For Balinese, Soon There May Be No Time Left For Work

Anyone who has visited Bali is struck by the number of ceremonies performed every day. From the thrice-daily canang sari - small baskets of rice, flowers and incense offered to the gods in gratitude for the richness of life, to full-scale temple ceremonies, weddings and cremations. It is an inescapable part of Balinese culture, woven into the very fabric of society, and of Bali life itself.

Those who live in Bali – and who employ Balinese staff – will also know that these essential rituals take priority over almost all other day-to-day activities, including work. Some house staff and employees have developed enough of a work ethic to give their employers at least some notice of forthcoming absences. However, many don’t, either not showing up for work at all, or calling two minutes before the work day starts with the catch-all excuse, “Sorry, family ceremony today.” Or, “Can not work today, grandmother cremation …”

Sometimes it’s even true. But even if one possesses the gullibility of a brand-new tourist and the compassion of Mother Teresa, it’s still hard to remain a bastion of understanding when a ‘bereaved’ staff member’s mother has supposedly died for the third time since they started working for you.

But discounting the inevitable opportunistic days off, the legitimate ceremonies which place constant demands on the Balinese are frequent, time-consuming and expensive. A recent report from Al Jazeera claimed that Balinese were now spending one third of their income on ceremonies. In a video clip about this trend, Bali’s Governor Made Mangku Pastika expressed concern about the financial load on families who were already close to the minimum wage.

As reported in The Jakarta Post, Pastika went even further in an address to a Balinese Hindu organisation on Christmas Day, claiming that, unlike some other religions whose actions concentrated on “helping the poor, improving education and providing healthcare to the disadvantaged”, Balinese Hindus spent most of their energy on the ritualistic elements of their religion. He is reported to have said that they were so fixated on offerings to the gods and to natural forces that they were neglecting their fellow human beings.

Strong words. Without entering into a debate about the expression of any particular religion, it is clear that these ceremonies do take up a lot of participants’ time and money, and that they do tend to take priority over mundane aspects such as work. The impact on family finances, on their workplace’s profitability, and therefore on the broader Bali economy are undeniable.

Given Governor Pastika’s views, it was somewhat of a shock to read in the paper that he has just signed off on eighteen new religious holidays for Bali. These new local holidays are “to allow Hindus to perform their various religious activities,” according to I Ketut Teneng, a spokesman for the provincial government. These are in addition to the thirteen existing regional holidays and the five official joint leave days. So the Bali workforce now has 36 official days off – twice that existed previously. But that is just the tip of the iceberg.

There are many additional ceremonies that are not on the official calendar, but equally important. Many Balinese homes feature a small temple – and each temple has an Odalan ceremony which is held on the anniversary of its consecration. An ‘anniversary’ in Bali is not necessarily held annually. The Wuku calendar system here may well mean a celebration occurs every 210 days. In addition, local villages and community areas have their own temples as well, and obligations exist to honour festivals for these too. Depending on the size and importance of the temple, each festival can continue for between one and eleven days.

And that’s not all. There are about a dozen life and death rites to be performed for every individual during their allotted span on earth, some of which start even before birth. Some rituals are relatively quick, but others, like the Three Month Ceremony, which marks the the occasion when a baby touches the ground for the first time, can be protracted affairs with many celebrants. Puberty rites and tooth filings are still carried out by some castes, and of course weddings and funerals involve lengthy celebrations. Then, every 35 days, there may be ‘honour days’ for things made of metal, fruit trees, domestic animals, shadow puppets, dance paraphernalia and literature.

In total, ‘non-working’ days in Bali now probably number close to two months of the year, if not more. I am starting to wonder if the Bali economy can afford it. While it is easy for politicians to double the number of official holidays with the stroke of a pen, the question of how employers will be affected seems to have been ignored.

If you are a foreigner with staff, either domestic or business, the answer is simple. You will, as always, be expected to pay normal wages despite another 18 days’ loss of productivity. After all, who in their right mind would refuse to allow time off for Balinese religious and cultural imperatives? The problem is, some of the expat rumblings I have heard suggest that the simplest solution is to dispense with the services of Balinese altogether and employ locals from elsewhere in the archipelago. This, naturally, would not be good for Bali, but it could well be be a logical consequence of arbitrarily doubling the number of holidays.

Then, of course, there is the local employer reaction, which tends to be a lot more pragmatic. One Balinese restaurant owner, when asked how the new holidays would affect his business, was quite blunt. “It’s bullshit,” he said. “My staff aren’t getting them. I can’t afford it.”

There you go. It will be interesting how this one plays out.

The Heat Is On, And The Animals Are Attacking

The season has turned in Bali. The long, relatively cool dry spell has snapped virtually overnight into the hot and humid interregnum that precedes the rainy season. It’s 33 degrees and the humidity is hovering around 80%. Life, never running at a cracking pace here, has slowed down to a crawl.

People snooze during the day to conserve energy in the sapping heat. Walk into a market stall and you will find the owner asleep on the floor. Go into any office to pay a bill or attend to some incomprehensible Bali-style documentation, and you will find at least five people slumped at their desks, too tired even to log into Facebook, which in cooler times appears to be an activity mandated in their job description. Three more, totally catatonic, will be staring sightlessly at a television, while four others will be in a back room on a ‘break’. A break from what? And one, exuding an air of patient resentment, will be on the front counter, attending to a huge queue of sleepy, resigned customers. Only bules complain, and they are politely ignored while they sweat and fidget in the oppressive conditions.

The heat, during the few weeks before the rains come, is a time of watching tourists’ children wail with frustration as their melting Magnums fall off their sticks and dribble ice-cream and chocolate on those just-purchased tee-shirts that will forever retain the stains. It is a time of beer becoming too warm to drink before a small bottle is empty – even for Australians, normally astonishingly rapid imbibers who can make a bottle vanish in less than three minutes. It is a time when motorbike seats feel like barbeque griddles, capable of frying a couple of eggs and a sausage in five seconds for the unwary. Fortunately, it is also a time when one’s pool has finally heated up enough to allow a refreshing dip without shrinkage, full body goose-bumps and a reflexive gasping for air.

But while the seasonal warmth causes people to slow to the speed of three-toed sloths, it seems to be causing a surge in animal activity. My villa has become a veritable nature reserve, with strange beasts manifesting themselves unexpectedly from the strangest places. My Domestic Infrastructure and Support Manager (formerly known as my pembantu before she discovered Bali’s version of Political Correctness) is ready to find a less stressful job. In the last week alone, she has been startled by bats, mice, monitor lizards and giant red dragonflies. Each time, she emits a shriek followed by a voluble stream of something that sounds suspiciously like cursing in Bahasa Batak.

It’s late at night, one week  ago, and I’m sitting at my computer engaged in some serious political research. Well, OK, I’m on Facebook, but I’m planning to do some research later. The garden and pool are in darkness and I’m engrossed in my labours. Suddenly, I hear the slithering of  something in the bushes near the pool. I hear rustling leaves, crackling twigs and the eerie sound of scales rasping on the stone coping of the pool. Spooked, I turn on the lights. Nothing. I have a good look around. Still nothing.

So the lights go off again, and it’s back to work, albeit with some disquiet. Then, without warning, there is the unmistakable sound of a large tongue lapping the pool water, accompanied by lots of slurping and soft grunting. Eyes fixed on the source of the noise, I reach across and snap on the outside lights, ready to catch the damn Komodo dragon, or whatever it is, in the act. Nothing. I cautiously circle around the pool with more bravado than sense, brushing past some shrubbery. Instantly, a swarm of what appear to be Special Forces paratrooper ants descend on me and start stinging mercilessly. Brushing them off doesn’t work, so I jump in the pool.

