Pak Botak

Why is it that people here think baldness is so hilarious? I swear, whenever I go outside my house, I'm like as not to have someone shout "Pak Botak!" It's almost like being famous, like Brad Pitt or George Clooney. Usually I get this from a gang of boys, but sometimes from grown men as well. Just this morning, for instance, I was having a coffee at the nearby café, when two men on a motorbike passed by on the street and one of them shouted "Botak!" I'm surprised I was even that obvious from that distance, although I suppose maybe my head was gleaming like a beacon in the sunshine. Look at that! It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's someone with a bald head! My lucky stars! Can't wait to get home and tell my kids!

But I have hair. I really do. Some, at least. And so I'm determined now to grow it. That'll show 'em. No more Pak Botak in this neighborhood. Yes, I'm prepared to give up the fame. I'm sure that Mister Hair will be not nearly as amusing as Mr. Bald.

Toothless

A beggar just showed up at my door wanting money to replace her missing teeth. Ironic, that. She showed me hers, I showed her mine. Show and tell. I explained that if I had any extra money, I'd replace my own teeth, right? And, as a matter of fact, hers didn't look all that bad. But she was not impressed. Figured this was just a rich bule thing, I guess. A lifestyle choice of the wealthy and eccentric.

Just Another Nutcase

I read a little blurb yesterday on Facebook about a guy who had written a book 'proving' that Jesus had married Mary Magdalene, fathered three children and moved to France. I commented that marriage and family must have been difficult for someone who had been crucified, and moved on to more worthwhile news. Well, this morning I find that I have received a book-length reply from some woman explaining the 'factual details' of this story, which is not new, really, but about 30 y...ears old (something, in itself, that she seems unaware of). The story itself is not shocking, but merely silly. What's shocking is the length to which these sorts of 'conspiracy theorists' will go to dodge sound reasoning, the historical record, the rules of logic in order to achieve this core of refutation which, sadly, resides deep within the souls of those who are, truly, merely at the mercy of a psychiatric complex.

A Visit to the Dentist

I have long had problems with my teeth, such that, at this point in my years, there are not all that many left. Teeth, I mean; not years. Who can say about the latter? Some doctors say that dental problems are associated with the neurodegenerative effects of MS. Some say not. In any case, I have lived a lifetime of struggle with ... dentistry.

Most recently, one of my top teeth, an old root canal job, came out with a Snickers Bar, while a bottom tooth broke off at the gum-line, for no particular reason. So, it's off to Kasih Ibu and their department of advanced dental technology - on the second floor, just next to the out-of-service bathroom. The dentist is a pretty, young Balinese doctor (well, I guess she's a doctor), whom I have seen before. She speaks no English, but we make do.

First off, she replaces the dead root canal job with superglue. Although it was she who put this tooth back in its socket the last time it fell out, it does not seem, this time, to fit. But, eventually, she makes it do so.

"You have strange teeth", she says.

Yes, indeed.

And now it's the turn of the tooth that must be removed.

"If you want, you can just leave it," I tell her. "Tidak apa-apa, ya."

No can do. Akan infeksi. Must go.

So she sets to work. Her assistant brings out of tray of instruments that look like an assortment of screwdrivers, icepicks and pliers.

"Will this hurt?" I ask.

"A little," she smiles.

What does that mean, I wonder. It's a relative term, right. A little - like a bee
sting, or falling ten stories, or decapitation? Which 'little' do you mean?

But I'm ready. I'm relaxed. I wait for the Novocain administration.

Which does not come. There is no needle, no little poke, no numbing sensation. There is only the jab of the icepick as she sets to work.

There are problems from the outset. This tooth just does not want to budge. She pries, pushes, wrenches and pounds, but the tooth stands its ground. .

"Hm, ga mau, ga mau," she mutters, frowning, eyes gleaming. The matter is becoming personal.

She reaches for the largest screwdriver, leans close, white-knuckled, and says something near my ear. I'm not quite sure what she has said. She talks very quietly and quickly. As far as I can tell, she has either said that it's a nice day outside or that what she's about to do next is going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

Turns out to have been the latter.

