Images of cadavers hanging from trees, and being purified though the sap of a sacred tree located on the shores of a mystical lake surrounded by an active volcano had piqued my macabre side.
Friends had referred me to Trunyan village as a must see destination in Bali, a village that had a weird burial ceremony.
“If you haven’t seen the cemetery where bodies are left open to rot under a tree, then you really haven’t seen Bali.” said one friend. “They leave cadavers under a fragrant tree, and it mummifies naturally with a fragrant smell,” said another. A bit ghoulish but well worth checking out, I thought.
It was stuff of fables.
These were the images I took with me. But I was skeptical. If I could make it to the village today, I’d be happy. If I didn’t well at the very least I would see the volcano and views of the lake.
Trunyan is on the eastern show of the lake, and only accessed by boat from Kedisan, a ten minute drive from a scenic view point. That’s what the guide books said, but with Sana, a local from Ubud as my guide, I was determined to find another and cheaper route to the village.
I had been in Jakarta for the last month. And all I can say it was a welcome relief to see mountains, and wild vegetation, and roads that winded up to the spectacular mountain views of Mount Batur, set in a vast caldera with the lake of the same name that lays placidly at its base.
Getting there from Ubud posed its own challenges! Leaving midday didn’t help. The drive to Kintamani was scenic. Decorative bamboo bended over the roads. It was the beginning of the kuningan, a four day Hindu festival on the island, following the ten day galungan festival. The ceremonial bamboo, called the Penjor, is symbolic of the mountain spirit.
Our first stop was at a roadside check point that signified we had arrived at Kintamani, a high altitude village that affords great views of the lake and volcano. I paid the13 000 Rupiah fee. A lady with a baby comes up to the window, and offers me bracelets and post cards. Next stop was a couple of hundred meters up, to the view point.
No time to enjoy the view of the scarred landscape of the Volcano that erupted in 1963, leaving a baron scarred side of the mountain. We spent more time telling the lady selling postcards of the volcano and lake that I wasn’t interested. This gives you an idea of how aggressive the street hawkers are.
We drove a few hundred meters more, to a quiet spot where I could get a nice photo, uninterrupted by street hawkers. Too late, two young girls were trying to sell me bangles. “No thanks,” I said. They smiled, and we made out way down to the lake, where we’d catch a ferry to see the open aired cemetery where bodies of this particular village would bury their dead.
Same thing. Swarmed again by street hawks. I was given all kinds of outrageous prices to visit the village by boat. All I knew was that to reach the village, you needed to take a boat to the village. One guy, who said he was an artist, had offered to take me by motor bike for a handsome price. I told my driver to continue driving on. This place was just insane and not pleasant.One lady placed a sandal wood fan on my lap as we were leaving, saying, “But you asked 20 000 , and I give you price ten thousand.” Not bad, considering her asking price was 50 000.
Surprise, there was a paved road, and it was accessible to the village we were heading to. The artist said we could only make it by motorbike – another blatant lie, and all the more absurd since we had our own transport.
The government had built this stretch of road three years ago making the village accessible. Sana, who had been here over 15 years ago, said it was a strange village back then. “They had all kinds of tricks in getting money from tourists. It was so bad, that this village had the reputation as the begging capital of Bali.”
Driving along the ten kilometer bitumen road, we passed onion and cabbage plots. The lower temperatures of this area allow them to grow vegetables that can’t normally grow in tropical conditions.
We arrive at another check point. We are now at Trunyan village. They wanted a donation. Nothing new. You got to give a donation just for parking in Indonesia. I don’t have any change, I tell them. But I will pay them on the way out. The three men, dressed up in traditional outfit, were cool with that , and gave me a a respectful wai, and let us be on our way.
I’m getting good vibes already. We drive into the fabled village, that has been given the bad press by foreigners and locals.
The main esplanade leading is paved with tiles. It’s work in process, almost complete, with bags of sand and tiles piled up on the side of the road. This sleepy village is getting it self together big time.
The mountain rose up steeply behind the village, and the temple glittered in the mid day sun. We were only three kilometers, or a 15 minute boat ride to the cemetery. Two guys followed us to the end of the paved road. “You should come to the office, if you want to see the cemetery.” I said let me think about it. The prices seemed just as steep as at Kedisan.
I handed them my press card and asked for a discount. “Come to the office, and we can work something out,” said a young impressionable man, who was head of the organization that ran the traditional boats.
I was given a good price. A local price. “Normally foreigners pay double the price, but I’m giving you Jakarta prices,” said Daro, who seemed keen on getting good press for his village. And he was doing a great job.
Curious children flocked around me. Two European tourists got off a boat. “How was it, ” I asked. “Very strange, ” answered a middle aged lady who was still buzzing from her amazing macabre trip. Her husband slipped the rower 50 000 tip to show his appreciation.
