ON THE HOLY MOUNTAIN

Hiking up a peak for Australians and Americans is not a religious experience, just a physical one. You hope for a good view as a reward.

In Bali, we visited the temple of Lempuyang, the eastern mountain facing Mount Agung (the Great Mountain) at the centre of the island. Everything in Bali is oriented towards or away from Mount Agung. Everything closest to the Mount Agung is most holy, and everything that faces away, towards the sea, is less holy, or even dangerous. The dead are buried in that direction, and rubbish is thrown the same way.

Also, that’s where the tourists come from.

The entry to the Lempuyang complex is on the shoulder of the mountain, where there were stonemasons carving new gates and decorations. The softness of the stone means that artists are constantly employed replacing artwork.

Beyond the entry was the start of the main trail of a thousand steps.

Dragging ourselves up and up to the temple, through the forest, taking respite at the regular shady level rest stops, we were overtaken by local families stepping cheerfully uphill, some with children on their shoulders, some carrying bags of offerings over their shoulders or on their heads. Their fitness and joy was way beyond ours.

We knew enough to bring our temple sashes, but I was quizzed about my “strange hat” – previously a perfectly good straw sunhat that had been squashed into a suitcase and never recovered its original shape. We were also queried about our “dirty friend” – a chatty Frenchman who appeared suddenly from the forest, covered in red mud, having hiked directly uphill from where he left his motorbike without using the ceremonial steps. The volcanic soil of the Balinese mountains is extremely fertile, red coloured and particularly sticky.

The Balinese on the other hand, had washed carefully and dressed in their finest for the climb.

We hastily disavowed having anything to do with the French motorcyclist, notwithstanding my hat was almost as inappropriate as his muddy coating.

At the top of the mountain we emerged into bright sunshine and found a ceremony in progress in the temple. Although I understand Indonesian somewhat, this was in Balinese and I struggled to follow what was happening. There was chanting and singing, and voices overlapping. It seemed very emotional, so we stayed back. The view was spectacular over the green and fertile valleys and the commanding shape of Mount Agung.

We ate our packed lunch of hastily assembled wraps and drank from our plastic water bottles.

It wasn’t nearly enough. We could have wished for some of the many snacks that are sold at roadside stalls, especially the delicious palm sugar and coconut sweets wrapped in ecologically sound bio-compostable coils of pandanus leaves.

However, there were no stalls here, just the temple.

Meanwhile the ceremony had increased further in intensity, with a voice rising into something almost a scream. Suddenly it stopped and people started pouring down the steps of the temple, smiling and laughing with one another.

It turned out that the voices we had heard were channelling a beloved grandparent who had promised to be reborn soon, to return to the community. That’s not a given under the Balinese model of reincarnation, as you can be reborn as anything, and not necessarily in the same place. So everyone was very happy to be welcoming back someone they loved into their own village. We were welcomed as witnesses to such a joyous event.

They immediately started unpacking food parcels (separate from the offerings they’d presented to the temple) and sharing an impressive feast.

We were invited to try different treats from the celebratory food – lots of packets of fish curries and rice wrapped in banana or pandanus leaves, fat Balinese satays of minced meat on sticks with peanut sauce, chopped green beans with coconut oil and galangal. The “lawar” beans I had learned were chopped by the men in a rhythmic ceremony, which makes what would otherwise be a tedious chore (I tried it at home by myself and it was boringly endless) into a fun social occasion. A typically Balinese strategy.

The kids were the most welcomed and treated so kindly – especially Matilda who was given a rare never to be repeated treat – a day-old chick. It was barbecued, whole, on a satay stick. She was slightly taken aback, but game to have a try. We passed it around for everyone to taste.

It tasted like chicken. Hungry as we were, no one ate the beak or the feet.

The locals continued to make fun of my hat.

RECIPE

Kill a day-old chick. Cut out the intestines (very small) but leave the beak and feet.

Stab it with a satay stick.

Barbecue with a sprinkling of galangal and coconut oil. Don’t worry about the fluff, it will burn off.

Garnish with a small amount of chili and fried onion (essential for keeping away bad spirits)

Serve cold, on a mountaintop.

OR A BETTER CHOICE

If you don’t want to barbecue your own chick visit Casa Luna in Ubud for a Balinese cooking lesson, a feast for your senses, which can include visits to the market for ingredients.

Or use Janet DeNeefe's excellent and definitive Balinese cookbook for a taste of Bali while staying home, as we mostly have to do these days. Of the many spices, Galangal is a key to Balinese flavors, preferably fresh.

But the flavors are always best on a mountain.

And better still with good company.