Munduk Village

Location:
Indonesia

Bali Country Living

By Penny E. Schwartz

A guttural "Yah!" pierced the air as we checked into our little house at Puri Lumbung Cottages. The sound was to punctuate the three days that I spent with my son in this small town in the northern mountains of Bali.

Beyond the cottage windows, human scarecrows patrolled the rice fields from sunup to sundown, waving bamboo poles topped with colorful flags. With a loud "Yah!," they were shooing away any birds with the chutzpah to think they could sample the villagers' wares. The pregnant rice fields, their stalks a week away from harvest, stretched to the far-away Bali Sea.

Michael and I had come to Puri Lumbung because it advertised itself as a "cultural hotel" and offered opportunities to interact with local villagers, who came to the hotel to teach classes. Tired of the bustle of the beach resorts and hustle of the vendors, we were seeking a chance to experience a slice of Balinese life in the interior.

Our first impression of the hotel cottage was positive. Set on stilts, the two-story wooden structure featured an upstairs sleeping area that opened to a sweeping view of the rice fields. Mosquito netting around each of the two twin beds gave us a shiver, but an abundance of mosquito coils and matches set our minds somewhat at rest. Downstairs we found a large bathroom with a shower open to the outside elements, a feature of many Balinese hotel accommodations. Outside the front door, beneath the sleeping room, was a raised platform where one could sit and enjoy the breezes, hang one's laundry, or just hang out. Along the pathways of the hotel, tropical flowers grew in abundance. Yellow spiky ones resembled miniature pineapples and bougainvillea bloomed in every hue. Each day, it seemed, we encountered a flower we had never seen before.

Our second impression was also a good one. Dinner at the resort's restaurant proved to be excellent. By then, we had had a few days of Indonesian cooking under our belts, so we knew good Nasi Goreng when we tasted it. A traditional Indonesian dish, it features fried rice blanketed by the ubiquitous Balinese scrambled egg pancake and accompanied by the puffy fried shrimp cracker we had come to know and love. We also became addicted to Balinese fresh fruit juices; my favorite was watermelon, while Michael usually enjoyed the pineapple version. While we sipped these, we played with the tabby cat that always seemed to know when it was our meal time. We dined on one of three wooden platforms; the one we usually chose was perched high up like a tree house, with a commanding view over the nearby village's rice fields.

After returning to our room, as essence of mosquito coil wafted through our sleeping quarters, we made our selection of classes from the hotel's long and varied list. Being a dabbler in crafts and professional foodie, I chose both weaving and cooking classes. My son, a director interested in Balinese theater and arts, picked a dance class for himself. Together, we selected a local trekking expedition and opted for soothing massages.

The next morning found us wending our way down the road into Munduk village, a town of about 6,000 inhabitants, to ferret out some locals on our own. This area of northern Bali surrounds Lake Tamblingan, a local cultural center for 2000 years. Dutch occupation of Munduk and neighboring villages during the 19th century brought a western influence to the area. Reminders remain in some of the architecture, including the tin roofs, and in the variety of local crops, such as coffee, vanilla, cloves and cocoa, that can be seen drying in the sun.

Our first stop was at a small storefront, where handmade books covered in pressed local leaves caught my eye. Striking up a conversation with Made, the young man who ran the store, we discovered that his family compound lay just down the hill. At that moment, his father, the local Hindu priest, was finishing up a temple ceremony. "He's blessing all the young women who are celebrating their 'first blood,'" Made explained. "First blood" refers to a woman's first menstruation, a significant rite of passage in Bali. Made invited us to come down with him to the family compound, which we were happy to do.

There we met his extended family members and sampled triangles of black sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf. These tasted sweet and pleasant, and we washed them down with the strong, chewy "kopi Bali" coffee for which we were acquiring a certain taste. Made's father soon scooped a wad of chewing tobacco from a straw container and, noting Michael's interest, offered him some. Always adventurous, Michael accepted the offering and popped it in his mouth. Red juice soon dribbled from the sides of his mouth. "Feh!," he mumbled as he quickly spit out the wad, but not before staining his tongue bright red. For hours afterward, Michael was spitting up acrid-tasting juice and clearing his throat, vowing to give up this nasty habit before he got started.

In the meantime, we learned that Made was the second child of his family, named "Number Two" (Made) for his birth order, as all Balinese children are. Wayan is Number One, Komang Number Three and Nyoman Number Four, whether a boy or girl. "That's why Wayan is the most common name in Bali," Made explained.

We returned to our cottage just in time to meet the weaving teacher, an older village woman with a kind face and manner. Parking myself on the pleasant platform beneath our cottage, I spent an hour bending bamboo and palm leaves into shapes that would hold the flowers, rice and other offerings that Balinese leave in doorways and shrines to appease the gods. "Bagoos!" ("Excellent!") my instructor would exclaim to encourage me in my tedious and badly folded work. When I had finished, she graciously thanked me for being such a good student. "Teri Makasi," she said, affording me the opportunity to use my favorite Indonesian expression in return. "Sama Sama," I said, which means, "You're welcome." I was beaming with pleasure at my linguistic triumph.

