Department stores blues – with tinsel

The festive season in December brings on a lightness of spirit for many people. Me, I’m more the bah humbug type. All this ‘joy to the world’ stuff  going on makes me squirm. Morbidly obese guys with red cheeks (how’s the blood pressure, Santa?), wearing boots, fur-lined suits and standing in fake snow don’t do it for me in tropical climes. Oh, I like the sentiments of the season and I love the opportunity to see my sadly neglected family. I’m not that much of a hopeless scrooge. It’s the trappings that irk me – the contrived, relentlessly cheerful commercial environments that are so at odds with my inner grump.

Take hotels, for example. Two weeks before Christmas, I was staying in a Kuala Lumpur hotel. Except for my room, the entire building was suffused with the most atrocious, musak-style renditions of Christmas carols ever recorded. The lobby, the lifts, the restaurants – every space, alcove and corridor was filled with this aural Valium. The big shopping malls were the same, except the music was louder and more obnoxious. I wasn’t expecting to hear this stuff in a city which seems (to my untutored eye) to be predominantly Muslim. Even more unexpected was to see shop assistants in red tights, short, white-trimmed red skirts and jackets – and traditional Muslim head-scarves. It’s an interesting and tolerant world. Or maybe it’s just that a religiously eclectic approach to retailing generates more sales.

Luckily, the season’s excesses don’t seem quite as bad in Bali. Some stores seem to have a few Christmas decorations, which I grudgingly confess is mildly uplifting. But the in-store shopping experience for customers continues to be unaffected by logic, product knowledge or common sense. It remains as strange as it is during the rest of the year, except now it has tinsel. Shopping in a Bali department store is an experience that requires throwing away all expectations and embracing frustration like a old friend.

So there I was, buying a replacement wall clip for a hand-held shower because I had accidentally snapped the flimsy plastic of the old one, allegedly after imbibing too much Christmas spirit. The assistant eagerly showed me a shower head, complete with flexible pipe, fittings and assorted incomprehensible hardware.
Me: “No, I just want this bit” (indicating the wall clip)
Assistant: (Regretfully) “Oh no, sorry, I do not have – only whole shower”.
So I walk two steps and find a little plastic packet containing – you guessed it – a wall clip.
Me: “Oh look, you do have one here!” 
Assistant: “No”.
Me: (confused) “No?”
Assistant: “Not mine. This shelf belongs to Putu. I not do his shelf”
So it transpires that Putu is not at work today, but fortunately I can still take the item from ‘Putu’s shelf’ to the checkout. It’s just that the assistant on duty couldn’t actually sell it to me. Or even tell me it was there, evidently.

I also needed a plug-in mosquito killer heater thingy that vapourises a liquid, which in turn comes in a little bottle that you push into the base of the heater. Except I couldn’t find the liquid. “Maybe it’s on Putu’s shelf?” I enquired innocently. “No, no – we sell only the unit, not the liquid”. Bali’s answer to global warming? No. In Bali, there seems to be a disconnect between the concept of selling hardware and the concept of supplying consumables for that hardware. Lesson: if you actually find consumables for stuff you own, buy heaps. In fact, if you find anything you like, buy it on the spot. Nothing seems to be kept in stock – it’s all on the shelves. Don’t come back later – the item you saw before is unlikely to still be there.

Then there’s the undies problem. I just don’t have any luck with buying unmentionables in Bali. I know my size, but the problem is that the size on the smalls bears no resemblance to the size of the smalls. I suspect that the size tags are made in a different factory to the garments themselves, then sewn on randomly by poorly-trained Uluwatu monkeys. I now have ten pairs of undies that would be too tight on a Kintamani dog, but even BAWA doesn’t want them for the puppies. And don’t start me on other garments sold in department stores. Everything is laid out by brand, so even if do you find some shirts, they will all be from one maker. Then you have to traipse over to the other side of the store to find some other brand of shirt, and somewhere else if you don’t like those … no wonder I avoid shopping here.

The final straw in my shopping extravaganza came while looking for laser printer labels. After earnest assurances from staff that they do not not stock them, and in fact have never even heard of them, I found some. In the tools and hardware section. They were labelled “Paper Sticker – for all stick design”. Silly me.

In future, maybe I should just do all my Christmas shopping in Kuala Lumpur. After all, I can always wear earplugs to drown out the Christmas carols.

Food – from mild to wild and back

So I’m trying out this new restaurant (new for me anyway) and browsing the menu. And getting this sinking feeling that I’m in the wrong place again. Oh, the decor is pleasant enough, and it has all the Bali attributes of al fresco dining and raucous groups of tourists. The sweet, incessant song of motorbikes provides an interesting counterpoint to the music coming from the just-too-loud speakers and the aromatic tang of open drains combines with tropical plant perfume and the spicy scents wafting from the kitchen. It smells like … Bali. I quite like it, actually.

No, the feeling of borderline disappointment comes from the offerings on the menu itself. It’s ten pages long and has bucket-loads of choice. Except that only half of one page is headed Indonesian. I can see that some visitors, maybe many of them, want comfort food that reminds them of home. But we’re in Bali folks - surely part of the experience is to sample the rich variety of food, not just from here, but from all over the archipelago? My menu is bursting with choice – I can order pizzas, hamburgers, fish and chips, steak, weiner schnitzel, bratwurst – even Cordon Bleu chicken (although my menu says “Chiken Gordon Blue”). There are probably twenty types of pasta too. But the local offerings are a little … sparse.

I look at my choice of local food. There is nasi goreng, mie goreng, cap cay and nasi campur. No Balinese fish in sambal sauce, no Bali-style chilli prawns and no duck (dammit, I love my bebek!). It feels a little tokenistic. Maybe restauranteurs believe that tourist palates are not up to the task of handling local fare, and maybe they are right. But the downside is that maybe the customers themselves begin to assume that Indonesian food only consists of these items? So, in deference to my arteries, I stay away from Western fare and order the nasi goreng, but still feel a vague sense of disappointment.

You ask, why did I stay? Why didn’t I peruse the menu, smile at the staff, say “next time …” and find somewhere else with more choice? Sheer laziness. And the Bintang was already open, and eminently drinkable, and it was late … why am I even telling you this? You already know all of the masterly rationalisations we all use to avoid doing the things we should do. Suffice to say I stayed, and resolved to be more selective next time. And the following night, I was. It nearly killed me.

Let me set the scene for that next memorable day. A light and uncharacteristically early breakfast followed by a full day on the computer. No lunch, no snacks, no exercise. I am a sad nerd. Early evening stroll to get a massage. One drink at a bar, then off to find a restaurant with some real Indo food. No luck – besides it was getting late and even my body (which I rarely listen to) was starting to nag me for sustenance. Then I remembered -  a little warung near my place sells only two things – Bakso and Mie Ayam. That’s it, I thought – authentic local food! Rather foolishly, I bought their entire range – both dishes. It’s basically Indonesian fast food and comes in little plastic bags that you take home. The vendor pointed at the bags and said: “Pedas!” – code for “Be very careful, bule, you haven’t had hot and spicy until you’ve tried this”. I should have listened.

By this stage I was starving. The Mie Ayam – noodles with chicken in a spicy broth was hot alright, but nothing that a quick chomp on a cucumber and a hysterical jump into the pool couldn’t fix. After a few mouthfuls, it was time to try the Bakso. Now Bakso looks pretty harmless – there are a few meatballs of unidentifiable origin floating in a dark broth with little white seeds and green bits. It made the Mie Ayam feel like ice cream by comparison. To say the broth was hot would be the understatement of the century. I suspect they make it from a mixture of napalm, chillies, home-grated wasabe, nitroglycerin and plutonium. The first few mouthful were excruciatingly pedas – the sweating, the uncontrollable hiccups and the burning lips all attested to that.

