Ubud is laced together with small lanes meandering off from
narrow roads, apparently leading nowhere much. But whole villages
buzz with life just off the main streets.
The entrance to our lane is almost invisible, and a stranger
would never guess there was anything between Jalan Sukma and
the river. But Lorong Bedangin is a comprehensive little village
of about 50 family compounds, two schools, shops, homestays,
warungs, tailors and three modest bungalows belonging to foreign
women. In the mornings the lane is jammed with motorcycles
driven by teenagers on their way to school, dodging the elementary
school kids, mobile food wagons, ducks, chickens, dogs and
women coming home from the market. At noon the lane is impassable
as 600 children on foot, bicycles and motorbikes make their
way home. It’s usually blissfully quiet after that.
Women in pakaian adat walk up to the temple with their offerings,
holding toddlers by the hand and with the family dog ranging
ahead. At sunset, young men take their baby nieces for slow
joyrides up and down the lane on their motorcycles. When I
step out of my red gate, I’m often greeted by name.
But it has taken some recalibration for me to live here. I’m
still getting used to the different concept of boundaries,
real and perceived, and of privacy. Your space and my space.
Where I grew up in Canada, most of our big suburban front
gardens are unfenced to the street. Although back yards are
carefully enclosed, it’s considered somewhat unsociable
to fence the front. But no one would dream of resting on a
stranger’s unfenced lawn just because there was no barrier
to prevent it. In Ubud, family compounds are vigilantly walled
and usually accessible from the front through one small gate.
But that gate is usually open. Anyone with business with the
family or foreigners with impertinent questions about the
neighbourhood are free to wander in unannounced.
I built my house on a vacant piece of land that was separated
from the lane by a low wall. Pak Mangku, my landlord, formally
broke a narrow gap in it for me to step through the day I
came for the first land ceremony. Later, when I began to build,
the gap was enlarged to accommodate the trucks unloading sand
and bricks. When I finally moved into the house three months
later, the yard still looked like a building site and there
was a 3 metre hole in the wall. I woke up the first morning
under my own roof and looked out to see a small truck, nine
motorcycles and several bicycles parked in my yard. I was
bewildered. Couldn’t they see that this was a private
house? Well yes, shrugged Wayan Manis when she arrived. But
there was no wall, no gate. So when all the interlopers had
driven off we placed a slender bamboo pole across the gap.
That fragile barrier was enough – no one ever crossed
it again.
The garage was an afterthought. Out of money and ideas, I
walled off a corner of the garden open to the lane. With no
funds for a fancy roof, we used bamboo from the property and
the blue plastic tarp left behind by the workers. This lasted
for about a year until a high wind ripped it to shreds. Then
we upgraded to corrugated plastic and planted lots of flowering
vines. Soon the exterior walls and the roof were concealed
under a living canopy of lilac thunbergia, yellow alamanda,
pink antigonon and red passionflower. “And green snakes,”
added Nyoman helpfully.
I had intended the garage to shelter my little Jimny, the
staff motorcycle, a few sacks of composted duck manure and
a feather duster. But it soon became clear that I’d
generously provided the village with parking, recreational
and courting space.
The high school kids were convinced that my shady garage had
been constructed for their own personal convenience. It’s
taken years to establish my ownership. ‘JANGAN PARKIR
DISINI’ signs were ignored. I’d return from shopping
to find ten motorbikes parked there, or I would leave the
house to find several motorbikes parked in front of my car
so I couldn’t get out. Unparking a locked motorbike
is bloody difficult; Nyoman would wrestle them across the
lane and I’d write crisp little notes on labels and
stick them firmly over the ignition keyholes. One morning,
already late for a meeting, I found my car blocked in. Fed
up, I stormed down Lorong Bedangin, up the steps of the high
school, along the path and straight into the staff room, much
to the alarm of the teachers relaxing there. Politely requesting
their assistance, I returned to my garage like the Pied Piper
with half a dozen staff in train. As they wrestled the motorbikes
away in the hot sun I could see that the parking issue would
be high on the agenda at tomorrow’s assembly.
Privacy is at a premium in Balinese compounds, and after school
I sometimes find a young couple courting in the back of my
garage. They murmur quietly, heads bashfully tilted toward
each other as they clutch their textbooks, and spring apart
with guilty giggles when I appear.
The animals of the street appreciate the cool shelter of the
garage as well. Pak Mangku’s ducks frequently rest in
the dust under the car, quacking indignantly when I disturb
them and crossly waddling home in a row. Chickens roost on
the car roof and scratch around the tires. Dogs have been
known to have torrid affairs here. Once a year or so when
the temple at the corner has a ceremony, I’ll roll home
late to find my garage full of men gambling and smoking, none
too happy to be interrupted.
But five years on we’ve reached a balance, Lorong Bedangin
and I. The school kids grin at me as they park a careful distance
away. The village still buzzes around me but it acknowledges
my space. It’s rare to find anyone parked in my garage
these days. I’ve taken down the JANGAN PARKIR DISINI
sign. I don’t need it any more.
