THE
BULL RACES AT NEGARA
Time is a universal commodity
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Throughout the world people chase the fleeting, feet of time.
The charlady checks the clock for knock-off time.
The chairman's wife glances at her diamond studded watch, to make
sure the chauffeur gets her to the Opera on time.
Business moguls set their faith in Greenwich Mean Time.
Bucolic farmers go beserk at the mention of enforced Summer Time.
And then, of course, there is that oft-quoted, unfathomable mystery
- Bali Time.
Like distances in Bali - time also is elastic.
"How far is it to the temple" you ask.
"Oh, quite close," a smiling Balinese will assure you.
"Just 100-yards down the road."
Likely
as not you will walk a full mile before you reach that temple.
"What time does the Legong dance begin tonight" you ask.
If you are told "About nine o'clock, Bali time," then
you know you can safely arrive around ten o'clock and still see
the start of the performance.
Let me tell you about the Bull Races at Negara and you'll get the
idea:
In the Tjampuhan dining room, lunch was almost over. The bar boys
had already cleared away the rystaffle dishes and placed bowls of
fresh mangosteens on the tables.
Abruptly the after-lunch lethargy was broken as Geoffrey, one Of
our more exotic guests, came scampering down the steps, flung into
the diningroom posed himself dramatically against a table and announced
breathlessly to the room at large:
Scream
after scream shattered the quiet of the temple as the participants
writhed and twisted. Inexorably the priest dragged his followers,
all hysterically clutching the cotton rope, towards the glowing
coals.
A figure
darted out of the shadows, ran through the centre of both piles,
kicking at them with his bare feet, to send a shower of blazing
embers through the air like a fiery snowstorm.
The
boys, waving their long spears, began dancing wildly, backwards
and forwards through the coals. The girls, jerking convulsively
and still screaming, followed in their wake. Their cotton rope became
entangled. One girl stumbled, fell, and was dragged lengthwise through
the coals before helping hands could pull her to her feet again.
The
screaming intensified as the girls, now wrapped together in a writhing
knot by the twisted rope, tumbled out through one temple gate, circled
a stone statue and returned through another gateway. The boys, who
had been kicking out the last ashes, stumbled, exhausted, back into
the bale. Minutes later, the huddle of girls also staggered up the
stairs and sank onto the floor in a tangled mass.
Gradually
the screams and sobs subsided. A girl's voice clear, calm and authorative
rang through the silent temple. After the demented yammerings, the
change was electrifying. Like a teacher instructing her pupils,
the voice continued.
When,
the bar boy, was whispering at my elbow....
"The god is now speaking through one of the girls. That is
good. We will know what we must do - perhaps we have neglected to
make the proper offerings; maybe we have done some wrong thing.
Who knows. Whatever it is the god will tell us now, and we, can
put it right. All will be well for the coming year. We can sleep
in peace."
After such a night, - could anyone sleep - in peace or otherwise
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