Life, Death, and Rebirth: A Cultural Tour through Gianyar

Today, since Colleen is in the hospital with an infection, I went driving around the Ubud area with Dewa, not to be confused with Dewa, his cousin, who is also a driver. Children in Bali are named in order of birth, regardless of whether they are male or female. In Bali, if you don't have a car, you hire someone to drive for you, since they have the knowledge both to get you where you need to go and ensure you arrive in one piece. However, I find it a bit odd - but not quite as disconcerting as the family who are caretakers of the house where Bob and Colleen are living. This family does the dishes, trims the bamboo, and makes my bed every morning. Now, I know they are paid for this, and probably make a decent living for a relatively small amount of work, but when I come home to my bed made, my toilet scrubbed, and the dishes done, I feel...colonial somehow.

Anyways, back from my colonial aside and onto my cultural tour. My driver, Dewa, is a man of great intelligence, curiosity, and knowledge. Although we hired him to drive me around, he really became my cultural tour guide, and I learned a great deal about the inner workings of Baliense kinship, religion and way of life from him. Our first stop was the archaeological museum in Penjeng, a site which Dewa had never once visited in ten years of driving people around. I suppose there are few visitors to Bali who come for the archaeology. The museum is about as extensive and well-maintained as you would expect considering the one visitor per year level of attendance. Most people, Marina excepted, don't get as excited as I do by the astonishing sight of several large ground slate adzes, almost identical to the ones in BC. As I wander through the sparse rooms, I glance at some of the labels, written in English and Indonesian. One posted near a bronze bracelet helpfully informs me that this is "a bronze bracelet found in Gianyar region". Gianyar is the large province around Ubud. So much for provenience.

As Dewa and I are basking in the archaeological splendor of the museum, we get a phone call from my father, on his way to the hospital, who informs us that he has been delayed by a funeral procession, meaning that someone is going to be cremated. In Bali, these are large, public events, and Bob thinks I should take the advantage of this relatively rare occurrence. I am a bit hesitant - years of working with First Nations communities and training by those around me has taught me a healthy respect for the sanctity of rituals and the importance of respectful behaviour. However, my cultural informant Dewa assures me that it will be fine if I take a look, so off we head.

When we arrive, they are anointing the body with all of the goods the spirit will need for its journey. I hung back, reluctant to get close, although several people, both Balinese and western, had their video cameras out. With Dewa's encouragement, I ventured forth to view the third dead body of my life. Dewa did not come with me - he wisely kept his distance. My skin was crawling and the fear of what I might see slowed my steps. I kept glancing around, curious to see if I would be stopped, but most people appeared cheerful and upbeat. I took a quick glance - curiosity won over the profound discomfort - and headed back to Dewa. All around, tourists and expats had their cameras out, capturing this cultural moment. I Shortly after, the men garbed in black t-shirts emblazoned with the word "Cremation" lit the pyre using two blow torches. That method must be more efficient than the old ways, where might take a long time to get the pyre burning. The air filled with a dense black smoke, greasy with burning flesh. A tip, if you ever attend an outdoor cremation - stand upwind. I think I was most surprised by the lighthearted way the Balinese treated what I expected to be a solemn ceremony. Dewa and I had a philosophical discussion about death and reincarnation as we drove to our next destination: Goa Gajah - the elephant cave. In the course of the discussion, I decided that I would not like to be reincarnated as a tree, but Dewa commented that a tree would need to appreciate its surroundings - a lesson we could all use.

My final cultural stop was the elephant caves. This site was excavated by an archaeologist in the fifties, who found the mouth of a cave that looked to him like an elephant. Have a look at the picture, and you decide. Doesn't look much like an elephant to me. The grounds around the cave are very beautiful, and the structure itself dates to about the twelfth century AD.


Like many other places I have visited in Bali, Goa Gajah seems to be prepared for many more people than there are at present. There were likely twenty little shops, several people selling fruit, ten guides, and six tourists. I am not sure if this is a legacy from the bombings, or whether it is a product of me coming in the slow season, but these places feel empty.
So ends the cultural tour...