Kecak, Kecak

Bali was never on my bucket list of places to visit. I’d always dismissed it as too touristy and commercial. It only made matters worse that it seems to be all the rage with non-imaginative honeymooners. However, with flight fares and visa norms being conducive, it seemed like an ideal getaway for a few days. Besides, with some good research, I knew I could ferret out some quieter, non-touristy areas to explore.

Of course, there are certain traditions that a traveler must experience. I’d shied away from the long list of temple tours – as a non-practising Hindu, I didn't fancy my trip being turned into a pilgrimage. Nonetheless, since some of the temples – for instance, Tanah Lot or Uluwatu – are located in absolutely picturesque locations, I decided to grasp the nettle and pay a visit. It was well worth my while.

Views from Tanah Lot & Uluwatu (Click to Enlarge)

For one, I noticed that despite a lot of the Balinese people being more ummm, well…vociferous about their religion and castes than in urban India, their temples are wonderfully more open, welcoming, tolerant and less greedy than a lot of ours. While Tanah Lot didn’t impose any restrictions at all – I even saw tourists sauntering around in the main temple area with their shoes on – Uluwatu provided bright purple sarongs, free of charge, for both men and women whose clothes did not cover their knees.

The peace and genuine piety was not lost on me as I flashed back to a horrific visit to the Jagannath Temple in Puri (Orissa, India). Here, the vile priests whacked us with fat wooden sticks and demanded money for their “blessings”, picked out anyone light-complexioned/in jeans/sharp-featured, asking them to prove they were Hindu before allowing them in. Dude, please. If I were giving out money to everyone who whacked me, my mother would have made the Forbes Rich List before I reached age 6.

My main interest in Uluwatu, nonetheless, was the famed Kecak fire dance - performed in an amphitheatre on a cliff at sunset. The view couldn't get any better – the sun splattering the sky in hues of yellow, orange and then pink and purple before sinking into the wide expanse of ocean. The organisers packed us in tighter than sardines – the amphitheater was crammed beyond capacity and at least an hour and a half before the show was to begin.

The audience squashed together (Click to enlarge)

I knew from my research that the Kecak dance involved a few dancers performing scenes from the Hindu mythological tale “Ramayana” to the tune of 70 men, dressed in checked cloth around their waists, percussively chanting “kecak”. They weren’t kidding about the “kecak” chanting. It continued for a good 15 minutes initially – I got worried that was all there was to it: Sitting there listening to men chant “kecak” while absorbing the sweat liberally rolling off your neighbour in the sweltering amphitheatre.

However, the dancers soon showed up. The story was easy to follow for anyone vaguely familiar with the Ramayana – take it from someone who, on occasion, has struggled to distinguish her Hanumans from her Ganeshas. Having the pamphlet with the various scenes outlined for reference was handy too. Hanuman (or “Hanoman” as he is known in Bali) clowned around with the audience for a bit – further reiterating how much easier the Balinese seem to be about religion than the Indian Hindu fundamentalists. The performance was engrossing, the kecak-ing never relenting for the entire duration.

The performance built up to a crescendo with Hanuman, his tail on fire, running amok and setting Lanka on fire. There was fire and sparks flying around dramatically in the middle of the arena at the end as the kecak-ing singers reached a frenzied crescendo and then called it a night.

The remaining embers were doused with water while the crowd posed with various dancers for pictures before quietly filing out into the balmy night; everyone’s ears still reverberating with that annoyingly addictive yet rhythmic gibber: kecak, kecak, kecak…..

Scenes from the Kecak Dance (Click to enlarge)

[Click here for a video of the Kecak dance at Uluwatu. Let me assure you it sounds far better in person.]

Fore! There was a Blah on a Bicycle

So, for the few of you who are keeping tabs, I survived my first tryst with a bicycle after well over a decade. (Read about my pre-ride jitters here.)

The eco-cycling tour company turned up at the resort right on time. A smiling guide, who introduced himself as “Weda”, bundled me off into a waiting van filled with around ten other people. As we drove off toward Mount Batur, I felt slightly queasy, wondering what horrors lay ahead of me. Those sludgy rice fields. Those shouting children. Why couldn't this be a wooden pony ride in an amusement park? Nobody has to get hurt there.

KO’s words rang in my ears. “We always have to do something foolish in public. Go forth and make me proud”, she’d said. (And yet, she’d turn down the job of a rodeo clown in a jiffy? That doesn't add up.)

After a typical Indonesian breakfast at a resort that gave us a good view of Mount Batur and the lake around it, we bundled into the van once more to make our way to the starting point.

On the way, Weda gave us a bunch of instructions. “Do not press only the front brake”, he said, and then went on to describe in painful detail the story of a cyclist who had tried to take a picture on her camera while cycling and then pressed the front brake. She had, apparently, flown over the handlebars and broken her wrist. She had to have been a special kind of stupid. Or American.

Weda went on to warn us that this was not the Tour de France – no racing. He needn't have bothered. My normally competitive spirit was drowning under nervousness-induced bile and sticky rice pudding from breakfast.

At our next stop, we were shown around a coffee/spice plantation, savoured various kinds of coffee and Indonesian fruit and gawked at civets kept in captivity to produce the very expensive “kopi luwak”.

We then walked over to choose our bikes. I surveyed the lot with trepidation before a white bike, looking somewhat worse for wear, was thrust at me.

Everyone else mounted confidently and trundled around the starting area like they were born to ride. I clambered on and made my way onto the tarred road, feeling dozens of eyes boring into my back as I teetered about like a drunken bear on a circus unicycle.

