MAYA KERTHYASA

CLANS AND CLIMATES
A JOURNEY FROM THE SEA TO THE MOUNTAINS

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All photography by Martin Westlake

Jero Mangku Dalem Suci Gede Yudiawan in his kitchen.

Wayan and I are heading along the rugged Buleleng coastline to a village called Les to dig a little deeper into the food of Bali’s north. Compared to, say, Sumatera, Java or Borneo, Bali is a remarkably small island – just 153 km (95 miles) wide and 112 km (70 miles) from top to bottom – yet, from a cultural, geographical and culinary standpoint, it’s a marvel – a patchwork, if you like, of states, clans and former kingdoms, each with their own histories, customs and flavours.

These days, the culinary lines between the different regions have blurred. We now have multi-chain supermarkets, trucks that transport animals from large-scale farms from one regency to the next, and vegetables that are imported from neighbouring islands and countries. You can find hot Gilimanuk-style betutu (spiced, smoked poultry) and jaja (traditional cakes or sweets) from Gianyar in parts of Denpasar and wider Badung, and a lot of the traditional cooking methods – steaming, grilling and smoking – have been replaced with deep-frying. In many cases, store-bought vegetable oil is used instead of homemade coconut oil, and coconut milk from cans or cartons is used in place of the hand-squeezed fresh stuff. But a good number of people remain dedicated to preserving regional and traditional cooking techniques and ingredients – my niang (grandmother), for example, who claims that food is part of our budaya (culture) and keeps us in touch with who we are.

The people of Les are part of a community known as Bali Mula – a clan whose belief systems and practices predate those of the island’s majority Javanese–Hindu descendant population. Some of the original Balinese, if you like. We leave Ubud just before noon, taking the longer route, which cuts through the leafy rice-growing villages of Bongkasa and Punggul, then winds up into the vegetable-farming highlands of Bedugul, where the cooler climate favours the likes of cabbage, carrots, lettuce and strawberries – foods introduced to appease the masses. The forests and farms along the way are lush and well watered. It’s the end of the rainy season, and fruit stalls are stationed along the quiet country roads, stacked high with red, ripe rambutans, seasonal butter avocadoes, jackfruits the size and weight of a small child, and dangerous-looking and pungent durians.

As we descend into the region’s capital, Singaraja, the landscape changes – and so does the food. The narrow streets are lined with European-accented shops and houses that speak to the city’s colonial past. They rub shoulders with ornate mosques, Chinese temples and several eateries offering sio bak roast pork and lapciong sausages – legacies left by the sailors who traded here for centuries. But as fascinating as Peranakan food is, we keep driving. Our sights are set on a kitchen about an hour from here, where we’re slated to meet chef and local priest Jero Mangku Dalem Suci Gede Yudiawan.

We arrive at his place by nightfall and the open-air dining room is softly lit. Rows of antique clay pots rest against the woven bamboo walls; they’re housing arak (traditional palm wine) that is ageing and infusing with the likes of fresh mango, jackfruit and moringa leaves. There’s a little bar dedicated to the spirit on our left, and a wooden bridge to our right that leads to the paon. One of the cooks, a young man no older than twenty-five with an impressive tattoo sleeve down his right arm, tells us Jero Yudiawan is officiating a ceremony and will be here shortly. He invites us to explore the kitchen while we wait. It’s set in a small, open structure with work benches on either side and a neat earthen stove in its centre. Jero Yudiawan’s knives are proudly displayed along the back wall; there’s more than ten, most of them cleavers, a couple of them serrated for cutting through fish bones. An elevated bale pavilion where the mise en place happens sits adjacent to the hearth.

A huge volcanic-stone ulekan (mortar), an even larger tamarind-wood talenan (chopping board) and glass jars full of spices, roots and aromatics are spread across the wooden boards. Two fat roosters rest surprisingly calmly underneath all the chopping and pounding.

Jero Yudiawan arrives dressed in his immaculate all-white ceremonial attire. He excuses himself momentarily and returns in a more laid-back version of the previous outfi t – a white kamben (sarong) and t-shirt, his headcloth removed and hair pulled back in a low bun. He and Wayan bond instantly over the similarities of coastline cooking in the north and on Nusa Penida. ‘Heat and spice,’ Jero Yudiawan says, ‘that’s what characterises our food.’

The northern climate, he tells us, is harsh and dry. They eat seafood, mainly, with papaya, cassava and Javanese long pepper leaves for vegetables. Before rice was widely accessible, they’d make nasi sela (cassava root ‘rice’) similar to the dried and grated cassava of Wayan’s home island. If times were bountiful, they might stir some actual beras (uncooked rice) into the mix.

