A Cultural Paradise

By Alli Sinclair

The first time I traveled out of the country I exchanged the sandy beaches in Australia for the tropical shores of Bali, Indonesia. With sweaty hands and a sense of adventure I landed at Denpasar Airport, and made my way to a resort in Kuta, Bali’s tourist hotspot.

Gravel roads swarmed with motorcycles weaving between drunken tourists, mostly Aussies and Kiwis. Mangy dogs hung their heads, foraging in the garbage piles for scraps. Hawkers out the front of restaurants touted their menus and shops charmed punters in to buying a sarong or t-shirt with misspelled slogans in English. And the air hung thick with the aromas of peanut and chili, mixed with the kerosene burners the street vendors used to cook snacks and meals. It was utter chaos and I loved it.

In contrast, the resort was clean, almost sterile, relaxing and… well… boring. Outside the high walls lay an island that begged to be explored. A culture rich in history and religion was waiting to be discovered. It didn’t take long before I cancelled my reservation, packed my bags and headed out to explore the real Bali.

In those two short weeks I climbed up Mount Batur and into the crater, taking care to dodge the pockets of steam pouring out of cracks in the rocks. I snorkeled on a deserted beach on the north of the island and cycled for miles along empty roads with nothing more than rice paddies to keep me company. I ate food I couldn’t recognize and had the displeasure of discovering what Bali Belly really is. But it didn’t matter how sick I got, because I was out there, learning about a new world and in the process of changing my own.

On Lovina Beach I met Ketut, a lovely woman in her early twenties with a smile that radiated from deep within. We befriended each other and she took me to her small village about an hour inland. I met her family and we spent the afternoon laughing and enjoying each other’s company with the help of Ketut’s translating skills. I learned a lot about life in Bali, the culture, beliefs and people and I left the tiny village with a stronger sense of what life could be like outside my own country. This experience catapulted me into a life full of wanderlust and I haven’t regretted it for one moment.

That was more than twenty years ago and Bali has changed a lot since then. The one thing I am positive that hasn’t altered is the essence of the people. Friendly faces greeted me everywhere I went, polite questions were asked with genuine interest and an undercurrent of hope ran through the veins of these people. By the time I landed in Australia, I was already planning my next adventure.

My first overseas trip made me realize I wasn’t cut out for the cushy resort-style holidays. Sure, a bit of pampering every now and again doesn’t go astray, but if I wanted to sit in a resort all day, I might as well head to Port Douglas in Australia. Adventure is an essential part of my being as is my desire to learn about other cultures. I need to get off the beaten track and put myself out there, even if it means getting into dicey situations every now and again. I choose to live the experience, rather than sip a cocktail and watch a BBC documentary (although there have been many days on the road when this has been very appealing!).

So how about you? What did you learn about yourself or the world on your first time out of the country?

Off The Beaten Track: Shamini Flint

Practicing law in Malaysia and Singapore before becoming a successfully published author, Shamini Flint traveled extensively around Asia for work before resigning to become a stay-at-home mum, writer, part-time lecturer, and environmental activist – all in an effort, she says, to make up for her “evil” past as a corporate lawyer! In addition to writing two excellent children’s novels – Diary of a Soccer Star and Diary of a Cricket God published by Allen & Unwin, Australia and Puffin, India – Shamini also writes cross-cultural crime fiction (our favorite kind), taking her main character – of whom The Guardian says, “it’s impossible not to warm to the portly, sweating, dishevelled, wheezing Inspector Singh” – through Malaysia, Bali, Singapore, and Cambodia to solve all kinds of perplexing murder cases. With the publication of Shamini’s latest novel in this excellent series, her protagonist finally makes it to India, the land of his ancestors. A bit like Shamini, in fact.

“Incredible India!” That’s the advert that’s been running for the last year or so on television here in Singapore and probably the rest of the world too. In it, India casts its spell on a wide-eyed man of Caucasian origin who sums up his experience on a postcard – Incredible India! My feelings about the motherland are far more conflicted so an entire novel – my latest crime fiction, Inspector Singh Investigates:  A Curious Indian Cadaver – hasn’t been sufficient to air my thoughts.

Both my grandfathers arrived by boat in Malaysia (then known as Malaya, which was a British colony) almost a hundred years ago. They settled in a small fishing village called Kuantan and set about carving a future for their children. One was a nurse, the other an estate clerk. Having found jobs, they sent for wives from back home and committed themselves to the production of numerous progeny. Their assimilation was impressive in that they adopted local hobbies – mahjong and badminton – and learnt to speak Malay, the native language of the country. Their daughters were raised to be teachers and the sons doctors. I often wonder whether they thought of themselves as Malayan at this point or whether they assumed, as so many of their peers did, that this sojourn in the tropics was temporary and would end with their triumphant return to their ancestral villages some day.