Then I think – sweet Jesus! That Komodo thing might actually be in the pool! With me! Thoroughly rattled by now, I  exit the water like a breaching whale, regroup and try to continue working. I have a broom handle close at hand, ready to defend my territory. Ten minutes later, there’s that slurping sound again. This time, my weapon clutched in a nervous fist, I flick on the lights and catch the culprit red-handed. We look at each other and both pause for a long moment. With a flick of its bushy tail, the squirrel darts into the shrubbery, looking back only once, presumably to see if I am embarrassed. I am. Well, it sounded big and scaly …

The next morning, barely awake, I open my bedroom door and pad into the open-air lounge. A dead twig lies on the floor in my path and I am about to brush it aside with my foot. Except that it suddenly writhes and coils, rearing the upper part of its body high in the air and spreading its little hood. It’s only about forty centimetres long, but it’s angry, and strikes at me twice before I do an uncharacteristically fast tap-dance and retreat to safety. The potential squirrel-killer broom handle from last night is out of reach, so I pick up the only thing at hand – a feather duster. Yes, I know – don’t say it. I really don’t like killing things – not even snakes – but this little reptile is so aggressive that it’s too risky to do the nature show thing and pick it up for disposal outside. So I brain the poor thing with the handle of the duster. Sorry snake, but in this villa, nothing that gets between me and my morning coffee gets to live.

Probably because I have sadistic tendencies, I leave the body arranged neatly in a life-like pose on the front steps of the villa. Later that morning, when the Domestic Infrastructure and Support Manager arrives in her usually sleepy state and is fumbling for her key before looking down, I am rewarded with an immense shriek. That alone sort of made the whole episode worthwhile.

I blame Bali’s current spell of hot weather. People are more somnolent, animals are more active. Things jump and crawl out of bushes and out from under couches a lot faster. We tend not to react, or think as quickly. I guess the price of living in a warming paradise is eternal vigilance. I’m certainly a lot more cautious now. And I know that my pembantu is watching me now with even more suspicion than she shows for the other creepy-crawlies around here.

Making Nutty Assumptions Can Make You Sick

Bali is full of little pitfalls for the unwary. From the weapons-grade sambal that will flay the skin from your mouth and dissolve a substantial part of your digestive tract, to motorbikes that charge unexpectedly out of shop doorways, this place has something to trap everyone. I’ve learned to avoid many of this island’s idiosyncrasies over the last few years, but a new one just snared me.

So there I am, lounging in a luxury villa near the Canggu Club where friends have ensconced themselves after arriving in Bali for their first visit. I’m there partly to do the ‘Welcome to Bali’ thing, and partly because they think that I might be able to give them the inside scoop on how things work here. If they thought that I would be able to steer them away from falling foul of the more dangerous aspects of Bali, I am ashamed to say they were sadly mistaken.  I am unfortunately blessed with an overweening arrogance about my ability to navigate all of Bali’s little surprises, so my hubris occasionally results in less than fortuitous outcomes.

One of the party had thoughtfully picked up a few nibblies from the deli across the road, and as we chatted, he produced a sealed packet of nuts. “What are these?” he asked. “I’ve never seen these before.” A quick glance was enough for me to quickly identify them as macadamias, although the price seemed uncharacteristically low. “But is says here on the label that they’re …” I cut him off with a dismissive wave. “Ah, that will just be the local name for them”, I airily inform him. I’d forgotten that a  ’quick glance’ is not a wise strategy to employ in identifying any food in Bali.

So we sit around for a while, munching on the occasional macadamia and talking about all kinds of Bali stuff as one is wont to do in these circumstances. The nuts are pleasant enough, but they feel a little oily and ever so slightly bitter. They also don’t quite have the creamy texture that I remember from the last time I could afford macadamias. It’s just Bali, I think to myself – they’ve probably been sitting on the shelf for a few months. Five or six nuts later, it’s time for me to head off.

As I dodge suicidal drivers on the twenty minute ride home, I feel the first stirrings of that unmistakable Bali ‘uh-oh’ feeling. Sharp fingers of discomfort begin to coil like snakes through my gut, turning quickly to serrated knives which seem to be carving my intestine into small chunks. My whole alimentary canal also appears to have liquefied and turned icy-cold, while my skin burns and starts sweating. I need to get home, right now. I suddenly morph into a typical Bali rider, dealing with the usual traffic jam outside Bintang Supermarket by dodging between cars like a lunatic, overtaking everything, mounting the footpath, scattering pedestrians and generally being one of those riders I so love to criticise. My vision blurs at the edges, leaving one clear image of a toilet at the centre, which has become my sole focus in life.

Fortunately, the only muscle in my body that still has any tone left after two years of sloth and gluttony is my sphincter, and I just manage to make it home without a catastrophic accident. And I’m not talking about road crashes either. After the traditional Bali palliatives of Entero-Stop and charcoal tablets have worked their magic, I’m back to semi-normal after a few hours. Then I get a call from my friends. “Are you OK?” they enquire. “Nearly all of us got bad Bali Belly after you left, and the only thing we had in common was eating those nuts …” Aha! I think. Obviously bad hygiene practices at the nut packing plant. It must be E. coli, or salmonella, or some other rotten Bali bug.

Well, it wasn’t. It was my stupid assumption that we were eating macadamias. So I consult a Bali food oracle – my Domestic Infrastructure Support Manager (she doesn’t like the term ‘pembantu’). I describe the offending nuts and ask her if she has heard anything negative about them. She seems puzzled. “No, they are not macadamia, they are kemiri – really good for making sambal.” I tell her that we were less than impressed with the ones we ate at lunchtime.

She looks horrified. “No, no! You must cook first! Cannot eat from packet – they are poison!” Belated research reveals that when raw, they contain saponin, phorbol and other mildly toxic purgatives. I can personally vouch for the truth of that. I discover that you can mash them up and use them as soap. They also are rich in heavy oils, to the extent that people apparently string them together, light them and use them as candles. One would think that the name ‘candle-nuts’ on the packet should have given me some sort of clue. One would be wrong. In Hawaii, they were also used to make varnish, and even canoe paint. Needless to say, you do not eat them raw. I feel sick all over again.

It’s not the only mistake I’ve made here, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. What’s next? A bag of stuff that looks like peanuts, but are actually layer pellets? I know petrol is sold in vodka bottles here, but at least it doesn’t look like vodka. But what if I ever find kerosene being sold in gin bottles? I may not live through the experience.

If you are coming to Bali, by all means ask me for advice. But if you value your health and safety, I suggest you don’t trust anything I have say about any food or beverage here.

One Person’s Normal Is Another’s Neurosis

Back in our home country, our life-styles can feel comfortable and secure, simply because we know the rules of social intercourse – whether we choose to adhere to them or not. Bali feels exotic to us, not just because of the climate,  the scenery and the look of the people, but because everything is done slightly differently here. There is a delightful ‘openness’ here that seems to characterise human interactions. For some visitors, this is a refreshing change from the suspicious and reserved insularity of some of our larger western-style communities. It is a difference that can be seductive and compelling, and one which encourages many to return time and time again.

Other visitors say it feels invasive – at least at first. The natural tendency of local people to be be friendly and curious about the lives of guests on their island can cause consternation, or even offence. A friend on her first visit here came back to the safety of her hotel, exhausted and perturbed.

“One of the locals stopped me in the street”, she related breathlessly. “He asked me where I was going!” She thought about this amazing encounter for a moment. “Then he wanted to know where I’d been!” She shook her head in wonder. “And then, he asked me if I was married! And when I told him no, he actually said, “Why not? The cheek of it! ”

She was upset about ‘being interrogated’ as she described it. It took quite a while to explain that, by Bali standards, this was perfectly normal – an acceptable social curiosity fuelled by genuine interest. I tentatively suggested that a response of “Not yet” to the question about her marital status might have been met with a sympathetic smile instead of an incredulous query. As a single, successful and independent woman, she didn’t really like that, and told me so emphatically. But, a week later, she said,  ”I get it now. They value marriage and family so highly, don’t they?” They do indeed.

The more I stay here, the more I like the little differences in cultural mores. They get me into trouble occasionally, but they do keep me on my toes. At first, I was a little put out at finding someone perched on my bike when I came back to it. I used to think, “Hey! That’s my property!” – without actually saying anything, of course.   Now it’s “Hello, how are you?”, followed by smiles all round and sometimes an interesting conversation before I’m on my way. It’s no big deal. Bali sometimes feels like one big shared space, and I’m told it’s good to share.

