Tying the knot in Bali

When I went to the formal arrangement of a marriage some time ago here, a ceremony attended by family and friends on both sides, I was welcomed by the mother of the bride-to-be. After exchanging warm greetings, I asked her how she was feeling: “ I can’t eat a thing at the moment” she replied miserably, her eyes full of sorrow as she explained she was bereft at the thought of missing her daughter. Then, giving me a friendly pat, she drew herself up and stoically turned to greet other guests.

The marriage of a daughter is often a bittersweet affair in Bali. While she is under her birth family’s roof she prays at the family sanggah (houseyard temple) and makes offerings in accordance with the social and spiritual obligations there. When she is due to be married, she says a ceremonious farewell to those ancestors and prays instead to the ancestors installed in the sanggah of her husband’s family. She will be taught to make offerings as her new family makes them; and her spiritual obligations will be those of that family. A marriage then can certainly feel like losing a daughter, especially if she moves far away.

In the past, the loss of a daughter was exactly what some marriages entailed. Bride capture, now outlawed, used to be practiced in Bali. A man would make arrangements for a room to be available to him somewhere other than his own house. He would then, usually assisted by comrades, kidnap a hapless girl and keep her in the room. If her family were unable to free her, she would be forced into a quick marriage. And that would be that. In some cases, such a capture was largely for show. A tacit agreement would have already been made between all the parties. It was a much cheaper way to get married than having to go through the ceremonies that are otherwise required. In other instances, if without assistance and unable to flee, I am told the woman had no choice but to submit.

My impression is that, while bride capture is no longer commonplace, swift marriages are the norm here. I know of several couples who are nominally betrothed but are taking their time over tying the knot. In one case, the girl is still finishing her college degree. In another, a new house is being built for the couple and is yet to be completed. But the majority of ordinary weddings are arranged and orchestrated with some speed. One reason for invitations not going out until perhaps a week or two before, it appears, is so that either party can change their mind without too much time and money having been spent. Since anything and everything is improvised brilliantly in Bali, a few weeks is seen as ample time to make the necessary arrangements. A second reason may be that the woman is pregnant. As a matter of some urgency, the boyfriend’s family will then approach her family and begin the process of haggling over suitable dates for the rites that must be performed.

Whatever the reason for marriage, it is pretty unusual to remain unmarried in Bali, and occasionally a man will have more than one wife. My husband regularly receives bantering invitations to take a second wife here, and explains politely that he is not allowed more than one wife in America. “So leave your American wife here, and take your Balinese wife back to America”, one of his friends suggested playfully. If he has sufficient power, as men in successful multiple marriages here must have, to ensure that the relationship between his wives is memadu (sweet, like honey), then good luck to him. His powers of persuasion are considerable but, knowing his first wife, that’s a tall order.

On the importance of being refined in Bali

Some years ago, when we were about to start our first serious six month visit to Bali, my husband and his former doctoral supervisor sat me down to explain to me some rudimentary Balinese ways of seeing the world. They hoped to help me understand how Balinese might interpret my actions or demeanor, so that I would be better equipped to avoid making any extreme social faux pas which might reflect badly not only on me but on my husband as well. The discussion was wide ranging and helpfully touched on many points of Balinese etiquette, including the characteristics that are associated with the Indonesian words halus and kasar. While I am still very much a novice in the latter regard, I have since found their elucidation of this aesthetic to be so useful that it is about time I passed it on.

Let’s talk about physicality first. In paintings, carvings, wayang kulit (shadow puppet theater) and topéng (masks), to name but a few of the arts of Bali, and Java,  halus characters are always extremely refined and are often depicted looking downwards:

'halus' figures

As the images above show, such characters are recognized by their fair skin and fine proportions. Their features are symmetrical and graceful, and their movements are flowing. Their bodies are slim with little hair; their eyes, nose and mouth are thin; their fingers and toes are long and delicate; and their teeth are white and uniform.

a 'kasar' mask

Kasar characters, on the other hand, appear coarse, sometimes to the point of looking brutish or even demonic. They typically have darker skin which is often a deep or reddish brown, are hairy, and have crude features. Their eyes are big, often bulging, their noses are bulbous, and the masks of kasar characters almost always have misshapen, or missing, teeth. Their bodies are bulky and they usually walk clumsily or make exaggerated, blundering movements.

