I’m moving. Again. For the third time since I arrived in Bali two years and a month ago. For me this has become a defining characteristic of life on the island. Not a desired one, but a defining one nonetheless.
Curiously, in the fifty-five years preceding my arrival in Bali I moved from one residence to another only six times, and these relocations were generally coincident with some more or less auspicious occasion -- leaving the parental home, getting married, getting divorced, getting married again, getting divorced again. You get the idea. I suppose that if I had gotten married and divorced more regularly, I would have moved more times.
But here in Bali there has been none of that, so far. There have been no changes in marital status that would have brought on another rearrangement of residence, no financial boons nor disasters, no house burnings or necessitating acts of nature, and yet here I am packing boxes once again for our move to residence number three. Three moves in two years, as opposed to six in fifty-five. I’m no wizard at math, but I reckon if you take this alarming rise in the incidence of relocation and apply it to the number of years I have left to live, the result will show that I will still be changing residence far beyond the time of my actual demise.
I should add before proceeding any further that I do not like to move. I am not one who tires of a place and desires a change, hankers after a new locale, covets new rooms, new views, more space or less space. The fact is I hardly notice what’s around me. Pictures may disappear from walls without my knowing they’d ever been there to begin with. My wife can bring in a pottery vase the size of a German Shepherd and I will call it new three months later. I’m oblivious, but I’m happy. And that’s what matters, right?
So why am I moving?
I’m moving because of the apparent conviction of Balinese landlords that the funds I have available to me must triple every year -- a belief which in turns excites the innate greed response and inspires a like increase in rent. It’s funny how these sorts of figures, generally pretty reliably set in America, can be subject to such eccentric variation here in Bali. And it’s not just the rent. No, this can extend as well to electricity and water bills, maintenance costs, damage repair -- not damages you yourself have caused, mind you, but damages that predate your contract by a year and more. Suddenly there are holes in the roof, and money is wanted. During the last wind storm the roof of the car port blew away. That’s on the renter too. This is an idea that the western mindset finds almost impossible to negotiate -- the notion that the common yearly maintenance of a house is the responsibility of the renter and not the owner. I have seen this in force again and again, and yet I cannot fully grasp the thing.
In our previous rental we paid as much as Rp.700,000 a month for electricity and water, only to find upon moving to the next house that the same should have run around Rp.230,000. Is something amiss here? Hmm. Well maybe it was that Buddha statue out front with the flood lights and running water fountain which, as we were told, definitely had nothing to do with our unit.
So here we go again. Time to uproot and replant. Luckily some of our stuff is still in boxes from the move last year and so is not so much in need of sorting as it is of hefting. Who knows what’s in those boxes? Maybe we’ll find out if we ever stay in one place long enough. It could be my unfinished novel. It could be my winter wardrobe. It could be my raisons from Fresno. Time to call the AC folks, and Indovision, and Telcom Sel. Not that any of them will show up very soon. But it’s the thought that counts, and how many times you think it.
Ah, but there’s yet another catch. First we must wait for the tenant presently residing in the new house we have rented to remove himself and his trappings from the same. Did I say residing? I meant squatting -- for even though he has paid but a small portion of the sum owed on rent, he will not be pried loose, having preferred throughout his stay there the tender of vague promises to the payment of actual funds. We have, however, succeeded in entering into negotiations with him at the time of this writing, and hope soon to arrive upon a fair sum for the purchase of his departure.
Visits
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Another Year on the Island of the Frauds
It’s that time again -- for me, anyway. Time to renew the old Kitas and sign up for another year of merry madness in Bali.
Some of you may have heard that a new law had been passed in Indonesia allowing foreigners married at least two years to an Indonesian citizen to receive a five year Kitas this time around. Well, you heard right. The law was passed. But it doesn’t matter, nor does it apply. Not yet, they say. Maybe next year.
Sound familiar? Of course it does. It’s PID, the national byword, Progress Indefinitely Deferred.
You see, the thing is, the law was passed by the proper governmental body in Jakarta, such that said law is now the law, but that’s all it is, lacking, as it turns out, any vehicle for implementation, the arms and legs of bureaucracy. The apparatus is not in place. There are no forms, no duplicates, no carbon copies, no network of experienced scammers in place, no agreement upon a reasonable levy for bribes and payoffs. Oh, and the agents who presently handle our yearly Kitas -- they know nothing whatsoever about this new law. Never heard of it.
So here we go again. Hand over your documents, your proofs, your own various forgeries and white lies, and most importantly your money -- and then wait.
It has often been asked why this process must be so convoluted, why it cannot be streamlined, made more simple and direct (as it is in so many other countries). Considering in particular that tourism and immigration can only benefit the economy of Indonesia, and especially of Bali, why does this counterproductive confusion of paperwork mazes persist?
It’s all about money, folks; and how much of it can be transferred from our pockets to theirs. If the Kitas process were made simple, or at least manageable, such that the common applicant could unravel the thing, why then the individual could do it for himself. And what then? Horrors! The whole teetering tower of cards must tumble, and the intricate arrangement of agents and middle-men vanish. Make no mistake, there are those who depend upon the perseverance of this confusion for their very livelihoods. Will you take food from the children’s mouths? And what about the monthly payment on your agent’s brand new SUV? It’s unthinkable, unacceptable. It is quite simply the way business is done in Indonesia, from the Kitas to the SIM to the roadside bribe.
