horseback. We saw a pemangku in Bedulu go into
the trance with tw'O boys, his assistants, each riding on small prop horses
and dancing in and out of a great blazing pile of burning coconut shells.
The sanghyang djaiin is reminiscent of a trance performance from Cen¬
tral Java called kuda kepang — men wearing dark glasses and riding on
beautifully stylized horses woven out of bamboo.
3. SANGHYANG SONGS (gending sanghyang) ;
1. Waunusdus:
Merik sumuftung asep, menyan mad/egau, ia fjendana hukus
maulekan, ia lehnggan Betara Tiga; ia wus matinining, ia menusa
ngasti pukulum, ia nurunan Dedari kendran, ia Sang Supraba,
Tund/ung Biru, ia Tund/ung Birii, ia mengerangsuk meanggd-
anggd, ia sesalukin bad/u mas-masan, ia mditjat miber magegana,
ia mengelo ngad/a-kanginan, ia d/'alan Dedari metangun d/erd, ia
tamane bek misi sekar, ia sekar emas sandingin pudak, angrek
gringsing, ia tigakant/u, manas, soli, sempol, ia, kedapand malelepe;
malelepe makebiyur ketaman sari, lamun nudus Kadewatan, turun
Dedari kendran.
2. Nyaluk gelung;
Gelung, ia gelung agung, mebulingker ia sekar gadung, metitis
Garuda mungkur, ia, sekar sempol, ia, sekar gambir, sandat gubar
anggen susun, merak mekimtjii kuning, payas dane ia mepulilit,
mengigal tengahing nafar, ia igal dane manggu-pipir, metand/ek
megulu wangsul.
358 ISLAND OF BALI
3. Mangumn sanghyang:
Sekai menuk mengedanin, k k putih, k k k k putih mengambiar,
buJca bintange diduuiy bintang kaiti, bintang kartikane sedih; ia
liyer, ia ia ia liyei, liyer, buka twara bakat ruruli, imuh nudju, mmh
nudju, galang sasih; k k lengkik, k lengkik lengkik, sayang san
munyin dasihd; dasih nika, dasih nika, tut kalanin, k k aduh! ia ia ia
k aduh mirah! Idewa dadi pangelipur, lipmanda, lipuran Dedari
kale; k ia lengkik, k k k k lengkik, metandjek megulu wangsul.
4. Wus mengigal; meketis toya:
Dewa ayu metangi, Dewa metangi, d/uru Jcidung sarnpun lauh
mengambelang gending sanghyang; ihl Yang Yang Dedari mung-
gah kepesilih, k k midei, k mider, mider dane; aduh! Dewa Sang
Ayu, ngambil, ia ngambil tiita sanggar agung, tiita empul, yeh ning
Sudamala, sekar d/epun angkitang ratna maduii, k putjuk petak,
teleng biru, iwa mekark tiita, tirta ning sibuh mas, toya pemastu,
pekaiian saking Swaiga, siratin Ragan I Dewa, raris ketisin djuiu
kidunge, wus meketis mantuk maxing Indeialoka; Meskam lungga
kataman, wus mesiiam, mesekax angxek saseh mepatuhan pemargine
muleh; mantuk Dewa mantuk, mantuke ka Suxalaya, mantuk
maxing ileh ileh, angin taxik, kurungank, waluya dadi manusa.
Puput
CHAPTER XI
DEATH AND CREMATION
Strange as it seems, it is in their cremation ceremonies that
the Balinese have their greatest fun. A cremation is an occasion
for gaiety and not for mourning, since it represents the accom¬
plishment of their most sacred duty: the ceremonial burning of
the corpses of the dead to liberate their souls so that they can
thus attain the higher worlds and be free for reincarnation into
better beings.
At cremation ceremonies hundreds of people in a wild stam¬
pede carry the beautiful towers, sixty feet high, solidly built
of wood and bamboo and decorated with tinsel and expensive
silks, in which the bodies are transported to the cremation
grounds. There the corpses are placed in great cows (hewn out
of tree-trunks to serve as cofhns and covered with precious ma¬
terials) , and cows, towers, offerings, and ornaments are set on
fire, hundreds and even thousands of dollars burned in one
afternoon in a mad splurge of extravagance by a people who
value the necessities of life in fractions of pennies.
. To the Balinese, the material body is only the shell, the con¬
tainer of the soul. This soul lives in every part of the body, even
in the hair and nails, but it is concentrated in the head which
is near-holy to them. A Balinese observes the rank of his head
in relation to the rest of his body, and for this reason no one
360 ISLAND OF BALI
would stand on his head or take any position that would place
his feet on a higher level. It is an offence even to pat a small
child on the head and there is no worse insult than “ I’ll beat
your head! ” One’s soul wanders away during sleep (dreams are
its travels and adventures) , without becoming, however, entirely
detached from the body, and it is considered dangerous to
awaken a person too suddenly. Children are never beaten, so as
not to shock their tender, still undeveloped souls.
Madness, epilepsy, and idiocy are the results of a bewitched
soul, but ordinary sickness is due to a weakened, polluted soul
rather than to mere physical causes. Life vanishes when the soul
escapes from the body through the mouth, and death occurs
when it refuses to return. The relatives of a dying man who has
lost consciousness go to the temple of the dead and, through a
medium, beg the deities for the release and return of his soul.
By force of habit, the soul lingers near the body when death
comes, and remains floating in space or lives in a tree near by
until liberated by the obliteration of the corpse by the elements:
by earth, by fire, and by water, to destroy the last unclean tie that
binds the souls of the dead to this earth. By cremation the soul
is released to fly to the heavens for judgment and return to be
reborn into the dead man’s grandchildren. Failure to liberate
the soul by neglecting to perform the cremation or by incom¬
plete or improper rites would force the soul to turn into a ghost
that would haunt the careless descendants.
Cremation rites were probably not introduced into Bali until
the time of Madjapahit, about the thirteenth century, but the
ancient Balinese animists already believed that their life-fluid
was immortal and that after death it returned to animate other
beings. They practised the obliteration of the corpse by burial
or, as is still done in the primitive village of Sembiran, simply
by abandoning the bodies in the forest at the edge of a ravine
to be eaten by wild animals. A man in Bali is born into a superior
state — a higher caste — if his behaviour on this earth has been
good; otherwise he will reincarnate into a lower stage of life to
DEATH AND CREMATION 361
begin over again the progressive march towards ultimate per¬
fection. A man who is guilty of serious crimes is punished by
being reborn, often for periods of thousands of years, into a
tiger, a dog, a snake, a worm, or a poisonous mushroom.
Between incarnations, until the time comes for its return to
this earth, the soul goes to Indra’s heaven, the swarga, a reservoir
where " life is just as in Bali, but devoid of all trouble and ill¬
ness.’’ But this process does not go on forever; when the indi¬
vidual has attained the highest wisdom and has reached the
highest position among men, that of a Brahmana who has been
ordained as a priest, he hopes to obtain liberation from this cycle
of births and become a god. The man of low caste attributes
his state to former misconduct, redeemable in future lives only
through a virtuous existence, which entitles him to be reborn
into a higher and higher caste.
A man’s life on this earth is but an incident in the long process
of the soul’s evolution.
The grand send-off of the soul into heaven, in the form of a
rich and complete cremation, is the life-ambition of every Bali¬
nese. He looks forw^ard to it, often making provision during life
with savings or property that can be pawned or sold to finance
his cremation. The greatest happiness that comes to a Balinese
family is to have, in this way, accomplished the liberation of the
souls of their dead, but complete cremation ceremonies are so
costly that a family of limited means have to wait often for
years, haunted by the fact that their dead are not yet cremated,
and are sometimes obliged to sacrifice their crops and their lands
in order to pay for the ceremonies. The expenses of a cremation
are enormous; besides the priest’s fees, the great amounts of
holy water used, and the costly towers, coffins, offerings, and so
forth, there is the food and entertainment provided for days for
the hundreds of guests and assistants that help in the ceremonies.
A rich cremation adds greatly to the prestige of a well-to-do
family, giving occasion for gay, extravagant festivities that are
eagerly anticipated despite the financial burden they represent
362 ISLAND OF BALI
A good average for a great cremation is seldom less than a
thousand ringgits or about two million kepengs (a ringgit is worth
about one gold dollar in normal exchange) , but there have been
cremations of princes that cost as much as fifty thousand guilders
(at the time of writing, about twenty-five thousand dollars) .
The cremation of the mother of Nas^h, a former servant of
ours, was the poorest we ever witnessed. She was burned three
days after her death with only the most essential rites, but even
then the costs amounted to more than the fifty guilders that
Naseh had succeeded in borrowing. A unique and rather im¬
provised cremation of a nobleman of Pemetjutan cost only three
hundred and fifty guilders because the body had to be burned
on the same day the death occurred and I was told by the rela¬
tives that had the corpse been kept for the reglementary forty-
two days, the cremation would have cost over two thousand
guilders. The extraordinary decision to cremate a man of high
caste immediately became possible only because the festival that
the community was preparing for, their greatest in a decade,
could not have taken place had there been an important un¬
cremated corpse in the village. The family was in difficult finan¬
cial circumstances and they welcomed the decision.
A Brahmanic priest is essential to a proper cremation, and
only the destitute would call upon a lesser priest. The quality of
the ceremonies the priest performs is determined by the fee paid
to him. There is a choice of three kinds of cremation: utama,
the highest, costing an average of fifty dollars in fees for the
priest alone; madia, the medium-class cremation, for about
twenty-five dollars; and nista, the low, for about five dollars.
The rites for each are about the same, the difference consisting
in the quality and power of the magic formulas and symbols and
the sort of holy water used, the credentials given by the priest
to the soul entering heaven, and the more or less thorough puri¬
fication of the soul.
It is always a good resource, in a great cremation of a prince,
to provide a retinue of souls for his trip into the beyond and to
DEATH AND CREMATION 363
profit at the same time by the magical and social advantages of
a more elegant cremation. In Krobokan we witnessed the re¬
lease of two hundred and fifty souls of commoners who ac¬
companied a member of the royal family. It is of extreme im¬
portance, however, to keep w'ithin the rules prescribed for each
caste, the breach of which w'ould bring dreadful punishment
upon guilty relath'es w'ho in their craving for ostentation should
use rites or materials for the accessories allotted to a higher caste.
These rules are at times infringed and it becomes the source of
malicious gossip if a family use a cow instead of a lion to burn
their deceased, or if they have more roofs in their tower than
is their right. In a few cases the right of cremation is denied,
as in the death of exiles from the island. Lepers are buried in
hidden places and their redemption is carried out by pious
persons, secretly and through an effigy.
THE BODY
To the Balinese only the soul is really important, the body being
simply an unclean object to be got rid of, about which there is
no hysteria. Details which w'ould be considered weird and shock¬
ing elsewhere are regarded naturally and with great indifference.
I have seen a corpse poked, to help it burn, by relatives who were
making loud jokes and scolding the body because it would not
bum quickly enough, so they could go home.
When a man dies, his relatives, near and far, are expected
to assemble and bring presents of food to the immediate family
of the deceased. It is believed that the ghost of the dead man
will bring them bad luck if they are not informed within three
days. Automatically all relatives of the dead man become im¬
pure, sebel, and cannot enter the temples until the complete
purification rites have been performed. This impurity extends
to the house and even to the entire village, and the higher the
position of the dead one, the greater the degree of uncleanliness
of the village.
A sign of death in a house is the lamp called damar kurung,
364 ISLAND OF BALI
made of white tissue paper stretched over a bamboo frame and
hung outside the gate. This lamp hangs from a bird, also of
bamboo and white paper, which is suspended from the end of
a tall bamboo pole, high over the roofs. Every night while the
corpse is in the house the lamp is lit to show the way to the
wandering soul. The corpse is placed in one of the pavilions of
the house to await an auspicious day to be treated and purified
for burial, or to be mummified if it is to be kept in the house.
High priests may not be buried and it is customary to keep their
bodies within the house until time for their cremation comes;
this was also done to the corpses of princes, and in the great
palaces there is even a special court devoted to this purpose, but
this is becoming rare nowadays because of the extraordinary ex¬
penses it involves. (See Note A, page 386.)
On the first auspicious day after the death occurs, two altars
are erected in the courtyard of the house for the purification of
the body; one for the sun and another for Pradjapati, the deity
of cremation. These are decorated with lamaks and filled with
offerings that are renewed daily. The naked corpse is then placed
on a stretcher with its sexual parts covered with a small square
of cloth or by the hand of the wife or husband. The priest
sprinkles the body with holy water and recites prayers; the hair is
combed and anointed with perfumed oil and the teeth are filed
off if this had not been done during life. The body is then mbbed
with a mixture of rice flour and tumeric, with salt, vinegar, and
sandalwood powder. The toes and thumbs are bound together
with white yarn, and rolls of kepengs are tied to the hands, which
are folded over the breast in an attitude of prayer. Then come
the bantdn sut/f: shreds of mirror glass which are laid on the eye¬
lids, bits of steel on the teeth, a gold ring with a ruby in the
mouth, jasmine flowers in the nostrils, and iron nails on the four
limbs — all symbols of the more perfect senses with which the
person will be reborn; stronger and more beautiful, with eyes
as bright as mirrors, teeth like steel, breath as fragrant as flowery
and bones of iron ” (according to Wirtz) . The head is covered
DEATH AND CREMATION 365
with a white cloth, and an egg is rolled all over the body to
signify its newly acquired purity. The corpse is next wrapped in
many yards of white cloth, in a straw mat, and again in more
yards of cloth, and finally bound tightly on the rante, an external
covering of split bamboo tied with rattan.
If the corpse is to be buried and not mummified, it is taken
to the cemetery with music, accompanied by singing relatives,
who carry oSerings and bamboo tubes with holy water. Before
lowering the body into the shallow grave, the offerings are dedi¬
cated to Mother Earth, a prayer is recited, and money is thrown
in to pay for the ground used. The corpse is laid in the grave
with an open bamboo tube in the place of the mouth to let the
soul out, the grave is filled, and a bamboo structure with a roof
of white tissue paper is erected over it. A small altar of bamboo
is placed next to the grave for offerings, brought daily for a
period of twelve days. Offerings are brought again forty-two days
after the date of death, when it is considered that the soul has
been completely detached from the body and the cremation can
take place, provided there is money available; otherwise it has
to be postponed until means are obtained, often years later.
