A Wonderful Life

Coming out of the Grand Lucky grocery store this morning, I was greeted by a violent downpour of rain, and so of course rather than swim over to my motorbike, I joined a line of smokers sheltering under the storefront roof. I found myself standing beside the same very tall man I had been standing behind in the grocery line. He was tall as well sitting down. 

"Would you like my seat?, he asked, starting to get up. 

" No, no, I'm fine."

(Gosh, how embarrassing it is to be so obviously old that a younger man offers his seat. But hey, I have my pride).

So I struck up a conversation. 

"What are you, about 6'5"?"

"6-6," he said. 

"Wow, that's tall."

"Yeah, especially here in Indonesia."

"Ha ha. Indeed." 

We exchanged a few common details after that. Where are you from? How long have you been here? And so on. As it turned out, the young man, maybe late twenties I figure, was from Syria.

"Well then you must be quite tall back home as well," I noted. 

"No,' he said. "I'm always the shortest one in any room." 

Holy cow! It's a nation of giants. Perhaps The offspring of the nephilim, who knows? 

Anyway, we continued our conversation about this and that, and it continued to rain, and eventually the conversation settled on how so many foreigners spend their time here complaining about everything. They complain about the traffic, they complain about the drivers, they complain about the culture and all of the ceremonies, they complain about the service, they complain that things are not the same as they are in their own countries. 

"They ought to be learning about the people, appreciating a different culture, respecting the traditions, opening themselves to other ways, he said. "Instead they complain."

Too true. I've seen this many times in my years here, even among foreign residents. Everything is better back home. Why then are they here? It's a puzzle. There are, as I told the young man, many foreigners here who just hang out in their own national groups, the French with the French, the Australians with the Australians, and so on. They don't learn the language, they don't join in the lifestyle. Their constant sport is simply complaining.

Well we moved on to how I had come to be here and to the various countries we had visited, including Japan, and also China, where he had studied language. He teaches language back in Syria. 

"How did you like Hong Kong?, he asked. "Did you get to see much of it while you were there." 

"I'm sure I did," I answered, "although it's not like I can remember much. I remember enjoying myself. But my girlfriend planned the whole thing, so we were back and forth and up and down and who knows where." 

"Your girlfriend from here?"

"Yes. Java."

At this he smiled approvingly. 

"You have a great life, Sir." 

The rain had now ceased, and the giant man offered his giant hand for me to shake. 

Folks, we are all the same. Most of us are just the same, wanting to connect, seeing one another as fellow human beings. The haters would like us to see things differently. They would like to pit us against one another with lies and fables and accusations, relying on a lack of actual knowledge and experience. But don't let the haters win. That's my Christmas message. We have so much more in common than they would like us to think. 

It is indeed a wonderful life.

Stormy Weather

We've had a week of stormy weather here in South Bali. Really fantastically stormy weather. I'm talking like end of days type storms, blinding lightning and deafening thunder, driving winds and slashing rains. Pretty exciting stuff, except for the dogs. The dogs do not find this exciting. They find it terrifying. And so, terrified, they showed up at my house - - shivering and shaking, wild-eyed, teeth chattering. Lol. They congregated in my house, finding individually a corner to hide in - - Otis at the back of the house between the wall and the bed, Jagger in his usual place beneath the drapes by the rear window, Loki in the bathroom. Even Puyuh showed up, which is unusual, because she is not generally in the habit of coming here, nor is she even very friendly with me. But this storm called for desperate measures, and Puyuh, a big yellow-furred, usually fearless female, rushed into the house just as wild-eyed and panicked as the others, and decided that her place was by the arm of my sofa, where my own arm was readily available for comforting her. I never much liked Puyuh beforehand, and she never much liked me, but I guess a good storm has a way of bringing folks together. 

A Final Word

All colors and blends of Americans have somewhat the same tendencies. It's a breed -- selected out by accident. And so we're overbrave and overfearful - - we are kind and cruel as children. We're overfriendly and at the same time frightened of strangers. We boast and are impressed. We're oversentimental and realistic. We are mundane and materialistic -- and do you know of any other nation that acts for ideals? We eat too much. We have no taste, no sense of proportion. We throw our energy about like waste. In the old lands they say of us that we go from barbarism to decadence without an intervening culture. 

