Sound is closely tied to the Balinese concept of creating a paradise for the senses.

By Maya Kerthyasa

In Bali, it is believed that the first thing God created was sound. From there, the Universe unfurled. This is acknowledged through the sacred chant “om” – the original vibration, the sound of the world. So it should come as no surprise, then, that music in its various forms plays a pivotal role in Balinese spiritual life. It opens dimensions, raises energies and helps mortal prayers ascend to the heavens; it accompanies rituals and social gatherings; it summons Gods and disperses demons.

There are many facets to the union of music and the spiritual realm in Bali. A concept known as panca gita groups together the five fundamental sounds of Balinese cultural life – the heavy thunk of the wooden kul-kul drum, the sacred ringing of the ceremonial genta bell, the deep vibrations of the gong, and the human-generated hymns and mantras that fill the airwaves of the island’s temple courtyards. These are divine sounds – channeling tools used to elevate the purpose of every ritual and influence the kala, or space, they pass through. The clashing din created by the beleganjur orchestras that accompany most cremation processions helps expel negative forces, simultaneously stirring and energising the men lifting the funeral tower. Other rites-of-passage rituals, such as weddings and tooth-filing ceremonies, are soundtracked by the gentle, sophisticated gendér metallophone. The hollow bamboo keys of the tinklik, or rindik, meanwhile, are used to create a sense of harmony in non-religious, everyday settings. So, every note, instrument and rhythm is like a code to a new and enhanced state of being – a form of sound healing that’s been around since before the term even existed.

Bali’s temples are the best places to observe mystical music at its most refined. During a ceremony, or odalan, when the Gods and Goddesses are summoned and blessed, the kul-kul at the entrance of the complex is struck to a slow, rhythmic beat that signifies their descent to the world of man. Inside, a gamelan ensemble plays festive atmospheric music. And in the most sacred inner sanctum of the court, the jeroan, where the prayers and rituals take place, kakawin hymns are sung in the tradition known as kidung; priests ring their bells and mantras are chanted. A symphony of holy vibrations is born, allowing every visitor to rise into a higher state of consciousness, and detach themselves from the material temptations of the world outside the temple’s walls. The ears are flooded with positive energy in the same way the eyes are met with spectacularly woven and coloured offerings. The nose is stimulated by the aroma of smoke and fresh flowers, holy water cleanses the tongue, and the skin is refreshed and caressed through an energy-clearing ritual known as mecaru. The entire space is transformed into a paradise for the senses, a place where one’s mind is purified and the heart is calmed.

This idea of a paradise for the senses relates back to the Balinese concept of dualism. We all commit unholy acts to a certain degree. Our senses are regularly bombarded with pollution, stimulants, man-made poisons that we often can’t avoid. So, in order to get closer to the fundamental power of the Universe, Balinese Hindus immerse themselves in beauty. They are cleansed through acts of worship fuelled by the characters and traits of their divine idols, bounteous offerings sourced from nature, and the fundamental thing that started it all – sound.

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According to Hindu beliefs, the Universe has a four-part cycle and we’re at the beginning of its most destructive phase. Here, Balinese-Australian journalist Maya Kerthyasa, explores the lessons of Kali Yuga and how understanding it might help us navigate the challenges we’re facing on our fragile planet.

In the 8th Century, an Indian priest by the name of Rsi Markandeya was called to Bali as he meditated on Mount Raung, East Java. He crossed the Java Strait with a small entourage and from there, the first seeds of Balinese Hinduism were planted – seeds that over centuries blossomed into the complex, multi-faceted culture the island is known for today.

The cycle of the Universe is written
Bali inherited many of Indian Hinduism’s rituals, theories and belief systems, including the philosophy of the Yugas – the various ages within a four-part cycle of the world. Each Yuga stretches over hundreds-of-thousands – even millions – of years and presents its own set of nuances, challenges and characteristics. So, during the first period – Kertha, the “golden age” of eternal righteousness – humanity is believed to be more closely connected to the Gods. The world is fair, pure and harmonious. Treta is the age of duty and obedience – a time where humans become devoted to rules and religion in the hope of gaining something for themselves. And during Dwapara, disease is rife, calamity kicks in and society as a whole loses another layer of purity.

