The funeral

by Rachel Evans (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Indonesia

“Rush’s aunty has died, we would like you to come to the funeral.” We had only been staying with Rush and Ketut for a few weeks. Their house was in Tabanan, a world away from the tourist trap of Kuta Beach. Although they called us their Balinese parents, a funeral felt like such a private occasion, an invitation was not what we had expected. The morning of the funeral came. A week or so previously we had bought traditional outfits, kamen and kebaya, for a religious festival, which we could also wear today. “Look at you all,” Ketut gasped, “you look so good, you just need belts.” She disappeared into her room and emerged a few minutes later with a selection of vibrantly coloured belts. We each chose one before she ushered us off to a family member’s house to get our hair done. Balinese houses comprise of several small buildings in a walled courtyard along with pavilions and family altars. We took it in turns to sit on a pavilion while a lady tugged and teased our hair into a side ponytail before finishing the look with a fresh frangipani flower plucked from her tree. As we headed into the town centre, it seemed like pretty much the whole town had turned out. Surprisingly, no one was crying, instead, a sense of anticipation hung in the air. “You guys carry these,” Ketut said, gesturing to large floral arrangements in pinks and purples. “Now stand here and walk with us,” “But we’re so close to the front, isn’t this for close family?” “Don’t worry, everyone wants you to do it!” She smiled, and we set out leading the procession to the crematorium. Being Hindu, the funeral was a traditional Ngaben ceremony, performed to release the soul of the dead so it can enter the upper realm and await rebirth or to become liberated. Part of the ceremony is a wadah cremation tower, and this one was spectacular. The huge, tiered wadah was carried on poles by about 25 men from the family. It towered over us, gold glinting in the sun, and the intricate face of a beast adorning the back to scare off evil spirits. A few very close relatives clung to the side of the tower, carried along by the men below. We reached the crematorium before the wadah and waited while crowds piled in. When the wadah finally arrived, the men ran around with it in circles, spinning and spinning until they were dizzy. We were told this was to confuse evil spirits. Finally, the wadah was laid down, and the coffin was lit on fire. I have never seen a funeral pyre before. The fire seemed so aggressive, a roaring column curling and licking at the clouds. It was strange to think that right at the centre of the scorching flames was a person. Their memories, dreams, fears literally going up in smoke. After a while of watching the hypnotic flames the crowd started to dissipate. Later that afternoon as the day had cooled down and the body had turned to ashes we headed to the beach. Black sand clung to our feet as we walked down to the water’s edge where family members gathered around a small wooden structure on a bamboo raft. They let the waves take it and we stood silently watching as the little raft drifted out until we could no longer see it on the horizon. At night the celebrations continued at another family member’s house where we had a delicious meal of fish, rice and meats. As we sat eating, a family member chatted to Ketut, who translated for us. “The lady’s spirit visited her granddaughter a few days ago,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “What happened?” we responded, stunned. “The granddaughter’s friend can speak to spirits. The grandmother visited her and told her she’s very proud of her for passing her test. Even though she hadn’t told her grandmother that she’d passed!” Their attitude to death was so comforting. Death wasn’t sad or scary. This didn’t mean the end of her life, this just meant the end of her physical form. Her spirit would be back soon.