The high priest is next consulted to determine the propitious
day on which to hold the cremation — a date far enough in ad¬
vance to allow for the elaborate preparations. A few days before
the date named, the relatives start for the cemetery to dig up
the remains. The grave is opened and the body removed or as
much of the body as remains after an interment which lasts from
a month and seven days to even two years and longer. Some¬
times there is not more than a few bones to be found, but even
these are collected and arranged as nearly as possible in the form
of the human body. These are wrapped in a bundle of new'
white cloth and carried back to the house. It was an eerie sight
when on a rainy day the men of Pemetjutan were opening the
graves for a mass cremation, searching the mud-filled trenches,
cavorting and shouting with delight at the discovery of a black¬
ened jaw-bone or a femur.
366 ISLAND OF BALI
At home, the bundle containing the remains is placed again
on the pavilion reserved for the corpse, now strewn with silks
UkuT kepeng and ukur selaka
The ukur kepeng is a doll made the size of the corpse and cremated with it.
Ukur ’’ means the measure ” or “ to measure out.” It represents the skeleton,
indicating the proper position of the bones. It is made of blessed white yam (the
nerves) and black” (old) Chinese coins (the bones).
The ukur selaka is used for the same purpose by the higher castes and pros¬
perous people in conjunction with the ukur kepeng. It is made of silver plaques
strung on silver wires, and is not cremated with the corpse, but is used over and
over as a family heirloom. A similar figure is sometimes made of gold (ukur mas).
and brocades and ornamented witb the family’s heirlooms; gold
and silver vessels, peacock feathers, jewelled krisses, and so forth.
DEATH AND CREMATION 367
The remains are covered with many cloths bearing magic in¬
scriptions, o\^er which are placed the offerings and the many
ritual accessories that symbolize or contain the dead man’s soul.
Among these are the kekreb sinom, a sort of lattice of coconut
leaves with flowers in the crossings; and the ukur, a human repre¬
sentation showing the proper position of the bones and nerves,
Angenan
usually simply kepengs (the bones) strung on ropes of white
yarn (the nerves) , but the prosperous use ukurs made of silver
or gold plaques representing the head, hands, feet, and bones,
held together by wires of the same metal. These are used for dis¬
play and are replaced by an ordinary ukui of coins for the actual
burning. An interesting accessory is the angenan, a curious struc¬
ture made of a ripe coconut filled with rice (the heart) as the base
of an upright stick surmounted by an elaborate structure of
coloured threads (the brains) and a little lamp made of an egg¬
shell (the soul) , supported by a bent piece of rattan (the arm) .
This is supposed to commemorate the love and remembrance of
368 ISLAND OF BALI
the dead person. Of great importance is the kadjang, a sort of
shroud, yards of white cloth covered with cabalistic symbols
drawn by the priest, who also writes the ulantaga, the credentials
by which the soul is admitted into the swarga, inscriptions on
little pieces of a sort of tapa from Celebes, a specially prescribed
paper made of beaten tree-bark. OflFerings are made again to the
sun, to Pradjapati, and for the evil spirits. There are also special
offerings for the soul itself to take along on its trip to the beyond:
food for the soul, for its retinue, and for presents to give out
along its way. These are the ponguriagan, pisang djati, nasi
angkab, pandjang ilan, and bubuh piiata, the essential cremation
offerings.
THE SOUL
By this time the corpse has lost all importance, and from this
time on, the family is concerned entirely with the soul of the
dead person. A most important accessory for the ensuing cere¬
monies, and the object around which the rites revolve, is the
adegan, the efEgy in which the soul is embodied to be purified.
The adegan consists of two images, one silhouetted out of palm-
leaf in the traditional tjili shape, and a more realistic one drawn
on a thin tablet of sandalwood, bound together and placed on a
silver vase that rests on a silver platter. Betel-nut, sirih leaves
and flowers for praying are placed inside the vase to make the
soul comfortable and, nothing being too good for it, the well-
to-do add a third image made of beaten gold, bracelets, anklets,
and a comb of silver or gold. The person’s name is written on
a small label of palm-leaf attached to each adegan. There is an
effigy for each corpse, but only the adegan is used should no
remains be available; for instance, if no bones should be found
on opening the grave, if its location has been forgotten, or if
the person died at sea or in a foreign land.
The souls are provided daily with “ drinks,” holy water from
sacred springs. Processions go regularly to distant mountain
springs to fill the new clay pots inscribed with a lotus and the
DEATH AND CREMATION 369
sacred syllable ong, while someone casts coins into the waters
and recites prayers for the spirit of the spring. Rolls of ancient
“ black ” coppers are tied to the neck of each pot with the special
Bade, the Cremation Tower of
a Nobleman
white yarn used in ritual, and each pot is provided with a label
bearing the name of the dead. The pots of holy water are then
deposited on the pavilions where the bodies lie.
The elusive souls are next " awakened ” and captured in the effi¬
gies. They are taken to the burial ground, and the company kneels
370 ISLAND OF BALI
in front of the open graves, strewing offerings on the ground
and singing songs. The men dig the earth a little, knocking upon
it, and call the souls to awaken, while someone scatters pennies
to distract the devils that wait ready to pounce upon the effigies
and pollute them. The procession returns home, each effigy, now
incorporating a soul, carried on the head of a girl, to be blessed
in the shrine of each household. Each effigy is then " cured ”
as if it were a corpse: it is sprinkled with holy water, the various
ingredients (banten sutji) to attain physical perfection (shreds
of mirror, flowers, a gold ring, nails, etc.) are placed over it, the
egg rolled along its length, and it is decorated with gold and
silver objects. The cured effigies are placed near the corpses,
wayang music is played, and the little egg-shell lamps of the
angenans are lit for the night.
The ceremonies acquire greater significance as the date for the
cremation approaches. A great procession is held on the eve of
the cremation day to take the effigies to the house of the high
priest for their final blessing. It is important that this procession
be grand and luxurious, and all the relatives of the dead parade in
it dressed in the finest clothes obtainable, with brocades, gold
flowers, jewellery, and jewelled krisses much in evidence. Or¬
chestras, bans dancers, and scores of boys carrying spears, ban¬
ners, and flags, followed by long lines of women offering-bearers,
come at the head of the parade; they represent the retinue of the
souls in the effigies which are borne on silver platters on the heads
of a specially picked group of beautiful girls in ceremonial full
dress — diadems of trembling gold flowers on elaborate arrange¬
ments of hair, lacy scarfs binding their breasts, and yellow or
green skirts of brocade trailing in the dirt. Often the effigies of
the prominent dead are carried on the arms of the youngest
descendant of the family, a boy or a girl dressed in silks and gold,
riding on a gilt palanquin and shaded by gilt umbrellas of state.
Groups of men relatives close the procession. In Pliatan we
once saw some fifty men uniformed in yellow trailing loincloths,
magenta breast-cloths, and white head-dresses, all wearing gold
DEATH AND CREMATION 371
krisses, awkwardly conscious of being admired, marching in triple
file to the beat of gongs and drums amidst bursting firecrackers.
The procession goes to the priest’s house, where he waits to
consecrate the effigies through a performance of maweda, the
spoken formula emphasized by gestures of the hands. The priest
recites his formulas, flings flowers, and sprinkles holv water
towards the effigies, which are reverently held in front of him
by the kneeling girls. After the ceremony the procession returns
home, stopping along the way in the temple of the family’s origin
to offer a final prayer. At the house, towards dusk, the bans
dancers perform war dances to cast a protecting net of magic
vibrations, and shows are given to entertain the guests. Rela¬
tives, guests, and populace spend the night divided between
watching an all-night shadow-play and listening to public read¬
ings of the Balinese classic Bhima Swarga, the tale of the fantastic
adventures of Bhima on his visit to Hades. Tradition prescribes
that this should be read aloud from beginning to end on the eve
of cremation. In dark corners people huddle to steal naps. Out¬
side, the orchestras, among them the gam bang, only heard at
cremations, boom and hum throughout the night.
THE CREMATION
The great towers in which the corpses are carried to the crema¬
tion ground and the animal-shaped coffins in which they will
be burned, the two most spectacular factors in a cremation, have
waited ready for days in some corner of the village, covered with
screens of woven palm-leaf.
The cremation tower is a high structure solidly built of wood
and bamboo, bound together with rattan and covered with
coloured paper ornaments and cotton-w'ool dyed in bright col¬
ours, and glittering with tinsel and small mirrors. Shaped like
the temple gates and the sun altars, the tower represents again
the Balinese conception of the cosmos: a wide base, often in the
shape of a turtle with two serpents entwined around its body,
the symbol of the foundation upon which the world rests, sup-
372 ISLAND OF BALI
porting three gradually receding platforms — the mountains,
with bunches of paper flowers and leaves on the corner of each
platform to represent the forests. Then comes an open space,
the bale balean, “ rather like a house,” the space between heaven
and earth. This consists of four posts backed with a board on
one side, and with a protruding platform to which the bodies
are fastened. The bald balean is topped by a series of receding
roofs like a pagoda to represent the heavens. These are always
in odd numbers which vary according to the caste of the family:
one for Sudras, from three to eleven for the aristocracy, and none
for the Brahmanic priests. The back of the tower is nearly cov¬
ered with a gigantic head of Bhoma, the Son of the Earth, a
wild-eyed, fanged monster with enormous outstretched wings
that spread some ten feet on each side of the tower. This mask
and the wings are covered with bright-coloured cotton-wool. As
many as seventy-five men are often required to carry the great
tower and its complementary bridge, a tall bamboo runway by
which the upper stages of the tower are reached. (See Note B,
page 386.)
Strict caste rules also dictate the shape of the patulangan, the
DEATH AND CREMATION 373
sarcophagi; Sudras are entitled only to burn their dead in open
cases shaped like a gad/amina, a fantastic animal, half elephant,
half fish. Today the majoritv' of the nobility use the bull for men
and the cow for women, animals supposedly once reserved for
Brahmanas; Satrias were entitled only to a singha, a winged lion;
and Wesias used the deer. Towers and coffins are not made by
ordinary villagers but by artist specialists who are directed by a
master craftsman. The cows are splendidly car\'ed out of wood,
the hollow body hewn out of a tree-trunk, the back of which
opens like a lid. The whole animal is covered with coloured felt
or velvet, lavishly ornamented with goldleaf, cotton-wool, and
silk scarfs. Caste again decides whether the animal should be
black, white, spotted, yellow, orange, or purple. With true
Balinese playfulness, their sexual organs are clearly defined and
those of bulls often are made so that they can be put into action
by means of a hidden string.
From dawn of the day of the cremation the house teems with
excited people attending to the last details; the hosts wait on the
notable guests, the women see to the offerings, hordes of half-
naked men proceed to uncover the towers and the sarcophagi and
bring them to the front of the house gate. Delegations are sent to
the cremation grounds to put the final touches on the bamboo
altars and on the platforms of tightly packed earth, roofed with
coloured paper and tinsel, where the corpses will be cremated.
When everything is ready and the guests have been served with
their final banquet, the village kulkul is beaten to start the march
to the cremation grounds; the way to the tower is cleared of evil
influences by sprinklings of holy water, and a great fire is often
made to prevent rain during the day. Eventually the corpses are
taken out, not through the gate, but over a bridge or through a
hole knocked out somewhere in the house walls. The groups of
men in loincloths that carry the bodies are greeted with fireworks,
and handfuls of kepengs are scattered, as a traditional custom and
not because the people actually believe the evil spirits to be inter¬
ested in pennies.
374 ISLAND OF BALI
A second party waits outside ready to snatch the corpse from
the first group, and a realistic free-for-all ensues; one group rushes
against the other, yelling and hooting like madmen until the at¬
tacking party runs off, knocking one another down, turning and
whirling the body in all directions “ to confuse it so that it can
not find its way back to the house/’ The corpse is disrespectfully
rough-handled all the way to the tower, carried up the bamboo
runway, and securely tied to the plank on the uppermost stage,
the bale balean. Meantime the women, unconcerned with the
pranks of the men, rush to the cremation place in a disorderly
stampede, quite in contrast with the solemn procession of the day
before. Instead of silks and gold, they wear ordinary clothes and
most of them go with uncovered breasts. They carry the accesso¬
ries, offerings, and the pots of holy water. The decaying evil-
spirit offerings that lay for days near the corpses are piled up on
bamboo stretchers and rushed to the cemetery, followed by
hordes of hungry dogs that fight for the rotten food that falls on
the ground.
Although there is no organization committee, the procession
is soon under way. The orchestras that have played incessantly
since the day before march at the head of the parade followed by
the spear-bearers, the ban's dancers, and the men who carry the
cows; then come the women with the effigies, then the towers
and the bridges, carried by a wild mob of half-naked, shouting
men who deliberately choose the most difficult paths, falling into
ditches and splashing each other with mud, almost toppling the
towers over, and whirling them to further mislead the dead. The
high priest rides in a dignified and mystic attitude amidst all this
hullabaloo. Each tower is led to the cemetery by a long rope tied
at one end to the platform where the corpses are fastened, the
other end held by the hands of relatives. This rope has a special
significance, and in cremations of members of the royal family,
the descendants of the Dewa Agung of Klungkung, it takes the
shape of a great serpent that serves as a vehicle for the souls.
(See Note C, page 387.)
Ptiiuhuigan, Sarcophagi used for Creiiuiliiig C'orpses of llie Nobilily, and made ot hollowed
on! tree Iruiibs, eovered with fell, velvet, silks, and tinsel
A Cremation Procession, as seen by a young Balinese artist
DEATH AND CREMATION 375
The noisy procession dashes along in disorderly fashion, raising
clouds of dust, accompanied by fireworks and war music, until it
reaches the cemetery, just outside the village. There the cows
are placed on the bale pabasmian, the cremation pavilions, their
final destination; a canopy of new white cloth, a “ skv,” is
stretched under the paper and tinsel roof directly over the funeral
pyre, and detachments from the procession walk three times
around the pavilions to do them honour. The bridge is placed
against the tower and men run up the runway while the attendant
who rode on the tower releases two small chickens that were tied
by the feet to the posts of the stage w'here the bodies are fastened.
They are used as a substitute for the doves that in olden times
were released by the widows that were sacrificed and cremated
with the corpse of a prince. Their significance was probably
symbolic, although the Balinese now say that they are only “ to
teach the soul how to fly.” This may be a typical tongue-in-cheek
Balinese answer to dodge a complicated explanation for out¬
siders.