The role of religion is different here too – it’s a big part of life in Bali. Most of the predominantly Hindu population is quite devout, yet they have no issues with people having other belief systems. Unlike some of the fundamentalist-influenced communities elsewhere in Indonesia, the spirit of religious tolerance flourishes here in deed, not just in word. However, it is still unwise to declare yourself an atheist or agnostic – that will get you some really strange looks. I did once, and the genuinely concerned response was, “Oh, you poor man – I will pray for you.” Even government forms here require you to choose an established religion. Leaving that section blank is not an option.

On a more secular note, I like the way the girls smile and flirt, make direct eye contact, and touch your arm in the course of normal conversation. Here, it’s a customary social activity that has nothing remotely to do with any sexual come-on. The local girls seem to be slightly shocked if anyone takes it as such, because most are quite shy. I just wish that some visitors to Bali would understand that before taking friendliness as an open invitation to proposition and grope. Things can appear quite distorted in the mirror of one’s own culture.

But the social norm thing works in reverse too. I must confess that for all my worldliness (ha!) I am still somewhat startled when I ask a shy and demure local how they are, and they forthrightly say, “Not good. I have my menstruation today. Too much blood!” Yikes! Actually, too much information! Unfortunately, when that happened with one of my domestic helpers,  I seized on it as a great opportunity to demonstrate that I too was an über-cool person who was unfazed by open discussion of natural bodily functions. So I pointed out the cupboard where I keep an emergency supply of feminine hygiene items for villa guests in case she needed anything. She promptly went bright crimson – an astonishing feat for someone with her complexion. The next ten minutes were spent in shared giggles and whispered conversations with her sister, who happened to be visiting at the time. I guess you can’t win them all.

Then there’s the language. Many locals translate fairly literally when using English, which can lead to misunderstandings. I had some business dealings with an agent whose office was a long way away from my home. An attractive woman, she said that she would happily deliver some crucial documents once they had been stamped by relevant authorities.  A week later, when they were ready, she sent me a text message saying: “Is it OK if I come and play at your villa now?” Ye Gods! Do I say I’m busy? Do I break out the champagne and get fresh pool towels? Luckily, my Bahasa-literate friend laughingly explained that the Indonesian word for ‘play’ and the word for ‘visit’ were one and the same. I think I missed an embarrassing encounter by that much.

As I said, the rules are a little different here. I think I’ve survived by keeping an open mind, putting my preconceptions to one side and just riding the complex currents of this society while learning what works – and what doesn’t. I’ve made lots of mistakes, but hey – isn’t that best way to learn?

Oleh-Oleh – Obligation Or Obsession?

Within minutes of arriving back in Bali after a short trip overseas, I am greeted with an astonishing display of affection from Indonesian friends. Complete strangers too. This is nice, I think – until I realise that they are not saying “Hello!”, or “Welcome back”, or “I have missed you so much”, or any of the standard clichés. Faces aglow with expectation, they are all chanting the same mantra “Oleh-oleh? Oleh-oleh?”

This translates roughly into “Where’s my present?” The first time it happened, I was a little nonplussed. After all, with our Western sensibilities, it is only children who cut to the chase so directly. But in Indonesia, it is part of the culture that returning travellers bring home oleh-oleh –  small gifts for those returning from work or holidays in far-off places. It is almost an insult to come back empty-handed. The practice is not unique to Indonesia either, being well-established in some European cultures as well. The equivalent term in Lithuania is lauktuves, a word that translates loosely as ‘a gift bestowed on family and friends as a reward for waiting patiently for a traveller to return’.

But in Bali, this cultural obligation seems to have morphed over time. Once, the expectation was that oleh-oleh would be produce, such as fresh fruit, specialty cakes and biscuits which were not normally available locally. Sometimes exotic trinkets or souvenirs from abroad would achieve the same purpose. Now, the practice seems to turning into a mini cargo cult of biblical proportions.

One problem is the unshakeable conviction amongst locals that we bules have unlimited amounts of disposable income with which to buy gifts. Another is the belief that we have unrestricted time to shop while overseas. Yet another is that we have the power to influence customs and quarantine officials to waive regulations on transportation of food. The most recent article of faith is that we can blithely bring an extra suitcase, stuffed with all manner of oleh-oleh goodies, without incurring the wrath of the stern guardians of the luggage check-in counters at airports.

Even before I leave Bali, I am deluged with requests – and that’s just from my household help.
“You bring me oleh-oleh, ya?”
“Ya”, I reply non-committally. Apparently that’s not good enough. I am encouraged to be more specific as to both type of gift, its provenance, brand and quantity.
“You bring me nail polish?”
“OK”, I say. Oops. That opens the door to Pandora’s Request Box.
“Cutex. Red and blue. And polish-take-off thing.” I assume she means nail polish remover, not an aircraft from Warsaw.
“Ya, OK, but …”
“… and chocolate, and hair clips, and swimming things.” I ascertain she means those upper arm floatie things to prevent non-swimming children from drowning.

I manage to stop the tirade of ‘requests’ before they escalate to laptops, Blackberries and iPads, and explain that I will have limited opportunities for shopping and that I have about twelve other people who must also be looked after. I wriggle out of making a firm promise as to what I will bring back with me, reducing it to a ‘maybe yes, maybe no’. The reaction is  much like that of the USA when Standard & Poor’s downgrades them to an AA rating – disappointed and a little bit pouty.

So when I do get back, somehow having managed to pick up a few little gifts for acquaintances in between a hectic work schedule, I discover that the response from the many recipients of my largesse is a little underwhelming. One accepts a proffered gift casually and says, “Is that all?” Another, when told to select one item from a bag of similar gifts intended for others, paws through the lot and says, “I want five. I have three sisters and one brother.” I am tempted to point out that her parents’ fecundity is not really my concern, but I wisely refrain. Yet another complains about the block of chocolate on offer, plaintively asking, “Don’t you have Toblerone?”

The core of the problem seems to be that expectations have risen to unrealistic levels. No longer are a few biscuits and sweets the preferred currency of oleh-oleh. Now, at least amongst those of the female persuasion here, I am reliably informed that expected gifts include jewellery, duty-free perfume and items of intimate apparel. I wouldn’t even buy that stuff for a wife or intimate personal companion (which sheds some light on why I don’t have either, I guess), much less casual acquaintances and employed staff. And the men, once happy with a simple key fob, now look forlorn if they don’t get Swiss Army knives and power tools.

Even friends of friends flock around after one of my trips – people I don’t even know – and stare expectantly at me, waiting for manna to fall from heaven. It’s my fault of course; I let it slip that I will be travelling, and of course, that sets the scene for the hordes to gather on my return like Doctor fish around flaky ankles.

Next time, I will tell no-one I am going, especially not the cheerfully expectant staff at my local eateries, watering holes and beach warungs. I will tell my own staff that I am decompressing in Amed, or somewhere else local – anywhere without shops. When I return, if people ask where I’ve been, I will lie shamelessly and assert that I have been in hospital with Typhus, or Dengue Fever, or a particularly virulent strain of Bule ennui.

Maybe they’ll feel sorry for me and buy me a present.

Fire! Unity in Adversity in Bali

I am the first to admit that some of my articles have been less than complimentary about certain local practices. Not because of any malicious intent, I hasten to add. It’s just that my bule eyes often see quirks, absurdities and inconsistencies that pique my ire, but seem perfectly normal to those in whose country we are guests. As John Milton nearly said about us foreigners: “We see Bali not as it is, but as we are”. Right on, John.

Yet other social imperatives here,  such as the sense of community spirit, are inspiring – partly because of their absence in the places we originally came from. We see people in Western cultures slowing down to gawk (but not stopping to help) at the scene of a car accident. We see them ignoring someone lying on the footpath in a diabetic coma, because, you know, they are ‘obviously’ drunk. We hear of people dying in their homes and being found weeks later, simply because minding your own business has become a matter of personal survival in the high-pressure societies many of us have left behind. The downside to this is that when we do start living in a selfish bubble, we lose some of our humanity.

Fortunately for a villa owner in my lane, the community spirit is alive and flourishing in Bali. A few days ago, while walking a departing guest out to the street, a commotion three doors up attracted my attention. A huge cloud of smoke began erupting from the front of a neighbourhood property, and large flames were already engulfing its carport roof. Two local residents were standing in the street, phones already in hand, while a third was struggling to open the villa gates. I know now that they were in fact the early-response team, rounding up help.