But then, macho fool that I am, I took another spoonful, this time with as many seeds and green bits that would fit. I mean, one has to test one’s limits. Instantly, my lips practically fell off, my throat snapped shut in the middle of a giant hiccup – and wouldn’t open again for well over 30 seconds. That is a long time without oxygen, particularly just after you have breathed out. It was scary. I’m telling you, this auto-erotic asphyxiation business is a total myth. I have never felt less sexy in my life.

So today I’m sitting in another restaurant that has a limited, watered-down version of Indonesian food. No Bakso. And you know what? I am so relieved.

The bullshit about climate change

This post is in the GLOBAL STUFF category – like, it’s really serious, dude. If you were looking for my usual light-hearted absurdist stuff about Bali, click on the EXPAT LIFE category. Thanks.

This post is not about Bali. It’s about our world. It’s about woolly thinking. It’s about politicians who hijack serious issues for their own ends. It was originally a comment I wrote about someone’s contribution on Facebook – about politicians in Australia who would rather see their parties destroyed than actually try to understand issues that carry the seeds of their own political oblivion. It’s about climate change and the unmitigated crap that is being spoken about it in the name of  ’debate’.

What I want to know is, why in God’s name have the pollies been allowed to grab this issue to run with? All their feeble rhetoric demonstrates is their total lack of understanding of the broader issues. That, and their willingness to deliberately concatenate the many parts of the big picture. Is climate change real? Yes. It has always been changing; it always will. Is climate change historically cyclical? Yes. Have the activities of mankind’s industries contributed? Maybe, maybe not. If it’s ‘yes’, is the man-made component significant? Maybe, maybe not. Should pollution be reduced? Of course. For uninformed politicians to tie all these together into simplistic party room arguments in order to gain power is not only stupid, it’s unconscionable.

Let the world scientific community debate the facts, not unqualified politicians who either don’t read, or don’t understand their briefing papers.  Let the data be rigorously analysed, instead of selected by those with an agenda as is happening now. You want to ‘prove’ that sea levels are rising? Simple. Choose one of 6 tide gauges in Hong Kong Harbour that happens to be located in an area of sea-bed subsidence. Ignore the others. Ignore satellite data which is more accurate. Hey look, Chicken Little, the sea is rising! No wonder independent scientists are in depair that their work is being perverted by vested interests.

Give us the truth. After all, it’s our planet. Stop the politicians and their media sycophants portraying climate change-cause skeptics as deluded scum who must obviously be terminally bewildered if they dare question manufactured ‘facts’, and ‘evidence’ which has been selected to support political agendas. We don’t know the answers yet – in fact we are not even asking the right questions – but our benighted leaders want us to believe that they have it nailed.

We’ve seen the ’solution’ that politicians have come up with – and it does NOTHING to address even one of the planet’s climate issues – it merely sells licences to pollute. And therein lies their rationale for this whole sorry illogical mess – someone stands to make a lot of money.

Is that what managing our planet is all about?

Fit happens, right?

So I glanced in the mirror this morning (I assure you, it was an accident) and I didn’t like what I saw. I mean, I’ve never been one of those narcissistic types that just melt with adoration at the sight of my reflection – but this was b-a-d. Maybe once I had a body that worked reasonably well. It was no Terminator, but at least it was functional. Now what passes for my muscle definition resembles a blancmange wrapped in clingfilm, my posture is that of a jaded orangutan and my belly has been known to cause unkind people to make jokes about male pregnancy. It’s sad.

I’m not quite sure how it happened. One of the reasons I came to Bali was to start eating properly and to get fit and healthy. Lord knows I have tried. Since learning how to say lari pagi, I go for a morning run every single morning, hefting weights to ensure that I get a good cardio workout. Well, maybe I’m being a tad cavalier with the truth – it’s more of a power-walk than an actual run. OK, would you believe a stroll? Oh alright, just one weight, and that’s actually a paperback book to read during my hearty breakfast … but at least I do carry it home in the other hand. After all, it wouldn’t do to end up with one over-developed bicep.

Running, or even jogging, is hard work. The worst part is, if I run, I jiggle. Bits of me move in ways they were never designed to move. I think I need a bra, or a corset or something. Actually, I did go for a real run of about 50 metres a few months back, followed up with walking since then. I think they call it interval training. It has a lot going for it, as long as the intervals are long enough. I think a few months between runs is perfect. My friends have been exhorting me to get up early (yeah, right) and at least go for a brisk walk on the beach every morning. I tried that, but I get distracted easily, so I end up spending most of the time watching planes landing, or watching others who are equally unenthused about committing exercise, or talking to dogs. I speak fluent dog, and it’s more fun than walking anyway.

On one of my beach walks I discovered the Bali equivalent of Muscle Beach. Under a group of palm-trees, someone had left some rusty pipes with lumps of concrete attached to the ends. I watched a young Balinese man doing repeated sets of 20 curls without even breaking a sweat, then lying on the sand for another 20 bench presses. After he was well out of sight, I nonchalantly ambled over to have a go, but found that he had obviously glued the weights to the beach somehow so they couldn’t be moved by anyone else. I guess you had to be a member or something.

It’s not as if I’m a complete slob though. There is not a day goes by where I don’t swim 4 laps of my pool – sometimes even 8. And my pool is 4.8 metres long, so it’s not as if I’m slacking off or anything. I hear that breaststroke can be quite punishing if one pushes oneself. And I will push myself, just as soon as get a little fitter.

In a temporary spasm of enthusiasm, I even looked for a gym close to me, so I wouldn’t have to walk too far. All I wanted was something with a few machines you could sit in for an hour while reading a book and having a Bintang. No good. They had machines, but they were all attached to heavy things that you had to lift, or push, or bend – all dangerous in my opinion. There were other devices that made you run on the spot while this belt thing whizzed by underneath. If you stopped running, you would be shot backwards all the way to Nusa Dua. Insane. They also offered lots of something I think they called  ‘air row bits’, whatever they are. I don’t even know what they look like. Also ’kick boxing’, which I presume is football with gloves, and even hippetty-hop dancing! Dancing! You have to be kidding - I want to go home and rest after a workout, not socialise. And to top it off, the photos on their website showed all these guys shaped like inverted pyramids, with muscles on their muscles. If that’s what you end up looking like after gym work, I’m not going anywhere near the place.

No, what I need is a personal trainer to help me get fit and healthy again. One who understands that pushing one’s body to the limits of endurance is not something the gods had in mind for Bali expats. One who is as easily distracted as me, and will happily spend time watching planes or dogs while we are exercising on the beach. One who understands that nicotine is an appetite-suppressant and will happily share a quiet cigarette to support my efforts at dieting. Oh, and I’d like a flat stomach (with the abs on the outside please), and reasonable pecs and biceps and all that other macho stuff.

As long as I can find the right trainer, I’m willing to devote all the time it needs to achieve my goal. I reckon two weeks should just about do it. Any recommendations?

My villa is broken

 Well, it’s not really broken. It’s just that nothing seems to work like it did anymore. It all began when I gave my maid three days off. Friday was a religious holiday anyway and she normally has Sunday off, so I thought it wasn’t worth her coming back here just for the Saturday. That’s when the troubles started.