Where are we now?
Right now, according to Bali’s lontar scriptures and the medieval Indian text known as the Vishnu Purana, we’re transitioning between Dwapara and Kali Yuga: the final and most destructive phase of the Universe’s cycle. In Hindu Mythology, an 1882 account of the key philosophies of the religion, author W.J Wilkins describes Kali Yuga as “an age of strife and dissension,” when Visnu, the God of Preservation, reascends to heaven and the world is dominated by decadence, consumption and greed. The prophecies of the Vishnu Purana and Bali’s own Catur Yuga are eerily accurate when you compare them to the state of the world today. The Earth, it claims, will be “venerated only for its mineral treasures”, fine clothes will form the basis of dignity, leaders will be driven by wickedness and wealth will be the only source of devotion. So, the way modern humans pollute, consume, and are driven by material desires all begins to make sense. Our Universe is tuned to generate a less peaceful way of living at the moment, and our challenge is to try and overcome that.

Survival through spiritualism
Balinese Hindus, especially in the light of the Covid-19, acknowledge and have great respect for the obstacles of this Yuga, which is influenced by the fiery characteristics of Kali, the Goddess of destruction and renewal. They use their knowledge of the cycle to offset its negative effects – instead, projecting goodwill and positive energy through yadnya, or rituals. These are like exercises that attune us with nature and the divine. They are cleansing, purifying, balancing, devotional and allow us to tap-in to the true rhythm of the world. Dewa Yadnya, Manusa Yadnya, Rsi Yadnya, Pitra Yadnya and Bhuta Yadnya – practices for the Gods, human beings, holy figures, our ancestors and the neutralisation of lowly forces, respectively – allow Balinese Hindus to accept the state of the world for what it is and find peace even in the clasps of humanity’s darkest moments. There are also personal, more individual practices, such as meditation, fasting, offering-making and other forms of creative release that encourage self-introspection, inner peace, and complete mindfulness. These are tools that anyone can adopt to help survive the times and connect more deeply with the messages of the Universe.

So, is there hope?
Kali Yuga is far from over. In fact, we’ve got another 426,879 years left to endure.

“The take-home message from Bali, perhaps, is that the world as we know it is exactly where it is meant to be. We can’t fight that. Our role is simply to understand it and go with the flow – at the same time, looking within ourselves to figure out how we can be more conscious beings”

This doesn’t need to be overcomplicated or intellectualised. It can be as simple as making more respectful choices in the way we consume, the way we treat others, and the way we interact with Mother Earth. This is a formula that is simple enough to apply to societies, religions and cultures all over the world. It sounds idealistic, but with practice and the right intention, it could change the way we function as a race. And if you listen closely enough, maybe that’s exactly what the Universe is asking us to do.

References
Hindu Mythology, W.J Wilkins, Rupa (1882)
Catur Yuga (salinan lontar druwe Puri Ubud), transcribed by Ida Bagus Putra Pudhartha, 2012

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Every morning Pak Mangku and his daughter Dewi wake up early to make beautiful and fragrant canang sari (offerings) to place at the four temples of Desa Potato Head.

Pak Mangku (whose given name is Nyoman) is Desa Potato Head’s pemangku (priest), entrusted with the spiritual well-being of our environment and the people within it, a crucial role. Bali is known as “The Island of the Gods,” and each of the gods must be paid due attention through regular ceremonies, prayers and daily rituals, including the careful distribution of canang sari.

The making of these offerings is a craft in itself and the time spent represents the Balinese people’s self sacrifice to their gods. Each little basket is folded by hand using strips of coconut palm leaves before being filled with betel nut leaves, sugar cane, sliced banana, rice, sweet-smelling pandan leaves, lime and adorned with indigenous flowers of many hues. If you pay close attention, you will see that each little cradle is topped with different gifts. Along with a burning incense stick, cigarettes, sachets of coffee, rice crackers, biscuits, coins and sometimes even a spare gorengan (piece of deep-fried tofu or tempeh) complete the charming little tokens.

Derived from the ancient Kawi language of Java, Bali and Lombok, the word “canang” comes from “ca” meaning beautiful, and “nang,” meaning purpose, and with flowers of four different colours to represent specific Hindu Gods, they are a fitting tribute to their name.

In fact, the Balinese utilise components of the canang sari during worship. A temple visit typically includes five prayers, sometimes with empty clasped hands, other times grasping a single or a selection of different coloured flowers between the fingertips, with each symbolic gesture a sign of recognition and thankfulness to a specific Hindu deity. The final step involves the ceremonial sprinkling of holy water and application of a few grains of rice onto the forehead, the location of the third eye chakra.

