Faces of Bali

Ketut was waiting for us at Nyoman’s (my photo tour guide) family compound in Ubud. Nyoman had set up an informal shoot for us of a young Legong dancer; when we arrived, Ketut’s mom was putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She seemed a little reserved, but once we raised our lenses, she posed to perfection.

I learned that everything in her costume carried deep meaning, from the gem placed between her eyebrows (representing the Cundamani or third eye: the center for intuition in Balinese Hinduism) to the top of her gold crown, which is shaped to mimic Mount Agung, the most sacred volcano in Bali.

Later, we watched her perform the Legong dance. What made the performance so unique were Ketut’s sharp movements of her eyes, a technique called seledet which is distinctive to Balinese dance. I didn’t speak directly with Ketut, but when I showed her one of the pictures on my Nikon, she gave me a shy, genuine smile.

Across from the rice fields, a little way down the road, we found this young woman putting out her Canang Sari: a small, daily offering made to the Gods. These hand-woven palm leaf baskets are filled with colorful flowers, rice, incense, and as I noticed throughout my trip, sometimes even a favorite candy or a cigarette for the spirits.

In Balinese Hinduism, people will lay out their offerings every single day. This isn’t a special celebration, it’s a constant in the life of the Balinese. I saw people placing them on sidewalks, in front of shops, and at the temple throughout the day. As we watched, she sprinkled holy water over the baskets. Nyoman explained that everything in the offering has a spiritual significance: water for purification, rice for sustenance, and flowers to represent specific Gods within Hinduism.

When I asked Nyoman why she had rice stuck to her forehead and throat, he explained that rice on the forehead signifies hope for intuition, while the grains on the throat are a prayer for kind words. It was a lovely, visible reminder that even in the middle of her morning chores, she was connected to something much higher.

Later that afternoon, the mask Nyoman had bought from the matriarch’s workshop made a reappearance. We came across two young boys who were playing near a soccer field. They were immediately curious and came right up to Nyoman to see what we were doing. After some fun taking pictures and videos, Nyoman handed one of them the carving he had just purchased and encouraged him to hold it up to his face for a picture.

The mask itself is a Topeng, hand-carved but left in its raw state and thus, dissimilar to brightly painted masks more commonly used in temple dances. The boy was a perfect blend of two worlds: he still wore a small red flower behind his ear from his morning temple visit: a sign to the community that he had already finished his morning prayers. Yet, he very much still just a young boy in 2025, wearing a scooter t-shirt and a beaded turtle bracelet. In Bali, the masks may carry ancient significance, but the hands that hold them are timeless.

I was surprisingly granted an opportunity to step back onto the ceremony grounds at Pura Gunung Kawi and to see the ritual up close (make yourself a local friend who has connections!). The rain had been pouring for the previous 24 hours straight, and although the weather had even delayed the start of the ceremony, the rain had finally slowed to a drizzle.

During the Memungkah Lan Ngenteg Linggih ceremony, there were dozens of local temple priests (Pemangku) who worked on the ground in order to facilitate the blessing. We saw this particular Pemangku navigating the puddles in a clear plastic raincoat over his traditional all-white priest’s outfit. In addition to his translucent raincoat, he wore his white udeng (headcloth) with the knot intentionally pointing up toward the heavens. He carried a silver bowl of holy water with fingers laden with heavy batu akik: thick gemstone rings believed to channel the very energy he was there to recharge.

If the priests were the anchors of the temple ceremony, the musicians (Gamelan) and dancers were its heartbeat. This man was sitting behind his Gangsa, a percussion instrument where he would strike tuned metal bars with a mallet to produce the bell-like sound that defines Balinese music. This mallet rested on top of his instrument, as he waited for his part of the ritual to begin.

Since the ceremony start had been delayed and I had a two-hour drive ahead of me to catch an early ferry the next morning, Nyoman and I didn’t stay long enough to actually hear the ensemble play. The Gamelan musician sat behind the intricately carved wooden case, which was decorated with colorful figures from the Hindu stories, a cigarette in hand, half smoked. He smiled when I asked to photograph him and threw up a peace sign, providing a brief moment of levity amidst the grand scale of the all important temple ceremony.