The remains are then handed down by the men lined along
the runway until they reach the ground. Each group carrying a
corpse is attacked again by another party of yelling men who aim
to take the body by force in fierce hand-to-hand battles. Clothes
are tom to shreds and men are trampled upon until the victorious
party makes away with the corpse. Meantime women attendants
spread the kadjang, the long white shroud which they hold
stretched over their heads, attaching one end of the cloth to the
corpse, held up high by as many hands as its length permits.
Thus led by the kadjang, the body is taken to the coffin, now
opened by lifting the lid that forms the back of the animal, and
the corpse is placed inside. Relatives crowd around it to super¬
vise the last details and have a last look at the body, which they
expose by cutting the many bindings with a special knife in¬
scribed with magic syllables.
The high priest-steps onto the platform and recites prayers
over the corpse, at intervals pouring pot after pot of holy water
376 ISLAND OF BALI
on it, dashing the empty pots to the ground to break them, which
is one of the rules. The body is so thoroughly soaked in holy
water that one begins to wonder how it is possible that it will
burn. Next the important accessories,^ together with thousands
of kepengs as ransom to Yama, the lord of hell, are spread over
the body; costly silks and brocades are piled on it, and the lid
is replaced, while the more voluminous offerings are put under
the coffin to serve as fuel. The priest stands facing the closed
coffin for a final blessing and often he himself sets off the pyre.
Fire from matches is considered unclean and it should be pro¬
cured by friction or by a sun-glass.
The orchestras play all at once, the angklung louder and more
aggressive than ever, while the gambang hums solemnly near
where the old men and the women relatives have assembled to
watch the body burn. The air is heavy with the odour peculiar
to cremations, which haunts one for hours after, a mixture of
decaying organic matter, sweating bodies, trampled grass, charred
flesh, and smoke. The mob plunders the towers to rescue the
mirrors, silks, and tinsel before it is set on fire. Everybody is
tense and they dash about excitedly feeding the fires, all except
the high priest, who is in a trance, performing the last maweda
on a high platform, the elderly men, who drink palm wine from
tall bamboo vessels, sitting in a boisterous group, and the daugh¬
ters and wives of the dead men, who remain unemotionally quiet
in the background.
The men in charge poke the corpses unceremoniously with
long poles, adding debris from the towers, all the while joking
and talking to the corpse. The crowd is neither affected nor
touched by the weird sight of corpses bursting out of the half-
burned coffins, becoming anxious only when the body is slow to
burn. Soon the cow’s legs give way and the coffin collapses,
spilling burning flesh and calcinated bones over the fire until
they are totally consumed, often not without a good deal of
poking. Small boys are then permitted to fish out the kepengs
iThe adegan, Icad/ang, angenan, ulcur, and ulantaga.
DEATH AND CREMATION 377
with long sticks after the unburned pieces of wood are taken
away. Water is poured over the embers, and the remaining bits
of bone with some ashes are piled into a little mound which is
covered with palm-leaves. Green branches of dadap are tied to
each of the four posts of the cremation pavilion, and surrounded
by a rope of white yarn, thus closing it “ to forget the dead.”
The remaining ashes are then blessed and placed in an urn, a
coconut inscribed with the magic ong and wrapped in white
cloth. It is customary that this be done just as the sun has begun
to set. A new procession is formed for the march to the sea,
where the ashes will be disposed of. On arrival at the seashore,
or at the river if the sea is too far away, the priest wades into the
water to ask of the sea or the river spirit to carry the ashes safely
out. The ashes are then carefully strewn over the waters and the
whole congregation bathes, to cleanse themselves before return¬
ing home in the darkness.
THE SACRIFICE OF WIDOWS
Cremation rites have remained practically unchanged for the
last three hundred years, except perhaps for the suppression of
the notorious Indian custom of suttee, the sacrifice of widows
of deceased notables, burned alive on their husband’s p)Te. This
custom seems to have enjoyed great popularity at one time
among the Balinese aristocracy, although today it has become
merely a legend. A hundred years ago the pioneer historian of
the Malay Archipelago, John Crawfurd, gave us the first English
account of a widow-burning that took place in 1633, when the
Dutch sent a mission to Bali to gain the prince of Gelgel, then
sole sovereign, as their ally against the Sultan of Mataram, who
was driving attacks on Batavia. The Dutch found the Balinese
king making preparations for the cremation of his wife and his
two eldest sons. The manuscript account of the mission was
translated by a Monsieur Prevost and published in an early
Histoiie des Voyages. Among the passages of the Dutch narra¬
tive quoted by Crawfurd are the followings
378 ISLAND OF BALI
. . About noon, the queen’s body was burnt without the city
with twenty-two of her female slaves. . . . The body was drawn out
of a large aperture made in the wall to the right side of the door,
in the absurd opinion of cheating the devil. . . . The female slaves
destined to accompany the dead went before, according to their
ranks . . . each supported behind by an old woman, and carried
on a Badi (tower), skillfully constructed of bamboos, and decked
all over with flowers. Before them were placed a roast pig, some rice,
betel and other fruits as an offering to their gods, and these unhappy
victims of the most direful idolatry are thus carried in triumph, to
the sound of different instruments, to the place where they are to
be poignarded and consumed by fire. There, each found a particular
scaffold prepared for her, in the form of a trough, raised on four
short posts and edged on two sides with planks. . . . Some of the
attendants let loose a pigeon or a fowl, to mark that their soul was
on the point of taking its flight to the mansions of the blessed. . . .
They were divested of all their garments, except their sashes, and
four of the men, seizing the victim, two by the arms, which they held
extended, and two by the feet, the victim standing, the fifth pre¬
pared himself for the execution, the whole being done without
covering the eyes. . . .
“ Some of the most courageous demanded the poignard them¬
selves, which they received in the right hand, passing it to the left,
after respectfully kissing the weapon. They wounded their right
arms, sucked the blood which flowed from the wound, and stained
their lips with it, making a bloody mark on the forehead with the
point of the finger. Then returning the dagger to their executioners,
they received a first stab between the false ribs, and a second under
the shoulder blade, the weapon being thrust up to the hilt towards
the heart. As soon as the horrors of death were visible in the
countenance, without a complaint escaping them, they were per¬
mitted to fall on the ground . . . and were stripped of their last
remnant of dress, so that they were left in a state of perfect naked¬
ness. The executioners receive as their reward two hundred and fifty
pieces of copper money of about the value of five sols each. The
nearest rdations, if they be present, or persons hired for the occa¬
sion . . . wash the bloody bodies . . . covering them with wood
DEATH AND CREMATION 379
in such manner that only the head is visible, and, having applied
fire, they are consumed to ashes. , . .
“ The women were already poignarded and the greater number
of them in flames, before the dead body of the queen arrived, borne
on a superb Badi of pyramidal form, consisting of eleven steps, sup¬
ported by a number of persons proportioned to the rank of the
deceased. . . . Tw'o priests preceded the Badi in vehicles of par¬
ticular form, each holding in one hand a cord attached to the Badi,
as if giving to understand that they led the deceased to heaven, and
with the other ringing a little bell, while such a noise of gongs,
tambours, flutes and other instruments is made, that the whole
ceremony has less the air of a funeral procession than of a joyous
village festival. . , . The dead body was placed on its own funeral
pile which was forthwith lighted. The assistants then regaled them¬
selves with a feast while the musicians, without cessation, struck the
ear with a tumultous melody, not unpleasing. . . .
“ At the funeral of the King's two sons a short time before, qa
women of the one, and 34 of the other, were poignarded and burnt
in the manner above described; but on such occasions the princesses
of royal blood themselves leap at once into the flames . . . because
they would look upon themselves as dishonoured by anyone's lawng
hands on their persons. For this purpose a kind of bridge is erected
over a burning pile, which they mount, holding a paper close to their
foreheads, and having their robe tucked under their arm. As soon
as they feel the heat, they precipitate themselves into the burning
pile. . . . In case firmness should abandon them . . . a brother, or
another near relative, is at hand to push them in, and render them,
out of afiFection, that cruel office. . . .
“ "N^Tien a prince or princess of the royal family dies, their women
or slaves run around the body, uttering cries . . . and all crazily
solicit to die for their master or mistress. The King, on the follow¬
ing day, designates those of whom he makes choice. From that
moment to the last of their lives, they are daily conducted at an early
hour, each in her vehicle, to the sound of musical instruments . . .
to perform their devotions, having their feet wrapped in white linen,
for it is no more permitted them to touch the bare earth, because
they are considered as consecrated. The young women, little skilled
380 ISLAND OF BALI
in these religious exercises, are instructed by the aged women who
accompany them. . . . Those who have devoted themselves, are
made to pass the night in continual dancing and rejoicing. ... All
pains are taken to give them whatever tends to the gratification of
their senses, and from the quantity of wine which they take, few
objects are capable of terrifying their imaginations. . . . No woman
or slave, however, is obliged to follow this barbarous custom. . . .”
The remainder of the narrative proceeds like any other of the
great cremations that are held today. Another interesting ac¬
count of widow-burning is given us by an eyewitness, the scholar
Fried erich, of the cremation of the Dewa Manggis, Radja of
Gianyar, which took place in that town on December 22, 1847:
“ The corpse was followed by the three wives who became Belas.
A procession went before them, as before the body. . . . They were
seated in the highest storeys of the Bades. . . . After the body of
the prince had arrived at the place of cremation, the three Belas in
their Bades, each preceded by the bearer of the offerings destined
for her, with armed men and bands of music, were conducted to the
three fires. . . .
“ Their Bades were turned around three times and were carried
around the whole place of cremation. The women were then car¬
ried down steps from the Bades and up the steps of the places
erected for their cremation. These consisted of squares of masonry
three feet high filled with combustibles which had been burning
since morning and threw out a glowing heat; the persons appointed
to watch them fed the fire, and at the moment when the women
leaped down, poured upon it a quantity of oil and arrak, so that it
flared up to a height of eight feet and must have suffocated the vic¬
tims at once. Behind this furnace stood an erection of bamboo in
the form of a bridge, of the same width as the square of masonry,
about forty feet long and from sixteen to eighteen feet high; steps
of bamboo led up to it in the rear. In the centre there is a small
house, affording a last resting-place to the victim, in which she waits
till the ceremonies for her husband are finished and his body has
begun to bum. The side of the bamboo scaffold nearest the fire is
protected by a wall of wet Pisang (banana) stems. Upon the bridge
DEATH AND CREMATION 5S1
lies a plank smeared with oil, which is pushed out a little over the
fire as soon as the time for the leap draws near. There is a door at
the end of the bridge that is not removed until the last minute. The
\'ictim sits in the house on the bridge, accompanied by a female
priest and by her relati\’es. . . . Then she makes her toilet; her hair
especially is combed, the mirror used, and her garments newly ar¬
ranged; in short, she arrays herself exactly as she would for a feast.
Her dress is white, her breasts are covered with a white Slendang
(scarf) ; she wears no ornaments, and after the preparations to which
she has been subjected, her hair at the last moment hangs loose.
When the corpse of the prince was almost consumed, the three
Belas got ready; they glanced one towards another to convince them¬
selves that all was prepared; but this was not a glance of fear, but of
impatience, and it seemed to express a wish that they might leap at
the same moment. When the door opened and the plank smeared
with oil was pushed out, each took her place on the plank, made
three Sembahs (reverences) by joining her hands above her head,
and one of the bystanders placed a small dove upon her head, ^\’hen
the dove flies away the soul is considered to escape. They immedi¬
ately leaped down. There was no cry in leaping, no cr\' from the
fire; they must have suffocated at once. One of the Europeans pres¬
ent succeeded in pushing through the crowd to tire fire and in seeing
the body some seconds after the leap — it was dead and its move¬
ments were caused merely by the combustion of the materials cast
upon the flames. On other occasions, however, Europeans have
heard cries uttered in leaping and in the first moments after¬
wards. . . .
“ During the whole time from the burning of the prince till the
leap of the victims, the air resounded with the clangour of numerous
bands of music; small cannon were discharged and the soldiers had
drawn up outside the fire and contributed to the noise by firing off
their muskets. There was not one of the 50,000 Balinese present
who did not show a merry face; no one was filled with repugance and
disgust except a few Europeans whose only desire was to see the end
of such barbarities.”
It was only the wives of princes that were thus sacrificed; the
Brahmanas did not consider it necessary for the redemption of
382 ISLAND OF BALI
their wives, and the common people were not interested in a
practice that was foreign to them. There were two sorts of
widow-sacrifice: one reserved for noblewomen, the mesatia
(“ truth,” “ fidelity ”) , in which the noble widows stabbed them¬
selves as they jumped into the same fire with their dead hus¬
bands; the other, for the prince’s low-caste wives and concubines,
the mebela (“ to die together with the master ”) , the one de¬
scribed by Friederich, which consisted in jumping into another
fire apart to be burned alive. A woman who died in mesatia be¬
came a Satiawati, “ The True One,” a deity.
From the time their decision was made, the widows were re¬
garded as already dead and deified. They lived a life of con¬
stant pleasures, exempt from all duties and constantly attended
by the other wives. Their feet were not supposed to touch the
impure ground and, like goddesses, they were carried everywhere,
lavishly dressed and half-entranced. A Brahmanic priestess was
constantly at their side, encouraging them to their sacrifice with
flowery descriptions of the beauties of life among the gods.
Friederich tells that when the time came, they were so thoroughly
hypnotized that “ they jumped into the fire as if it were a bath.”
However shocking this practice may seem to us, it is not diffi¬
cult to understand why it was acceptable to the Balinese; the
scriptures not only sanctioned it, but even encouraged the sacri¬
fices, and to the victims it was a short cut to attain the higher
spiritual state ever so much more important than their insig¬
nificant physical life on this earth. Both the early Dutch narra¬
tive and Friederich make it clear that no compulsion was used
and that the women to be sacrificed had to make their decision
by the eighth day after their husband's death. They could
neither withdraw nor volunteer later.
The Dutch did all that was in their power to stamp out this
practice and set a strict prohibition on widow-sacrifices. The last
official cremation in which a woman was burned took place just
after the conquest of South Bali; we were present, however, at a
cremation in Sukawati at which we were told by a reliable in-
DEATH AND CREMATION 383
former that the noble wife of the deceased prince had died con¬
veniently in a mysterious manner three days before the cremation
in order to be burned together with her husband. Despite the
Dutch claim of having suppressed widow-sacrifices, it seems that
the custom was already dying out, like many other extravagant
practices that became too costly. Nearly one hundred years ago,
during two years’ residence in the island, Friederich witnessed
only one case of widow-burning, that which he describes.