Corruption, you say? Well, it’s really too strong a word, isn’t it? It’s just life the way it’s lived, the way things are done and have always been done. Those who are cogs in the machine are glad of the machine, for it churns out their daily bread. Governments can talk all they want about anti-corruption commissions and eradicating graft, just as they can talk about guaranteeing religious freedom and ensuring cultural tolerance, but until they provide something real, in the way of education, opportunity, fair practices and the enforcement of the same, it’s just that -- talk -- and all the progressive words in the world don’t amount to a hill of dung.
Am I complaining? No, not really. Peace, as has been said, is a product of acceptance, and contentment a matter of simply getting in sync. Think about it the next time you get stopped by the police on the Bypass. Think about the wiggle room afforded by the prevailing practices, the chance to negotiate, to dicker, to bargain -- and maybe even get away scot-free. Do you have such an option in the West? Think about the convenience of being able to simply handle the thing on the spot and then be on your merry way -- no ticket, no court date, no filing fee. Voila, it‘s done -- and for what, five dollars? Ten? In America you will pay one-hundred, and more. Need a new license? Just pay the man. No need to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles, take a number, stand in line for most of the day and then argue with some cranky clerk who hates his job. And what about the Department of Environmental Quality -- receiving your summons, taking your car through, failing the test, repairing the car, driving it through again, paying your fee. But here in Indonesia -- hey, what environmental quality?
In Indonesia you cut corners -- or rather you pay someone to cut them for you. And so what? Aren’t we here, after all, to enjoy a bit of life for a change, free from the endless tedium of rules that has all but suffocated daily life in the West? What’s the fair exchange for that? If you ask me, it all comes out even in the end.
Some of you may have heard that a new law had been passed in Indonesia allowing foreigners married at least two years to an Indonesian citizen to receive a five year Kitas this time around. Well, you heard right. The law was passed. But it doesn’t matter, nor does it apply. Not yet, they say. Maybe next year.
Sound familiar? Of course it does. It’s PID, the national byword, Progress Indefinitely Deferred.
You see, the thing is, the law was passed by the proper governmental body in Jakarta, such that said law is now the law, but that’s all it is, lacking, as it turns out, any vehicle for implementation, the arms and legs of bureaucracy. The apparatus is not in place. There are no forms, no duplicates, no carbon copies, no network of experienced scammers in place, no agreement upon a reasonable levy for bribes and payoffs. Oh, and the agents who presently handle our yearly Kitas -- they know nothing whatsoever about this new law. Never heard of it.
So here we go again. Hand over your documents, your proofs, your own various forgeries and white lies, and most importantly your money -- and then wait.
It has often been asked why this process must be so convoluted, why it cannot be streamlined, made more simple and direct (as it is in so many other countries). Considering in particular that tourism and immigration can only benefit the economy of Indonesia, and especially of Bali, why does this counterproductive confusion of paperwork mazes persist?
It’s all about money, folks; and how much of it can be transferred from our pockets to theirs. If the Kitas process were made simple, or at least manageable, such that the common applicant could unravel the thing, why then the individual could do it for himself. And what then? Horrors! The whole teetering tower of cards must tumble, and the intricate arrangement of agents and middle-men vanish. Make no mistake, there are those who depend upon the perseverance of this confusion for their very livelihoods. Will you take food from the children’s mouths? And what about the monthly payment on your agent’s brand new SUV? It’s unthinkable, unacceptable. It is quite simply the way business is done in Indonesia, from the Kitas to the SIM to the roadside bribe.
Corruption, you say? Well, it’s really too strong a word, isn’t it? It’s just life the way it’s lived, the way things are done and have always been done. Those who are cogs in the machine are glad of the machine, for it churns out their daily bread. Governments can talk all they want about anti-corruption commissions and eradicating graft, just as they can talk about guaranteeing religious freedom and ensuring cultural tolerance, but until they provide something real, in the way of education, opportunity, fair practices and the enforcement of the same, it’s just that -- talk -- and all the progressive words in the world don’t amount to a hill of dung.
Am I complaining? No, not really. Peace, as has been said, is a product of acceptance, and contentment a matter of simply getting in sync. Think about it the next time you get stopped by the police on the Bypass. Think about the wiggle room afforded by the prevailing practices, the chance to negotiate, to dicker, to bargain -- and maybe even get away scot-free. Do you have such an option in the West? Think about the convenience of being able to simply handle the thing on the spot and then be on your merry way -- no ticket, no court date, no filing fee. Voila, it‘s done -- and for what, five dollars? Ten? In America you will pay one-hundred, and more. Need a new license? Just pay the man. No need to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles, take a number, stand in line for most of the day and then argue with some cranky clerk who hates his job. And what about the Department of Environmental Quality -- receiving your summons, taking your car through, failing the test, repairing the car, driving it through again, paying your fee. But here in Indonesia -- hey, what environmental quality?
In Indonesia you cut corners -- or rather you pay someone to cut them for you. And so what? Aren’t we here, after all, to enjoy a bit of life for a change, free from the endless tedium of rules that has all but suffocated daily life in the West? What’s the fair exchange for that? If you ask me, it all comes out even in the end.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Back to MS for a Minute
Given that Jim Dandy was just recently nominated as 'Best MS Blog" and granted a spot in the Blognation directory, I suppose I ought to post an entry that has something to do with MS for a change. The fact is that in hte last two years or so I've written very little concerning MS, preferring to write mostly about my experiences here in Bali, my family life, political and religious matters in Indonesia, and so on.
Why is this? Am I suddenly MS-free? No, of course not. I'd like to say that I am -- that the combined lifestyle balm of retirement in the tropics, the sunshine, and sea and surf have been somehow curative, but that, sadly, would not be true.