In the few seconds it took me to get to the scene, another thirty or so locals had arrived at a dead run. Without pausing, they rolled back the gates of the villa and dashed in to appraise the situation. The flames had reached the plastic roof of the carport, which was well ablaze, dripping fiery molten plastic onto the three motorbikes parked below. Without a thought for their own safety, the impromptu brigade manhandled the bikes out into the street. Garden hoses, already spouting water, magically appeared from surrounding houses to be passed quickly to those at the fire-front. Other people, seeing that some hoses were too short, conjured up connectors from thin air.

Cardboard boxes stacked high in the carport were well alight, the flames licking at the main structure’s window frames and threatening to ignite the entire house. The lads of this instant fire crew worked together as if they were a well-drilled team with years of experience, some pulling burning boxes down with their bare hands to get to the seat of the fire, others dousing scattered debris. They did all this while dodging the burning boxes toppling around them, avoiding cascades of hot polycarbonate streaming from the roof, and trying to keep the vicious eddies of glowing embers away from their eyes. Despite the frenetic activity, not once did they get in the way of each other, working flawlessly as a single unit.

Fifteen minutes after it started, the fire was out and the team was concentrating on blacking out the hot-spots to ensure that the fire ground was safe. One hour later, the ‘real’ Fire Brigade arrived – or at least a shiny red patrol car did. The crew of that were still there a few hours later, poking and prodding the burnt remains, taking photographs and filling out forms. The other crew, the ones who actually put out the flames, were long gone – probably enjoying a well-deserved cool drink and telling each other tall stories.

As it happened, this was the very day that PLN (Bali’s sole provider of electrical energy) had selected our neighbourhood as the target of one of their regular six hour blackouts – its load-shedding ‘solution’ for their woefully inadequate capacity problem. As a result, the villa’s emergency electrical generator was running. Well, maybe not quite as its makers intended, because it caught fire. I don’t think that’s supposed to happen. Once the flammable materials stacked around it ignited, a potential disaster was in the making.

Fortunately, it was averted. The heroes of the day were just ordinary, local guys in the neighbourhood. It didn’t matter to them that the villa owner was a foreigner who was not in Bali at the time. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t their house. They responded automatically, saved three bikes and probably the villa too. They may even have saved the life of the pembantu in residence, who might well have been trapped by the conflagration blocking the only exit. Their quick and effective action may even have saved our entire row of six villas. Not one of them had a stitch of protective clothing – just a natural and unhesitating protectiveness towards others in their community, the desire and ability to act decisively, and heaps of raw courage.

Guys, I salute you. This what community spirit is all about, and I feel privileged to have witnessed it.

 

Washing My Naked Aphrodite’s Bits

Sitting here at my desk at the Global Headquarters of Borborigmus in Bali, my attention drifts – as it frequently does – away from the computer screen, across the shimmering blue of the pool and comes to rest on one of my favourite girls. She is standing amongst the bushes, completely naked except for a sarong trailing from her left hand and concealing only her left calf . She stands unselfconsciously facing me; the weight of the urn balanced on her right shoulder resulting in a shapely cocking of her right hip. Despite the serenity and confidence of her pose, she keeps her eyes averted from mine and stands as still as a statue.

That’s because she is a statue. My very own Venus de Milo -  a life-sized girl of white stone, standing proudly in her arbour of contrasting dark-green tropical vegetation. Except she is far more attractive, is in much better shape and she actually has arms, which provide a pleasing balance to her form. In fact, she’s more the way I imagine an Aphrodite to be, rather than a Venus. The only thing is, she has developed a bit of a patina. Her once-white flawless surface is becoming marked with irregular blotches of algae and mould, which has begun to detract somewhat from the purity of her compound curves.

My pembantu, Delfi, a demure and highly moral woman who bustles industriously around my villa, scrubbing and polishing every hidden nook (and most of the crannies), has long become accustomed to Aphrodite’s nakedness.  She even recently, in her inimitable patois, referred to Aphrodite as “this girlfriend you, ya? Hee-hee!” But never once has she offered to give my ‘girlfriend’ a good scrubbing. I suspect that has been far less to do with her state of dishabille than Delfi’s absolute certainty that she will slip, fall into the pool and drown if she tries.

As I gaze across the pool at my tarnished stone maiden, I decide that it is time to restore her to the pristine condition of yesteryear. Wire brushes and other tools in hand, I enthusiastically commence the job. Delfi looks on approvingly as I scrub the carved stone tresses, the shoulders, the urn, the arms, the face and the throat. Encouraged by the newly-emerging, sparkling upper regions, I continue my ministrations downwards. But then, as I am about to start on the breasts, I become strongly aware of being watched. My pembantu has become very still and is just … staring. I look at the brush in my hand, then at Aphrodite’s torso, then back at Delfi. I give one stained stone breast a tentative swipe and watch Delfi’s body language to see whether I am breaking some local taboo here, but while her look is just a teeny bit shocked, it is not censorious. Not yet, anyway.

A little more relaxed now, I finish up in the bust department with excellent results. But I notice that Delfi is becoming progressively more, ah, concerned as I move downward to hips, belly and below. Then I see the problem. My Aphrodite’s groin area is sporting a light, but noticeable algal bloom. My cleaning job is just about to become the statuary equivalent of a Brazilian wax job. To complete the task properly, I am going to have to become a tad intimate with Aphrodite’s anatomy – and this while being watched like a hawk.

I tell myself that I am a mature man, that I am doing nothing unseemly, and that if outside observers choose to judge me on the basis of their own taboos and social mores, then that has nothing to do with me. I will not interrupt my labours to satisfy the mere concerns of others. I am rarely embarrassed, and I am not embarrassed now. I tell myself all this, but of course I don’t listen. So I tell Delfi that I am taking a break and will finish later. She seems inordinately relieved, and seems even more relieved when she finishes her shift and goes home at lunchtime.

Now freed from moral supervision, at least in my own mind, I tackle the job with renewed gusto. Hips, stomach and thighs yield their overgrowths easily to the brush, but the complexities of below-the-belly curvatures pose more of a problem. I try using an old toothbrush, but it still can’t get the stone crevices clean. Finally, I hit on the solution – an emery board, intended for manicures, is of the right size and shape, and has the appropriate abrasive qualities. It’s bright pink, but, hey, you can’t have everything.

So as I stand there, engrossed, head lowered to better see what I am doing,  scrabbling away with my arm gently around Aphrodite’s waist to prevent me from falling in the pool, I suddenly hear a woman’s voice: “Mister, I have some anti-nyamuk for…” Damn, I left the villa gate open. She stops dead, dropping some of those confounded sachets of useless anti-mosquito powder the locals keep bringing round to sell.  She stares at me, with my left arm embracing a naked statue, my right hand holding a pink thing which, I realise instantly, is in a somewhat compromising position. I spontaneously utter a word with religious connotations, which on reflection, is probably unwise. She mutters something like “ah, lain kali, ya?”, which I gather means something like ‘some other time, pervert’, and rapidly flees to her motorbike where she performs a flawless Le Mans start.

Oh well. On the negative side, I’m waiting for a visit from the anti-pornography squad, and maybe, if she understood my startled exclamation, from the blasphemy police as well. On the positive side, I now have a clean statue, and even better, I doubt that anyone will be trying to sell me those sachets any time soon, if ever.

Coffee Spills, Hungry Dogs And Serviettes In Bali

I must be hard to please. For me, Bali is a place where, no matter how good things get, they’re never 100% satisfactory. I feel like I’m getting short-changed at least 25% on every life experience.

If I roll up to my agent’s office armed with ten of the mandatory documents, letters and affidavits needed for my KITAS renewal, I will always need to go home and unearth two more obscure pieces of paper before the convoluted process can even start. If I am told that it will take ten weeks for the process, it always takes at least two weeks longer. When, after the inevitable delays, I am finally instructed to pick up my new KITAS, it won’t have a Multiple Entry/Exit stamp. “Oh no sir,” the ever-helpful man at Immigration will say, “that will take another two weeks.” Naturally, it’s not ready for another three weeks.

