It's dark now. Lightning spreads wicked fingers across blackened skies. I long to watch this spectacle from a beach. Difficult to find access in this light. Perhaps a walkabout will prove revealing.
Gamelan orchestra is banging out a jangling melody. A crowd has gathered. I rubber neck to check the scene. There's a short shrine piled with offerings about which a group of women and girls are circling in simple dance. At sporadic moments water is sprinkled and gestures directed towards the sacral centerpiece. A tame display of piety. I move on.
A sign proffers Kuda Putih (white horse), a beer I haven't yet tried. I purchase a deuce-deuce and carry on. Fake pilsner, same shit you find all over this deprived archipelago. I longingly await my return to decent brew.
Deep register bass thumps through the night, the universal clarion call of party people. Duck down the street to see what's amiss. Loads of 30-40yr old dudes sit in a pair of interlocking circles. The small one is for gambling, the large for social drinking in the slow Indonesian way. I'm invited in and take a seat next to a cheery fellow, where I'm offered to share their spirits. The arak is fine but the palm wine tastes of a vile funk I just can't palette.
Total sausage fest, and when I inquire of the whereabouts of the fairer sex dude immediately assumes I intend to rent a hooker. WTF, man? What about good old fashioned female company? In between shots of rice wine and palm liquor I'm able to extract the location of the nearest beach entrance. I don't stay long. The music sucks and the company is just odd.
Beach access is though hotel grounds. Vast, sprawling property of neat cottages nestled among massage parlors, art shops, bars, whatever it takes to keep the bules occupied/entertained. Am I allowed to just wander through here? Nobody to stop me, so why not? It's not like I'm sneaking about. Just whistling inconspicuously as I stroll my way to the back. Waves at the beach roll in high. A few flashes at the horizon but none of the bolts that attracted my attention initially. Finish the weak brew and return to room, this night a bust.
But hark? What yonder rhythm breaks? Why 'tis the gamelan and it's kickin' up sumfin fierce! A frenzy of beats frenetic that all but drown out the hypnotic bell tones. Rush to witness, archaic spirits come calling. Girls are deep in trance, their limbs flowing languidly, eyes rolled back, drenched in sweat. Suddenly one breaks form, hurtling forth as she flails wildly in time to percussion reaching fever pitch. The crowd gasps. A woman steps forward to support the off balanced girl as she writhes uncontrollably. This I know to be ancient magic, wild trance state, not unlike mama loas come to ride the vodun practitioner. The people are calling on their ancestor spirits to manifest within our midst. For protection? For blessing? Not my culture. No way to know for sure.
An elder steps forward bearing some sort of wooden cross. The crowd cheers as he reveals its true form in drawing a wavy blade from its sheath. This is kris, the ritual dagger of the Balinese. He offers it to the girl being ridden by her ancestors who brandishes the weapon in time with her rapid gesticulations before driving the point into the hollow of her arm where shoulder meets chest. Clasping the hilt in both hands tightly, she begins to wheel her arms about as spectators from the crowd come forth to bark loudly in her ear.
I'm floored. Can't believe this fortuitous find. Energy from years past comes rushing through time to collide with present situation. The beats move me, as beats often do, and neighbors in the crowd can't help but notice. My motions are met with smiles of encouragement, as if to say "welcome foreigner, to our ritual. Feel free to participate as you like." Others entire into similar ecstasy and are given kris in turn. The elder hands one in my direction, laughing. He's only joking. And anyway I'm not quite there yet. Not my ancestors.
I'm surprised as a boy of ten enters the fray, and as with the women before him, ancestors come riding. The possession lasts for a good ten minutes before the lad passes out. He is carried to some cool water where he is doused until reawakening. Back at the edge of the dance he looks dazed. Bear witness.
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