The Modern Dilemma of the Bali Tourist
& the search for authenticity
by Leah Hope Sindel 2014
I am a Bali tourist. I am one amongst the ranks of many. In the same camp as every beer-swilling, stumbling party goer; every middle-class, heavily-bejewelled woman who spends hours arguing in nasal and obnoxious tones with local shopkeepers; just the same as every verbose, pseudo-spiritual, gap-year yoga student who has taken up the pursuit of enlightenment as a part time hobby; just the same as every backpacker here for the ‘atmosphere’ of a thousand westernised café’s and bars, seeking only to meet a thousand other backpackers with similar agendas. I am a Bali tourist.
It may be evident from the description above that the term ‘Bali Tourist’ is one towards which I have a rather long-standing aversion. Indeed the term ‘tourist’ is mildly offensive to most people these days. I have met many persons who indignantly insist on being referred to as ‘travellers’ not tourists, so as to draw a
distinct line between themselves and at least the first two categories of tourist-type listed above. But tourist
or traveller - the fact remains that Bali is positively flooded with both, and has been for some time now. Bali is
decidedly on the beaten track; and the virtues of the destination are widely extolled in backpacker forums,
five star resort publications, and popular best-selling novels. When you come to Bali, you come to a place
where many have gone before you.
Balinese lady.
I was certainly a reluctant convert to Bali. Having lived in Indonesia for almost 11 years now, mostly in Java and West Papua, I very quickly (and foolishly) formed an opinion of Bali by observing the vast majority of people who went there. These persons were observed mostly in airports - tired, sunburnt families with stained BINTANG singlets, tightly braided hair, and high-pitched, whining children; scantily clad, hungover-looking students with cheap, vaguely eastern-looking tattoos surrounded by newly inflamed skin; long-haired shirtless youths loudly exchanging stories of improbable amorous pursuits, and vying for supremacy amongst each other in accounts of the most alcohol consumed in one night. I formed an idea of Bali quickly - and it was not long before I found myself actively avoiding the place for anything except cheap international flights in and quick domestic flights out.
Woman carrying a tray of offerings to the local temple.
It therefore came as quite a shock to me when I recently fell in love with Bali.
I had undertaken a long sailing holiday on a friend’s yacht, and I was informed that the end of the Indonesian leg of the journey (where I would disembark) would be Bali. As such, I made quick mental calculations as to how fast I could arrange a flight out of there after we docked. But circumstances conspired to prevent my immediate departure – there were visa extensions to organise, 6 months worth of clothes and equipment from the sailing trip to stow somewhere, and various practical errands, which had long been put off, to run. I ended up hanging around for a week; then two. Then three. I began to realise that this was turning into the first time I had ever considered that Bali was, in fact, an extraordinary place.
Even a traveller as reluctant and ignorant as myself cannot help being struck by the art & architecture of Bali. Everywhere the brick and stone tiers are ornately carved with mystical and bizarre creatures – demons, guardians, ornate anthropomorphic entities. One afternoon, I entered a workshop-turned-display-house in a village which was, I was assured, very much famed for its wood carvings. I passed a row of bales, where a dozen or so artists were casually shaping the blocks of wood in front of them into sculptures of extraordinary intricacy. A young man squinted at his work through a haze of smoke from the ever-present cigarette on his lips. He chuckled, appreciatively but without looking up, when he heard me speak Bahasa Indonesia to the owner. Near him, an old woman in a faded T-shirt and an exquisite maroon-and-gold threaded sarong studiously polished the delicate wooden forms of Rama & Sita in an embrace.
The owner allowed me some time to stroll through the gallery inside. There was a 10 foot high,
unbelievably detailed depictions of a triumphant man with his eyes ablaze, astride a bizarre bird-
headed creature – Vishnu, the owner informed me, riding the garuda. There were beautiful depictions of Ganesha, wreathed in flowers and holding a sceptre in his hand. There were sleek and stunning portraits of Saraswati, atop an elegant long-necked goose, delicately brandishing a slender stringed instrument – she was, I was told, revered for bringing to the people of Bali education and the arts.
