Ghosts (Bali)

“Where are you going? Aren’t you afraid?” Wayan waylaid me as I hurried in my sarong and best kebaya down the moonlit dirt road. I was startled not by Wayan, but by his question. What could there be to fear here, in this Balinese village tucked into the hills, so far from the outside world. “Afraid of what?” I asked him. He looked at me seriously, obviously amazed at my stupidity, and answered, “Ghosts.”

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m just going to join Made and the others.” I was hurrying to join my friend Made and other young people who were guarding the area where villagers spent every waking hour preparing for the upcoming village-wide cremation. The preparations were prolonged and complex. Many ceremonies had to be precisely executed before the village dead could be put to rest, about 20 of them, most of whom had been buried in the graveyard for years, awaiting this group cremation. Tourists often see the final fiery cremation ceremonies, but there are weeks and weeks of work and ceremonies that precede the big send-off.

“You can’t go alone. I will walk with you,” insisted Wayan quietly.

I tried not to roll my eyes, Wayan was such a good kid, and I knew there would be no dissuading him. “You should not be out alone at night by yourself. Aren’t you afraid of the leyaks?”

I had actually never felt safer in my life. What were ghosts and the shape-shifting witches called leyaks next to the terrors of the city streets back home in the States? I didn’t know enough to be afraid yet... I didn’t know enough to realize that back in the villages, the magic still swirled through the rice fields and the coconut trees and the family compounds, and skimmed along the surfaces of the rivers.



The late night ceremony had not yet begun when we arrived at Preparation Headquarters, a cleared field where the families had built what I can only describe as sort of bamboo trade show booths. They had built one for each loved one; within each was neatly folded ceremonial clothing for the departed, flower offerings and photographs or artist renderings of their likenesses. The mood was anything but somber. Made had obviously had a few beers, and everyone was sitting around laughing and telling jokes.


Made's mother appeared with other older members of the village. She carried the spray cologne I had brought her from the States. My mother had ordered it from QVC and given it to me; I had thought it smelled like bug spray and regifted it. To my horror, Made's mother sprayed the clothing symbolically laid out for Made's dead aunt, then passed it to other people who sprayed clothing of their loved ones with this awful cologne. I watched helplessly as the cologne made it's way around almost every one of the booths. It's not like the dead would actually be dressed in this clothing, I thought. These people had been bones for awhile, and it was bones that would be cremated. But I couldn't help feeling guilty; it would be my fault if they stunk like cheap cologne for all eternity. Maybe I should start watching out for ghosts after all...

PHOTOS:
1. Wayan
2. Made's sister, Kommi, me and some friends at the "trade show booths"
3. Made's grandfather sitting in the "trade show booth" prepared for Made's deceased cousin