If I want to buy six stubby holders, there will be four in stock. If I absolutely, positively need my pembantu to work on a particular day, there will be a ceremony on that day. The computer at the office where I pay my electricity will go down only during the time I am there.  My hand-phone’s network works reasonably well for whole days at a time, then inexplicably overloads and fails only when I need to call a cab to the airport.

My obviously unrealistic expectations can’t even be met at restaurants. One of my regular places has good food and friendly staff and, most importantly, an abundance of serviettes for those messy senior moments. But its coffee tastes like crushed scarab beetle wings – and it only comes in small cups. On the other hand, my favourite coffee shop has the best coffee in Bali,  which they serve in big cups. But there are no serviettes.

Now this is a problem for me, because the classy cups at this place have tiny, ungrippable handles designed by someone with no concept of either the anatomy of the human hand or of the physics of levers. So for me, picking up a full cup usually means a spectacular downward rotation of the cup and consequent spillage into its saucer. Or on bad days, into the lap of a nearby patron. Crushing the handle laterally to the point of pulverising the porcelain might produce enough friction, but my hands are too weak for that. So my saucer fills up, and every time I lift the wet cup, coffee pours into my lap. Little as I care what people think of me, even I draw the line at looking as if I forgot my incontinence pads.

Of course, sometimes it’s not Bali at all. Sometimes there is no-one to blame but myself. There I am, full coffee cup by my right hand, sugar added and ready to stir. The obligatory cookie that comes with the coffee is not to my taste, so I generally save it to give to one of the local dogs, which, knowing my schedule, is there waiting for a hand-out when I arrive. Depending on how hungry it is, it sometimes even sings to me while waiting – a peculiar solo of whines, yips and howls which are eerily evocative in their yearning. It sits next to me, staring at me with soulful eyes which telegraph a message of love, faith and commitment. I just know this dog worships me, and would never leave me. Unless I run out of cookies of course, whereupon it is off without a backward glance. I reflect that this behaviour could almost be a metaphor for life amongst the locals, but charitably squash the thought.

So today, the cookie has been eaten, but just to keep my hairy friend around for a few minutes longer, I absently scratch and massage along its spine. Unfortunately, thinking I am a true multi-tasker, I also try to stir my coffee at the same time. You’ve all done that thing where you try to rub your stomach with one hand while patting your head with the other? OK, then you know what happens next. The lomi-lomi-like strokes of my dog-massaging left hand, together with the orbital motions of my coffee-stirring right hand promptly cause a massive failure of my neural system. Only Yogis and drummers can operate different limbs independently, and I am neither. Unfortunately, it is my coffee hand operating system that fails, causing a spasm that just about empties my cup over the table, my book, my phone, and yes, my lap. Damn.

And of course, there are no serviettes. Their presence might not have prevented my bout of neuro-muscular ineptness, but it sure would have helped in the clean-up. As I said, no matter how good things get, they’re never 100% satisfactory. But you know – that’s Bali.

Bali Villa Guests – You Get All Kinds

After talking to other expats here in Bali, I realise how lucky I have been with my villa guest experiences to date. It can be a little bit hard having visitors sharing my home, but it morphs my customary solitary existence into something approaching sociability. Scary, but nice. My house guests have been companionable, respectful of my space, aware that they are living in a home and not a hotel, and they have been relatively undemanding of my time. And this is as it should be. If in a fit of uncharacteristic generosity I offer free accommodation to impecunious friends and acquaintances, I neither want, nor expect to be subjected to demands that I add value to their stay. That is their job.

Not so for some other Bali expats though. Hearing some of the horror stories about guests who have ‘crossed the line’ have caused my eyebrows to climb well up into my receding hairline and a shiver of apprehension to course through both my belly and my wallet. Despite being really lucky so far, their stories make me question the wisdom of future sharing.

“Where’s the shampoo? There’s no shampoo!” complains a guest, irritated at having to march out of her quarters while wrapped only in a towel. Her compressed lips betray her annoyance at the lack of consumables in her bathroom. “Umm … didn’t you bring any?” asks the perplexed host. “Well of course not!” is the terse retort. “This is supposed to be a luxury villa, isn’t it? You’d expect that a place like this would provide some basic bathroom stuff. You should talk to your landlord, you know.” The irascible guest, staying for free, seems to be under the impression that she is in a hotel. The host, a paragon of patience (which far exceeds mine),  explains that this is her home, and like all expats, she buys her own bathroom goodies, or brings in the locally unobtainable high-quality potions from overseas.

Instead of apologising, the guest from hell promptly demands to ‘borrow’ the host’s personal shampoo, her conditioner, a different towel and some toothpaste.  She then complains about the soap provided which apparently is no good for her ‘sensitive skin’. During her subsequent three day stay, she not only avoids returning the expensive bathroom supplies, she ‘accidentally’ packs them in her bags on her departure. I suggest to my villa-dwelling friend that she lay in a stock of Drain Cleaner in shampoo bottles, conditioner seasoned with sump oil and some soap embedded with glass slivers specifically for obnoxious guests. The expat demurs, feeling that my proposal is a little extreme, but does hint that this guest won’t be invited back.

At a different villa, with different guests who have stayed for three weeks: “A tip? For the pembantu? What for?” says the visiting family’s matriarch, a fearsome woman who has treated the villa staff like indentured slaves. The host, a gentle man (and a gentleman) of my acquaintance, calmly explains that it is customary in Bali for guests to leave a tip for house staff. After all, with normal villa occupancy, there is an accepted workload that attracts an agreed salary. With the added room cleaning, laundry and other extra demands by guests, staff workload increases and a tip is not just payment, but a recognition of worth. “Rubbish!” is the rejoiner. “She gets a salary already. You can’t spoil these people, you know.” After his guests leave, the host pays the staff a bonus anyway. They are happy, but of course he is out of pocket. He is philosophical, but not so much that he would invite those guests again.

Yet another expat who has now sworn off taking in guests is one whose attempts to be hospitable have cost him dearly. His visitors insist on leaving the bedroom air-conditioners on all day ‘because it is really unpleasant coming home to a hot room’. They also keep the temperature at 16 degrees all night – while sleeping under a thick duvet ‘because it’s too cold otherwise’. When he points out that electricity is expensive in Bali, they dismiss his objections with an airy “Don’t be silly – everything is cheap in Bali”. They also demand that he change their money “because we don’t trust the money-changers here”, proferring him a fistful of badly-worn, small-denomination bills. Because he works here and employs a driver, they want to be driven around the island every day, for free, because “your driver already gets a salary from you”. His patience is more on a par with mine; after three days, he pleads urgent business in Singapore and kicks them out to stay at a hotel. Good on him.

What is it with some of these people? Are they just ignorant, or stupid, or just incredibly selfish?Remember that these stories are from private homes, not commercial villas. There is no profit in accommodating guests, in fact there is a loss. We expats are happy to absorb the cost of being hospitable to friends and acquaintances because it is part of normal social interaction. We don’t expect them to be pathetically grateful, but we would like them to act like responsible, albeit temporary family members in our homes. In my case, I have been fortunate, because my guests have been delightful company as well as good friends. But to the users and losers out there, how about you stay at a hotel – I suspect we will all enjoy the experience much more.

Sob Stories and Scams in Paradise

So I’ve just finished bargaining hard for something inconsequential and the price has been accepted. All that remains is for me to hand over the money and receive my goods from the nice lady. Then, with studied diffidence, comes the sob story: ” … you give me extra 10,000 so I can buy rice for my children?” If I don’t respond, the bathos continues, explaining in heart-breaking detail how her children are hungry, how her husband needs a crucial operation on both arms, and how business has been terrible lately.

I look pointedly at the stall holder’s shiny Honda Tiger parked next to the shop. Her husband arrives in a near-new top-end vehicle professionally emblazoned with the shop’s logo and expensive graphics. He bounds out, effortlessly carrying a huge load of stock. He hides his disability well; no doubt he will be a regular Superman after his operation. Their net worth is probably greater than mine, yet the ingrained imperative to trot out clichéd hard luck stories remains undiminished.

