The Anxiety Of Being Untethered

It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon; my energy is low and my body craves caffeine. I can’t think straight, and the demands of dealing with with writing, social media and lazing by the pool have become overwhelming. Within five minutes I have thrown together my essential leaving-the-villa survival kit and launched my favourite motorbike towards the coffee shop. Well OK, it’s my only bike, and it’s actually a scooter – but that’s beside the point.

But only a few minutes into the caffeine experience, I experience a crisis. I feel suddenly exposed, like in those crazy dreams where you’re on a bus on the way to work and suddenly realise that you are naked. Totally naked. Everyone is dressed except you, and even though no-one seems to notice, you just know that within minutes, the whole bus will be pointing and giggling at the idiot who forgot his clothes in the morning rush.

But it’s not one of those dreams, even though the feelings are the same. My discomfiture morphs into a horrifying realisation that I am truly alone. I am blind and deaf, shut off from the world around me, unable to communicate, to listen to others, or to contribute to their debates. I can’t even lurk on the periphery of life’s countless conversations and vicariously enjoy the swirling currents of existence around me. My brain no longer functions, and my surroundings blur into a surrealistic cage, leaving me incommunicado.

I feel as if I have entered some sort of dissociative fugue state, alive but cut off from my normal sensorium, and as a result, isolating me from my network of friends and family. I have lost a big piece of my identity and this generates enormous anxiety. Is this what a Transient Ischaemic Event feels like? Or a sudden onset of dementia?

But, even with my depleted sense of identity, I still understand that I don’t need medical or psychiatric intervention. I know, at the deep core of my mind which still works, that my mental and emotional state is purely due to my forgetfulness. It is a self-created problem which is fairly easily fixed.

You see, I have left my smartphone at home. My god! No Twitter with my coffee. No email. No Jakarta Globe on which to leave pungent rants in the comments section. No Facebook to let me engage with endless pictures of cats. No Messenger to answer important questions like, “What are you doing?” No Google. No Google Translate – how will I converse? Rely on my memory? Ha!  No news. No … life.

Fortunately, just as I am about to leave my coffee half-finished and ride desperately home to retrieve my missing life-line to the world, I remember that I still have some ageing technology with me. It might be ancient, but it still has the capacity to connect me to the world, and to the Universe beyond. It’s modern enough to have random-access storage, and its display, while not back-lit, is adequate for ambient light. People might look at me askance while I’m using it, but at least I don’t have to worry about being caught with a low battery, because it doesn’t have one.

So within minutes of using my old-fashioned portal to other realities, I am immersed in the imagination-expanding richness of the old-style information stored on my portable, albeit retro, Bound Offerings Of Knowledge unit, a Caxton product from a past era, which surprisingly, is still available on-line today. I promptly forget all about my smartphone and stop stressing.

I highly recommend this technology – and not only for those occasions where you forget your phone or tablet either. You have probably heard of it by its more commonly-used acronym, “BOOK”.

Try it. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.

 

Some Post-Nyepi Reflections

Another Nyepi has come and gone.  It was a time of quiet darkness, the freedom from the incessant chaos of traffic and people on the streets providing a balm for jaded souls. A Day of Silence, introspection and respect. Except, of course, for those who seem to be exempt from respecting the strictures that this day imposes on the rest of us.

Like the local lads in Buleleng who rampaged through the streets of the silent Nyepi night on motorbikes, attacking rival communities, hurling insults and missiles, and co-opting reinforcements to swell the numbers of those engaged in this desecration.

Like the police and paramilitaries who responded to this affray not with mediation, counselling and diplomacy, but with gunfire. Gunfire on Nyepi Day, no less!

Like some Balinese children and teenagers, caught up in self-righteous vigilante hubris – and believing that they have the same rights as adult Pecalang – rampaging noisily down streets, hammering loudly on doors and demanding that lights be doused.

Like the Pecalang who believed that young children under their supervision, should be permitted to play in the otherwise empty streets while their charges socialised, chatted and played cards.

