Myths, Culture and the Custom of Haggling

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A Balinese morning does not ordinarily begin with an incessant drizzle, but this morning, it did. The weather was chilly. Too lazy to go out yet, we let our hungry bodies be recharged with something nice we had made ourselves in the room. At 9 a.m. we hopped on our rented bikes and went out looking for tourists' information. The after-rain sky was clear and lustrous.

We met Nyoman on the roadside of Jalan Pantai Kuta. He was offering a car for rent, and we were searching for one. So we haggled for the price and itinerary, and when both sides agreed, we got ourselves a promising day-long journey ahead of us. Nyoman the tall man would be our driver today.

After buying lunch from Warung Indonesia and returning the bikes, we got into Nyoman's car. He might appear stern to us at first, but when we were already in his car, listening to his talks just a bit longer, that impression quickly faded away. We talked with him for most of the time during the road trip. Sometimes I could feel a tone of dejection in his voice, particularly when he recalled to us, in a way so vividly disturbing, about the chaos right after the blasts. But sometimes later, when we asked him about Galungan, he regained his composure and told us in details about the customs they usually do. But there was always a tone of sincerity in the air whenever he spoke.

Our first destination was Batubulan. There was this traditional clothing-and-arts shop in the area. The prices here were fixed; however, everybody got a half-price offer. Along with other things we bought, my friend Karen bought a bag for her relative, and Mays also took a different kind of bag--a cute basket ornately made of rattan--and felt extremely happy about it, on which I am here to write an illustration.

While traveling, we often encounter strangers asking us where did we buy something that we are wearing that day--an ethnic necklace, for example. What elation will fill our hearts to explode that time! Imagine the pride in knowing that other people actually marvel on our discovery of this necklace. This was what exactly happened to Mays. She was so exultant at her discovering the bag. She told me that it would still be fine even if she missed everything else she wanted to buy in Bali just because she had got this cream-colored basket!

From Batubulan we went northeast to Sukawati. The traditional art market in this area became the target of all people, locals and visitors alike. The marketplace was a Minoan maze to me: a net of long and narrow alleys, dimly lit and yet so hot. On my sides were those stalls and everyone who were selling goods tried to catch their potential buyers' attention merely by shouting. In every row there was a congestion of people, each competing for fresh air--and fair price. This, in fact, made all the difference between shopping in an exclusive store and shopping in a public marketplace.

In most public markets like Sukawati, haggling is the standard ritual before any transaction is made. This parry-riposte of prices should be learnt by everyone unfamiliar with it, right on the spot. Haggling is an art; once it is mastered, a small sum of money can go a long way. It is easy to observe to learn. Or rather, it was easy for us, since we, being Indonesians, had been accustomed to it from as long as we could remember. Take Karen. She was interested in a writing book made of wood and recycled paper and covered with glittering sand on the cover, for which the seller quoted her Rp 32000 as starting price. She ended up bringing that work of art home for as low as Rp 8000! A victory she was truly proud of.

On we continued to Ubud. It is an area renowned as Bali's cultural capital, where most of aristocratic Balinese reside. Even now they hold fast to their ancient culture--not to say that Balinese in other areas don't--but in nowhere save Ubud are these myths and old customs more appealingly alive, even well-nourished. For them these traditions are as dear as oxygen; without them the spiritual self might as well suffocate. These people's venerable approach to life would bring the so-called metropolitan society down to its dullness and shame.

But Ubud does have another face: a shining face of art. It is immortally evident in the ethnic handicrafts--be they made of wood, or metal, or ivory--displayed in rows of small shops, the various schools of painting ever-present in museums and galleries, the exterior and interior of the shops, even in people's aesthetic mood in getting things done. They embrace art as a way of looking at life.

Minute after minute passed in idyll when we were at Nyuh Gading, a small restaurant with a garden setting. I slurped the hot chocolate as slowly as I could while Mays' upset stomach was soothed by the aroma and taste of ginger tea, and we all savored a platter of fresh fruit salad that Karen had ordered. At the table beside us was a middle-aged French traveler, with whom we had a light talk about where we originated, places we had visited and so on.

Though we hadn't done much exploring in this attractive area, we had to move along. We left Ubud through a series of traditional villages starting from Sayan to Batubulan, passing a lot of stone carving art shops along the way.