The low-end massage therapists are the same. A mediocre massage is followed by (or sometimes concurrent with) the inevitable mantra: “You give me tip?” Any lukewarm response from me elicits a multiplicity of choices as to why I should, such as “My phone pulsa is finished”, or “I have motorbike payment”, or “My son needs a dentist, and he is in much pain”, or “I must pay school fees for my daughter”. None of the reasons relate to quality of service. I think I am expected to select one or more of these choices, but it doesn’t really matter as long as I can be conned out of extra money.

My favourite sob stories come from inventive, but not entirely logical traders.  ”You must buy from me because I am not getting any business”. This is from the proprietor of a stall selling mainly junk. “Why aren’t you getting any business?” I ask, hoping to provide a micro-lesson in stock selection, marketing and promotion. “Because you not buy from me,” is the circular answer. I am filled with admiration. This is not just a sob story, but one which makes me the cause of the trader’s difficulties.

Then there’s the ‘sympathy vote’ sob story: “You must pay me more because I drive four hours to work each day and four hours back”. I am impressed with the man’s dedication, and ask him what time he gets up. He tells me 6am, so I ask “What time do you open the shop?”  ”7:30am”, he says proudly, ” … and I work until 10pm”. I commiserate with him about the long hours, and say that it must be very late when he gets home. “Oh yes”, he says sadly, “Sometimes 9pm”. I notice he has no books on arithmetic in his shop, and resolve to buy him one.

The ‘support my banjar’ gambit is another one on my shortlist for a prize. “You pay extra 100,000? My village is very poor.” I ask how this will help the village, and get a recitation of  ”improvements” needed by his village. “Maybe I should give the money to the head of your village?”, I enquire innocently. “No, no, no!” he says with increasing alarm. “Better you give to me!” Of course it is, what was I thinking?

But the crème de la crème of sob stories surfaced a few days ago. A temporary house staff member, a Balinese who had been with me for less than two weeks, became increasingly morose, stressed and teary. Eventually an almost incomprehensible  story emerged about her mother being in some sort of unspecified trouble with the authorities. The said authorities, in the guise of five local police officers (whose names she had conveniently forgotten), had allegedly confronted her family and demanded 15 million rupiah, or else their mother would be carted off to prison. Hmm, I thought, here it comes. Sure enough, the conversation quickly veered towards my potential participation in the family’s ‘rescue’. “Can you help us? Can you lend us 15 million for one year?”. I said that I wouldn’t. Not couldn’t, wouldn’t.

So there it was, the three-day sobbing set-up, the ‘desperate’ plea for help, and the attempted sting. Except this sting just won’t happen – firstly because other people’s legal and financial woes are not my responsibility, and secondly because this particular sob story smells to high heaven. I’ve never heard of police in Bali shaking down a poor Balinese family with an extortion attempt of this magnitude, but I have heard plenty of stories about ‘wealthy’ expats being similarly targeted, both by police and the locals themselves. If this is a scam, it is breathtaking both in its audacity and the amount being demanded. It is also insulting to be thought of as someone gullible enough to hand over money on the basis of an anecdote which is flimsy, incomplete and inconsistent. But at least I’ve been promoted from ATM to Bank Manager, and that’s something I suppose.

But if it is not a scam, but real extortion of a local family by local police, that is even worse. What about due process? Even in Bali, doesn’t an alleged miscreant normally get taken to court? Doesn’t a judge decide the merits of a case before prison even becomes an issue?

Prior to this little drama, I had already become heartily sick of sob stories, but at least had managed to retain my sense of humour. Now, I’ve just about had enough. In Bali, expats are perceived to be ridiculously rich and over-privileged – whatever their actual circumstances. And that seems to make us all sitting ducks for those who want what we have. That’s sad.

A Mistake That Was Meant to Be

I’m back in Bali after nearly four weeks away in sub-polar Lithuania – and it’s cold back here. I expected a mild European summer, but it was 39°C for most of the time. And after bragging about the delightful Bali climate all year round to any Lithuanian who would listen, I came home to 24°C and a chilly drizzle. The rainy season continues apace, with no regard for a calendar that insists it should have been over in March.

My trip was somewhat tinged with sadness, as it was primarily to lay my dad’s ashes to rest in his home country, honouring a promise made to him  some time ago. So early in July I left Bali, leaving my barely pregnant pembantu to look after the villa. She seemed in good humour when I left, apart from being mildly discomfited by bouts of morning sickness over the preceding six weeks, but she assured me that all would be well.

But on my return, she seemed a little different. She was stressed, anxious and avoided strenuous exertion. This was unusual for her, as she thinks nothing of hoisting a 20kg water bottle up to head height on to the dispenser. She normally does this with fluid grace and never spills a drop. By comparison I grunt, groan, stagger and splash around veritable lakes while performing the same task.

Concerned, I asked her if her pregnancy was progressing well – and she all but broke down. Even though she was close to the end of the first trimester, her morning sickness was much worse, lasting well into late morning. For me ‘late morning’ is about an hour after I get up, but with her day starting at dawn, the morning nausea had now become a five hour ordeal. Then she told me what was really worrying her.

“My weight”, she said, lip trembling. “Before you leave, 49kg. Now, 39kg”. She was understandably concerned about a 10kg loss in two and a half months, having been told by her mother, sister, aunts and in fact, probably the entire female complement of the village that she should expect a gain of about 2kg during this time. “What about your doctor?”, I asked. “I can not go yet – she told me to come back again in three months, so I can only go next month.” It’s amazing that patients invest such authority in their medicos – to the extent that they dare not question a pronouncement, even when they feel that something is wrong.

As a male, I have always felt it prudent to let womenfolk handle the complex logistics of their pregnancies and the burden of childbirth. Being vastly under-qualified in obstetrics also meant that I was reluctant to reassure my pembantu that everything was fine – when it may not have been. Steeling myself to insist that she see a specialist, I was tremendously relieved when she accepted my offer to arrange a visit to the obstetrics clinic at Kasih Ibu hospital and to pay for the consultation. Given that she is one of those rare types here who asks for nothing and is reluctant to accept gifts, I was surprised, but gratified.

A few phone calls later, I confirmed that she could attend the clinic and charge it to my account, and her appointment was duly set up for that evening. I was just about to order dinner when a call from the hospital informed me that I would have to attend personally as well, “to pay”. “But you confirmed that she could charge my account”, I said, looking at my menu forlornly. “You were misinformed”, said the mildly amused receptionist.

Leaving my bemused waitress, I promptly jump on my bike for an adrenaline-charged Top Gun ride along Jl. Imam Bonjol (Avenue of a Thousand Frights), dodging other two-wheeled projectiles, cars driven by people who believe they are immortal, and monstrous trucks, each reminiscent of a speeding Mt. Agung. I am ready for hospital admission myself when I arrive, preferably one with a psych ward.

We sit in the waiting room for an hour or so, my nervous pembantu cracking her knuckles endlessly, as she does when stressed. Her husband sits beside her, equally nervous – a fish in an unfamiliar ocean. Consultation over, they come back to join me, her staring fixedly at some documents in her hand. She appears stricken, and I fear the worst. But she is holding a sonogram – an image of the foetus growing in her womb. And it is not fear I see on her face, it is wonder, and a dawning understanding that this miracle is real. Here is a new life, and she is the mother. To her, it is not a foetus she sees, but her baby.

I hesitate to spoil the moment and ask: “Ah … and about your weight?” but I do anyway. “Oh”, she says beaming like a lighthouse. “Everything is fine. Doctor weighed me – 49kg. She said my scales at home must be broken! I am so happy now!” Her transformation is complete. From being a nervous wreck to being radiantly happy took a day.

So the ‘weight loss’ was just an equipment malfunction, and her clinic visit was unnecessary. But was it really? Without the concern about weight that led to the visit, there would have been no doctor’s reassurance, and no sonogram. Without the sonogram, there would have been continued anxiety and little chance of that magic connection suddenly materialising between mother and child. Yes, the visit was worth it, if only to see the expression on her face.

Three weeks ago, I left Bali to deal with a sad homecoming for my father – an ending of sorts. I returned, privileged to play a small part in a joyful beginning. The cycle somehow feels complete now.

