(written the evening of August 16)

an elaborate offering

My friend Wayan texted me this afternoon and invited me to go to the full moon ceremony with him tonight at his Hindu temple.  I was ecstatic.  For the past two days, excitement,  ceremony and an expectant energy have filled the air in Ubud. The offerings in the street have become much more elaborate than usual. Around 5 pm each day, many Balinese, dressed in their finest traditional ceremonial clothes have been zipping down the streets on their motorbikes headed to temple ceremonies all over the village. On their heads, the women carry multi-tiered brightly colored woven baskets filled with offerings they’ve been making over the past few days.  Bamboo poles 30-40 feet high are appearing out of nowhere erected in front of many houses along with Indonesian flags – large ones on bamboo flag poles and mini plastic ones strung up high to criss-cross the narrow streets.  For the past two nights, I’ve heard ceremonial-sounding drums, traditional gamelan music and people speaking through microphones coming from what seems to be a neighbor’s yard. They play late into the night and continue until some point long after I’ve gone to sleep. The banana, coconut and palm leaves are so thick between us though that even from my balcony I can’t see a thing and my curiosity is killing me.

Balinese woman carrying a woven basket filled with blessed offerings

As best I can tell, there are three reasons for all the excitement.  Indonesian Independence Day is tomorrow, August 17.  Four days from now, August 20, is Galungan, a ten-day Hindu Balinese festival that I gather is on par with Christmas in terms of religious importance and accompanying festivities. Although Galungan does not officially begin for four more days, I am told there are two celebrations leading up to it that occur 6 days before and 5 days before … hence all the commotion the past two days.  On top of these two already big events, tonight is a full moon which holds some special significance in the Hindu religion. (Would my Hindu readers please care to educate me more on this please?)  

I’m fairly certain that the Indonesian flags are for Independence day. With all of these events coinciding, however, and the workings of Hinduism and Bali’s unique form thereof already murky and mysterious to me, I’m completely unclear on what celebration or ceremony “matches” what event.  Or maybe it’s just all thrown in together kind of like those times when Christmas day falls on a Sunday and Christians celebrate both Christmas and regular mass/church at the same time.  

the "parents" at my guesthouse in full ceremonial dress

At any rate, when Wayan offered to include me in the goings on this afternoon, I was quite eager to see what was behind the proverbial curtain.  Having seen all my neighbors get dressed up the past few days, I knew that my regular travel garb would not be appropriate attire for the evening.  Wayan only instructed me to find a sarong and a white shirt, but was unavailable to help me procure them. There are 10 million sarongs for sale in Ubud in many different colors and styles.  As for white shirts … well, there’s a zillion options there too.  So I went to ask two sisters I’ve come to know, Nyoman and Wayan (yes, I know this can get confusing with the names!), to assist me in choosing the right items. 

When I told them the situation, they became like excited schoolgirls.  They insisted that I borrow some of their clothes for the event and ran to raid their closets.  Instead of a plain white shirt, they brought back some beautiful lace kebayas (a woman’s long-sleeved ceremonial blouse) and a gorgeous silk sarong with matching sash.  I tried on each kebaya but, alas, the assessment was that “Putu’s nu-nus are too big.”  Although I appreciated their admiration, having larger nu-nus than these tiny Asian women was presenting a problem.  

They put the issue aside for the moment and began fitting me for the sarong. The sisters giggled and chatted as they wound the lovely silk cloth around and around my torso. They tucked here, tied there and tightened it all up.  With all this attention, I felt like I was being dressed for a wedding! After about 5 minutes of skillful assemblage, they pronounced me finished … at least on the bottom half. The result was a VERY form-fitting sarong.  

Balinese woman on her way to a ceremony

The ladies began chatting between themselves. I kept hearing the names of other women, presumably bigger-busted friends of theirs, and the next thing I know, Nyoman shouted, “Wait here, please” as she darted out the front gates. Wayan and I shared some hot tea and girl talk and soon Nyoman was back with a pretty purple kebaya with not less than 100 buttons in the front (I’m only slightly exaggerating here).  Nyoman and Wayan pulled and tugged and laughed some more about my nu-nu’s, but they finally managed to pour me into the tiny top. Form fitting as the entire outfit now was, I was definitely very glad I’d spent the last 8 months with a trainer at the gym.  Even so, I wished I had tinier figures like theirs although obviously the grass is always greener … the sisters kept patting my round backside (a “gift” from my grandmother Thompson) and my nu-nu’s saying, “Oh, Putu has a sexy body.”  Tomato, tomahto. We always want what we don’t have, right?

