Diana Darling writer
The Weight of Paradise (presented at the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival 2012)
Once upon a time, not very long ago, there were three friends who built a hotel in Bali. They were Timothy Withers, a sensitive Oxford drop-out; Betty Flowers, a tour agent; and Cokorda Nawang, the local prince. They all lived in the highland village Desa Pondok, in the former kingdom of Tarik Tamu.
Timothy was a romantic, deeply in love with Bali and its strange, archaic culture. He lived in a bamboo hut on the edge of the rice fields, where he studied the lore of Bali, and struggled to write poetry. Simple as his little house was, there was a young woman to sweep it out for him, wash his clothes, cook his rice, and carry buckets of water on her head for his bath. This was something else Timothy loved about Bali: there were always plenty of Balinese around to do everything for him.
Betty Flowers was large and flamboyant. She lived in a big bamboo house, and specialised in taking rich tourists to Bali’s poorest places. For a very high fee, she would take them to the wilds of Kintamani, where they would sleep on the floor of the community pavilion. Betty felt a mission to share Bali’s rustic beauty with the world, and to somehow take credit for it.
Cokorda Nawang lived in the local palace, with old fashioned courtyards full of pretty pavilions and gardens. He was a jovial man who delighted in explaining to foreigners the mysteries of Bali—its dances,
calendars, and rituals, and the mystical laws that governed its architecture. He told amazing stories of witchcraft. “You see that tree?” he’d say. “It was once my great-great-grandmother, a very brilliant sorcerer. But she crossed a powerful witch from Sanur and he turned her into a sapling. On the full moon it sheds holy water.”
Timothy and Betty, and all their expat friends in Desa Pondok, deplored the commercialisation of Kuta Beach, where new hotels were opening every week. They felt rather superior to be living in Desa Pondok, which—having no beach—attracted tourists with its traditional arts and culture. Cokorda Nawang, being a wise man, saw a middle way: the commercialisation of traditional arts and culture. One day Betty, Timothy, and Cokorda Nawang were inspired with the idea to build a hotel to accommodate this vision. They would call it The Kuno. Kuno means “old”, “antique”, “the way things used to be”.
And so they formed a company, got their permits, and built their hotel in the midst of a great expanse of rice fields. The Kuno was modelled on Cokorda Nawang’s palace, with its pavilions and gardens—and the addition of a swimming pool, a bar & restaurant, and a spa. The families who farmed the fields lived on The Kuno’s land, in a little purpose-built village of mud brick, at a suitable distance from the hotel itself. They were paid to go about half-undressed and carry out traditional activities such as dancing, wood-carving, painting, tilling the land with cows, pounding the rice by hand, ironing clothes with charcoal-burning irons, and whatever else Betty could think up for them as she researched pictorial archives from the colonial era.
There was even a temple staffed by a local priest. To facilitate events for her guests, Betty required the farming families to hold their temple festival—not once a year, as they had been accustomed to—but every Wednesday and Saturday. Cokorda Nawang loved the idea. He said, “It will show the tourists how religious we are, a demonstration of our local genius.”
The Kuno was soon a roaring success. Rich tourists were happy to pay hundreds of dollars a night for this authentic experience of the real Bali. And the farming families were delighted with their cash. They basked in the admiration of the tourists, who watched the Balinese farming, painting, dancing, carving wood, and holding their colourful rituals. The farming families grew proud of their culture, and they were grateful to be able to earn so much money simply by being themselves.
But the owners of The Kuno could not keep the farming families entirely isolated, and eventually there was grumbling. It came first from the women. They wanted birth control and electric irons. Then the men wanted to wear trousers. The children wanted television and iPads. The wood-carvers wanted to join the Fair Trade movement, and the painters wanted exhibitions in Hong Kong. And everyone wanted to use the swimming pool.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with them,” said Betty.
“Don’t they realize their culture is at stake?” said Timothy.
“Let me talk to them,” said Cokorda Nawang. And so he did. The wise prince gathered the farming families of The Kuno and explained to them that if they did not safeguard their old ways, the gods would curse them, and the tourists would stop coming to the hotel. They would starve. They would go insane. They would cease to be Balinese.
