Sayan, Bali

“The village of Sayan stretched along the top of a narrow ridge that ran up into the mountains. Every three days a crowded bus rattled down from the Chinese coffee plantations to Den Pasar, choking and stalling as it climbed back again at night. The land I wanted lay at the end of the village, next to the graveyard, on the edge of a deep ravine. Far below ran the river; across the valley ricefields rose in terraces and disappeared in the coconut groves. Behind these ran the mountains of Tabanan, and far off to the south a triangle of sea shone between the hills. The land had once been terraced to grow rice, but now was covered with grass and shaded with coconuts. It descended in several steps to the edge of the cliff, where it dropped four hundred feet. From below came the faint roar of the river as it rushed among the rocks and stones. The village belonged to the district of Gianyar, ruled by the detested Anak Agung Ngurah, who was eating his heart out at colonial restraint. His attempts at ancient tyranny were constantly foiled by the Controlleur, whose tiny office across the square from the palace in Gianyar was a constant and infuriating reminder of another régime. Sayan was a peasant village, not very old, but running according to old Balinese law. There was not even a village school, and very few men spoke Malay, which meant I would have to learn Balinese. There were three banjars, with an assembly: where on rare occasions the elders of all three banjars met for matters of grave importance. There were half a dozen small temples, and a crumbling palace which belonged to me Chokorda Rani, a poverty-stricken, prince from the ancient and highborn family which once ruled in Pliatan, across me valley to me east. The rest of the village were simple farmers: when they heard a white man was coming to live among them the signal. drums beat loudly, and there was meeting after meeting of the village elders. Rendah, the owner of the land, was a shy frail man of fifty; he was plainly startled. When, as he led his cow through the bamboos one afternoon, he found me sitting under his trees. It was only after Kesyur told him that I was merely walking for pleasure that he relaxed. Then Balinese manners prevailed. I was welcome! Would I not like some coconut water? He tucked his dusty sarong around his Joins and began to climb a palm with surprising agility. In a moment there was the double thud of two nuts as they fell, and he descended, to open them with a neat blow from his heavy knife. We sat conversing. I made no mention of my plans, as I knew the idea that I wanted to build a house on his land would have to be broken with caution. Kesyur was soon embarked on a synopsis of where I had come from, where I was going, my finances and my character, while I was already thinking of the kind of house to build. I saw Rendah twice before I ventured to tell him what I had in mind. It was clearly a shock, and there were many conferences with his older brother, who was headman of the village. He spoke in disapproving tones, but finally the two broke down and consented. I offered to lease the land for ten years, with a lease to drawn up legally before me Controlleur in Gianyar. But before this could be done, the pipil or deed would have to be found. This was a bit of writing scratched on palm leaf. No one had seen it for ages, and it took a month to find. In the meantime the village heard of the amazing news, and soon found out that Rendah would profit considerably. This was too much! A long and bitter dispute arose over the ownership of the land. The village claimed it had always been village property. Chokorda Rahi, the prince, suddenly appeared, all smiles, to say that the land belonged actually to him, had been given to him long ago by his father, in the palace at Ubud. The land had been merely loaned to Rendah, he claimed, adding sweetly that I was welcome to it, I must please accept it. Rendah, however, insisted that the land had been given outright to him by the Chokorda in return for money he had once loaned, and the day the pipil was found the Chokorda had to retreat, baffled. This pipil on examination turned out after all to be made out in favour of Rendah’s older brother, the klian, with items—the coconut trees remained the property of Chokorda Rahi; the crop was his; one-fifth of it went to Rendah in payment for watching the trees. At last it was agreed that the klian should receive the rent, while I would engage Rendah as gardener and watchman, and give him a similar amount. Both were pleased; this maintained a balance, was justice. The village, however, was far from pleased, and immediately began a lawsuit against the klian. Two months later the verdict was given at the Courthouse in Gianyar, and they had lost. Angry meetings now took place in the pavilion of the elders. Kesyur told me they had vowed to take the case to Buleléng; then to the Governor-General in Java, and later, if necessary, even to Queen Wilhemina herself in Holland. But Jacobs, the Controlleur in Gianyar, assured me the village had no claim, and that I could begin to build. I did not like the idea of breaking into a hostile community. I already had a feeling of guilt about the disruption my mere presence in the village would inevitably cause, but I had hoped I might be able to move in peacefully. However, I felt that this quarrel was not mine, and I decided to let matters stand until the time when I actually came to the village to live. I was determined not to ruin things at the outset by the simple solution of offering a bribe of money, and I had lived on the island long enough to feel that things would soon quiet down again, especially if I made the village a present of two pigs at next galungan-time, which was soon approaching. This was a ten-day season of bright celebrations, when the spirits of the ancestors came down to earth to be honoured and entertained, and the opening day in particular was one of great feasting. It was also a day for giving presents—chiefly food, it seemed, for everyone who killed a pig for his own use sent the choicest parts to those to whom he felt indebted in some way. On this day I gave new batik sarongs to Kesyur, Nyoman, Madé Tantra; a bottle of brandy to Gusti Bagus in Saba. The unexpected arrival of two additional pigs for slaughter (as large as I could find) could not fail, I thought, to soothe the village elders, especially on a morning when all were in the best of humour.”