--East of Eden, John Steinbeck 

It has been written that John Steinbeck considered East of Eden his crowning achievement, and in my mind he was quite right in thinking so, and I am so glad to have finally, after 71, nearly 72 years, to have gotten around reading it through.ll Then again, maybe I was not remiss or lazy in the past. Maybe this has been the proper time to read the book, because you have to be patient, you have to be focused, and you have to have, perhaps, some of the experience of life under your belt to fully digest and appreciate what is being said. 

Of course, it is hard to compare vastly dissimilar efforts in literature. East of Eden is one thing - - very long, sprawling, complex--while titles such as Cannery Row, Sweet Thursday, Of Mice and Men are as sharp and focused as one of Muhammad Ali's left jabs. I loved those brilliant short novels as well. But pressed to choose, I do conclude that East of Eden is Steinbeck's masterpiece. 

Sanitary Services

 The garbage collection system in Bali is something else. Not sure what to call it. What is it called in America? Sanitary Services? I don't remember. But here, even the word 'system' is wrong. What we have on my particular street is a guy who comes every once in a while on a motorbike with a large metal container attached to the back. By the time he shows up, the four large containers across the narrow street in front of my house have been filled to the brim and then additional garbage has been piled on the top of the containers. My container is the green one with the designation 14A painted on its face, but is liberally used by other nearby neighbors when their own containers have been filled. Being a single man who doesn't really eat very much or produce very much garbage, little of that which has accumulated in my container is actually mine. 

But I don't mean to complain, only to describe. What I want to talk about is what I witnessed the other day after the garbage man (the 'sanitary engineer'?) had finished his job. The area was left stinking after the various plastic bags had drooled on the pavement or altogether spilled out their unidentifiable innards, and of their own accord, the old folks from next door, whom we call Oma and Opa, gramma and grampa, showed up with brooms and dustpans and buckets of water to clean up and 'deodorize' the area. Just them, mind you, not the young folks. And not me either, I'll admit. And this inspired in me an appreciation for a work ethic that is gradually vanishing. 

In America, I think, everyone has their job, right? The garbage man has his job, the street cleaner has his job, the recycling service has its job. It is in no business of the individual house dweller, whose only business is to pay for these services. But there are no such services here in Bali, and so we have gramma and grampa. And I say, God bless them. This is the way they were raised, no doubt. Community itself is a community effort. 

I myself am asked to do nothing. I'm not sure why. In fact, it seems a specific desire in general that I do nothing. Do I appear weak and decrepit? Incompetent? Crippled? I remember one time when the neighborhood was forming a cooperative plan to dig the mud out of the drainage ditches by the road so that the road would stop flooding. Everyone must take part, they said in an online chat. Except Richard.

Who died and left me king? I can't help but wonder.

At the same time, I can't picture myself digging mud out of ditches. It's hard enough to dig myself out of bed in the morning. 

Is it because they feel that I, as a foreigner, have no share in the systematic shortcomings of their country? Is there an awareness that in America we have people who do these things? Is it simply because I am not one of them, that as a non-citizen, I do not bear responsibility? 

Similarly, I remember one time when I had ordered a new jug of water for my dispenser. This is done from Oma, who typically collects the money for the jug and then asks a maid to bring the jug to my door. But on this occasion the maid was not present and the next thing I knew poor old bent old gramma was struggling up the road carrying the container.

"Oh my goodness, Oma, what are you doing!" I said. "Don't carry that yourself. Wait for a helper." And I tried to take the container from her, but she would not yield. "No, no, it's nothing," she said.

And then just this morning, the man who brings the dogs their food (because the dogs are typically hanging out in my driveway in the morning), discovered, by stepping in it, that one of them had vomited during the night. He left the food and went off, but then straightaway returned with bucket of sand and gravel, which he spread over the vomit, then swept up for disposal. 

They are not his dogs. They are neighborhood dogs. They belong to us all. And yet somehow it was his job to clean up the vomit.

