Thread: Niskala for Expats

This is my second article which was published in the February 29 issue of The Bali Times.

The peace and tranquility of our little village of Bunutan was broken seven years ago with the construction project known today as the Royal Pita Maha and Kirana Spa. An essential part of this project were the numerous ceremonies deemed necessary to convince the large community that was residing on that holy ground along the Ayung River to move to another area that had been carefully selected for them. It was through these ceremonies that this desired result was achieved, and this community slowly made its way from the construction grounds to their new home. All their compounds, temples and markets were carefully dismantled and moved as well. There was only one problem I had with this whole affair. That was the simple fact that there was absolutely nothing on those grounds except jungle.

During the early process of construction, stories in our village would emerge that I then thought were rather imaginative and creative. Every so often, a child in our village would disappear for a day, and sometimes even two days, only to emerge looking exactly as they had been last seen, clean and fed, but with no memory or recall of where they had been. I found these tales immensely entertaining and enjoyable.

About half way through completion, this being some four years ago, I went on a walk with our oldest son Bima and our pembantu to visit the site and see the progress being made. Bima was four year old. We would do this from time to time, as the views from the dining room near the lobby are stunning. On this particular day, an event occurred that I still cannot reconcile in my mind, nor can those who also saw it unfold with their own eyes.

As we entered the half completed dining area through its large central doorway, Bima abruptly turned to his right and turned again to face the plain cement wall. He immediately started talking in a language I had never heard and he spoke directly at the wall just a foot in front of him. He would pause, as if listening and then talk some more. He was clearly having a conversation and would even occasionally break out with a giggle or a laugh at some of what he heard in return.

This spooked our pembantu so much that she just ran off, but two men from our village who were working in the room at that time stood their ground, their faces bearing the same look of amazement as I am certain was on my own face.

It was over with the same simplicity and abruptness as it had begun. Bima turned around and as far as he was concerned, absolutely nothing had happened. He hadn’t been talking to anyone. No amount of questioning or urging him to tell what had just happened produced answers. He was as confused about what our problem was, as we were about what we had just experienced.

I sat down with the two men on the unfinished concrete floor. “What language was that?” They had no idea. They had never heard it spoken either. “How long was he talking?” None of us could tell, as during the whole event it was a though time had ceased to exist.

Had my pembantu not run off, and had those two workmen not been there, I am certain I would have just shrugged this whole thing off as some brief hallucination, or some other reason my brain could accept as logical or probable.

As the following days came and passed, this story joined those other stories of unexplainable events that went on there all during the construction process. These stories were all viewed as positive events, testaments that the ceremonies had been properly conducted, and that balance and harmony between Niskala and Sekala had been achieved.

For me, that was a cathartic event. Since then, when I take walks down along the Ayung River, I’m not always convinced that what my eyes are telling me I see, is, in reality what I am seeing. And, just like all the Balinese who live in my village, I never go there at night.