Those sparks were still sputtering in my mind as we drove to Batubulan to see the Barong dance with its kris finale. And though it wasn't the finale of our stay on Bali, it marked the moment when I was forced to admit just how much I had given in to the spirit of the place. Walking backstage with our guide, I had the opportunity to pick up one of the knives the priests had used in the dance, to feel the substantial heft of it and gingerly touch the sharp point to my own chest.
"Some of the dancers do fake it," said our travel leader, himself a dancer and the son of a priest, "and some have died trying it. And some are exactly what you see." I was mulling this over-mull, mull, mull, the whirring of what the Buddhists call the restless monkey mind-at the beginning of another trek a few days later. After a rich morning filled with many marvelous encounters with the sort of gifted local artisans that Bali produces as naturally as cloves and coffee beans, and after a drive to eastern Bali for a delicious lunch of crab cakes and papaya juice in a breezy pavilion at the edge of the Indian Ocean, we drove away from the beaches, taking the narrow roads up into the mountains again, on a little pilgrimage to the so-called Mother Temple at Pura Besakih, midway up the slope leading to Mount Agung, the island's most active volcano and one of its most sacred places.
With the upper part of Agung veiled in fast-moving clouds, I could only guess at its true height. But geography wasn't foremost in my mind as, once again in sarongs and sashes, we walked among hundreds of Balinese worshipers and then sat with them on the hard temple stones, listening to the white-garbed priests chanting prayers in Kawi, the old Javanese tongue, listening to the tinkling of the small bells rung by the priests, breathing in the mix of mountain air and incense, and making our own offerings-the palm leaf holding flowers, the incense burning. A priest walked slowly up and down the many rows of devotees, sprinkling holy water and bestowing blessings.
At last he reached us! A few drops touched my head! And for a moment I understood why we had traveled 10,000 miles to visit this particular place. Turning to catch a glimpse of the fading tapestry of late-afternoon light, I saw rice fields, palm plantations, and, only an hour or so's drive down the winding roads, some of the most beautiful beaches on earth, where thousands of Japanese and Australian and European and American tourists sunbathed and sipped fruit drinks and beer and Champagne while the tropical ocean beckoned beyond them. And then I turned back to gaze up at the sacred volcano as the wind tore the clouds aside to reveal the physical beauty-and hint at the deeper mystery-of the peak, which had been there, though hidden from us, all along.
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