I guess the reasons for my comparative silence are multifold. For one thing, it just kind of gets old. MS gets old. Like so many things in the world, at first it is new and interesting, there is an acquaintance to be made, learning to be done. One suddenly has a new life, unplanned for and unasked for, yet nonetheless new. There are a lot of questions to be answered. What does this mean? Who am I now? What can I do? What should I do? One becomes rather consumed in all the details, feeling his way forward, making new acquaintances -- people one would never have met had they not been sick. But then the years pass and things settle in and the situation becomes the status quo.
MS becomes normal. It's the way it is, the way I am. You become accustomed to the various deficits, at least in some degree -- the aches and pains, the numbness and tingling, the confusion and disorientation. You don't really remember being without them in any more than a very detached way. How does disease remember good health, and to what end, what purpose, resulting in what meaning?
We simply move on. There's no choice, really -- unless you want to count a life of moaning and complaining as a choice. We move on in our own wobbly, stumbling, disoriented way. We are our disease, as surely as we are blonde-haired or blue eyed, woman or man, handsome or homely, old or young. We did not choose, but were chosen. MS does not define us, yet it does change us, both outwardly and inwardly. It is the ultimate character of change that lies always within our command.
Why is this? Am I suddenly MS-free? No, of course not. I'd like to say that I am -- that the combined lifestyle balm of retirement in the tropics, the sunshine, and sea and surf have been somehow curative, but that, sadly, would not be true.
I guess the reasons for my comparative silence are multifold. For one thing, it just kind of gets old. MS gets old. Like so many things in the world, at first it is new and interesting, there is an acquaintance to be made, learning to be done. One suddenly has a new life, unplanned for and unasked for, yet nonetheless new. There are a lot of questions to be answered. What does this mean? Who am I now? What can I do? What should I do? One becomes rather consumed in all the details, feeling his way forward, making new acquaintances -- people one would never have met had they not been sick. But then the years pass and things settle in and the situation becomes the status quo.
MS becomes normal. It's the way it is, the way I am. You become accustomed to the various deficits, at least in some degree -- the aches and pains, the numbness and tingling, the confusion and disorientation. You don't really remember being without them in any more than a very detached way. How does disease remember good health, and to what end, what purpose, resulting in what meaning?
We simply move on. There's no choice, really -- unless you want to count a life of moaning and complaining as a choice. We move on in our own wobbly, stumbling, disoriented way. We are our disease, as surely as we are blonde-haired or blue eyed, woman or man, handsome or homely, old or young. We did not choose, but were chosen. MS does not define us, yet it does change us, both outwardly and inwardly. It is the ultimate character of change that lies always within our command.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
It's Not a Tumor
My wife has developed a shocking appendage on her left hand. It is red, rectangular, and about the size of the hand itself. There is no cure for this curious swelling, no surgery presently available for removal of the growth, and no medicine known that might shrink or eradicate the tumour -- for the appendage of which I’m speaking is not corporeal, but is composed of manmade elements, plastic, rubber, circuitry, a venous system of tiny wires, and God knows what else. The appendage is a Blackberry phone.
I thought at first that it was a temporary inflammation and that it would surely fall away of its own accord in due time, like a wart or a Gila monster, but the thing has persisted now for over a year and I’m resigned, therefore, toward accepting the malady, my only option being to grow accustomed to the presence of the eternal blemish as one might do with a failed tattoo or a gerbil-sized mole. Nobody’s perfect, right? We are all plagued by these little flaws, and can certainly repress our regret for the substandard part in favour of the comely whole.
I must add, however, that it would certainly assist in my efforts to discount the flaw if she would stop her endless fiddling with the thing, for this constant attention to the unlovely part merely heightens my own awareness of the same, bringing it ever before my otherwise compassionate eyes at all times of the day and night, throughout every activity and mutual venture, while eating, while sleeping, while walking, while sitting, while watching a movie or engaging in foreplay. Yes, and worse.
The fact is, she adores her foreign appendage. She caresses it, pokes at it, laughs at it and talks to it, engrossed in its language of beeps and bells. I’ve not seen such fascination since the days when my 3-month old son used to gaze and drool in delight at the mobile that danced above his crib.
Whatever else may be said of the Blackberry (and the I-Phone, and other reduplicating malignancies), it is certain that this gadget has effected and will continue to effect far reaching changes at the core of every society it has infected. Technology is only the tip of the iceberg. In the same way that the automobile is more than just a machine used to convey a person from point A to point B, the Blackberry is a personal accessory, a form of jewellery, a status symbol, a thing of envy and desire for which people will beg and steal, even trample if need be. It simply must be possessed.
Moreover, the Blackberry has entirely altered the dynamics of the male-female relationship. In former days it was expected that a man would talk to his wife or girlfriend at dinner or drinks or through the course of a romantic stroll and so on. Indeed, I used to make little lists of things to say in advance of a date so as not to appear boring or disinterested, and would peek at my list at opportune moments in order to refresh the conversation and appear lively and engaged.
Well, those days are gone, and man’s burden has been considerably lightened, thanks to the incomparable charm and appeal of the cell phone. Try talking to your wife now, when she’s busy at poking and stroking and caressing her handset. I tell you, you can talk to the air till you’re blue in the face -- or at least until she tells you to shut up because you’re interrupting the flow of her digital interactions. Take a look around next time you go out for a meal. How many women are talking to their mates? How many are fixated on their Blackberry phones?
