celebrating
on just such a day. A visitor can easily get bogged down in offerings
or lose his way in the streams of people to-ing and fro-ing between
various ceremonies.
Kuningan,
being the final day of a 10-day splurge of festivity, is like this,
only more so. An incredible number of ceremonies are crammed into
the bare 24-hours allotted to this one day. No-one could hope to
see them all in the one day. If Kuningan had 48 hours, you'd still
be pressed for time.
This
then, was the problem. Confronted with a dizzy choice of once-a-year-only
festivals, what to see? Well, for a kick-off, I wanted to see the
Wayang Wong, performance at Mas.
Hang onl We've struck one of those weird words again.
The
Wayang Wong is big brother to the Wayang Kulit, or shadow puppet
play, which is Bali's answer to the Punch and Judy show, but much
more sophiseicated, despite the fact that part of its great charm
for the Balinese is the slapstick and bawdy humour the buffalo hide
puppets often indulge in.
Now,
while the Wayang Kulit puppets, as their name implies, are made
from skin, and caper behind a screen - usually until the small hours
of the morning - the Wayang Wong show is played by human "puppets".
A group of men, dressed in ornate masks and costumes, present one
of the classic stories, but during daylight hours and in full view
of the audience.
Having
been no end baffled by the Wayang Kulit, I was keen to get to grips
with a Wayang Wong performance - more or less on the principle that
maybe you don't care for beer, but who knows whether you'll enjoy
champagne until you've had a lash at it. So, come Kuningan, the
Wayang Wong was a must.
Second on my short list was the Chalon Arang play. I'd had a tip-off
from a usually reliable source, as they say, that this bloodcurdling
drama, which centres around the struggle between the kindly Barong
and the kinky Rangda, would unfold, before lunch, in a village nearby
to Mas.
That
more than took care of the morning. In the afternoon I planned to
streak across country to catch the Godfight at Pak Sibali, a little
village on the far side of Klungkung.
How then to fit in the Holy Springs bit
"Simple",
Nyoman assured me. "We don't need to get to Tampaksiring before
11 o'clock. Start early and you'll have plenty of time to join us."
Early Kuningan morning, I stepped into the rather impressive hire
car that was waiting for me, and hot-footed it to Mas. In a temple
courtyard, I saw the actors getting into their costumes and fastening
on their beautiful antique masks. Soon afterwards I was in the open-sided
temple bale, watching the antics of these strangely clad human puppets
as they enacted yet another segment from the Ramayana. Everwatchful
of my tight schedule, I made my apologies halfway through the programme
and raced towards Guang, where the Chalon Arang was supposed to
be under way.
But
at Guang, I was the sole performer, or so it seemed. True, there
was a temple festival, and a very big and elaborate one. Had it
not been so big, I doubt if I would have collected such a gratifyingly
large audience around me when I started inquiring about the Chalon
Arang. No, there was no Chalon Arang, never had been, but most of
the multitude who had gathered for the festival seemed to think
I was a god-sent substitute. What better entertainment could you
ask than a wandering tourist seeking a non-existent drama? Not possible,
.,agreed the crowd, and collectively went into hoots.
Hastily
I backed into my taxi. "Let's get out of here and up to Tampaksiring",
I urged.
The driver looked at me as though doubting his ears: "But Nyonya
has first to return to Ubud to pick up Nyoman.
No, I retorted, still a trifle ruffled over my Guang interlude.
I arranged to meet Nyoman at Tampaksiring, and, if we don't get
a move on, we may miss him."
The
driver opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, gave me
a last bewildered, or was it despairing? look, climbed in behind
the wheel and, twisting and turning amongst the heavy traffic as
though safety had gone out of fashion, drove non-stop to the Holy
Springs.
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