THE AFTERMATH
To have got rid of the corpse that, with its uncleanliness, bound
the soul to the material world, despite the strenuous sacrifices of
the family and the countless rites performed does not yet mean
that the duties of the descendants are over. It is now essential
that the liberated soul be consecrated by further ceremonies,
often even more elaborate than the cremation itself, as one of
the pitaia, the full-fledged ancestral deities. After this the soul
receives the name of Dewa Yang, literally a “ God,” and is al¬
lotted a resting-place in the family temple to protect the house¬
hold.
There are further minor ceremonies within the next twelve
days after the remains have been disposed of, such as the me-
tuhun, when the relatives congregate and through a medium,
usually a medicine-man, a balian in a trance, communicate with
the soul to ask if all is well. I was told that once the balian
encountered difficulties in establishing contact with the soul,
but an old woman relative suddenly went into ecstasy and spoke
to the spirit of the dead man in order to inform the anxious
family of the success of the cremation. Then there are the
ngeiebuhin, when the sO'ul receives offerings, and the mapegat,
the final breaking of the last ties with this earth, symbolized by
burning a thread and smashing egg-shells. The relatives, the
house, and the precious objects used in the ceremonies that were
not meant to be destroyed have still to be cleansed from the im¬
purity they acquired by their contact with the dead. But the
384 ISLAND OF BALI
greatest of all the funeral ceremonies, the consecration of the
soul, is the mukui, when the deceased is symbolized by an object
called a “ blossom,” by means of which the ceremonies are
performed.
The mukui takes place forty-two days after the cremation and
consists in offerings and magic incantations by the high priest,
meritorious acts to help the travelling soul to attain its highest
goal, the heaven allotted to it by caste, and to predispose the
supreme judges to overlook minor sins and be lenient. There
are various heavens, each on a higher and higher level, the stages
of the cosmic meru, symbolized by the temple pagodas and by the
cremation towers. Each heaven is dedicated to one of the castes:
the highest is of course for the Brahmana Siwa, the next for the
Brahmana Budda, and the lower ones for the Satrias and Wesias.
The common people have to be content to go to the swarga, the
purgatory where they enjoy a perfect life in pure Balinese earthly
fashion.
The mukui ceremony is extremely complicated, but is, in a
way, so similar to the cremation itself that a detailed description
of it would only result in a repetition of the ceremonies already
described. The same guests are entertained, similar offerings and
accessories are made, the same priests are engaged, and a second
tower (bukui) is constructed, this time tall and slender and
entirely decorated in white and gold. Again many orchestras and
troupes of actors are engaged and pretentious banquets of turtle
and roast pig are served.
Great stages raised high above the ground are built at the
house for offerings and for the priest. The altars are higher and
more beautifully decorated than ever, the devil offerings more
elaborate than before, and the participants wear their best clothes
and jewellery, the women adding a band of white cloth and a
little fan of white paper worn on the head as a symbol of the
purity of the occasion. The ceremonies begin by the making of
new effigies identical to the adegans used for the cremation,
which are given life, blessed, purified by the priest, and then
DEATH AND CREMATION 385
“ killed ” by being burned. The ashes are collected and placed
in individual coconut shells with a short stick through their
middle. These coconuts are then wrapped in white cloth, deco¬
rated with flowers, and provided with a gold knob at the top,
a gold ring with a ruby, a string of about two hundred kepengs,
an image representing the dead drawn on a sandalwood slab, and
a label of palm-leaf bearing the name of the person. This is the
sekar, a “ blossom.” ^ When ready, the sekars are placed on
silver platters, the relatives make a ceremonial reverence to them,
and they are deposited on the high stage, which is now filled
with expensive silks and offerings. At the mukui of the Radja
of Djerokuta we saw glasses of foreign commodities such as
whisky, brandy, and gin.
After the night of vigil spent in watching dramatic perform¬
ances, listening to music, and so forth, the priest performs his
most powerful mantias, the relatives pray, and the sekars are
brought down, each member of the family placing one over his
or her head to absorb their beneficial influence. They are then
broken up, burned, and the ashes placed again in a new sekar
identical with the former. These are placed on the white and
gold biers and again a great procession starts off for the sea, often
miles away, with the same mad recklessness as when the corpses
were carried to be cremated. The procession stops at the seashore
and the sekars are brought down, placed on a boat, and taken
out to the open sea, where they are thrown into the waters, far
enough so that they will not be washed ashore. The biers are
again dismantled and burned. All the accessories are destroyed;
nothing must remain, and what is not broken up is burned.
Special patrols are appointed to destroy whatever is returned by
the waves.
The ceremony over, the happy participants, now relieved of
their strenuous duties, take a general bath just at the water’s edge,
the women unconcerned in a group just a few yards away from
2 The sekar or puspa, meaning literally a “ blossom/' is symbolical of the spirit
of the deceased and is the same as the shraddha, the urn-like object seen in the hands
of the ancient statues of deified Javanese and Balinese kings.
386 ISLAND OF BALI
the boisterous men, who play and splash in the breaking waves.
There is still the long walk home from the shore, and the crowd
returns in the blazing midday sun — hot, exhausted, and con¬
siderably poorer than before, but in high spirits and happy to
have accomplished their greatest duty to those to whom they
owe their existence: the consecration of their dead so that they
shall continue to guide them as deities in the same way in which,
as ordinary human beings, they helped and protected them. All
of this has been achieved by the triple purifying action of earth,
fire, and water.
NOTES ON DEATH AND CREMATION
A. A corpse that is to be kept mummified within the house and not
buried before cremation remains in the pavilion destined for it (bale
Jayon), where it is taken care of by female relatives (in old times by a
family of slaves), who attend to the collection of the body liquids that
flow from the coffin through a bamboo tube into a Chinese porcelain
bowl, often a priceless piece of Sung celadon, a family heirloom, to be
buried after a sprinkling of holy water.
In old times the slaves appointed to the gruesome task of caring for a
noble corpse were regarded as already dead and were treated as such; no¬
body could talk to them and they could not be denied anything. After
the cremation they were set free, but, being “ dead,” they could not re¬
main in the village. This strange practice, found also among other In¬
donesians, could be explained as being in the same spirit that caused
widow suicides, a sjunbolical sacrifice of a servant or a slave to accompany
his master in the hereafter.
The uncleanliness that emanates from a dead body demands that such
preserved corpses be taken outside the village during festivals. Likewise,
a carcass of an animal must not remain in the open and must be buried.
B. The great cremation towers used to convey the corpses to the place
of burning are called ordinarily wadah, but that of a nobleman, which
has many roofs, receives the more impressive name of bade. In detail
the tower consists of a strong bamboo platform (senan) by which it
is carried by hordes of men; then comes the “ base ” (dasar), which rep¬
resents the underworld (bhur). Next come the mountains (gegunung-
gan); three receding platforms that represent our visible world (bhuwa),
ornamented with bunches of paper flowers and leaves (kekayon), tihe
DEATH AND CREMATION 387
forests. Then comes the bale balean, the pavilion for the bodies '' not
yet in heaven, no longer on this earth the whole topped by the number
of roofs or '' heavens '' (tumpang) allotted to the family by caste. These
are symbolical of the celestial world (swah) .
High priests become merged at death with the sun, and their crema¬
tion bier takes the form of a padmasana, a throne for the sun-god. The
wadah or bade and the padmasana are, like the stone tyandis, the ancient
burial monuments of kings, the modern temple gates and stone sun-
thrones, symbols of the three worlds (tribhuwana) that constitute the
Balinese universe: the upper, intermediate, and lower worlds.
C. The great serpent, the naga banda, used at cremations of the de¬
scendants of the Dewa Agung, the highest aristocracy in the land> is shot
and killed '' by the priest to serve as a vehicle for the royal soul in its
flight into heaven. The naga banda ceremony commemorates the legend
of the strife between the ruling class and the Brahmanic priests (see
page 55), when the Dewa Agung's life was saved by a priest who killed
a serpent about to crush him.
In Den Pasar we had occasion to witness the great cremation of the
old king of Djerokuta, killed in the mass suicide of 1906. His body was
burned then, hurriedly and almost without ceremony, together with
other victims of the war, and it was not until the 12th of February 1934,
twenty-eight years later, that his descendants could afford to hold a great
ceremonial cremation befitting his rank. He was entitled to use the
serpent by a special decree of the Dewa Agung, and the town was aroused
because for over thirty years the event of a naga banda had not taken
place in Den Pasar. The cremation rites were performed through an
effigy, but there were well over a hundred corpses burned on that after¬
noon because other relatives of the Radja and many of his former sub¬
jects joined in the cremation to accompany their prince.
The naga banda itself consisted of a long rope bound in green cloth
with an elaborate head of carved and painted wood and with a great
mane of lalang grass. It measured one hundred yards, although I was
told that according to regulations it should have been 1,600 depa (a depa
is about one yard). The naga banda is made alive by a pedanda bodda,
and a pedanda siwa kills it, in a sort of battle of wits between the magic
of the two sects, but in Den Pasar the ceremony had not taken place for
a decade and the older priests were afraid to attempt it. The formulas
employed for this are the most difficult tongue-twisters and they claimed
that the slightest mistake would result in the death of the priest himself.
Nobody would undertake it except the young but mystic pedanda Cede
388 ISLAND OF BALI
of Pemetjutan, of whom it was said he was so studious that he once lost
his mind temporarily, trying to learn a difficult mantra. He agreed to
perform both, give life to and then kill the naga banda, a great test of
his powers.
On the day of the cremation the great serpent was the most spectacu¬
lar part of the procession; hundreds of people clung to it, and the priest
himself, dressed in full regalia, rode on its neck, the bow and arrow with
which to kill it in his right hand, in the left his bell, which he rang all
the way to the cemetery. The tail of the serpent was held by the present
Regent of Badung, a descendant of the old Radja, while in the other hand
he held the effigy; he rode on the tower where the corpse should have
been. At the cremation ground the priest shot imaginary arrows to the
four winds and then towards the serpent. That was a moment of sus¬
pense because the great throng watched breathlessly to see if the red
hibiscus on each side of the snake’s head wilted. It is believed that should
the flowers remain fresh until the end of the ceremony, the priest has
failed to kill it and he himself will die instead. It was a hot afternoon,
the hibiscus soon wilted, and all was well.
CHAPTER XII
MODERN BALI AND THE
FUTURE
“ Isn’t Bali spoiled? ” is invariably the question that greets the
returned traveller from Bali — meaning, is the island overrun by
tourists, and are the Balinese all wearing shirts? The questioners
are visibly disappointed to hear of big hotels, fine roads, and
motor-cars; there is still enough of the Robinson Crusoe in travel¬
lers to make each one of them want to be the “ only ” white man
among picturesque semi-naked, dark-skinned savages, although
they would preferably see them from a motor-car or a hotel
veranda.
Bali was only conquered by the Dutch in 1908, but long be¬
fore that the libraries of Holland had been filling slowly with
scholarly volumes on the literature, the archeology, and the
religion of Bali. However, the remote little island only became
news to the rest of the Western world with the advent, a few
years ago, of a series of documentary films of Bali with a strong
emphasis on sex appeal. These films were a revelation and now
everybody knows that Balinese girls have beautiful bodies and
that the islanders lead a musical-comedy sort of life full of weird,
picturesque rites. The title of one of these films, Goona-goona,
the Balinese term for “ magic,” became at the time Newyorkese
for sex allure.
392 ISLAND OF BALI
The newly discovered " last paradise ” became the contempo¬
rary substitute for the nineteenth-century romantic conception
of primitive Utopia, until then the exclusive monopoly of Tahiti
and other South Sea Islands. And lately travel agencies have
used the alluring name of Bali to attract hordes of tourists for
their round-the-world cruises that make a one-day stop on the
island. On this day the tourists are herded to the hotel in Den
Pasar to eat their lunch, buy curios, and watch hurried perform¬
ances by bored “ temple dancers ” — ordinary village actors who
hate to play in the midday heat. The show over, the tourists are
rushed back to their ships in numbered cars, satisfied to have
seen Bali. An average of five or six such cruises unload every
winter some fifteen hundred round-the-world tourists that leave
the Balinese puzzled as to why all these madmen come from so
far for only a day. They would never willingly leave their island,
and once an old woman remarked that surely the foreigners must
have done something at home that forced them to leave their own
lands.
The great cruise ships come with twice as many visitors as can
be taken care of by the island’s limited supply of motor-cars, and
half the tourists have to remain on board ship until the others
return. On one occasion it was planned to send a troupe of
dancers and musicians to entertain those who had to remain on
board, but the ship’s officers objected; “ they could not allow
natives to overrun the ship; something might be stolen.” They
were persuaded that the Balinese were an honest people and they
let them come to play and dance for the tourists, but when the
show was over and the Balinese started packing to leave, one of
their large bronze gongs in a carved wood frame was missing!
The gong was never found.
Besides the cruises, every week two K.P.M. boats bring a
handful of more enterprising visitors that stay for three days or
even for a week or two. They land in the northern port of Bule-
leng, which has been under direct Dutch control for nearly a
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 393
hundred years. There all the houses and all the temples have tin
roofs and all the women wear soiled blouses, “ signs of civiliza¬
tion,” both supposedly made compulsory by official decree — • to
the joy of the importers of foreign cloth and of galvanized tin.
After the Dutch occupation of Buleleng in 1848, someone de¬
cided that the morals of the Dutch soldiers needed protection,
and a law was passed requiring the women to wear blouses. Tin
roofs also, it is rumoured, were ordered to replace the thatched
ones because an official became deeply concerned about the
possibility of fires caused by “ exploding automobiles.” Only
three years ago the women of Den Pasar went to market proudly
uncovered to the waist, but the princes' wives wore the ugly
blouses and soon they became the dictate of fashion. In Den
Pasar they now regard those who go habitually with uncovered
breasts as “ crude mountain people.” Young men are growing
contemptuous of the simple batik kain and headcloth of their
forefathers. After dark, in Buleleng and Den Pasar, the equip¬
ment of the smart young man-about-town consists of a set of
striped pyjamas, a Mohammedan skull-cap, sandals, a bicycle,
and a flashlight, although he may still wear flowers behind his
ear to stroll on the main street among the food-vendors, the
flourishing prostitutes and procurers that haunt the streets
around the hotels.
