I was invited by the professor Nyoman Sedana to see his performance in the story of Calonarang. Its enactment is seen often at the temples of Ubud, in the digestive quiet following soto ayam or nasi goreng. It is a wonderful spectacle enjoyed by many visitors on a nightly basis. This performance, however, would be part of the village ceremony. I was not aware, at first invitation, how this would differ from the dinner theater version.
Now I don't know the tale exactly, but my understanding is this:
The queen consort of a kingdom's ruler was banished for practicing black magic. When the king died she was further disgraced, a widow living in the wild. She sought revenge on the kingdom, on her son, now ruler of the land. She cast a plague on the people, unleashing demons and disease. Her son had no choice, but to fight her.
A battle brewed and the witch called on evil spirits. Her son brought his army to the forest and they faced one another. Fuelled by the power of Durga, the witch queen, now called Rangda, reigned terror on the battlefield. The king would have been defeated, had he not called upon a mythical creature of great strength and light, the Barong.
Using layak, black magic, Rangda cast a spell on the soldiers, making them want to kill themselves. They pointed their daggers at their chests. Barong countered her spell by making their bodies resistant to the sharp edge of their weapons. In the end, Barong, the spirit of good, proved stronger than Rangda and she ran away deep into the forest.
This confrontation, a fierce dance of light and dark, is the climax of the village ceremony.
***
It is near midnight in the temple of Tegallinggah. My two friends and I sit at the edge of the stage along with over one hundred Balinese people wearing sarongs and temple shirts. Children line the stage, candy wrappers in hand, many of them yawning. It has been several hours of sitting, watching dancers and comedians tell stories leading up to this.
Men and women dressed in white come out and douse us with holy water. We bow our heads and open our palms. Conscious preparation is required for the invitation of great spirits.
The klingkong of gamelan music has been keeping rhythm for hours. The musicians are trained, the notes practiced, but they do not respond to script. They listen as they play, engaged in percussive conversation. The metallic sound vibrates through the crowd.
Rangda appears. White hair erupts from her wild head. The mask is alive - its gaze penetrating. She looks at me through wooden eyes and chills pass through my bones. Her long fingers twitch with gross elegance as the gamelan orchestra plays. Striped with red, black and white, the legs of her dancer pound the stone, toes alive and pointed skyward. The sound does not dictate her movements - changes in tempo and urgency arise spontaneously between she and the musicians.
A woman stands in the open space behind the witch. Her eyes are glazed and she cries, wails, shaking. Another man screams, he punches his chest and throws his body hard on the temple cobblestones. They are in trance.
Barong stands at the entrance of his holy perch. Flanked on either side by priests, he prepares for battle. Shivering upon the stone staircase, trembling with animal presence, he descends. Two bodies animate the sacred being. The people watching breathe more deeply, their eyes open wider. The creature's gold and mirrored headdress flashes with each movement. His mouth opens and snaps shut. There is wildness in the colorful mask, its bulging eyes and giant fangs. It is not static, despite its wooden architecture. He is alive and watching.
More people are moved by the divine spectacle. Men pace beneath the stage, tears streaming down distorted faces. A woman lies prostrate at Barong's feet.
The gamelan players ride the animal's gestures. They translate movement into sound. It's like church bells, their movements as intoxicating as the holy sound. Incense burns in clusters, its earthy smell thickening the air around us. A charge moves through the audience as Barong and Rangda meet.
I feel it. I feel electrified. Here, we are - all of us - privy to a living myth.
Sacred daggers are scattered across the ground as Rangda and Barong circle one another on the stage. To my right men scream, bodies tensed. They lift the daggers, and drive them into their chests. There is no blood. The rusty implements bend as they meet flesh. They have Barong's protection.
A shirtless man enters the space. He beckons for something. Another brings back a fat bundle of burning incense. The man whacks himself, brushing his face with glowing embers. Again and again he orders more, beating himself with the burning end.
Some of the entranced scream. Terrifying screams. Rangda's profile meets that of Barong. Their confrontation erupts in flashing moments of wild movement, stomping, bursts of energy. Percussion builds, then quiets as the movement settles into predatory circling. Tension is felt throughout the organism of the ceremony.
There is a break in the dance. Another scream. The gamelan orchestra explodes and Rangda runs from the stage, guided by her consorts. The crowd parts like a Red Sea, falling aside to make way for her defeat. The sound of bells rises and Barong ascends to his world, lovingly escorted by holy men.
I look around for an indicator of the ceremony's completion, but nobody moves.
An old and wrinkled man, weaves to the stage. He appears drunk and soft bodied, but these watery movements are punctuated with electric charge. He screams and passes out. His caretakers lift his head and place seven eggs by his side. He wakes again and reveals a baby chicken in his hand. The boy behind me says, "Excuse me, but I think you do not want to see this."
"Why?" I ask, "Will he kill it?"
"He will eat it."
I turn back to the man. He wakes and wails, bites the head off of the young chicken and passes out again. The chicken's body flaps desperately in front of me. I could reach out and touch it if I wanted.
Disgust and wonder. A priest comes and lifts the man's head to give him holy water. Repossessed, he grabs the eggs and shoves them into his mouth. Whites and yolk spill from his mouth in slimy drippings. He gags and spits more onto his shirt. He grabs the chick's body and tears into it, making periodic whining sounds as he consumes. He falls back once more and a group of holy attendants carries him away with reverent dignity.
The gamelan stops. People get up quickly and walk to the area designated for prayer, the space from whence Barong and Rangda came. I look to my friends and slowly rise. We follow the stream of people and kneel. Another chicken is sacrificed. I look around me for clues as to how to behave. Heads down, genuflecting. The image of the man burning himself with incense flashes in my mind. When I look up. he is there walking by, unburnt and smiling, his once was blackened face washed and clear.
People begin to rise and depart. I do not know how to leave, how to be normal, how to thank everyone for allowing us to be part of something this intimate. We put our hands together and bow our heads to those we pass. Smiling openly, casually, those that speak English bid us goodnight. "Thank you," say the people of Tegallinggah, "for coming to our ceremony."
