The reddish rays of the morning sun are peeping through the leaves of the early dawn. From the edge of the hill appears a large expanse of greenery, stretching from the horizon in the direction of the big, still clouded volcano. Dew glistens on the large leaves and the chirping of the morning birds announces the dawning of the new day.

The scene is a small village near the forest: a cluster of small thatched buildings inside a walled compound and under the shade of a few tall coconut trees. A woman emerges from her house, from the shutters of which comes the flickering light of an oil lamp. She goes to another smaller nearby hut made of leaves, collects fry wood and leaves and sets fire to them. She has started her work of the day, preparing coffee and food. Then a man comes out of the big pavilion yawning and addresses the women: “Luh, suba mekruyuk siape”? (“Did the cock already sing?)”. “Suba mekruyuk pang kuda, suba enggalan mesaling pang enggal ke alase, buin kasepan icing ngaba nasie,” she replies. “It has already chanted many times, Beli, so it is time you wake up. I’ll rejoin you later with the rice”. The man hurries, and minutes later, he is gone on the path to the south, with a machete tied to his waist.

Most of the people now live from the rice cultivation, and the forest, apart from the national park in Western Bali and the jungle on the slopes of the big volcanoes, it is now limited to the numerous valleys and gorges of the island. Interestingly, though the memory of “the fight against the forest” is still haunting many memories. The opening was a collective endeavor, usually organized between the various kinship groups of the settlement. Land, at the time, was not yet a commodity. The attribution of the land depended on the relative strength and ability of those who opened up the land. The one who slashed open a part of the forest would stick into the ground a branch with “ilalang” (elephant grass) at its top as the sign of his claim to the place. These claims accompanied by a small ceremony, were usually respected, and, with the passing of time, and the actual farming and exploitation, they become stronger and stronger, becoming the basis for present day ownership.

One of the most fascinating aspects of Bali , if too often ignored by the tourism industry, is the extraordinary order of its traditional human environment. Not only are rice fields a wonderful display of a regular human hand in otherwise tropical surrounds, but the island’s architecture seems like a gift of harmony addressed to the heavenly gods. Instead of “closed” buildings, it consists mainly of open pavilions set in large walled yards in the middle of which trees and plants grow freely. Gates are tall, meru-shaped walls, shrines small puppet-size buildings, and people live mostly in the open withdrawing into the intimacy of their small room only for the length of the night.

The Balinese base their traditional architecture on the Hindu theory of balance among Man, God, and Nature. Man, seen as “Bhawana Alit” (microcosm of small world), is expected to insert himself into his natural environment in a way which conforms to the order of the “Bhawana Agung” (macrocosm of larger world).

According to the “Asta Kosala Kosali” manuscripts, all architectural structures should thus reproduce the tripatriate order of both the world and the human body. Every building and compound should have a head, a body, and a lower body (genitalia, bowels, and legs), corresponding to the gods, humans, and demons. The large, open Balinese temple have thus an inner sanctum, where are located in the main puppet-sized shrines, a middle yard for dances and “human level” ceremonies and a lower yard where is located the kitchen and where relatively impure rituals such as cock fighting take place. Similarly in the individual family compounds, the family temple is the head of the building while its body consists of the living quarters and the kitchen and lavatory are its bowels and genitalia respectively.

But Bali is no longer an agrarian society. Tourism is bringing in twice as much as agriculture and the population is relocating to the coastal areas and along the main roads, upsetting the old agrarian patterns. Tourism itself is eating up ever-larger chunks of the island. The consequences can be easily guessed: land is too scarce to allow for the preservation of the old harmony.

There have been attempts to answer the challenge. The principle of cosmic harmony between Man, Nature, and God has been made the semi-official ideology of the island. Under the name of Tri Hita Karana (the three causes of happiness). In regard to tourism development policy, the regional government has tried with some success to enforce “design specifications” reflecting the Balinese concept of architecture. The construction permits of the hotels in Nusa Dua resort area have thus all been delivered under the scrutiny of a design committee and on the condition that they display the tripartite structure. The result is something surprising. The discotheque in Club Med, an obvious genitalia component, is located next to the kitchen, the resort’s bowels, and very far indeed from the shrine, its head which is located in the purest part of the compound.

Joke apart, this Balinese concern with harmony has undoubtedly contributed to the creation of a genuinely modern, yet “indigenous” type of tourism architecture. Most of the hotels of Nusa Dua will go down in history as landmarks of post-traditional architecture.

It would be wrong, though, to think that all is fine in the island of the gods. Much has been done in regard to the future, but almost nothing has been done to preserve ate architecture of the past.

More affluent now, the Balinese pull down old buildings to replace them with new ones whenever they can. Instead of the airy traditional family compound with its central yard and open living quarters under verandahs, more often than not there are now cramped rows of buildings of an un-definable style. Things are still worse with large structures. When the Balinese repair temples, gates, and village halls, they often pull down invaluable architectural treasures and replace them with similar concrete structures. The tripartite structure might have been kept intact, and thus be in accordance with vaunted “Tri Hita Kirana”, but the damage is done.

Is it too late to save Balinese traditional architecture? We hope not. The main obstacles to the conservation of the architectural heritage are cultural. Not only does “Tri Hita Kirana” ideology ignore conservation, but it also tends to soothe the mind’s of the Balinese. Being repeatedly told, mantra-like, that their culture is based on the principle of harmony, many Balinese refuse to even consider that this harmony is threatened. Very few are really aware of the need to preserve their architectural heritage. Accustomed to seeing themselves through the eyes of others – the tourists – they often insist on the conservation of dance, which is going to change anyway, but pay little attention to architecture, which normally has a much longer life-span. Isn’t it significant that Bali has a yearly Art Festival, while next to nothing is done for its monuments?

Other obstacles to architectural conservation are social. Houses are privately owned, and temples are owned and ruled collectively by congregations whose members like the cheap style of Gianyar because it is official. Furthermore, they feel they own their temples and that no one should interfere. Imposing a conservation policy on these groups is risky and requires time. When, for example, the Indonesian government and UNESCO tried several years ago to protect “mother temple” of Besakih, most Balinese protested as they saw it as a threat to their religious liberties. A good intention was misunderstood, perhaps for lack of information.

Whatever the obstacles, there must be ways to protect Bali ‘s architectural treasures. Isn’t it time to set up a heritage foundation?