Bali really grabbed ahold of me. It started out as another tourist destination, and ended up fundamentally changing my outlook. At first I wasn't sure what to expect - Bali means very different things to different people. To some it's a place to indulge in first-class accomodation at exclusive tropical resorts. For others it's a place to party and surf. And for many it's a mind-blowing cultural experience. I obviously wasn't a high-roller, and not interested in holing up in a resort without really experiencing the place. Partying wasn't high on my agenda either, so I avoided the tourist traps of Kuta. No, I was most curious about the unique culture. To my western, monotheistic eyes, many of the indigenous cultures I came across in Indonesia seemed to have very complex social and religious structures. And in Bali in particular the expression of the local culture was a dazzling mixture of beauty, color, and excitement. Beautifully-constructed temples, amazing intricate stone sculpture work, delicate wood carving, exceptional artwork, and a style of music that completely carried me away: the gamelan.

A few months earlier I had seen a documentary about an American musical group who played Balinese music well enough that they were invited to perform in Bali, and I was hooked. Balinese gamelan is unlike any style of music I'd ever imagined - an explosion of percussion by an orchestra of musicians banging on bronze-keyed metallophones in complex interlocking rhythms, all played at a breakneck pace in time with amazing theatrics of costumed dieties and stylized dance.

Not to be confused with the quiet, refined gamelan of the Javanese royal court, this is loud and raucous - a real celebration of life. The gamelan is one colorful piece of a gloriously vibrant culture, in which the natural and supernatural blend in a surreal spectrum. An endless array of gods, demigods, and demons are ever present, and the life of the average Balinese villager involves constantly keeping all of these forces in balance. This concept of balance comes through in the music. No instrument stands on its own (except for the definitive low gong that begins and ends each musical phrase). Every metallophone has a counterpart whose keys are tuned to almost the same pitch, such that when a key is struck simultaneously on an instrument and its mate, the difference in pitch generates a shimmering beat frequency. And each matching pair also has an opposing pair of instruments which plays a different rhythm that interlocks with the first pattern, all played at jaw-dropping tempos - the result of which is exciting indeed! It's a very organic sort of affair, with no written music, no tuning standard, and no mass production. Each gamelan is hand-made and unique, in tune only with itself, like a complex organism that has its own genetic code which dictates how the many moving parts form a signular entity.

An equally complex dancing style accompanies the gamelan orchestra. Actually, I suppose the orchestra is really there to accompany the dancers, although to me the music takes center stage. But the dancing, too, involves a very intricate and stylized set of movements, in time with and often controlling the accompanying gamelan. As the orchestra plays, all eyes are on the costumed figures moving in sudden abrupt motions that compliment the abrupt starts, stops, and sudden tempo changes of the music. A pair of two-headed drums (playing amazingly complex interlocking rhythmic patterns) leads the orchestra, and the drummers must pay close attention to the dancers' motions, keeping the whole thing together. It's really something to experience!

One of the more popular stories told in ceremonies is that of the Barong, a mischevious creature that resembles some sort of cross between a lion and a dog, and the witch Rangda. It's a classic good vs. evil story, Bali style, in which Rangda plagues a village with sickness and strife, and the Barong is summoned to repel the witch. In the end, it's a draw: the witch retreats back into the forest, taking her plagues with her, and the Barong also retreats. Again the concept of balance - good doesn't win over evil, but the two forces necessarily coexist. This particular performance is very exciting to watch, with the massive Barong costume controlled by two dancers who make it come alive! There are endless other stories and themes, and I took in as many performances as I could while staying in the town of Ubud, one of the many artistic centers on the island. And I have but scratched the surface - stories of all-night festivals in which people fall into trance and walk on fire, slice themselves with knives, take on animal personalities, and who knows what else, are commonplace. Surreal indeed...