Our following destination was Mandala Garuda Wisnu Kencana Cultural Park--GWK in short--in Jimbaran. The vast park is situated on Bukit Ungasan, a plateau overlooking the slender limb of Bali. Just right after we got in the park, we trod on the stone paths that fringed those wide grass-coated areas, sparsely embellished with an assortment of trees. There were children rehearsing the Kecak dance in Balinese traditional costume right on the stage of the amphitheater. We walked farther inside where we found a straight lane. On one end was put a miniature of the GWK statue on a stone plinth. In the middle was a fountain, the water flowing so gently even as it trickled down to the large round basin. On the other end was a flight of stairs.

We climbed those stairs until we found ourselves surrounded with bliss. There was a garden cloaked with trees and flowers of many colors, and in the heart of it, lay a lotus pond. Next to the wall was another flight of stairs. The crown of Wisnu slowly appeared as we began our ascent.

It simply felt as if we were standing on a floating ground. There he was, his calming eyes half open and his shoulders armless: Wisnu the Preserver, one of the Trimurti--Brahma the Creator and Siva the Destroyer are the other two--that Hindus believe in; the supreme god that pervades all. Around the statue was a shallow pond, which looked more like an imperial moat, awash with crystalline water. Wisnu's majestic height--from his lower torso to the tip of his crown--was unbelievable; all the more so knowing that he was only a piece of a much greater work-in-progress.

It rained slightly. But in the next minute the raindrops vanished just like that. That allowed us time to climb down the stairs and move on to the adjoining part, a wide open space of green meadows bulwarked by pillars of massive limestone ridges rising to a tremendous altitude. On the edge in the middle was again another flight of stairs. And then we saw Garuda.

Yet incomplete though he was, Garuda looked no less gallant than his master Wisnu, whom he obediently carries through the sky. But at that time, all there was of him were his head and upper torso, still bound fast to the white wall behind him, still incompetent to fly. We were staring at him--what tiny creatures we were, compared to his beak!--when suddenly appeared a rainbow above Garuda's head. And as if nature was insisting to proof that its work was grander than this man-made creation, just several minutes later another arch of Newton's colors filled up our marveling eyes. We stood agape before the presence of a mythical bird and a double rainbow--each thing came to existence to show, to contend, and to combine the greatness of its creator with the other.

Nyoman hollered at us, "If you want to get a good view of sunset, you'd better hurry up now!" and we rushed into his car quickly. While he was driving us to the nearby Jimbaran Bay, I was deeply immersed in my own thinking. Garuda Wisnu Kencana, if it ever comes to completion, will surely be one of the glorious triumphs in the history of aesthetic workmanship. I couldn't imagine how the hovering clouds will flee in dread once it stands in its entire immensity: no less than 146-meter tall, almost half the height of Eiffel Tower. Even that torch-bearing Lady in New York would feel so dwarfed upon her pedestal of stone. I chuckled at that thought.

The sun was crawling behind a nimbostratus cloud when we entered Uluwatu café and went straight to our table which was located right on the outermost row, a few meters only from the wild waters of Jimbaran Bay. The whole scenery resembled a realism canvas. When we threw our gaze northward, we saw airplanes took off from and landed on the runway of Ngurah Rai Airport. Many boats sailed not far away from the wave-breaker. The entire skydome--when not covered with dark clouds that were in profusion that evening--was infested with saffron hue, and the sea a familiar blend of silvery black and yellow. True to what people say, Jimbaran is a spectacular spot to get the best of sunsets.

Next to our table sat four Dutch tourists. One of them had recently been with his girlfriend to the exotic islands east of Lombok. The other couple, Taco and Sylvia, had previously traveled around Java. We talked with them for over an hour till it was all dark, save for the electric lights. There was a moment I remember only too well: they told us that it was a virtue for us to live in Indonesia. "For instance," Taco said, "you don't have as many rules as we do in Holland. We are overstuffed with rules back home. And yet we all feel safer here. What a nice country yours is!" Everyone nodded to us in accord. Then the waitress came bringing their dinner. Thus was the end of our conversation. We went outside to find Nyoman.

Nyoman safely drove us to our bungalow just opposite Poppies II Lane. He called us by our own names when he said thanks and bid farewell to each of us personally. What a remarkable gentleman he was.

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Published on 12/9/04