Now that I was dressed, Nyoman and Wayan whipped out a comb and some gorgeous hair ornaments from Japan and put my hair up in the proper fashion for the evening. They raided their garden and picked the prettiest orchid right off the plant (only in Bali!) and clipped it into my hair. I was now picture perfect according to my handlers who grabbed their cell phones and took loads of photos of their masterpiece. It was quite fun.

me with my friend Wayan

On emerging from the sister’s front gates, I had 3 blocks to walk between their home and mine.  All the Balinese people that own the 50-60 shops in the middle along with their friends who have no work typically sit on the stoops of their businesses if there are no customers inside … which sadly means that they are often sitting outside watching the world go by on Hanoman Street.  I was tenuous walking in front of all these Balinese people expecting outright sarcastic comments about my traditional attire if not at least looks that said, “Geez. There’s another one trying to go native.” Clearly, this fear had everything to do with my own insecurities and nothing to do with these kind friendly people.  Literally every Balinese person that I encountered in those 3 blocks praised my efforts to participate in their culture exclaiming “Pretty woman! Dressed like Balinese!” “Oh! Traditional costume!” and “You look very beautiful!”  The women who were normally shy emerged from behind their hands and shared their beautiful, full smiles with me in all their glory. The men who always offer me “taxi” or “transport” as I pass said nothing about business.  At least for this moment, I seemed to have transcended from “tourist with dollars to spend” to one who was, if not part of the community, at least included.  When I arrived at the lovely gates of my guesthouse, I considered continuing my solo parade, wanting this new sense of inclusion to last longer, but reluctantly walked through my front gates as I’m sure any proper Balinese woman would do. 

It was 5:30 and Wayan wasn’t picking me up until 7:00. That meant I had to sit still for 90 minutes so I didn’t mess up my costume or my hair as I knew there was no way I could re-do either properly. During the down time, I began to wonder what going to temple would be like. No doubt there would be no English spoken. Would there be a long sermon like the Christian churches have? Was I going to end up being bored out of my mind for an hour or more, not understanding anything that was being said or done? How long do these ceremonies last anyway?  If the sounds of the drums near my house were an indication, they could go on for 5 hours or more. Had I made a big mistake in accepting Wayan’s invitation? There was only one way to find out. 

Seven o’clock arrived and my level of excitement was back up again. Dressed up in such an unusual costume, I felt like I was going to the prom. Wayan arrived and oohed and ahhed over my outfit. Then he stunned me. “I guess you know,” he began, “in the Hindu religion, women are not allowed in the temple if they are menstruating. I forgot to ask you earlier today if you are menstruating now.” That immediately went up to the top of the list of things you won’t hear in the West before a night out on the town. Luckily, I was in the clear (what a buzz-kill that would have been otherwise!).  

Being dressed as I was, it would have been inappropriate for me to ride “Western style” behind Wayan on his motorbike so I rode “side saddle” for the thirty minutes it took to get to the temple.  Miraculously, my hairdo, including the flower, survived the trip. 

We drove past the entrance to the temple on our way to park the bike and I caught a glimpse of a full gamelan orchestra, bright lights and many people dressed in costumes. I could hear a lot of activity and bright cheerful music rising over the wall. I felt like an impatient child chomping at the bit to get inside as Wayan was taking an especially long time parking the bike. He had told me on the way that it would be ok to take photos and video inside the temple and I was impatient to capture everything.  Finally we walked inside … and right past the area with the gamelan orchestra, the children dressed in traditional ceremonial outfits, the people gathering.  It was hard for me not to whip out my camera, but Wayan was continuing on into another part of the temple and I felt I ought to follow.  We walked through one more “room” before we finally came to a large altar-looking shrine where Wayan removed his flipflops and sat down on the grass “Indian style.”  I did the same but sat back on my heels as I saw the other women doing.

There was not a congregation waiting to start a service as I had expected. In fact, there were only 5 other people praying there when Wayan and I arrived and everyone seemed to be on their own schedule. It was simultaneously casual and formal. The method of praying was very precise, yet Wayan smoked a cigarette throughout his prayers. 