I recall a television commercial that ran in America some few years ago. The commercial went something like this: A man is sitting in his chair watching TV while his wife prepares to go out somewhere. The wife pops in and out of the room to pose various questions to her otherwise oblivious husband.
“Is that what you’re going to wear tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you remember to buy the milk today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does this dress make me look fat.”
“Uh-huh.”
Well, the shoe is now on the other foot, men. Chances are that you will no longer hear things like “You don’t talk to me anymore,” or “You don’t love me anymore,” or “You don’t even know what I wore today.” Nope, from here on out it’s “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”
Who knew during all these eons of inter-relational challenges that all it would take to truly please a woman was a song of beeps and buzzes and clucks? I daresay the modern home is quieter now, free as it is of the many former gripes and grievances that otherwise required time and attention. One should be content, I suppose. One should count his blessings (or his lucky stars).
And yet I can’t help but feel that something’s missing. That something’s been stolen away. And I kind of miss talking to my wife now and then. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know what I wore today.
I thought at first that it was a temporary inflammation and that it would surely fall away of its own accord in due time, like a wart or a Gila monster, but the thing has persisted now for over a year and I’m resigned, therefore, toward accepting the malady, my only option being to grow accustomed to the presence of the eternal blemish as one might do with a failed tattoo or a gerbil-sized mole. Nobody’s perfect, right? We are all plagued by these little flaws, and can certainly repress our regret for the substandard part in favour of the comely whole.
I must add, however, that it would certainly assist in my efforts to discount the flaw if she would stop her endless fiddling with the thing, for this constant attention to the unlovely part merely heightens my own awareness of the same, bringing it ever before my otherwise compassionate eyes at all times of the day and night, throughout every activity and mutual venture, while eating, while sleeping, while walking, while sitting, while watching a movie or engaging in foreplay. Yes, and worse.
The fact is, she adores her foreign appendage. She caresses it, pokes at it, laughs at it and talks to it, engrossed in its language of beeps and bells. I’ve not seen such fascination since the days when my 3-month old son used to gaze and drool in delight at the mobile that danced above his crib.
Whatever else may be said of the Blackberry (and the I-Phone, and other reduplicating malignancies), it is certain that this gadget has effected and will continue to effect far reaching changes at the core of every society it has infected. Technology is only the tip of the iceberg. In the same way that the automobile is more than just a machine used to convey a person from point A to point B, the Blackberry is a personal accessory, a form of jewellery, a status symbol, a thing of envy and desire for which people will beg and steal, even trample if need be. It simply must be possessed.
Moreover, the Blackberry has entirely altered the dynamics of the male-female relationship. In former days it was expected that a man would talk to his wife or girlfriend at dinner or drinks or through the course of a romantic stroll and so on. Indeed, I used to make little lists of things to say in advance of a date so as not to appear boring or disinterested, and would peek at my list at opportune moments in order to refresh the conversation and appear lively and engaged.
Well, those days are gone, and man’s burden has been considerably lightened, thanks to the incomparable charm and appeal of the cell phone. Try talking to your wife now, when she’s busy at poking and stroking and caressing her handset. I tell you, you can talk to the air till you’re blue in the face -- or at least until she tells you to shut up because you’re interrupting the flow of her digital interactions. Take a look around next time you go out for a meal. How many women are talking to their mates? How many are fixated on their Blackberry phones?
I recall a television commercial that ran in America some few years ago. The commercial went something like this: A man is sitting in his chair watching TV while his wife prepares to go out somewhere. The wife pops in and out of the room to pose various questions to her otherwise oblivious husband.
“Is that what you’re going to wear tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you remember to buy the milk today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does this dress make me look fat.”
“Uh-huh.”
Well, the shoe is now on the other foot, men. Chances are that you will no longer hear things like “You don’t talk to me anymore,” or “You don’t love me anymore,” or “You don’t even know what I wore today.” Nope, from here on out it’s “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”
Who knew during all these eons of inter-relational challenges that all it would take to truly please a woman was a song of beeps and buzzes and clucks? I daresay the modern home is quieter now, free as it is of the many former gripes and grievances that otherwise required time and attention. One should be content, I suppose. One should count his blessings (or his lucky stars).
And yet I can’t help but feel that something’s missing. That something’s been stolen away. And I kind of miss talking to my wife now and then. I’ll bet she doesn’t even know what I wore today.
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Thursday, February 23, 2012
Every Curtain That Rises Must Fall
I can’t stand grade school plays. I know it sounds mean and un-parent-like, but there you have it. At least I’m honest -- although honesty itself may as well have saved its breath for all the difference it has ever made where my attendance at these tedious, interminable events is concerned. I don’t think that I’m alone either. I would bet that fully 70 percent of otherwise decent parents detest these theatrical extravaganzas in the same way that they detest receiving a summons for jury duty in the mail, and carefully maintain therefore an airtight reason for excusal.
Take my wife for instance (noting that I resist the Rodney Dangerfield punch line). She cannot possibly attend the play because she works. Overtime, if necessary. Feigning painful disappointment, she tells the boy that she cannot come, but assures him that Dad will be there -- which is a thing meant not so much for his consumption as for mine.
This season’s dramatic offering involves a presentation of favourite fairy tales and fantasies, and my son’s class has chosen The Wizard of Oz. I know this in advance because he has mentioned just 22 hours before the rise of the curtain that he needs a Tin Man costume. From this alone one gleans an appreciation of the careful effort and preparation that go into these programs, along with a pretty sure estimation of what one has gotten oneself into.
