Witnessing the Ngaben Cremation Ceremony [Bali Culture]

The first cremation I ever attended was my father’s in 2000. He had specifically requested it from my mother, as if he knew his fate and had to let somebody know he preferred incineration over decay. There was something profoundly infinite about the act of cremation—an eternal farewell. On that same day, the body of my father came out as ashes inside a marble container. All that was left of him—his hair, his skin, and his bones—obliterated in just a few hours. My father’s cremation was a somber event, so I never anticipated I would witness Ngaben, a similar event in a festive atmosphere that is part of the rich Bali culture.

What is Ngaben in Bali?

I was staying in Ubud, Bali when I heard a local say that there would be a Ngaben for a member of a royal family on the 24th of July. Ngaben is a Hindu funeral ceremony that is a great part of the Bali culture. It’s is observed to guide the soul of the deceased to the afterlife. Everyone was free to attend, including unknown spectators. I was among those curious spectators.

Preparations for this elaborate event take several months, and the actual ceremony spans several days. In Bali, there are three types of funeral ceremonies: Pelebon for the royal family, Pretiwaan for the high priest, and Ngaben for people of all social classes. Pelebon, the grandest cremation ceremony, is for kings or members of the royal family and can cost up to IDR 500 million, or over 30,000 US dollars, to hold.

The day of the event was scorching, but both locals and tourists braved the heat to participate. I stood out with my blue umbrella, a habit from my home country, the Philippines, where we use umbrellas rain or shine. A few people stared at me and my blue umbrella, but I didn’t care. I was more concerned about protecting myself from the UV rays.

Ngaben procession

I caught up with the procession along Jalan Raya Ubud and watched as they turned the corner on Jalan Sukma Kesuma. Parade participants wore colorful traditional Balinese attire. Women adorned with tall headdresses, a marching band playing traditional musical instruments, and two young ladies sitting on well-decorated chairs joined the procession called bebanten. Bebantens are selected for their beauty and purity.

Far up in the distance loomed a massive ox figure called the lembu. It’s made of papier mache and wood and decorated with gold leaf. It sat on a gilded platform called the joro, which also represents the deceased’s status and wealth. They say that the more elaborate the joro, the higher the status of the deceased. A great number of men in black shirts, plaid sarongs, and udeng (a Balinese headdress for men) worked together to carry the joro.

The scene reminded me of the famous Catholic festival in my country, the Feast of the Black Nazarene, where devotees would carry this huge statue of the Nazarene over their shoulders.

Another highlight was the towering bade, a 50-meter-tall structure intricately designed with carvings and paintings used to transport the deceased’s body to the cremation site. I marveled at its craftsmanship and wondered how it remained upright throughout the ceremony.

Finally, the parade reached Petulu, where the actual cremation took place. I stood there watching the painstaking process of the cremation. They created a makeshift wooden slide to transfer the ox to the sanggah cucuk. I watched as they pushed the ox down that slide, and I feared for a moment that it would fall on the side—a concern unrealized as they managed to do it successfully. 

The waiting game

As the hours passed, I started feeling unwell from the heat and hunger. I sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, beads of sweat forming on my forehead and the sides of my face. I remembered the woman I saw earlier selling different types of drinks, willing for her to appear so I could buy something to drink. Like some miracle, the vendor appeared a few moments later, and I hastened to approach her. She was carrying a huge styro box filled with ice cubes and bottles of drink.

I sat on the sidewalk for a while, drinking my water and watching people as they went about their business. I saw that the top of the lembu had been removed, revealing some white cotton-like material at the seams.

Klook.com

The marching band started playing music, and the spectators surrounded them with their camera phones. I figured a show or a ritual of some sort was happening, but by that time, my interest had considerably waned. I remained seated on my spot.

My hunger grew as the hours ticked by, but I chose to stay. I’m a foreigner to this land in the thick of experiencing something unique to this place. This may be the one and only Ngaben I’ll ever get to witness in my lifetime, so I decided to grin and bear it. 

The tourists sat on whatever surfaces they could find. Some were on the sidewalks like me, some sat on the ground, and some sat on the joro, which the volunteers moved to the side of the street. I gazed up and saw about five or more drones capturing the event from the skies. 

Ngaben rituals

Moments later, they started a ritual. I saw a few men carrying the casket, which looked like an ordinary box if not for the golden decorations on the sides. They marched several times around the sanggah cucuk along with the other participants of the procession. After this, they lifted the casket up on the sanggah cucuk and moved the corpse inside the lembe.

A high-ranking priest, known as the Pedanda, led the ceremony. He blessed the ox with holy water and chanting prayers and mantras for the deceased.

Ngaben cremation

Then, they set up a furnace under the ox, and uniformed men approached with torches to ignite the cremation. Everyone, including myself, couldn’t resist capturing the event on our camera phones, although the heat and proximity to the flames forced me to step back.

I found myself torn between experiencing the event through the lens of my camera or with my own two eyes. In the end, I decided to do both. The ceremony commenced as they lit up the tail of the ox. The fire swiftly spread across its rear side.

As ashes and dust filled the air, the acrid smell of burning objects caught me off guard. Stepping back, I searched for a safer spot from which to observe the proceedings. From a distance, I watched in silence as the flames consumed the lembe entirely.

It was a poignant moment to witness the cremation of a total stranger, whose name I would never know. As the crowd dispersed, I couldn’t help but feel that we all walked away with a story to tell. I’m happy to witness Ngaben, a tradition deeply ingrained to the Bali culture. Unlike the first cremation I attended, this one seemed to be free of sorrow, and that brought me comfort.

A new acquaintance mentioned that we were now covered with the ashes of a deceased royal family member. “We’ve been blessed,” I joked.

I offered a prayer that whoever they were, they might find eternal peace.