The whole island is performing, and you happen to be there

Dozens of men sit in a ring, arms thrown up at once, calling out that intricate "cak, cak, cak" rhythm — no instruments, only voices, and yet the whole space is filled. That is the Kecak, one of Bali's most iconic dances. We had only been passing through with my daughter, and she was nailed to the spot, her small hand gripping the hem of my shirt, forgetting even to blink.

This is the Bali Arts Festival (Pesta Kesenian Bali). Each June and July, for a whole month, the island's dance troupes, gamelan ensembles and craftsmen gather at the arts centre in Denpasar to perform, exhibit and compete in turn. Held since the late seventies, at heart it was not designed for tourists — it is Balinese putting it on for Balinese; you only happen to be allowed to sit inside.

The opening parade is worth coming specially for. Around ten in the morning, the processions of each regency walk from the city centre to the arts centre, traditional dress, gamelan, ritual implements, a procession kilometres long passing slowly by. Holding my daughter's hand at the roadside, the crowd thick, I kept lifting her up and setting her down, afraid she could not see, afraid she would be lost. These years going out, mother and daughter, has always been like this — one hand holding hers, the other having to manage everything alone; yet seeing the light in her eyes, it feels worth it.

Inside the arts centre, an afternoon is not enough to see it all. This pavilion has classical dance, that one a gamelan contest, the workshop on the corner someone carving a mask. Backstage a girl of about ten is having her makeup done, the gold headdress bigger than her face, holding her face stiff to keep still, her eyes stealing glances at the stage. My daughter watched without blinking, and asked me quietly whether she too could one day stand on a stage like that — I said of course, and she smiled, that smile a child gives when a grown-up has answered in earnest.

The gamelan's bronze notes wash over the whole courtyard in waves, muffled and warm, like sound heard from underwater. The air holds incense, frangipani and freshly fried snacks, mixed together, the smell particular to a Balinese afternoon. My daughter leaned against me, nodding faintly to the drumbeat on stage, probably without noticing she did.

We stayed in the arts centre a whole afternoon, and coming out the sun was already low, the Balinese dusk washing square, palms and people all the same orange. My daughter was tired, slumped on my back, her weight heavy, her breathing steady. I did not mean to take photos, nor was I in a hurry to go, only wanting to carry her and stand a while longer — these years most of the road has been mine to walk with her alone, yet this afternoon dyed orange by the setting sun we saw together. I think if you too bring a child here, you will likely be loath to walk out of that orange too soon.