Ogoh Ogoh the Heart of Balinese Culture at Dark Mofo Tasmania

We were on our way to Bruny Island when Liz suddenly wondered if she’d been specific enough with what she wrote and slid into the giant skate’s mermaid purse at the Ogoh Ogoh festival.

We were in Hobart, Tasmania, to attend Dark Mofo. Aside from the Winter Feast, we had each picked a must-see event — hers was the Chocolate Goblin, and mine was the Ogoh Ogoh.

Traditionally, Ogoh Ogoh is an integral part of Balinese culture: towering sculptures of mythical creatures paraded through the streets on the eve of Nyepi, the Balinese Hindu Day of Silence.

I was intrigued that this ritual had found a home in Tasmania as part of the Dark Mofo festival. Here, the Balinese Hindu purification ceremony was reimagined as a community ritual: people write down their fears or worries and offer them to a sculpture — this year, it was a giant skate — before joining a procession where the Ogoh Ogoh (and symbolically, the fears) are set ablaze.

A kind of Burning Man of the Southern Hemisphere.

Funnily enough, I had similar thoughts about the fear I’d written down — the first step of the Ogoh Ogoh ritual, and the last thing we did that night. I, too, wondered whether my words had been clear enough.

It all started with us entering a giant warehouse-like building. We passed a long queue for the coffin experience — yes, people were lining up to lie in a coffin — absurdly located next to an ice cream truck, with live music playing in the background. (Dark Mofo is sick — in the best way.)

Then we reached a back room filled with smoke, only to be instructed to exit and go around to enter again, which meant passing some of the meanest-looking sculptures, braving the pouring rain, joining another queue, and dodging puddles before finally stepping back into the same smoky space.

Inside, the atmosphere was chaotic — almost like a fever dream.

A giant skate hovered above us. Hundreds of canang sari — Balinese flower offerings — were laid out in front of it, and a small Balinese god stood silently in the corner. Nearby, a few giant mermaid purses (skate egg cases) hung beside a few tables tended by Ogoh Ogoh festival organisers.

People were everywhere. A group of obnoxious teenagers stood out, trying to mask the uneasy vibe of the place with loud voices. There were even small children there.

“Who brings kids to something like this?” Liz whispered in my ear. “Hobartians”, I’m guessing.

Maybe Dark Mofo — and even the Ogoh Ogoh ritual — is just part of the Tassie tradition. Maybe it’s normal for them, and they’re okay with their kids experiencing it too, kind of like when Amma used to take me to the market, where I’d see live chickens getting slaughtered like it was just another part of life.

As the smoke thickened, I told Liz I needed a few minutes to write what I thought was supposed to be my wish. But the person behind the table — handing out pens and paper — reminded me to write down my fears instead. That realisation stopped me in my tracks.

I’ve never really dwelled on my fears long enough to summon one on the spot.

My worries are usually fleeting:
What if I fail my exam?
What if I overcooked the eggplant I served Sonal that one time I had her for dinner?
What if my Scorpio chilli plant dies?

In the end, I scribbled something broad — something about not living up to my potential. When I looked up to think of other fears, Liz was already done with hers. So I followed suit.

We took some blurry photos and deposited our fears into the Ogoh Ogoh — into one of the sculptures of a mermaid purse, to be exact— soon to be burned alongside the innocent concerns of children, the angst of teenagers, and the burdens of adults.

—

“I think it’s the intention that matters,” I reassured Liz back in the car — and that was a good enough answer for me.

“I hope so,” she replied.

Follow me on Instagram @KultureKween for more recent updates.