Ghostly Confessions

©2011 Rudolf Helder

To the reader of these notes it's clear by now that I engage in an inordinate amount of walking compared to my previous sedentary lifestyle. It's not that I never walked, but it was mostly a basic utilitarian motion used to shorten the distance between myself and my car, and any accompanying thoughts were likely equally limited. In contrast, my walks into and out of Ubud have taken on a much more contemplative nature, partially explained by the fact that I must pass a place of death, and isn't death the most suitable of all contemplative subjects?

The particular place of death I refer to is a grassy area just off the road of Tirta Tawar in the Banjar of Kutuh Kaja. For those of you not well versed in Balinese lore, a Banjar compares loosely to a neighborhood watch group comprised of village elders that periodically meet to plan ceremonies and set important dates, like those for cremations, which involve a large part of the Ubud community. In the Banjar I reside these cremation ceremonies take place on temple grounds nearby my house.

When it's late at night and I have negotiated the last barking dogs belonging to the string of compounds that spread out from town I must continue my way on a remaining stretch of road alongside the cremation grounds. Interestingly, only a few headstones are present in the grass, maybe no more than 4 or 5, looking old and forlorn as if the practice of setting them had gone out of fashion with the invention of matches.
On my last walk the night air was still warm from the day and the surrounding palm trees and other vegetation stood scissored against the dark indigo sky in which a waxing moon shone palely. A dog walked by hastily, shiftily glancing up, making a wide arc around me, seemingly as uncomfortable by my presence as that of the recently charcoaled. Smoke from a slow simmering pile of dead leaves drifted silently over the area which was littered with an unholy amount of trash left by merchants that had set up shop along the road during the last cremation. Indeed, Balinese cremations evoke an atmosphere not unlike that of a small county fair in rural US, a place to gather, eat, drink, laugh, and jostle some dead folks before burning them to ashes.
Well, except maybe for that last part.

With the cremation over the area had taken on the desolate appearance of a dump site for the dead as well as the living. A perfect setting for a zombie or vampire flick and a good time for ghosts to manifest themselves, were it not that I no longer believe in them.
When I was a young boy my father died of lung cancer. My mother and I shortly thereafter moved from our village to Amsterdam and the chair my father used to take naps in came along to the new house and in a hanging closet my mother kept his suits. His presence was felt by me long after his death. Sometimes I dreamed of him walking back into our lives, all suited up, and reclaim his favorite chair. It wasn't until after my mother finally parted with my father's suits that his ghost could begin to fade from my consciousness. From then on I understood that ghosts were part of our ability to imagine things.

I know plenty of people who would not want to even pass a cemetery during any time of day if it could be avoided, yet few, if any, claim to have ever seen a ghost, a popular image most often associated with the departed, other than of course, blood-thirsty zombies in various stages of compost crawling out from under heavy tombstones they have, in spite of decaying muscles, no trouble pushing aside with surprising agility.
Sorry.
Didn't mean to heap humor on a deadly serious post.
Meant instead to mention that at the edge of that field where many had been sent on a disembodied voyage I experienced several times a strange sense of calm and peace even as an occasional moped or automobile sprinted by noisily. Apparently, it's a place to let go of earthly sentiments even though nowadays, as I walk by I think about which tasks I must complete before I too sojourn on, not because my demise is within calculated range, but it's the ultimate fate we all meet one day and no matter from which culture you hail, it's best to be prepared for that lo-o-ong vacation.
After all, aren't ghosts restless manifestations of those that haven't completed their mission in life? Let's not take a risk here.

Seeing how the Balinese treat death has made me re-examine our Western approach to mortality, not because saying farewell to this world and loved ones should be a festive affair, but expressions of grief and loss are obviously also geographically, socially, and culturally predetermined. Maybe our tears are not only for the newly departed, and we also mourn our inability to indulge in the cycle of life with equal parts enthusiasm at every stage.

Tired now from all the contemplatin'. Time to relax. Think I'll walk to the video store and rent Shaun Of The Dead. I know it's late, but gosh, I need a good laugh!