Cultural capitalism in the Balinese tourist trade

By Degung Santikarma

DENPASAR, Bali (JP): For the million-plus travelers who visit Bali each year, the "enchanted isle" seems to offer a respite from the routines and responsibilities that rule modern life.

Fleeing from the stress of the contemporary world, they come to Bali searching for something authentically different from their own everyday reality.

To meet this market for escaping the modern life, Bali offers up culture as its most saleable commodity. And one doesn't have to be an academically trained anthropologist or an intrepid adventurer to gain inside access.

These days, Balinese culture comes packaged for consumption as winter getaways, spiritual retreats and even, for those Jakarta residents reluctant to brave the possibility of yet another round of protests and violence, a paket sidang umum (General Session package), that promises a week of peaceful pleasures where the most difficult decision is whether to pay with MasterCard or Visa.

For today's travelers seeking that touch of local flavor, it's not even necessary to leave the hotel grounds. From the welcoming drink garnished with a fruit and flower sculpture evocative of a ceremonial offering to the poolside barbecue-and-baris dance festivities, Bali's lodgings strive to provide all the trappings of tradition combined with all the comforts of home.

Barns used to store rice harvests provide inspiration for guest rooms. Meeting rooms are done over in the manner of a Balinese wantilan (public assembly hall). The split gates that guide Balinese into temples and family compounds frame lobbies decorated with coconut-wood pillars, carved stone sculptures and paintings depicting bare-breasted Balinese maidens and colorful characters from local mythology.

Statues of gods and demons do double duty as garden lamps, while the temple for the guardians of the land serves as a command post for hotel security. At one resort complex in Kuta, guests are even offered the chance to live the picturesque life of a Balinese peasant by learning to plant rice in the hotel's own paddy, assisted by the hotel's gardeners who, decked out in coolie hats, are also available to snap photos for the family album.

Indeed, today's modern hotels seem determined to create nothing less than a reproduction in miniature of the traditional Balinese "theater state" described by anthropologist Clifford Geertz an elaborate combination of glittering cultural spectacle and humble deference to social hierarchy, all designed to celebrate the power and majesty of the ruling lords -- in this case, the visiting foreign "royals".

But in Bali, this blend of traditionalism and modern cultural capitalism often leads to confusion. The fascination of foreigners with finding the bona fide Bali provokes a string of curious queries from their local hosts: Why do the tourists want to pay $350 a night to sleep in a rice barn? Why do they torture themselves by laying out in the blazing hot sun clad in such skimpy clothing when they could be watching color television in their air conditioned rooms?

Why do they use their fancy cameras to take pictures of such ordinary things as cows, rice fields and temples? And, perhaps the most confusing question of all: where do these people, who seem to do nothing but relax, get the money to pay for it all?

For at the same time as the island's tourist facilities are determined to display the most perfect reproduction of the past, many of today's Balinese are scrambling to score a spot in the hotel industry, which has become a coveted marker of modernity, a means of moving away from the lifestyle of the older generation into a future full of promises.

Indeed for some Balinese, the pressures to play the traditional role in the modern drama that is cultural tourism often become quite heavy. Nyoman, whose 25 years of service at one of Sanur's elite establishments makes him one of the seniors in Bali's tourism trade, spoke about his experiences.

"This job pays me more than I could make as a farmer, or even as a civil servant," he said. "I've learned enough English to make friends with the guests, and they sometimes leave gifts for me and my family. The only thing I really can't stand is that I have to wear these clothes every day," he complained, gesturing to the sarong, sash, ikat-patterned shirt and ceremonial udeng headdress -- clothing that Balinese wear especially for sacred occasions -- that comprise the hotel uniform.

"It's like I can never get away from the world of ritual." Nyoman dreams of showing up for work one day in the shorts-and- safari shirt combo sported by his American and Australian friends or, even better, the suit and tie he sees worn by the Jakarta movers and shakers when they gather in the Balinese pavilion-cum- conference room to close yet another sale of some prime beachfront property.

He imagines what it would be like to wear a portable phone on a leather belt instead of a ceremonial sash, or a pair of Ray Bans or a golfing cap perched on his head instead of the udeng headdress.

But Nyoman knows better. If he loses his local look, he's back on the other side of the intricately carved hotel door, back to being the other kind of "genuine Balinese", the one who, lacking access to the rewards of the tourism sector, must labor long, hot hours as a fisherman or a farmer. And it is not only the costume that sometimes feels constricting, but the conflicting demands of being hired to work in the modern world as a "traditional Balinese", and being a modern Balinese member of a society which is, in many ways, still bound by tradition.

For Nyoman's full time hotel duties do not let him escape the responsibilities dictated to him by culture.

Despite the popularity of the souvenir T-shirts sold in the hotel shopping arcade with the slogan "Bali -- always on vacation", Nyoman's life is forever busy with ritual work. Galungan, the major Balinese holiday requiring weeks of preparation, arrives twice a year, with the months in between punctuated by a ceaseless series of ceremonies for births and deaths, weddings and tooth filings, temple anniversaries and special days of the Balinese calendar.

He must also contribute to the activities of the banjar, the local unit of village government, helping to keep the streets clean and taking his turn to patrol the neighborhood at night.

If anything, Nyoman's hotel career only makes things harder. If his worldly work schedule keeps him from the tasks demanded of him by tradition, he must find someone to substitute for him or face being hit with a fine by the head of the banjar. And some family members, believing that Nyoman's position in the tourism economy has set him up with a special relationship to Dewi Dollar, the modern Balinese goddess of fortune, expect a sizable contribution from him for their ceremonies.

Nor does Nyoman's everyday experience as a genuine Balinese necessarily make his hotel duties any easier. When he asked for yet another day off to participate in a family cremation ceremony, the furious English general manager, unfamiliar with the nuances of Balinese kinship terminology which uses the same word for every female family member of one's grandmother's generation, fumed, "Didn't your granny just die last month?" Nyoman and his Balinese coworkers were immediately assembled in the thatched-roof hotel meeting hall to hear an impassioned lecture on the values of professionalism and a modern work ethic in the era of globalization.

"Don't you Balinese know that there are thousands of people in Java or Lombok who would love this job?" the big boss threatened, speaking in Indonesian before continuing with some choice words in his native tongue. But Nyoman, with his hotel-honed English, was able to catch the meaning hidden in the man's mumbled words: "If I just dress them up as Balinese, the guests will never know the difference."