The sea up north is wild and deep, so squid, octopus, lobster and deep-sea fish are the prime sources of protein. Jero Yudiawan serves us mackerel three ways – diced and tossed with a red sambal, simmered low-and-slow in a spicy fish head soup, and cooked in a tube of young bamboo with yellow spices and turmeric leaves in a dish he calls Ikan bungbung (page 196). Dessert is Daluman leaf jelly (page 266) with homemade coconut milk and juruh – a type of lontar palm sugar that resembles honey in its colour and thickness. It’s smoky, complex and almost savoury on the tongue. We cap off the evening with six shots of arak, made from lontar nectar, which Jero Yudiawan produces the old-fashioned way using a wood fi re, no yeasts, and long bamboo poles that cool the clear liquor before it trickles into glass bottles at the end of the production line. As we imbibe, we talk about the state of traditional cooking in Bali. ‘This kind of food is almost gone,’ he says. ‘I’ve had chefs work for me who can’t make sambal but can cook spaghetti with their eyes closed. I want to make and preserve the kind of food that people miss.

From the hot, dry north-east, we pay a visit to the mountains to visit Kentri Norberg, the proprietor of a biodynamic coff ee estate and retreat at the base of Mount Batukaru. The central peaks of Bali – the Batukaru range towards the west, Mount Agung out east and the Kintamani caldera in between them – are the island’s most impressive landmarks. They are laced with freshwater springs, high-altitude farms and tegals (forests) teeming with traditional foods (see page 125). Water is delicately manoeuvred from the holy lakes of the highlands towards the lowland rice fi elds via a series of channels and streams known as the subak. And so, the mountains are the origins of the island’s fertility and are revered and protected by both the people and spirits that reside on and around their slopes.

‘The energies here are strong,’ says Ibu Kentri, as she’s affectionately known, ‘particularly over near the yoga shala (yoga studio or pavilion). That’s why we’ve never built rooms up there.’

She spent most of her childhood there, darting between her family’s garden, the local primary school and the temple across the road where her father was a priest and caretaker. At Batukaru Coff ee Estate, she cooks the kind of food she ate growing up: ‘highly nutritious, not overly processed, how the village used to cook.

In the open-air dining pavilion, Ibu Kentri is telling us about jaka trees. From the pavilion looking out over the island’s south and east, with glimpses of the western coastline to our right, almost all of the surrounding mountains are visible, except for Batukaru behind us and Mount Agung, which is concealed behind rain clouds. Ibu Kentri points to a group of tall, fat jaka palms: ‘We sweeten our coff ee with juruh sugar made from these palms. There’s only one old man in the village who still produces this kind of sugar. When he’s gone it won’t exist here anymore.’

Ibu Kentri’s estate sprawls across 10 hectares of jungle and coffee trees. From the cool, wild land, she cultivates and forages a number of local plants – young bamboo, moringa leaves, cassava leaves and roots, kara beans and sembung (ngai camphor) among them – which she serves with fluffy mansur rice that grows in the heritage fi elds below. She serves us a pot of homegrown bamboo shoots in a bright yellow broth, and freshly foraged young fern tips sautéed with garlic, red (Asian) shallots and chillies, with just the right amount of kuah (juice) to pour over our rice. She deep-fries the rest of the fern tips in a turmeric-spiked batter with a side of sambal fragrant with torch ginger stems. She smiles as we reach for second helpings, commenting on how everything tastes so alive. ‘This place, these foods can cure many things.’

Nearby, in the village of Belulang, we visit a temple called Pura Luhur Batu Panes. Today happens to be an auspicious day, Kajeng Kliwon, when the spirits and other elemental forces are believed to be potent, present and active across the three worlds. In an effort to neutralise or tap into this energy, Hindu devotees dive into ritual – purifying inside and out, laying out specific offerings

and asking the energy of Siwa for protection from any negativity that might be floating around in the ether. At this particular event, a new pratima (idol) is being planted in one of the temple shrines. The rituals are conducted first, followed by prayers and, after that, we are invited to eat.

Pura Luhur Batu Panes is unique in that it’s vast and wall-less. Forest provides the backdrop for the pelinggih shrines, and rice-terraces hug the rest of the complex gently between their dips and curves. The kitchen backs onto brilliant vistas of newly planted rice fi elds and dormant mountains slumbering peacefully underneath a mess of grey clouds. From these regions emerge large tubs of steaming white rice, smoky chicken and banana trunk wrapped and steamed in cacao leaves, and a kind of sweet coconut floss known as sambal nyuh – a speciality of the region. Instead of cakes, we’re offered roasted yams and bananas, served plain and simple with a cup of sweet coffee. The woman next to me giggles as she peels the skin from her banana. ‘This is how we eat,’ she says, ‘do you like it?’