So I spend the eve of the big show shopping for tin man stuff. A funnel for his hat, silver spray paint, long gloves to cover the arms, and so on. Try explaining these needs to shop clerks who speak not a word of English. Try explaining that you’re turning your son into a tin man.
On the big day I arrive at 9 a.m. sharp, for despite my preceding efforts to pin down the hour in which my son will actually be on stage, the teachers have stubbornly refused to divulge this information. If they have to sit through it, so do we. I am hoping of course that my son’s performance will be first in line, allowing an early escape, but suspect, given previous experience, that they will save the best for last. With resignation therefore, I insert myself between the white-bloused shoulders of two proud mothers in the second row to the last, where my heavy sighs and occasional snoring will be a nuisance to as few people as possible. Teachers in the meantime bustle officiously about, as grave as ushers at a joint session of Congress.
The first play involves the three pigs and the big bad wolf. I can’t really hear what the children are saying, but I know the story pretty well. For this reason I cannot help but wonder why a story that features three pigs and one wolf has nonetheless required the presence of fifty-two children on the stage. Why, moreover, is the wolf wearing orange pyjamas?
Auditory problems have been ironed out by the time the next skit starts by the introduction of five additional microphones turned to full volume. Now, it can be pretty generally agreed upon that no Indonesian should be given a microphone to begin with, but to give one to a child is a sin pure and simple. Volume at a certain point ceases to clarify and begins merely to loudly obscure. Such was the case this day, wherein all that was uttered by the little thespians was turned to an ear-piercing quacking sound, which itself was further obfuscated by the raised voices of all the proud mothers who had soon tired of the tedious program and turned to one another for endless gossip and gab.
I couldn’t hear the title of the next play, but I think it might have been Titus Andronicus. Either that or Alice in Wonderland. I can almost swear that at one point I heard one of the tykes exclaim “These words are razors to my wounded heart!”, but then later on I found myself fairly convinced that another had said “Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!” Ultimately this theatrical selection wrapped up with a dance performance to the tuneful, albeit rather pointless lyrics of Dynamite, by Taio Cruz.
Three hours into the 90 minute program I wake with a start and push myself straight in my chair. I‘m hot, sore, diaphoretic, short of breath, and I swear privately to every god I can think of that I will never again attend one of these functions, even if I have to drink poison. Blaring across the stage is what appears to be a deadly battle between Egyptian-looking soldiers with Jell-O moulds on their heads. Martial trumpets and drums stab to the inner ear while countless children die horribly on the points of wooden spears, and are afterwards ministered to by long-haired girls in flowing white dresses. Which is something I found rather touching.
At last count, as far as I had been aware, there were six grades in my son’s school; and yet it seems clear that six or seven had been added on top of these, for as soon as one set of children marched off the stage, another set marched on, with no end in sight. I see the three bears, Rapunzel, Red Riding Hood, Hanzel and Gretel, witches and magicians, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. How much of this was real and how much the stuff of troubled dream, I cannot say. All I know is that at some point a kind member of the exiting audience woke me, and that I was able at long last to rise to my feet and to utter my own heroic, well practiced line:
“Free at last, free at last. I thank God I’m free at last.”
Take my wife for instance (noting that I resist the Rodney Dangerfield punch line). She cannot possibly attend the play because she works. Overtime, if necessary. Feigning painful disappointment, she tells the boy that she cannot come, but assures him that Dad will be there -- which is a thing meant not so much for his consumption as for mine.
This season’s dramatic offering involves a presentation of favourite fairy tales and fantasies, and my son’s class has chosen The Wizard of Oz. I know this in advance because he has mentioned just 22 hours before the rise of the curtain that he needs a Tin Man costume. From this alone one gleans an appreciation of the careful effort and preparation that go into these programs, along with a pretty sure estimation of what one has gotten oneself into.
So I spend the eve of the big show shopping for tin man stuff. A funnel for his hat, silver spray paint, long gloves to cover the arms, and so on. Try explaining these needs to shop clerks who speak not a word of English. Try explaining that you’re turning your son into a tin man.
On the big day I arrive at 9 a.m. sharp, for despite my preceding efforts to pin down the hour in which my son will actually be on stage, the teachers have stubbornly refused to divulge this information. If they have to sit through it, so do we. I am hoping of course that my son’s performance will be first in line, allowing an early escape, but suspect, given previous experience, that they will save the best for last. With resignation therefore, I insert myself between the white-bloused shoulders of two proud mothers in the second row to the last, where my heavy sighs and occasional snoring will be a nuisance to as few people as possible. Teachers in the meantime bustle officiously about, as grave as ushers at a joint session of Congress.
The first play involves the three pigs and the big bad wolf. I can’t really hear what the children are saying, but I know the story pretty well. For this reason I cannot help but wonder why a story that features three pigs and one wolf has nonetheless required the presence of fifty-two children on the stage. Why, moreover, is the wolf wearing orange pyjamas?
Auditory problems have been ironed out by the time the next skit starts by the introduction of five additional microphones turned to full volume. Now, it can be pretty generally agreed upon that no Indonesian should be given a microphone to begin with, but to give one to a child is a sin pure and simple. Volume at a certain point ceases to clarify and begins merely to loudly obscure. Such was the case this day, wherein all that was uttered by the little thespians was turned to an ear-piercing quacking sound, which itself was further obfuscated by the raised voices of all the proud mothers who had soon tired of the tedious program and turned to one another for endless gossip and gab.