Three little girls dressed all in white were milling around near the shrine. One of them approached us carrying a yellow vegetable (or fruit?) resembling a small pumpkin that had been hollowed out and now held water.  She sprinkled each of our heads with water. Wayan explained this was for cleansing. He then lit several sticks of incense, stuck them in the ground in front of each one of us and opened a plastic bag containing flowers and sliced up leaves that I had seen used to make offerings.  He explained that one prays three times, only using flowers the last two times. He demonstrated, wafting the incense toward him with his hands, then placing his hands together and raising them to his forehead.  Prayer number one. Mine: “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

I know some of you are wondering what God I was praying to. I keep it simple. I believe there is one God. I believe that this God is universally called by many names and that by virtue of believing in God and praying to God, I’m simultaneously a Christian, a Jew, a Hindu, a Buddhist and a Muslim. To me, it’s simple. God is love. We humans mess it up with all judgements and divisions with which we complicate it.  So who was I praying to?  God.  Simple.

After a minute, Wayan opened his eyes, selected  a flower from the plastic bag and “dipped” it into the smoke from the incense. He placed it between his forefingers and again raised his hands, pressed together, to his forehead. I did the same. My prayer number two: “Bless my family and friends.” I spent some time thinking about each person individually and it felt nice to “reconnect” with each one through this thought and prayer.  Wayan repeated these actions once more and I followed suit, “Keep me safe on my motorbike, from monkeys and all other perils that I don’t even know yet exist. Return me to America safe and sound, but definitely not unchanged.”  

We awaited holy water from the priest. I guess the priest wasn’t available because one of the little girls dressed in white came again, this time with a lovely silver pitcher filled with water.  First, she sprinkled some of the holy water on our heads and then three times poured some into our cupped hands which we were supposed to drink. Holy water or not, although I’m willing to brush my teeth with tap water, I only drink water that I know is/was bottled. Not really thinking this the time to ask about the source, I just raised the water to my lips, but let it fall on the ground. The little girl presented us with a bowl of rice soaked in water which we took and applied to our foreheads and throat. It reminded me of Ash Wednesday services in the Catholic church when the priest marks the people’s foreheads with ashes.  

Wayan told me we needed to go pray in another room so he stood up and I attempted to. My ankles were weak from sitting on them. I hobbled into the second room where we  repeated the actions from the first room, but without the water.  And then we were finished. There was no official start time, no sermon and, in fact, no priest.  It was very individualized and people simply prayed when they arrived for as long as they liked. It was that easy. Click here to see a short video of prayer in a Balinese Hindu temple.

We left the prayer rooms about 20 minutes after we had entered and did what comes naturally after praying … gambling! Of course I’m being sarcastic, but that’s exactly what happened next.  There were two groups of men gathered around two different games, each in full swing. One was easy to understand. There were three dice on a plate under a bucket and a large game board with numbers to match the dice. Players would throw money onto the square they bet on and when all bets were placed, the dice were rolled under the bucket and then revealed.  You win if your square matches the dice.  The other game was more complex and I never understood it.   Click here to see the goings-on in the temple I encountered after praying.

me with the only other Putu I've met so far (the boy on the far right) with his sister Elo

The gamelan orchestra, practicing for the upcoming Galungan celebration, struck up.  I filmed them for a bit and then went to play with the kids.  Balinese kids crack me up. Normally shy, they come out of their shells in front of a camera and inevitably end up posing with mid-air karate kicks and some funny hand gesture using their thumb, forefinger and pinky finger. I’m told it’s the gesture affiliated with a Balinese political party and that the kids are merely emulating their parents in making the sign, but don’t understand what it means. If the number of kids making this sign is any indication, then I’d say that particular political party must always win by a landslide.  Balinese kids love to have their picture taken and get a big kick out seeing it played back for them on the digital camera.  Although they are sometimes a bit aggressive among themselves to be “front and center,” they’re very polite to me and always thank me after I take their picture – a charming and delightful twist!

Balinese kids striking a pose

In the video, you’ll see a chunky little boy in a yellow shirt who seems so badly to want his photo taken as he keeps walking in front of the camera and dancing.  He was the rare exception, though, when I approached him to take his picture.  He got shy and ran away … but later continued to walk and dance in front of the camera.

After engaging with the kids for a bit, I began looking around for the women so I could mingle with them for a while.  Finding none, I searched out Wayan who was losing at gambling. It seems he forgot to pray for good luck.  He told me the women had all come to pray earlier in the evening and were home now.  As he was out of money and I was out of batteries, we decided it was time to go.  My first Balinese temple experience was a unique treat.

The good news was I didn’t get Montezuma’s revenge. About two weeks into my trip, I decided I probably wouldn’t have anyway and started eating food sold by street vendors and using tap water to brush my teeth … and haven’t stopped since.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.