It’s not that I don’t know how to run a household. That’s really easy. It’s just basic project management anyway, and umm … being decisive, and … you know – organised. Like me. After all, I’ve been doing it successfully here in Bali for six months now. I mean, women do it all the time, so I can too. I just don’t complain about it. Well until now anyway, because for some unfathomable reason, everything seemed to suddenly go pear-shaped at once.  

The first thing to break was the kitchen. On Friday morning, I put a few dishes and glasses in the sink, as I always do, and went out. Later that afternoon, I walked in – and they were still there! What the …? That’s never happened before. Ever since I have lived here, I have put glasses in the sink, and within an hour, they are clean and sitting in the cupboard where they are supposed to be. Now the damn sink seems to be broken.

And it’s not just the kitchen – the bedroom has stopped functioning as well. I got up at the crack of noon - rare for me, I hasten to add - and went out for a leisurely brunch. When I got back, I was staggered and amazed to find the bed still unmade. How could this have happened? It worked perfectly before. Worse, the laundry basket was still full! I mean, I do my fair share of the housework around here and always make sure I pick my clothes up off the floor and throw them in the direction of the hamper – but for the thing to just fail like that is unconscionable. It’s not even out of warranty! I also have an uneasy feeling that the clothes replenishment system is starting to fail too – my undies drawer seems to have items missing, and there are at least three polo shirts missing from the shelf where they used to mysteriously appear, clean and folded. If this continues, I might have to buy more clothes on eBay, or iTunes, or wherever you get them.

The litany of systemic collapses distressingly continued over the next three days. The bathroom has never let me down before, but now there’s water on the floor and the bath has this strange scummy goop on the bottom that smells a bit like soap or something. But that’s impossible – I shower in there, so how could anything get dirty during a shower? Surely the running water keeps the bath clean? That porcelain stuff that the bath is made of is obviously faulty.

By day three, I noticed that all the garbage bins were full too. What on earth has happened to the automatic emptying system that had worked so well up to now? I suspect it’s the same ailment that has afflicted the ashtrays – they’re all full now and I will have to buy new ones that work. Even the pool filter has stopped coming on by itself in the morning and switching off at night. I must call a technician. And the garden isn’t immune to this malaise either – the plants seem to be wilting a bit and there are all these dead stalks and leaves and things that were never there before.

But the worst thing has got to be the tiled floors. There seems to have been a total collapse of the mechanism that used to keep the surface absolutely sparking day after day. Now there is this stuff – I don’t know what it’s called, but I’m sure there is a technical term for it – that sits on top like a very fine powder, sort of greyish white in colour. I’ve never seen it before. And there are footprints in it. Someone has obviously been in my house. I’m determined to catch him at it, but it does worry me a little. From the prints, he’s about my size, so I’d better be careful about tackling him in case he’s one of those confrontational types. The same stuff is now on the wooden furniture too, so it can’t be oozing from the tiled surface. I’m going to Google it to see where it comes from.

I really don’t like what has been happening. I want my pembantu back. I’ve probably accidently turned off the secret switch that operates the villa and I’m sure she knows where it’s hidden. I told a dear friend about my troubles today. She is someone I used to live with – for quite a long time - a few years back. We get along fine normally, but today she seemed somewhat less than sympathetic. In fact, after a long, meaningful stare, she just shook her head, sighed and said: “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

I was pleased at first, because I like getting compliments. But after thinking about it, I’m not entirely sure that it was …

The Gap – it’s bigger than I thought

So there I am, sitting in my villa, gazing at the things around me that I take for granted. Multiple luxurious bedrooms, ensuite bathrooms, a big, well-equipped kitchen, a garden and a nice pool. Then there are all the bule toys that many of us seem to hold sacred, like satellite TV, airconditioning, fridges, fans, wifi, comfy furniture … it’s a good life. But my local friends that come to visit don’t really see all that with the same perspective as I do. They look around and take in the surroundings, but they don’t really seem to view it as a home. “You live here by yourself?” they say in a tone of incredulity. To them, it’s some sort of aberration, something so far removed from what they consider to be a home that it may as well be a department store, or a monument.

They wear the same expression as they do when walking past a luxury hotel – it’s there, but somehow it doesn’t seem relevant to them. The first question they always ask is not “How many bedrooms?”, but ”How much do you pay in rent per month?” I’m too embarrassed to tell them, because they would be shocked, knowing that they could buy a house in Denpasar for an amount equivalent to just four months of my rent. Their second question is never articulated, but hangs in the air just the same: “How well do you treat your staff?” After some rapid-fire colloquial Bahasa interchanges with my pembantu, they relax a bit. I get looks which approximate guarded approval, mixed in with subliminal messages which inform me that they still think I’m crazy, but at least I’m the happy sort and therefore probably harmless. I feel like I have correctly answered Question One of some bizarre unspoken exam. In their eyes, I have perhaps moved one step closer to being qualified to live here in this peculiar, oversized, unBali-like edifice.

I can understand this, because in Bali, family is everything. Even if I have my own family or guests staying here during visits, my live-in helper is considered to be my permanent ersatz ‘family’. Therefore the measure of my worth as a human being is how I treat her, not where I live or what I own. I have always thought that she has been happy staying here. On one level, she probably is. But I see the anticipation in her eyes and her joyful body language as she leaves for her one night and one day off each week – a parole of sorts – to stay with her family and spend some time with her fiancee. And that has nothing to do with the physical surroundings of the family home where she stays. I’ve been there. It’s tiny, consists of one room and absolutely minimal furnishings and facilities. It’s also spotless and tidy, and the hospitality of her family is absolutely heart-warming. It’s home – in a way that my villa, for all of its excesses, can never be for her.

And now, she is getting married in a few weeks. Off to Java for an intimate family and friends wedding, then back to work at the villa after an appropriate break from duties here. Her sense of responsibility (more likely her desire to keep her job) meant that she offered to stay on as live-in helper for me after the wedding, but her eyes begged me to refuse. Her look of utter relief was priceless when I told her that of course she could keep her job – as long as she went home to her freshly-minted husband after work each day. 

So now she is looking for accommodation – and not having much luck. “Everything is full” she says wistfully. Curious, I asked what she was looking for. “A kost”, she says, meaning a communal boarding house. ”In Kerobokan, near my family, and under 350,000 per month”. At that price, everything goes fast.
“So, what sort of  place are you looking for?” I ask. “You want, what – a bedroom, bathroom and  kitchen?” She is shocked. “Oh no – too expensive! Only one room”. It’s my turn to be shocked. No bathroom? No kitchen? She reassures me that it is OK – the shared bathroom for all residents will be just 20 metres down the corridor, and there is usually a gas burner for cooking in the room. Besides, she says shyly, “my husband will be there”. What she doesn’t say is that it will be theirs. A home. And she seems so happy at the prospect.

After all this, I spent a fair bit of time gazing around my palatial digs and reflecting on economic gaps, relative wealth and happiness. I’ve heard it said that success is having what you want, while happiness is wanting what you have. I’m successful; she is happy. I’m happy too, and I realise now that she is also successful.

At least I now know what my wedding present to her and her husband will be. I’m going to stake them a year’s rent on her new kost, but I’ll make damn sure that it has at least a private bathroom. Am I spoiling them when they are already so happy? I mean, it’s not as if I’m buying them a villa or anything. All I need to do is sacrifice one meal a month at La Lucciola. That I can do. I prefer warung food anyway.

More power to the people – please!

