Today we finally managed to secure a house for a year. Three hundred billion trillion rupiah, which breaks down to about three hundred American dollars a month. So that’s good. . Bagus. Can afford.
House is three stories, open kitchen on the roof (Bali style). This is in downtown Denpassar, which was frankly not our first choice of location, but will do while we invest in building our own maybe a year or two down the road. Short drive anyway up to Sanur and the beach.
Also purchased a scooter and am trying to learn to drive the damn thing. Have not so far fallen off, but have only been up and down the driveway to our home stay.
Also got the boy into school (to start March 1st). His school is directly across the street from our house in Denpassar, about which he is very happy indeed, as it means he will not have to be taken there on my scooter. Apparently he has no wish to die young, or even to be seriously injured.
It appears also that my wife has signed me up to teach conversational English to various Indonesians here. I had already 15 students before I even knew I had a job. Oh well, gotta keep us retired blokes busy.
At last it has just now begun to rain. Throughout the day it has been muggy as hell and one just knew the skies had to break at some point or simply implode and swallow the world up whole.
Visits
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Silent Shrew and the Starving Child
Today my wife is angry at me. I am not sure exactly why. It could be any number of things, but must remain a mystery until she decides to speak again. She has refused to speak since about 2 in the morning, this now being 9:22 a.m. the next day. If she has a question, request, or demand, she communicates through Sasha. I in turn have decided not to eat until she speaks. We are a childish couple, you see. This tactic so far has had no effect on her silence, although it has made me very hungry.
I think we are to move out of our hotel today, but of course I don't know so for sure. Perhaps the move will be accomplished while I am out shopping, and I will find myself suddenly in the role of a street person, lugging my laptop up and down the beach, rummaging through garbage cans, bumming cigarettes. The big Kahuna.
It's another new life.
Yesterday Sasha and I walked down to Sanur beach and waded about. It's a rocky sort of beach with very shallow water, 3 feet at most, which made swimming quite the challenge. I had fun, but Sasha hated the place with a passion and insists he will never again set foot thereon.
Bought the wide brimmed hat I have been coveting and got a bollocking (Victor-the-Brit speak for cussing out) for spending 250 thousand rupiah on the same, but I like it nonetheless and my head is enjoying its presence immensely.
My body soaks up Bali like a perfumed balm, frankincense and myrrh. The jar of sweet oil is broken and lavished upon my feet, a treasure which might have fed the poor, and the purse is emptied--not 30 pieces but 30 million. I feel the guilt of extravagance, the guilt of money, the guilt of white skin, the guilt of all the riches of the Western World.
The taxi cab driver hales from the street, he tries to drive alongside, oblivious to the horns of the scooters and cars--Taxi, Mister--Where you need--Taxi ya, Mister, cheap, cheap. Another man wants to rent out his motorcycle, Cheap, murah, you enjoy. What do I need? Anything, everything--a shirt, a massage, a beer, a mango, a car, a bike, a chicken, a belt buckle, a statue, an authentic god of Bali. What do I need? They have it, they have it. Dan murah juga, murah sekali.
Everything is money, money is all--we must survive in order to struggle through another day, and sleep the lush nights dry.
I think we are to move out of our hotel today, but of course I don't know so for sure. Perhaps the move will be accomplished while I am out shopping, and I will find myself suddenly in the role of a street person, lugging my laptop up and down the beach, rummaging through garbage cans, bumming cigarettes. The big Kahuna.
It's another new life.
Yesterday Sasha and I walked down to Sanur beach and waded about. It's a rocky sort of beach with very shallow water, 3 feet at most, which made swimming quite the challenge. I had fun, but Sasha hated the place with a passion and insists he will never again set foot thereon.
Bought the wide brimmed hat I have been coveting and got a bollocking (Victor-the-Brit speak for cussing out) for spending 250 thousand rupiah on the same, but I like it nonetheless and my head is enjoying its presence immensely.
My body soaks up Bali like a perfumed balm, frankincense and myrrh. The jar of sweet oil is broken and lavished upon my feet, a treasure which might have fed the poor, and the purse is emptied--not 30 pieces but 30 million. I feel the guilt of extravagance, the guilt of money, the guilt of white skin, the guilt of all the riches of the Western World.
