Balinese Cremation Ceremony

A Rare & Intimate Glimpse into Balinese Life & Death

By Roy Stevenson, Freelance Writer

Spring 2008

The loud, rhythmic sounds of people chanting and drumming, and the sight of hundreds of others dressed in multi-colored batik sarongs and skirts swirling around overwhelms me. The bright sunshine, suffocating heat and humidity and sweet perfumed smell of flowers and incense wafting across the potholed asphalt road causes sensory overload.

Standing on the brown dirt path at the roadside, I’m stunned and bewildered as I look out at this melee of activity. Feeling very self-conscious about intruding on such a personal scene I look around to see only a handful of other tourists hovering on the periphery. A short old man, wizened by the sun, smiles and beckons me into a nearby open hut where he places a folded brown colored cotton band around my head and a bright red and green batik sari around my waist. He says, “welcome to our cremation ceremony”, then leads me back out into the sweaty throng of Balinese villagers who are preparing for the procession.

A body, wrapped in a white shroud is brought out of the wooden slatted village leader’s house, carried shoulder high along a dirt pathway and placed in a black coffin. White flower petals thrown by mourners descend on the coffin as it is borne to a 30 foot high pagoda-like tower standing nearby on the road.

Passed carefully from hand to hand, the coffin is borne carefully up the tower by the young men of the village. The coffin ascends the tower in stages, as some of the wiry and muscular men climb past it to the next level to receive it again. Eventually it is placed into a dark recess half way up the glittering red and gold decorated tower.

The mourning family looks solemn, but occasionally they smile and wave to their friends. It’s not the typical weeping, grief stricken scene you’ll see at a western funeral. They walk in front of the tower as it’s slowly pushed and pulled along the hot dusty sealed road by over a dozen strong young men. We head through the small ramshackle village, down the slight grade towards the cremation grounds a half-mile away. Resting on four enormous black rubber tires, each the size of a man, the tower is so tall that it was necessary to remove the overhead power lines. Hundreds of people follow, some silent, some talking, and some singing. I join the throng, slowly walking along with the crowd.

Balinese Hindu Cremation ceremonies are amongst the most renowned cultural activities in the world for adhering to their ancient roots, dating back over a thousand years. The notable exception that has broken with ancient tradition-the wives of the deceased no longer throw themselves onto the blazing funeral pyre as their dead husband is cremated.

Bali is well known for its strongly preserved cultural heritage, much of which is intertwined with its relationship to its funeral ceremonies. Its fascinating cultural traditions include traces of many religions and cults including Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, animism, magic, and spirits, with hundreds of accompanying gods and demons.

Evidence of these ancient beliefs is preserved in the stone carvings of fierce looking masks, fangs protruding that adorn the two or three temples found in every small village. Temple rituals also reflect these ancient beliefs.

But nowhere is evidence of these religions as strong as in Balinese cremation ceremonies. The cremation ceremonies are quite rare, held only when a village leader dies, and are the focus of tremendous activity by the villagers for weeks beforehand. The tower must be built, with ornate and colorful decorations to adorn it. A huge fierce looking black bull or water buffalo in which the coffin is ultimately deposited for cremation has to be created by a specialized craftsman.

The families of the deceased will often spend their life savings on the ceremony fixtures, as Balinese culture considers it disgraceful not to do it right. After all, the deceased is going on to a far better place and it is the responsibility of the family to ensure this happens with utmost comfort, ceremony, and respect.

We near the cremation area now, a large uneven grassy area with a patchwork of small stands of tall palm trees and bright green jungle foliage. The tower grinds to a halt and the coffin is transferred respectfully into the large matching hole in the back of a 7-foot tall fierce looking black and gold painted bull. The bull is wheeled and manhandled onto the unlit funeral pyre consisting of thick criss-crossed palm tree trunks. Brief speeches are made followed by chants. Then, what looks like a cross between a hot air balloon air heater and World War Two flame-thrower is fired up and aimed at the bull. A 12-foot jet of red and yellow flame spurts out.

“It get up to 2,000 degrees”, a Balinese man tells me, as we stand back from the rapidly expanding heat wave, watching the palm logs catch fire. The crowd stands motionless, mesmerized, watching, as the flame turns blue with the heat, the bull starting to blister and burn. Elsewhere around the burial grounds families spread out amongst the final resting places of their beloved ones, cleaning up around the simple graves. They spread out brightly colored blankets and straw mats, unpacking food and drink. They place small woven baskets of flowers as offerings on the gravesites of their deceased, then pray to them. That done, they sit around, laughing, talking, and eat their food, while the children run around, chasing and hiding from each other. Balinese cremations are not a sad event, rather a remembrance of their friends and family who are no longer with them, and even joy that they are in a better place.

Hours later, as the shadows grow long and dark, the villagers slowly start to disappear, leaving a few people watching the red hot ashes, what is left of the bull and the body. I’m told that a small group of men will later chop what remains of the body into tiny pieces so the body will be completely incinerated into ashes.

Hypnotized, and emotionally drained from processing the fantastic things I’ve seen, I finally look up from the ashes to realize that staying longer might be imposing on this final ritual. I slowly wander back to the village to find a cab. I keep looking over my shoulder at a sight that I know I will never see again and certainly will never forget. The slowly dispersing people, the plume of smoke, and the red glowing ashes receding are my last vision of this memorable event.

**All Photos by Roy Stevenson