Daro helps me put on a life jacket and he’s all smiles. Now its my tern to experience something very bizarre. I had seen an Balinese burial ceremony in an open clearing in the forest. But this would be very different.
“Enjoy your trip!” says Daro, as two fishermen row our boat. It is slow going, as we hug the shoreline. And the views of the rising mountain is spectacular. The only thing missing was the sound of Orang Utans swinging on trees of the virgin forest.
Once we rounded the peninsula which is only accessible by boat, Nosman, one of the paddlers,points out a large sandal wood tree. “That’s where we bury the bodies.” To the left was the ceremonial temple. We moored next to the cemetery, and got out of the boat with the help of Nosman, who kept it steady. It was something from an Indiana Jones movie.
And it would be skulls and corpses which would remain prominent in my mind.
Bamboo fences surrounded the grave. There was one recently deceased body in a white sheet, which lay open in its grave. It smelt, but the guide told me that the roots of the sandal wood tree kept the smell at bay. I wouldn’t go as far to say that it made it fragrant. Later, in the office, I asked who was the deceased. “We don’t talk about the dead,” said one villager. I totally agreed. Offerings for the dead were scattered all over the place.
Skulls in bamboo baskets stared at visitors. To the right, were about 20 skulls on bones, arranged on a stone temple, near a large tree, with tangled roots. ” We only have 11 bodies in the grave yard at a time,” says Nosman. “We have four cemeteries. One for children, two for the deceased, and one for accidents.” He says anyone who didn’t accrue enough merit in this lifetime would put in the grave for children, which is a general term for those without enough life experience to make merit.
“How do you ask permission to take photos of the deceased, ” I asked Sana. “Just say Suk Sama, its a polite way of asking for permission or thank you.” Nosman told me that a few years ago, one foreign tourist took back one of the bones of the deceased to his hotel room as a souvenir. He says the foreigner quickly brought back the bone, after many doors started slamming and lights turned on and off in his hotel room.
The feeling of death, and its fatality over powers you at this place. But it’s not morbid if you understand the Balinese acceptance of death. This village is different, in that it doesn’t cremate the bodies. After the body has been resting in the grave for a year, the bones are placed nearby.
Afterwards we signed the guest book at the nearby complex.There’s a plaque, set up by the head of the police department in Denpasar, that says to respect the traditions of the locals. Two of the points is to accept death, and don’t be greedy. And there was a poster, recently set up by the government, explaining the culture of this village. At last, these villagers are getting their recognition for being unique and a tourist magnet.
A few musicians played traditional music only after I insisted they play. It has been a slow day. “Only 15 foreign tourists have come today,” says Nosman. When we left the musicians and security guards followed us on their motored boat.
Going back, was slow and enjoyable. The view of the volcano, offering a symmetrical view, was spectacular. Local fisherman throw nets from their boats. “Did you catch any,” was the idle banter. “Yes a few, ” he answered. We passed fish farms, the life blood of the villagers, who are also farmers.
I’m in the open aired office. A young boy is playing music on a traditional instrument. The children are playing around. Guys are playing chess. An old lady serves me up coffee. The village seems to flock to the office. They look on at the strange man with his iPhone and Mac Pro, the former teething the later for internet. They really seem disconnected with the trappings of modern society. But I can see them eying off my gadgets!
Prahu Dayang, a traditional boat organization, was set up in 2011. A list of its 159 members is on noticeboard in the office. “We were sick of the village getting a bad name,” explains Daro, 28, the president, who represents a young generation of villagers who want to dispel the bad reputation of their village.
“There were many illegal operators who were charging high prices. And there was begging going on at the cemetery.” He says since the organization was set up, prices are fixed, and the proceeds are being pumped back into the village. He shows me the new esplanade. ” We are also creating employment and steady income for the fishermen who take the tourists to the cemetery in their boats and who act as guides.”
Three things worth noting about this village. One, they don’t have any punjars; two they don’t cremate their bodies; and three they celebrate Nyepi festival with a wild party, not silence, like the rest of the island.
“We are different in that way, “explains Daro. “During Nyepi New Year festival, we believe in celebrating, and having a party.” Normally its a time of total silence. He feels that because of their unorthodox approach to Hinduism, that the greater Bali community have scorned them with bad press.
“We just do things differently here!” he repeats.
They do, and you won’t be disappointed. The only strange thing about this village is that they are very hospitable. On the way home, the road was blocked by a jack fruit seller who was taking his stock to the market. He gave us two in compensation for the ten minute wait.
“See you next time,” says Daro, as the whole village waves us off.
I’m missing this place already.
Trunyan village may well be the last destination in Bali that time forgot. But with the clout of the young generation, the newly built road, and their strident ways of doing things differently, this is one place that will leave a lasting impression.
Contact details:
Daro, Mobile: +62(0)81936014646