The ability of these two types to control themselves is an important means of differentiating between them. The lowered gaze of an halus figure reflects their self-control, expressed in their grace and economy of movement. Their courteous bearing and manners demonstrate their refinement and self possession.  And their actions are veiled. The less visible the actions of someone, the more halus they seemingly are, and the more power they are likely to be attributed. Such individuals are seen to achieve their goals through indirectness, behind the scenes, by deploying others to act on their behalf.

In contrast, kasar figures act immediately in the world, and their actions and motivations are on display for all to see. They are often characterized as unable to discern what lies below the surface at a deeper level, making them potentially more vulnerable to manipulation.  They are associated with unbridled desires and emotions, and with being quick to anger. They are lacking in calmness and patience, and are vulgar and coarse in their tastes.

In the stories and myths of Bali halus figures include gods and benevolent kings, while kasar individuals may be peasants, clowns, ogres or demons. But how do these ready-made categories play out in everyday life in Bali, especially in relation to the island’s visitors? Simply, the more graceful and indirect one’s behavior, the more halus one is presumed to be, and vice versa. If visitors to Bali appear coarse and ruled by their appetites, they are recognized as lacking a certain awareness and self-control.  Having said that, halus and kasar exist on a spectrum, and one is not necessarily seen as better than the other.  What is required is an appropriate combination of attributes at the right moment. So it is possible to be direct, like my husband, and still be perceived as upright, courteous and self-possessed. But, being direct, he would be the first to say that a little refinement goes a long way in Bali.

Preparing for our odalan

our sanggah at odalan

On Saturday, good friends of ours have invited us to a spectacular event taking place in their home town. It has been determined that a new mask of a particularly powerful character (rangda) is required for one of the community’s major temples, and the mask is now ready to be brought to life (pasupati) and installed in its new home. On Saturday it will make its way, accompanied by townspeople and a gamelan group, from the puri (palace) to the pura dalem (a community temple generally associated with the cremation grounds and death rites) where it will take up residence. And along the way the procession will stop at a particularly dangerous location so that the rangda’s power can be tested (ngeréh).

It would take an avalanche, a tidal wave, or something equally momentous to prevent me from witnessing such a riveting phenomenon. And thus has it proved. For it is also the odalan (temple anniversary) for the sanggah (family temple) in our house yard, and for our local bale banjar (the community meeting place).

Plans for the family odalan have been in the making for weeks, and preparations have already begun. Overhanging trees and overgrown shrubs in the house yard were cut back, unsightly weeds were razed to the ground, and the sanggah was dressed up in its colorful finery:

the offerings table: normally undressed; and dressed for the odalan

Next, the motorbikes that usually lodge in the long barn at the south end were assigned new quarters to make ample space for the teams that have been dropping by to help the family with preparations. Some of the helpers are relatives from a family whose odalan has already passed, putting them in a position to be free to help; and others are adjacent neighbors from the house yards to our north, south, east and west. These forces are supplemented by other relatives and well-wishers as they are freed up from other tasks. Without such help, our family would be facing an overwhelming amount of work.

Over the past few days, groups of men have tested piles of coconuts for whether they have water inside or not. If so, they were shaved to be used as part of several different kinds of offerings. They have selected and sacrificed some of  the chickens that are required for the offerings to those bhutakala (a variety of unseen being) that delight in gifts of blood, meat and alcohol. And they have made copious amounts of satay and lawar (a finely chopped mince of an appropriate meat – depending on the event, pork, duck, chicken, or occasionally even sea turtle -  combined with shredded coconut, garlic, chillies, shallots, ginger, lemongrass and a host of other spices) both as food for workers, guests and relatives, and to be used in offerings. Luckily, they were fortified as they did so by the vodka cocktails made by my husband as our contribution to the proceedings.