Great Balls of Fire! The Gas Bottle Regulator Scam

It’s lunchtime, and just before Rini, my pembantu, leaves for the day, the doorbell rings. Two gentlemen, their uniforms bearing corporate insignia and carrying the ubiquitous clipboard and shoulder bag, politely request admittance. They say they speak no English, so it is fortunate that my Indonesian helper is still there. Responding to that unmistakable sign of ‘authority’, The Clipboard, she invites them in and explains to me that they are there “to check my gas”.  I repress a grin, and refrain from making a flippant, flatus-oriented retort.

We eyeball one other. I see that their uniforms are those of a Denpasar gas equipment supplier. They see that I see this, and switch their attention to Rini, who is treating them with the deference normally shown to government officials. A convoluted exchange follows and Rini (who is not quite up to U.N. translator standards) tries to explain to me that they are ‘safety inspectors’ who need to examine my gas stove. I’m curious. “May I see your ID?” I enquire innocently. Consternation. “Why do you want to see my ID?” says one of the ‘officials’, miraculously discovering this expression in his hitherto barren English lexicon. I don’t get to see ID.

So I show them my gas stove and the gas bottle. The smooth one (there’s always a smooth one in every pair of travelling entrepreneurs) claps eyes on the cylinder’s regulator and says: “Oh no!” in well-practised, lugubrious tones. I play along, raising an eyebrow. “Big problem”, he continues, “Regulator not standard”. Strange, I think – it was standard when it was installed a year ago. But this is Bali, so perhaps it has spontaneously become non-standard in the last twelve months. I say nothing.

He looks at me expectantly, and perhaps divining that my lack of response indicates that I am not entirely convinced,  says: “I show you.” Fast as a krait, he whips the cylinder out of its enclosure, removes the regulator and hose and peels back the protective metal hose wrapping. “See?” he says triumphantly. “Rubber is perished! Must buy new!” His English, while not perfect, is getting better all the time. I look at the near-new, flawless hose rubber and tell him that it looks pretty good to me. He scrutinises the hose minutely, and says in a voice of ineffable surprise: “Yes. Is good. My eyes maybe not good”. I agree with him and he gives me a Look.

He shifts his focus back to the ‘non-standard’ regulator. “Very dangerous”, he intones. And proceeds to ‘prove’ it by putting it back on the cylinder to pressurise it while keeping his finger on the hose outlet. Then he takes it off the gas bottle and flicks a lighter while brandishing the regulator in the air. When he releases his finger, the gas rushes out and a ball of fire leaps into the air, singeing his eyebrows and causing Rini to shriek and leap backwards into a chair.

“Yes”, I say solemnly, “that can happen when you fill it up with gas and light it”. He agrees happily, loudly saying “Dangerous! Hati hati!  Regulator no good!” I tell him that, on the contrary, the regulator must be in good shape it it can hold the gas he forced into it without leaking. He inexplicably forgets that he knows English and turns to Rini. I think he is explaining to her that unless her stupid boss understands the ‘danger’ and buys a new regulator, she will be incinerated the next time she lights the stove. Rini looks at me imploringly, but I am unmoved.

In desperation, he takes my now unregulated gas cylinder, cracks the main valve with a screwdriver, and lights it. The resulting flame shoots out a metre and a half, nearly giving his side-kick an unwanted Brazilian. Then something goes wrong and he can’t stop the conflagration, so he tips the whole bottle on its side. I have slow reflexes, so I have no time to jump in the pool to avoid the explosion; I just stand there frozen. He interprets my paralysis as evidence that his demonstration has not impressed me and his shoulders slump dejectedly. “You not frightened”, he says. “No” I croak, while waiting for my heart rate to slow to below two hundred.

Fortunately, he doesn’t see Rini hyperventilating, so he continues the sales pitch with me. He insists that I need a new regulator – which he just happens to have in his shoulder bag. In fact, there are about twenty of the things in there. They seem identical to the one I already have. “How much?” I ask. He brightens, “Only 350,000!” he says. “Cheap!” Well no actually. I believe they are selling in Ace Hardware for 75,000. I tell him I’ll think about it and ask for his company’s business card. He suddenly goes all shifty and claims that he has run out. So I ask him for his company’s phone number and address. Surprise, surprise – he’s ‘forgotten’ both.

“Are you really a gas safety inspector?” I ask casually. He assures me he is. As I gently shoo him out, I ponder why, if he was, he didn’t see fit to mention that I am renting a villa where the gas bottle is in an enclosed, unventilated cupboard directly under the stove. Now that is dangerous, but I guess he’s not selling cylinder relocation services, just over-priced regulators.

But the worst thing is that, after his dramatic fire show, my poor pembantu can’t walk past the stove without her eyes sliding fearfully towards the lethal time-bomb of a gas regulator she believes is lurking inside, just waiting for its chance to immolate us all. Oh well, that’s Bali.

How To Purify Your Villa and Blow Up Your Light Fittings

My new villa is quiet and relaxing. In fact. it is so relaxing that I spend a vast amount of time here in a catatonic trance, gazing at the pool in between tweeting and blogging, reading, or just thinking. I can’t even be bothered answering the phone because the combination of my abysmal hearing and the appalling cell reception here means I can’t understand anything anyway. Even my stated life purpose – to achieve a state of maximum Bali-style entropy through terminal sloth and joyful gluttony – is not working. Oh, I have the sloth part nailed, but the gluttony requires actually leaving the villa, and that’s just too hard.

Once every eight months or so, I get an urge to improve my lot in life. And so it was that a month ago, the realisation dawned that I needed to take some positive action to make my life more dynamic. As I don’t believe in rushing things, my philosophy is that following such epiphanies, at least another month of pool-staring is required before actually doing something. Naturally, I spent the next month working out how I might achieve this with the minimum of effort.

Now, I know all the wonderful New Age theories. Most of them boil down to taking responsibility for one’s actions. You know the mantra: “Ah, grasshopper, if you want things to change, first you must change yourself”. The trouble is, this takes too much effort – it is always far easier to blame someone or something else for one’s tribulations. After nearly a year in Bali, I figured that everyone else does that here, so why not me? Clearly, I needed to look for external solutions rather than take responsibility for changing myself. The answer was blindingly obvious – my lack of drive had nothing to do with me at all. It must therefore be my villa, home to several spirits which, while not quite evil, weren’t all that positive either.

It didn’t take long to find a local Balinese shaman – a healer – who would perform a cleansing ceremony on my home. But the question was – do these rituals really work? Fortunately, I have a character flaw which dictates that before I try anything new or strange, I get someone else to try it out for me. This has served me well since my earliest days, when I would get my cousin to try out my cardboard wing designs for flights from the top of the garage roof before risking my own neck. Sorry Gabe – I never did apologise for that. So I talked a friend into having her villa purified first and because it seemed to work, I booked one for myself.

The shaman, Wayan, and his assistant Putu duly arrived and began the ceremony, the first hour of which consisted of meditating at various key points in the villa. The problem spots were quickly identified and the cleansing process commenced with us sitting on the floor upstairs while Wayan muttered incantations and prayers. I had intended to be an open-minded, albeit passive observer to this, but quickly became engrossed in the ritual. An hour passed as it it was five minutes, then Wayan turned to me and said: “The villa is fine – the problem is with you“. Oh no, I had been sprung!

For the next half-hour there followed a laying-on-of-hands ritual while bad influences were removed from my body, accompanied by startlingly loud invocations and choking sounds from Wayan. As the ceremony built to a climax, Wayan placed his clawed fingers on my back, grasping something that only he could sense and emitting blood-curdling moans. Suddenly, I felt an electrical jolt through my body, there was a enormous bang and all the lights went out. I jumped a metre into the air – not an easy feat for an mature-aged gent in a lotus position.

I staggered downstairs to find my terrified pembantu staring with eyes like dinner plates at the remains of an exploded light fitting, still raining smoking bits of red-hot metal and glass on the table at which she had been sitting. I looked at Wayan, who seemed inordinately pleased. “Good”, he said laconically. “Energy release!” As you can imagine, my natural scepticism had taken quite a battering by then, so I wasn’t inclined to argue. Whatever had happened, it was certainly impressive.

