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Balinese

Boom.... Boom.... BOOM Echoing across the sawahs came the stirring notes of a big gong - a big gong, moreover, that was going somewhere - somewhere special.

I ran down the road to meet it, knotting my temple scarf around my waist as I went.
The procession was already coming over the top of the elevated water pipe that bridged the road - holy objects must not pass under running water - and was making its way gaily down the steps, back onto the street again. Banners waving, ceremonial umbrellas held jauntily aloft, the sonorous gong punctuating the gay rhythm of the gamelan, gods and offerings carried above proudly held heads, the procession moved across the road, down another series of rough steps, over a foaming river spanned by a sturdy stone bridge, up more steps, and finally came to rest inside the temple courtyard.

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The ritual began in the usual pattern - the priest reciting mantras, sprinkling holy water - then, unexpectedly, the gamelan commenced playing. A tingling expectancy rippled through the courtyard as eight young girls, each identically dressed, commenced a slow, stately dance. Quietly as they had begun, the girls finished and melted slowly into the shadows. A group of eight young men carrying long handled spears took their place and performed a warrior-like routine before they, too, mingled with the crowd. A final sprinkling of holy water and the ceremony was over.

Scrambling up the steps back onto the road, I recognised a friend amongst the worshipers. "What is happening" I asked.
"Important festival coming up," he replied. "Today we collect holy water. Tomorrow night very special ceremony in Pura Taman.
Many people go into trance."

Before I could ask any details, my friend, with a polite "Permisi", hurried off to rejoin his place in the homeward bound procession.
Getting to Pura Taman the following night was easy. Getting information about the ceremony was a different packet of potato crisps altogether.

At last I asked a small girl, who stared at me wide-eyed a moment, before answering in a hushed whisper: "The priest will bathe in fire tonight"

Then, as though afraid of what she had said, she bounded up some steps, darted through a split gate and out of sight.

The Balinese, fanatics for bodily cleanliness, will bath anything not nailed down - fighting cocks, cows, pigs, trucks, grandmothers, and motorbikes - twice daily. But for a priest to bathe in fire

I was trying hard to digest this unlikely piece of information when Wyan, one of our bar boys, arrived in full temple gear.

No, Wyan assured me, the priest would not bathe in fire, but the eight boys and eight girls who I had seen dancing in the temple last night certainly would.
If a priest bathing in fire seemed unlikely - 16 people bathing in fire seemed incredible!
Offerings arrived - offerings were taken home, two gamelan orchestras, one at the entrance to the temple, the other in the inner courtyard, kept up a non-stop flow of metallic melody.

In the centre complex, where no tourists were permitted, a pedanda, imposing in his robes, was dispensing mantras and holy water.

An hour passed before the musicians dropped their hammers, the pedanda began donning his everyday clothes, and the worshippers came flooding out of the temple, laughing and chattering.
So, what had happened to the bath of fire
Wyan looked surprised when I asked him.
"All in good time, Nyonya. Slowly, slowly. Maybe one hour maybe two- better Nyonya go home now .