sacrificed chickens, satay and lawar for offerings

Meanwhile, three days ago, the first group of ladies arrived in the evening to start making receptacles for banten (offerings) out of palm and bamboo leaves: They sat on our open bale, chatting and laughing while they worked. Another group returned early yesterday morning to the long barn and worked until lunchtime, eating here as is customary. They are back here today to help fill the containers they have made with rice, flowers, fruit, and so on – for unseen beings with more refined tastes – and to build ornate columns of fruit, sticking the pieces with toothpicks into a bamboo support. The apples, by the way, are imported from America, much to the ladies’ amusement:

offerings in the process of being made by the women

Gold emblems, and elaborate containers constructed from pis bolong (lucky Chinese coins with holes) have also been utilized. The container below was filled with a coconut, uncooked rice, a banana, an egg and more pis bolong before being taken to the offerings table with the others.

a 'pis bolong' offering being made; and in its place in the sanggah

So we have had to decline our friends’ invitation to witness the testing of the new rangda, but they quite understand. It is busy around here. We are getting ready for an odalan.

To market, to market…

Sukawati

When I was in the tourist town of Ubud this Christmas, perhaps best described as the only place I know where you can simultaneously enjoy organic bagels and a cremation, I visited the popular market. “Sorry, this is just a little too expensive” I would say politely to shopkeepers after being quoted outrageous tourist prices. With what I hoped was a disarming smile, I would continue as if sharing a confidence: “And you know, I can get this much less expensively at Sukawati Market”. At which point they would inevitably advise me not to waste my time and money there, and we would settle in to enjoy one of my favorite pastimes in earnest: haggling.

I am not above embellishment in my quest for a bargain. I have even been known to look shamelessly aghast when a perfectly reasonable price is being quoted. However, my talk of Sukawati Market to the sellers in Ubud was not exaggerated. Of course, it is possible to pay inflated prices anywhere, and Sukawati is no exception. But prices are generally cheaper than in Ubud, and I find the Sukawati sellers friendlier and less inclined to hound their clientele. For this reason, and because the market is relatively close, many of Zach’s clothes, as well as the thickly woven soft blue and green cotton blanket that covers the sofa in our room, have been purchased there.

I went there today by the Celuk road, famous for its many gold- and silversmiths, following one of the many brown bemos (small buses) that ply their trade ferrying customers between the terminal at Batubulan and Ubud. I parked my bike on a side street where it was watched over for the princely sum of 1000 Rupiah (just over 10 cents), and started to wander. Two markets in Sukawati face each other on the main road from Celuk to Ubud: Sukawati Art Market (Pasar Seni Sukawati), which is mostly for tourists, and Sukawati Public Market (Pasar Umum Sukawati) for the community; and the streets around them are also full of shops with tourist wares and goods that cater to local needs, depending which side of the street you are on.

Sukawati Art Market and Sukawati Public Market

If you are going to be a tourist in Bali, it is best not to look too far if you want to preserve the notion that what you bought was traditional yet unique. If something is successful here, it is quickly copied. So many shops surrounding the art market sell almost exactly the same things to their visitors: wooden carvings, colored woven baskets, masks, beach ‘sarongs’, paintings, wind chimes, and so on. Another thing to remember is that tourist shops sell items for tourists, and these are not treated with the same reverence that their traditional counterparts would in a ritual setting. Here, for instance is a mask of a henchling witch for sale, pinned to a tree next to a bunch of wooden penises attached to key rings (no, I don’t know who buys the latter):

For Sale: masks and...fertility symbols...

I walked down the road where I had parked, past four or five stores selling wooden carvings,

carving stores in Sukawati

then doubled back to the entrance of the Art Market up a narrow gang (alleyway). Pedestrians made their way past barking dogs, kids on bikes and the body of a chicken which had been killed and then splayed across a section of wall. Its neck had been broken, its wings were pinned outstretched as if in supplication, and its head was drooping, presumably an offering to please the tastes of some of the coarser beings that live unseen here.

The Art Market was in full swing when I got there, with stall after stall of clothes, blankets, ‘sarongs’, pictures and tourist trinkets. I especially enjoy going into the large building at its centre, so crammed with piled high goods that it is often difficult to walk through the tiny avenues between the upstairs stalls. Meanwhile, the sellers cajole the passing tourists, who often look somewhat bemused as they make their way through the cramped thoroughfares.
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Ceremonial wares and trinkets for tourists piled high at Sukawati

The Public Market on the east side of the road is busiest in the early morning and was quieter by the time I arrived. But its front was still filled with food stalls selling bakso (soup with meatballs) and satay sizzling over coals, and with ladies selling ready made banten (offerings) as well as the separate ingredients for making them: flowers, banana and palm leaves, and so on.