So there I am, nose buried in my laptop, revelling in the sheer breadth and rich magnificence of the online universe – and the lights go out. Again. As they did four days ago, and every four days before that. At least PLN, Bali’s only electricity supplier, is consistent in its inconsistent delivery of power. How can my reliance on being connected survive this? OK, I’m borderline autistic and prefer computers or dogs to people – but I still need my network to give me at least a semblance of human communication. My laptop is battery powered, but the wi-fi transmitter isn’t – when the lights go away, so does my known universe. No mail, no web, no Twitter, no Facebook, no blogs, no Skype, no chat – what the hell does PLN expect me to do – actually go out and talk to people?

I understand the need for load shedding in emergencies, but come on! How long does it take to replace the fish-nibbled extension lead that brings Bali’s power from Java, or pry stray squirrels out of the Gilimanuk power station generators? If the problem is that the turbines are not getting enough gas, they could at least import some Australian politicians. Ten pollies’ worth of hot air should surely produce at least an extra 1000 megawatts. And anyway, why did everyone wait until the demand exceeded supply before actually starting to do something? Aarghh!

The restaurants, warungs and bars that don’t have backup power are bleeding. Romantic as candlight is, customers tend to evaporate when the darkness descends. Who wants to eat unfamiliar dishes when they can’t see what they’re eating? Who wants to drink warm beer? Who wants to risk eating food from warming fridges? Who wants to fossick in the dark for unfamiliar money when it’s time to pay the bill? And who wants to walk down unlit streets and risk disappearing forever into one of those black holes cunningly scattered along Bali footpaths? Not many, I suspect.

Tourists are remaining in their generator-equipped hotels, and yet another night of infinitesimal takings depresses an industry already reeling from ludicrous duties and taxes on alcohol and imported food. In the last month, I have listened to various visitors saying that they are seriously considering a different holiday destination next time – somewhere where a bottle of good wine doesn’t cost the same as Visa On Arrival fees for a family of four and where there is an electricity supply that works. One said it’s like having a Nyepi Day every 4 days. When they get home, these people talk to their friends, they blog, they Twitter – and they write travel articles. The word is spreading. Can Bali afford this?

But of course, all of this is nothing compared to the real problem created by PLN blackouts – pembantu nyctophobia. I have discovered that many locals here are afraid of the dark. However, where my pembantu is concerned, afraid is a manifestly inadequate word to describe what she experiences. If there was a word that combined terror, dread, horror, panic, alarm, dismay, consternation and trepidation, it would barely begin to describe the emotions that seize her when the lights go out. Her eyes widen like saucers, she freezes for a few seconds, then stabs desperately at the keys of her ever-present handphone for some backlit salvation. 

I really tried to help. I bought a stack of emergency lights for my place. These stay plugged in, quiescent and charging, until PLN hits the off switch, then automatically light up. Problem solved, I thought. Umm, no - the lights, perhaps because they are bluish LEDs, seem to offer little solace to her. “Sir, they not real light …” she says timidly. At some primal level, she knows they are powered by batteries – and batteries eventually go flat. When I insensitively ask her whether she is afraid of ogoh ogohs – the fabled monsters of Balinese lore – she laughs nervously and denies it, while her eyes fearfully scour the multiple dark crannies of the villa, expecting large, flesh-eating entities to leap gibbering and moaning towards her. Within three minutes of a blackout, she will surround herself with every emergency lamp she has been able to find, plus a few candles for backup. Then she sits holding (but not reading) a book while sending an incredible barrage of text messages to what appears to be most of Indonesia. Despite almost never catching sight of the girl during the day, I notice that during outages, she always manages to be in the same room as me.

So of course, when I say that I’m going out for dinner, the stricken look on her face means that I inevitably have an unexpected dinner companion. I didn’t think she thought much of my motorbike riding skills, but to see her jump onto the pillion seat with such alacrity could mean that I’m wrong. Then again, I suspect that her fear of the dark trumps her fear of my riding …

PLN, you are costing me a fortune. Not just in dinners, time and inconvenience either. My pembantu is getting married soon, and I was going to give her a modest, token wedding present. Now, because of you, I can see that nothing less than a 5kV diesel generator and a full lighting rig will do – and they are not cheap.

A Super Natural Experience

I feel compelled to say at the outset that I am not a believer in paranormal phenomena. Sure, strange things happen – but in most cases there are perfectly rational explanations for these without invoking the supernatural. So naturally it came as a surprise to me to experience at first hand an event that still has me wondering.

It was the first day of Galungan, a deeply significant event in Balinese culture. In fact, it wasn’t even the first full day – it was 2 am on the morning of the first day. I had been asleep for over two hours when I was woken by a change in the quality of the light in my bedroom. The first thing I noticed was that there were multiple shadows flitting across my window. My curtains, normally backlit by a street light, were a mass of dark, angular shapes, reminiscent of large bats, which milled restlessly, constantly changing their shapes.

Aha! I thought – a lucid dream – but no, the quality of this experience was very different to any of my prior lucid dream experiences. And no, before you ask – I hadn’t been drinking. Even while checking my surroundings – the bedside clock, the things in the room, my own sense of self (yes, I even pinched myself!) to confirm that I was really awake, the shadow play in the window continued. OK, I thought – so it’s real. Time to analyse, to look for rational explanations, understand the science behind the phenomenon.  I was intrigued and curious. Then I noticed that the dancing shapes were not confined to the window. The entire ceiling was covered with a dense, three-dimensional mass of shapes as well.

By this time, I was fully alert, still half-expecting to see the amazing display disappear and be replaced by the familiar banality of my bedroom. But it didn’t. It became even more surreal, because the shapes that I originally thought were bat-like were actually something different. But try as I might, I could not relate them to anything in my experience, or begin to describe them. It was as if what was visible to me was a projection from another world, one that contained many more dimensions than ours. There were hints of coalescing shapes, colours that did not exist in this world, movements that defied physics.  If you asked me to draw, paint or sculpt what I saw, I could not do it, simply because there are only three dimensions available to me, and I would need a lot more.

Not just the shapes, but the surface textures were unfamiliar, bearing no resemblance to anything I had ever seen before. Think of the retinal after-images you get when you close your eyes and apply pressure. Think of the coruscating light produced at the target of a laser – but invert it so that the patterns you see are those of light being absorbed instead of reflected. Think of looking into the depths of the ocean from a boat. What I saw was like all of these, but much more. Without any doubt, I knew my imperfect senses were observing entities – from another place – swirling in the room. 

I guess the human mind is hard-wired to look for explanations, and one was readily forthcoming. A thought surfaced that this was Galungan, a time when, according to Balinese lore, the spirits of the departed return to Earth for a few days. I felt no fear; instead, I was fascinated, knowing that I was experiencing something special. As I lay back on the bed, looking up at the roiling, shifting mass of dark shapes completely covering the ceiling, I smiled and thought the words: ”Welcome … enjoy your stay!”

And then the most amazing thing of all happened. A long thin, angular shape reached down to my face and touched my right cheek. I expected to hear it rustle, because it gave the impression of being leathery, but it was completely silent. I expected its touch to be cold, and sharp, and somewhat alien, like its appearance. It wasn’t. It was unmistakeably the touch of human fingers, light, warm and caring. I fell asleep with the room still full of ‘presences’ – and had the best night’s sleep in months. In the morning, the memory of that night was sharp and clear.

Do I have an explanation for what happened that night? No. Do I now believe in the supernatural? Another no. But, despite retaining my innate skepticism, I have broadened the scope of what I define as natural. Bali can do that to a person.

