For the second time this year, a nugget of gold was missing. That was the final straw. Now Bapak Gelgel was finally prepared to talk to the bank. He had been hiding gold nuggets everywhere. Hundreds of them. Below a tile in the pig pen, in a cavity of the house temple, under his mattress, buried in the ground. Bapak Gelgel often dreamed that someone discovered one of his hiding places. When he awoke from those dreams, he would hurry into the pitch-dark night and anxiously start digging. And now a second gold nugget was gone, stolen. How did that happen?
The Gelgel family descended from the Raja of Badung, now called Denpasar. On 20 September 1906, the royal family – men, women, children – and hundreds of followers were executed by Dutch soldiers. Dressed in white robes, they walked into the hail of bullets or committed suicide, as the women threw their gold jewellery at the enemy in a fit of impotent rage. “Here you go, is this what you want?” they called out mockingly. In the end, there was nothing left but piles of bloody corpses, their bellies cut open, riddled with bayonet stabs and bullet holes. The massacre came to be known as the ‘Badung Puputan’.
Only a few people managed to survive. Among them was a child of the Raja, who became the sole heir to some land in Eastern Bali. The land consisted of fertile rice fields and forests, as well as some infertile areas. This child would later become the grandfather of Bapak (pronounced Pak) Gelgel.
After two generations, however, what remained of his inheritance was just a strip of land along the coast, fifty kilometres long and a few hundred metres wide. Barren, dry ground, rocky hills and beaches with black sand. Impossible to grow rice on. Worthless. Until…
It started in the 1960s. First in Candidasa, then in Seraya, then in a series of fishing villages that were jointly known as Amed, and finally in Tulamben. In all of these areas, most of the land belonged to the Gelgel family.
Did they strike oil?
Not quite, but the effect was the same.
The worthless strip of land meandering up and down the hills along the bays and ocean, became worth its weight in gold in the hands of project developers. Thousands of tourists discovered Eastern Bali, and in their wake followed the others – adventurers who started diving schools, western women seeking locations for their yoga retreats, investors who built five-star resorts, and wealthy retirees who wanted nothing more than to settle down in their newly constructed villas. All of them had one thing in common: Bapak Gelgel was the first person they saw when they arrived on the island. Dressed in his loin cloth, he welcomed them with a smile, seated in his simple bale (resting home) where he spent his days surrounded by children, grandchildren, chickens and pigs. Life was good as it unfolded within the confines of that hectare of land by the sea, where he would go fishing every once in a while, when he wasn’t busy with the cockfights that took place in the banjar (village hall) opposite his house. His home consisted of some rickety buildings and structures around a yard, housing the entire family. They had their own temple too, of course. Every day, Bapak Gelgel either prayed in the temple or took his prayers to Badun, now Denpasar, where his grandfather once crawled from under the corpses of his parents when he was very young.
The foreign investors, even the Dutch ones, were very welcome. Accompanied by a translator, a member of the Gelgel family, they were granted audience with Bapak Gelgel, marvelled at the sight of that half-naked, tawny man, and pretended to like the palm wine he poured them from a jerrican. For the sake of the piece of land they so desired, they even managed to swallow down the arrack. Home-brewed, the translator told them. Bapak Gelgel didn’t speak a word of English. In fact, he didn’t speak Bahasa Indonesia either, only Balinese. It made no difference for the negotiations since no negotiations were held. Bapak Gelgel, surrounded by family members and with his grandchildren sitting on his lap, used one simple formula: the price per 100 square metres was always double the price that was paid the last time – and it had to be paid in gold.
Even the slickest of developers were unable to stand up to him. After three unsuccessful visits, they would always return in the dark of night in their 4WD Mercedes, its axles scraping across the ground. Their proposal to perform the transaction via a notary was met with much laughter and mockery. The translator explained: “Everyone knows that notaries are thieves. So that’s never going to happen.” The gold nuggets were counted and weighted. Bapak approved the transaction, and then the property deed was retrieved from the attic. Time for some arrack. And new excavations.