It's all about offerings at the Public Market

The Public Market is where I would come were I in need of a new kebaya (traditional blouse) or kain (‘sarong’), and where thick bolts of cloth are stacked high on table after table on the second level. Go downstairs, and you will find foodstuffs for sale: fish, plucked chickens, cookies, rice, fruits, vegetables and spices.

As a visitor, I expect to pay slightly higher prices than the average Balinese at Sukawati, and that seems fair. Although if I wanted to, say, visit the shops selling kitchenware for more than a few items, I would probably ask a Balinese friend to do the actual buying and so get the best price. Generally, however, I buy things myself, and enjoy the process of bargaining immensely. If you are a novice to haggling, and are thinking of visiting markets in Bali, here are a few things that it is good to know in advance. First, if you get to market early, you will likely be offered a lower ‘morning price’, as it is considered lucky to get off to a good start by selling something early. For this reason, sellers try to make their first sale more enticing. Second, if you have had a price quoted to you, don’t feel embarrassed by going much lower in your initial counter offer. … I often start, extremely courteously, at a third of the original, depending on the item. You will earn respect that way, and the reaction of the seller will soon tell you if you have gone a little too low. Third, if you can’t speak Indonesian or Balinese, take a notebook and pen with you so you can write down your bids, and theirs, to ensure that no mistakes are being made. Last, please always be polite, and smile. I think you’ll have a lot of fun.

Selamat belanja!

Every step you take…

When I first moved to a small community in the South West of England, I went to the local store to buy some fresh bread. “You’ll be wanting an extra loaf or two, I expect,” said the shopkeeper with a friendly smile, “given you have visitors this weekend”. My friends’ car had been noted as soon as they had parked. As is typical in small rural communities, everyone living there wanted to know about everyone else’s business, and almost always did. Which is lucky, as this was excellent preparation for my life here in Bali.

In Bali, the most common query is surely “kal kija?” (where are you going? Indonesian: mau ke mana?), and no-one is likely to leave on foot from anywhere without being held to account in this way. Were I, for instance, to leave my own house yard without being seen, I would almost certainly be noticed and smilingly interrogated as I passed the warung (small store and meeting place) immediately outside, or by the young men who lounge at the local motorcycle repair shop across the road. Similarly, whenever I grab my motorbike helmet to head out of our compound, I am inevitably asked where I am going; indeed, when I am on my bike, total strangers will shout the question across to me as they pull up alongside.

Partly, as in England, such interrogation can result from simple curiosity, or from a genuine sense of care and concern. But here in Bali it can also be rather more than that. Control and ownership are also potentially at issue. Take my own situation as an example again. For a stranger, there might, to begin with, be some advantage in knowing where I am going. The information could possibly be relayed to someone who would then be in some small debt to the informer. Or it might just be possible for the questioner to profit from the interaction by next persuading me to go somewhere or become involved in something to their benefit. If they got me to sit on the back of their motorbike publicly, for instance, I would immediately be cast as their girlfriend (conquest?), and their reputation for seduction—sexual, financial and otherwise—would be enhanced. Of course, they’d also be seen as lacking in propriety, and perhaps self-control—not something to be taken lightly, as it renders you vulnerable. As Balinese will readily tell you, everything has both its good and bad sides.

My friends, on the other hand, may need to know where I am going for my own good.  Being a bule (lit. albino; foreigner), I might be riding into any sort of danger unawares. As a married woman, I could be planning to visit a man, for example, without being chaperoned. This would be a highly dangerous situation which would ruin my reputation at a stroke—to say nothing of my husband’s. Even were we simply to drink tea and chat, no-one would ever believe it. Or it could be that I am getting lured unawares into a witch’s house, or into accepting her food. It pays to be careful.

