I grew up in a suburb of Vancouver, and after that I always seemed to live in cities. When I moved to Ubud, I became part of a small town for the first time. What a revelation; smile, and everyone smiles back. If you don’t have the right change at the shop, you can pay tomorrow. When a neighbour has a big ceremony, a basket of food often appears in my kitchen later. I send the basket back afterwards with a succulent papaya from my garden.
Singapore was never like this.
When I visited Canada last summer, my father and I took a walk early one morning. At first I thought it was just pleasantly quiet, then I began to realize it was much too quiet. No cars drove past. There wasn’t a person to be seen anywhere; no one was sitting on a porch, sipping coffee behind a kitchen window or pottering in the early morning gardens. And where were the children? When I was a kid we played outside from June until September, reluctantly reeled in by parents only to eat and sleep. This was spookily like walking through a deserted movie set, with no sign of life. Everyone is too busy, over-committed; even the kids today have tight schedules and hardly play outside any more.
I couldn’t help contrasting this with my early morning walks in Ubud. My compound is private and tranquil, but as soon as I pass through my gate into the little lane in front of my house I’m part of the warp and weft of the community. Busy dogs nose along the motorbike tracks, ignoring the indignant chickens. Pak Mangku’s wife calls a greeting on her way to the temple. At the warung on the corner the old Ibu is opening up for the day. She lifts her chin in greeting, then tidies the piles of produce and collects the coffee glasses from the night before. Parents are driving their children to the elementary school next door, 3 deep on the back of a motorbike. In the wantilan opposite the temple, a squadron of Balinese in white track suits practice Tai Chi. I wave, and they grin in unison as I pass.
I turn into the main road, already crowded by 7 in the morning. Bemos disgorge women on their way to market. The kaki lima boys are already comparing notes on the corner beside their steaming pots. The policeman at the market corner gives me a thumbs-up when I break into a trot. He’s been monitoring my fitness routine for months.
It really is a very small town. Saturday night finds the parking lot of Delta Supermarket jammed with motorcycles and cars. In the absence of a mall, this is the only place to hang out. It’s a wild scene. Courting couples, young guys and families cruise the aisles, check out the latest flavours in instant noodles and eye bizarre tamu groceries. By ten o’clock the town is tucked up for the night, apart from a few roadside vendors selling snacks by the light of hissing gas lamps. The sidewalks are punctuated by dusty, slumbering dogs.
The foreigners who choose to live here tend to be eccentric, creative and reclusive. I’m astonished by the range of skills in this small, loosely knit community. Whether you need a computer genius, psychologist, systems analyst, pattern maker, engineer, chef, early learning specialist, photographer, yoga teacher, fashion designer, graphic designer, business consultant or any kind of artist, there’s probably a world-class example living within a couple of kilometres. And when trouble strikes, they all come together to provide an instant platform of caring support. There’s not a lot of cash around, so services may be exchanged for jewellery, weavings, organic chickens or computer lessons.
In a big city, you throw things out when they break. In a small town, odds are that someone can fix that flashlight, juicer or desk lamp. Discard a torn skirt and it turns up a week later as a smart new shirt on your pembantu’s little boy.
My staff takes me to pray with them when they think it’s a good idea; so do some of my Western friends. Telephone numbers have six digits. If I don’t feel well, I examine my symptoms before deciding whether to go to a doctor, a balian, or have Wayan concoct a remedy from the garden. A few times a year I get a piece of mail, and the postman brings it right into the kitchen because he doesn’t recognize the function of my mailbox. I often drive past a smoldering corpse when I come home with the groceries. It’s all very interesting.
There is a downside to this charming lifestyle. After a few years here, a trip to Denpasar becomes downright unnerving. And one becomes alarmingly easy to amuse. I went to Dijon a while ago and after listening to my squeaks of excitement (“English muffins! Lamb chops!”) a jaded Sanurite enquired, “Are you from Ubud?”
As I sink ever deeper into bucolic contentment, I find I’m losing my big-city social skills. An old friend from Canada watched me de-tick one of the dogs at the dinner table recently and announced, “You know, you’re never going to be able to come back.” He was only half joking. I only half care.