Until one day, when a family gathering was held to discuss a situation they thought had to be put to an end.
Bapak Gelgel was the head of the family, but his three sisters were also entitled to a part of the family fortune. And then there were five children… One worked as a driver, one was a night guard, and one worked in the flourishing tourism industry as a kitchen help. One would occasionally go fishing with Bapak Gelgel, but usually just drove around on a Harley Davidson with a blond, pony-tailed, tourist girl on the back. The youngest son, Ketut, was different. He had just finished high school and wanted to go on to college. He just didn’t know yet what major to choose.
Bapak’s oldest sister thought that it was time to deposit the gold nuggets at the National Bank of Indonesia, BNI, but Bapak was convinced that everyone who worked there was out to rob them. Another sister believed that it would be better to distribute the gold over several banks. As the sun set over the Bali Sea, Bapak Gelgel decided that he would go to Badung the next day to pray to the gods for advice. Then he fell asleep, one of the grandchildren still on his lap.
Ketut was called a bule by the Indonesians, which meant that he liked interacting with foreigners. He loved to visit a Swiss couple, Johann and Ingrid Goldmann, in their villa by the sea – on Gelgel ground, of course. He practised his English there and was fascinated by their stories about snow and mountains, universities and banks. As time went on, he started dreaming about going to school in Switzerland. Swiss banks offered a very safe place to keep your money, no matter where it came from, Johann told him. And perhaps Ketut could study to become a hotel manager? That would suit him well, wouldn’t it? Then, later on in life, he could…”
Once again, the family gathered together and Ketut explained his plans for the future. “I’m going to college in Switzerland and we’ll take the gold to a Swiss bank. Then I can go and check every week to make sure it’s still there and keep Pak updated.”
However, Pak Gelgel did not approve. Ketut belonged with his family. And that was that. “Let’s all go then,” the oldest sister proposed, “Just for one year. We’ll be able to keep an eye on our gold and Ketut can go to school.”
The other sisters were curious about that faraway country with its snow, famous watches and stylish fashion. They immediately agreed. But Bapak looked worried. Would he be able to fish there? Did they have cockfights in Switzerland? He hoped that the Swiss were not Muslim, because he really wanted to be able to slaughter a pig every once in a while, to make babi guling.
Johann and Ingrid were asked for advice. “Don’t you want to come with us, to help us find our way?” the family asked.
Johann and Ingrid were affluent and very socially adept. They had already established three foundations (yayasans) to overcome the numerous problems they had faced. Those problems started with a taxi driver, just after they had arrived at the airport. With tears running down his face, the driver told them that his son, who was at the top of his class, could no longer attend school because he couldn’t afford the tuition. No money. That’s all he said, but it was enough. Johann and Ingrid looked at each other in shock, established their first yayasan and paid for the boy’s education for many years after that – just like so many other tourists did when they were new to the island.
Once they became more accustomed to the frequent pleas of the islanders, Johann and Ingrid would first investigate before taking out their wallet. They heard about a very old woman, Grandma Sery, who lived high up in the mountains, all by herself, under inhumane conditions. Accompanied by the village chief, they went to pay her a visit. Along the way, the village chief made a phone call and told the family in Balinese that it was “Grandmother viewing day”. That’s all they needed to know. Grandma quickly exchanged her sarong and kebaya for some rags, wiped the make-up from her face, and was taken by 4WD Toyota to a place in the mountains, where she was left behind in an old cow shed. That was where the Goldmann family found her. The standard text was: “I would love to offer you something to drink, but – as you can see – I have nothing.” A yayasan to care for lonely elderly people living in the mountains was established the very next day. No appeal was lost on this nice Swiss couple. And a plea from the Gelgel family certainly didn’t fall on deaf ears.
