Bali Studies

Artist recounts the invasion of south

Artist recounts the invasion of south (The Jakarta Post)

Bruce Carpenter, Contributor, Denpasar

When the Dutch colonial invasion fleet anchored off the coast of Sanur in September 1906, its passengers included an odd guest armed not with guns but a drawing pen and paper. It was not the first visit to Bali by the young and idealistic artist, W.O.J. Nieuwenkamp. The prot‚g‚ of the G.P. Rouffaer, a staunch admirer and supporter of traditional Indonesian arts, Nieuwenkamp had toured the north of the island two years before and like countless visitors after him would return to the west gushing with praises. He would also bring back scores of drawings and notes which he would serve as the foundation of his masterwork and the first book on Balinese art and culture, Bali en Lombok (1906-1910).

His presence, between heavily armed soldiers and cavalry, on the deck of the battleship Bromo, was by accident. He had originally planned, as in 1904, to wander the island on his own but this, he would discover shortly after disembarking in Batavia after the long voyage from Europe, was impossible because he could not get a travel permit. He soon learned the reason why.

Governor-General van Heutz, nicknamed the `Iron General' after defeating the rebels in Aceh, was busy organizing an invasion of South Bali to teach the haughty princes of Badung kingdom a lesson. Resourceful and determined, Nieuwenkamp managed to plead his case directly to van Heutz who agreed to the request if he would join the invasion fleet.

Oblivious to the warnings of the military commanders, Nieuwenkamp had come ashore ahead of the first troops on Sept. 14 and positioned himself a bit further up the coast with his drawing pad. From there he sketched the gracious curve of Sanur Beach and the horizon of the Straits of Badung. The beautiful dated drawing, framed by a tree, a coral temple, and a group of beached
outriggers with their distinct elephant-fish bows, is not unlike the scene one sees today. If one looks closely, though, you see tiny Balinese figures staring out in the distance at the ant-like fleet, landing craft and troops disembarking on the beach. Their miniscule size suggests that Nieuwenkamp was rather underwhelmed by this `glorious' event. In his private letters he would write that the only resistance met by the 4000 troops, horses and artillery, was a pair of Balinese dogs who howled vociferously at the newly landed intruders.

Five days after landing, the major thrust to take the capital was begun. This began with an attack on the palace of the powerful lord of Kesiman. To everyone's surprise it fell with only minor resistance. That night the troops camped within its walls. After dawn they marched off towards the heart of the city and the palace of the young raja, I Gusti Ngurah Made Agung, who for two years had refused to negotiate with an increasingly impatient colonial government for the return of 3000 silver dollars supposedly ransacked by the inhabitants of Sanur from a Chinese schooner stranded on its notoriously dangerous reef. Since the 19th century the Dutch had been unbending in their demand that all stranded cargo be returned to its owners as required by international law. In contrast traditional Balinese law governing wrecks was
more akin to the children's rhymekeepers, losers weepers.

Spirits were high and the officers were already under the impression that the campaign to subdue Badung was about to end with a whimper that day. They would learn soon enough that the Balinese were hatching an ending they would never forget. In his book, Nieuwenkamp would cryptically sum up the final confrontation which ended over five hundred years of Balinese independence with the words, "In actual fact we cannot speak of a fight. The prince of Badung had been abandoned by his people who saw no point in resisting a vastly superior army. Thus he met his end surrounded only by his retainers, wives, children and blood relatives." Although it is not immediately evident today, this comment was a forceful denial of later claims by the colonial authorities of a great victory.

The truth of the matter is that the events that took place that day belong to the fuzzy world from which myths and legends spring. The unpredictable Balinese princes, faced with an invincible enemy choose to turn the tables on their overly confident foe by resorting to the unthinkable. Like the skilled dalang shadow puppet masters, they would set a trap in the form of a hollow victory that brought shame on their enemy. To do so and win eternal glory they were
willing to pay with their lives. There are those who say that the colonial authorities should have anticipated a possible puputan (mass sacrifice) because one had taken place some years earlier during the Lombok Wars. They should also not have forgotten the formidable reputation of the ferocity of Balinese warriors.

