Cremation Ceremony

Returning to Ubud was like coming home. There was something so familiar and comfortable about the place, from the broken red tile sidewalks to the dong-dong-dong music that permeated the air. We returned to our bungalow on Monkey Forest Road, across from the green where kids played soccer. Starting to feel travel fatigued, we dragged ourselves out into the heat to observe the festivities, as the Cremation Ceremony was gearing to kick off. The main ceremony was to take place the next day; still the preparations were in full swing with music and crowds and a general feeling of festivity throughout the streets. Chris and I stopped at the main temple which was an open-air hut at the end of Monkey Forest Road. There paper-mache, life-size, anatomically correct bulls were lined up. We had read up a bit on the cremation ceremony so we knew that the remains of the dead were to be put inside these bulls, and then the bulls were to be set on fire. So much work had gone into making these bulls, it was hard to imagine that they were just going to go up in smoke, but cremation is a sacred element of the Hindu/animist religion of the Balinese. This ceremony is a huge part of their culture. Doing our best to be participants in this most holy celebration, Chris and I both bought batik sarongs. It was our way of honoring the occasion.

Walking away from the hubbub, we came to a lovely valley where we ate dinner out on a patio overlooking the river and the jungle. I don't remember much from this dinner other than there was a rich American guy eating at the table next to us, and his conversation was a source of irritance. I think he was slamming liberals or something like that, which had gotten Chris' hackles up. It had been such a long time since we had to hear the whole liberal-conservative debate, it was a jolt to the system. It was a reminder that these things exist. Despite the conversation, the food was very good as we ate upon pillows with candles softly glowing. It's hard to feel completely irritated when one is surrounded by paradise.

The Main Event

The dong-dong-dong music had taken on a new life. The town was alive. Chris and I tried to gear ourselves up for the culmination of our Bali adventure. The only thing was—neither of us were feeling great. Still, we struggled with our sarongs and resupplied the batteries in our cameras. On our way to the celebration, we ran into Nana in the driveway, and she was giggling at our get-up. Apparently there was a proper way to tie the sarong, and we had sorely missed the mark. Nana took it upon herself to unwrap us, unembarrassed to see us in our underwear, and rewrap us in the correct manner. It was a lovely gesture and we thanked her for her thoughtfulness.

Crowds had already gathered on Monkey Forest Road, thickening as we headed towards the noise at the end of the street. We figured that the temple would be the epicenter of the celebration. The crowds were so dense that we had to elbow our way through. We thought we'd be lucky to catch a glimpse of any activity. Climbing onto a patio, I attempted to rise above the crowds. Somehow, perhaps through inertia, Chris and I found ourselves on the street, right into the very heart of the celebration.

The celebration was on the move. We found ourselves in a flow of human traffic, suddenly part of a procession. A bull, about ten times the size of the regular bulls we had seen the day before, was erected on a platform. A group of men carried this bull on a bamboo platform. Dressed in ceremonial garb with sarongs and bandanas, they would run with this bull, hollering and shouting as the music played all around, only to come to a dead stop. A young boy rode on the back of the bull. We couldn't help noticing that the makers of this bull spared no detail, down to the bull's butthole.

It was hard to understand what was going on; Chris and I were swept up in the whole thing. We walked with the procession. Most of the people on the street were Balinese, but tourists with their cameras perched on rooftops and terraces, and a few, like us, were walking with the procession.

With all the noise and commotion, it took us awhile to figure out what was going on. The bulls were on parade from the temple to the ceremonial site. Behind us, towering into the sky like an antenna, was what could only be perceived as a phallic symbol. Along with the bull, it was carried on a platform by men who were whooping and hollering and sweating under the weight of dead remains and a burning sun.

Down the street we moved, anxious to keep enough room between us and the looming phallic symbol. With the blowing of a whistle, the men would start up at a full run, threatening to mow down anyone or anything in their path. It was kind of exciting, these sudden bursts of activity. The whistle would blow and we were off, reminiscent of the running of the bulls in Spain.

