My friends and family believe that living in Bali must be a dreamlike and restful existence in which I dedicate my mornings to creative projects and afternoons to perfecting the Art of the Nap. I receive grumpy emails from Canada in the depths of snowy January, describing my imagined day. According to these missives I am swinging in a hammock under a palm tree (some variations put this hammock on a beach), taking art lessons from a passionate Italian or writing the seminal novel on expat life in Bali beside my lotus pond. Alas, if only any of this was true….
Daybreak usually finds me at my computer. Even if I was not an early riser by nature, having an elementary school next door would ensure an advanced state of wakefulness. Before 0700 dozens of hyperactive children are screaming, banging desks and dancing on the wall that separates our compounds. They watch me make tea and comment on my morning dishabille. I greet them with mixed feelings (nice kids, wish the wall was higher) and water the young banana plants I’ve dug in along my side of the wall. In a few months there will a dense wall of green between us. Meanwhile, I wave goodbye to the kids and take my tea inside.
Until recently, dawn was also the signal for the children to sweep the previous day’s schoolyard litter, mostly plastic, into a heap against this same wall and set it alight, sending billows of toxic smoke into my living area. A visit to the school with my dictionary and an enduring smile terminated this practice. The enlightened teacher I talked to informed each class that burning plastic caused cancer and that henceforth plastic would be separated from the rest of the rubbish and collected in a plastic bag, supplied by me. Could it really be this easy? Well, no.
The strategy worked for several days, with neat bags of plastic waste appearing in my parking area. Then the system broke down and the children began dumping food wrappers, leaves, plastic bags and other rubbish behind my car. I went back to the school with Wayan, my trusty pembantu, in tow. I thought she was going to translate for me but instead she launched into a confident, detailed discourse on waste separation to which the teachers and children listened with respect. After working for me for a year she clearly knew her stuff. As we were leaving, a teacher asked Wayan what my work was. Without hesitation she replied "guru sampah". The children gazed at me, wide-eyed. They had never heard of such a thing. Neither had I.
The next morning at 0710, the bell at my gate began to clang. Peering out, I saw a forest of little legs in the gap under my garden gate. Soon I was standing in the middle of our small lorong surrounded by 20 tiny children, a teacher and the local priest’s son. As the only one out of uniform, I felt distinctly underdressed in my sarong. The teacher wanted me to explain again to the children what they were to do. Only clean plastic, and only in bags — no food, no leaves, no paper — just plastic, I told them. They nodded seriously and displayed all the rubbish they had picked up from the lorong, which had never been so clean. Feeling triumphant, I returned to my computer. Later that afternoon Wayan led me silently to the parking area, once again overflowing with unbagged garbage. Sigh. At least they’re not burning it…
By 0800 I am deeply involved in a complex project for which the deadline is rapidly approaching. According to my calendar, I have no commitments so I can concentrate on this for the whole day. At 0900 the phone rings. A client would like a press release by noon. Soon afterwards it rings again — a reminder from Bali Advertiser that my column is due (am I the only one that has to be politely reminded every 2 weeks? How shameful.) Then Wayan arrives for the day with her husband, who is building some drainage ditches for me. This subject consumes some time: should they be lined with brick? Batako? Concrete? River rocks? The drainage area is measured and calculations made. Brick is the material of choice. Nyoman begins digging.
I get back to work. A voice outside — a friend has dropped around to discuss the Rotary waste management project. We have coffee and talk trash. He leaves and I return to the computer where 37 new emails have appeared. One of them concerns the right kind of plants for my wastewater garden, currently several cubic metres of bare gravel until the water level rises. I panic — I’ve forgotten to measure this for some time, and rush out with a stick to burrow amid the stones. Wayan watches me calmly. "Belum selasai," she tells me. She must have interrogated the contractor.
Back to the computer. I write a press release. There’s a great squawking and barking outside as Kalypso remembers her job description and chases the neighbour’s chickens out of my vegetable patch. I rush out to make sure there have been no casualties. Once a panicked fowl ran into a tree and disabled itself, and had to spend the night on top of my computer monitor in a box (to keep it warm) until it felt well enough to rejoin the flock. Wayan arrived at work next morning to find me out and a note in my childish Indonesian which I hoped said, "There is a sick chicken, maybe dead, in the box on top of my computer. Please help." She really is a gem.
It was now noon and very little has been accomplished. Wayan brings me a cup of tea and a bowl of my favourite tempe manis. As I clatter away at the keyboard I hear Nyoman digging industriously outside the office window. The phone keeps ringing. More emails come in and have to be dealt with. Made, from whom I rent a car, comes by to tell me that the registration has expired and will take a few days to renew. Meanwhile I should try to avoid polisi. I explain that I always try to avoid polisi.
My printer runs out ink. On the way to the car I see that Nyoman has carved an eccentric line of curves into what is going to be the front garden one day, and has planted it densely with cuttings. Where did the plants come from, I wonder. From the school and the temple, he explains…. Nyoman has a lot of initiative and is a bit of a pirate on my behalf. I only hope Pak Mangku wasn’t watching.
Wayan comes in. She has been talking to one of the teachers next door and reports that they would be interested in discussing a waste management plan for the whole school. I decide that I will teach her to manage it, give her a raise and launch her on a new career as a waste management consultant. But then who would be my Major Domo and Neighbourhood Liaison Officer?
The bell at the gate tolls again. It’s the bricks for the drainage ditches, and a little army of women begins piling bricks in the yard. The high school down the lorong lets out and a hundred shiny new motorcycles roar by. It is late afternoon and I have accomplished about a third of what I’d hoped to. I have friends coming for dinner and no groceries. As I head up the lorong a group of little girls from the elementary school greet me with blinding smiles. "Selamat sore, Guru Sampah!" they chorus.
So, my friends in the frozen North, it’s not the way you think. No daily massage, no naps, no lotus pond. Just an ordinary day in a life made extraordinary by the privilege of becoming part of a small community in Bali.
