The Festival of Cows

by Elizabeth Smallwood (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Indonesia

Over a breakfast of neon green pandan pancakes, Hannah and I discuss our plans for the day. Putu, our homestay host, asks if we are heading to the festival. As travellers with a love of immersing ourselves in culture, we want to attend any festivities that we can, to get the true Bali experience. Putu gives us rough directions and we rent two pedal bikes; we’re off! What seemed to get lost in translation is just how dangerous it is to be riding on a pedal bike through Ubud. I ride behind my sister, screaming, watching her dodge in and out of traffic. Brakes screech with me at every sharp intake of breath. By the time we arrive at our destination, the lactic acid burns through my thighs and my heart is pounding hard and fast. We join the crowds heading towards the festivities and lose ourselves amongst the locals. We watch Balinese dancers perform the Barong dance, moving as one, sinking low, arms rising high, moving in perfect synchronicity; the traditional makeup accentuates their features, especially their eyes. The music chimes its last note and we clap alongside the other onlookers. I find being an observer to those so passionate about their traditions and heritage a longing experience. It makes me question what I would do if someone asked me the traditional dance of my culture - the Macarena, perhaps? We take a seat beneath the shade of trees, our backs to a clearing, that’s - I do a double take - that’s filled with cows? No, not actual real-life cows, but cow effigies - beautiful, handmade, lovingly crafted statues of cows. ‘What’s with the cows?’ Hannah gestures behind us, grabbing her bottle of water. ‘Well, Hinduism is prominent in Bali, and the cow is the symbol of life - so I guess this is a festival to do with celebrating life?’ She nods and takes a gulp of water. ‘Is it me, or is it getting hotter?’ Her hand flaps up and down. She’s right; the midday sun burns directly above us; the trees offer no relief. Acrid smoke burns my nostrils and ash tickles the back of my throat. I turn to find the magnificent cows licked in flames, each one slowly burning, being consumed by crackling yellow and orange tongues. Music swarms, bells chime, and dancers began their routines once more, their arms and bodies rising and falling and turning, bowing, their eyes as much a part of the routine as their limbs. Emerging from around the corner, a platform held upon the aching shoulders of around fifty Balinese men, carries four long graceful legs, a sturdy body and horns that exude power and strength. A huge cow. No, a giant bull. Behind it, a colossal tower sways gently from the men below carrying it. I realise the tower is carrying people. Descending, dressed in decadence, their headdresses reach towards the heavens and gowns trailing behind them, they reach the base of the tower. They wait. The music begins once again. Flowers are thrown as an offering is paraded in front of the crowds. High above us, the bull is being butchered, its back sawn and taken off, brutally torn from its base. The offering makes its way in front of us and I lean over to my sister, 'Is that...?' It moves past swiftly, surrounded by dancers and ordinary people dressed in the traditional Balinese costume. The offering is covered in more offerings and is lifted, quite precariously, above and into the bull. 'Hannah I'm pretty sure that's...' More men part the crowd, like the Red Sea, like water afraid of the torches they hold in their hands. Surrounding the bull like Matadors, their arms rise, their flames the muleta before them. The fire begins to catch. Its legs decorated as finely as the decadent onlookers; their green and gold gowns rivalled by red, white, orange, blue. Like ivy, the flames creep, climb, reach, higher and higher. The bull is completely consumed and stands like a beacon among the people, symbolising hope, light, and burning passion for life. And that was how my sister and I ended up at the cremation of the Queen of Bali.