Bali: Contrasts, contradictions and rubbish

One of the many things I love about Bali is the way that apparently contradictory things coexist so happily.  On the roads, you will find ‘pedestrian crossings’ whose only purpose is to ensure that the injuries sustained by people skittled by traffic are clustered in handy first-aid access zones, instead of being spread over the length of Jl. Legian. Then there are the traffic lights, where red can mean turn left, or turn right, or if you really, really want to, go straight ahead. Less confusingly, a green light only seems to have one purpose – to signal the start of timing for a special Bali reaction test to discover how quickly everyone can blow their horn. The record is apparently held by a local ojek rider who consistently achieves the feat in less than a  millisecond.  

Of course, there is the white line at intersections too - a fat stripe set so far back from the traffic lights, it  couldn’t possibly be where you have to stop, could it? Unfortunately, it is. Its true purpose is to serve as a cunning revenue-collection device that makes Polisi materialise from thin air if even a molecule of tyre rubber touches it. And don’t even mention the ‘footpaths’, so named because they are in fact designed for motorcyclists who run out of room on the road. When selfishly stymied by thoughtless pedestrians who actually choose to walk on the footpath instead of teleporting, these riders need to stop and put their foot down for stability … hence footpath.

Then there are the written inconsistencies. In Bali you can read advertising tabloids containing ads for English classes – complete with spelling mistakes. Reassuring. Ads for pool maintenance people who rarely answer their phones or return emails, and if they should happen to do so, don’t turn up for appointments. Ads with incorrect phone numbers, unchanged over five subsequent editions. Why bother advertising?

Drive down any street and you will find signs assuring you that it has six completely different names in a stretch less than a kilometre long. Lucky I navigate by landmarks, because even street numbers are designed to confuse rather than illuminate. Sure, dwellings are numbered consecutively, but house numbers appear to be allocated in chronological order of construction, not their geographical location. My own villa is the first house in the street, so officially it’s Number 1. But there is another Number 1 in the same street, because it is the first house at the other end of the street. The owner ’solved’ the problem by telling me to use Number 4, because he didn’t think 4 was taken yet. It’s all academic, because none of the houses have any numbers up on the gates anyway. Directions to get to my place involve statements like “keep going until you see a sleeping three-legged dog, then turn left.” I don’t think there is even a word for precision in Balinese …

But to me, the most striking aspect of Bali is the stark visual contrast everywhere around you. Impeccably dressed locals in traditional attire conduct ceremonies that are both moving and spectacular - next to huge piles of rubbish spilling from ruptured plastic bags.  At a recent ceremony, I saw a muscular local, resplendent in udeng, kamben, saput and selempot – all the traditional, respectfully appropriate garb that one would expect for the occasion. Except that he was wearing a perfectly ironed, collared shirt - with a mammoth Harley Davidson logo emblazoned on it. To me, the contrast was jarring, but his compatriots kept stealing frankly admiring glances at him. I wouldn’t have the courage to do that, but it would seem that no courage was needed.

It’s a multi-faceted society here. Bali locals can be seen taking their beautifully groomed, healthy dogs for walks on expensive leather leads, while other locals nearby take well-aimed swipes with brooms and buckets at street dogs. Small wonder that there were 124 dog bites treated last week at one hospital alone. Karma? I was asked by someone recently “You like dog?” Without thinking, I replied “Of course”, and was promptly informed that if I went to a particular warung, they have it on the menu today. Yikes! I have witnessed gentle people sacrifice chickens at ceremonies, and watched excited crowds of what appear to be perfectly normal people cheering wildly at cockfights. There are social and cultural undercurrents here that I can not begin to understand, and that means that I am not qualified to judge them. But it does give me pause for thought …

However, some ‘visual contrasts’ I do judge. We love our Bali beaches, but all along the south-west coast, stunning ocean vistas are interrupted by the shocking contrast of open drains which pour garbage and raw sewage across the beaches. Their once-pristine sands now frequently conceal festering rubbish such as cigarette butts, plastic bags, needles and other nasties. It’s ugly, but it is fixable.  They should do something about it right? Wrong. There is no they in Bali; it’s up to all of us to fix stuff we don’t like. We all know what to do to make it better. Let’s start by binning our butts, reducing plastic bag use, refusing to throw rubbish in the gutter - it will only end up on the beach. Something has to be done. But it needs to start with each and every one of us. Then we can afford the luxury of enjoying the cultural contrasts of this island.

The Zen chaos of Bali traffic

So here I am, riding my motorbike (yes, you scoffers, my girlie bike), thinking about how to write this article.  Being an active participant in Bali traffic is quite an illuminating experience, by no means limited to complex vehicular dynamics. It is a social and cultural phenomenon as well, not to mention a crash course in logistics, strategic planning, tactical implementation and group psychology. Well, maybe ‘crash course’ is a poor choice of words …  

Nevertheless, it’s an immersive learning situation and I actually enjoy being in the thick of  it. One can contemplate the fluid chaos around one’s bike while interacting with it. Staying alive is always such a good motivator, too. One has to be completely involved, the theory being that this provides practical insights which lead to better understanding, which in turn leads to being a more effective participant in said chaos. So much for theory. I really should have concentrated more on the road instead of spending so much time in the Daliesque abyss of my head. But even if I had my full attention on the traffic, I could not have predicted what was about to happen one minute later.

With my indicators on for the last 20 metres, my side street coming up on the right and already leaning into a gentle turn from the middle of the road, I see in my right mirror a looming apparition. The urban warrior behind me, ignoring my blinkers and already-turning bike decides to overtake on my right. Luckily a light tap on the brakes stands me up enough for him to miss me (just), but, tyres smoking,  he careers into the bikes parked at the side of the road. The impact is fortunately gentle and only two parked bikes fall over. My last glimpse of him reveals a face turned to me full of annoyance - at me!

Later, I read a forum post that explained the logic. I’m not a local. The other guy didn’t personally invite me to Bali. If I hadn’t been in Bali, this never would have happened. Therefore, the accident was my fault. I think it’s called transductive reasoning. Or maybe it’s something to do with the “if” fallacy which my father used to explain to me whenever I made some feeble excuse which included the ‘if’ word. He would say: ”If mushrooms grew under your nose, you wouldn’t have to go into the forest to pick them”. Never made sense at the time, but now that I’ve been exposed to Bali traffic, I think I’m beginning to see what he meant.

Despite my brush with death (oh all right, my brush with a possible scraped knee) I still believe that Bali traffic has a flow about it, a organic flux that makes driving in this frantic crucible work in most cases. There seems to be both a scary lack of personal responsibility coupled with a Zen acceptance that everything will work out fine in the end. Unlike in my home country, there is no road rage as such. That seems to be reserved for after a serious accident instead of before. My friends tell me that if I’m involved in a death or injury situation (assuming I can still move), I should get the hell out of there and report to the nearest police station. A sobering thought.

I’ve learned some simple rules to help me survive so far. Treat all turns as merges. Think zipper. Treat all intersections as the merging of two traffic streams at right angles. Give way only to those you are about to hit, or are about to hit you. Travel at the speed of the surrounding traffic. Drive in a bubble, concerning yourself only with the people in front and to the sides. The ones behind can take care of themselves. Assume that anyone joining traffic from left or right kerbs will not look before accelerating. Above all, follow the medicos’ creed: “First, do no harm”. It doesn’t reduce the chaos, but it does make it a little more bearable.