Beautiful to behold, carefully put together, and alluring to smell, Bali’s canang sari are like mini hampers to their Gods, emanating that sweet, lingering smell that instantly recalls Bali.

Take heed…

If you see canang sari on the ground when you are walking on the street, carefully step around it. It is regarded as disrespectful to the Balinese culture and religion to trample on them or even step over one, especially if the incense is still burning.

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A month-long ceremony unique to Bali’s ancient village of Tenganan, Perang Pandan (in English, Pandan Wars) is a coming-of-age ritual carried out to honour Dewa Indra, the Hindu God of War.

Five kilometres inland from Candidasa, the quiet hamlet of Tenganan Dauh Tukad is home to a community of around 800 Bali Aga, the island’s original people. Family compounds line either side of a wide, pedestrian-only avenue and community meetings are called by banging a kul-kul (hollowed out bamboo bell).

Meaning and magic permeate daily life here. Just-mature girls ride hand-crafted Ferris wheels to echo the ups and downs of life, native geringsing fabrics keep villagers safe, and every building is laid out to respect century-old beliefs.

Curious to experience one of village’s most iconic ceremonies, Perang Pandan (Pandan Wars), Potato Head ventured out to Karangasem – here’s our story.

“Fuelled by tuak (local palm liquor) and adrenaline, bare-chested Balinese warriors armed with spiky pandan leaf clubs and homemade rattan shields thrash each other atop a makeshift stage”

Behind the high stone walls of Tenganan Dauh Tukad, the almost burnt husks of coconuts send out a sweet, lingering fragrance into the early morning air. Homemade penjor (decorative bamboo poles) flank the cobbled streets, gloriously made up for the day’s occasion. Beyond lie palm jungles, sun-baked hills and indigo-blue skies.

At the bale banjar (central pavilions), the build-up has already begun. Children bet their pocket money on big plastic animal mats, with ancient cross-legged croupiers cackling and egging them on. Men fold coconut leaves around hundreds of plegantung (sticky rice and palm sugar snacks), and great pyramids of orange-and-apple-stacked gebogan glide by, bundled upon the heads of colourfully adorned women.

Creaky Ferris wheels, wooden and man-powered, carry beautiful young girls, dressed in their ceremonial best. The looped electronic melody of an ice-cream vendor is the only audible reminder of modern life.

Honouring Bali’s Warrior God
Perang Pandan (Pandan Wars) are part of a month-long ceremony called Usabah Sambah which is unique to Tenganan. Fuelled by tuak (local palm liquor) and adrenalin, bare-chested Balinese warriors armed with spiky pandan leaf clubs and homemade rattan shields thrash each other atop a makeshift stage.

Known locally as mekare-kare, the mass coming of age ritual is carried out to honour Dewa Indra, the Hindu god of war and the Tengananese people’s primary deity. Spilling sacrificial blood is the main goal and almost every male in the village, as young as eight and as old as 80, puts themselves forward to fight.

By lunchtime, crowds of people – local photographers, curious Balinese and bewildered tourists – have appeared and gather around the ring. Referees, weapons and warriors stand by as the native Selonding gamelan percussion begins. Hypnotic, metallic crescendos soundtrack each duel, directing the choreography of the fighters.

Each bout lasts minutes with techniques varying between swinging and scratching but always accompanied by mass whooping and yelping from fighters and their fans. Footing is lost. Men stagger backwards into the mob. Thorny weapons are flung up into the air, coming apart on their journey down.

Up in the stands, beautiful virgin girls wearing golden crowns look on like princesses watching a duel. Teruna (pubescent boys) with scarlet lips, painted eyebrows and brightly hued eyelids, perch opposite, as if part of some strange pantomime.

Ancient traditions in modern Bali
Tenganan’s symmetrical layout, meaningful old architecture and car-free dirt paths offer an insight into an old Bali that stands in blunt contrast with the choked up streets and teeming nightlife of the island’s tourist drags. Many, including Katamama’s architect Andra Matin, have been charmed by the simplicity of life, adherence to traditions and warmth of the people living in Bali’s most ancient thoroughfares.

