On the Edge of a Dream. Michael Wiese

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Chapter 5

       Wayang Kulit

      THE SHADOW PLAY

      It’s night. I’ve missed the hashish-enhanced sunset, the main event on Kuta among the homestay crowd. We spent one evening with them. Mostly Australian surfers and loud rock and roll. All they could talk about was the waves.

      Ketut, the homestay manager’s son, waits by the door. He’s Eddie’s friend and has been teaching him Indonesian. He invites us to go to a ceremony in nearby Kuta village, and he loans us each a brightly colored saput to tie around our sarongs before entering the temple. He tells us that there will be a shadow play performance by Gedé, Bali’s most popular dalang.

      The temple is not far away. It’s just a short walk down the path behind the homestay. I hadn’t realized that we are so close to the center of a village. As we enter the temple, the local guys acknowledge us with “bagus” and accompany the greeting with thumbs up. Some I recognize from the beach. We’re the only Westerners here except for Big Swede, who’s already inside.

      Anyway, I’m glad the homestay parasites were too stoned to come. The Balinese don’t do drugs. Ketut says that the Balinese stay away from anything that can master them—like alcohol or mushrooms. He can’t understand why Westerners are always asking for magic mushroom omelets.

      “Because they open your mind,” I tell him. “I’ve had plenty psychedelics. No more. I want to experience Bali without getting stoned. Anyway, it’s intense enough here already. Who needs it?” Ketut looks confused.

      As I climb down the temple stairs, I step on the bottom of my sarong and down it comes. One of the local guys shouts “bagus,” and laughs good-naturedly. I grab it and quickly re-tie it.

      Twenty or more lithe young women pass us with huge offerings on top of their heads. I am too slow to focus my camera before they move out of the good light. All kinds of stuff is piled 2 or 3 feet into the air: fruit, rice cakes, coconuts, flowers, palm leaves, pork fat—all elaborately carved, stacked and sculpted together. The women exude the most exhilarating smells. Most have hibiscus flowers behind their ears. Some smile at me. Some look shyly away. I am mesmerized—excited by their sensuousness. They are exquisite creatures.

      “I’d really like to make love to a Balinese woman,” Eddie says as he fixes his eyes on a shapely girl nearby. She laughs in return.

      “Who wouldn’t?”

      One by one, the offerings are unloaded by a priest’s wife and placed on high platforms behind three white-clad pedandas (priests), who sprinkle holy water on everything. Ketut tells me that later they will take the offerings back home for tomorrow’s lunch.

      Gedé, the dalang, begins an elaborate ritual. He pours holy water, chants some incantations, and adjusts the flame above his head. He washes his hands in the flames, and then rubs holy water into his hair and face. He takes a drink and finally taps on the puppet box with three sharp raps to bring the puppets to life.

      He takes the puppets out one by one and arranges them on the appropriate side of the screen. One rather ugly character with disfigured lips and large feet appears.

      “He’s a bad-looking character.”

      “No, he’s really noble and good. He was just born into a bad family of liars, murderers, and seducers of women.”

      “Then why doesn’t he join the ‘good family’ if he’s so noble,” I ask.

      “Oh, no, it’s his karma.” Ketut replies. “He must stay in his family. No change. It’s his duty. Mengerti?”

      I get only little snippets of understanding from Ketut. His English and my Indonesian are on an equal par—real bad. I have to fill in the blanks myself, so my understanding of things has to be a work in progress.

      The puppeteer is a kind of priest. He must learn the sacred and ancient Kawi language (which most Balinese don’t even understand), and he must know which stories to perform for what occasions (births, weddings, funerals, temple ceremonies, etc.). Gedé is the most popular dalang in all of South Bali and may perform 200 nights a year in villages all over the island.

      The wayang kulit begins. Gedé jabs the handles of various performing, stenciled, leather puppets into a soft, banana palm log at the bottom of the screen. It’s fantastic that Gedé, who is relatively young, creates voices so old. He has a tremendously handsome face and large lips, which he contorts with every puppet’s voice.

      I think I am hallucinating. Sometimes Gedé looks 15 feet tall, other times only a few inches high. Maybe it has something to do with how he projects his power.

      Just then Gedé gives a loud shout and begins a moaning, longing chant. With a mallet grasped between his toes, he whacks the puppet box; this signals a four-man ensemble sitting cross-legged behind him to hammer away on genders (xylophone-like instruments). The flame of an oil lamp above Gedé’s head casts flickering shadows of the delicately carved leather puppets onto the screen.

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