There was hardly any traffic on these roads that cut through lush green rice fields and little villages dotted with Balinese family temples. Just as I had eased into a rhythm, gaining enough confidence to survey the landscape around me and enjoy the chill breeze in my face, it was time to stop and visit a Balinese village and see bamboo weavers at work.

One of the Americans in the group was clearly displeased at the prospect of visiting a village. She scowled and declared “I am not a tourist. I am a traveler.” Clearly, the thought of renting a bicycle and exploring the place on her own had not occurred to her. Clearly, the word “Tour” on the bicycling tour brochure had escaped her. She was surly throughout the tour and remained the only unpleasant person in the group. I chuckled to myself as she gingerly navigated her way through a stinking pigsty in the middle of the village. We’d noticed she’d refused to touch anything in the van – not even closing the door behind her. (Oh, the horrors of visiting a "third-world" country, eh?)

Once back on our bikes, we set off again in single file. That is when the first of the infamous waving children I had dreaded appeared to greet us. I managed to nod at some. And then, to my horror, another group swarmed forth, gleefully running toward us, hands thrust out for a high five.

I’d like to think that these kids were perceptive. I’d like to think they saw the consternation on my face and left me well alone as I grimaced and weaved away from them for their general safety.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one that Weda said was easier. That left me with three genial Australian women and Weda. We bonded over our common knee ailments, each of us describing in excruciating detail how our joints could dislodge themselves at will. The rest, including a flying Dutchman and somebody pushing 80, opted for the tough route. When they appeared at lunch later, mouths agape, collapsing in a heap of crimson faces and aching limbs, I knew we’d made the smarter choice. 

After stuffing ourselves silly with typical Indonesian fare, we trudged back to the van. I felt tired, but happy and a tad triumphant. I have shied away from strenuous physical activity for a while after my knee injury, but this 25km ride has restored some confidence in my abilities. Hell, I’m sure I can zip-line to Mars or pogo-stick-it with some roos in the Aussie outback now.

We made our way back to town, chattering away with each other. All except the surly American woman. She scowled and poked her head out of the window the whole time. Whether this had anything to do with her being seated next to an Indian, I can’t say for sure. But I’d like to think so. She probably went back home and bathed in industrial-strength disinfectant.

Pictures for those who grumble I do not splash any on Facebook

I’ve Signed Up to Lose My Dignity

I have always suspected that I have some sort of subconscious death wish. I am a cautious person normally. Like I always make someone walk ahead of me on Bangalore’s dodgy pavements. That way, when they fall through a loose pavement slab and are waist-deep in an icky drain, I can still get across to the other side by stepping on their heads. Shocking, you say? Yes, my nimbleness usually gets that sort of a reaction. I say “I hope I don’t fall” just before a flight of stairs, jinxing things just so that BC or some other virtuous individual goes tumbling down instead.

This subconscious suicidal tendency, however, raises its ugly head quite often, catching me completely unawares. I have had a few near-fatal experiences. All as undignified as they come.

One evening, I was standing on the median of a busy street along with my colleague Apooo, waiting to cross the road. As a wave of traffic approached, I suddenly lurched forward and went, arms and legs flailing, onto the road. Fortunately, for me, motorists were more benevolent back then than they are now. They stopped while I quickly picked myself up and scurried sheepishly across while Apooo looked at me completely bewildered. I have no explanation for why I careened forward like that. I did not lose my balance. I did not trip. My subconscious probably convinced me it would be fun to throw myself out in thick traffic to really liven things up.

On a visit to the hills I call home, I was walking up a steep slushy path. As I gloated over my perceived mountain goat-like surefootedness in such terrain, I suddenly found I couldn’t take a step further. I couldn’t bring my left leg forward to take a step. It remained stubbornly rooted to its perch on a bit of rock. Then I heard a sharp crack above me and in a second, a very large and heavy jackfruit landed right in front of me. As I surveyed the sticky, squishy mess all over my right foot, it occurred to me that had that jackfruit landed on my head, I would have died. A terribly undignified death. Why I had chosen that path when the alternative route was easier and much less risky, I will never know.

Coupled with a subconscious that wishes a painful, undignified death, I seem to have some sort of secret penchant for public displays of foolishness. I mulled over that after KO and I successfully kayaked ourselves under a wooden pier and had to be extricated by an amused guide while other kayakers hooted with laughter and propelled themselves expertly through the mangroves of Thailand.

As I pack my bags for Bali, I wonder what I am getting myself into. I’ve signed up for an eco-cycling tour. Nothing wrong or obtuse about that, you say? Well, consider that I haven’t sat on a bicycle since I was 16. Which would also be okay if I was riding on, say, an aircraft runway. And did I mention I have an iffy knee?

I am going to be cycling through narrow paths across slushy rice fields. They say happy, excited children come running out to wave and shout hello. (Running out of their houses, I mean, not the rice fields – that would make them those Stephen-King-Children-of-the-Corn freaks.)

As if navigating treacherous paddy drains isn’t challenging enough, I also have to avoid running over some jubilant children. If I refuse to wave back for fear of taking my hands off the handlebars, I will be that rude, unfriendly Indian tourist we all dislike so much. If I try waving back, I’ll lose control and run them over. I will be labeled a serial child killer. Given my open dislike of young humans, nobody is going to believe it was an accident. I could end up in jail.

My chance to hold onto even a shred of dignity looks very, very bleak. As I see it, eco-friendly and child-friendly would mean allowing me to be thrown over the bicycle handlebars, face first into warm, icky mud. Goodbye, Dignity, Self-Respect and, of course, Vanity.

It doesn’t look good, people. Stay tuned for post-trip updates where I’ll lick the wounds of my smarting ego.