And it’s not just cars and bikes that make Bali traffic so chaotic. Don’t forget the most dangerous and annoying road users of all – pedestrians, especially tourists. These are people that think nothing of suddenly stepping out into the roadway in front of a motorbike - for no other reason that they can’t be bothered to use the footpaths. Or passengers that force their cabs to stop in the middle of a narrow street for five minutes, gridlocking everything for two kilometres while they get their wallets out, argue about the fare, demand their 2,000 Rp change and complain about Bali traffic … 

But you know what – I love it. It’s alive. I feel like a corpuscle in some huge circulatory system. OK, it’s slow and I won’t get to where I am going in time for my appointment. So what? It’s Bali – neither will the people I am meeting. Jam karet. And in all the grand confusion, it still all makes sense somehow. Dean Koontz, in his novel The Darkest Evening of the Year says: “At the core of every ordered system … is chaos. But in the whirl of every chaos lies a strange order, waiting to be found.” He could well have been talking about Bali traffic.

Sex, money, lies and desperation

So there I am again, sitting on the beach, an inert lump watching the sunset, quietly absorbed in my own thoughts, when a young local lass wanders up and asks whether she can sit next to me. Ha! I think - I’ve obviously still got it! It must be the youthful, devil-may-care demeanor, the rippling abs, the six-pack and the steely gaze … Then I remember my liver spots, double chin, sagging belly, myopia, man boobs and general air of dissipation and think, nah, it must be my vibrant personality which is so attractive.

OK, I lie like a cheap doormat – I know exactly why she’s there. After the standard Bali preliminaries (where are you from, how long have you been here, where is your wife – you know the drill) she cuts to the chase. Miss Bright, Bubbly Personality says, with great eye-contact, “You want to go to my room? Only 900,000″ Sigh. It wasn’t my rugged Bruce Willis looks and masculine persona at all – it was the bulge in my shorts. The one in the back pocket, where my wallet is. I am slightly shaken, but not stirred. I tell her that I’m sure she’s very good, but no, I’m not interested, thanks. Without prompting, the price drops in rapid increments to 200,000. Mind you, I’m not haggling, just repeating “no thanks” over and over like some sort of celibacy mantra. So she gives up on the romantic part of the evening and I wait patiently for her to leave, to seek out more fertile ground, perchance to find someone who might even be interested in her as a person rather than an orifice.

But she switches strategies with the seamless ease of a war-weary general who has fought, and won, many campaigns. “I only do this for my mother”, she says, suddenly wearing the pathos-laden face of the mother-and-baby beggars in the streets. “Your mother is a pimp?”, I enquire with feigned surprise. My insensitive irony goes over her head. “No, no”, she says, “My mother is sick in hospital and has no money to pay the doctor. I am trying to help her. I only need another 900,000″. Oh, that mother. Sigh. I was hoping for something more original, like her motorbike is pregnant, or the last earthquake damaged her kost and she needs to pay a surveyor, but no such luck. It would actually be so nice to get a bit of basic honesty for a change.

So yours truly, Mr. Sensitive, says, “Oh, that’s very sad”. She can’t quite conceal the momentary look of triumph, the one that you see on the face of an angler when he feels a fish take the bait. I then proceed to ruin this magic moment by saying, “It would be even sadder if it was true”. Her transformation from self-sacrificing pathos to angry, thwarted harridan was not instantaneous, but close to it. There was some high-speed Bahasa (which I fortunately failed to follow), some sand-kicking and a lot of flouncing about. I think there was some mention of my probably being impotent anyway, and a question or two along the lines of “Why are you wasting my time when I’m working?” It was all very theatrical, and like all good theatre, quite entertaining. I’m such a heartless bastard. Oh well, I do have faults too …

And where did my jaded outlook come from? Well, I’ll tell you, but it’s not pretty. It’s not that I’m asexual, or that I think that consensual relations with or without cash transactions are wrong.  I personally have no objection to prostitution per se on religious, moral, or any other grounds. I believe that people’s beliefs, lifestyles and peccadillos are their own – as long as they don’t expect me to adopt them. After all, I don’t expect them to adopt mine. My cynicism (the sad, despairing sort) comes from an episode a few years back in Tuban. While out for an evening stroll, I was approached by a girl on a motorbike. She looked about 18. Same spiel as above, but the difference was that she was offering two for the price of one. The ‘freebie’ was her pillion passenger, a scared-looking girl-child of about 11. I don’t normally moralise, but had to ask, “How can you do this?”. Her reply was simple: “She is my sister. I am teaching her”.

I was talking about this to a couple later that night, and the husband confessed that he was approached by the same pair the night before. His response was different – he gave them 300,000 and told them to go home, thinking it would help, perhaps keep them off the streets for a night. It didn’t. He saw them pick up a client 200 metres further along. Sometimes things are so broken that you can’t put them together again.

And there it is. My liberal-minded attitudes to the sex industry, whether in Bali or anywhere else, are in conflict with the realities of how it is conducted. Lies, scams, sob-stories on the one side, straight-out paedophilia on the other. Pimps, touts and other bottom-feeders preying on everyone in the middle. When I was younger, I thought it was all harmless fun. Now I’m not so sure.

Mind-reading, teleporting pembantus

Having a pembantu to help with the household chores is wonderful. Not only does the villa stay spotless, but clothes are miraculously washed and folded, dirty dishes never accumulate and the plants are watered without my lifting a finger. This greatly appeals to my inner sloth, which is gradually losing all capacity (and desire) to manage the day-to-day responsibilities of running a household. I am drifting inexorably into a state of unreconstructed male laziness whose responsibilities lie solely in ensuring that the household never runs short of the four major food groups -  alcohol, chocolate, nicotine and carbonated mixers.

But I am starting to get uneasy. I have noticed that good villa staff have a number of attributes that go way beyond standard housekeeping skills. Some of these border on the paranormal – a twilight zone which my skeptical mind has always dismissed as New Age gobbledegook. They know things, and they can do things, and I don’t know how they know and do things – and that is scary.

Some time back, there I was, staying at a friend’s villa in Canggu. Lovely place – airy, spacious, beautiful garden, beachfront pool – and staff straight from heaven. It’s mid-morning and unlike the previous two mornings when I had indulged in a coffee at that time, I felt a sudden urge for a bowl of cut fruit. Now, those who know me know that I never eat fruit at that time of morning. Nevertheless, despite not even turning my head, much less uttering a request, within five seconds of my thought a previously invisible staff member materialised at my side  - with a bowl of fruit. Wow!

Later in the afternoon – normally my Bintang time – I felt an uncharacteristic desire for an icy-cold mixed fruit juice. No sooner had I visualised the creamy pink goodness in its tall glass, with drops of condensation beading the surface, (yum!) than it instantly appeared in front of me. Wow again! How do they do that?

Even if they read minds – an impressive enough feat in itself – they still wouldn’t have enough time to receive my mental signals and act on them. I think they actually see into the future. I’m going to start asking them for help with my choice of investment stocks. I’m convinced that they will do better than me …

But these paranormal feats pale into insignificance with what my pembantu here at the villa can do. She doesn’t read minds, but I think she can dematerialise. She can pass through walls with ease, and at times she can make herself vanish completely, usually when I’m looking for her. I have sat at my computer and watched her enter the kitchen door to my right. The kitchen only has one door. My peripheral vision is reasonably good. She does not come out of the kitchen. I am alert and sober. So I go into the kitchen to ask about the state of the gas bottles – and she is not there! It’s a hot day, so I even look in the fridge … but no, nobody there. I wander outside and there she is, watering the garden, with a Gioconda smile that says: “You have no idea how I did that, do you?” No, I don’t.

