Our “homestay” (guesthouse) in Munduk was situated near the top of one side of a steeply sloping valley and the door to our room opened onto a balcony that had a great view over the valley. At night, in between waves of cloud cover, the the stars shone brightly and blended into the lights of the town which were scattered throughout the lower parts of the valley.
We noticed a very bright star with a peculiar golden color just over the jagged horizon and I decided to look it up, thinking that it might be a planet. It was actually a star called Canopus that is only visible in the southern hemisphere, the second brightest star in the night sky. That was the first time I’d really taken a good look at the stars in the southern hemisphere and noticed how unfamiliar they look. I’d never consciously committed much of the night sky to memory but after seeing the north American version countless times over the course of 39 years, this sky did indeed look strange.
Many sounds find their way into our temporary homes, most frequently loudmouthed dogs, roosters, and motorbikes, and it’s essential to tune it all out in order to maintain one’s sanity. This particular night in Munduk, as we were admiring the stars, I noticed another sound. It was music, and not just a neighbor’s stereo. It had the special accents, clarity, and volume characteristics that only music being performed live can have.
At first I barely noticed it, but as it got later the other sounds slowly got quieter and mostly disappeared but the music seemed to get louder. Curiosity drew me out to the balcony over and over again and I tuned my aural focus a little more each time I went outside. It was coming from the opposite slope of the valley, a little bit lower than our place, but high enough that there was nothing but air between the musicians and our balcony. And they must have been outside or in a building without walls. The music was loud and clear.
The Balinese are known for their elaborate ceremonies involving music and dance and this was obviously one of them. Fern and I were fortunate enough to see a couple of performances in Ubud but this was the real deal. Deep gongs and drums slowly built up a trance-inducing rhythmic structure while ringing metallic percussion wove frantic counter rhythms around it. It was sounding somewhat similar to the gamelan we saw in Ubud but then the singer entered into the picture.
Over the building intensity of the percussion a man sang in a style that I’ve come to associate with prayer calls from mosques. He wailed, musically crying his way through dark, middle-eastern sounding scales. He sounded like he was exploding with emotion and yet maintained the control necessary to finely ornament his melody. They performed several pieces, each one building in intensity over the course of 30 or 45 minutes. I was moved by the haunting beauty and energy of it. And that was from the other side of the valley. I could only imagine what it would be like to be in the same room as those musicians.
Imagining that made me start to conjure little plans that would not come to fruition. I could follow the sound and walk over to the source, lurking in the shadows so that nobody would notice the tall long-haired white guy in his shorts and tank top. Of course if I actually found it I’m guessing they would just invite me in but it was probably not realistic to think that I could find it and even if I could, it would take a very very long time. It was pretty far away. Winding up lost in the forest in the middle of the night…well, it wouldn’t have been the first time.
I tried not think about getting closer and just enjoyed it for what it was, to me, at that moment. It definitely boosted my curiosity about Balinese ceremonies. The next day I mentioned it to someone, a local, and they told me there was a birth ceremony the night before. Not what I expected to hear. It seemed odd to me that such a frenzied and mournful sounding music would accompany a birth ceremony. Then again, what do I know? It only happened to me once, and I certainly don’t remember it.
The traditional Balinese have a very unique way of looking at things and perhaps their understanding of birth is one example. I’ve only witnessed the tip of the iceberg but to me it seems they live in a fascinating and beautiful reality, very different from my own.
jim@snorkelbandits.com