Author: Jayati Vora
Publication: The Indian Express
Date: August 8, 2004
URL: http://www.indianexpress.com/archive_full_story.php?content_id=52465
Introduction: Guest houses for gods
and the Land in the Middle of the Sea.
Just 10 minutes had passed since
I had dropped from the edge of the boat and into the shimmering blue
water that lapped at the edge of a cove. In that interim, I had fallen
on my face, my side and my rear a hundred times.
Only 10 minutes had passed, I told
myself, sputtering after gulping what seemed like litres of sea water.
I was waterskiing. Or attempting
to. The instructor hid a smile as the boat took off without me for the
third time in a row. But I still thought I was at least getting the hang
of it.
The second water sport I tried in
Bali was much easier. It didn't involve much more than hanging on for dear
life while being sandwiched between my dear siblings on a banana boat as
they attempted to tip the oversized yellow sausage and us into the frothy
water.
But water sports had to wait. I
was hijacked by the other facets of Bali, the exquisite batik silk sarongs
and gorgeous wood and cane furniture sold on every street corner. By its
multitudinous temples and unique version of Hinduism. By the gargantuan
stone statue of Hanuman with its straining sinews and powerful thighs,
planted on a broad pedestal. By the incredibly fine wood carvings and fearsomely
attractive masks.
The next day, we dragged the more
reluctant members of our party out of bed and into the car we had hired
to show us around. We plagued our English- speaking (barely) guide with
a torrent of questions such as: Why does Bali have stone statues on either
side of the doorway to almost every major building? Those were for security,
our guide Muskita (we soon nicknamed him Mosquito) replied.
They were stone versions of security
guards and some of them were clothed in sarongs to boot. Wasn't Indonesia
a Muslim country? Yes, he replied, but ironically enough, the island itself
was predominantly Hindu.
What were the door-like structures
framing major roads and around temples? They represent the pathway to god
and they framed the road leading to god.
The 17th-century Pura Goa Gajah,
the first temple we visited, was not much more than a scary, mossy face
carved into the face of a rock. Its mouth formed the entrance, and its
frightening features were meant to scare evil-doers away. Inside, a bare
bulb lit the damp way; the shrines consisted of a stone Ganesha and three
small lingams behind a large one.
When praying to gods in Bali, one
must bring the palms together at a level above the head. When greeting
a fellow human, the palms come together at the chest level. And if, god
forbid, you should need to greet an evil spirit, the address is made at
the abdomen level, with the fingers pointing downwards.
We also visited the ancient temple
of the Mengwi dynasty, Taman Ayun. It was built when the founder of the
kingdom, Gusti Ngurah Putu, moved his palace from Balahayu to Mengwi. The
date of construction is recorded on a carved door-1634 AD. The temple is
situated on a vast stretch of land, which the adventurous can survey by
climbing a very narrow set of stairs to the top of a watchtower.
The wonderfully unusual thing about
Balinese temples, palaces and other important buildings is that there is
no one structure. So Balinese temples consist of a number of open sheds
with thatched roofs supported by four pillars. Between the sheds is a grassy
floor, natural ground untouched by marble or any other stone. As always,
this led to a flurry of questions: Where were the idols? The Balinese do
not believe in idolatry, probably something that rubbed off from mainland
Islam. Why so many structures? Because (this was my favourite explanation)
there are many gods. So if during Baisakhi, the Baisakhi god wishes to
visit this temple, he has a place to stay. There is space for gods from
all over Bali in their temples. Often, nearby, there'll also be a single
large shed with stone steps for people to sit. It acts as a ring for cockfights,
a popular activity, and serves as a community centre for important meetings.
The last temple we visited was the most beautiful-not the temple itself,
but its setting.
Tanah Lot Temple is on most tourists'
radar, as it should be, and is another legacy of the Mengwi kingdom. It's
in Tabanan, just across the boundary of Badung regency.
The story behind Tanah Lot Temple
is that a 16th- century priest Dang Hyang Nirartha saw a light emanating
from a point on the west coast and came to the spot to meditate.
The disciple of a local spiritual
leader was fascinated and began to study with Nirartha. The local priest,
jealous of Nirartha's popularity, challenged him. Nirartha simply moved
his meditation spot to the middle of the ocean. This point later came to
be known as Tanah Lot or Land in the Middle of the Sea. Get there about
20 minutes before sunset to truly appreciate its magnificence. Two arms
of highland enclose a bay streaked with shades of pink and orange as the
sun drops into the horizon. A doughnut-shaped facing rock provides a keyhole
view of the breakers beyond, on which surf crashes and the slanting rays
of the sun fall in tangled splendour.
The silhouette of a lone surfer
twists this way and that, a slow-moving speck on a roiling sea. There are
crowds of people in every direction, but I have eyes for nothing but the
sky turning every colour of the rainbow and the lure of the sea.
