There's a roof now on my house-to-be. It is a very high roof, for some reason, although the ceiling will not be nearly as high as the roof. I asked Louis why the roof is so high, whether there was some structural or architectural point to this. She said, "I don't know -- because it's expensive?" This did not exactly answer my question. Anyway, with a roof, the house begins to look actually like a house. Within the structure, the water pipes are being installed, and the electrical outlets. The internal organs, you might say. Still difficult to imagine the finished product, but it's interesting to watch.
The entire street, which used to be a field, is transformed, wall by wall, door by door, roof by roof. What was an open area, flat and grassy and full of flowers, becomes now a crowded little neighborhood, each dwelling rubbing shoulders with the next. I hear that a worker fell off one of the roofs yesterday and had to have stitches.
The workers are all from Java and Sumba, which is usual in Bali. Balinese do not do heavy work. Some of the workers bring their wives and all of them live during the building period in the dwellings they are building. I'm told that my bathroom-to-be is presently serving as a little house for a young couple.
Some sort of argument (or discussion, anyway) ensues between Louis and the contractors, so I distance myself, stroll along the dirt road, and decide to play a bit of baseball using my cane as a bat and a rock as the ball. It's something I used to do quite often in younger years, but now it seems that I cannot hit the rock to save my life. I toss the rock in the air, take a mighty swing, and miss every time. Finally, I lose my balance in the effort and nearly fall. I note that a couple of the workers are laughing. A young man and a very old man. The old man is wearing a little Muslim cap and sporting a smile nearly devoid of teeth. Rather like mine. I smile, too, and laugh.
"Pak," I say to the younger man, "mau coba?" (Do you want to try?)
He declines, but the old man eagerly steps forward and reaches for my bat (or rather my cane). He tosses a rock in the air, takes a swing, and knocks the thing out of the ballpark!
"Mantap!" I exclaim. Great!
The old man looks for another rock, smashes this one into the stands as well.
So we get to chatting. He is from Java, from Banyuwangi, and declares so with immense pride, flashing a delightful smile consisting of two yellow teeth. "Buys-ball!" he says. "I know buys-ball!"
As we chat, I notice two of the workers, baked nearly black by days of labor under the beating sun, carrying brownish towels down to the nearby drainage ditch, where they bathe in the brown water, then emerge, glistening, and don the same clothing they had just taken off.
These are among the poorest of people I've ever seen; and also, I think, the happiest.
The entire street, which used to be a field, is transformed, wall by wall, door by door, roof by roof. What was an open area, flat and grassy and full of flowers, becomes now a crowded little neighborhood, each dwelling rubbing shoulders with the next. I hear that a worker fell off one of the roofs yesterday and had to have stitches.
The workers are all from Java and Sumba, which is usual in Bali. Balinese do not do heavy work. Some of the workers bring their wives and all of them live during the building period in the dwellings they are building. I'm told that my bathroom-to-be is presently serving as a little house for a young couple.
Some sort of argument (or discussion, anyway) ensues between Louis and the contractors, so I distance myself, stroll along the dirt road, and decide to play a bit of baseball using my cane as a bat and a rock as the ball. It's something I used to do quite often in younger years, but now it seems that I cannot hit the rock to save my life. I toss the rock in the air, take a mighty swing, and miss every time. Finally, I lose my balance in the effort and nearly fall. I note that a couple of the workers are laughing. A young man and a very old man. The old man is wearing a little Muslim cap and sporting a smile nearly devoid of teeth. Rather like mine. I smile, too, and laugh.
"Pak," I say to the younger man, "mau coba?" (Do you want to try?)
He declines, but the old man eagerly steps forward and reaches for my bat (or rather my cane). He tosses a rock in the air, takes a swing, and knocks the thing out of the ballpark!
"Mantap!" I exclaim. Great!
The old man looks for another rock, smashes this one into the stands as well.
So we get to chatting. He is from Java, from Banyuwangi, and declares so with immense pride, flashing a delightful smile consisting of two yellow teeth. "Buys-ball!" he says. "I know buys-ball!"
As we chat, I notice two of the workers, baked nearly black by days of labor under the beating sun, carrying brownish towels down to the nearby drainage ditch, where they bathe in the brown water, then emerge, glistening, and don the same clothing they had just taken off.
These are among the poorest of people I've ever seen; and also, I think, the happiest.
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