The first time I left NZ was in 1973, off on the required OE, bound for Southeast Asia. Boy, was I excited. During the flight I sat next to an effeminate guy. We chatted away and before touching down in Bali I woke up and realised my sleeping head had been resting on his shoulder. I apologised profusely but he was very nice and patted me on the leg and suggested I go and stay with him in a flash resort at Nusa Dua. I politely lied to him that I already had accommodation booked at Kuta Beach, and thanked him for his kind offer, despite the fact I was sure he had ulterior motives. Tip number 1: have some plausible stories ready for unforeseen situations.
On leaving the airport, I did eventually find a homestay near the beach and gratefully accepted the glass of cold lemon water and banana pancake my host offered in welcome. I had been told only to drink boiled water but after a long flight I forgot to ask. Sure enough, for the following 3 days I lay flat on my back with water and pancake pieces escaping my body from both ends. As soon as I could walk, I visited a clinic where a nurse put what looked like a used syringe into a 10-litre bottle, sucked out some liquid and plunged the needle into my waiting bare arse. That hurt, but I was desperate so I was ready to try anything. Tip number 2: drink only bottled Bintang beer while staying in Bali.
Feeling somewhat better, I moved homestays the next day to stay at Losmen Arka run by Nini, an elderly Balinese lady and her husband who we called Papa. They had a pet monkey called Bodjog who would sit on your shoulder and scratch around in your hair searching for fleas and other would-be residents. Nini turned out to be a wonderful healer. If any of her guests got sick, she would pinch various parts of their body, especially on the bridge of the nose, or put a small copper coin between her fingers and rub it hard on their chest. That was excruciating but by the next day they were always cured.
Nini would always tell us when there was going to be a police raid so that we could hide anything that might be troublesome. Actually, the justice system was pretty lax in those days of few tourists. I remember an Australian surfer who was put in jail for possession of a few joints. A few days later I met him in the surf. “Did they let you out?” I asked. “No, but we are allowed to go for a surf at lunchtime as long as we are back by 3pm,” he said smiling. Tip number 3: Don’t get caught with weed in Bali. They don’t let you out for a lunchtime surf any more. And if you are caught with a lot, you may have surfed your last wave.
One night, Nini asked me if I would like to watch a Barong dance to be performed in a nearby village. It wasn’t for tourists but Nini took me along anyway. There was a long monster-like figure with 2 or 3 men moving the costume from underneath. Then came several bare-chested young men who started to dance around the Barong while trying to stab a Kris or long-bladed dagger into their own chests. Apparently, they were in a trance-like state, and the spirits protected them. I am not sure how the trance was induced. Anyway, after a while, the dancing started to become very intense with the men sweating profusely and seemingly trying hard to impale themselves onto the kris. Suddenly they attacked the barong and started to wildly slash at the brightly coloured monster puppet with their weapons. Many of the audience began to wail and cry whereupon several of the audience rushed in and tackled the entranced attackers and disarmed them. People quickly started to leave the scene and Nini took my hand and hastily led me away. “Tidak bagus Ross! Tidak bagus!” (No good, no good) The next day I noticed Nini talking to her neighbours in a worried voice and although I didn’t understand Indonesian, I was sure it was about the events of the previous night. I had heard from other travellers stories of black and white magic they had witnessed or heard about in Indonesia, but this was the first time I had experienced anything out of the ordinary.
There was one more occasion on which I came into contact with Balinese mystical beliefs. In 1973 I climbed the sacred mountain, Gunung Agung, in eastern Bali. My two companions and I started the climb at dawn, and reached the 3000 metre high summit in the early afternoon. It was a hard climb after leaving the forest, as we encountered scoria which made us slip back one step for every two we took. In the afternoon, a wide blanket of cloud covered the Island and all that was visible were the peaks of various volcanoes. What a sight. We planned to stay the night in a cave, but as the sun went down the temperature dropped and we realised how under-prepared we were. However, it was too late for a descent, so we huddled together in the cave with just a few sarongs to keep us warm. Needless to say, sleep eluded us. Half way through the night we sat upright in fright as the huge silhouette of some kind of giant bird flew past the mouth of the cave.
The next morning, the descent down the mountain was much faster than the ascent as the sliding scoria worked in our favour. When we reached the bottom, we had breakfast in a village café where we told the locals about the bird we saw. The Balinese were somewhat startled and told us it was Garuda, not their national airline, but Garuda, ‘the lord of all flying creatures’ and ‘the majestic king of birds’. In Bali, Garuda, a lesser Hindu god, is traditionally portrayed as a divine creature with head, beak, wings, and claws of an eagle, while having the body of a human. The bird we saw didn’t have the body of a man. It just resembled a huge eagle. But it made us wonder why such a creature was flying around at an elevation of 3000 metres in the middle of the night. The locals told us that it was very good luck and that Mount Gunung Agung was also known as ‘the abode of the gods’. Tip number 4: Always go prepared and keep an open mind about weird stuff you experience or hear about in Bali. Selamat tinggal: Goodbye
Words by Ross Liggins
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