Or I come home on the motorbike to see her up on the upper floor terrace, hanging up clothes. I wave, she waves back, I walk across to the downstairs open lounge, keeping her in plain sight upstairs, and sit down. This takes all of three seconds. Defying all established rules of physics, she comes out of the kitchen next to the lounge!  The kitchen has no access to the upper floor where she is (was?) and is so far away from the only stairs that she would have had to have reached Mach 2 to get there. There was no supersonic boom, not even a glimpse of her passage from one place to another. I’m telling you, the woman teleports. I’m going to find out how she does that and get NASA, or at least the Letterman show, to hire us both. I mean, she’ll need a good agent…

I really need to find out how this stuff works. It’s all around us in Bali – you walk into the first market stall in a street somewhere, looking for purple monogrammed beer coasters with the initials VK, and by the time you get 50 metres down the street they’re all leaping out at you waving exactly that item. Telepathy, I reckon. Or maybe its tri hita karana – that Balinese belief in the connectedness of God, nature and humans that gives people here abilities that we can only dream of with our Western sensibilities.

Add that to the ever-growing list of things I don’t know. But I’d still like to find out how they do it.

Bribery, opportunism, corruption – or just economics, Bali style?

I don’t get it.  Just about everyone you meet here with something to sell possesses a brain with an in-built calculator optimised for money. Every item and every service is flawlessly quoted in any major currency. Three-way forex calculations are as natural as breathing - most of these people seem to have memorised all the day’s exchange rates before breakfast. Their ability to instantaneously calculate the potential profit margin for any given item based on its wholesale price,  the proposed selling price and the inexperience of the buyer is awe-inspiring.

Why then is there such a gulf between the economics practised locally and that used in the rest of the world? Obviously I don’t  understand the correlation between supply, demand and price as well as I should. Some esoteric component, which I call the “because I need the money” factor, seems to dominate pricing decisions here.

So there I was in a market stall earlier this year. OK, I wasn’t your typical dream customer – all I wanted was one T-shirt. I was quite happy to pay the 30,000-35,000 going rate for the thin, somewhat poorly-stitched, plain black garment being dangled tantalisingly before my eyes. I only wanted to sleep in the thing after all …
“This one is 390,000″ says the happy-looking lady. I thought to myself that if I was managing to sell T-shirts for that price, I would be very happy too. A quick check in the mirror confirmed that I did not look even slightly Japanese, so I knew that I must have misheard. But no, even after intensive haggling, the best price I could get was 90,000. Why? Because  “… not many tourists. We not sell many. Must get more money, so price is more.” Ahh, Bali economics. But all my efforts to explain that if the price was less, she would sell more and still make her profit were met with a look that said clearly that I must be truly stupid if I believed that … What does one do? I went away without a T-shirt, leaving her with no money. 

Shortly afterwards, I was looking for a villa to rent for a year. After the usual inspections, I decided on one that was good, at a fair price, and called the agent back within 2 hours of seeing it.
Me: “I’ll take it”
Him: “Oh good” (Long pause) “There is just one small problem. The price is now 300 million”
Me: (After a temporary seizure which had affected my ability to speak) “But your ad said 150 million! We agreed on 150 million! The owner agreed on 150 million! What’s changed in the last two hours?”
Him: “Ahhh … the economic crisis …”
Me: “An economic crisis has hit Bali in the last two hours?”
Him: “Um, well it started a bit earlier, but the owner remembered that he had too much money in Euros, which have dropped you see, and er, he needs more money now …”
Me: “Well, that’s a real shame, because he won’t be getting it from me”

So, miffed but philosophical (a sporadic condition in Bali for me), I started searching all over again - but within an hour, I was interrupted by a call from the same agent.
Him: “Great news! I’ve managed to get the owner to reduce the price just for you! It’s now only 250 million!”
Me: (Quivering with indifference) “No thanks …”
Him: (Aghast) “What? After I worked so hard to get you a 50 million discount?!”

I believe that villa is still sitting vacant. Unbelievable as it may seem, I’m no longer interested. When one rents a villa, like it or not, one inherits a relationship with the owner as part of the deal. At least I now know of  one owner with whom I have no interest in forming any kind of relationship.

Realistically, living here, one expects a range of practices ranging from the opportunistic to the outright corrupt in many places. Most are easily handled by judicious application of caveat bule - but occasionally it still costs you – if not money, then at least some of your equanimity. We’re all familiar with the usual scams, right?
Immigration official: “Sir, to stamp your passport,  there will be … ahhh … a 50,000 “tip”.
Friend: “I don’t think there is a charge, but feel free to call my friend at the KPK – here’s his number, I’m sure he can sort this ou …
Immigration official: (Throwing passport down) ” Arghh, mutter, mumble … go!”

Patroli: “Ahh sir, you were going the wrong way up this one way street. Big problem. You must go to court in Denpasar at 8am tomorrow”
Me: “No, no problem. Motorbikes are permitted to do that”
Patroli: (Patiently, because of long experience with argumentative bules) “Maybe, maybe. But now I have to inspect your registration documents, ownership documents, Indonesian motorbike licence, helmet, KITAS, birth certif …”
Me: (Enlightenment dawning in my forebrain) “Oh, you mean that big problem!” (Slipping him the 50,000 note I keep with my licence) “Sorry – would you mind awfully paying my fine for me” I’m a bit busy tomorrow …”
Patroli: (Beaming) “No problem – have a nice evening!”
Then he asks me to hold out my hand, palm up. I have a sudden vision of being manacled and dragged screaming to Kerobokan prison, but instead, he stamps my wrist with a little purple symbol. A rite of passage? The mark of Cain? No. “If my friend round the next corner stops you, show him the stamp. You will be OK!” See, it was just a receipt for the administrative inducement …

Even in a major department store, one is not immune to the odd bit of opportunism. There I was, buying a guitar, partly because it was a reputable store and partly because it had been marked down from 875,000 to 785,000. The clincher was a free guitar bag and strap with every purchase. Lo and behold, despite a clearly printed discounted price tag, the young entrepreneur serving me strenuously asserted that the original price was valid for today (“Oh no, the discount was for yesterday“). Then he took me into the back room where the accessories were kept and furtively explained that the bags and straps (about 50 of them) actually belonged to him, but he would be pleased to sell me what I wanted. I left, sans guitar.

So the store missed out on a sale and the sales assistant missed out on his commission. But I didn’t get ripped off and the store avoided having its merchandise stolen and fenced to me. As I left, the young man was busy re-attaching the discount tag to the same guitar, ready for the next customer. And I got the impression that no-one really cares, because that’s just the way it is here. But I still have no guitar.

Anyway, who am I to judge Bali practices, Bali mores? I live in this country as a guest. Maybe I should have just gone more with the flow, and paid the (trivial) extra $10, and bought the damn guitar. Maybe I should stop tilting at windmills. I don’t know. I do know that I am learning as I go, and despite my dyspeptic mutterings, actually hugely enjoying the ride.

Saya lupa? I forget …

There’s something in the Bali water that makes you forget things. Or perhaps it’s in the air. Or it might be the tropical climate, or maybe the soporific sounds of the ever-present water fountains. Some have unkindly suggested that it is caused by too many Bintangs, or scotch and Cokes. For someone like me, who believes that denial is a river in Egypt, that last one doesn’t even bear consideration.