I couldn’t hear the title of the next play, but I think it might have been Titus Andronicus. Either that or Alice in Wonderland. I can almost swear that at one point I heard one of the tykes exclaim “These words are razors to my wounded heart!”, but then later on I found myself fairly convinced that another had said “Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!” Ultimately this theatrical selection wrapped up with a dance performance to the tuneful, albeit rather pointless lyrics of Dynamite, by Taio Cruz.
Three hours into the 90 minute program I wake with a start and push myself straight in my chair. I‘m hot, sore, diaphoretic, short of breath, and I swear privately to every god I can think of that I will never again attend one of these functions, even if I have to drink poison. Blaring across the stage is what appears to be a deadly battle between Egyptian-looking soldiers with Jell-O moulds on their heads. Martial trumpets and drums stab to the inner ear while countless children die horribly on the points of wooden spears, and are afterwards ministered to by long-haired girls in flowing white dresses. Which is something I found rather touching.
At last count, as far as I had been aware, there were six grades in my son’s school; and yet it seems clear that six or seven had been added on top of these, for as soon as one set of children marched off the stage, another set marched on, with no end in sight. I see the three bears, Rapunzel, Red Riding Hood, Hanzel and Gretel, witches and magicians, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. How much of this was real and how much the stuff of troubled dream, I cannot say. All I know is that at some point a kind member of the exiting audience woke me, and that I was able at long last to rise to my feet and to utter my own heroic, well practiced line:
“Free at last, free at last. I thank God I’m free at last.”
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Who'll Stop the Rain?
My wife doesn’t like the rain. She finds it to be both wet and inconvenient. It is especially wet and inconvenient when ones only available mode of transportation is a motorbike. And I will concede that much. Clearly, having to drive a motorbike through Bali’s torrential rains -- or having to be conveyed upon the back of one, which is the situation in her case -- is distinctly less than pleasant. One might compare it to going through a carwash with the top down, or climbing into the bathtub fully dressed. I’ve purchased for her one of these long rain jackets of course, but even these do not completely protect the clothing and body from the effects of full submersion.
When I first came to Bali, two Februarys ago, I saw but little rain throughout the ensuing year, and surmised therefore that rainfall in Bali was rare and brief. I went swimming nearly every day in the sea, baked my exterior as brown as pumpernickel -- micro-waved really, for the effect was that swift -- and then dipped my body anon to the cooling surf, and on doing so emitted, I believe, a satisfied hiss as the water touched my superheated skin. I took dozens of photos, mostly of the sun, and sent these back home along with happy declarations to the effect that I had found, at long last, paradise.
Two years down the road it seems to have been raining since November 1, 2011, and I’m becoming damnably sick of the stuff. In order to appreciate the depth of my disenchantment it will be helpful for the reader to know that I was born and spent 55 years in the State of Oregon, well known for its rainy season of about 11-½ month’s duration. Native Oregonians, as the old saying goes, are born with webbed feet, like a duck’s. In fact, one of our University football teams is known as the Oregon Ducks. We are also known as the Beaver State, although any beavers that may have once existed there have long since been turned into hats and shawls. In any case, I had, when I came to Bali, fifty-five years of rain under my belt, which seemed more than ample for any one lifetime.
But what is my wife’s excuse? Indonesian by birth, she grew up in Jakarta, then worked in Bali, then moved to Arizona (a State which is hotter than all the islands of Indonesia put together), and experienced after that a mere eight years of immersion in the giant puddle otherwise known as the Pacific Northwest. What does she have to complain about? What are a mere eight years compared to fifty-five?
Ah, but complain she does. Maybe it’s because her years in Indonesia conditioned her toward the expectation that the sun ought sometimes to shine. Maybe it’s just because she’s a woman and therefore cannot help complaining. It occurs to me just now that my mother also complained about the rain -- and she surely should have known better, having endured it from the day of her birth in 1926.
Everybody talks about the weather, as Mark Twain observed, but nobody does anything about it.
And yet I feel this same expectation in myself. Just yesterday morning, for instance, when the time had come to drive my wife to work, it started to rain -- not just to sprinkle, mind you, but to piss down, in sheets, in blankets, in duvet covers. This is the habit of the weather in Bali. It has been carefully calibrated by the gods of the island to coincide with my wife’s coming and going.
As I waited for her in the driveway, I noted her to briefly poke her head out the doorway, and then pull it back again and disappear within. After a time I came to see what had become of her, and found her slumped dolefully upon the couch, feet hanging over the edge like a child’s.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Won’t you be late for work?”
“I can’t take this,” she answered. “Now I need to roll up my pants, or change to shorts. And what about my shoes? My shoes will get wet. One million rupiah, turned to garbage.”
“But I think it’s stopping now, Honey.” I returned to the porch, gazed beseechingly at the clouds. “I think we have a window here. Let’s go while we can, ya?”
Morosely, she mounted the bike and we started out, steering clear of puddles and lakes and streams and reservoirs.
By the time we reached the intersection with the Bypass, the rain had started again, and with renewed vigour at that. We stopped, opened the seat, and retrieved our rain jackets. She threw her helmet.
“What?” I said, running after the thing.
“I’m not happy,” she said.
“Well then . . . What?”
“Well then, DO SOMETHING!”
I considered suggesting she try tapping her heels together three times and saying “There’s no place like home,” but then thought better of it. There was really nothing to do but forge on, and so we did. In silence. Awful, dreadful, deafening silence.