Like some insensitive bules who perhaps thought that they had been quiet for long enough by 11 pm on Friday night, and were therefore justified in letting the sound of their loud, drunken arguments escape their villas and pollute the still night.

Like the few errant mosques, whose clerics arrogantly permitted amplified sounds to sully the silence despite all prior polite requests for quiet – and despite Bali’s already generous concessions which allowed Muslims to walk to mosques in the name of religious tolerance.

Like surfers and visitors to Medewi, who freely used the streets and beaches all day.

Like some restaurants in the same area, which were open for business on the Day of Silence.

And like a few non-Balinese households, who believed that their brightly-lit, noisy houses were as exempt from silence, darkness and respect for local customs as those of their compatriots in other parts of the archipelago.

Visitors, tourists, expats and most Indonesian non-Hindus have, in the main, always shown respect for Nyepi, observing its restrictions with good grace. But now, with breaches and exemptions on the increase, some people are starting to question whether the Balinese take it all that seriously themselves. And if they don’t, why are the rest of us bothering?

I think that the spiritual currency of this special day is being slowly devalued – and that makes me sad.

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RELATED POST: One Day, Will We Commemorate Nyepi Day With A Minute’s Silence?

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Please, Someone In Indonesian Politics – Take The Final Step

I was going to write a thousand words on this.
But maybe a picture is better …

The Sate Was Flaming Good

A large part of Bali humour tends towards the physical, sometimes bordering on slapstick. If someone gets slightly hurt, or at least discomfited, it’s even better. Any event that causes someone to be brought down a peg or two triggers an unseemly display of mirth from the locals. It really doesn’t seem to matter whether the butt of the joke is a local or a bule – everyone is fair game.

Ever tripped on one of those lethal Bali footpath bumps and sprawled in a painfully undignified heap into a nest of parked motorbikes? The rapidly glued-on masks of concern will be replaced by barely muffled chortling and streaming eyes as soon as your back is turned.

Ever ridden your bike through an innocent-looking puddle during a rainstorm? You know the ones – the mantraps that conceal half-metre deep sink-holes into which you and your steed suddenly plunge. You get thoroughly soaked if you’re lucky, and moderately contused if you’re not. If you have the presence of mind to look around after the event, chances are you will observe that you have become the object of borderline-enuretic peals of laughter from spectating locals. They even drag benches to the best viewing spots to ensure that not a single dunking is missed.

And so it happened that I was sitting on the porch of a little bar in Legian Street one evening. On the other side of the street was an alcove of sorts, containing some tiny shops and an open-air stall manned by a purveyor of fine sates. A steady stream of locals was arriving and ordering their food. The sates were being cooked over a charcoal brazier, which required a careful monitoring and maintenance regimen to get the flames exactly right. The young gentleman involved in this process was attired in the usual Bali youth garb – an oversized tee-shirt and a huge pair of mid-calf pants of a style that only starts moving forward after their inhabitant has taken several steps.

As he was engaged in vigorous fanning of the coals with a large piece of cardboard, his attention was momentarily distracted by a customer who began pointing behind him and obviously asking a series of complicated questions. As he looked away from the flames to answer, for some reason the frequency and amplitude of his cardboard oscillations increased. This caused his tee-shirt to billow like a skirt on a motorbike and the flames to shoot higher. Naturally, he promptly caught fire.

The waiting customers, of course, collapsed in gales of laughter as the bottom of his shirt flared, watching him beat at the flames with his bare hands. Only one had the presence of mind to grab a bottle of water from the wares he had for sale, and pour it on his shirt. The others, on the ground by now, convulsing in fits of shrieking joy, just ribbed him mercilessly. And me? Mr. Compassion? I watched all this from across the street, laughing like a drain and thinking it was better than any sinetron I’ve seen in Bali.