And how did the farming families of The Kuno respond?
I open the question to discussion.
Timothy was a romantic, deeply in love with Bali and its strange, archaic culture. He lived in a bamboo hut on the edge of the rice fields, where he studied the lore of Bali, and struggled to write poetry. Simple as his little house was, there was a young woman to sweep it out for him, wash his clothes, cook his rice, and carry buckets of water on her head for his bath. This was something else Timothy loved about Bali: there were always plenty of Balinese around to do everything for him.
Betty Flowers was large and flamboyant. She lived in a big bamboo house, and specialised in taking rich tourists to Bali’s poorest places. For a very high fee, she would take them to the wilds of Kintamani, where they would sleep on the floor of the community pavilion. Betty felt a mission to share Bali’s rustic beauty with the world, and to somehow take credit for it.
Cokorda Nawang lived in the local palace, with old fashioned courtyards full of pretty pavilions and gardens. He was a jovial man who delighted in explaining to foreigners the mysteries of Bali—its dances,
calendars, and rituals, and the mystical laws that governed its architecture. He told amazing stories of witchcraft. “You see that tree?” he’d say. “It was once my great-great-grandmother, a very brilliant sorcerer. But she crossed a powerful witch from Sanur and he turned her into a sapling. On the full moon it sheds holy water.”
Timothy and Betty, and all their expat friends in Desa Pondok, deplored the commercialisation of Kuta Beach, where new hotels were opening every week. They felt rather superior to be living in Desa Pondok, which—having no beach—attracted tourists with its traditional arts and culture. Cokorda Nawang, being a wise man, saw a middle way: the commercialisation of traditional arts and culture. One day Betty, Timothy, and Cokorda Nawang were inspired with the idea to build a hotel to accommodate this vision. They would call it The Kuno. Kuno means “old”, “antique”, “the way things used to be”.
And so they formed a company, got their permits, and built their hotel in the midst of a great expanse of rice fields. The Kuno was modelled on Cokorda Nawang’s palace, with its pavilions and gardens—and the addition of a swimming pool, a bar & restaurant, and a spa. The families who farmed the fields lived on The Kuno’s land, in a little purpose-built village of mud brick, at a suitable distance from the hotel itself. They were paid to go about half-undressed and carry out traditional activities such as dancing, wood-carving, painting, tilling the land with cows, pounding the rice by hand, ironing clothes with charcoal-burning irons, and whatever else Betty could think up for them as she researched pictorial archives from the colonial era.
There was even a temple staffed by a local priest. To facilitate events for her guests, Betty required the farming families to hold their temple festival—not once a year, as they had been accustomed to—but every Wednesday and Saturday. Cokorda Nawang loved the idea. He said, “It will show the tourists how religious we are, a demonstration of our local genius.”
The Kuno was soon a roaring success. Rich tourists were happy to pay hundreds of dollars a night for this authentic experience of the real Bali. And the farming families were delighted with their cash. They basked in the admiration of the tourists, who watched the Balinese farming, painting, dancing, carving wood, and holding their colourful rituals. The farming families grew proud of their culture, and they were grateful to be able to earn so much money simply by being themselves.
But the owners of The Kuno could not keep the farming families entirely isolated, and eventually there was grumbling. It came first from the women. They wanted birth control and electric irons. Then the men wanted to wear trousers. The children wanted television and iPads. The wood-carvers wanted to join the Fair Trade movement, and the painters wanted exhibitions in Hong Kong. And everyone wanted to use the swimming pool.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with them,” said Betty.
“Don’t they realize their culture is at stake?” said Timothy.
“Let me talk to them,” said Cokorda Nawang. And so he did. The wise prince gathered the farming families of The Kuno and explained to them that if they did not safeguard their old ways, the gods would curse them, and the tourists would stop coming to the hotel. They would starve. They would go insane. They would cease to be Balinese.
And how did the farming families of The Kuno respond?
I open the question to discussion.
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