Now the reason I’m telling you all this is to advertise my wife’s need of a car, along with our coincident lack of funding for the same. To that end, if there is anyone out there who wants to sell one cheaply, or better yet simply gift a car, please write to the e-mail below. Or simply park the thing in front of my house. The house I rent, I mean. I cannot, as I’ve said, offer money, but I am willing to trade my soul. It’s not a perfect soul, and has its share of dints and scrapes, but it’s still in usable condition.
When I first came to Bali, two Februarys ago, I saw but little rain throughout the ensuing year, and surmised therefore that rainfall in Bali was rare and brief. I went swimming nearly every day in the sea, baked my exterior as brown as pumpernickel -- micro-waved really, for the effect was that swift -- and then dipped my body anon to the cooling surf, and on doing so emitted, I believe, a satisfied hiss as the water touched my superheated skin. I took dozens of photos, mostly of the sun, and sent these back home along with happy declarations to the effect that I had found, at long last, paradise.
Two years down the road it seems to have been raining since November 1, 2011, and I’m becoming damnably sick of the stuff. In order to appreciate the depth of my disenchantment it will be helpful for the reader to know that I was born and spent 55 years in the State of Oregon, well known for its rainy season of about 11-½ month’s duration. Native Oregonians, as the old saying goes, are born with webbed feet, like a duck’s. In fact, one of our University football teams is known as the Oregon Ducks. We are also known as the Beaver State, although any beavers that may have once existed there have long since been turned into hats and shawls. In any case, I had, when I came to Bali, fifty-five years of rain under my belt, which seemed more than ample for any one lifetime.
But what is my wife’s excuse? Indonesian by birth, she grew up in Jakarta, then worked in Bali, then moved to Arizona (a State which is hotter than all the islands of Indonesia put together), and experienced after that a mere eight years of immersion in the giant puddle otherwise known as the Pacific Northwest. What does she have to complain about? What are a mere eight years compared to fifty-five?
Ah, but complain she does. Maybe it’s because her years in Indonesia conditioned her toward the expectation that the sun ought sometimes to shine. Maybe it’s just because she’s a woman and therefore cannot help complaining. It occurs to me just now that my mother also complained about the rain -- and she surely should have known better, having endured it from the day of her birth in 1926.
Everybody talks about the weather, as Mark Twain observed, but nobody does anything about it.
And yet I feel this same expectation in myself. Just yesterday morning, for instance, when the time had come to drive my wife to work, it started to rain -- not just to sprinkle, mind you, but to piss down, in sheets, in blankets, in duvet covers. This is the habit of the weather in Bali. It has been carefully calibrated by the gods of the island to coincide with my wife’s coming and going.
As I waited for her in the driveway, I noted her to briefly poke her head out the doorway, and then pull it back again and disappear within. After a time I came to see what had become of her, and found her slumped dolefully upon the couch, feet hanging over the edge like a child’s.
“What’s wrong?” I said. “Won’t you be late for work?”
“I can’t take this,” she answered. “Now I need to roll up my pants, or change to shorts. And what about my shoes? My shoes will get wet. One million rupiah, turned to garbage.”
“But I think it’s stopping now, Honey.” I returned to the porch, gazed beseechingly at the clouds. “I think we have a window here. Let’s go while we can, ya?”
Morosely, she mounted the bike and we started out, steering clear of puddles and lakes and streams and reservoirs.
By the time we reached the intersection with the Bypass, the rain had started again, and with renewed vigour at that. We stopped, opened the seat, and retrieved our rain jackets. She threw her helmet.
“What?” I said, running after the thing.
“I’m not happy,” she said.
“Well then . . . What?”
“Well then, DO SOMETHING!”
I considered suggesting she try tapping her heels together three times and saying “There’s no place like home,” but then thought better of it. There was really nothing to do but forge on, and so we did. In silence. Awful, dreadful, deafening silence.
Now the reason I’m telling you all this is to advertise my wife’s need of a car, along with our coincident lack of funding for the same. To that end, if there is anyone out there who wants to sell one cheaply, or better yet simply gift a car, please write to the e-mail below. Or simply park the thing in front of my house. The house I rent, I mean. I cannot, as I’ve said, offer money, but I am willing to trade my soul. It’s not a perfect soul, and has its share of dints and scrapes, but it’s still in usable condition.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Careful What You Wish For
“I like babies,” the waitress said. “I like them a lot. I want to have the baby but I don’t want to have the husband.”
I told her that I was sure somebody would be happy to oblige; and, as she was a comely young maid, I forwarded myself as a possible candidate.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I tried to explain my passing attempt at humour, but the more I explained it, the more inexplicable it became. This form of humour often fails to translate to the Indonesian sensibility. A friend of mine, an Englishman, once declared that the Indonesian people have no sense of humour at all. Of course that’s not true. They do have a sense of humour. It simply tends more toward the physical, as when someone falls off a ladder or slips in the mud. It’s a Jerry Lewis, Three Stooges, Chevy Chase sort of humour, and, providing that the victim is not seriously injured, these sorts of accidents are generally considered hilarious. But one does best to steer away from the understated style of jest, and most certainly so where some nuance of language is involved.
“Bercanda kok,” I said. “It’s just a joke.” I waved the thing away, pesky fly that it had become, and started over again. “Just have the baby then, and don’t bother with the husband.”
“But how can I have the baby without the husband?”
Hmm. This looked like another slippery slope, and we’d hardly gotten started. Was I to give a birds and bees lecture?
Happily, her next comments made this unnecessary.
“Here in Bali you must have the marriage. If you have the baby, you get the husband; and if you have the husband, you get the baby. Here in Bali is not like America. In America this is possible because everything is possible.”