I don't have this work ethic folks. I never have had. I guess my dad knew that. I avoided doing jobs where possible, and did them poorly when they could not be avoided. Sorry about that, Dad. I must have disappointed you so many times, and yet you never said so. You merely went about doing what needed to be done.

And now, lucky, undeserving bastard that I am, I'm not even allowed to pitch in.

Not that I want to, honestly. I have people who do that.

Joy to the World

There is more of moroseness than of merriment to my holiday season nowadays. It is a remembrance of people and times that no longer exist, a sort of month-long funeral service. No carols are sung, no ornaments are hung, no wreaths of holly are nailed to the door and no twinkle lights are strung on the tree, for there is no tree. There is no Christmas feast and no roast beast, and no Who's down in Whoville to eat the beast. There are no brown paper packages tied up in string. It is not the most wonderful time of the year. But when all the tinsel is trimmed away, when all the colored lights are switched off and all the candle flames extinguished, and the candied yams and the leftover gravy and the remaining parts of the turkey and the dressing and the green beans and the pumpkin and the chess pies have been wrapped in foil and committed once for all to the freezer, what have we left? Perhaps, at last, Christmas itself, the Christ child, the light of the world, born in the dark of a manger. Let all the rest live in its time, and yet this one thing live forever. Tidings of great and solemn joy. 

Addendum

It seems that I forgot a couple things in my Japan trip post. Well, more than a couple things, I'm sure. My brain itself is on permanent vacation, incurably fried. I should have mentioned something more about Sapporo, for instance, but I really cannot remember how we got there from Asahikawa. Train, bus, both? Beats me. I have no recollection of it. Scotty may as well have just beamed me there. 

Anyway, we didn't see a whole lot of Sapporo, as we were there really less than 2 days. It does however leave a general impression of drabness. It is as if the city were manufactured in small parts in America and shipped over to Japan, then set up like Legos. There is nothing unique about it, nothing charming, nothing inventive or glimmering as one would see in a city like KL for instance. There's nothing that speaks at all of any difference between a city in Japan and a city in the American Midwest. It was cold, I do remember that. 

There was, now that I think of it, a Christmas market and lights display. The market consisted of a city block of temporary little stalls selling trinkets and ornaments and also various types of drink and food. I was experiencing, for some reason, a great desire for hot dogs, and so we went in search of these and found a number of hot dog stands. I chose the wrong one unfortunately. My hot dog did not look at all like the picture shown. Instead of a fat juicy hot dog what I got for my yen was a tough, scrawny little thing, more like a pepperoni stick, lost within a hot dog bun. So this was disappointing. I don't think the Japanese understand hot dogs. 

Another thing I forgot to mention is the Japanese fluffy pancakes, although these were in Asahikawa. Have you ever had Japanese fluffy pancakes? My goodness they are delicious. They are fat things, but not dense or chewy. They're fluffy like air, and they are served with maple syrup and whipped cream. We found two places while we were there that served fluffy pancakes (and upon returning to Bali, we visited the Icon Mall for more fluffy pancakes 😅. Now Evelyn is complaining that she is fat, although I do not believe that for a minute).

There is something else, by the way, that she reminded me to mention here. Typically, I have forgotten what it was. 

Back to Steinbeck

Then there was a man, smart as satan, who, lacking some perception of human dignity and knowing all too well every aspect of human weakness and wickedness, used his special knowledge to warp men, to buy men, to bribe and threaten and seduce until he found himself in a position of great power. He clothed his motives in the names of virtue, and I have wondered whether he ever knew that no gift will ever buy back a man's love when you have removed his self-love. A bribed man can only hate his briber. When this man died the nation rang with praise and, just beneath, a gladness that he was dead. 

I will say no more, for words are dangerous these days. But my aim is clear and the subject is obvious to those of good conscience. There are good people in this world, and there are bad people in this world. That is the core essential message in East of Eden. It has been so from the beginning, ever since Cain murdered his brother Abel, and we live with this struggle from each time to the next, each life to the next, each generation to the next, until judgment day comes. The good wonder whether they have done well enough, and know that they have not, while the evil simply die.