Gianyar

I learned from one of the dalangs I had met that he would be performing in Gianyar, capital of the regency next to Ubud (one of 11 in Bali). When I arrived at 10 p.m. at the Gianyar royal palace where the performance was supposed to take place, it appeared to be dark and seemingly deserted. Someone came along, however, and said yes, there would be a performance that evening. I was led into a compound (it was too dark to really have any idea what the building looked like) and then into a courtyard with at least three pavilions in it. The largest one, deserted, was where the performance would take place; a middle-sized one was crowded with noisy card players; and the third smaller one was at the rear. I was informed that the old dalang who had told me about the performance was ill and would be replaced by a younger one. 

Long after the 10 p.m., the young dalang, his two assistants and four musicians arrived. A carpet was spread out in the large pavilion, and servants appeared with tea and food for the performers. Still, there was no sign of any audience (the gamblers in the next pavilion clearly weren’t interested in puppets). I watched as the performers set up the screen, oil lamp, and banana log that holds the puppets when the dalang is not manipulating them (their handles just stuck in the soft core of the log like an arrangement of artificial flowers). In addition to the percussion instruments that provided the music, the dalang used the wooden box in which the puppets were stored to punctuate the text with loud knocks that gave a vital energy to the performance.

Eventually, an hour later, the performance began, and as good as the other performances I had seen earlier, this dalang was clearly a master in a league of his own. Unlike the Pejeng dalang who was an exemplar of the vernacular style, this was a truly classic master at work. Subtlety and richness marked his performance and his use of voices. He did all the manipulation (two assistants handed him puppets and re-fueled the lamp, but did not perform) and created those eerie knocks on the wooden box. His voices and characterizations were rich and subtly varied. The performance can go on for hours without a break of any kind and certainly no break in the energy and concentration apparent when viewed from backstage. The only relief he allowed himself over the course of the performance was an occasional sip from a water bottle during musical interludes. Another amazing thing was how tiny the audience was – perhaps a dozen or so of us seated around the perimeter of the large pavilion, and a few women of the household back in the smaller pavilion. The gambling continued as though nothing else of any importance or interest were going on. The performance, a tribute to the gods, provided for by this household was an end in itself and did not need the validation of an audience. Performances can be commissioned to commemorate social events and weddings. The family would get “points” from the gods for paying for the performance (attending “buys” nothing more), and the performers got theirs for making it happen, whether a public saw it or not. If nothing else had happened of interest to me on Bali, this evening alone was worth the whole trip.