JERO YUDI'S IKAN BUNGBUNG

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Northern-style Mackerel Cooked in Bamboo

Jero Mangku Dalem Suci Gede Yudiawan shared this recipe with us in his north Bali kitchen. It’s extra special because it’s cooked in bamboo – an old-school technique that leaves the fish beautifully smoky and swimming in juices and spices. Yudiawan is a real champion for the techniques and flavours of his hometown, and this recipe is true to the style of the north in that it’s seafood-based and deeply aromatic. It also pairs well with Nasi sela gayot (page 182) and a good, fresh Sambal matah (page 76). To make this recipe, you’ll need access to young bamboo, and you’ll probably have to build a fi re pit in your backyard – but it’ll be worth every inch of the effort.

Serves 3

Main Recipe

  • 1 tube of green bamboo –approximately 50 cm (20 in) long, cleaned

  • Jalikan (wood-fired stove, optional)

  • Approx. 300 g (10½   oz) banana leaves, or other mildly flavoured edible leaves

  • 500 g (1 lb 2 oz) mackerel fillet, cut into 1 cm (½   in) cubes

  • 5 sprigs carum (lemon basil, see page 274)

  • Pinch of sea salt

  • Nasi sela (page 115), to serve

  • Urab don sela (page 135) or Urab kacang (page 134), to serve

SHALLOT–GINGER MARINADE

  • 80 g (2¾   oz/⅓   cup) Base bawang jahe (page 58)

  • 1 red (Asian) shallot, finely sliced

  • 4 tabasco chillies, finely sliced (optional)

  • 3–4 lime leaves, finely sliced

  • ½  cm (¼   in) piece fresh ginger, finely sliced

  • 1 teaspoon Uyah sere (page 71)

  • 1 tablespoon palm sugar

  • 100 ml (3½   fl oz) Santen (coconut milk, page 94)

To make the marinade, combine all of the ingredients in a large mixing bowl and mix well using your hands.

Add the fish to the marinade and gently toss with your hands until it is nicely coated. Add the carum and salt and set aside to marinate for 15–45 minutes in the fridge.

Meanwhile, prepare your fi re. Make it high enough to stand the bamboo vertically inside it. If you’re using a jalikan, you can just prop the bamboo up against the inside of the stove.

Stuff  the bamboo with the marinated fish and seal the ends with scrunched up banana leaves (or any other kind of mildly flavoured edible leaves).

Place the tube in the middle of the fi re or jalikan in an upright position, making sure it’s engulfed by the fl ames, and cook for 15–20 minutes. Carefully remove the bamboo from the fi re or jalikan and let it rest for about 10 minutes.

Open the tube at one end and shake the fish onto a serving plate with a lip to catch all the juices. Serve with nasi sela and urab sela or urab kacang.

PAKU TUMIS

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Young Fiddlehead Fern Tips with Garlic, Chillies and Shallots

Paku (fern tips) are to many paons what spinach might be to a Western kitchen – versatile, reliable everyday greens. They grow wildly in the damp forests, gardens and on the riverbanks of the island’s heartlands. You’ll also find banana leaf–wrapped bundles of paku at the morning markets – and even in some supermarkets – but the tastiest tips are always freshly foraged. What’s great about fern tips is that they’re so sweet, interestingly textured and full of the flavours of the earth, and they don’t require a lot of work to prepare. You could use them in ceremonial or everyday salads, such as lawar (see page 240) or urab (see page 132), but you can also just toss them in a pan with garlic, chilli and some red (Asian) shallots. Some cooks add kecap manis for extra sweetness, while others prefer to let the flavour of the coconut oil sing through. We suggest serving them with bekakak ayam, tempe manis and red, white or yellow rice.

Serves 2

RECIPE

  • 180 g (6½ oz) fiddlehead fern, young tips only, woody stems removed

  • 1½ tablespoons coconut oil (for a recipe, see page 97)

  • 1 red (Asian) shallot, finely sliced

  • 4 garlic cloves, finely sliced

  • 1 large red chilli (see page 274), sliced

  • 2 tabasco chillies, sliced

  • 3 teaspoons kecap manis or sweet soy sauce (optional)

  • Pinch of sea salt

  • Pinch of ground pepper

  • ½ teaspoon raw sugar

  • Bekakak ayam (page 248), to serve

  • Tempe manis (page 164), to serve

  • Red, white or yellow rice (see pages 111–12), to serve

Wash and rinse the fern tips well, then spin them in a salad spinner or drain them in a colander. The drier the tips, the better they will cook, so it’s also worth the extra step of laying them on a tray lined with paper towel to soak up any lingering moisture. Set aside.

Heat a wok over a high heat and add the oil. When the oil is hot, add the shallot, garlic and chilli and sauté for 5 minutes, or until fragrant.

Add the fern tips and continue to sauté for 6–8 minutes, or until the fern tips have wilted.

Add the kecap manis, if using, and stir, then add the salt, pepper and sugar and give it another stir.