So maybe I’ve been here for too long. Maybe my erstwhile caring demeanour is being replaced by a Bali-like appreciation of farce, slapstick and physical humour. I now find things like this quite funny – as long as they don’t happen to me, of course.

The sting in this little tale? As I was leaving the scene, still chuckling, the sate vendor was engaged in an argument with the guy who saved him from self-immolation. Apparently he was insisting that the Good Samaritan pay for the bottle of water he used to douse the sizzling sate man …

The Post-Nyepi Breakfast Debacle

It’s the morning after Nyepi, Bali’s annual Day of Silence. A quiet, introspective day was followed by an uncharacteristically early night. After all, there is only so much you can do by yourself in the dark. Finally, at six thirty (barely light here), I give up on my natural inclination to snooze until mid-morning and heave myself out into the still-quiet Legian morning to track down some breakfast.

The trouble is, all of my regular breakfast haunts are closed until mid-day because of the post-Nyepi Ngembak Geni custom of visiting family to ask for forgiveness for past transgressions. As I have no family in Bali, nor will I readily admit to any transgressions, this means I have to find a new purveyor of fine breakfasts which is open early.

So I find an establishment (the identity of which will remain undivulged to protect the guilty) which is open at 8am , park myself in the suspiciously empty dining area and peruse the very limited breakfast menu. Yikes! Fifty-five thousand for an ‘American Breakfast’! The alternative seems to be something consisting of something normally found in a horse’s nosebag, together with ‘milk’ that has never seen the inside of a cow.  I opt for the eggs, tea, fruit juice and toast combo. Big mistake.

The tea tastes as it has been stewing since the day before Nyepi. Even my usual three big spoons of sugar don’t help, particularly as I am unable to get all of the ants out. Never mind, I’m told that tea with formic acid is the new health kick. The ‘orange juice’ is actually cordial – and I don’t mean in the friendly sense either. It is so watered down that it is practically a homeopathic remedy. The toast is stale and dry, and its accompanying butter pat is best described as borderline rancid. At least the omelette can’t be as bad – I mean, how can you screw up an omelette?

Trust me, this place can. This creation was perfectly round, perhaps 3 millimetres thick and of a consistency most reminiscent of hard rubber. If I hadn’t already taken a bite out of it, I could have taken it home, dried it out for two more days and kept is as a spare front brake disk for my motorbike.  And of course,this being such a high-end establishment, the bill for this morning’s indulgence came complete with hotel-style taxes and surcharges, inflating the price to 68,000 rupiah. Hell, I could have got a massage for that. I wish I had.

I shouldn’t have been so damned lazy. The next time my usual places are closed after Nyepi, I will cook for myself. Or maybe I’ll just find an unsuspecting family here and ask for forgiveness for imaginary transgressions. They might take pity on me and feed me.

Bali’s Snake of Greed Is Consuming Its Own Tail

Much has been said about foreigners in Indonesia feeling as though they have targets painted on their backs. We are treated as mobile ATMs.  We are on the mahal end of the ubiquitous dual-price system.  We are in the cross-hairs of Indonesia’s officialdom, with its entrenched corruption and endlessly inventive ways to charge us more for all imaginable services, commodities, goods, foods and beverages. In some ways, it is understandable, if not excusable. We are wealthy; the locals are not, so it is considered acceptable to reduce our ‘wealth’ and increase theirs by any means available.

This all-but-official ‘let’s grab what’s theirs’ attitude is emboldening the losers, thugs and criminals here as well. In recent months, an escalating spate of armed robberies, home invasions, bashings, stabbings and murders of expatriates are causing people to review their plans to move here, or even stay here. The hard-liners, of course, might say “good riddance”, but those who understand tourist and expat economics are becoming worried. As if Bali’s endemic rabies – virtually ignored by officialdom – Dengue fever, tottering infrastructure, horrific road toll and unsustainable over-development weren’t enough!

