Lamenting the death of traditional Balinese culture

I Wayan Juniartha, The Jakarta Post, Denpasar

For many people, natives and foreigners alike, subak, the traditional Balinese irrigation system was the glowing masterpiece of the island's predominant rice-growing culture.

It represented the magnificent organizational ability of the Balinese, and their communal spirit and ingenuity in transforming agriculture into one of the most influential pillars that had long supported the island's complex cultural structure.

For prominent Balinese dramatist Putu Satria Kusuma, however, subak is blatant evidence of the people's humiliating defeat at the hands of the onslaught of modernity brought about by large- scale modern industry and development.

"The sorry state of our agriculture, the rate of land conversion and the fact that the majority of our farmers are fighting a losing battle against poverty have made me realize that part of our most important heritage has turned into one of our most poignant signs of defeat," he said.

Haunted by that realization, Putu and his Buleleng-based theater company, Kampung Seni Banyuning (KSB), worked hard to produce a stage version of the defeat. Aptly titled Subak it won thunderous applause when it premiered on Friday during the Contemporary Arts Festival at Denpasar's Werddhi Budaya Art Center.

"It was a thought-provoking performance. It forced us to acknowledge our hypocrisy; repeatedly stating our commitment to the preservation of subak, yet, repeatedly failing to protect the paddy fields and the farmers, the very things that determine the survival of subak," Cokorda Yudistira, a member of the audience said.

Putu specifically designed the stage to exploit the hypocrisy and paradoxical nature of contemporary Bali, particularly in relation to agriculture.

A wall of corrugated iron sheets, a roofing material of choice in urban shanties, was erected at the back of the stage. The words "A housing complex will be constructed here", "Bali peace" and "Demonstrations are Forbidden" were painted on the wall.

The concrete floor in front of the wall was covered with a large quantity of sawdust in an effort to depict barren ground. Plastic trash was strewn across the ground.

"It was not a picture of a green paddy field in an idyllic surrounding. It was a harsh picture of a barren, polluted field besieged by slums and investors," another member of the audience, Mas Ruscitadewi, noted.

Several farmers tried in vain to till the barren land. The violent sound of their hoes hitting the concrete floor provided an eerie background to their cries of desperation.

"What are we going to harvest? What are we going to eat?" they asked in a chorus of frustration.

The shortage of water had turned the land into infertile ground. The complex network of irrigation channels, which for centuries had sustained the land, had gone dry when most of the freshwater was tapped by a huge water company and resold to housing complexes and the tourist industry.

"Yeh (water), yeh, yeh," they screamed in frenzy.

Frustration grew to anger when the farmers tried to attack the symbolic character of the water company, a fat man with a long, green hosepipe coiled around his body. It was an unfair fight and soon the poor farmers could do nothing but bemoan their defeat.

Unable to control their emotions, the farmers tore off their clothes, exposing their erect genitalia, before bathing themselves with the sawdust.

"Father, father," a little girl screamed, trying to calm the farmers.

It was of no use since by then, the farmers realized that they would lose more than just a single harvest, more than just a plot of land. The death of their paddy field signaled the death of their way of life, their culture and their spirituality.

Once again the farmers rose up against the fat hosepipe monster. This time it was not about water, but about an old lady, who carried a bamboo offering in one hand and a paddy stalk in the other hand.

Toward the end of the performance, the lady lay lifelessly on the ground while the farmers stood silently around her. A little girl broke into tears when she embraced the motionless body.

"Mother, mother," she sobbed.

A man looked at the farmers and asked a simple question.

"Does subak still exist?" he asked.

The farmers gave various ironic replies, the audience broke into wary laughter and the topless Putu Satria suddenly appeared behind the top of the iron wall. Mimicking a man taking a bath, he hosed his body with a large quantity of water before mocking the farmer with his song.

"I have a dream. Bali Ajeg (culturally and socially intact)," he sung.

The farmers responded by throwing pebbles at the wall, providing the performance with a noisy end.

"It was a performance that was not only entertaining but also rich in deep, metaphorical symbols," Balinese scholar Nyoman Sugi Kaleran said.

"Some people in the audience might have been a bit offended by the display of male genitalia. However, in Balinese philosophy, genitalia, male and female alike, are powerful symbols of Purusha and Pradhana," he added.

Putu, according to Kaleran, had made the farmers a symbol of God's Purusha (masculine, active) side with the lady and the paddy fields representing God's Pradhana (feminine, passive) side. The creation of Life and Universe can only be achieved through the union of Purusha and Pradhana.

From this perspective, Putu Satria tried to warn the Balinese of a possible end of their culture, their macro "subak", due to their inability to nurture the Purusha and Pradhana aspects of their culture.

"The Balinese believe that all creatures in this earth were born out of the fusion of Bapa Akasa (Father Sky) and Ibu Pertiwi (Mother Earth). The farmer is the father and the soil and the old lady is the mother," Kaleran said.

"We, on the other hand, are either the hosepipe monster or the sobbing little girl," he added with a mischievous grin.