“You don’t say! Well that’s good news indeed. I think I’ll go back.”
“When do you leave?”
Onward, onward.
Of course, the young woman is quite correct. In Bali the family unit remains at the centre of society and culture. It is the very hub of life, from which the entire network of daily existence extends. It is the glue that holds the world together, and the world itself a garment sewn whole with the thread of relationship and community. To transgress against the tried and true pattern must compromise the integrity of life and will surely bring consequences both instant and enduring.
And then we have America, where all things are possible, of both the sacred and profane. Sadly, she is quite right on that score as well. We’ve been there, done that, and have now no idea where we’ve arrived. Strangers in a strange land. It’s a confusion of existence that we like to call freedom.
And yet the parameters of morality by which I was formed are not unlike those which infuse the fabric of life in Bali, such that I find myself continually struck anew by the irony of having somehow come home. I return, as it were, from a shattered land to find old sureties reconstituted, and I find myself in many ways more comfortable in this foreign place than in that country of my birth which lies on the other side of the world.
I tell the waitress that America was once like Bali, but she doesn’t believe me. It spoils her dreams. In America there is snow, she says. And Hollywood, and Broadway, and Caesar’s Palace. In America everyone is rich, and because they are rich, they do as they like. They will not believe that I, an American, am not rich. I’ve tried to tell them many times, but they only laugh. I have said that I am as poor as the people themselves, but they will not believe. It spoils their dreams. You’ve just ordered a large Bintang, they will say. And so of course I am rich.
In America babies are had without men. They are had without husbands or fathers or families. Mama’s baby daddy, we say. And significant other. And birth parent. And surrogate donor. The very notion of family is subject to interpretation. We don’t let tradition or moralities, or even love in the common sense, get in the way.
Facetiousness seems suddenly not so funny. I care for the girl, her choices, her future, her family, her island, her country, her baby. I want to explain to this woman what we have learned and know. I want to tell her where we’ve come from and where we are. I want to tell her about the loneliness and despair that lies on the other side of rebellion. I want to warn her not to forget the father. But I cannot do so. My grasp of Indonesian falls far short of the task.
It seems she will have to find out for herself.
I told her that I was sure somebody would be happy to oblige; and, as she was a comely young maid, I forwarded myself as a possible candidate.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
I tried to explain my passing attempt at humour, but the more I explained it, the more inexplicable it became. This form of humour often fails to translate to the Indonesian sensibility. A friend of mine, an Englishman, once declared that the Indonesian people have no sense of humour at all. Of course that’s not true. They do have a sense of humour. It simply tends more toward the physical, as when someone falls off a ladder or slips in the mud. It’s a Jerry Lewis, Three Stooges, Chevy Chase sort of humour, and, providing that the victim is not seriously injured, these sorts of accidents are generally considered hilarious. But one does best to steer away from the understated style of jest, and most certainly so where some nuance of language is involved.
“Bercanda kok,” I said. “It’s just a joke.” I waved the thing away, pesky fly that it had become, and started over again. “Just have the baby then, and don’t bother with the husband.”
“But how can I have the baby without the husband?”
Hmm. This looked like another slippery slope, and we’d hardly gotten started. Was I to give a birds and bees lecture?
Happily, her next comments made this unnecessary.
“Here in Bali you must have the marriage. If you have the baby, you get the husband; and if you have the husband, you get the baby. Here in Bali is not like America. In America this is possible because everything is possible.”
“You don’t say! Well that’s good news indeed. I think I’ll go back.”
“When do you leave?”
Onward, onward.
Of course, the young woman is quite correct. In Bali the family unit remains at the centre of society and culture. It is the very hub of life, from which the entire network of daily existence extends. It is the glue that holds the world together, and the world itself a garment sewn whole with the thread of relationship and community. To transgress against the tried and true pattern must compromise the integrity of life and will surely bring consequences both instant and enduring.
And then we have America, where all things are possible, of both the sacred and profane. Sadly, she is quite right on that score as well. We’ve been there, done that, and have now no idea where we’ve arrived. Strangers in a strange land. It’s a confusion of existence that we like to call freedom.
And yet the parameters of morality by which I was formed are not unlike those which infuse the fabric of life in Bali, such that I find myself continually struck anew by the irony of having somehow come home. I return, as it were, from a shattered land to find old sureties reconstituted, and I find myself in many ways more comfortable in this foreign place than in that country of my birth which lies on the other side of the world.
I tell the waitress that America was once like Bali, but she doesn’t believe me. It spoils her dreams. In America there is snow, she says. And Hollywood, and Broadway, and Caesar’s Palace. In America everyone is rich, and because they are rich, they do as they like. They will not believe that I, an American, am not rich. I’ve tried to tell them many times, but they only laugh. I have said that I am as poor as the people themselves, but they will not believe. It spoils their dreams. You’ve just ordered a large Bintang, they will say. And so of course I am rich.
In America babies are had without men. They are had without husbands or fathers or families. Mama’s baby daddy, we say. And significant other. And birth parent. And surrogate donor. The very notion of family is subject to interpretation. We don’t let tradition or moralities, or even love in the common sense, get in the way.
Facetiousness seems suddenly not so funny. I care for the girl, her choices, her future, her family, her island, her country, her baby. I want to explain to this woman what we have learned and know. I want to tell her where we’ve come from and where we are. I want to tell her about the loneliness and despair that lies on the other side of rebellion. I want to warn her not to forget the father. But I cannot do so. My grasp of Indonesian falls far short of the task.
It seems she will have to find out for herself.
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