A night bathed in the sounds of the land — from the voices of Kecak to the village flute (Bali Diary ③)

It's been a while since I last visited Bali. Normally, my husband and I rent a motorbike and ride all around the island. Without really looking at a map, we vaguely turn here and there, vaguely get lost, and somehow evening arrives. That's the kind of trips we've been taking. But this time is different. We're staying quietly in a villa nestled in the forest, and we hardly move around. The room comes with a tiny, tiny pool, and I swim lightly to loosen up my body. More than swimming, it's closer to just "soaking." There's a bathtub too, so I fill it up with plenty of hot water and read a book while doing a facial mask. It's the best. I drink a little of the wine I brought along, flop down on the bed and open a book, watch a drama, and then dip my feet in the pool again. It's absolutely the best. This time, it's that kind of trip.

It's a vacation, so I want to rest. But there's also a fair amount of computer work to do. Because it's a small, secluded villa, I can keep my own pace. I organize my work, and also do a little of the research and studying I normally can't get to. I'm not quite sure whether I'm relaxing or working, but I'm able to do things I couldn't do in my daily life in Ho Chi Minh City. That's the purpose of this trip. Even so, we decided that we should go out at least for one day. Since we're deep in Ubud anyway, let's venture even deeper. We headed to Kintamani, famous as a tourist destination. The mountain, said to be an active volcano, stood far more quietly than it looks in photos. When I hear "volcano," I imagine something a little angrier, but the real thing was silent. The more silent a mountain is, the more powerful its presence. We stopped by a hot spring facility at the foot of the mountain, an organic coffee plantation, and a batik museum. I thought about just how clichéd this sightseeing was, but leaving all the clichés to someone else turned out to be surprisingly easy and relaxing. Our driver, Mr. Budi, was someone who thought about arranging everything he possibly could. Travel is supported by people like this, I thought, feeling it deeply.

And this time, what I absolutely wanted to see were the temples and the Kecak dance. I had seen Kecak once, about thirty years ago. Back then I was a schoolgirl, and I watched it merely as "sightseeing." I think I felt it was something like just a foreign dance. But this time it was a little different. The open-air performance that begins at dusk was gorgeous and rhythmic, and music is born from the voices of the men alone. The voices overlap, the bodies sway, and the air of that place grows full.

To say grandly that they are conversing with the gods would sound a little untrue. And yet, it is not merely a show either. They were not simply dancing for the tourists—it looked as though, with their voices, they were protecting something that has been here since far, far longer ago.

Since I am a tourist, of course I have no idea what that "something" actually is. I sat there without understanding it. But my body naturally began to sway. Closing my eyes, listening intently, I let the sound of the Kecha wash over my entire body.

Come to think of it, the countryside where I grew up had a village festival too. Once a year, the local elementary school kids were the ones in charge of the lion dance. The middle-graders played the flute, and the upper-graders performed the lion dance. There was no sheet music—we learned it by listening over and over to the sounds recorded on a cassette tape. Even if you made a little mistake, the song had lots of loops, so you could get back on track right away. I could probably still play it even now—probably. But as high school and university got busier, my ties to the village grew thin. I ended up moving to Tokyo, and somehow the festival became something I had "graduated" from. I suddenly wonder what it would have been like if that had been an intangible cultural heritage. Maybe I would have hated it. But maybe, in time, it would have become a source of pride. As I listened to the voices of the kecak, I found myself remembering things like that. The things I saw and the sounds I heard while traveling began to overlap with the sounds of my own village. When I returned to the villa, the sound of the pool's circulating water mixed with the chirping of insects and echoed into the darkness of the night. Sipping a little wine and recalling today's circle of voices, my husband and I looked back on a full and eventful day. Perhaps the more clichéd the trip, the more unexpectedly it connects to your own memories. Relocation Life Ranking