In hindsight, the thick smoke billowing out of the Denpasar Palace, which the Balinese had set afire themselves, should have served as a warning that something unusual was afoot as marched into the capital. Otherwise everything was normal until they turned the corner of the walled lane that opened onto the now smoky main square facing the imposing main gateway of Denpasar Palace. One can only imagine the shock they got when over one thousand Balinese of all ages
poured out the open doors and down the stairways screaming like banshees. Wrapped in sacrificial white and adorned with flowers and jewelry, they brandished their jewel-encrusted wavy daggers as they charged the front line half in a trance-like state induced by a night of meditation, the singing of heroic myths and ritual preparations to make the ultimate sacrifice. Above them, lifted high on the shoulders of his retainers in a royal palanquin, the young raja of Badung urged them to meet their end.

From a military perspective it was an insane and totally incomprehensible maneuver. Battle hardened; the troops coolly prepared themselves for the oncoming assault. Nieuwenkamp does not mention if there were warning shots or not. It probably all happened too quickly to even recall. What is sure is that once the order was given to open fire chaos ensued as blood, screams, writhing bodies, smoke, dust and the smells of gun powder and sweat mingled in the tropical heat. The confusion was further amplified as older women from the palace wandered among the wounded stabbing them to death to ensure they would enter the Balinese Valhalla that day. Nieuwenkamp writes that another group of distinguished ladies entered the fray with bags of coins which they disdainfully flung at the soldiers while shouting out that it was payment for
their service! The official number of Balinese casualties, 450, was certainly an attempted cover up. Nieuwenkamp was dismayed if not disgusted.

Nieuwenkamp found himself trapped in a moral dilemma. In his private letters to his family, friends and various authorities he raved against the official reports pointing out that the discrepancy in casualties (0 versus over 1400) proved that the official reports were a travesty. Although he would finally write his account of events in a major Dutch newspaper, he still felt compelled to tone down his criticism to avoid trouble with the colonial authorities. Nevertheless he clearly supported the Balinese estimate that at least 1400 perished that day. He also poked fun at the courage of the Dutch officers who refused to venture away from the main force without at least fifty guards to protect them from the local inhabitants. In contrast, Nieuwenkamp wandered through the local lanes and villages alone with his sketchbook and writes that he was always treated with courtesy even a few days after the puputan.

The Denpasar puputan was not the last tragedy seen by Nieuwenkamp in 1906. In its wake the colonial troops marched to the border of Badung's main ally, Tabanan, and sent a message demanding the raja's unconditional surrender. The old man agreed but only with the guarantee he would not be exiled, as had happened to other troublesome Balinese princes in the past. He was told that only Batavia had the power to make such a decision and warned again. In the end
he arrived at the army camp accompanied only by his son and a handful of retainers. The frail old man was taken into custody as they waited word from Batavia but after a few days, captivity proved too much. Weaponless he committed suicide by slitting his own throat with a keplocakan, a blunt chisel-like tool used by toothless old men to finely chop betel nuts.

By the 1930s Bali had gained international fame. By this time Nieuwenkamp had been largely forgotten in spite of his seminal role in the chain of events that led to Bali's enduring fame as an extraordinary destination. The puputan, however, would continue to amaze and inspire. In 1937, Miguel Covarubbias would write about it extensively in his best seller, The Island of Bali. In the same year, the German author, Vicki Baum, would publish the Tale of Bali, a historical novel in which it serves as a backdrop.

A century has now passed since W.O.J. Nieuwenkamp witnessed the fall of south Bali. Its anniversary has been marked by several major performances, ceremonies and numerous articles in English, Indonesian and Balinese newspapers. The puputan story has endured but we must avoid turning it into a Hollywood movie or Indonesian soap opera. We must also not forget that Badung was one of the last of a long and illustrious line of Hindu-Buddhist kingdoms first
established in Indonesia as early as 400 CE which held sway over much of the archipelago for over one thousand years. South Bali's incorporation into the Dutch East Indies and later, the Republic of Indonesia, marked the end of this remarkable era. It also confronted the Balinese with the ongoing need to define what makes them who they are and how to best preserve it. Let's hope they will continue the process until the next centennial anniversary of the puputan.

The writer is an art expert staying in Sanur

posted by andersonite @ 1:38 PM