After lunch we headed back down to town with the driver who had brought us to Munduk. He had promised to take us to the cockfight. Being of a sensitive, squeamish disposition, I was not sure that I could stomach this indigenous event, but I tried to treat it as a must-see cultural experience. Being the only female in a small covered arena filled with chattering males did not enhance my comfort level, but soon I was swept away in the drama of the event.

Handlers displayed roosters with steel claws strapped onto their feet while audience members engaged in some form of betting strategy inscrutable to our Western understanding. All were chanting, expostulating, and making hand gestures we could not comprehend. Michael, however, wanted to wager on the mean-looking white rooster. I preferred the pretty, multicolored one but not enough to invest in him monetarily. Through gestures and eye contact, Michael succeeded in placing a bet with the help of a man seated on a nearby bench. Soon the first fight started and, sitting a distance away, I happily did not see much blood drawn before the white cock was declared the winner. Pleased and smug, Michael pocketed his winnings. I was just glad that I hadn't thrown up or passed out.

We left the stadium after several more duels. Outside, I purchased a lethal-looking, hand-forged cleaver for chopping chicken, knowing my purchase would evoke colorful memories once I was home. Everyone we questioned later about the intricacies of cock fight betting claimed to know nothing about it, so we never did figure it all out.

Back at the hotel, Michael prepared for his dance lesson, while I prepared to watch. Soon a wiry, athletic man of indeterminate age appeared at the stage area, wearing a T-shirt that bore his own unmistakable likeness. Before beginning, he showed us a book of clippings and testimonials about his career. When the lesson finally began, I stared in amazement at his rigid body posture, exaggerated facial motions and bugged-out eyes that seemed to stare right past me. Behind him, Michael awkwardly tried to mimic the jerky, stylized movements that characterize Balinese dance. "Follow me, follow me," Nyoman shouted as he pranced across the small arena, pretending to hold up the skirt-like sarong he would be wearing if he were actually performing. It was quite comical and I thoroughly enjoyed the show, especially when he finished up with a rendition of his specialty, the "Warrior Dance," for his private audience of two. For days afterward, Michael and I would attempt to emulate Nyoman's facial gestures as we held our hands in position and wiggled our fingers the way he had done.

Cooking class was up next, and soon the ovens in the hotel's traditional kitchen were blazing. A young village woman, accompanied by an interpreter, appeared with baskets of ingredients, pots and pans and a stone mortar and pestle to help me prepare several native dishes (black bean soup, fish wrapped in banana leaf, edible fern) I had selected from a menu. Although I was supposed to learn how to cook these, mostly I sat and watched as she ground together ingredients I did not recognize in ways I could never duplicate. I did mash a few things in the mortar with the pestle and managed to fold several triangles of sweet, gummy rice flour into banana leaves for dessert. The end products of the class became our dinner, which proved to be the worst-tasting meal we had at Puri Lumbung. Thus began and ended my career as an Indonesian chef.

The next morning, we cantered down to the village once more, where we had arranged with Made to guide us through the local rice fields. We had cancelled our hotel-arranged trek and opted for his company instead. Soon we were lumbering along local lanes and finding a foothold among the paddy paths. Never had I been so close to gestating rice, and I studied with interest the stalks, resembling corn, that held the individual rice grains. Although they were about a week from being harvested, these fields hosted the inanimate scarecrows I have encountered at home. They did not shout "Yah!" and wave their sticks, so I do not know how effective they were, but they certainly looked colorful enough.

I had told Made that I wanted to buy a local basket, so he stopped to visit an old woman he said was his grandmother. Her little storefront offered intricately woven baskets the likes of which I had seen nowhere else. I was thrilled to purchase a woven box with lid and a round basket punctuated with tiny woven points. My day's shopping needs were satisfied, as they had been the day before with the little leaf-covered books.

Returning perspired and depleted from our walk, Michael and I were able to relax and enjoy our pre-arranged massage session back in our room. A hefty male attacked Michael, while an equally agile female took me on. A desk chair turned strategically sideways was all that separated my own naked body from the bed with my son's. The two massage practitioners conversed in Balinese, and I wondered if they were discussing local politics or bits of village gossip. It was a fairly strange experience, but soon I settled into the sensations of the moment and felt the tensions leave my body.

The next morning, our last in Munduk, we again trekked down to the village to partake in a ceremony at the local temple. Wearing our newly purchased sarongs and sashes, which the villagers helped us wrap properly, we entered the temple area and enjoyed the cacophonous gamelan music supplied by a group of colorfully dressed men. Nearby women were weaving offering baskets. A huge display of intricate and colorful offerings sat on large tables. Fresh whole oranges and apples were piled high on platters, topped with pressed chickens, head and feet attached. A huge pig's head anchored another offering display. We wandered around, politely refused the offer of food, and finally left the compound to wend our way back to the cottage for the last time.

That afternoon, we had to leave Puri Lumbung for our next destination. We departed feeling sad but satisfied that we had experienced a more in-depth view of Bali than we had seen at the beach resorts. Only one mystery remained: Did the little black droppings that appeared on our cottage's patio table each morning come from the nearby trees or from visiting bats? As we were too squeamish to probe the tiny black balls for ourselves, we never learned the answer. Perhaps we should have stood guard on our balcony, shaking poles and yelling “Yah!” all night long.