Undoubtedly Bali will soon enough be “ spoiled ” for those
fastidious travellers who abhor all that which they bring with
them. No longer will the curious Balinese of the remote moun¬
tain villages, still unaccustomed to the sight of whites, crowd
around their cars to stare silently at the “ exotic ” long-nosed,
yellow-haired foreigners in their midst. But even when all the
Balinese will have learned to wear shirts, to beg, lie, steal, and
prostitute themselves to satisfy new needs, the tourists will con¬
tinue to come to Bali to see the sights, snapping pictures franti¬
cally, dashing from temple to temple, back to the hotel for meals,
and on to watch rites and dances staged for them. The Balinese
394 ISLAND OF BALI
will be, to the tourists, guides, chauffeurs, and bellboys to be
tipped, dancers on salary, curio-dealers, and tropical beauties to
be photographed blouseless for a fee.
The younger generation is rapidly being cut off from a cultural
environment which they have learned to regard as below them,
considering their parents, formerly their models of behaviour, as
rude peasants who have not gone to school. This, however, is
not the fault of Hollywood. To Bali goes the distinction of being
totally uninterested in the movies. Over a decade ago an enter¬
prising Armenian brought the first movies to the island. At first
he cleaned up, all the Balinese had to see the miracle; but, not
used to paying for entertainment, they soon grew bored with
something they could not understand and the movies were a
failure. Today there are two small primitive movie houses, one
in Buleleng and one in Den Pasar, that give Sunday shows of
films often twenty-five years old, patronized chiefly by the foreign
population. Chaplin may be a favourite of even the Eskimos,
but to the Balinese who saw him in the flesh he was simply the
funny man who came to Bali with his brother and who, after
watching a Balinese play, took the stage and performed for them
a hilarious parody of their dances.
In Bali the exalted title of Teacher, Guru, is the name of one
of their highest gods and is the most respectful way of addressing
one’s father. The old-fashioned teachers were the reservoirs of
the science and poetry of Balinese culture, but those young
Balinese who have gone to Java to become teachers for the West¬
ern-style Government schools have returned convinced that what
they learned in Java is the essence of knowledge and progress.
They have become conscious of the contempt of Europeans for
the native cultures and have been influenced to believe that the
philosophy, arts and habits of their country are signs of peasant
backwardness.
The young gurus look upon the graceful and healthful costume
of the island, so well suited to the climate, as indecent and primi¬
tive and demand that their little pupils wear shirts in school. A
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 395
little girl once told me her teacher said it was improper to show
one’s breasts. In at least one case the result has been tragic; in
the little mountain village of Kayubihi a child was shamed by his
teacher because he did not wear a shirt, but his father, who had
never owned one (nor had any of his ancestors) , refused to buy
it for him. He felt so thoroughly disgraced that one night he
hanged himself from the tree in front of the schoolhouse.
The teacher forces his half-digested Jumble of European ideas
on the little pupils, who from the beginning of their education
learn to look down on everything Balinese. They are taught
about what a European child learns in primary school; they learn
to speak and write in Malay, a language foreign to Bali, which
most often their parents ignore, and some even have a smattering
of Dutch, so when they come out of school they make good,
cheap clerks, totally uninterested in their own culture. Most
speak better Malay than Balinese and feel above the everyday re¬
quirements of Balinese life. Since there are so few jobs available
on the island in which such education would be required, making
clerks of the Balinese seems to make European education have a
negative and even detrimental effect. Typical was the case of
Rapung, the young school-teacher out of work who gave me les¬
sons in Balinese; he was intelligent and rather well informed, yet
he wanted to learn to cook or to serve at table or become a house-
boy. Of course agriculture was much below him.
It seems too bad that modern education, at least in Bali, where
the entire life of the island is so dependent on its traditions, tends
to disinherit the future generation from their culture, simply be¬
cause it is snubbed in the educational program of the schools. It
is true that many young Balinese are still taught at home the rudi¬
ments of the native education, often by old-fashioned gurus, but
what is not officially recognized by their teachers will soon be¬
come discredited. There are, however, encouraging rumours that
the Government plans a revision of the system.
ISLAND OF BALI
396
THE MISSIONARIES
During the past century all efforts to Christianize the Balinese
have failed, and the story of Nicodemus, the first Balinese con¬
vert, is already well known. Nicodemus was the servant and pupil
of the first missionary who came to Bali. He allowed himself to
be baptized after some years in the service of the missionary, but
time went by and no other converts could be made, so the mis¬
sionary began to bring pressure upon Nicodemus to baptize
others. The poor boy, already mentally tortured because his
community had expelled him, declaring him morally “ dead,”
unable to stand the situation any longer, killed his master, re¬
nounced his new faith, and delivered himself to be executed
according to Balinese law. The scandal aroused in Flolland
brought about a regulation discouraging missionary activities in
Bali.
This, however, did not stop the missionaries; permits were
granted to them in 1891, again in 1920, and in 1924, when
Roman Catholics requested special concessions, but waves of
opposition from the Balinese thwarted these attempts. Meet¬
ings were held among Balinese leaders to “ stop the catastro¬
phe,” and the permits were revoked.
But towards the end of 1930 the American missionaries again
succeeded in securing an entree, supposedly only to care for souls
already saved and not to seek new converts. But quietly and un¬
ostentatiously they began to work among the lowest classes of the
Balinese. The more sincere of the early missionaries had aimed
at obtaining converts of conviction and consequently had failed,
but these later missionaries wanted quicker results and followed
more effective methods. Taking advantage of the economic
crisis that was already making itself felt in Bali, they managed to
give their practically destitute candidates for Christianity the
idea that a change of faith would release them from all finan¬
cial obligations to the community — all they had to do was to
pronounce the formula: “ Sa/a pert/a/a Jesoes Kiistos — I believe
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 397
in Jesus Christ.” If the man who was induced to pronounce the
magic words was the head of a household, the missionaries
claimed every member of the family as Christians and soon they
could boast about three hundred converts.
Soon enough the new Christians discovered they had been
misled; they had to pay taxes just the same, had become unde¬
sirable to their communities, and were being boycotted. In
Mengwi, where the missionaries had their greatest success, the
authorities refused to release converts from their duties, bringing
endless conflict with the village and water-distribution boards;
lawsuits developed and trouble began. In many villages regula¬
tions were written into the local laws to the effect that those who
were unfaithful to the Balinese religion were to be declared
“ dead ”; meetings were held to discuss the possibility of banish¬
ing the converts to remote places like Djimbrana, together with
“ other criminals.” The Christians had also become deeply con¬
cerned when they found out that they could not dispose of their
dead, because they were not permitted to bury them in the village
cemeteries and all the other available lands were either ricefields
or wild places. At times the situation became tense and near-
riots took place. The alarmed village heads reasoned with some
converts and succeeded in bringing back a number of them to
the old faith.
Typical is the story of Pan Luting, a convert village headman
who had helped the missionaries to increase their fold. He re¬
pented, claiming he had been deceived, and being a topeng actor
of repute, in his performances of masked dramas he now never
misses an opportunity to poke fun at the missionaries and to ex¬
press his joy at not being a Christian any longer. Another soul
was lost to the missionaries when a young convert discovered that
the venereal disease he suffered from did not disappear when he
pronounced the magic formula: “ I believe in Jesus Christ,” as he
had thought it would. Again, a convert who felt himself at
the point of death quickly renounced his new faith when the vil¬
lage medicine-man refused to treat him, claiming that his magic
398 ISLAND OF BALI
would be of no avail to a Christian. He recovered and it is need¬
less to say that he held a great offering feast of thanksgiving.
Stories such as these are repeated endlessly in Bali, but perhaps
the best illustration of the superficiality of the convictions of the
new Christians is the following conversation between a young
convert and an enlightened official:
" Why did you renounce your religion? ”
" Because I believe! ”
Believe what? ”
" I believe in Jesus Christ.”
Who is he?”
“ That T uan (European) with the black coat that comes often
from Lombok.” ^
Eventually the disturbances became too noticeable and the
American missionaries had to leave. Until then the Dutch mis¬
sions had restrained themselves from further activity in Bali, but
when the news came that rival missionaries had succeeded in
making a few converts, they went up in the air and are now pull¬
ing every rope to have the law modified. Bitter controversy flared
up in the papers in Holland and Java; the missionaries claimed
that the Balinese were finally ripe for conversion because their re¬
ligious feeling was, at last, breaking down. A Dr. Kraemer, head
of a Protestant missionary sect, went to Bali to investigate and,
after a stay in the island of a little over a month, wrote a thick
volume in which he aimed to prove the failings of the Balinese
religion, and the idea that the Balinese really wished to become
Christians, but were opposed by European intellectuals living on
the island. This argument was quickly answered by Tjokorde
Ged^ Rake Soekawati, the Balinese representative in the Volks-
raad, the “ People’s Court,” in Batavia. Dr. Kraemer's preju¬
diced “ findings ” were entirely wiped out by answers and an
analysis of his arguments by the real students of Bali, men like
Bosch, Goris, Korn, Haga, Lekkerkerker, De Bruyn Kops, and
i^'Knapa Ktoet boeang agama Bali?” — Seheb sa/a pert/a/af” — Peztjaja
apa? ** — Saja pert/aja Toean Jesoes Kristos.” — Sfapa dia? ” — Itoe Tocan /ang
pakc badjoc itam /ang senng datang deri Lombok/*
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 399
Damste. Dr. Goris has pointed out that the view of the mission¬
aries is based on the principle that all peoples are by nature ** no
good and in a hopeless ** soul-conflict ” that can only be rem¬
edied by the peculiar brand of religion the missionaries preach.
Finding little evidence of this “ soul-conflict ” in the Balinese,
the missionaries encourage it or try to create it by stirring up the
natural animosity of the lower classes against the high castes and
by playing on their poverty, thus encouraging the caste struggle
rather than abolishing it, as was their claim. Curiously enough,
the same missionaries who accuse the Balinese of religious super¬
ficiality approve of the converts made under false pretences
who know nothing of Christianity except rubber-stamp Malay
phraseology.
In the meantime, while the controversy rages on, the shrewd
missionaries are steadily gaining ground. At present a Catho¬
lic priest and a Protestant missionary are stationed in Den Pasar,
and another missionary, a Catholic, is stationed in Buleleng, all
three undoubtedly discreet but tireless in their efforts to “ save
the Balinese.
But Bali is certainly not the place where missionaries could im¬
prove in any way the moral and physical standards of the people
and it is hard to believe, knowing the Balinese character, that they
will succeed. Religion is to the Balinese more than spectacular
ceremonies with music, dancing, and a touch of drama for virility;
it is their law, the force that holds the community together. It is
the greatest stimulus of their lives because it has given them their
ethics, culture, wisdom, and joy of living by providing the exu¬
berant festivity they love. More than a religion, it is a moral
philosophy of high spiritual value, gay and free of fanaticism,
which explains to them the mysterious forces of nature. It is
difficult to imagine that it will ever be supplanted by a bleak
escapist faith devoid of beautiful and dramatic ritual.
The little island of Bali, now famous for the beauty of its
people, its intense religious life, and its colourful arts, music.
400 ISLAND OF BALI
and theatre, is still one of those amazing nations that we shall
never know again, one of the so-called primitive countries. It is
obvious that the Balinese are by no means a primitive people,
although we use the term to diEerentiate our own material civili¬
zation from the native cultures in which the daily life, society,
arts, and religion form a united whole that cannot be separated
into its component parts without disrupting it; the cultures where
spiritual values dictate the mode of living.
Perhaps of even greater importance than the fascinating ar¬
tistic development, and, in all probability, the factor that moti¬
vated the artistic impulse of the population, is the unique manner
in which they have solved their social and economic problems.
Bali presents the amazing spectacle of a compact nation of over
one million hard-working, cultured people living in a deeply-
rooted, well-co-ordinated form of agrarian socialism, that has,
perhaps because of its elemental directness, until recently, mini¬
mized the social and economic evils that today afilict the less
fortunate rest of the world. The primitive Balinese socialism
flourished parallel to mediaeval feudalism despite five centuries
of domination by an aristocracy that with all its ruthlessness
could not break down the inherent unity and co-operativism of
the Balinese communities.
The nobility met with insurmountable passive resistance to
any encroachments upon the autonomy of the villages and had
finally to content themselves with the collection of tribute from
their “ vassals.” The common people tolerated the princes, but
even today they consider them as total outsiders and in most
social and administrative matters the villages remain entrenched
against all interference from the noble landlords, now appointed
as go-betweens between the people and the Dutch Government,
mainly to the same office to which the threat of boycott reduced
them in the past — the collection of taxes.
We have seen that the Balinese are fanatics about organiza¬
tion. From childhood to old age a Balinese joins all sorts of so¬
cieties, from the clubs of " virgin ” boys and girls, of actors.
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 401
musicians, and even squirrel-chasers, to the great agricultural,
fishing, village, and ward associations that control the internal
government of the communities. Every one of their activities is
managed, not individually, but communally, with every active
member having a vote and a voice in every enterprise. Naturally,
individualism did not develop in the strict communalistic society;
individual names are hardly ever used and they call one another
“ brother,” “ father,” “ teacher,” or “ grandfather.” All art is
anonymous and only recently have painters begun to sign their
works, owing entirely to the influenee of Europeans. This, how¬
ever, did not kill individuality of expression; it is easy to detect
the authorship of a certain painting or a sculpture if one is
familiar with the author s work, every notable actor or dancer has
his own unmistakable way of performing standard dances or im¬
provising lines for a play, and no two orchestras play alike.
In the larger towns and in the districts where the princes held
sway, landownership became more individualistic, but elsewhere
the right of landed property is not recognized as absolute and an
undesirable member of the community cannot hold property
given to him or to his ancestors against the will of the village
council. A landowner cannot sell his property within the jurisdic¬
tion of the village without authorization from the council and
it can be confiscated if he misuses it or if he abuses his privileges.