The taxi cab driver hales from the street, he tries to drive alongside, oblivious to the horns of the scooters and cars--Taxi, Mister--Where you need--Taxi ya, Mister, cheap, cheap. Another man wants to rent out his motorcycle, Cheap, murah, you enjoy. What do I need? Anything, everything--a shirt, a massage, a beer, a mango, a car, a bike, a chicken, a belt buckle, a statue, an authentic god of Bali. What do I need? They have it, they have it. Dan murah juga, murah sekali.
Everything is money, money is all--we must survive in order to struggle through another day, and sleep the lush nights dry.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Up For Another Breath
Denpassar, Bali, Indonesia
At last I find myself with a spare moment for blogging. So this will be my first entry, of many, hopefully, from the other side of the freakin' world.
Was talking to one of my wife's friends last night, a man about my age by the name Handono (or something like that), and he observed that when one retires, one should if at all possible do something completely different from what he was doing during his working years--completely change ones circumstances, location--introduce things that are totally new--a new climate, a new language, a new culture, fresh challenges. In this way we leave our old life behind just as surely as if we had gotten on a rocket ship and set out for another planet. You find a new life, simply bringing along your most favorite things from the old (your wife, for instance). You begin again and you grow. Your mind is active, your experience renewed.
To this I say amen. And I am so very glad that I made this choice--to retire early, to live a second life, to exchange the stress and struggle of the US for a slow life in the islands, where a pack of cigarettes costs a buck and 10 cents, where a meal for 4 costs 30 dollars altogether rather than 30 dollars apiece, where a 3 bedroom house can be had for $300 a month; a place where the sun shines every day, 365 days a year, where harmony prevails among races and religions, where the beach is always about a block or two away and warm as bath water--not a paradise, no (and more about that later), but a pleasant new world with its own challenges and potentials, a place to grow up in one more time, in the hope of becoming a child once again.
At last I find myself with a spare moment for blogging. So this will be my first entry, of many, hopefully, from the other side of the freakin' world.
Was talking to one of my wife's friends last night, a man about my age by the name Handono (or something like that), and he observed that when one retires, one should if at all possible do something completely different from what he was doing during his working years--completely change ones circumstances, location--introduce things that are totally new--a new climate, a new language, a new culture, fresh challenges. In this way we leave our old life behind just as surely as if we had gotten on a rocket ship and set out for another planet. You find a new life, simply bringing along your most favorite things from the old (your wife, for instance). You begin again and you grow. Your mind is active, your experience renewed.
To this I say amen. And I am so very glad that I made this choice--to retire early, to live a second life, to exchange the stress and struggle of the US for a slow life in the islands, where a pack of cigarettes costs a buck and 10 cents, where a meal for 4 costs 30 dollars altogether rather than 30 dollars apiece, where a 3 bedroom house can be had for $300 a month; a place where the sun shines every day, 365 days a year, where harmony prevails among races and religions, where the beach is always about a block or two away and warm as bath water--not a paradise, no (and more about that later), but a pleasant new world with its own challenges and potentials, a place to grow up in one more time, in the hope of becoming a child once again.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Moving Out
Just coming up for a swallow of air, and then back under the heap of all American habitation. Everything must go by Sunday morning, and yet it seems that the more we take out, the more appears. How has it happened that all this stuff has ended up in my house--enough stuff as it seems to fill five houses? How have I lived in this house for three years without noticing half this stuff I am now carrying out, load after load. How in fact have I managed to live in the house without constantly tripping over all the things I am now removing from bedrooms and hallways and laundry rooms and dens? It is curious, astounding, and most of all heavy.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Scambled Eggs
We forget in the sedateness of our advancing age the relentless passions of youth, how that all is yet undone, time yet a fluid which escapes around the edges and by nature seeks the cracks and flaws. We cannot live in concert without becoming, old for new, wise for callow, patient for perplexed. What we have become we must also bring back; or else keep the purchase of life--not by our will in the first place--from the ultimate beneficiary.
I am an egg falling
my abode a moment
all but eternal
I am an egg falling
my abode a moment
all but eternal
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Eternal Transition
I am now thinking, in a pretty conclusive way, that merely talking about moving to Bali might be much preferable to actually doing so. In the talk there is excitement and anticipation, and all sorts of other positive and quite harmless angles, whereas there is only sweat and stress in the doing.