Sadly, the spectre of greed that fuels these rapacious rip-offs is not limited to bules. I always thought – mistakenly, it seems – that Indonesians stick together, even while employing increasingly ingenious ways of separating bules from their money. However, recent events seem to show that some Balinese have a streak of ruthlessness towards their own people that is both sad and disturbing.

A Balinese acquaintance was recently invited to go to Australia by a long-time friend. In the course of going through the administrivia required to get permits and passports, he was informed by a gentleman at the Immigration Department here that he needs to pay the FISKAL exit tax of 2.5 million rupiah. Somewhat confused, he pointed out that not only was this tax was abolished as of 1st of January this year, but it was normally paid at the airport, not to the Immigration Office.  He was then pressured by an annoyed Immigration official to pay, or his passport would not be issued. When he continued to refuse, he was told that there were ‘irregularities’ in his application, which the helpful official could overlook for a mere 1.5 million rupiah ‘facilitation fee’. The only way this hapless local could get a passport was to meet the corrupt official at Kuta beach and pay him the bribe demanded – an entire month’s salary. This is wrong and disgusting.

But even this shoddy example of corruption pales compared to what just happened to a Balinese friend of mine. Recently married and just having become a proud father, he lives in a kost in Legian, for which he pays 500,000 rupiah per month, a significant part of his salary. His wife, of course, isn’t yet able to go back to work. However, his landlord,  a man lacking compassion, but endowed with an additional serving of greed to compensate, has just informed him that his two-month old infant boy is an ‘extra person’ now living in their single, bathroom-less room. Because of this, he is demanding a rent rise of 200,000 rupiah per month, “because of the extra costs”.  My friend has no option than to try to relocate his little family. Heartless landlord – almost a cliché, but not one I expected in Bali.

Other friends tell me similar stories – landlords prohibiting fans, laptops and even mobile phone chargers in their kosts. Refusing to allow rice cookers in the rooms, or gas stoves. Demanding that doors to rooms be kept open all the time regardless of privacy or security concerns. When I asked my friend what happened to Bali’s famously touted familial, village and community support, he just laughed. “Where money is involved, no-one is a friend”, he said. “It’s all business”.

Am I the only one who finds that sad?

How To Go Clinically Insane Paying a Water Bill

Paying a water bill should be a short, simple process – right? Wrong. At least, not in Bali. The labyrinthine mechanics of local bureaucracy seem designed to obstruct and frustrate. Small wonder some of us expats are rendered clinically insane or become alcoholics after a year or so here.

Last month, two full days before my payment was due, I wander down to my local BPD office to pay my water bill. As far as I can tell, the BPD is some sort of bank branch that accepts various utilities payments. The gentleman who is usually behind the counter, a relentlessly cheerful chap, is there, smiling as usual. He scrutinises my account details carefully, smiles happily, and says “No”. To the best of my knowledge, that is the only word of English in his vocabulary. That, together with my rudimentary Bahasa, makes communication somewhat difficult. “No? Why not?” I ask. “Computer broken”, is the bland reply.

So I tell him I’ll come back later. “No” he says again. Apparently, despite the office being open until 5pm, he can only take water payments up to 2pm, and not a second later. “OK, I’ll come back tomorrow”, I offer. “No”, he says. “Holiday tomorrow.” I helpfully point out that the holiday is actually in two days, not tomorrow. “No”, he replies happily. “For me, holiday tomorrow”.

Through a diligent questioning process consisting of some Bahasa, lots of sign language and frequent use of the word “No”, I finally unearth the date on which the office will be open again, and tell him that I will come and pay then. Guess what? I get the big “No” again, because apparently once a payment deadline is missed, I have to pay at the head office in Denpasar somewhere. I say that I haven’t actually missed a payment, it’s more that they won’t take my payment. He says “No”. I tell him it’s a long way to go. “No”, he says. “Only 40 minutes on the bike, unless macet“. Unless? There’s always a traffic jam in Denpasar!