It was a motley crew of travellers who hung around the lounge of Singapore Airlines on Thursday, December 16th. Bapak Gelgel had refused to wear western clothes. He was dressed in a sarong and selendang and donned his usual uden (traditional headgear). The ladies wore Indonesian fancy clothes: blue trousers, white blouses, jewellery and a handbag. The two helpers who accompanied them were clad in big jackets and warm hats bought especially for the occasion. After all, there may be snow in Switzerland! Johann and Ingrid wore designer attire that made them look very civilized and Swiss. Ketut had on a pair of trousers that belonged to Johann.
The ladies were thrilled and Ketut was excited, but Bapak Gelgel looked anxious and was visibly fretting. Johann said: “Everything will be fine, I’ve rented a villa for you by a large lake, Lake Geneva. Bapak can fish there. His jukung will arrive in just a few days.” Bapak had insisted on bringing his own boat. One question after another was fired at Johann and Ingrid: “Are Swiss people religious? What’s their religion? Do they have temples?” Johann kept explaining as Ketut translated what he said: “No, there are no temples. If you wish, I could have a house temple built for you in the garden.” Bapak nodded, relieved, and asked: “What religion do these people adhere to?” “Some are Christian, but most of them are non-believers,” Johann said. The whole family looked shocked. “Non-believers? Then what do they think will happen when they die?” Johann shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Those poor people!”
“Business class passengers are invited to board now.”
Sonar Swiss Rentals had gone all out. A villa had just become available as a family from Kuwait had returned home. It consisted of seven rooms, a dining room, kitchens, four bathrooms, an indoor swimming pool with sauna and – most importantly – a large garden overlooking Lake Geneva.
It was situated in a quiet neighbourhood. No traffic, properly mowed lawns, not a single piece of trash on the street, friendly neighbours: a displaced dictator from an African country, directors of multinational businesses, a Russian billionaire.
“Well, Bapak, what do you think?” asked Johann after showing the family around together with a woman from Sonar. “Isn’t it fabulous? It’s perfect for you, right by the water. And the rent? About a kilo of gold per month. It’s a real steal!”
It took the Gelgel family a few weeks to get used to it. The jukung arrived from Bali, a temple was built in the garden, and a small shed was added that resembled a Balinese bale. All mattresses were gathered in the dining room, so that the family could sleep together. The sauna turned out to be great for steaming fish and the swimming pool was now teeming with orange carp, the same kind as in the pond at home. The trout in Lake Geneva reminded Pak Gelgel of the mackerels in the Bali Sea, He caught a handful of them every day. Thanks to the good care of Johann, the gold nuggets (882 as it turned out) were safely stored in the vaults of Credit Suisse. As agreed, Bapak Gelgel was picked up by a limousine every Saturday at 8 o’clock sharp for a tour of the depths of the bank by its manager. And the gold nuggets would always be there: safe and sound.
Ketut was surprised to find out that Johann had registered him at the Ecole Hôtelière in Geneva, where classes were given in French. Johann explained: “In the hotel industry, French is very important. You’re smart enough. You’ll learn it before you know it.” Indeed, after only two months, Ketut spoke French, made friends and went out with them in Geneva. Even Pak Gelgel got somewhat used to his new environment. The African neighbour accompanied him on his fishing trips, and he went to the bowling club with Ketut. His sisters visited with the neighbours, with whom they also went shopping in Geneva. Herbs were flown in from Bali, to turn Swiss trout into satay ikan.
They sat together in a circle on the floor, ate from the same bowl, using their hands. Just like at home. Cosy. The only thing that was missing was the babi guling. The family strictly observed the Balinese calendar and as Galungan approached (the day on which evil spirits leave the island of Bali), Pak Gelgel thought it was time to find a pig, weighing a hundred kilos or so. Ketut reluctantly went along. After all, on Bali sons listen to their father. And so, they got into the Mercedes and drove into the mountains, searching for pig farmers.
“Pak, I’m not sure they’ll want to sell a single pig to us. They usually sell hundreds at a time to meat factories,” Ketut said in a worried voice. “And slaughtering a pig yourself, that is certainly not allowed.”
Pak Gelgel considered this for a moment, then said: “Ketut, I’ve heard that there are countries where you are not allowed to slaughter dogs. But pigs?“ Pak Gelgel enjoyed eating dog. He was especially fond of anjing kintamani, a Balinese dog breed that is known for its feisty character and firm meat.
