The Return of the Bocah Nakal

It seems that the bocah nakal weren't using the villa wifi after all, as they are present in the parking bay just the same as ever, regardless of the password change. You see now, this is the unfairness set in motion when someone begins to make false accusations which have arisen entirely from his own presumptions and prejudices. He creates a convincing narrative which nonetheless ultimately collapses around its own paranoid core.

I suspect that these boys have chosen the villa parking bay as a cozy sort of personal clubhouse, its most alluring feature being no doubt that it is out of the sun--and believe me, finding a spot in the tropics that is out of the sun is a pretty difficult thing to do. 

One remembers being a boy himself by watching the neighborhood boys. As I watch, I remember lost things, things long since engulfed in the obscuring tide of time. I remember how my friends and I would choose out places that seemed somehow inviting and make them our own nooks, far from the madding crowd, so to speak--away from parents, away from the prying, uncertain world, away from rules and supervision. Our choice became whatever we might choose. It was the platoon HQ, it was the marshal's office, a time machine, a box canyon, a frontier post. I remember a spot in Oakland, California, an old brick fireplace in a little dip of the land in my great uncle's sprawling back yard. This was central headquarters of our international spy agency, the place to which we spies reported when we returned from our far flung foreign missions to the neighboring block. And again, I remember the unused driveway and garage of a neighborhood residence, a submerged sort of area that once served as a bay for loads of coal back when folks still used coal to heat their homes. Here we could hide from boys we did not want to play with, or from bullies known to be on the loose in the neighborhood, from the world's ears and eyes and unreasonable expectations. We could talk for  hours, play the most ridiculous sort of games, agree on extravagant plans of conquest, or discuss the intriguing and often inaccurate particulars of female anatomy. We could search the pages of the latest forbidden bodice ripper and read the best paragraphs over and over again, and then hide the scandalous volume under the cover of the coal chute before leaving. Whether in the city or the forest or at the seashore, we found such a place. There were countless such hideouts in our own seemingly countless years of youth. 

I suppose that present-day boys don't pretend so much as we did back then. Now their cellphones do the pretending for them, and they enter a pretend world that has been fashioned for them. Nonetheless, I think the basic pattern is the same. Home away from home means the very same thing now as it did when I was a boy. 

The Last of the Bocah Nakal

Well, the bocah nakal have pressed their luck too far, as I warned them would happen, though of course they chose not to listen. The villa management has now changed the wifi password, and so the boys have no more reason to hang around in the parking garage, where they were using the close proximity to get online, courtesy of the villa. Can't say that I'm sad to see them go. Unlike my little friend Viana, who always visited only briefly and always asked if she could enter, these boys spent most of the day in the garage and didn't really care to leave even when I asked them to leave. Their grave error, though, was to actually enter the villa itself late at night and hang out in the pool area out back. 

An interesting bit of information, however, has arisen from the incident. It seems that this is where the boys got the password. Apparently it had been written down on a calendar or notepad back there. This was a welcome bit of information for me, proving as it does that it was not I who gave them the password (my word on the matter having apparently been insufficient). Nor did I give it to Viana, who in any case has been many miles away in Kerangasem for the last month and could not have been using the wifi even if she had the password. 

All young folks have a cellphone here (hape they call it). Few have the wherewithal to get online. 

Unwelcome Companions

I was sitting out on my porch yesterday evening, just after dark, when suddenly a rat (yes, a rat) came strolling out from behind my chair and between my feet, not in any particular hurry at all. 

"Whoa! Hold on there, buster. What the hell?"

He looks to the right, he looks to the left, he looks up. 

"Oh, sorry, I didn't see you there." Still in no particular hurry. 

"You didn't see two giant feet about three times your size?" 

"Oh, are those feet?" he says skeptically. "I thought they were potatoes."

And with this, he walks on, still in no hurry. 

What's become of rats nowadays? It's outrageous!

This reminds me of a time when I was eating at an restaurant down in Sanur with my friend Adam. As soon as our food emerged from the kitchen, rats emerged from the bushes and street gutter. And these were big rats, nearly as big as cats. Certainly much bigger than potatoes. They were also bold rats, arrogant rats, much like the rat of this evening. They literally strolled about freely, unperturbed, mere inches from our feet. 

Adam was quite vocal in his horror and indignation. 