However, when Malaysia became independent in 1957, a choice was forced upon them and both chose to remain, abandoning any dreams of returning to India to accept citizenship of this new land while it was on offer.

Their offspring, the teachers and doctors, produced children who were lawyers and doctors (with a couple of engineers and accountants thrown in), and my grandparents were cremated knowing that they had achieved what they set out to do. All their dreams had been economic – the bottom line was the bottom dollar –  and in the success of the grandchildren, they were content.

Which is how it came to be, that I, a lawyer by training, grew up a Malaysian, unable to speak more than a few words of Tamil or Malayalee (the languages of my grandfathers) and never having been to India. The irony, of course, was that, in multiracial Malaysia where ethnicity determines university places and access to government jobs, my Indian-ness was singularly important. So there I was – an Indian in Malaysia, comfortable with my identity, wont to speak of the depth of Indian culture in a smug tone and to take pride in the Indian economic miracle. I did not go as far as some of my elderly uncles who – sitting pretty in Singapore or Malaysia – would attribute much that was good in the world to India or an Indian.

Apparently, for instance, an Indian discovered gravity long before Newton, penicillin before Fleming and invented the games of rugby, cricket, and football in the village square. My all-time favourite was when an aunt told me in in no uncertain terms, ‘Shakespeare was also Indian, you know.’ And don’t lets get started on Ben Kingsley …

So much vicarious pride! What fine Indians we were! Until the day I made my first trip to India in the late ’80s and discovered I wasn’t Indian at all. There were two dimensions to this. First of all, I didn’t feel I belonged. But more importantly, no one in India thought I was Indian, not even for a moment. My distant relatives were shocked at my short hair and kept asking if I was a boy. They didn’t like it if I went sightseeing on a hot day in case I was burnt any darker by the sun – fair skin being a pre-condition of marriage unless the dowry was to set you back a long way. Strangers pointed at me on the streets because of my short sleeves and jeans. And every single taxi driver overcharged me on the grounds that I was a foreigner and wouldn’t know any better. Finally, I fell ill and spent the rest of the holiday making use of the hotel facilities. I had severe culture shock in the place I had always assumed, in some distant but comforting way, was home.

I’ve been back many times since and India has changed a lot. I’m no longer viewed as an escapee from Mars/the zoo/prison. But this is largely because we have a reached an understanding, India and I. I am just another tourist from some foreign land – like the Chinese or the English or the Russians. From my point of view, I can appreciate the history (as if I was in Rome), the architecture (as if I was in London) and the food (as if I was in Beijing). I am a stranger finding beauty and culture and inspiration in a complex and fascinating land. But I know that I’m not an Indian anymore, and that is a huge loss.

OGOH-OGOH!!! Then shhhhhh…..

By Supriya Savkoor

 

No, I didn’t just fall off the truck from the nut farm (well, not yet). The crazy headline and, yes, more scary pictures from me are completely relevant. Since this week’s topic is festivals, and since you may have noticed, I love anything cross-cultural, it’s my way of getting your attention as I explain yet another example of how Indian culture traveled then morphed into an entirely new – and fascinating – phenomenon.

First, some quick background.

Hinduism was already about 3,500 years old when it reached the Indonesian archipelago around the 1^st century A.D. By the 4^th century, Hindu kingdoms starting forming in the region, and over the next thousand years, both Hinduism and Buddhism spread across the islands until they reached their apex in the 14^th century. Soon Islam spread as well, and eventually, Java, Bali, Sumatra, and their surrounding islands became the archipelago’s last remaining Hindu footholds. Today, Hindus make up less than 2% of the Indonesian population.

Along the way, though, diverse religious beliefs melded and gave rise to interesting new belief systems, of which some have survived. On the island of Lombok, for example, the Bodha sect fuses both Hinduism and Buddhism with tribal beliefs, mainly hyang, the belief in ancestral spirits, and animism, when spirits inhabit inanimate objects such as trees or stones. Several tribes in Seram, one of the Molucca Islands of Indonesia, observe Naurus, a sect that fuses Hinduism, animism, and, if you can believe it, Protestantism. (I know, that's a lot to juggle.)
 

While ethnic Indians living in Java, Bali, and Sumatra observe the more traditional Indian form of Hinduism and have their own separate temples, Indonesian Hindus forged their own path, adapting some beliefs and rituals from the original and incorporating new ones to create their own unique blend, one that has evolved over the centuries.

 

Some of the main differences, other than the belief in hyang (the spirits), are that Indonesian Hindus use different names for their supreme being and for the various gods and goddesses that are manifestations of this supreme being. Indonesian Hindus also worship in open-air temples rather than indoors, and they rely on different kinds of artistic expression in their observances, such as shadow puppetry, pageantry, and unique dance performances. Balinese Hindus also focus less on reincarnation and rebirth and more on their belief in hyang.

