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Bali
by Heather Preston
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It all started at a New Year’s party in
Sausalito, California many years ago. A
small group of traveling Balinese gamelan
musicians had been engaged to play
their exotic gongs, drums, and bells for
the guests. It was perfectly enchanting;
I wanted to talk with them so when
they took a break I asked, through their
interpreter, the question, “What do
you find most different here from your
country?” They talked among themselves
for some time then the interpreter,
obviously embarrassed, answered with
a question of their own: “We wonder,
where are your tree spirits?”
I was speechless. Tree spirits? They actually
believed there were such beings? And
they had them? But we didn’t? If only I
had I known then what I do now, there
would certainly have been a few choice
follow-up questions. Alas, I was ignorant.
And so it was that the question: “Where
are your tree spirits?” started my journey
of discovery and, in course of time, my
pilgrimage to the magical island of Bali.
My mission was to find somebody who
could tell me firsthand about tree spirits,
not the fairy tale ones but the real ones
that the musicians knew. It soon became
apparent once I was in Bali, however,
that the Balinese are protective of such
knowledge and don’t easily share it
with scoffing Westerners. Why had the
musicians even asked such a question
those years ago in California? Must have
come at an unguarded moment.
I had only ten short days in Bali. Three
days left and no leads. What to do?
At that point, I remember standing at
the crossroads in Ubud, hand on hip,
imploring the Powers of the Universe
or Whoever might be in charge The
Winding Path of connections that week
to take over the search. Then I simply
trusted that something would turn up. I
really did, much to the relief of Alan, my
longsuffering husband, glad to be on to
other pursuits.
We hired a cab to explore the island, a
common practice since nobody in his right
mind drives in Bali. Agung-the-fearless
was our driver, a gregarious, beret-
wearing fellow who knew everybody and
accepted life as the yogi he turned out to
be.
In a loaded moment when I judged
that a rapport had been forged, I nailed
him: “Tell me, Agung, where can I
find a balian?” (A balian is a sensitive,
or shaman; at least that much I had
discovered; there must not be very many
of them.)
He paused, turned around and looked at
me closely, then with casual innocence
said,
“A balian? My wife is a balian.”
These Balinese seem to have a way of
leaving me speechless, I thought, offering
a hurried silent prayer of thanksgiving to
the Powers of the Universe
for pulling off this breathtaking show of
faithfulness . . . and having a divine laugh
on the way: My “connection” had been
taking us sightseeing.
Recovering, I stammered, “Can I meet
her?”
“Yes, of course.”
That very evening my husband the good
sport and I walked through the balmy
tropical night to see my balian. And at
the appointed hour we entered the five-
hundred-year-old compound of Agung’s
ancestors. It was of the gray stone and
peach brick one sees everywhere in Bali:
stately, well proportioned, and with a
distinct air of magic to be found just
around the corner.
Waiting on the low covered porch stood
Rai, Agung’s lovely wife, dignified,
reserved, smiling: the balian. At the end
of this porch, their tiny grinning grandma
and her grandson lay on mats watching
a loud, clanging Balinese soap opera on
TV, like the dance theater we had been
enjoying every chance we had. This is also
the porch where Agung teaches Yoga
classes. “I study, but she just knows,”
Agung says of his inscrutable wife.
As we sat on the porch floor drinking the
Cokes they offered us and exchanging
pleasantries, Rai, still composed, drifted
quietly into a trance.
“I will tell you what your house looks
like in the U.S.,” said Rai, before I could
protest that it was tree spirits I was after,
not a description of something I already
knew. Agung scrambled for a scrap of
paper and a pen while she tranced out.
Presently she began to draw a plan of our
rather unusual house: the position of the
outbuildings, the gardens, fences, street,
and one special tree, the old leaning oak
beside my studio, (the other thirty-five
trees on our land she ignored).
She couldn’t understand why our
buildings were at odd angles to each
other since in Bali all building complexes
are carefully positioned.
“That’s right,” we marveled. Then I
thought, oh, of course, she’s proving
her skill at ‘far sight’ so that when she
comes to something we don’t know
we’ll be more ready to accept that it also
is true. She smiled when we said, “Yes,
yes, you’ve got it all exactly right.” She
continued, “The old tree leans far out to
one side but it is well, and will not soon
die.” She had answered my unspoken
worry about that tree’s health. She then
correctly picked up on some negative
energy flowing towards our land from the
west, of which we were well aware.
“Don’t worry,” she assured us, “The spirits
in the big tree have made a wall of fire to
protect you.” “A wall of fire? We have a
tree spirit? And it protects us?”
MARIN ARTS & CULTURE 29