Following an old, mystical path of Bali

Following an old, mystical path of Bali

Mehru Jaffer, Contributor, Bali

In the 1930s, a visitor dismissed northern Bali as too
urbanized and promptly headed south in search of the real Bali.
As he waded through thick tropical forests, past screaming
monkeys and waterfalls, between gorges and valleys, the
languorous lap of volcanoes was finally left behind and he
imagined Bali in the form of a solitary female figure, swinging
towards him.

The erotic promise of the island revealed to the visitor is
vividly described in The Last Paradise by author Hickman Powell.

"A scarf fell carelessly from a shoulder and the bronze bowls
of maiden breasts projected angular, living shadows," writes
Powell.

Since then, the woman has become a metaphor for all the magic
said to nestle even on leaves here and those nurturing dreams of
pastoral poets have looked upon the south as a teeming, pregnant
woman in whose eyes burn the afterglow of fallen empires. But
many decades down the ladder of time the woman seems to have
procreated to such a wretched extent that both the surf and beach
are reduced by mass tourism to one big playground full of noise.

The magic is still there but somewhat jaded from being forced
too much into remaining magical.

Considering how the crowds have taken to slumming in the
south, some are beginning to look beyond the flat beach and tall
palm trees at misty mountain peaks visible in the distance. The
hub of present day Bali may be the south but traveling to the
north is considered a more meditative experience. Besides, the
drive from the talcum powder beaches of Kuta to the northern
coast of Lovina, strewn in contrast with black sand is just 80
kilometers.

The journey is, in fact the reverse of Miguel Covarrubias, the
Mexican painter and anthropologist who first landed in north Bali
in 1930 with his wife Rose.

Soon after he set foot on the primitive wooden pier in
Buleleng, Covarrubias rented a car to dash down into the
mysterious mountains in search of the beautiful bounties promised
by the south. They drove through Singaraja, the capital at that
time, past neat Dutch bungalows, gasoline stations and the house
of the Dutch Resident with its imposing driveway flanked by two
monstrous cement snakes.

On the way they saw miserable villages, temples with tin roofs
and soon began to shiver in a cloud of fog. Often they wondered
if they had been deceived about the rumored beauty of the land
and the people of Bali. It is only when the fog vanished, the air
became warmer and tropical vegetation appeared that they felt
cheerful again. They basked in the tropical vegetation and
enjoyed the ride among tall palms and enormous banana trees to
enter into beautiful villages and fantastic terraced rice-fields
covered with every shade of green.

In Denpasar, real Bali was finally discovered a block away
from the main city square on a dirt-paved lane where no mad
automobiles ran over pigs and chickens. Roads that are lined with
shopping malls and discotheques today had typical mud wall
compounds, the thatched gates protected by mysterious signs, a
dead chicken nailed flat on the wall or a little white flag
inscribed with cabalistic symbols.

This was the proper setting for the lithe brown-skinned women
returning from market with baskets of fruit on their heads and
for the men in loincloths sitting in groups around the baskets in
which they kept their favorite fighting cocks. From behind the
walls was heard the occasional tinkling sounds of someone
practicing on the traditional instrument, the gamelan.

But the reputation of Kuta beach as the real Bali is now under
threat. It is argued even the Balinese regard the sea less and
consider it as the hiding place of evil spirits. It is the
mountains that are revered here as abodes of gods, symbolic of
everything that is lofty and sacred. It is the mountains that
were chosen by the island's earliest people to live.

Going to the mountains today means not forgetting to feed the
monkeys on the way while ignoring all the art galleries and
antique shops ripping off other tourists in Ubud. There is little
time for boutique cafes or fancy spa treatments or for the
freshly ground coffee for Rp 1,000 at a roadside warung which is
just as delicious as a generous helping of nasi campur (steamed
rice with various side dishes).

The first stop is the 16th century classic temple complex
surrounded by pleasure gardens in the Mengwi regency. Of course,
like most other temples it has its own story. Inspired by the
moat palaces of China and fueled by the feud with the King of
Denpasar, a cousin, the King of Mengwi built Taman Ayu as a
family house temple which had no peer.

Standing before the Candi Kuning, with its layered roof made
of ijuk (the black fiber from sago plant), floating on the
shimmering waters of the Bratan lake with the mountains behind is
like being part of a waking dream. A Buddhist stupa in the same
premises makes the temple complex one of the most revered by
Bali's Buddhist community.

The drive to Singaraja takes one past three lakes and lush
coffee and clove plantations. Munduk is a town developed by the
Dutch as a resort and the trek down to the waterfalls is
invigorating. The northern coast is modest compared to the
generous vastness of the steamy beaches in the south. But the
town of Singaraja is interesting for all the architectural relics
left behind by the Dutch. Lovina is a name given to the beach
here by first president Sukarno who combined the two English
words of Love and Indonesia together, according to Rades, my
guide.

To be in the ancient town of Kintamani on the rim of the foggy
crater of mount Batur, home of Vishnu, god of prosperity and
patron of peasants, staring at the lake snuggled at the feet of
the volcano is a mesmerizing experience during the day. But to
participate in a ceremony at the temple on a full moon night is
to actually feel one's presence in the midst of gods.

Deep in the ravines and on the banks of the river Pakrisan lie
11th century burial towers. The spectacular funeral shrines and
meditation corners are carved into the rock with the fingernails
of the mythical giant Kbo Iwa. To stroll around the Gunung Kawi
or the mountain of poetry is to be filled with excitement about
life as it was lived a thousand years ago.

Nearby is the sacred bath of Tampaksiring, its waters with
magical and curative powers attracting many maidens to bathe
here. President Sukarno chose to build his retreat on an opposite
hillock overlooking the temple's spring of holy waters. This is
also one of Bali's holiest temples.

The Elephant Cave from the 9th century reeks of even more
ancient antiquities. The T-shaped meditation cave, home to many a
hermit holds within the great hollowed rock an idol of Ganesh,
the elephant god at one end and the fertility symbols of the holy
trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva at the other. The royal
bathing pools of the royalty of yesteryear are decorated with
heavenly creatures carved in stone with the breasts of these
angels spouting holy water.

The only problem of undertaking a journey such as this one is
to find it most difficult to tune back to reality.