"What is this? Rats? You can't have rats in a restaurant. Someone ought to do something about this. Someone ought to complain. In fact, I'm going to complain right now. Mbak! Mbak! Ada tikus di sini! Dua, tiga, empat tikus. Tikus besar!"

The waitress dutifully appears and scrutinizes the rats. 

"Iya, Tuan," she says. "Sudah tahu."

As in So?

"I can't eat with rats!" 

"Do you want to order something else?"

"I didn't order rats in the first place!"

Well, that was the end of dinner. How can one eat with rats? Like children, they no longer know their bounds. 

Poor Takut

I think Takut the dog may have the dreaded Bali dog skin disease. I note this morning telltale signs where the skin has been exposed on his face and around his left eye. 

Poor Takut.

I thought at first, upon seeing little marks on his head and snout, that these were the scars of nightly dog fights, but what I'm seeing now is more extensive and not likely to be bite or scratch marks. 

Poor Takut. 

Now, I know that people will say I ought to take  him to the doctor, but, to quote my own oft uttered phrase, It's not my dog! Lol. 

Moreover, all that I have as means of transport is my scooter. One sees many people here transporting willing dogs on a scooter, but 1) I've never attempted this before and would not feel safe (I mean really, I don't feel quite safe on my own), and 2) I doubt that Takut would be willing. He is a wild, non-domesticated dog and is not given to taking instructions or obeying any command other than "Open your mouth for this piece of chicken." And, of course, that doesn't really require a demand. He sees chicken, he opens his mouth. 

And moreover again, I have been spending money hand over fist for my own medical difficulties and in fact I'm avoiding seeing a skin doctor at present because I just don't have the money. 

So … 

Poor Takut. 

Just Me and Takut

I guess I have gotten so accostumed to living in very small places over the last eight years that the villa I live in, now pretty much unoccupied but for me, seems vast indeed. Not that I'm complaining. 

The villa is set up to accommodate at least seven people, having five small rooms and two large rooms plus the generous patio and pool area out back. More often, I assume, the large 'family' rooms are intended to house … well, families. As things now stand, only only one other person lives here, an Indonesian girl who works from dawn to dusk and is only otherwise here only at night and, sometimes, on the weekends.  

Of course, Takut the dog generally resides in the patio area--actually under the patio area when he is not residing in my room. 

Talk about solitude!

At present, the pool pump is broken, but I understand that it is to be fixed by this weekend, at which time I may return to a pastime of having a  morning swim. For that matter, I am writing this entry out on the back patio, accompanied by Takut, who is sitting nearby and staring at me. 

Of course, renting a seven dwelling villa to only one or two people is surely not a very lucrative business practice, so who knows? The owners may eventually just throw up their hands and close the place!

Gastritis

I remember having gastritis in America--an ulcer, actually--somewhere in the later 90s, but it was different than what I have now, and preferable in my opinion, though of course not pleasant. The former version was associated with an empty sort of pain, like a hole in my stomach. I remember leaning up against the car and sort of pressing my stomach into the hood to try to relieve the ache. The type that I have now comes with no pain, really, but with a sick feeling in the throat, a sort of swollen sensation that makes one want to swallow all the time, which itself makes one nauseous eventually. With the former version, coffee, for instance, didn't bother me; with this version, I can no longer drink coffee, as it instantly produces a sensation of sandiness in my through and mouth, and pretty much anything I eat makes me feel like there's something stuck in my throat, a persistent, annoying sensation, and one that is not easy to sleep with. Gak. As with so many ailments, gastritis appears to be associated with gastritis (along with many other causes).  MS seems to have a new surprise for me every day--payback, I guess, for having spent so many years with mild symptoms only. 

Freedom

An oppressive spirit has now been lifted from the villa. It is as if the air itself has been freshened, like a heavy, noxious mist has risen and vanished in the breeze. I could actually feel the freedom when I awoke this morning. There is, of course, still the cranky lady whom I have never met and who never comes out of her room, but she's not much of a problem really. Apparently, she and her husband rarely show up, and when they do, it is only for a stopover on their way to some other locale. In fact, if not for this lady's occasional complaints on the community message board, I would have no proof that she even exists. Takut the dog also feels much more at ease, as the only people remaining who are likely to chase him away are the caretakers, and since there are basically only two people now in the entire villa, the caretakers themselves rarely show up.