Saraswati, goddess of learning and the arts.
a There were rows of curious and pointed inter-twined lovers, an enormous array of both common and mythic animals, and the walls were covered in a great variety of masks. One of the faces depicted on the masks seemed vaguely familiar - I recalled it on houses and buildings in the village streets. This face, the owner explained, was Barong, the good spirit who guarded every house. He indicated a different mask nearby and inquired as to whether I had seen it before. This face, he said, was Rangdu, a spirit representing evil, which was also used to adorn houses. When I asked him how it was that an evil spirit guarded the house alongside a benign one, he shrugged. A faint smile arose on his face. It was very apparent that he knew from experience that this was not a concept most Westerners seemed to grasp easily. How can you have one, without the other? he asked. Good, evil, darkness, light. What is the meaning of full, if empty does not exists? he said. He shrugged again and pointed to the protruding elongated tongue of Rangda – this, he informed me, was how I could tell the faces apart. The long tongue symbolised the fact that Rangda was of course a woman, a witch in fact. For it was well known that all women chatter endlessly...
Barong, the protective lion spirit.
Rangdu, witch of evil repute.
He peered at me solemnly but with a distinct twinkle in his eye - surely I understood this to be true? I chuckled, and thanked him for his time. He smiled as he escorted me out and lit a cigarette as he waived goodbye. The kindly twinkle did not leave his eye as I returned his wave and climbed back into the car.
Barong and Rangda, I came to understand reflected a very important principal in Balinese culture and life – the distinct existence of opposites - day/night, good/evil, mountain/sea – and the absolute acceptance of all these elements. The darker side of life, which seems to be so deeply abhorred and banished in other major religions, appears to be placidly accepted, indeed incorporated in the realities of life for the Balinese. It is also interesting to note that the ‘missionary instinct’, the insatiable desire to inform and reform all other cultures and beliefs, which is so prevalent in other major religions that exist in Indonesia, simply does not seem to be present in Balinese spirituality.
The Balinese revere their spiritual ideas and the manifestations of them, in a thousand different forms. Alongside the depictions of a multitude of local spirits and demi-gods, sculptures and paintings of a vast array of traditional Hindu deities can be seen everywhere. Many of the most striking and elaborate depictions can be seen on the intersections of large roads in the cities. They are commercial, government-sponsored works of art – they are also quite wonderful. It is fascinating to compare these to Western public works of art - the comparison, to my mind, makes their elaborate and fantastic forms all the more charming.
Ghatotkacha & Prince Karna of the Mahabharata.
Roundabout near Bali Airport.
Kumbhakarna, under attack from Rama's monkey army.
Bali Botanic Gardens.
Mahabharata hero Arjuna, with serpents.
Ubud intersection.
Lord Vishnu, atop the garuda.
Street in Bali.
Memorial Sculpture.
Circular Quay Sydney, Australia.
Street sculpture.
Connecticut, USA
Street sculpture.
Brisbane City Hall, Brisbane, Australia
Street sculpture.
London, UK.
Balinese civilisation has deep roots in time. The island has numerous temples and monuments that were built over a thousand years ago. One in particular caught my attention recently. While leafing through an expatriate newspaper over coffee one morning, I came upon an article about an extraordinary site called Goa Gajah, (lit. elephant cave). One morning soon after this, I found myself driving through a maze of ripe green rice fields, rows of silver jewellery shops, and a myriad of café’s, temples and small convenience stores. I had set off in the early morning as I had been advised that the site was to be closed that afternoon – a convoy of government cars were to arrive, and the local mayor would descend the ancient stone steps to wash his face in the purifying spring water, just as the old kings of Bali had done centuries ago. I was pleased to see that the site was rather quiet, and only half of the adjacent souvenir stalls were open. I wrapped a soft green sarong over my pants and tucked the ends into my belt so as not to trip over it with my sneakers. All visitors to Goa Gajah, I had been informed, must wear a sarong, and the handful of other tourists present looked just as odd as I did, clumsily waddling about with a hastily donned brightly coloured sarong tucked in over jeans. I walked slowly down the path, and Goa Gajah came into sight.