But despite its rawness, the community of Tenganan is not as secluded as it once was. In the past thirty years, influences from the outside world have started to touch the area. Tourism has opened up and people are now permitted to marry outside of their own society. English is spoken by a few of the inhabitants who have taken jobs as villa hosts, ojek (motorbike taxi) drivers or mountain guides in Ubud, Candidasa or Denpasar. Young people have iPhones, snapping ceremony selfies to post on their Facebook pages (the village itself even has a Facebook page – run by a Dutch lady known as Ibu Ana by the locals). But let us hope that while the people of Tenganan remain curious and gracious when it comes to outside visitors and their cultures, their own ancient crafts, spectacles and ceremonies, like Perang Pandan, live on.

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Stopping rain might seem far-fetched in the modern world, but in Bali’s tropical climes, it’s an occupation that has been endorsed for centuries.

With temple ceremonies a weekly occurrence on the island, the services of a pawang hujan (rain stopper) were originally enlisted to prevent downpours from interrupting religious rituals.

Today, the residents of Bali still hold much faith in their all-natural sky clearing method, with a handful of rain stoppers being called upon not only for ceremonies, but also for high-end weddings, international festivals and more.

One of Bali’s most famous weather manipulators, summoned by local celebrity brides-to-be and inspiration-seeking writers alike, is Pak Made Warmana, who was the Director of Housekeeping at Potato Head Beach Club and Katamama.

A much admired figure – as much for his gentle and accommodating nature as for his otherworldly wisdom – Pak Warmana is an island authority on all matters spiritual, from property blessings to troublesome spirits to meteorological interventions.

Over the course of his fifteen-year rain-stopping career, Pak Warmana has performed thousands of rain ceremonies, proudly affirming an overall success rate of 80 percent. Here, he shares some thoughts on his own special techniques to chase the rain away.

What’s the basic principle of rain stopping?
Actually, we don’t really “stop” the rain, it’s more accurate to call us “rain movers”. Through meditation, prayer and the power of the mind, we push the rain away to areas where it’s really needed.

How do you prepare before an event?
I normally combine energy with my wife and one other pemangku (Balinese priest). The day before, we go to the venue, sit down together somewhere quiet and meditate for around 20 minutes. We have to connect and synchronize our minds with the energy in the area.

What do you imagine when you are meditating?
We clear our heads and visualise the next day. Depending on the time when the event will take place, we imagine a clear morning, bright day or beautiful sunset.

Do you ever get the feeling that it’s not going to work?
Sometimes, we find it really hard to concentrate and that’s when there is a problem and we know it may not work. Whether we are successful or not depends on more than just the rain stopper.

What else is important to success?
The energy of the people inside the venue – if they don’t trust in us, or have bad energy, it won’t work.

What about the day of the event?
If the event is at Potato Head, I’m on duty, but my wife fasts so that she can focus all of her energies on keeping the area clear. Just before the event starts, we lay down small offerings with lots of incense, red in colour to symbolize the God Brahma and fire. When lit, these send out heat and smoke into the sky which help to part the clouds.

How many rain stoppers are working in Bali?
There are so many, but most of them are only working in their own area for small Balinese weddings and ceremonies. Our method is different from the usual because we combine my knowledge of Reiki energy with traditional Balinese teachings.

Because we are slightly different, we have lots of people visiting our website and asking for help, even some movie stars from Jakarta!

What if there are other rain stoppers at work elsewhere at the same time?
It happened recently on New Year’s Eve at Potato Head Beach Club! (laughs). A rain stopper in Nusa Dua kept pushing the rain to Potato Head, and we kept moving it back again! We really had to focus to push it back about three or four times, but thankfully it didn’t rain at the Beach Club for longer than five minutes at a time.

In these situations, we communicate internally. We can feel something subconsciously, like a kind of heaviness, or we have difficulty concentrating.

Can you also summon rain to fall?
Sometimes. One time, my father-in-law called me with news of a fire in North Jakarta. There was an oil tank on fire and so he asked me to try and make rain fall in the area. Although the rain shower that came later was small, it still helped.

Any other interesting stories?
I have also done some long distance rain diverting. An old colleague from a hotel in Thailand recently called me to request my help that day because it was pouring with rain and a big wedding was scheduled for 4 pm. We burned incense offerings and meditated together here in Bali. Sure enough, two hours later, he called saying “Thank you! Thank you! Please, keep it up until night!”

Find out more below:
canaha-bali.com

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