I grip my lip firmly to stop from screaming, but still can’t stop myself from emitting muted wails of anguish. I feel like a John Cleese clone trapped in an episode of Fawlty Towers, Bali. Back at home, I look up the address – a Jalan Bedahulu. Oh great – there are thirty-three Jalan Bedahulus in the one block! They seem to be numbered, but this being Bali, the numbering is completely random. One hour later, I am hopelessly lost in a maze of unnumbered streets and lanes, looking for an unsignposted building that probably doesn’t even exist. It feels like I have ridden half-way to Lovina. I give up, spend another hour getting home and have a scotch and sulk.

A few days later, I enlist the services of a friend’s driver to go find the damn place and pay the damn bill. After much difficulty, he finds the elusive head office, and goes up to the counter. Another smiling man is there, who again scrutinises the proffered account details carefully before saying “No. Computer broken.”

I think I will have to do what I did last time. Ignore the damn bill until the man comes to the villa with his bag of tools to disconnect the water. Then I’ll pay him, and everyone can live happily – until next time the computer is broken.

The Bogans Are Here Again

It’s the silly season in Bali again and the bogan hordes are here in force.  I’m not talking about those who are here to see and enjoy Bali in all its vibrancy – the culture, the markets, the people, the beaches and the sheer ambience of this chaotic and beautiful island.

No, I’m talking about the true bogans who, immersed in their own sense of self-importance, manage to annoy practically everyone here. There are thousands stumbling around the streets of Kuta, spilling over into Legian and even daring to desecrate the hallowed precincts of Seminyak (formerly reserved for the gentry). Happily proclaiming their individuality by wearing identical Bintang singlets and clutching bottles of beer, groups of these unfortunates clog up footpaths for extended ‘conversations’, oblivious to others trying to squeeze past.

Oh, if you’re not from Australia, the word bogan may have fazed you. How about oaf, dolt, dope, jerk, dipstick, twit, pillock, wally, git, nyaff, schmuck, bozo, schlemiel, turkey, galah, drongo, dill, gobshite? Or in Bahasa, orang kampungan? Whatever the names we give them, this dopey subset of humanity is the same the world over.

In Bali, they are the ones who light fireworks while walking down the streets in a drunken haze and think it is amusing to throw them in front of motorcyclists. Or terrorise sleeping dogs and laugh like drains while watching them run into heavy traffic in panic.

They are the ones who think nothing of stopping their bikes, in a big group, in the very middle of a busy street while traffic grinds to a halt around them. Why? To take photos of each other – sans helmet, licence, shirt, or any vestige of common sense.

They are the ones who, never having ridden before, rent motorbikes on which they wobble and weave, their arms straight and elbows locked so they have zero control while screaming abuse at traffic in which they have no business being.

They are the ones who walk four and five abreast down narrow streets, glaring and yelling at the vehicular traffic that dares to try to use a road that they have decided to take over. Or the ones that, having been granted total immunity from harm merely by virtue of being parents, wheel pushers containing the fruits of their loins down the middle of those same streets. No point running over those – they’ve already reproduced.

Then there are the males who believe that the magical transformational properties of Bintang have enhanced their masculinity, made them absolutely irresistible to all females, and conferred on them the right to proposition, grope and leer at will.

Their female counterparts, of course, believe that the magical transformational properties of cocktails have enhanced their desirability, caused them to lose weight and conferred on them a magical ability to dance erotically on bar counters while screeching lyrics to bad karaoke tracks.

I wish the silly season was over. I wish that the bogans would discover another destination. Or that Jetstar and Virgin go broke and take their cheap airfares with them. Or perhaps I should just go and live on the North coast in splendid solitude and eat worms …

The Bali Incendiary Wallet

Sitting close to the street in any of Bali’s open-air restaurants lets you experience the endless variety of the personal retailing brigade at work. Want LED flashing eye-glasses? They will arrive. Want some of that snake-oil liniment to rub over yourself or your loved ones? A customer service representative will be with you momentarily. Need CDs, or DVDs, or hip flasks, or plastic cars, or soft toys that shriek annoyingly in your face? Rest assured – a vendor will materialise to talk you into buying something you don’t need. You will even get regular doses of carefully crafted pathos from tiny children selling pieces of plaited leather (the purpose of which utterly escapes me) and “mothers” begging for alms for their rent-a-baby props. All this during a single course too.

