Spiritual Grace Under a Blue Black Balinese Sky
Story & photos by Lisa Alpine
Stepping out from my hut under a blue-black velvet sky set with sparkling diamond stars, the Balinese evening makes a sensuous tapestry. Incense, clove cigarettes, and cooking spices mix with the heavy perfume of night-blooming flowers. The scents fill the still evening air and have an intoxicating effect on me.
There is a dance tonight. There is one almost every night somewhere in Bali. I wrap a sarong around me, hold it up with a sash, and wear a shirt that covers my arms. I do not want to offend the Balinese if the dance I’m going to attend should be held in a temple courtyard.
Listening for a faint tinkling of music in the distance, I walk narrow dirt paths through the rice paddies. Deep-throated frogs keep time with my footsteps. Fireflies light my way.
The crash of cymbals becomes distinct, and the shadows of people appear, all wandering in the same direction. As I enter the village, kerosene lamps shine from doorways and catch the glimmer of gold threads woven into the sarongs worn on the lean, brown bodies of people moving toward the festivities.
We all head towards the dance performance being held in this small village tonight, a night lit by a full blue moon. Its round face reflects in silver ripples on a multitude of flooded rice terraces, a moon that, as it rises, creates long black shadows along the path.
Among the surrounding villages, I’ve heard talk spreading about who would be performing at tonight’s ceremonies. Will it be the humorous Topeng mask actor from Mas, the acclaimed dancer of the Kebyar from Peliatan, the particularly flirtatious and sinuous Oleg dancer from Ubud, or the young master of the Baris from the village where we are going tonight? Young and old come to see the classic dances they know by heart and have seen retold countless times in a hundred slightly different ways.
The bale banjar (community hall) is ablaze with kerosene lamps and alive with the hum and rustle of the village population milling about. We crowd onto hand-hewn wood benches to get a close-up look. I attract attention with my blond hair and blue eyes, especially from the children, who titter and flash me huge smiles. All of them have an appealing, mischievous twinkle in their eyes. Several matronly types approach and take the friendly liberty of retying my sarong properly. In their eyes I wrap it very awkwardly. Somehow, my big Western body doesn’t look as graceful as theirs with this rainbow-hued cloth twisted around it. The fabric doesn’t drape the same way on me as on their delicate frames. I am offered sweets and tea — no introductions, just village warmth. They are pleased a Westerner is interested in their village performance and has come showing respect by wearing traditional dress.
The gamelan orchestra warms up, and then, with a resounding crash, 40 metal hammers hit the iron keys of the gamelan instruments in unison. This abrupt sound sends a jolt up my spine and seizes my attention. The trembling stage curtains part and out strides a Baris dancer in bejeweled attire, his feet stomping, eyes flashing, and hands fluttering in rapid gestures. The movements of the Baris dance represent male strength, courage, and resolve, the epitome of the warrior in the eyes of the Balinese.
Posturing brave stances with sweat gleaming on his brow, the young Baris dancer regally turns about and disappears. The music calms and softens; bells and the tinkle of the gamelan set the mood of the next dance. Fluttering fans appear from behind the curtains, followed by two charming butterfly-like creatures. The famous Legong dance has begun. The two tiny dancers sway and undulate, dip and turn, following the motion of their hand-held fans. These dazzling Legong dancers are the female counterpart of the Baris portrayal of the Balinese warrior spirit. They are like exquisite swaying flowers in full regalia of royal green and gold brocade. Crowns of frangipani blossoms frame their perfect features. Their delicate young bodies are bound tightly in swathes of rich silk.
These girls are chosen at five to seven years old for their attractive features and matching appearances. They are then trained in the manners of Legong. In the days of Balinese princely states, these girls were usually future wives of the rulers. The Legong dancers are viewed as the quintessence of femininity and grace in Balinese society.
The brilliance of the elaborate costumes, expressive masks, and ornate headdresses combined with the well-trained, fluid movements of the dancers enrapture me. It is almost too much splendor for my eyes to behold, yet it is presented in such a simple setting.
This evening, like many other festival nights in Bali, features a potpourri of dances covering a wide range of styles, from comedy to masked tragedy to fiery, passionate depictions of love and war. The performers are as much actors as dancers, relying on eloquent facial expressions, often with very little movement of their bodies.
Dance is alive and flourishing in every corner of the island. There are more than fifty different dances and two hundred dance troupes. The villagers are proud of the arts, and this abundant creativity is shared with the community. The generosity of artistic spirit has inspired a fertile breeding ground for new versions of the dances as creative juices are plowed back into the soil of the community.
Most Balinese dances are created to appease and entertain the deities. The dramatic arts offer a means of cleansing the village by strengthening its resistance to harmful forces through offerings, prayers, and acts of exorcism. Balinese dance strives to establish a middle ground — a harmony between two opposite poles. The moral message is clear to any Balinese child: good and evil are ever present; the fight for good requires the strength of a warrior and constant awareness of right actions, plus offerings to appease the deities on both sides of the fence.
Many dances include trance states. Trances are a common means for the Balinese to honor their gods by offering their bodies as vessels to the spirits and their messages. Probably the most spectacular of the trance dances is the Sanghyang Jaran.
For the Sanghyang, a large pile of coconut husks is lit in the center of the performing area. The burning mound of shells turns into a crackling fire emanating such intense heat that I break out into a sweat. When the embers are bright red, men spread the hot coals over the ground. The gamelan orchestra strikes a dynamic chord that makes me jump off my seat. The clash and clatter of sound announces the dramatic appearance of a barely-clad man on a wooden horse who gallops across the fiery carpet of glowing coals. We gasp again as he turns his stick steed about and charges once more into the heat. This time, he stops abruptly in the center, kicking burning embers in every direction. The dancer is overcome by his zealous trance state. He grins, then shouts, and races this way and that, chasing evil demons that only he can see. His ecstatic fervor will go on until the priest recognizes that it is time to draw the man back to consciousness.
Another example of a dance performed tonight that invokes a devotional warrior state is the Kris (dagger) dance. Rangda, queen of the witches, is the most vicious and evil of the demon gods. Her straggly hair, pendulous breasts, and drooling mouth portray vileness. The she-witch enters the bodies of the Kris dancers, who represent the community. Under her destructive influence, the men, in a trance, turn their own daggers against themselves. I find myself anxiously biting my nails as they dig the sword points into their bare chests. Again, the priest helps pull them back so that good may win. Then, the mighty Barong, protector of humanity and similar to a Chinese dragon in appearance, marches down the steps in the last scene to triumph over the nasty, horrifying Rangda and her foul cohorts.
The battle between light and dark is abated for the moment, and balance has been achieved between the opposing forces of good and evil. We exhale a collective sigh of relief. Children pile off the wooden benches, acting out some of the more gruesome scenes. We all gather around the food vendors waiting just beyond the halo of the kerosene lamps.
As I walk home late into the night, my hands flutter and arc casting dancing shadows on the ground, unconsciously imitating the graceful motions of those refined dancers.