One of the more hypnotic events that I experienced was watching a shadow play, the wayang kulit. After dark, scores of people gather around a puppet master and a pair of musicians. The performers are separated from the audience by a small cloth, and a torch illuminates the cloth from behind. The actors in the play are a set of flat leather silhouette puppets. The puppet master uses his hands and feet to cast their shadows against the screen, controlling their movements with sticks attached to puppets' bodies and hands. Although the stories that form the basis of these plays stem from classical Hindu mythology, the event itself is not really a ceremony; more like entertainment - a very magical puppet show. Skilled puppet masters weave current events and locales into the stories, often stretching them on for hours into the night. Of course I had no idea what was being said, given that it's all in Balinese, but watching the shadows dance in front of the flickering flame in the darkness was mezmerizing.

The enchanting music that accompanies the wayang kulit was even more intriguing. It's called gender wayang, and it is one of the pinnacles of Balinese musicianship. Days later I was lucky enough to spend a couple of smoke-filled evenings watching two masters of the gender work their magic on the instruments - the family who ran the losmen I was staying at in Ubud had some relatives who are apparently well known local musicians, and they managed to facilitate my presence at a couple of informal rehearsals. In short, it was awe-inspiring. Much more subdued than the riotous gamelans I had so far witnessed, it's incredibly complex, requiring seemingly four hands to play. The shimmering, ethereal music seemed a perfect match to the other-worldly shadow play. It really carried me away, and the mystical sounds continue to haunt my imagination.

The balance in everyday life is symbolized in the simple daily offerings left by each family to keep the spirits happy. Bundles of rice and fruit contained within woven leaves are left upon temple altars for the benevolent gods, and on the ground beneath the altars for the malicious gods. Religion is fundamentally intertwined with daily life - it's a belief system for the "here and now", springing from nature and very alive and inviting. Indeed, there is nothing secretive or elite about it. Temple ceremonies and funerals are typically open affairs in which the rule is "the more the merrier".

On big holidays it goes really over the top, with the entire island shifting into festival mode. My visit happened to coincide with Galungan, one of the most important days of the year (when the gods pay their annual visit to the mortals who worship them). It's quite an experience in which every household participates. In the days leading up, intricate decorations are woven from the fronds of coconut trees and placed everywhere you can imagine. Stone statues of various dieties are dressed with fine sarongs and sashes. As the day draws near, tall bamboo poles with woven decorations (called penjor) line the streets and mark each doorway. Pigs are slaughtered and ceremonial feasts are prepared, and everyone eats! At the Manikan House where I was staying, my generous hosts invited me to join the feast - spicy, of course, with all sorts of wonderful new flavors.

Everyone goes to the temple for Galungan. Rain or shine, all men, women, and children get dressed up in their finest temple wear, balance huge bundles of offerings on their heads, and walk to the temple. The temples are jam-packed with worshippers, incense smoke fills the air and each individual is doused with holy water. And no big day at the temple would be complete without an intense rooster fight in the cock-fighting arena. Sort of a "controlled chaos" that has evolved over many centuries. I felt a bit out of place, but I guess around Ubud the locals are used to having all sorts of tourists crash their parties. It seemed that as long as you wore an appropriate temple sash and sarong, and showed some respect, everything was cool. By the end of the day my mind was spinning, and I was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow...

Years later I figured out that the American gamelan group I had seen on public television that had so held my interest was located less than an hour from my apartment! They are called Gamelan Sekar Jaya. I went to one of their workshops, got involved, and wound up playing gamelan with the group for a few years. It was thrilling to learn the various instruments, and every week I was absolutely blown away by the skill with which the visiting Balinese masters could play. Plus it was a great group of people. For me the whole experience culminated in another trip back to Bali in 2003, this time to play an original piece in the yearly gamelan competition in Denpasar. It was a tribute to the horrible bombing that occured in 2002, and while it was an honor to be a part of the event, I was left with bittersweet memories. The magic of Bali that existed in my mind since my first visit had somehow diminished. Certainly Bali's recent economic hardship was a contributing factor - the bombs had devestated the tourist industry and left the local people more guarded and perhaps a little desparate. But it was something more. Something almost like frustration. Frustration maybe at having had that taste of paradise, and wanting to find it again. Or maybe at the realization that a present reality can never be as satisfying as those idealized memories of the past...