[Kabar-indonesia] The Denpasar Puputan as Seen by a Young Dutch Artist

[Joyo at aol.com]

The Jakarta Post
Sunday, October 8, 2006

Feature

Artist Recounts the Invasion of South 

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 protege of 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

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Joyo Indonesia News Service
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