There are other differences, of course, but an interesting one is that they have their own unique brand of festivals, not found anywhere else.

The new year on the Hindu calendar occurs around mid-March. A few days earlier, Balinese Hindus perform a ritual known as melasti at their temples, which they call puras, using water and sacred objects to cleanse and purify nature, among other things. Afterwards, they perform another ceremony to get rid of negative forces and reestablish balance with God, man, and nature. 

Enter the ogoh-ogoh. The islanders create these giant, colorful statues out of paper mache, using bamboo sticks as a frame. The monster-like statues symbolize any and all negative forces – the scarier, the better! Traditionally, ogoh-ogoh were shaped into demons from the underworld, characters from age-old legends and mythology, but these days, it’s common to see ogoh-ogohs of corrupt politicians and other notorious public figures or celebrities. The islanders parade the ghoulish ogoh-ogohs around their villages during the day then burn them, in a show of triumph over evil. 

It gets more interesting, but before I continue, take a gander at these scary ogoh-ogohs! It's a wonder anyone can sleep through the night without being haunted by these images, vanquished or otherwise.

 

Okay, no more scary pictures.... I threw in that last one though because that's apparently how some locals view female tourists...

The next day is Nyepi Day, or the Day of Silence. Starting at 6 a.m. and continuing until 6 a.m. the following day, there’s no going to work, no lights or fires, no entertainment, no using any electricity or technology (you can just forget about your iPad), and definitely no traveling – only fasting, meditating, lots of introspection, and, of course, complete and utter silence. Even the government shuts down on Nyepi, as do the airports! The non-Hindus on the island observe Nyepi too, and as such, not even tourists are allowed out of their hotels, not even to quietly catch some rays on one of the local beaches. The only people permitted outdoors at all, or allowed to use vehicles, are the police (for security reasons) and paramedics (for emergencies or to deliver babies who didn’t get the memo). 

 

The day after Nyepi, families and friends gather to ask each other for forgiveness. Then they perform one final ritual, and it’s all over. Until next year.

Talk about cleansing your soul, right?

A Cultural Paradise

The first time I traveled out of the country I exchanged the sandy beaches in Australia for the tropical shores of Bali, Indonesia. With sweaty hands and a sense of adventure I landed at Denpasar Airport, and made my way to a resort in Kuta, Bali’s tourist hotspot.

Gravel roads swarmed with motorcycles weaving between drunken tourists, mostly Aussies and Kiwis. Mangy dogs hung their heads, foraging in the garbage piles for scraps. Hawkers out the front of restaurants touted their menus and shops charmed punters in to buying a sarong or t-shirt with misspelled slogans in English. And the air hung thick with the aromas of peanut and chili, mixed with the kerosene burners the street vendors used to cook snacks and meals. It was utter chaos and I loved it.

In contrast, the resort was clean, almost sterile, relaxing and… well… boring. Outside the high walls lay an island that begged to be explored. A culture rich in history and religion was waiting to be discovered. It didn’t take long before I cancelled my reservation, packed my bags and headed out to explore the real Bali.

In those two short weeks I climbed up Mount Batur and into the crater, taking care to dodge the pockets of steam pouring out of cracks in the rocks. I snorkeled on a deserted beach on the north of the island and cycled for miles along empty roads with nothing more than rice paddies to keep me company. I ate food I couldn’t recognize and had the displeasure of discovering what Bali Belly really is. But it didn’t matter how sick I got, because I was out there, learning about a new world and in the process of changing my own.

On Lovina Beach I met Ketut, a lovely woman in her early twenties with a smile that radiated from deep within. We befriended each other and she took me to her small village about an hour inland. I met her family and we spent the afternoon laughing and enjoying each other’s company with the help of Ketut’s translating skills. I learned a lot about life in Bali, the culture, beliefs and people and I left the tiny village with a stronger sense of what life could be like outside my own country. This experience catapulted me into a life full of wanderlust and I haven’t regretted it for one moment.

That was more than twenty years ago and Bali has changed a lot since then. The one thing I am positive that hasn’t altered is the essence of the people. Friendly faces greeted me everywhere I went, polite questions were asked with genuine interest and an undercurrent of hope ran through the veins of these people. By the time I landed in Australia, I was already planning my next adventure.

My first overseas trip made me realize I wasn’t cut out for the cushy resort-style holidays. Sure, a bit of pampering every now and again doesn’t go astray, but if I wanted to sit in a resort all day, I might as well head to Port Douglas in Australia. Adventure is an essential part of my being as is my desire to learn about other cultures. I need to get off the beaten track and put myself out there, even if it means getting into dicey situations every now and again. I choose to live the experience, rather than sip a cocktail and watch a BBC documentary (although there have been many days on the road when this has been very appealing!).

So how about you? What did you learn about yourself or the world on your first time out of the country?