Conversely, it would be of some disadvantage to my neighbors not to know where I am. Were my husband to ask casually of my whereabouts on his own return to our compound, it would be discomforting were no-one to know (as my husband has just pointed out, it doesn’t work the other way around!). Moreover, were I inadvertently to stray from safety while unsupervised, everyone’s well being would suffer. In the case of witchcraft, lives could literally be in danger. Or, since a husband’s reputation is enhanced by his wife’s fidelity (especially if he can manage more than one, as is sometimes the case here), my spouse’s research might well be adversely affected were I to be seen to fall prey to the attentions of a prowling buaya (lit. crocodile; a seducer). Given such possibilities, it is only prudent for the community to feel protective towards me and to attempt to ensure that my whereabouts are absolutely assured.

“When one is in Bali,” a regional expert told me recently, “whether one knows it or not, one is a wholly owned subsidiary. So of course one is monitored”. Such monitoring is not personal. Everyone deals with it, Balinese and bule alike. The same is true of attempts at ownership. These happen all the time. And to feel one’s whereabouts are known can be reassuring. Since everyone around here knows who I am, for instance, they can be relied upon to point me in the right direction home when I am lost. It’s a lot faster and more convenient than trying to find a 3G signal so I can access Google Maps.

Dropping in on an odalan

Offerings and adornments in the houseyard temple (sanggah); one of the actors wearing the ‘sidakarya’ mask that concludes the topéng pajegan performance.

Last week we were invited to a large odalan at the house compound of someone who has been unfailingly kind and helpful to us during our time here. The invitation coincided with a visit to Bali by American friends who expressed a desire to avoid the ubiquitous tourist performances, and to see ‘the real thing’ with their two children. They accepted our invitation to join us, dressed in pakaian adat, and we set off together across town to where the odalan was taking place.

Every family compound with a sanggah or a mrajan (a houseyard family temple) has an odalan, or temple anniversary, approximately once every six months. These are usually fairly low key affairs by Balinese standards. They normally involve prayers, an abundance of offerings, of course, and the slaughter of a pig, or other animals, to make lawar (both a local delicacy and an essential component of various offerings). But little more than that. This odalan, however, was a more complex affair. There would be more ornate offerings of flowers, foods and fruit, and more caru rites (offerings to suit the tastes of coarse or otherwise ‘demonic’ beings). Additionally, prayers, offerings and several performances would occur simultaneously to ensure the odalan went well, that it would be thoroughly enjoyed by both seen and unseen audiences, and that the good fortune of the family would continue.

We were warmly welcomed into the compound and then seated on a bale next to a small group reading in a style known by many Balinese as mabasan. Besides those watching and listening from the sidelines, two people at any one time are directly involved in such a recitation: the first ‘sings’ in an archaic register commonly known as Kawi (what scholars often call Old or Middle Javanese, but occasionally a literary form of Balinese); and the second renders his or her words into contemporary Balinese. As is customary, we were brought tea and small cakes, and watched the gamelan group set up their instruments. My husband then took our male visitors on a tour of the compound. Among other things, he hoped both to find out where best to set up his camera and to introduce them to two well known actors who were performing that afternoon.

Meanwhile, the female contingent stayed on the bale, chatting with our host, drinking our tea appreciatively, and smiling as we waited to be invited into the sanggah itself. Our invitation came, chairs soon magically appeared for us there, and we found ourselves with ringside seats. Behind us was the mabasan group and the table of offerings on which a high brahmin priest (pedanda) was sitting cross-legged, reciting prayers; to our left a group of ladies were starting to ‘sing’ kidung, a form of ‘Middle Javanese’ poetry (much of which, it seems, was likely composed in Bali); to our right, the gamelan was beginning to play; in front of us was the square on which caru offerings were being made; and, close by, a topéng pajegan was about to begin.

A topéng pajegan is usually conducted by a single actor who dons various masks in turn in order to tell a story relevant to the occasion. Today, however, it was to be performed together by the aforementioned actors who, our host reminded us, have the reputation of being the best in Bali. Of all the performances on offer that day, the topéng pajegan is the most visual, and it proved to be a highly enjoyable event that underscored the virtuosity of the performers. It was made sweeter still by the knowledge that one of them has recently had his sight fully restored after an operation to remove cataracts.