Though she is prying and yanking at one tooth, it really feels as if the entire row of bottom teeth is going to pop off like a bottle cap, and leave my chin hanging in the air like the leftover strip of aluminum foil.

"Sakit?" she says.

"Yeah, a little," I gasp. And there's that relative term again.

And so she speaks close to my ear once more, wielding a claw-like metal object in her right hand. Again, I'm not sure what she has said, so quietly and quickly, Indonesian with a Balinese accent. I think she may have said, "You ain't seen nothin' yet, sucka."

After what seems hours of struggle - she grimly determined, I grimly clinging to sanity - the doctor triumphantly pulls the tooth free. I and my tooth, I think, are a milestone in her career. She admires what's left of the bloody thing at the end of her pliers, shows it to me, and then drops it into the metal basin, where it clatters like a silver bullet.

There is no tooth that can defeat this doctor. There is no tool that she will not employ.. This is the motto of Indonesian medicine. Just do it!

It's also the Nike motto, and that company has done pretty well for itself.

Here We Go Again

Once again (as seen in the Jakarta Post), Indonesia's game of six acknowledged religions rears its absurd, uncomely head. Every time this happens, I want to tear my hair out - and I would, if I had any hair to tear. Is there not one sensible person in the government who can explain this matter to the others? Sigh. Here goes again. You cannot have Islam or Christianity without Judaism. Neither of the latter two religions can have come into existence without the presence of the former. Therefore, you cannot recognize Islam and Christianity as religions without recognizing Judaism also. The God, events and people that these three religions share in common ORIGINATED in Judaism. That's where they came from. That's where Christianity and Islam got them. Okay? Do you see how dull-witted it is not to recognize the religion from which your own religion arose? If Judaism doesn't exist, then neither do Islam and Christianity - because, you see, you have removed the very foundation of their existence. And while we're at it, someone in government also needs to be told that Catholicism and Protestantism are not two separate religions. They are one. Namely, Christianity. You list them as two among your acknowledged six. How is it that a country can think of itself as a 'religious' country, and yet be ignorant of religion in general - and actually make a proclamation of that ignorance? Good grief. It's downright embarrassing. Honest to God ... if there is someone out there who can unravel this perfectly impossible contradiction, please enlighten me.

Evening

The woman in the kost behind our house is crying again and talking. Crying and talking. The invisible insects are making a singing, pulsating sound, like crickets, but i dont think they're crickets. The woman sobs and talks loudly between sobs. She is angry. Sometimes the man speaks. His tone is very quiet and seems either reassuring or apologetic. He doesnt want to make trouble. There is already trouble. For a moment he goes into the bathroom and begins to sing quietly, but then stops. The woman's voice follows him. Two little lizards chase each other across our kitchen counter. The insects sing. There are three pieces of clothing hanging on the line. A yellow shirt, a white bra and a pair of blue shorts. There's nothing else to look at. There is nothing else to hear. This happens two or three times a week. On the days the woman is not crying, she sings.

Renon Jam

Nearby my house in Renon, there is an intersection of two 2-lane streets, both of them often heavily travelled. When the hour of heaviest traffic arrives, lines of cars naturally form on each street, in both directions. So far, this is in line with predictable circumstances and, though unpleasant, not an insurmountable problem. Ah, but this is Bali, and these are Indonesian drivers, and there are no acknowledged nor enforced traffic conventions. And this is where the problem starts -- for, you see, those driving, or rather mis-driving the motorbikes decide that they don’t want to wait in line to get to the intersection, so they move forward and line up on either side of the cars. The motorbikes behind these motorbikes do the same, and so on, until you have motorbikes filling both lanes of traffic, as well as the sidewalks. Now, where is the oncoming traffic to go? There is no more street, you see. It is now a one-way street. At the same time, of course, the oncoming drivers have made the same decision, such that their street is now also a one-way street. You have arrived at a collision of two one-way streets. And from there on, it’s sheer chaos. And the strangest thing of all is this: everyone is smiling! Now, I admit that when I first came here to Bali, I found this sort of pandemonium mildly funny -- the way stupid things are always somehow mildly funny. But when stupidity becomes habitual, it’s no longer funny. It’s just … well, stupid.