A deep pit housed six extraordinary moss-covered, large-breasted women, each of whom held a jar from which water spouted into a pool below. There was a narrow stone-paved walkway separating the women down the middle. Inside the shallow mucky pool a handful of orange koi fish dawdled around the bright green algae-covered rubble, content and indifferent to the six beautiful water bearers. The steps leading down to the pool were worn concave from so many feet, but whether from the traffic of ancient or modern footsteps, it was difficult to say.
Goa Gajah dates back hundreds of years, although scholars disagree on various dates that range from the 9th to the 11th century. The cave itself was first excavated in 1922; later excavations of the area in the 1950’s revealed the pool with the beautiful attendant water-bearing women. The identity of the site was pieced together from various ancient texts and poems which referred to a sacred retreat, near an 'elephant river' (or 'elephant water'). Today the scene gives the modern observer an almost anguishing thrill, for the site gives the impression of being only fractionally explored and unearthed. The pool lies apart from the cave entrance, and near this is a neat, un-turned grassy slope. Surrounding this area is an expansive modern grey-brick pavement walkway.
The extraordinary entrance to the cave at Goa Gajah.
One trembles to think of the excitement of Nieuwenkamp, the Dutch
soldier artist, when he first sketched the newly earth-brushed sculptures. (See also A.J. Bernet Kempers fascinating book Monumental Bali: Introduction to Balinese Archaeology & Guide to the Monuments). The mouth of the cave that survives today must surely be a shadow of what it was at the height of its glory – nonetheless the impression is remarkable. One enters the mouth and passes through a dark, narrow tunnel leading to a “T” – to the right and the left, the passage delves deeper at seemingly equal distances. A beautiful Ganesha sculpture sits at the far left end, and three mysterious and smooth linggas, rounded forms representative of Shiva, sit in the dark recesses of the right corner. Before these are various snuffed sticked of incense, and a scratched, grimy plastic bowl filled water. Floating in the water are frangipani flowers, with which to sprinkle a blessing on the images.
The beautiful water bearers.
Three linggas, powerful symbolic representations of Shiva.
The deep concave ledges along the cave walls, I had read, were thought to be sleeping compartments for the cave, which many scholars believe to be some kind of ancient retreat. The damp tracks of clinging tree roots wander through the ledges now, and in small grottos in the walls I met several soggy, contented-looking toads. I admired the ganesha, and the three phallic, smooth stone linggas, and watched the indifferent toads. Two middle aged French ladies entered the compartment and glanced around, sweaty and expectant. The air in the cave was damp and heavy, and one of the women absently hoisted her sarong up to her thighs and tuck it in to her pants. She glanced at the Ganesha, and then, noticing my attention drawn to the corner, leaned forward and frowned at the damp, unassuming toad. She strode up to the other end of the enclosure, squinted at the odd rounded linggas, and then turn around abruptly. The ladies wandered back through the open-mouth entrance fanning themselves, past the tourists shrouding the outer entrance, waiting for the exiting traffic to abate in order to take photographs.
The toad blinked at me, and I ambled slowly along toward the exit. As I was about to enter the main tunnel, I noticed in a dark recess of the wall a small, rounded vessel stuck into the rock. An oil lamp most likely, with a fragment of wick protruding from the stem. The Ganesha and the linggas were lit by dusty dim-yellow electric bulbs, but the sight of the oil lamp, dry and defunct spoke volumes, and bestowed up on the entire cavern, and all its inhabitants, Ganesha, Shiva and the toads, a mysterious glow.
A toad.
'The Tempation of Arjuna' by Rudolph Bonnet. Bonnet was one of many European artists who lived in Bali during the 1930s and 40s.
in the style of the era, powdered and with dark lipstick; in some scenes she wore a rounded felt hat.
She was clearly overwhelmed with joy, and enraptured by her surroundings. She smiled ceaselessly
as she posed with the bare-breasted Balinese girls, or watched the traditional dancers, every
deliberate twitch of their heads causing the dangling gold appendages on their headdress to flicker
in the sunlight. The couple wandered extensively over the island it seemed, always surrounded by
smiling or perplexed looking Balinese people, who posed with the woman and gazed at the camera
with amusement or baffled wonder. The slightly accelerated speed of the movements, and the
dusty flecks on the old film made the scene all the more extraordinary, like looking into another world. Who was this exquisite smiling woman, and her presumably dapper, wealthy and adventurous companion? Were they both as mad with joy as they seemed the entire time they were in Bali? Did they fling themselves, exhausted and elated, into the thin sheets of their hotel bed at the end of the day, happily swatting mosquitoes, and fall asleep in one another’s arms? Did they have any idea that what they saw and what they experienced would never again be, never again exist save in the projection of their personal home movies on a whitewashed wall above the neon glare of a bustling supermarket? I had an overwhelming impulse to reach up and touch the woman on the screen, to stand on a chair and implore any passers by to tell me who she was, where she had lived, what she had seen. I want the Bali she had, so bad it aches.