We must have walked for miles in this stop-and-go procession. Finally there was a change of energy as the bull ahead of us turned a corner. A wall separated us from further activity. We wondered if only locals were allowed into the ceremony site. The tourists responded to this challenge by climbing a tree, and then onto the wall. Chris and I followed suit, frantically clawing at branches, scrambling to get over the wall.

We dropped down into a serene scene. The giant bull had come to rest in a large open area. I can only guess that we were in a cemetery. Tourists continued to climb like deranged zombies over the stone wall, dropping down on the grass around us. The scene had become more subdued than it had been out on the street. Crowds massed together, hushed in reverence, seeking out spots of shade. The sun was brutal. Chris and I were both feeling nauseous. We wondered how long we should stay before dehydration kicked in.

We must have stayed in that cemetery for over an hour, shifting our place on the grass to match the path of shade. The tourists gathered together, armed with cameras. It was hard to know exactly what to capture, as the activity had come to stand-still. Then the time came to erect the bull onto another platform, the altar. The crowds cheered them on as this was obviously an arduous task for the men lifting the statue. There were times where the bull teetered, threatening to topple over, and then a lot of shouting broke out as the bull was righted. Finally the bull was erected and an enormous cheer arose. Glued to my spot, I felt I was watching some ancient rite: the erection of the Golden Calf.

Our energy waning, we watched as some guy climbed the giant phallus. Once again the crowds cheered. It was hard to know when this whole thing was going to end. We had walked for miles and were now swooning in the sun. With enough pictures to sustain our quota for adventure, we left the ceremony and headed back out onto the streets of Ubud.

It was a long slog back to our bungalow. We had taken the backstreets, and we were sure that with each step we were slowly dying. Chris said he was coming down with something serious. His heart was palpitating and I was thirsting for water like a dying man.

I can't remember if we caught a cab the rest of the way; the memories start to blur after a certain point.

Sickness, Again

While a bull burned in the night, with crowds cheering and celebrating, I was busy puking and shivering in our bungalow. Sickness had come on hard, just as it had in the Perhentians. There was something to this sickness though that really concerned me. The body aches were unlike anything I had experienced before, and I was shaking so hard that I had trouble turning the pages of my Bali travel guide, trying to determine my diagnosis.

As it turned out, Chris was fine, though he had declared sickness earlier that day. He was slightly irritated that I was sick again, as if I had a choice over the matter. My teeth were chattering and I couldn't sleep.

"This is serious," I told him.

"No more hospital stays," was his reply.

My concern was the bites I had received in Lovina. Though Bali is supposedly mosquito-free, there always existed the possibility of malaria in Southeast Asia. Searching through numerous guides, I found that Lovina wasn't in the safe zone. Wonderful, maybe this time I really had caught it.

Besides malaria, there was the risk of dengue fever, also transmitted by mosquitoes. From what I read, dengue fever is nasty stuff, with a high fever and terrible body aches. It was the pain that concerned me the most. I was in terrible pain, as if my bones and joints had turned against me.

Though Chris didn't seem concerned, Nana was insistent that I see a doctor, as she put her hand to my head. She summoned her husband with his van, and with that, Chris and I were off to a clinic.

The clinic in Ubud was of a very high standard. You could tell that it catered to rich foreigners. Indeed, the price we were charged there was on par with Western health care services. After taking a blood test and sussing out my symptoms, the doctor informed me that I simply had the flu. It was both a relief and an annoyance. I knew that Chris wouldn't allow me to get sick again after crying wolf so many times.

 

Actually, upon reflection, Chris had his fair share of sickness. Though he claims I got sick a lot on our travels, I only got really sick twice, and then I had my eye problem. But Chris was sick numerous times as well, even if he didn’t end up in a hospital or clinic. He suffered food poisoning in Kuala Lumpur, and experienced malaise in the Perhentians and in other locations. So to say I was constantly sick is untrue. I’ve set him straight on that many times. Anyway, side note over.

Still, the flu is the flu, and I had a nasty strand of it. Thank goodness we were hunkered down in Ubud for several nights in a very nice bungalow. I got the rest I needed and within several days I was back at it.

Our last night in Ubud we hit the town, with drinks at a nightclub. It was great to feel tipsy again, running across the yawning green in the dark. Hopefully all my injuries and sickness were now behind me.