Instead of the familiar exploitation, enslavement, and eco¬
nomic inequality imposed on the population by a ruling class of
aristocrats or bureaucrats so often found in countries where the
government is centralized in individuals, in Bali we find an eco¬
nomically independent majority that is truly democratic because
every representative villager, regardless of his caste or his wealth,
is an active member of the village council with an equal voice in
village affairs and with equal duties to perform. The government
of the villages remained impersonal and with a minimum evi¬
dence of even its existence, because power was equally divided
among the members of the various councils, and the executive
officials, such as Hangs, council heads, treasurers, and so forth,
402 ISLAND OF BALI
oEciated as a duty to the community and without reward. If
to the inherent spirit of co-operation and high ethical standards
of the Balinese we add their model institutions, we may find the
explanation in the fact that the Balinese never actually became
wage-earners, and even now coolie labour for hire remains unim¬
portant. Despite their poverty the Balinese are freer and live
better than do most natives under colonial rule.
However, the contact of Balinese culture, first with the feudal
princes and lately with our civilization in the form of trade, un¬
suitable education, tourists, and now missionaries, has made a
deep dent in the simple and logical life of the Balinese. The
changes are taking place so rapidly that they were strikingly
evident even after a two years' absence, the time elapsed between
our first and second visits to the island. Fine roads and new
necessities are encouraging the consumption of foreign com¬
modities such as imported cloth, motor-cars, and gasoline, and
the islanders will learn to desire more and more the " advantages
of civilization,” thus creating a gigantic exodus of the island’s
wealth. The Balinese have lived well under a self-suEcient co¬
operative system, the foundation of which is reciprocal assist¬
ance, with money used only as a secondary commodity. Being
extremely limited in means to obtain the cash — scarcer every
day — necessary to pay taxes and satisfy new needs, it is to be
feared that the gradual breaking down of their institutions, to¬
gether with the drain on their national wealth, will make coolies,
thieves, beggars, and prostitutes of the proud and honourable
Balinese of this generation, and will, in the long run, bring a
social and economic catastrophe.
Unfortunate as this is, the power of our civilization to pene¬
trate can no longer be ignored. It would be futile to recommend
measures to prevent the relentless march of Westernization;
tourists cannot be kept out, the needs of trade will not be re¬
stricted for sentimental reasons, and missionary societies are often
powerful. To advocate the unconditional preservation of their
picturesque culture in the midst of modern civilization would be
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 403
the equivalent of turning Bali into a living museum, putting the
entire island into a glass case for the enjoyment of hordes of
tourists. It is a matter of deep regret to see a million intelligent
people, living a simple and logical life ruled by an almost un¬
precedentedly harmonious co-operativism and with a truly great
national culture, be turned into an experimental field for mis¬
sionaries and a stamping-ground for traders.
In adapting foreign ideas to their own culture the Balinese
have shown unusual logic and an intelligent power of assimila¬
tion. It is to be hoped that those in control of the island’s future
will see that progress comes to the Balinese naturally and gradu¬
ally and that they shall be permitted to decide for themselves
what they want to absorb without losing their essential qualities
and becoming another vanishing race of coolies. The Balinese
deserve a better fate; they are too proud and intelligent to be
treated with the prevalent arrogance and patronizing attitude of
colonizers who regard the native as a shiftless and treacherous
inferior whose contact pollutes the “ superior ” whites and who
regard those who show deference to the native as a menace to
the prestige — greatly menaced nowadays — of the often bigoted
and insolent whites in the colonies.
The Dutch have been often called the best colonizers in the
world, and whatever the verdict may be on the principle of
colonization, it is lucky for Bali that of the imperialists it is
Holland that rule? there. The Netherlands Government boasts
of a motto of ‘‘ Rule with love and wisdom ” and a policy of
non-interference with the native life. There is no doubt that
these principles have been followed in Bali whenever their appli¬
cation did not interfere with colonial interests, and the native has
derived definite benefits from Dutch rule: land may not be sold
for exploitation by strangers, the autocratic powers of the princes
have been considerably curtailed, the Balinese have retained
their laws and their courts, and the troublesome missionaries were
supposedly barred from the island.
Up to now the Dutch have shown a more humanitarian treat-
404 ISLAND OF BALI
ment of the people than most imperialistic colonizers and in
many cases have sided with the people against the princes despite
the fact that the old system of government of the Radjas was
preserved. No more can the despotic princes enslave or exploit
their helpless subjects, or as in old times kill or punish savagely
someone for such offences as disrespect or disobedience. Only
two of the former Radjas, those of Gianyar and BCarangasem, be¬
cause of “ loyalty ” to the Government, retain their feudal rights
— in a considerably limited way, however — while the others are
rulers only in name. The Dutch have also stopped the bloody
wars between petty chieftains, and widows no longer kill them¬
selves at the pyre of their noble masters. Taxation still burdens
the habitually penniless peasants, although now at least they re¬
ceive certain returns for their money in the form of protection,
health services, roads, and so forth.
• Dr. Korn [Adatiecht van Bali) has already pointed out that
the problem confronting the Dutch in regard to Bali is the
gradual incorporation of the Balinese into modern life from
mediaeval isolation through a better understanding of their insti¬
tutions. Fifty years ago, when Liefrink took charge of the ad¬
ministration of North Bali, he understood that it was best to
leave things more or less as they were. But in South Bali the
change came more suddenly; the ruling houses collapsed over¬
night and the Dutch had to reorganize the government of their
new conquest hastily and without a thorough knowledge of the
island's laws and customs.
In late years the Government of the Netherlands has com¬
missioned scholars like Doctors Korn, Goris, and Stutterheim to
make studies for a better understanding of the law, the religion,
and the history of Bali. Perhaps through these studies those in
charge of the colonial policy of the Netherlands will realize, in
the first place, that the Balinese have a great culture that cannot
be saved by the admiration of the outside world, but only by com¬
manding the respect and appreciation of the Balinese themselves;
that the native arts need no encouragement, simply because they
MODERN BALI AND THE FUTURE 405
are still vividly alive, but that they do need official recognition in
the educational program of the schools that are now turning out
hybrid Balinese with contempt for whatever does not come from
the outside world. Second, that the Balinese are agriculturists
living in small communities in which clerks and middlemen have
no place. Third, that their social organization not only is the
best suited, but is essential to their manner of living. And last
but not least, that their whole life, society, arts, ethics — in short,
their entire culture — cannot, without disrupting the entire sys¬
tem, be separated from the set of rules which are called the Bali¬
nese religion. If this principle is disturbed, the foundation will be
knocked from under the structure upon which the culture, the
law and order of the Balinese are based, and social and economic
chaos will eventually descend upon the happy and peaceful
island of Bali.
ALBUM OF PHOTOGRAPHS
The sun sets on the Tabanan coast and rises over the Gunung Agung
Outriggers drying in the sun. Shaped like the mythical gad/a-mina,
half-elephant, half-fish, they have eyes to see at night
Approaching rain and the beach of Sanur at dusk
Giant pandanus in the forest of Batukau A statue trapped in the roots of a waringin tree
The trunk of an ancient frangipani tree
P rM/lir fr»r nlanfincr cAi^n frr\m fiarrar*#ao aT^mria fln#am
Balinese d
Oxen and a primitive plough are used in the ricefields
Ploughing can be turned to festive and to profitable uses, made to please
the gods and to serve as a basis for bull-racing bets
In the mountain villages rice is dried on tall bam- Planting the rice shoots
boo poles with conical tops
A baby of Den Pasar
Mario
Watching a play
An attentive group
A proud grandfather
above: Three generations
A kulkul or tom-tom calls the villagers together; it has different signals for
meals, feasts, meetings. A fast, continuous beating is the signal of a village
emergency
Every Balinese home, which houses one family or a number of related fam¬
ilies in its many pavilions, is surrounded by a wall of whitewashed mud
The meru or tower of the temple Kehen in Bangli rises beside the shrines
which the gods use as resting-places
ABOVE: A panorama of meius which make up the Mother Temple (Besakih)
of Bali
The puppets of the barong landong land at the island of Sakenan to perform
in the coral temple
Palm-leaf offerings shaped like boat-sails
Temple offerings: bananas, cus¬
tard-apples, oranges, palm-leaves,
and flowers mingle to compose a
Jcbogan to the gods. The deities
are served with the essence of this
food, and ordinary people take
what is left
A lamak, a strip of palm-leaves designed for temple decoration; a
Ji *1 i-l-k A T»T?T o oTirinp pr'nrQ tpH fnr ■f'f^TTTnlft fcflSt
Mukluk carrying her offering to the village temple
An exceptionally fine lamak and a tall penyor, a tall bamboo pole hung
with lacy ornaments of palm-leaf decorating the entrance to a temple
u
(below) dedicates the offerings brought to the temple by
the women of the village
Taking the gods of Den Pasar to the sea-shore in Kuta for mlis, a symboli¬
cal cleansing hatli. For this particular temple feast all the women wore
white skirts to signify the purity of the occasion
A bridegroom and his bride stirring the symbolic wedding meal, which they
must cook and eat together, below, two beds provided with special mar¬
riage offerings, ready for a double wedding ceremony
The pelegongan from the village of Saba accompanies the famous Jegoiig
The gender wayang orchestra^ below, is used as accompaniment to the
shadow-play
Legong dancer wearing a headdress of beaten gold and frangipani flowe
Four gestures in the legong of Saha
Two actors in the d/auk, a pantomimic dance that precedes the barong
play. In their masks and dance routine there is a sharp distinction between
the uncouth and the refined characters
below: Dancers of baris gede, a ritual war dance, dressed in magic black
3nd white cloth
A pcdanda bodda, high priest of a Buddhist sect who piays with a
badira, a symbolic thunderbolt of bronze, instead of flowers. Be ow
him in the picture, as he is in caste, the lowly pemaii^gku is neverthe¬
less of greater importance in the temple and is essential to the ntual,
which the high priests are not
The barong’s followers are about to enter into the trance
Down the bamboo bridge that leads from the tower, the corpses are carried
to the sarcophagi, which in the picture below have already been reduced
to ashes, leaving only the towers to follow them when the darkness comes
GLOSSARY
BIBLIOGRAPHY
& INDEX
ISLAND OF BALI
GLOSSARY
adat; the traditional religious and social village laws and regulations,
angklung: a portable orchestra present at all celebrations, proces¬
sions, etc.
bale; a pavilion; a house; a couch or bed.
bale agung: meeting-hall of the Elders’ council in the old villages,
bale band/ar; the meeting-hall of the band/ar, the village ward,
bald gedd; the reception hall and guest house in the homes of the
well-to-do.
Bali Aga: “ the original Balinese ”; the mountain people and those
of the villages that remain isolated and have resisted the
religious and cultural influence of the Javanese Empire of
Madjapahit.
balian: a witch-doctor and medicine-man who knows some of the
magic used by the priests but takes no part in the community
ritual.
band/ar; a village ward; a social and political community within the
desa, or village.
barong; a mythical beast of great magic power; most frequently
identifieid with Banaspati (or Bonaspati) Radja, Lord of the
Jungle (barong ketet or kekek). There are many other forms
of barongs; described in greater detail in Note i, pages 354-7.
barong landong; “ the tall barong ”; giant puppets of well-defined
characters endowed with a certain holiness, kept in the temples
and brought out occasionally to perform slapstick comedy
(see page 287).
bodda (boddha) : the so-called Buddhists; the members of a sect of
GLOSSARY 4U
nyep'i: a day of prohibition, of stillness, of silence. The nyepf festival
represents the suspension of all activity in the village prelimi¬
nary to chasing out the evil vibrations that have accumulated
during the year. There are also nyepf days for ricefields when
no one may work in or even enter the fields,
pandd; the blacksmiths; a caste in itself, proud and supposedly
magically powerful enough to handle with impunity such holy
elements as fire and iron.
pedanda; a high priest, generally of the Brahmana or Brahmin
caste.
pemangku; the low-caste temple guardian and officiating priest of
the temple ritual.
peibekel: a lesser oEcial in the village wards, formerly the agent and
tax-collector of the feudal lords, now of the Dutch Govern¬
ment.
pungawa: a noble provincial governor who served the Radja, usu¬
ally his relative, and who now serves the Dutch Government
in the same capacity,
puri: the palace of a prince.
pus^h (or puser) : the navel, the place of origin, the centre. The
pura pus6h, “ temple of origin ” of each village community is
the most sacred social and religious link between the villagers
themselves and between those of near-by communities that
at one time broke away from the mother village.
Rangda; a “widow,” a condition repulsive to the former Balinese.
Now the name for the old witch heroine of the t/alon-arang
legend, the narrative of the struggle of King Erlangga to save
his kingdom from destruction by the black magic performed
by his own mother; to the Balinese, even today, a very real and
dangerous spirit (see pages 326-31, 354-5)-
ringgit: a silver dollar; two and a half guilders,
sanghyang: a deity, usually a local village god. Also the name of a
trance dance in which mediums impersonate the sanghyang.
Satria: a member of the second or princely caste (Ksatriya in India) .
sawa; a ricefield.
sebel; polluted; a magical uncleanliness that weakens the village,
temple, or individual spiritually,
seka (or sekehe): a club, an association.
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Embree, E. R., Simon, M. S., and Mumford, W. B.: Island India
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Friederich, R.: “ Over den godsdienst van Bali.” Ti/d. Ned. Ind.,
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Dr. Goris contributes also to D/awa, Ti/d. I. T. L. V., and other
periodicals.)
BIBLIOGRAPHY 415
Heine-Geldern, Robert: The Archeology and Art of Sumatra.
Universitat Wien, 1935.
Hooykas, C.: Tantii Kamandaka. Bandoeng, Java, 1931.
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Ikle, Ch., F.: Ikat Technique and Dutch East Indian Ikats. The
Needle and Bobbin Club, New York, 1931.
Jasper, J. E., and Mas Pingardie: De Inlandsche Kunstnijverheid
in Nederlandsche Indie. s-Gravenhage, 1912.
JuYNBOLL, H. H.: Het oud Javaansche Brahmandapurana. 1900.
- : Mahabharata, Adiparwa. Oud Javaansche prozageschrift.
Den Haag, 1906.
- : Kawi-Balineesch-Nederlandsch Qlossarium op het oud/a-
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- : “ Gids voor Ethn. voorwerpen.” Pub]. Ethn. Mus., Serie II,
No. 16c. Cat. Ethn. Mus. Leiden, Deel VII. Bali en Lombok,
1912.
Kats, J.: Het Ramayana, op Javaansche tempel reliefs. Batavia.
- : “ Dancers and Actors of the Island of Bali.” Interocean.
Batavia, 1924.
Kleen, Tyra: Tempeldanser och Musikinstrument pa Bali. Stock¬
holm, 1931.
Korn, V. E.: Het Adatrecht van Bali. Tweede herziene druk,
s-Gravenhage, 1932.