In the cold light of morning, I was ready to rationalise the events of the previous night away.  Except that my perceptions had subtly changed. I noticed that my villa wall, which I always thought was a charcoal colour, actually had chocolate overtones that I had never seen before. Other colours were different as well.  But the thing that was most noticeable was that the stiff, painful neck that had troubled me for the last four months was gone.

There are levels of alternate reality that keep unfolding for me in Bali. Just as I start becoming jaded from dealing with endless bureaucratic and  infrastructure problems, something happens here at the spiritual level that makes me re-think what is important here. It reminds me of why I came to Bali in the first place. Thank you Wayan; thank you Putu.

Shopping, Memory Loss and Mice

It’s official – Bali is changing me. Slowly, insidiously, I am adopting a lifestyle which involves succumbing to impulse and forgetting about planning, follow-through and … you know, other stuff. See, I’m even forgetting the words for whatever it was that used to be important in my pre-Bali life. Living in Bali, especially in an area which seems to be reserved for the terminally bewildered, can do that to you.

The other day, I set out to get some shopping done. Still labouring under some crazy delusion that I can remember things, I didn’t bother to write a shopping list. I mean – lists are only for forgetful people, right? And I probably would have remembered to buy most of the things I needed, except I forgot to go shopping. You see, while riding past one of my favourite massage salons, I was seized with an irresistable impulse to be pampered, so in I went. After a delicious hour of sensual, albeit comatose pleasure, I wandered off to find my bike and get on with the day. That took a while, because I had forgotten where I parked it.

Still in that lovely post-massage torpor, I decided that a coffee would be nice, so another pleasant 40 minutes were spent reading, daydreaming and re-caffeinating before I rode home. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to shop. Right, back on the bike for the five-minute trip to the supermarket, where I wandered around wondering what it was I needed. Maybe it was memory pills? So I asked myself : “What would have been on my list if I had made a list?” Lo and behold, it jogged my failing memory enough to spend 400,000 rupiah on a trolley full of stuff.

As it turned out, it was obviously a false memory, because after getting home, not one of the things I had originally planned to buy were actually in my shopping bags. Back in the old days, this scenario would have worried me senseless. I would have thought that there was something seriously wrong with me, and rushed off to schedule an immediate brain scan. Not anymore. I just accept this fugue state as a natural part of Bali life, and if I have a pantry full of stuff that I don’t need, well, so be it. There’s always tomorrow.

Minutes later, I caught a furtive movement out of the corner of my eye. If I hadn’t actually seen it, my pembantu’s shriek would have told me what it was anyway. A mouse! It was marching purposefully from the garden towards the pantry, on a trajectory that was about to intersect my right foot. Being a man of decisive action, I stamped my foot directly in front of the beast to scare it away. Petulant, I know, but for most mice of my acquaintance, this alpha male type of aggression causes immediate, squeaking flight in the opposite direction.

Not so with the mouse of steel. The thing stopped, glared at me and just kept coming. My pembantu, always one to recognise a fearless predator,  immediately fled up the stairs. Without my wingman, it was left to me to confront this animal, one which was obviously unaware of its place in the grand scheme of things. With a dexterous sweep of my foot, I tumbled it back towards the garden, It still didn’t run. In fact, it stood up, glared at me, bared its tiny teeth and growled.

Now, mice don’t growl. They use ultrasonic communication, audible squeaks and occasionally emit rapid clicks. Maybe it was bruxing - but I swear this thing actually growled at me. Yes, it was faint and somewhat pathetic, but it was clearly a growl. It took quite a few deft soccer passes to get the thing back to the garden – growling all the way – until it reluctantly went off, looking over its shoulder at me all the way. I didn’t even know mice had shoulders.

Well, what with the massage, the coffee, the shopping and the mouse that thought it was a Bali tiger, it just about filled out my daylight hours. But I did need to go shopping again. This time, I did make a list containing all the items I had forgotten the first time, including – you guessed it - mousetraps. That mouse was obviously sent by a higher force.

You see, that’s how Bali works – apparently unrelated events can conspire to bring one’s life back into balance, correct mistakes and iron out the effects of temporary amnesia. That’s one of the reasons I like it here.

Except that on the way to the supermarket, I saw this really nice-looking massage salon …

When Your Pool Leaks, Admit Nothing

It rains heavily in Bali, which means that plants which are less than robust get quite a battering. Maybe one is supposed to leave them to collapse in some Darwinian version of tough love, but I find that hard to do. A particularly spindly specimen near the pump end of my pool had all but given up, leaning almost parallel to the ground. I could have ignored it, but on reflecting that it may not be all that long before I too am likely to need external support to stand up, I resolved to help it.

My horticultural skills are hopeless, but I can wield a hammer, so I found myself banging several long stakes into the soft Bali soil. I met resistance once or twice, but when one has a hammer, one tends to apply the philosophy of “if it won’t go in, hit it harder”. My plant was soon restored to approximate verticality, but as I had already used up my entire monthly quota of personal exertion on this task,  a quick segue to less taxing pursuits, like eating and drinking, was necessary for the rest of the evening.

The next morning, at a suitably civilised hour (I find that dawn +3 hours is acceptable), I awoke to the sight of the water in my fancy clean-edge pool gently lapping 30 cm below where it should have been. You have to understand that it takes me until noon to complete my personal start-up sequence, so I wasn’t thinking too straight. My first thought was that my pembantu (who likes the water, but finds my pool frighteningly deep) had bailed it out to a more manageable swimming level. OK, OK, a bit far-fetched. Then I suspected that the maybe the minor tremor we had last week had somehow cracked the pool, or broken the pipes … oh no, the pipes! With startling clarity, the memory of driving stakes into the ground suddenly surfaced, complete with the sensation of temporary resistance as the metal plunged into the earth … no doubt, I thought, straight through some critical pipe.

Fortunately, I am not only a consummate problem-solver, but a veritable dynamo when it comes to taking decisive action. So I called my pool guy, Dewa. He was somewhere on the East coast of Bali, but promised to come and see me within 2 days. Great. Meanwhile, my pool was quietly emptying itself despite my attempts to explore every permutation of the numerous tap and valve positions in the pump chamber. Without actually telling Dewa about my destructive gardening efforts (no sense in upsetting him), I casually asked him how much it would cost to repair a broken underground pool pipe. I could hear him screw up his face over the phone. “Ooh, big, big job.” My heart sank. “Must dig.” Yes, I had already figured that part out. “Fix pipe. Pressure test. Replace garden. New, trees, new grass”. Oh no. I had forgotten about those green things on top of the soil. My heart sank more. “Maybe 4, no 5, maybe 6 million”. My heart bottomed out. I could see my savings doing the same.

One discovers things about one’s own psyche when one is under stress. I had always believed I was honest, and willing to take responsibility for my actions. But this was different – this could cost me big money, so surely I was entitled to slightly modify my non-core beliefs? Perhaps even shade the truth a little? Maybe if I told my landlord about the earthquake, she would assume that was the cause, and pay for the repairs? Wait – what if I hid the ‘evidence’ by pulling out the stakes? But then the mental picture of a huge gusher in my yard, triggered by removal of the only thing stopping the flow from the hole, made me re-think that tactic.

So while I waited for the pool guy, and watched the water level keep dropping further, I came up with a brilliant reason why I shouldn’t have to pay to fix this problem. But I’m not going to tell you what it was, because it would reflect badly on my integrity. And I might get into trouble. But most of all, I won’t tell you because there was no need to use any excuse at all.

You see, the pool guy finally arrived, took one look, jumped into the filter pit, unscrewed a small in-line valve and from its innards, pulled out … a twig. “Jammed open”, he said. “Water run out of pool to holding tank. Fixed now”. I couldn’t resist it and told him about my garden stake fears. I mean, I could afford to be honest now. He laughed. “No pipes there”, he said. “If you broke, yard would be full of water …”, which of course, it wasn’t.

So what have I learned? A few things: Pools are more complicated than I thought. Think before hammering things into the ground, because there might be stuff underneath. Don’t assume things. And never, never take responsibilty for things that you didn’t do, just because you feel guilty. It messes with your head when you do.