Ubud: Bali up Close
Ubud is the cultural centre of Bali. Early every evening and during much of the day, the sound of the traditional gambelan orchestras filters down the street and across the rice paddies from the many places where the musicians meet to play or rehearse. Of course we had to see at least one traditional dance. We had a taste of these spectacles on our way to Ubud, when we had stopped for a Barong and Rangda dance, performed in a big hall with five thousand high school students in attendance. It turned out that all the schools in Jakarta had sent their juniors to an educational tour of Bali that week and all the dance venues were packed to the rafters. We sat high up, squeezed in tightly between people who packed the benches and the stairs, looking down at the near-riot around the stage (the dancers enjoy interacting with the audience—especially during the scary scenes) and I made up my mind there and then to look at Balinese dance more closely once we got to Ubud.
While John rested, I went to the tourist information and obtained the listings of performances for every day of the week, reading like a long exotic menu. In addition to the Barong dance, there was the energetic kecak dance, with fires and chanting; the topeng dance with masked actors; Janger recitals and—the one I wanted to see the most—the graceful Legong dance.
My mind was quickly made up when I saw that Yamasari was performing that night in their home village of Peliatan (free transport included in the ticket price). I counted myself lucky that the performance was not sold out, considering the reputation of that troupe. And doubly lucky because in the low season, they only dance once a week: tonight.
John and I showed up at the Tourist information before the appointed time, but there were no people waiting. Strange, I thought. The time for the pick-up came and passed and with only ten minutes to go before the scheduled start of the performance, John went inside and had a word with the guy at the desk. I saw him speaking on the phone, then handing the receiver to John. Five minutes later John reappeared with a grim expression on his face: “That told them!” he said.
“What?”
“Apparently there’s been a change of plan. No bus. They’re sending a car.”
“Well, that’s very good of them.”
He looked at me: “Really? Oh god, I hope I haven’t shouted at them too much!”
The car was there ten minutes later—driven by one of the musicians, already dressed in traditional costume. We cringed slightly as we got in. It transpired that we were the only spectators to arrange transport that night. I assumed the rest of the audience would be bussed in on tour coaches.
Peliatan is really a suburb of Ubud; it would not have cost much to take a cab there. Expectantly, we stepped into the lavishly decorated hall. There, in the middle of the sweeping floor facing the stage were two rows of chairs, perhaps a dozen in all. A forlorn Japanese woman sat in one of them. If it wasn’t for us, she would have been all alone.
Behind the scenes, thirty-five musicians and dancers prepared for their performance.
My heart was hammering. I was nervous. What if no more people came? What was the delay; was the tour coach on its way? But if so, where were the seats?
“Why are there so few chairs?” I whispered.
“That’s probably all the tickets they sold,” John answered. But he was wrong. There were no more people. We were the audience.
I sat up stiffly as three stunningly beautiful women entered the stage for the welcome dance, showering us with petals; one of them maintaining eye contact the whole time and smiling as if she shared a private joke. I tried to blank out the empty seats around us and focussed on the performance, barely daring to breathe as one of Bali’s most famous dance troupes performed for our eyes only.
“Nod and smile,” I whispered to John when the dance had finished and our clapping echoed feebly in the big hall: “pretend you are foreign dignitary!”
In Sulawesi I found out what it is like to be a rock star (not always easy); now I found out what it is like to be royalty.
The second dance was a ‘Baris’ or warrior dance, traditionally performed by a male dancer. However, we were not sure whether the dancer was male or female: (s)he was of slight build, with feminie hands but short hair. The dance was full of expression: the passion and anguish of a warrior preparing for battle. This was followed by the Legong of the Palace which tells the story of the maiden Rangkesari, taken captive by the King of Laserm and her brother, the Prince of Daha, who threatens war unless she is freed—but to no avail. It includes a long segment of legong danced by two dancers moving in mirror image. Every movement, from the tips of the fingers to the position of the eyeballs, is controlled and heavy with symbolism. I still play it in my mind and wish I had a video. But of course I did not dare to even take out my camera.
The Yamasari troupe danced a full program of ninety minutes, then one of the musicians waved over to us: it was the guy who had driven us there.
“Wait here,” he said: “My wife’s just getting changed. I’ll drive you back!”
We asked the Japanese woman whether she needed a lift, but she looked at us vacantly, then shrugged. She spoke no English. She must have balls of steel to go out all by herself without speaking a word of either English or Bahasa.
As promised, Gede and his wife drove us back. On the way, we stopped at a small restaurant for dinner. His wife was one of the legong dancers and his daughter, the one who seemed to share a private joke with us, the other. Gede himself was part of the orchestra but also danced occasionally. And the mystery of the Baris dancer was soon explained: it was his son—just twelve years old. They don’t do this full time, you understand: Gede and his wife run a guest house on Monkey Forest Road to make ends meet.
They gave us their address—alas it is lost along with the rest of my notes which I didn’t copy. The Yamasari troupe have performed at international festivals in Denmark and Japan. They’d love to come to Britain one day. They are easily good enough to fill the Royal Albert Hall, but would fit in particularly well with an international dance festival or the Edinburgh festival (not the fringe, they would have to make enough money to cover their expenses). We left them with our address and email and perhaps they’ll be in touch. It’s a shame that I’m no promoter, because they are definitely worth catching.
Before we got out of the car back on Hannoman street, I asked Gede why they bothered performing to such a tiny audience in the middle of the low season. “We’ve got to keep up the standard,” he said: “—we can’t stop playing or dancing just because there’s no audience!”
Tags: SE Asia, Tag Index
Denni