With the afternoon performances successfully accomplished, it was time to eat (again). It is grossly impolite to refuse to do so, but politeness took second place to our enthusiasm. What was on offer looked and tasted delicious – rice, two kinds of lawar, several kinds of satay, stewed chicken, vegetables, fruit and jackfruit ice cream – and we happily stuffed ourselves before making our farewells. The American kids behaved with commendable aplomb throughout, especially given their lack of familiarity with Balinese etiquette. It had been a memorable occasion for us all, and as ‘real’ as they come.

Pakaian Adat: On tradition and attire

Items of my pakaian adat

The Balinese anthropologist, Degung Santikarma, once gave a marvelous description of his meeting a Western woman at a temple ceremony. She had outfitted herself so authentically that she looked, he said, more Balinese than the Balinese. But, after admiringly describing her costume in some detail, he went on to observe:

Determined as she seemed to maintain her elegance, I was sure that in the blazing heat and bustle of the open temple courtyard she must be uncomfortable and finding it hard to breathe. Indeed, as I approached her, I could see that under her thick, artful makeup the expression on her face was unmistakably one of anguish and of the struggle necessary to overcome it …

Alas, dear reader, I fear that my own efforts to dress properly fall far short of this level of sacrifice, in Bali as elsewhere. Still, wearing pakaian adat (traditional dress) is both polite and necessary for anyone doing more than casually visiting the occasional temple; and at this time of year, filled with festival days and odalan (temple anniversaries) we shall all be wearing it quite regularly. So it seems fitting to give a brief account of a typical ensemble of mine, with the proviso that I do not want you to assume that I am explaining the correct way for women to wear pakaian adat. I am not. In fact, other descriptions I have read of pakaian adat in Bali appear much more involved and ‘authentic’.  I am simply telling you what I have been advised to wear, and how I was taught to wear it.

There are four basic parts to my  traditional attire, as you can see from the photograph at the top. Let me start by talking about what I normally put on first: the kain. The kain is a rectangular piece of material (seen in the photograph at the bottom righthand side), two metres in length, which is wrapped around the lower part of body. It is usually either made from cotton or silk, and is often batik. To put it on, I stand with my legs wide apart, because it is almost impossible to walk in a kain that is too tightly wrapped. I take one corner of the kain in my right hand and wrap it behind me and then around my body with my left hand. I tie it on my right hand side at the front with a small knot at the waist, and fold the waistband over.

On top of the kain goes the streples, the corset you can see  in the top right hand portion of the photograph. It is a useful means of keeping the kain in place and is, I believe, a Dutch invention. I am willing to bet no French woman in her right mind would consider it lingerie. It has over a dozen small hook and eye fasteners, should be quite tight but (in principle?) not uncomfortably so, and goes around the waist, covering the top of the kain.

The kebaya, the embroidered blouse on the left hand side of the photograph, is worn on top of both kain and corset, hiding the latter from view.  If I am going to be at a temple, I usually wear a white kebaya since most women do. There is no formal requirement to do so, however, and if I am a guest at an odalan in a family compound I will wear a brightly colored kebaya instead. Kebayas are worn throughout Indonesia and in other parts of South East Asia as well. While the one in the picture is cotton, they can also be made of lacy material, and there are many utterly exquisite kebayas in this world. Go look on Google Images if you don’t believe me.

Lastly, a long scarf (selendang) is tied round the waist. If you want to visit temples in Bali, but don’t want the bother of getting all dressed up, you should at least wear a selendang as a mark of respect. If you are without one, you may be politely asked to leave. And, indeed, if you are wearing shorts or a short skirt you’ll be asked to put on a kain—something one can rent for a small fee at many temples and other historic sites.

‘Traditional dress’ conjures up the idea of clothes that haven’t changed over centuries.  In fact, this is far from the case. Pakaian adat does change. It varies regionally, and fashions seem to come and go. Kebayas, for instance, are appreciably longer in length in Southern Bali today than they were even four years ago. Since it can be fun to buy new clothes, the excuse of having to keep up with the times is a good thing—at least for those who can afford it. If I ever catch myself excitedly posting a picture of a new kebaya to Facebook, however, I will know that it’s time to go home.