- ; De dorpsrepubliek Tnganan Pagrinsingan. Kirtya Liefrinck-
van derTuuk, Singaradja, Bali, 1933.
Krause, Gregor: Bali; Volk, Land, Tanze, Feste, Tempel. Miin-
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Krom, N. j.: “ De Boeddha-belden van Boeroebodoer.” Ned. Ind.
Oud en Nieuw. Ve. Jg., alf X. 1921.
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Ars Asiatica, 1926.
Kruijt, j. and J. A.: Het Animisme in den Indische Archipel.
s-Gravenhage, 1906.
Kunst, J. and C. J. A.: De Toonkunst van Bali. Batavia, 1925.
Lauts, Ulrich Gerhard: Het Eiland Bali en de Balinezen. Am¬
sterdam, 1848.
Lekkerkerker, C.; Bali en Lombok, overzicht der literatur tot
1919. Bali Institute, Rijswijk, 1920.
4i6 bibliography
- : “Les R^centes D6couvertes arch^ologiques dans I’lle de Bali."
Revue Anthropologique, Annde 34, p. 237. Paris, 1924.
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Deel XLI (1919).
- : “ Pedandas op Bali.” Indie Geill Weekblad van Ned. Kol.,
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Lelyveld, Th. B. Van; La Danse dans le theatre /avanais. Paris,
1931.
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ISLAND OF BALI
INDEX
Abang, 121
Adi Parwa, 193
Adolescence, 133-40
Adolescent boys, clubs of, 21-2,
136-7, 178-9, 356
Adultery, 137, 140, 158
Agriculture, 15, 405; and see Rice
Alas Trung, 354
Albuquerque, Alphonso de, 29
Alor, 168
Amulets, 141-2, 345, 356
Anak Agung Ktut, Crown Prince,
3L 32
Anak Agung Mad6, Radja of
Badung, 33, 34-5, 36
Ancestors, cult of, 57-9, 288
Animals, domestic, 40-2, 98-9, 100
Antaboga, 7, 317
Anusapati, 203, 204
Architecture, 181-5;
Houses, Temples
Ard/a, 219, 249-51
Ardjuna, 142, 164-5, 235,
237, 241, 244, 245, 246
Ard/una Wiwaha, 152, 184, 217,
245
Art; place of, in Balinese life,
160-6; development of Balinese,
166-71; old Hindu Balinese,
171-9; of Madjapahit period,
180-1; modern plastic, 181-204
Art/as, 272, 273, 310
Arya Damar, 27, 56
Babetin, 186
Bach, J. S., 207
Badung, 28, 30, 32-7, 49, 54, 78,
123, 146, 148, 158, 160, 178, 185,
188, 214, 215, 224, 231, 281, 287,
295, 321, 388
Bahula, 329
Bale agung (assembly hall), 42-3,
57, 59, 269, 308, 309
Bali: geography, 4-6; fauna and
flora, 7-8, 9, 10; climate, 8; fer¬
tility, 8-10; population, 15-16;
history, 26-37; modern, and the
future, 391-405
Bali Aga, 17-26, 52-3, 136-7, 141,
144, 150, 167, 178, 308-9, 313,
314. 356
Bali Mula, see Bali Aga
Balinese, the: nature and character¬
istics of, 10-38, 404-5; racial
origins of, 16-17
Balinese language, the, 50-2; pro¬
nunciation, 2
Bamboo, 89-91
Band/ar, the, 60-4, 84; orchestras
of, 207-10
Bangli, 28, 32, 141, 185, 188, 215
Banyan trees, 43
Barak, 121
Baris, 218, 222, 230-2, 245, 286,
37°^ 37L 374 „
Barong, 286-7, 318, 332-4, 339,
355-7
INDEX
Basuki, y, 317
Batavia, 12, 32, 377, 398
Bathing, 10, 12, 44, 96, 102, 116-
18; etiquette of, 49-50, 116-17
Batuan, 160, 188, 194
Batukaang, 26, 168
Batukandik, 167
Batukau, 6, 26, 286
Batur, 5
Batur, Lake, 5, 25, 74, 178, 309
Batur, the, see Gunung Batur
Baturiti, 324
Beardsley, Aubrey, 195
Beauty, Balinese idea of personal,
139-40
Bebitera, 167
Bedaulu, King, 19, 27, 37-8, 180
Bedawang, 7
Bedulu, 19, 125, 173, 176, 224, 310,
357
Begawan Mpu Gandu, 354
Begawan Seganin Ening, 316
Begawati, 328, 329, 354, 355
Beggars, 13-14
Belaluan, 62, 92, 96, 105, 106, 107,
108, 134, 209, 232; orchestra of,
207, 210-11, 213
Belo, Jane, 37-8, 123, 128, 129, 159,
194
Benua, 5, 10, 106
Besakih, Lake, 74
Besakih, temple of, 6, 268, 309
Bestiality, 145-6, 262
Betel-nut, chewing of, 48-9, 66,
119,135,150
Bhairawa, 318, 355
Bhima, 165, 198, 241, 371
Shims Swarga, 193, 371
Bhoma, 372
Bhuwana Kosa, 318
Blahbatu, 38, 324
Bodda (sect of Brahmanas), 54,
318
Bonnet, 194
Borneo, 3, 16, 184
Borobudur, 4, 173, 300
Bosch, 398
Bourbon, 12
Bra Widjava V, 28
Brahma, 53, 289, 290, 291, 297,
316-17, 341, 344; and see
Sanghyang Kesuhum Kidul
Brahmamurti, 341
Brahmanas, 53, 54-6, 65, 104, 136,
137, 182, 201, 292-304, 312, 318,
381-2
Brahmanda-Purana, 296
Brancusi, 164
Bratan, 26, 168
Budda, Batara, 318, 355, 384
Buddha, 263, 295, 318
Bugbug, 274-5
Bukit Darma, 176, 328
Bukit Petjatu, 6, 310
Buleleng, xiv, 28, 30, 39, 149, 185,
254. 303^ 393^ 394» 399
Bull races, 74-5
Galendar, Balinese, 282-4, 313-16
Gambodia, 184
Gannibalism, 17, 23
Garvings, 160-1, 166, 186-8; and
see Sculpture
Gaste, 46-7, 50, 52-7, 65-6, 144,
152-3, 159, 360-1, 363, 372; and
language, 50-2
Gatde, 41
Gelebes, 16, 176, 192, 368
Ghaplin, Charles, 394
Childbirth, 122-9
Children, 40-1, 82, 110-11, 125-6,
129-33^ 325- 360 ^
Chinese, xvi, 4, 15, 16, 32-3, 39,
44,93,254
Christianity in Bali, 263, 396-9
Ciwa Siddhanta, 318
Cockfighting, 40, 43, 55, 74, 78;
86, 96, 278-9
INDEX
Comaraswami, 300
Communities: organization of, 14,
57-60, 84, 400-1; co-operation in,
60-4, 72-3, 262,
402; life in, 39-69; orchestras of,
207-10; drama of, 220-1
Cooking, see Food
Cool, Captain W., 31
Cosmos, Balinese conception of,
6-7, 10
Courts, 66-9
Crafts, 195-204
Crawfurd, John, 377
Cremations, 55, 61, 77, 135, 170,
283. 359> 360, 361-83, 386-
8; orchestra for, 211, 215-16; cere¬
monies following, 383-6; and see
Funeral rites and customs
Culture, 15, 404; and see Art
Dagangs, 138-9
Daha, 328, 355
Dalem Bedaulii, see BedauM, King
Dalem Mur Samplangan, 31 3
Dampati LeJangon, 193
Damst6, 399
Dance, 15, 216-35; of Bali Aga
adolescents, 21-2; of older
women, 83, 273; as focus of Bali¬
nese life, 216-24; io trance, 216,
217, 218, 222, 230, 335-9; origin
of, 216-17; relation to drama,
217; forms of, 217-19; technique
of, 219; training for, 221-2; and
see Baris, Djogid, Kebiyar, Le-
gong, Sanghyang dedari
Day, divisions of, 102
De Kat Angelino, 150, 300, 303,
312
Death, 360; and see Cremations
and Funeral rites and customs
Dedap, 267
D61am, 185, 241, 242, 244
Demons, 275-7, 279, 281, 306-7
Den Pasar, xiv, xv-xvii, xix, xx, 18,
33, 39, 54, 56, 65, 66, 81, 93, 108,
145, 146, 188, 194, 199, 205, 221,
234, 252, 272, 281, 310, 320-2,
325- 354^ 387^ 392, 393- 394- 399:
Dutch conquest of, 33-5, 36-7;
nyepi in, 278, 279, 281-2
Desa Bra tan, 19
Dewa Cede Rake, 231
Dewa Pergina, 222
Dewa Ratu Pantjering Djagat,
178
Dewa yang, 288, 316
Dewas, 288
DewiDanii, 9, 290, 317
Dewi Gangga, 290, 317
Dewi Melanting, 46, 71, 171, 317
Dewi Ratih, 317
Dewi Sri, see Sri
Deyta Wata Kewatja, 245, 246
Dharmawangsa, 26
Dharmodayana, 328
Diaghilev, 40
Dirah, 354
Divorce, 158-9
Djagaraga, 186
Djakut Paku, 178
D/anger, 219, 251-5
Djenar, 121
Djero Dalam Peg6k (or Truna),
249
Djero Cede Metjaling, 10, 287, 335,
355-6
Djero Luh, 356
Djerokuta, 321, 322, 385, 387
Djimbrana, 28, 30, 47, 397
D/oged, 218, 228-9
Dog (house-boy), xvii, 48, 49, 97
D6ng-Son, 170
Drama, 83, 130, 152, 205-55; clas¬
sic, 243-55; T/along
Arang
Dress: ceremonial, 25, 111-16; for
visits, 48; ordinary, 85, 109-11;
IV
INDEX
of priests. 111; ornaments of,
114-16; modern, 393, 394-5
Drink, 109
Durga, 176, 178, 290, 291, 317, 328,
340, 341, 355
Duryodana, 241
Dutch, the, in Bali, 29-37, 4°’ 39 3>
395, 403-4
Dutch East India Company, 29-30
Education, modern, 394-5
Elephant Cave, see Goa Gadja
Erlangga, 26-7, 174, 176, 180,
328-9, 331, 354, 355
Escudero, 232
Etiquette, 47-50, 99-100
Fishing, 10
Flores, 3, 24
Food, 10, 82, 96, 97-100, 102-9;
of newborn child, 125
Friederich, 288, 292, 319, 380, 382,
383; quoted on suttee, 380-1
Funeral rites and customs, 23, 25,
363-88; and see Cremations
Gadja Mada, 27, 52, 56, 288
Galolikvh, 219
Galunggan, 284-8, 315
Gambangan, 209
Gana, 317-18, 319, 345
Ganapati, 318
Ganega, 177, 318, 319
Gasuki, 317
Gedog, 92-4
Gelgel, 9, 28, 160, 180, 189, 286,
312, 377
Gianyar, 28, 30, 32, 36, 37, 49, 78,
104, n6, 146, 153, 185, 295, 304,
309, 310, 328, 380, 404
Gifts, 48
Giling Wesi, 314
Giralawa, temple of, 310
Giri Putri, 290, 317
Goa Gadja, 176-8
Goa Racksasa, 178
Gods, most important Balinese
31^18
Goona-goona, 391
Goris, R., 71, 177, 267, 303, 312,
313, 318, 319, 398, 399,404
Grader, 167
Gujirat, 24
Gunung Agung, 6, 20, 26, 28, 37,
74’ 76’ 92’ 177’ 267, 268, 290, 298,
305’ 309, 326
Gunung Batur, 5, 6, 25, 26, 57, 92,
168, 177, 267, 268, 357
Gunung Kawi, 174, 176, 178
Guru, Batara, 216, 289, 290, 316
Gusti (tide), 56, 104
Gusti Alit Oka, xvii, xx, 36, 46, 51,
82, 88, 92, 97, 131, 150, 207, 234,
Gusti Gede Djilantik, Radja, 30
Gusti Ngurah Agung, Radja of
Tabanan, 36
Gusti Ngurah Gede, 187, 188
Gusti Ngurah Regog, 231
Gusti Nyoman, 194
Haga, 398
Hair, 119, 124, 129, 139, 305, 351
Hanuman, 240-1
Hayam Wuruk, see Rayasanagara,
King
Heemskerk, 29
Heine-Geldern, 16
Hindu influence upon Bali, 25, 26,
52-3, 165-7, 241, 260-1, 288-9,
300, 306
Holy waters, 298-9
Homosexuality, 145
Houses, 18, 82, 88^6, 182
Houtman, Cornelius, 29
I Gusti Rake, 235
I Guta, 313
V
INDEX
I Lotring, 209
I Sobrat, 194
I Tusan, 312
Ida Ayu, meaning of, 56
Ida Bagus, meaning of, 56
Ida Bagus Anom, 194
Ida Bagus Boda, 221
Ida Bagus Ktut, 182, 320-1
Idjeng, 20; and see Wisnu
Idols, 264
Ikle, 24
Impurity (sebel), 262, 275, 277,
305-6, 340; from the birth of
twins, 12^; from menstruation,
133-4, ^ 565 bestiality, 145-
6; from death, 363, 364
Incest, 144, 159, 262
Income, see Wages
Indra, 20, 37, 54, 70, 216, 217, 291,
317, 361
Isora, 289, 317
Iswara, 7, 290, 297, 317
I-Tanggu, 18, 19, 20, 25
Java, 3, 4, 6, 9, 16, 17, 26, 27, 28, 29,
30, 31-2, 165-6, 171-4, 180-1,
193-4, 207, 208, 236, 238, 239,
260, 398; the dance in, 219-20
Kailasa, 6
Kala, 7, 281, 291, 315, 340, 345
Kala Rahu, 299, 300, 348
Kaliungu, band/ar, 282
Kapal, 178
Karangasem, 17, 23, 28, 30, 36, 37,
54, 165, 404