The higher they travelled into the mountains, the smaller and more traditional the farms were. Suddenly, in the midst of the blooming alpine meadows, they stumbled upon a few pink curly tails. One hundred percent eco-friendly, the farmer guaranteed. Pak Gelgel was pleased and took out his wallet. The legs of the pig were tied together, and it was put in the trunk of the car, squirming and squealing.
Once, the sisters had dinner at a neighbour’s house. They told the rest of the family all about it when they came home: “We were given potatoes, boiled without herbs, strings of cabbage, raw, and pork that was nothing like our babi guling. We only took a few bites. When we got outside, we threw up.”
Pak Gelgel nodded. No wonder the people here looked so pale and unhappy. Their food is terrible, they don’t have any gods and they rush through life driven by their watch and the phone in their hand.
Ketut agreed. He has just seen a video on YouTube in which a psychiatrist explained that western people were succumbing to stress. They have forgotten how to do nothing at all, had been the explanation.
“What’s so hard about doing nothing?” Pak Gelgel mumbled, half asleep. It was time for his afternoon nap. “As Balinese people, we even have a word for that, don’t we sister?” “You mean ‘bengong’?” But Pak Gelgel had already drifted off.
That night, Pak Gelgel got up long before sunrise, as he was accustomed to do on the day before Galungan. Galungan was celebrated everywhere on Bali with a ceremony that was important enough to require roasted pig, babi guling.
It was still dark, Four o’clock in the morning. The light of the moon glistened on the surface of Lake Geneva as Pak Gelgel softly opened the garage door to the temporary pig pen, knife in hand. The pig snorted at him. It was given a bowl of pig feed, flour, rice and even milk. Nothing but the best for its last meal. Tying its legs together was surprisingly easy. Normally, that took a few strong men. It’s a quiet pig, Pak Gelgel thought, a Swiss eco pig that has no knowledge of Balinese traditions. Then he stuck the knife in the pig’s throat and twisted it to cut the windpipe. He knew exactly how to do this. He had done it hundreds of times. And he knew the desperate cries of a dying pig, losing as little blood as possible.
The rest of the family heard the cries, too. Most of them simply turned over on their other side and kept sleeping. One sister got up to boil some water.
The neighbours, up to ten villas away, bolted upright in their beds. Lights came on everywhere and it took exactly three minutes before two police cars and an ambulance with sirens blaring showed up at the fence. The pig was silent now. Pak Gelgel put a wad in the pig’s anus and cut open its belly. The intestines were pulled out undamaged, in one fell swoop. That’s how you can tell who is the expert slaughterer. The heart, liver and kidneys followed soon after. Meanwhile, Ketut reassured the police. “Everything’s fine. My dad just slaughtered a pig, the proper way, according to Balinese tradition.” If a Turkish man slaughters a goat somewhere in the slums, he is arrested on the spot. But the police knew to be careful in this neighbourhood. For all they knew, this man could be the ambassador of some exotic country. The last thing they wanted was to cause a diplomatic conflict. ‘”We’ll come back later today. Guten Abend.”
The family had their hands full. Tubs of blood were mixed with coconut and herbs to make lawar, a Balinese speciality. “Maybe we could invite the neighbours?” one of the sisters suggested. “We could ask them if they would like to participate in the sacrificial ceremony?” Baskets of fruit, eggs, flowers, and fried chicken were prepared and stacked as sacrifices at the house temple. The babi guling was placed in the middle of it all, staring blankly across Lake Geneva with an apple in its mouth.
The neighbours had been put at ease by the police. Nobody had been killed. A pig had been slaughtered. Sure, that was inappropriate, but it was a low-priority case right now. Busy, busy, busy…
With the nightly screams and the subsequent stench and smoke that was caused by the grilling still in mind, the neighbours politely turned down the invitation.
