East is east and west is west, and moving between the two
worlds can be downright dizzying at times.
My annual pilgrimage to the ancestral home takes place for
a few weeks just once a year, but the culture shock of being
in Canada requires advance planning. Each year I mentally
prepare myself for living in the west while my other, more
real life in Bali slips out of focus for a while.
I try to pass for normal in the city of my birth, but am constantly
betrayed by little things like not knowing how to get off
a bus or fill the car with gasoline. I look like any
ordinary Canadian on the outside. Under the shell is
a person who seldom leaves her small town in Indonesia where
the pace is slow and the choices few, and who likes it that
way.
After re-calibrating from jet lag, I wander out into the neighbourhood
I grew up in. I stand in line at Starbucks, fairly confident
that I can order a cup of coffee. After all, the
selections are clearly listed on a board on the wall.
I’m third in line. The woman at the counter places
her order. “A soy latte, half sweet, three quarters
froth, grande, to go.”
This seems outrageously persnickety to me, but the waitress
(pardon me, waitperson) calmly scrawls an arcane code on a
piece of paper and passes it to the operator of a complicated
stainless steel machine which gushes steam, hot milk and black
coffee.
I mentally review my order and rehearse it a couple of times
while the man in front of me steps up to the counter.
“Decaffeinated Cappuccino, Arabica berries plucked from
an east-facing mountain slope by an Ethiopian virgin at the
full of the moon, 25% camel milk, 75% goat milk -- Swiss goat
-- venti, 170 degrees, 1.5 centimetres of foam, to drink here,
black mug.”
Then it is my turn. The pierced and discreetly tattooed
waitperson turns her unblinking pale blue gaze at me and poises
her pencil.
“A tall Americano, please,” I order apologetically.
There is a long pause.
“Here or to go?” she asks sternly.
“Umm… here.”
“Is that all?” I am painfully aware that
I’m letting down the side, but don’t know enough
of the jargon to pass for a local. After quite a long
time I’m handed a mug of excellent coffee and then have
to decide between white sugar, raw sugar, brown sugar, stevia,
cocoa powder, vanilla powder, skim milk, semi-skim and half
and half, stirred with a recyclable plastic spoon or politically
correct fast-growing softwood stick. It is rather
daunting. In Ubud we can order fancy coffee too, but
our regular fare is plain kopi Bali with sludge at the bottom
of the cup. Hold the soy milk.
More decision exhaustion awaits me at the local Wal-Mart.
“Of course I rarely come here,” says my companion,
expertly steering me through the overloaded aisles.
The pet section is divided into aisles for cats and
for dogs. The latter features a wide selection of canine
tooth care kits including various brushes and pastes.
Next to this are the nail care kits with clippers and files,
then a choice of ear wipes, coat wipes, shampoos and conditioners,
toys, chews, snacks and a water bottle with a special spout
that attaches to a hiker’s belt and allows Fido to sip
-- sorry, re-hydrate -- along the mountain trail. There
are dizzying rows of leashes, collars and harnesses.
Around the corner is the dog food section, heavy on the big
sacks of dry crunchies (literally garbage rendered from road
kill and euthanized pets; see my 2004 column Dog Eat Dog at
www.baliadvertiser.biz).
Dogs here are uniformly well-behaved and very clean. Never
do they strain at their designer leashes or snap at innocent
bystanders. Their toenails are invariably
neatly clipped, and they never have bald bits or engage in
sexual activity on the sidewalk. After Bali, it’s
like being on a movie set.
The silence of the suburbs is uncanny.
Sitting in the garden surrounded by hundreds of other
houses, the only sound is the distant purr of a car. Where
are the thousands of people who must be living here too, and
why aren’t they making any noise? I think of my
little neighbourhood in Ubud and its constant dawn-to-dark
cacophony of life being lived, and feel a little lonely.
My 86 year old mother has broken her wrist while executing
a pirouette in the bathroom at midnight the week previously.
Although she is as full of beans as ever and moving only slightly
more slowly, we decide it would be wise to visit the Self
Care store in search of appropriate accessories. My father
snorts and refuses to accompany us. In the shop
my mother gleefully test-drives the toilet bumper seats while
my sister and I examine the walkers, canes, hip protectors,
grab bars and non-skid bath mats. I think of the old
ladies in Bali who have to negotiate a steep riverbank
when they want a bath, and wish I could share some of this
abundance with them.
I sleep around a good deal on these trips; visiting friends
and relations, I seldom spend more than two or three nights
in the same place. I’m ready to come home now,
to fast-forward through 15 times zones to the reality of my
simple life in Bali and my own bed. I’ve had enough
culture shock for this year.
E-mail: bali_cat7@yahoo.com
