FIRESTARTER : BALINESE KECAK
I Ketut Rina studied under the guidance of the Javanese master choreographer Sardono from a very early age, and it was from Sardono that he was encouraged to bring spontaneity into his dance and to form his own style. Rina has travelled and performed all over the world. He lives in Bali where he leads ‘Kecak Rina Dance’.
The Kecak Dance we see today is said to originate from the Balinese ancient ritual called Sanghyang. A trance ritual accompanied by a male chorus. This dance is not exhibited as entertainment but is a specific series of sacred ceremonies intended to ask for safety from disaster and to clear away or wards off evil spirits.
The dance was developed in the 1930’s when Walter Spies, a German painter, musician and cultural enthusiast became deeply interested in the ritual while living in Bali. He worked with Indonesian dancer Wayan Limbak, to adapt it as a drama based on the Hindu Ramayana and intended it be a performance to be shown before Western tourist audiences. The two popularised the dance by arranging internationally touring performances by Balinese groups. These tours helped make the Kecak internationally known.
What makes the Kecak dance particularly unique is that no artificial backdrop or musical instrument is used. The focus is entirely on the circle of about 50-60 boys and men, bare-chested, wearing Balinese sarongs, sitting cross-legged around a set of fiery torches in the centre. The sound created throughout the entire performance is completely human voiced and created by the men chanting. Representing an army of monkeys continuously intoning “Cak! Cak! Cak!” or “Keh-Chak" in polyrhythmic sounds.
Kecak is arguably one of the most impressive performances you will find in Bali or anywhere in the world.
Pak Rina wears Hujan Rimba shirt
The Maestro of the Balinese Kecak Dance, Pak Rina invites us into his family compound and for a private performance in Teges Kangingan, a few kilometers East of Ubud.
Silver strands strike from Rina’s temples and splinter like lightening bolts into a jet black mane. He wears an intricate batik sarong and a fistful of regal rings. Hanging around his neck are some heavy amulets they capture the eye and enchant with an eerie charm as his bushy eyebrows hover above his piercing black eyes. Pensive at first, they quickly turn to cheeky as he welcomes us into his home.
The central garden is alive with blossoming lotus and frangipani trees. Two coy-fish circle a murky tank beneath an ancient mask. Gold tiger heads hang above the doors and window frames, their expression frozen in a fearsome growl. A white cat looks unimpressed, it prowls the scene and as the golden afternoon light pours into the compound, Pak Rina wants to take us for a walk up the road to meet his goats and introduce us to his precious masks.
Cromagnon shirt
We walk past some villagers going about their business, this time in Bali always captures a calm tranquility as people sit on the street and take in the last rays of sunlight. We saunter past the local warung and some rice fields and arrive at the goats in a little clearing.
An old Balinese split-gate stands alone, submerged in jungle and palm... soon this will become natures theatre as Rina shows us two precious masks and invites us to experience a private performance. The Maestro disappears behind the gate.
Suddenly... an old man appears, his wooden face full of line and history. Elegant arms extending into expressive hands that clutch at his batik sarong, his feet are firmly grounded, toes grip at the last blades of grass the goats have left and curl into the dirt. The old man circles with an air of authority and wisdom to a thoughtful rhythm until he disappears behind the gate again.
Cromagnon shirt
Pak Rina is back, the old man has gone and Rina instructs his son to remove certain rings... rings that cannot be warn by the feral, blue sprite we are about to meet.
Rina disappears again.... Now the gate is rattling at the hinges. A wild animal caged for too long is on the other side... the tension builds to a crescendo as a bulging eye peers from between the crack. It is hyper alert, slightly crazed. It looks, looks away, looks again - a curious little beast and its banging at the wooden gate again, the sound builds along with our anticipation and uncertainty to what this creature is and what it wants. The drama mounts....until It bursts onto the stage to reveal itself.
A mischievous nature spirit with big eyes, teeth and red lips carved into a cheeky blue face. Its movements are fast and unpredictable. It hides behind the curling dead palms. Playful but menacing its head pokes out to inspect its audience. After a game of hide and seek the spirit eventually decides we’re alright. It falls to the dirt floor in an act of submission. It rolls on its back with its arms bent in front of its mischievous face, its hands claw before its face. Long hair cascades out from behind the blue and mixes with the dead leaves on the earth. Though the expression is fixed with every subtle movement the light and shadow play and give the impression of a variety of emotion. The mosquitos are out for blood but we let them feast— there bite is nothing compared to the intensity and magic of what we are witnessing... chilled and speechless the character disappears from where it came and Pak Rina casually reenters the scene.
Tora Linen shirt
Rina points in the direction of the rice field - he is off again... like a cyclone - his hair like octopus tentacles reaches in all directions. He walks the grassy line that runs between the two fields like a spine. The fields are full of mud. We try to keep up... take off our shoes, follow his foot steps with great attention to balance and arrive at a small wooden shack.
The sky is pale orange at the horizon and bleeds up into a muddle of purple, pink and blue. It will be dark soon. Pak Rina is knee deep in water, his arms reach into the grey sludge and swirl about. He clenches the land and draws fists of the earth up to the sky. The sky reflects on the muddy water as Rina, in his element, summons the night like a mystical tiger.
Now, everything is still and eerily quiet... our muddy tiger stalks his way across the field. He is a commanding presence, a silhouette in pitch black, standing within a circle of long dry glass. And the silence grows around him... soon to be blown as a mysterious orchestra of burning sound is about to take place...
Pak Rina drops a match and lights up the whole god damn night! As Johnny Cash once said “I fell into a burning ring of fire... the flames, flames, flames got higher”.
Rina has evoked a chaotic fever, a frenzied ritual; surrounded by flaming chaos he holds clumps of fire, he waves and throws it like he owns it and gleaming with sweat, he moves quickly with the element like a majestic blazing beast.
Suddenly it all comes to a halt; Rina stands centrally, the flame around him quietly dwindling as he draws the last blaze to his heart. He throws his hands above his head in preyer, his face alit in the Rembrandt glow holds a look of sacred anguish, as he honours the unseen until the last flame is out.
Stuck in the mud, we are knee deep and falling over ourselves. Noses filled with fumes, eyes wide, wet and bodies dripping in sweat. In a complete state of awe from what we’ve just witnessed... this mysterious ritual and the power of Pak Rina’s profoundly alive happening have enchanted us to the core.
To experience such a mad act of art - so close... to stand within the belly of the fire and bear witness to Pak Rinas magic was a truly inspiring privilege and one that remains burnt into our memories forever.