Traditional Balinese dance performances are nightly spectacles in Ubud. These elaborate dances are staged at temples and palaces and set to a musical cacophony of bells and drums, wind and stringed instruments. The Kecak dance performance I took in with another American, Lance, who was staying at my homestay (he and I are the only guests to stay longer than 1 night here) featured more performers than audience members. Lance says it was the highlight of his trip to Ubud.
Nyoman, the guy who works at my homestay, accompanied Lance and me to the performance. He stood discretely behind us, where non-paying locals gather. The paying audience is seated close to the performers–too close. At various points during the dance the dancers plop down on the ground, chanting, “chucka, chucka, chucka, chucka,” their bums touching our feet. When the fire dancers lit enormous torches and began swirling around somewhat dangerously, Nyoman crept closer for a better look. As the fire began shooting out in all directions, Nyoman let out a small whimper and promptly retreated to a safer distance. Lance stared at the performers, enthralled. I was too worried about third degree burns to enjoy the show.
I could have predicted Nyoman wouldn’t stick around for the fire portion of the dance. He is, as I repeatedly tell him, a scaredy cat, a cry baby. I’ve made him cry several times by explaining to him that everyone (not just him) has problems. And that as a paying customer of the homestay, I’m sick of being overwhelmed by a constant litany of his problems–the owner isn’t paying him (Lance doesn’t believe this is true), the paid workers are lazy, the boss is mean and yells at him, he can’t afford petrol for his scooter, he doesn’t feel well, he has only 2 shirts and 1 pair of pants. He’s interrupted my breakfast, several times, plopping down on a chair across from mine on my lanai, smoking, complaining about his boss. Interrupting my meals is never a good idea. No one gets between me and my food.
Nyoman drove me to an appointment with a reflexologist, Nyoman Sundana, who marveled that I didn’t cry or sweat or scream while the healer tortured my feet, pounding them with wooden sticks and pressing them urgently with his gnarled hands. Mr. Sundana said most people cry out in pain. Some just plain cry. I explained I was using ujaya breathing, which I practice in yoga, to stay relaxed. The entire village had gathered to watch my outdoors healing session. Mr. Sundana narrated to the crowd, as a means of explanation for my lack of tears, “She’s a yogi.” It’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.
Mr. Sundana told Nyoman (my new best friend) that he needed healing too and offered him a free reflexology session. After Nyoman returned from his healing session I asked him, “Did you cry?” Nyoman shook his adamantly, proclaiming his session was very pleasant and he didn’t understand why everyone says it’s so painful. The following week I returned to Mr. Sundana and was told that Nyoman “cried like a baby” during his session.
Nyoman flashed a sheepish grin. “Okay. I cried. But only a little.”
The Balinese believe in bad spirits. They believe in good spirits too, but they spend a lot of time warding off the evil ones. Each morning begins with rituals and offerings of flowers, rice, incense and banana leaves to the gods to appease the bad spirits. If you happen to walk into a restaurant or store while the locals are placing their offerings around the doors and windows and tables and altars, they finish with their offerings before waiting on you. In Bali, appeasing the spirits takes precedence over everything.
A young local artist, Ayu, paints with her feet because her arms are paralyzed. She also suffers from developmental disabilities. The reason for Ayu’s disabilities, I was told by her aunt, is bad spirits. When she was three months old and in perfect health, the whole village was invited to a ceremony celebrating Ayu’s birth. Someone at that ceremony performed black magic on the infant. After the ceremony Ayu fell ill and was left paralyzed and brain injured.
“Did she run a high fever?” I asked.
“Yes,” her aunt said.
“The high fever is what caused her brain injury,” I explained.
“The bad spirits caused the high fever,” the aunt countered.
Mr. Sundana had asked me if I wanted to learn magic.
“NO!” I said, explaining I believe magic is best left to Las Vegas lounge acts.
“Lots of magic in Ubud,” the healer said.
He’s got that right. Verdant hills, forests and winding rivers, rice paddies and fragrant flowers everywhere–Ubud is magical.