Somehow our house must be totally vacated and swept clean by February 6th--and it appears to me at this point that this can only come about by a direct act of God. Where is the hurricane, where is the tornado, where is the earthquake when needed? I'll bet that if I were Moses, these things would be conveniently at hand.
In the meanwhile everything in Bali itself is at ready--the accommodations, the hotel, the house, the friends and the neighbors, the beds and the bed clothing. Lacking only is our presence.
Can it really be that I will find myself on a tropical beach within the next week, a world away from the congested wreck that now serves as my abode? No, it is surely still, and forever a dream.
Somehow our house must be totally vacated and swept clean by February 6th--and it appears to me at this point that this can only come about by a direct act of God. Where is the hurricane, where is the tornado, where is the earthquake when needed? I'll bet that if I were Moses, these things would be conveniently at hand.
In the meanwhile everything in Bali itself is at ready--the accommodations, the hotel, the house, the friends and the neighbors, the beds and the bed clothing. Lacking only is our presence.
Can it really be that I will find myself on a tropical beach within the next week, a world away from the congested wreck that now serves as my abode? No, it is surely still, and forever a dream.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
How Do You Say It In Dog Language?
It seems like I've been gone for a few days, although I cannot say exactly where. Getting ready for Bali, I suppose. I've said it before and I'll say it again--moving your life to the other side of the world is no easy task.
This, combined with continually waking up at 3 a.m. makes existence a bit disconnected, surreal. Foggy.
In an attempt to tie up loose ends before disappearing into the jungle, I contacted my younger step-daughter, Jamila. This ended up in the usual sort of e-mail comedy wherein her mother becomes the central figure in the issue. Our prospective relationship, you see, must not ever allow the mention of her mother's name. This is difficult, as the actual reason we even know each other stems from my relationship with her mother (lol). Jamila's mother, as it happens, is a vengeful, bitter, hateful, self absorbed Shrew who will not hesitate to taint the poor girl's mind when the subject is yours truly (note, the poor girl is 31 now, yet still quite taintable). I seek therefore to protect myself by employment of the snow white shield of truth and reason.
It turns out that truth and reason are also disallowed.
Moving on then. The day before yesterday our dogs were arrested and issued a warning ticket. As it happened, my wife, in the throes of one of her recurrent huffs, had left the house without closing the front gate. Forthwith, Smokey and Coco took advantage of the opportunity to explore the neighborhood, get acquainted with other dogs, and generally harass various innocent bypassers.
Coco, as was the story from the Multnomah County Animal Control officer, had attempted to bite an elderly woman on the ankle (thank God he has no teeth to speak of, right?), while Smokey, being very protective of the little dog, shouted rude insults at yet another passer-by as she tried to pick up Coco.
Well, very soon now both Coco and Smokey will be moving out anyway, as they cannot go with us to Bali.
Anyone want a Labrador? Chihuahua?
This, combined with continually waking up at 3 a.m. makes existence a bit disconnected, surreal. Foggy.
In an attempt to tie up loose ends before disappearing into the jungle, I contacted my younger step-daughter, Jamila. This ended up in the usual sort of e-mail comedy wherein her mother becomes the central figure in the issue. Our prospective relationship, you see, must not ever allow the mention of her mother's name. This is difficult, as the actual reason we even know each other stems from my relationship with her mother (lol). Jamila's mother, as it happens, is a vengeful, bitter, hateful, self absorbed Shrew who will not hesitate to taint the poor girl's mind when the subject is yours truly (note, the poor girl is 31 now, yet still quite taintable). I seek therefore to protect myself by employment of the snow white shield of truth and reason.
It turns out that truth and reason are also disallowed.
Moving on then. The day before yesterday our dogs were arrested and issued a warning ticket. As it happened, my wife, in the throes of one of her recurrent huffs, had left the house without closing the front gate. Forthwith, Smokey and Coco took advantage of the opportunity to explore the neighborhood, get acquainted with other dogs, and generally harass various innocent bypassers.
Coco, as was the story from the Multnomah County Animal Control officer, had attempted to bite an elderly woman on the ankle (thank God he has no teeth to speak of, right?), while Smokey, being very protective of the little dog, shouted rude insults at yet another passer-by as she tried to pick up Coco.
Well, very soon now both Coco and Smokey will be moving out anyway, as they cannot go with us to Bali.
Anyone want a Labrador? Chihuahua?
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