In Ubud Leah and I visit the Sacred Monkey Forest Temple, almost in the centre of Ubud. Huge mangroves and banyan trees arch into the sky and lay creepers down into the mud and mildewed earth below. The shrines are littered with leaves and disturbed by roots surging upwards against the stone slabs. And, of course, there are monkeys. Dozens and dozens of macaques, gibbering at us from behind trees, reaching up to snatch bananas from unwary tourists and lazing gently under the sun while a lesser creature picks at their fur. They are completely indifferent to humans except as a potential source of food, and lope slowly past us in disturbing proximity.
The temple is an active one, and as we are watching a German tourist having his pockets assaulted for the fruit he has unwisely hidden there, we hear drums and cymbals approaching from behind. Turning we see a procession of about two hundred Balinese, all dressed in sarongs and white shirts, different pots and flower arrangements balanced on some of the women’s heads, the men banging drums and cymbals, the grandmothers chattering to each other and leading their giggling grandchildren by the hand. We suddenly find ourselves in the heart of this ceremony, watching as at a hastily constructed altar incense is waved, flower and water sprinkled and, finally, a small black chicken is sacrificed. The crowd disperses as suddenly as it arrived, and the altar is left to be destroyed by the monkeys as they tear it apart and steal the eggs and fruit within.
A few quick enquiries allow us to discover that this ceremony is the first of four days of ceremonies to mark the full dark moon (or no moon), which will start on our last day in Ubud. Each Balinese we ask why the full dark moon requires a ceremony, cannot answer exactly why they are having the religious observances, but invites us to come to the ceremony the following evening and so, sarongs wrapped round us and shirts held in place with a quickly obtained scarf, we do.
In the dark the forest is sinister and shadowy, the lighting only creating patches of blackness for us to walk through. Spotting a woman with a tray of food balanced on her head we hurry behind, through the forest to the large temple. Inside an old man is chanting into a microphone, merrily ignored by the assembled Balinese who sit, chat, watch the children play, and occasionally wander up to the alter to throw some water and flowers around, put down and then pick up a tray of offerings they have brought, and head off to gossip with a different neighbour. We sit in a corner and try to work out the observances being followed, but are completely baffled. There is none of the reverence and order to be found in a Christian church or cathedral – this is less a religious event than a social gathering, a chance to catch up with your friends, wave some incense, eat some communal food. Religion as a form of community, rather than a form of worship seems to be the theme, and every Indoneisan in Ubud we talk to about it – be they Muslim or Hindu – are headed to the temple over the next four days to see friends and catch up, and maybe make an offering at a particularly auspicious moment – or maybe just have another sit down and a gossip under the darkness of the trees, in the company of monkeys.
Breakfast with Monkeys 