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TALE STORY

With the arrival of each fresh Barong, tension heightened , until when the last one arrived, the excitement was like a net, binding the crowd together.
And when the small boys, now in deep trance, came leaping, writhing and screaming through the split gate and down the high steps leading from the inner temple, stabbing viciously at them- 'J selves with murderous looking krises, the onlookers were near hysteria point themselves.

As they finally flung themselves off the last step and on to the ground, the priests formed the boys into an unruly parade, in which the Barongs and Rangdas joined, the Rangdas menacing the boys with their magic white cloths, waved aloft in fearsome talon-tipped hands. At each flick of the cloth, the nearest boys went into fresh spasms with-renewed screaming.

An unforgettable experience.

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"There will be a Godfight at Pak Sebali Tommorrow," said Agung. "I think you should see it. And so I discovered another amazing festival.
Once a year, the gods from this, the villagers are divided by the priest into two groups. One section escorts the gods, the other remains to guard the temple go into trance, wildly waving their krises, beheading live chickens with their teeth, and generally behaving in a pretty rugged manner. When the gods return on the shoulders of their escorts, the guardians mistake them for demons. A fierce battle is waged, time and time again the gods, in their tiny straw-thatched house are turned back from the gates by the defenders. Eventually, after a lengthy and dusty tussle, the gods overpower the guardians and triumphantly, albeit a trifle jaded, re-enter their temple.
Yet another time Agung advised:
'On Thursday I go to our Family temple at Sukawati. They always have a very fine procession from the temple to the river. You mustn't miss it. You won't see its like anywhere else."

The procession was indeed spectacular. Scores of women, from tiny tots to grandmothers, all arrived in elaborate temple dress, gold flowers gleaming in their hair, a length of goldembossed brocade wrapped tightly around the body from the armpits down, while a further length was pulled between the feet and out the back, to sweep behind on the ground in a long graceful train.

To watch these exotic women parade barefooted along the busy highway was like seeing a fairytale come to life.

A morning came when Agung's car pulled up in front of my hotel. The driver handed my houseboy a note - the houseboy passed it to me:

"I am about to leave for Besakih to make special offerings for both my parents. Do you wish to come with me:

Travelling through the sawahs in the early morning sunshine, we arrived at Mother Temple while the sky was still a cloudless blue. Expert hands quickly draped the various bales with long lengths of white cloth, offerings were laid out - those for the gods inside the bales; those for the demons placed on the ground.

Mantras were recited, holy water sprinkled, music played. A permanku, briskly beating a small kul kul circled around the demons' ground offerings, systematically capsizing them all. This was the signal for the demons to clear out and keep out. A Balinese version of 'Here's your hat, what's your hurry.'

"This evening the Ubud Barong will visit a little village across the ricefields - about seven miles away. I will be walking there and back with it. Would you like to come with me.

Dear God' A 14-mile hike across flooded rice paddies in the dark I didn't possess that kind of stamina. Not so Agung. He went, spent the night praying in the temple, and came striding back through the sawahs with the Barong at firstlight next morning.
Now - no more will Agung stride through sunflushed paddies.
Agung is dead.
An era has ended.