Here’s a typical event in my new life in Bali. Before arriving here, I had used Superglue  many hundreds of  times without a single accident. I was here for only three months before completely forgetting about the powerful skin-bonding properties of the stuff. If anyone has an urgent need to bond their fingers permanently to a pair of pliers, I can show them how to do it …

I forget that I already have things – usually cunningly secreted in various cupboards around the villa - and go out shopping in the heat for those same items. It’s not really a problem – every villa needs at least forty bottles of that liquid goop you put in those mosquito-killing vaporisers, right? Now I just have to remember not to forget to buy some actual vaporiser thingies to put them in.

It’s not just small items either. For two weeks I had been looking for a new couch, coffee table and footstool for my open lounge area. I knew exactly what I wanted (and could even see in my mind’s eye) the sizes, colours and styles of each item. Naturally, it being a holiday period, many furniture shops were closed. My obsessive searching came to naught. And then, when my frustration levels had reached their zenith, I had a revelation. Maybe it was something else; I can’t remember. The reason I could so clearly visualise the desired items was because they were already in my villa, unused, cluttering up various rooms. One would think that one would remember what furniture one actually has in the villa. One would be wrong.

I am beginning to believe that an island-wide amnesia affects the sense of time  here as well. I miss appointments because I forget what day it is. I suspect it’s exactly the same for the locals. The advantages of not having to suffer the “Thank God It’s Friday” syndrome in Bali is negated by the fact that every day here feels as if it’s Saturday. Couple this with the well-known jam karet – rubber time - philosophy here, and nothing gets done at the time you think it’s going to be done. When the pool man says that he’ll be here tomorrow at 2 o’clock, you can be sure he will arrive, smiling, sometime within the next fortnight. And at any time within 23 hours of the one agreed. Luckily, by the time he actually does appear, I am inordinately happy to see him because I have forgotten when he was supposed to come.

Sometimes a strange confluence of events, once described by @Ozdj as ”Murphy’s Law meets Bali time”, occurs. At best, it’s irritating; at it’s worst, it makes you believe that a sort of bizarre karmic punishment is being exacted for some unknown transgression. For two weeks I have been waiting to get connected to the TV cable network here. All the promises of  ‘man will be there tomorrow’ never eventuated – I was left semi-patiently dangling with vague assurances of satisfaction, but zero action.

Then, on a recent Saturday in September (the one  that afficionados of Australian Rules football hold sacred) the much-awaited call came. “Your cable service will be installed today”. Great! Finally! I happily negotiated a suitable time for the job, making sure it would be after the AFL Grand Final that I was eagerly anticipating watching at a friend’s place. Of course, as soon as I was actually on my way, an excited call from my pembantu informed me that ‘the man’ was here already. What! Three hours early! I had to return home - bumbling and fizzing at the sheer unfairness of life, to supervise the installation. The man, of course, didn’t need supervision – he just wanted to make sure that I would actually be around to pay him. So I missed seeing the final, my team lost … and naturally it cost more than I was quoted. At least, I think it did. I forget what the original quote was after all this time.

So what causes all this? Is it the water, the air, the booze, or the climate in Bali that destroys memory? What is it that makes one forget appointments, bill payments, friends’ names and the the date and time of day? I was speaking to someone the other day (I forget who) and they said that in my case, it could be something else. I have a vague recollection that they said something about Al’s and Hymie’s something or other (whoever the hell Al and Hymie are) … but I really can’t remember.

Serendipity – meeting the Muse in Bali

So there I am, sitting on the Double Six beach, watching another Bali sunset, and my peripheral vision informs me of a presence two benches along. He is a wizened, weather-beaten man, looking as if he is made of leather and held together with nails. He is holding an equally battered guitar, which he cradles as if it is the only thing of importance in this life.

We make eye contact – me with curiosity, him with diffidence. He sits beside me, instinctively choosing my right side – the one with the ear that works. We talk. His name is Budi, from Kalimantan, and he settled here a long time ago. From the looks of him, it was probably around Independence Day. I look at his guitar; he tells me that it was made in Jarkarta and cost 800,000 Rp. I think to myself , hmm – perhaps they saw him coming? 

But then I look at his guitar again, more appraisingly this time, and note that it is old and worn – but well looked after, and clean. The fretboard varnish is worn unevenly all the way down to the 14th fret. The tell-tale marks of a player who is unafraid to let his instrument sing tell their own story. He notices my gaze.

“Do you play?” he asks. Well, I did once. Badly, and a long, long time ago. He gives me the instrument and sits back expectantly. I can hardly remember chords that were once so familiar and my fingers feel like the breakfast sausages served at a two-star hotel. For a moment, I am the sober patron who has just been bullied into singing karaoke by his drunken ‘friends’ and is about to die on-stage … but I begin to tentatively explore the strings.

It is like an epiphany. This instrument is … well, let me tell you. It is perfectly in tune. Oh yes, the strings are screaming for replacement, but despite that, the sound is still harmonically rich, with overtones that can only have come from a luthier who knows his woods and his craft – and is so unconsciously skilled that he makes the superhuman task of creating a near-perfect instrument seem easy. The action is light and precise, with the individual notes of every chord being within a cent or two all the way up the fingerboard. The thing is harmonically balanced, with the 12th fret providing perfect octaves and all of the harmonics ringing true.

I play like I’ve always played. Truly, badly, briefly. But what a pleasure it is to hold this instrument and try to coax some simple blues riffs from it.  Like someone else’s docile but faithful dog, it is reluctant to yield its affections to a stranger. But to my surprise, it does yield, and soon begins, like all good instruments, to almost play for me. On hearing the ancient and familiar 12-bar pattern, Budi’s eyes come alive. I hand him the guitar, recognising that age-old muso ignition point where he must either play now or quietly die inside.

So then Budi plays. I am transfixed. It is traditional blues, but with influences from everywhere he has been and everything he has seen. It’s rough and ready, and like a diamond, technically flawed in places. He plays and sings from his heart and soul, not from his head, and my forearms are dimpled with goosebumps from hell in the warmth of the Bali evening. His voice is etched with acid and honey, and there are overtones of broken glass and bourbon, poverty and loss. He frequently stops, usually about half-way through each song, trailing off with an unseeing stare at the horizon, muttering softly “Saya lupa, saya lupa …”  I often forget words to songs too and I understand. He asks me to identify the exotic and mournful chords that he plays, but can’t name. It doesn’t matter. His music is the core of his being, and I am awed.

He will probably never give a concert, or be a performer in the cafes and bars. He probably would not manage to survive the crucible of the recording studio with his soul intact. The wolves of the recording industry would rend the flesh from his bones and dilute his soul enough to break his spirit anyway. I suspect he doesn’t really want public adulation - the act of creation is enough for him. He has no need to be stroked by a large audience – simple recognition by peers is enough for him. His music is his essence.

Budi reminds me of another artist – let’s call her Hellena - that I met in Seminyak. To financially survive, she works behind a bar. To emotionally survive, she writes songs and paints. To me, her paintings are very appealing. Being a Westerner, way too accustomed to being able to purchase whatever I want, I offered to buy a beautifully evocative guitar-themed piece  that resonated with my own psyche. She refused. “My art is part of me”, she said. “I can not sell it, because I would lose it …”  Just as for Budi, her own Muse has a personal relationship with her, and has not yet given permission to share the channelled talent with the world at large.

And that is the rub. Perhaps the best art is to be seen, and experienced, but not owned by any individual. Perhaps the best music is supposed to be heard, but not commercialised, lest it be diminished in some way. I don’t know. I do know that my life has been enriched by serendipitously meeting these two people. Thank you Budi; thank you Hellena.