Kawi, 52, 162, 218, 235-6, 243, 245,
296
Kayubihi, 395
Kbo Idjo, 203
Kbo Iw5, 25-6, 176, 178
jPCebiyar, 218, 232-5
Kediri, 174, 355
Kemenuh, 193
Ken Arok, 202-4
Ken Dedes, 202, 203
Ken Umang, 203
Kengetan, temple feast of, 271-4
Kerta Gosa, court house of Klung-
kung, 67
Kertalah, 245, 250
Kertanagara, 27
Kesiman, 33, 34, 65, 171
Ketewel, 10
Ketok Pita, 121
Kidnapping of bride, 146-8, 150
Kintamani, 57, 288, 357
Kirtya Liefrinck van der Tuuk, 193
BCleen, Tyra de, 300
Klungkung, 28, 30, 32, 36, 54, 55,
67, 104, 180, 185, 310, 374
Komodo, 3
Kops, De Bruyn, 398
Kom, E. V., 20, 24, 56, 59, 68, 87,
121, 149, 150, 201, 313, 316, 398,
404
Kraemer, 398
Krakatao, 3
Krause, xiii, 69
Krisses, 198-204
Krobdkan, 214, 363
Krtabhumi, 28, and see Bra
Widjaya V
Ktut Adi, 14
Kublai Khan, 16
Kububatur, 6
Kubutambahan, 309
Kumara, 317
Kuning, 121
Kuta, 10, 209, 273
Kutri, 176, 328
Kwera, 317
Labour, 40, 73; distribution of,
81-3
Land, ownership of, 59, 83, 84, 263,
401; communal cultivation of,
61, 83
VI
IN
Landap, 314, 315
Lasem, King, 227-8
Law, 54, 64-6, 148
Lebih, feast of, 304
Legong, 160, 218, 221, 222, 223,
224-30; costume for, 225-6
Lekkerkerker, 176, 355, 398
Lemah Tulis, 354
Lewek, 121
Lief rink. Resident, 36, 149, 404
Life, everyday, 96-102; and see
Food, Houses
Linton, Ralph, 308
Lohgawe, 202
Lombok, 6, 7, 8, 29, 36, 193; Dutch
conquest of, 30-2, 34
Lora Djongrang, 173
Love life of Balinese, 140-6
Ludra, 317
Lumbuan, 141
Luntung Bengkur, 342
Mad6, 106
Made Griya, 194
Mad6Rai, 133-4, 154
Madjapahit, 27, 28, 180-1, 260, 294,
314, 319, 360
Magic, 141, 222, 284, 324, 339-54;
black, 123, 143, 174, 261, 318;
love, 142-3
Mahabliarata, 185, 218, 235, 236,
241
Mahadewa, 317
Mahameru, 6, 176, 266, 268
Mahendradatta, 176, 328
Makatjung, 321, 322, 340
Malat, 219, 227, 244
Malay Archipelago, 3, 8, 16, 27
Malinowsky, 144
Mang Mang Murka, 245-6
Mantras, 296-9, 300-3, 388
Mario, 232-5
Markets, 40, 43, 44-6
Marriage, 122, 137, 141, 146-59;
^'X
in Tenganan, 22; between dif¬
ferent castes, 47, 53
Mas, 160, 161, 182, 188, 194
Masks, 220, 339
Mataram, 32, 171, 377
Maya Danawa, 37-8, 168
McPhee, Colin, 209, 211, 215
Medicine, 349-54
Mei Lan-Fang, 232
Mengwi, 28, 30, 266, 397
Merdah, 198, 241
Mershon, Jack, 353-4
Mershon, Katharine, 353-4
Mertasari, temple, 222-3
Meru, 6
Mesula-Mesuli, 38
Mohammedans, 4, 6, 15, 27, 28,
122, 166, 220
Movies, 185, 394
Mpu Bharada, 26, 54, 313, 328, 329,
35> 356
Mpii Djidjaksara, 313
Mpii Gandring, 202-3,
Mpu Kuturan, 54, 313, 355
Muluk, 131
Music, 15, 21, 162, 206-16; relation
to dances and plays, 217-20; and
see Orchestras
Musical instruments, Balinese, 206,
207, 208, 211-13
Naga Banda, 55, 374, 387-8
Nakula, 241
Names, 130-1
Napoleon Bonaparte, 33
Nasdi, 362
New Guinea, 3
Ngurah Ged6 Pemetjutan, 319
Nias, 166, 167
Nicodemus, 396
Nieuwenkamp, 176, 184
NitiSastra, 162
Nusa Penida, 10, 47, 167, 335, 356
Nyepf, 277-82, 283, 284, 313-14
vu
INDEX
Nyessen, D. J. H., i6
Nyoh Gading, 121
Offerings, 161, 276-7, 310-12, 365
Oos, river, 178
Opera, Balinese, 249-51
Orchestras, 21, 160, 162, 206-16;
types of, 213-16; at cremations,
376
Outje Serava, 20
Pagupata, 318
Painting, 162, 165, 166, 188-95
Pakedukan, temple of, 310
Pakrisan, river, 174, 176
Paksabali, 274-5
Pamesan, 56
Pan Bunkling, 55
Pan Luting, 397-8
Pan Regog, 106
Pandji, 165, 244
Panulisan, 178
Pari Bhasa, 193
Pasupati, 176, 266, 290, 317
Patimah, xiv, 19
Pedandas, 292-304
Pedjeng, 19, 27, 38, 173, 178, 180,
310; drum of, 168-70
Pekalongan, 110
Pemangkus, 270-1, 272, 273, 274,
286-7
Pemetjutan, 35, 36, 151, 152, 187,
320, 321, 324, 333, 362, 365, 388
Pengadjaran, 168
Penged/okan, 246-9
Perbekels, 57, 63
Perjury, 68^
Pertiwi, 291
Petang, 166
Petanu, river, 38, 174, 177
Philippines, the, 3, 16
Pliatan, 160, 188, 213, 370
Poerbatjaraka, R. N., 303, 328
Poetry, 15
Polygamy, 156-7, 158
Pondjok Batii, 178
Pradjapati, 364, 368
Prambanan, 4, 173
Prevost, 377
Priests, 55, 88, 103-4, 1^9^ ^34
270-1, 272, 273; dress of, 111;
marriage of, 122, 294; at nyepi
festival, 281; and Brahmanic
ritual, 292-304; and cremations,
362, 365, 371, 375-6, 377; high,
death of, 364, 387
Prostitution, 145, 393
Pugog, 92
Pungawas, 56, 57, 211
Punishment, 15, 64-6, 67
Pura Bangkung, 266
Pura Batukan, 309-10
Pura Medrwe Karang, 309
Pura Panataran Sasih (Pedjeng),
168, 178, 310
Pura Panulisan, 178
Pura Sakenan, 310
Purification, see Impurity
Radjasanagara, King, 27
Raffles, Sir Stamford, 4, 28, 236
Rama, 164-5, 235, 237, 239-41,
244, 288, 310
Ramayana, 185, 217, 218, 235, 236,
239, 244, 288
Rangda, 27, 326-32, 333, 339, 340,
341, 354-5, 357
Rangda Tjalonarang, 218
Rangkesari, Princess, 227-8
Rank, see Caste
Rapag, 124
Rapung, 13, 324, 395
Ratna Menggali, 328, 354
Ratfi Dalam Dedapan, 267
Ratii Ged6 Pantjering Djagat, 25
Rawana, 239, 240, 241, 244
Rayasanagara, Kng, 180
Regog, 134
IJWiLX
vni
Reincarnation, 54, 122, 123, 305,
360-1
Religion, 13, 17, 20, 53, 75-7, 257-
319, 399; society and, 260-3;
see Magic
Rentjani, Mount, 6
Reunion, 12
Rice, 9, 13, 70-81, 101-2; cultiva¬
tion of, 71-81; and see Food
Rice Mother, 78, 80, 81, 171
Ringdikit, 186, 210
Rose of the Winds, 42, 76, 267,
280, 297
Roti, 24, 169
Rousseau, douanier, xix, 195
Rsi, 318-19
Rudra, 317
Saba, 160, 224
Sagung, XX, 97, 150
Sahadewa, 241
Salya, 219
Samantiga, temple of, 19, 310
Sambu, 289, 317
Sampik, 219, 251
Sanda, 168
Sandjaya, King, 171
SanghyangBerawi, 354, 355, 356
Sanghyang dedari, 218, 229-30,
33S-9’ 357-8
Sanghyang Duwring Akasa, 317
Sanghyang Ibu Pertiwi, 70, 317
Sanghyang Kesuhum Kidul, 20, 70;
and see Brahma
Sanghyang Meleng, 312
Sanghyang tiga Wisesa, 315
Sanghyang Trimurti (or Tiga
Sakti), 290-1
Sanghyang Tunggal, 312, 317, 345
Sangut, 241, 242
Sanur, 10, 32, 33, 160, 222, 231,
308, 353
Saraswati, 223, 317
Sasaks, 30, 32
Sasih, 168
Satrias, 53, 54, 55, 56, 104, 131, 137,
295, 318, 384
Sawan, 193
Sayan, 194, 323
Scale, Balinese musical, 211
Scarfs, ceremonial, 24-5
Sculpture, 26, 162, 163, 164, 165,
176-9, 181-8, 272
Sebatu, 160
Sects, 318-19
Selat, 160, 170, 213
Selulung, 26, 168
Semara, 7, 120, 121, 123, 290, 317
Semarang, 208
Semawang, 222
Sembiran, 25, 176, 308, 360
Serangan, 287, 310
Sesetan, band/’ar, 282
Setesuyara, 7
Shadow-plays, 20, 193-4, ^35“
43, 244, 371; and see Wayang
kulit
Shan Kar, 232
Siam, 184
Sidan, 294, 319
Sidapaksa, 219
Silekarang, 66
Siloh Biang, xx, 97, 103
Sindu, 308
Singaradja, xv, 19, 193
Singasari, 27, 203
Sinta, 314, 315
Sirowalu, 354
Sita, 239, 240, 241, 310
Siva, 263, 266, 290, 306
Siwa, 20, 120, 121, 290-1, 295, 297,
301, 302, 307, 316, 317, 318, 340,
34b 384
Siwa (sect of Brahmanas ) , 54, 318
Slavery, 12
Smoking, 133
Sogata, 318
Sora, 317, 319
IX
INDEX
Spies, Walter, xvii-xix, xx, 13, 164,
167-8, 170, 179, 194, 211, 264,
356
Sri, 71, 75, 171, 202, 291, 310, 312,
314, 317, 318
Sri Krisna Kapakisan, 56
Stokowski, Leopold, 211
Stutterheim, 27, 28, 174, 182, 328,
355. 404
Sudras, 53, 131, 144, 372
Sukasada, 266
Sukaw'ati, 224, 382
Sumatra, 3, 16, 29, 135, 166, 171
Sumba, 24
Sumbawa, 8, 24, 29
Sunguhus, 281, 295, 312-13
Supraba, 222, 245, 335, 336
Surabaya, 206, 234
Surakarta, 30
Surya, 7, 268, 290, 316, 319
Suttee, 159, 377-83
Tabanan, 28, 36, 49, 54, 185, 211,'
213, 232, 234, 310, 319
Tafelhoek, 6, 9, 310
Tahiti, 392
Taksaka, 7
Taman Badung, 205, 272, 310
Tampaksiring, 38, 92, 118, 174, 286,
310
Tanah Barak, 121
Tanting Mas, 354-5
Taro, 25, 26, 309
Taxes, 86, 87
Tedjakula, 25, 44, 178, 331
Teeth, filing of, 119, 135-6, 152,
237, 283, 351
Tegaltamfi, 231
Temples, 5, 6, 9, 19, 20, 25, 42-3,
58, 63, 65, 182, 183-6, 263-75,
308-10; household, 92, 136; typi¬
cal, 265-71
Tenganan, 17-25, 27, 119, 136, 161,
229, 308, 316
TetumbaJans, 193
Theatre, see Dance, Drama,
Movies
Tilotama, 222, 245
Timor, 168, 1^
Tintiya, 242, 317, 345
Tirta Empul, 38, 92, 118, 286, 310
Titles, 56, 131
Tjak, 7
Tjakra Negara, 32
T/alon Arang, 27, 326, 329-31, 355
Tjampuan, 92
Tjandi Panataran, 216
T/andra Lasan, 219
Tjatur, 26
TjaturMuka, 317
Tjatur Yoga, 6, 7, 38, 121, 289
TjHis, 170-1
Tjokorde Cede, Prince of Ubud,
P
Tjokorde Cede Rake Soekawati,
398
Tfulik, 215
Tjumpu Mas, 354-5
Tohdjaya, 203, 204
Topeng, 218, 246-9
Tourists in Bali, 12, 13-14, 186-8,
206, 392-4
Toya Puld, 178
Trunyan, 25, 178-9, 309, 356
Tuan Wei, 219, 251
Tumapel, 27, 202, 203
Tundjung Bird, 335, 336
Tunggul Ametung, King, 202, 203
Tuturs, 296, 318
Twalen, 185, 198, 241-3, 244,
324
Twins, 37-8, 126-9, 354-5
Ubud, 32, 46, 66, 78, 79-81, 150,
160, 178, 188, 194, 202
Ukur kepeng and selaka, 366, 367
Uluwatu, temple of, 9, 310
Uma, 290, 291, 317, 340-1
INDEX
Usana Bali, 37
Usana Djawa, 291, 312, 313
VanEck, 78, 136, 149
Van Ham, General, 31
Van Weede, H. M., 37
Vatter, Ernst, 168
Vedas, see Wedas
Victoria, Queen, 105
Villages, see Communities
Virgins, clubs of, 21-2, 136-7
Vishnu, 290, 306; and see Wisnu
Visits, 48, 49
Volcanoes, 3, 4, 5-6
Wages and income, 85-7
Wahu Rahu 9, 54, 294
Wallace, Alfred Russell, 7, 8
Waringin, see Banyan trees
Waruna, 317
Water-buffaloes, 40-1
Watii Gunung, 314-15
Wau Rauh, see Wahu Rahu
Wayang kulit, 193-4, 228,
236-43> 320
Wayang wong, 218, 244
Weaving, 100-1, 161
Wedas, 296, 304, 319
Wesias, 53, 54, 56, 384
Wesnawa, 318
Widows, sacrifice of, see Suttee
Wilhelmina, Queen, 93
Wirtz, 364
Wisnu, 54, 70, 71, 202, 288, 289,
290, 291, 297, 310, 312, 314, 315,
317, 318, 341; and see Idjeng
Wisnumurti, 341
Witches, 123, 139, 320-58
Women: importance in the mar¬
ket, 44, 45; labour of, 81-3; rights
of, 155-6
Yama, 278, 290, 317, 376
Yeh Djeruk, 310
Yudistra, 241
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