So one night, after numerous encounters with purveyors of fine rubbish, I see this guy come in waving a wallet. He has a shoulder bag with many more. As his target table of diners looks away to discourage him, he flips open his demo wallet, which spews forth a huge ball of fire. “Magic wallet!” he cries to the recoiling throng. “Amaze your friends!” The newly-galvanised customers (mainly the guys) are now intensely interested. I am too, (maybe it’s a boy thing) but I resist going over to find out how this thinly-disguised instrument of warfare actually works. I don’t actually want one – I can quite easily burn through my cash here without benefit of a fire-starter in my wallet.

The fireball it produces is brief, but hot enough to singe nasal hairs, eyelashes and eyebrows completely off the unwary. And it’s big enough to do damage to one’s forelock, if repeated tugging while toadying up to Immigration officials to get your KITAS renewed hasn’t permanently dislodged it. I get to thinking – if the guy is selling ordinary wallets, he has hit on a great promotional gimmick to attract the attention of his customers. Some – those without collateral third degree burns – might even buy one.

But if these things are actually designed as flame-throwing wallets – with gas, or lighter fluid, or even napalm as the fuel, then we have a small problem on our hands. They might be useful as mugger deterrent devices, but I think of small children, bored with mere matches, playing with far more dangerous flaming devices. I think of inebriated bogans lighting the faces of their friends for a lark. “Ooh, sorry mate. Didn’t mean to coagulate your eyeballs.”

But most of all, I think of a ‘harmless’ incendiary wallet which would probably not even attract a second glance from the same airport security people who confiscate our nail clippers. And I think of the subsequent fireballs in the inflammable confines of a crowded plane at 36,000 feet. Or the possibility of accidental ignition while in one’s hip pocket.

OK, I have an over-active imagination. But could someone please reassure me that these are just ordinary wallets being sold by frustrated fire-eating circus performers, and not the real thing?

FISKAL: It’s on, it’s off, it’s on again …

Hey Jakarta! I’m confused. OK, OK – it’s a normal state for this bule pikun, but I’m even more confused than usual about conflicting reports about FISKAL from various news sources.

FISKAL, for those who have never had the pleasure of being ensnared in its tentacles, is a departure tax levied on local residents, and on those expats who have temporary resident status, such as a KITAS. This is completely separate from the Airport Departure Tax of 150,000 rupiah, and must be paid by every resident who leaves the country.

A year and a half ago, FISKAL was 1,000,000 rupiah. Then, in a cunning move designed to get people in to the often-avoided tax system, the FISKAL was raised to 2.5 million rupiah, UNLESS one had registered with the tax authorities and been issued with an NPWP card as proof of membership in the Indonesian Tax Club. Once you have an NPWP card to flash at the boys at the airport, you are exempt from having to pay FISKAL.

I have an NPWP card which exempts me from FISKAL. This is crazy in itself, as I have a Retirement KITAS which prohibits me from working in Indonesia, which means no income, which means no tax. I still have to submit monthly and annual tax returns stating that I am a person of zero income status. But I have my FISKAL exemption, which was the aim of the charade in the first place and this is a Good Thing. At least I thought it was.

A news item in the Jakarta Post on  17 October 2010 [ http://tinyurl.com/29mbsy8 ] announced, with not a little fanfare, that FISKAL is being scrapped for everyone from 1 January 2011. Yippee, I thought. Closer reading however, reveals that it is being scrapped for taxpayers only. In other words, there is no change in the status quo. That’s newsworthy?

One week later, an acquaintance’s agent, someone who is presumably supposed to know the convoluted workings of Indonesian bureaucracy, informed him that new regulations require that everyone, including KITAS holders, pay FISKAL.