Several years ago I was passing through Bali on business, and found myself one evening picking up supplies at a rather upscale western supermarket. I finished my shopping swiftly, and was about to wander out again when my attention was diverted by a projector film displaying onto an
enormous white wall. The film was black and white, and clearly a home-movie. It was difficult for
an amateur like myself to date, but could have easily been from the 1920s or 30s. It appeared to be
the recordings of a couple on holiday. The man was never seen, and was clearly operating the camera. The woman was young, not yet thirty, and very beautiful. She was heavily made up
Sometimes when I wander through the streets I am thoroughly alarmed at some of the sights that modern Bali offers.
There are drunken, bloated white men laughing uproariously and draped over pretty young Balinese girls dressed in gaudy fluorescent-coloured slips with sparkling plastic high-heeled shoes. There are old women with white hair and faces creased into a permanent frown, fanning themselves on a corner of the cool tiled floor while their grandchildren smile ingratiatingly at the coarse, obnoxious tourist contesting the price of a t-shirt depicting a bare-breasted blonde on a motor cycle. There are miles of chic, overpriced, air-conditioned café’s boasting clean and polished mass-made replicas of various sculptures and prints, often with flyers in the window advertising the acquisition of inner peace via corporate yoga retreats. There are shopping malls with an endless stream of unnecessary, expensive, fashionable clothes and jewellery. The streets are lined with plastic – indeed the enormous landfill in Sarangan with its bulldozer-cut tiers is densely lined with colourful protruding plastic-bag fragments, and has the eerie atmosphere of some dismal future archaeological site.
Sometimes when I reflect on these things, and on what I imagine Bali must have been before the advent of mass tourism I am reminded of a passage in one of my favourite novels by Iris Murdoch, entitled The Sea, The Sea. The main character Charles is spending an evening with his elusive and kindly cousin, who has travelled for some years in the East. As the wine loosens his tongue, Charles blurts out his suspicions at his cousin James’ apparent idolization of a country.
“I cant understand your attitude to Tibet.”
“To Tibet?”
“Yes, oddly enough! Surely it was just a primitive superstitious medieval tyranny.”
“Of course it was a primitive superstitious medieval tyranny,” said James, “who’s disputing that?”
“You seem to be. You seem to regard it as a lost Buddhist paradise.” […]
“I don’t regard it as a Buddhist paradise. Tibetan Buddhism was in many ways thoroughly corrupt. It was a wonderful human relic, a last living link with the ancient world, an extraordinary untouched country with a unique texture of religion and folklore. All this has been destroyed deliberately, ruthlessly and unselectively. Such a quick, thoughtless destruction of the past must always be a matter of regret whatever the subsequent advantages.”
Of course neither Balinese (nor, one would argue, Tibetan) culture has been obliterated, and it would be sacrilege to compare the effects of mass tourism to the invasion and occupation of Tibet. Nonetheless, a nostalgia remains as strong as ever, captivating all discerning tourists who visit the island for what Bali must have been like a hundred years ago.
It takes a discerning eye and some practice to find an authentic experience in Bali - but these experiences can still be found. In some places, the atmosphere is so electric with myth and culture and art and bloodshed you feel as though your brain will explode. You gasp and stutter and are utterly transported. And this very experience casts a colourful shadow on the way you view the rest of day-to-day life in modern Bali. Even the faintest glimpse of anything genuine about Balinese culture is enough to dispel the effect of the seedy drunken tourists and the plastic in the gutters. Like most eperiences of value, the search for authenticity in Bali is not easy - but the rewards are sufficient to persuade even the most cynical traveller.