That did not detract in any way from the festivities the next day, however. Galungan on the shores of Lake Geneva. Johann and Ingrid brought Grandpa Goldmann, the children and their extended family. They ate, they drank, they sacrificed, and they prayed. The Swiss followed the instructions given by Ketut – during the prayers they first raised their hands with a flower petal, then without flower petal – and followed the Balinese traditions during dinner as well. They all sat on a large cloth that had been spread out near the water and ate with their hands. Soon Pak’s stock of palm wine and arrack was uncorked as well. “Well,” the Swiss said with a chuckle, “It takes some getting used to, but it’s very enjoyable.” The Balinese women taught the Swiss women how to give a massage. Grandpa Goldmann happily used the last of his teeth to bite into a chunk of babi. Pak Gelgel asked where he could buy some roosters, since the only thing that was missing was a cockfight. He promised to invite everybody once it was set up. The Goldmann children, who were very open to different cultures, were now starting to get a dubious look on their face. Cockfights? Pak Gelgel explained: “In the past, the Balinese fought each other. But then the gods told them: it’s better to have cocks do your fighting.” The Goldmanns nodded and said they admired the wisdom of the Balinese.
The sun fell behind the horizon of the lake. Pak Gelgel was visibly in a state of bengong. The guests were about to leave, and a taxi was called to pick up Grandpa Goldmann. He was going back to the nursing home, where he was well taken care of, the Goldmanns told them. The sisters asked them to explain, thinking that he was going to a hospital.
While the Swiss got up early the next morning to make it to their banks and factories on time and work so hard that they would come home exhausted at night with only just enough energy to grab a drink, the Gelgel family slept in. The day after Galungan is called Manis Galungan. Manis means sweet. It was a day to recuperate from the tiring day before. They spent the morning taking a trip through the mountains – with Pak Gelgel peering out of the side window trying, in vain, to find a rooster – and stayed in bengong state during the afternoon. Simply staring across the endless Lake Geneva.
At dinner, they discussed the Galungan celebrations. Swiss people were friendly and very willing to adapt and learn, they concluded. They did a pretty good job praying and none of them had asked for a knife and fork. But they still had a long way to go. Ketut told them something he had learned at school: “It’s called ‘the process of cultural change’ and it can take many years.” But what about Grandpa Goldmann, that wonderful man? Ketut explained to them what a nursing home was. This made the sisters burst into tears. Pak Gelgel turned pale and asked: “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Ketut explained again: “The people in this country have to work terribly hard, both men and women. Therefore, they have no time left to take care of the elderly. Or to take care of their children and babies, for that matter. Children are cared for by someone else as well, only they return home at night. Then they all go to their own rooms, filled with computers on which they play games. Even babies have their own room.”
The family members looked at each other bewildered. These people are living such horrible lives. They have no gods. Nothing awaits them after they die. Babies are sleeping away from their parents. Children are sent to a home during the day. When they are in the hospital their family is not allowed to stay with them. As adults they have to work so hard that they become stressed. When they are old, they have to leave the family. And their food… At this point, Pak Gelgel started crying as well. He said: “We’ll do what the bule do. We will establish a yayasan. You don’t wish this on anyone. It’s inhumane. I will donate a kilo of gold per month, to teach them how to cook, to care for the elderly, to change their behaviour and to teach them relaxation exercises.”
Ketut nodded. Great plan. “I’m sure you can teach them how to get into a state of bengong yourself, Pak,” he said. “You know what baffles me? Swiss people who can afford it escape this country to find happiness on our beautiful Bali. But as soon as they have landed, they start trying to change us. They want us to stop the cock-fights, not to eat dog anymore, not to make fires, to learn their language, etcetera, etcetera…” Pak Gelgel nodded in agreement. He shook his wise head and went into a state of bengong – a state that offers wisdom and peace. The Swiss don’t know that. Yet.
Derk Izaks
dizaks@xs4all.nl
The author lives alternately in the Netherlands and on Bali (www.villabukitsegara.com)
Among other things, he is the author of ‘De plasticwatermaffia.’ (‘The Plastic Water Mafia.’)