Is there ANYONE out there who knows what is really going on?

Up The Rear For Money

We all know the simple rules of driving or riding on Bali’s roads. Rule One: Don’t have an accident. If you do, and you survive, you will pay. Not your fault? Like hell it’s not. The other driver or rider might have rocketed into you (without looking) from a tiny side-street, or was overtaking you as you turned right, or crashed into you head-on on your side of the road. But if you are a bule and they are a local, the accident is ipso facto your fault. It’s all their side of the road.

Rule Two: If you are a bule, don’t stand within 20 metres of an accident between two locals, and never, ever spend more than three seconds looking at the carnage. Don’t even consider rushing in to help – you will immediately be blamed for the accident, then asked for money for vehicle damage, hospital fees, cremation costs, hurt pride – you name it, there will be an excuse as to why you, the innocent bule, should pay.

Rule Three: Watch out for scams such as the one I witnessed the other day. There I was, enjoying Bali street culture over the rim of  a pretentious little cappuccino, when a local rides past, looking intently in his mirrors. Behind him, a young surfer type, shirtless, no helmet, dreamy expression, closes up looking for an opportunity to overtake. With impeccable timing, the local slams on his brakes and stops right in front of me. The surfer has good reflexes, and only gives rear tyre of the bike in front a light thump as he skids to a halt. The impact is about a quarter as hard as you get from a typical Bali pothole. There is no panel contact and no-one falls off.

I catch a fleeting look of joy on the face of the local as he leaps off his bike, transforms his grin into a contrived mask of shock and rage and screams “You pay! You pay!” at the stunned lad behind him. “Umm, there’s no damage”, says the surfer. “My bike broken!” cries the Aggrieved One. “You pay me one million!”

I break my own rule about non-interference in Bali street theatre. I’m flexible like that. I get the surfer’s attention and tell him it’s a scam, then pull out my phone and pacify the scammer by saying that I will call the Tourist Police so they can sort it out. Strangely, he is not pacified by my actions, riding off in high dudgeon and yelling out ‘Fak Yu’ over his shoulder. It’s obviously a Chinese curse of some sort, but Google Translate doesn’t seem to recognise it.

I wonder how common this particular stunt is? Obviously this little crook was an amateur. A true professional would have at least have demonstrated a better developed sense of drama by falling off his bike and having a bruise that he had prepared earlier …

How To Get Run Over In Bali

So I’m noodling along Jl. Padma on the motorbike, doing maybe 8 kph, and this elderly chappie steps on to the road without looking – right in front of my bike. As it strikes me as a reasonable thing to do, I hit the brakes hard. He hears the sound of tyres scrabbling on tarmac, panics, and instead of continuing to cross the road, spins around and lunges for the apparent safety of the footpath, which puts him directly in front of my bike again. My bike stops 10 cm from him. He glares at me, breathing heavily.

“You’re going too fast!” he says. The fact that he didn’t even bother to check for traffic before crossing the road seems to have escaped him. I am unperturbed – low speed avoidance of perambulating idiots is commonplace here. He, on the other hand is in shock, believing he has just survived a near-death experience. “You were going too fast”, he insists. “If I was going too fast, I would have hit you”, I say reasonably. “You need to look before you step off the footpath, because Bali traffic is dangerous”, I continue mildly. He is clearly rattled, because, fixated on his belief that he bears no responsibility for his safety, he walks backwards away from me, muttering ”You were going too fast”, as a taxi narrowly avoids running him down. I consider suggesting that he get a good medical insurance plan, but keep my counsel. He’d probably say that I’m talking too fast anyway.

What can you do? Like many visitors, this character neither understands Bali’s traffic nor has the basic skills of self-preservation to survive it. However, unlike many visitors, this one seems incapable of learning from his mistakes. It’s so much more comfortable blaming someone else for one’s senior moments, isn’t it? Ah well, I guess I’ll see you in hospital soon, mate. Good luck.