The Daily Whine

I return to work tomorrow after my long leave. So in time-honored tradition, I try to squeeze in an entire season of the latest hit TV series into the last day of my vacation.

We heard plenty of good things about Heroes. But to be honest, the first episode underwhelmed us a bit. It was interesting but a little formulaic: been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

But the show grew on us, especially after Hiro started getting more air time. He’s hilarious, and I bet all the chicks dig him cause he’s adorably innocent. I reckon they could make the entire show about Hiro and pardner, and not suffer a loss in ratings.

So we got round to pondering what sort of super powers we’d like to have. This discussion isn’t new, of course; we’ve previously established that we’d kill to have the power to pick the right queues. But for the purposes of debate, we decided that we could only pick powers from the show — flying, time/space control, indestructability, precognition, wacko alter-egoism, phasing through walls, mind-reading, memory wipe, radiation, technopathy, and whatever it is that Pete the loser has (emulation? piracy? delusion?)

Time/space control is obviously a fantastic gift to have, especially if I were a stock picker. Being indestructable would allow me to live out my stuntman fantasy. And I’d love to be able to fly just to bypass airports and coach flights. But assuming I had to remain an ad-man and stick to my day job, I think phasing through barriers is the way to go. Fuck thinking outside the box; might as well just break out and live there.

Day 7: Nusa Dua

23^rd
January 2007, Amanusa (Nusa Dua)

The Amanusa is first and foremost a golf resort, the way the
Amankila is a beach hideaway and the Amandari is a village retreat. But it’s
right where the beach is, and where there’s a beach, there’s a pair of
honeymooners who can’t find it.

On the map, it’s real easy. You head out of the hotel and
you’re there. It’s an entirely different affair when you’re cycling without a
brain. I can understand if May got disoriented because she does space out a
lot. But I pride myself on knowing clever things like where the sun rises, so
it shames me to say we took 20 minutes to get to a beach that was just two
minutes away. The humiliation was complete when, on the return trip, the blokes
at the Beach Club showed us the way, and it was utterly obvious. Except that it
wasn’t.

 
***

 
Nusa Dua may not be the ‘real’ face of Bali (it’s an exclusive enclave of 5-star resorts on the southern tip of the
island), but nobody goes to Nusa Dua for culture and spirituality. If you’re on
Nusa Dua, you’re there for the luxury of escape (and the escape of luxury). And
boy do the chaps and ladies over at the Aman make sure you indulge in it.

Take their private beach, for example. There’s the beach,
and there’s the Aman Beach Club. Like the one at the Amankila, this one was
designed to provide privacy. Some of the resorts here share a stretch of fairly
densely-populated beach, with Caucasian tourists jostling for prime sunbathing real estate. Over at the Aman Beach Club, we saw only one other patron, and if there
were any more, we certainly didn’t hear them. There were eight private bale (little open-faced but sheltered
pavilions for resting in) spread across the beach, each separated by tasteful
shrub-bushes that also doubled as a clever disguise for showers. Each bale was equipped with comfortable
cushions, cold towels, sun-block lotion and icy refreshments.

And at 3 on the dot, a Beach Club representative swung by
with cones of home-made Wildberry and Honeycomb flavored ice-cream. After this,
there’s no way we can ever go back to East Coast Park.

The beach? It’s right next to the sea, stupid

Honeymoon, Day 6

22^nd
January 2007, Amanusa (Nusa Dua)

Saya sakit! It might have been the rainy weather, or it
might have been the long day we had yesterday. At any rate, I have been
sneezing and sniffling all day. What a bum time to get sick.

May calls me TFL – The Fucking Liability. This harks back to
when we visited Italy and I caught a nasty cold almost right at the onset and we missed the Christmas
and New Year parties because I wanted to tuck in early. (Like 5.30pm early – May).
In my defence, I did inherit my parents’ bleddy sinus problem.

On a side note, the whole time we were in Manggis, it had
been sunny. Which was great, since that was supposed to be the beach part of
our holiday. But odd, since it was still supposed to be the rainy season. Then
we got to Ubud, and before we could ask the front desk how the weather was, it
started to drizzle. And then pour. And pour. Same deal at Nusa Dua – hot and
dry right up till about 4 this afternoon. Right about the time we checked in. I
sense a pattern emerging.

The weather’s beginning to piss me off

Honeymoon, Day 5

21^st
January 2007, Amandari (Ubud)

We went trekking through the Ayung River valley this morning, and came upon a rope bridge spanning across some rapids
100 feet in the air. Uh-oh.

The funny thing is, May showed no apprehension. She walked
across steadily. She even turned around to pose for a pic for me. I, on the
other hand…

My klutz of a wife cannot navigate a gently sloping dirt
track without losing her footing, yet when walking across loosely-fastened
planks suspended high above certain death, she passes for a Bolshoi ballerina.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I flirted with religion when
crossing that bridge.

It’s not fair. It’s bad enough that May’s a natural under
water while I need to try very hard not to drown. Now I discover another thing
she’s better than me at. I’m running out of elements in which to regain parity.

Doesn’t look scary here, but wait till you’re halfway across

Honeymoon, Day 4

20^th January 2007, Amandari (Ubud)

Today I found out I married a fatalist. The verdant
countryside around Ubud inspired us to think about retirement in Bali, which led to a stunning confession from May: she
believes we are fated to end our days here.

A few years ago, at the early stages of our relationship, we
visited Bali (together with Fake May) with an
almost identical itinerary. (The trip was a watershed moment for us because we
realized we both enjoyed sambal as much as each other – the sambal, that is,
not each other). Then I came down to Jakarta to work. Then May joined me.

In the wacky world of May’s mind, this is confirmation that
a greater design is at work. We are in Jakarta to prepare for a life that will end by the beach somewhere near Candidasa or
Padangbai (personally, I’d prefer to settle down near Ubud, but I think we both
won’t deal well with the mozzies).

Strangely enough, I am inclined to agree with her.

Retirement Dream

Honeymoon, Day 3

19^th January 2007, Amankila (Manggis)

I have never seen so many mangy dogs. Ever. Bike through any
village in East Bali
and you’ll easily find
more mangy dogs than potholes, motor scooters and street signs put together.

I speak authoritatively on this matter. We biked through at
least four villages from Iseh to Sideman, and everywhere I looked, lo! Mangy
dog! Sleeping beside warung – mangy dog. Sticking head out of temple portal –
mangy dog. Digging up thrash heap – mangy dog. Lazily sprawled across
dirt track – mangy dog. Licking balls alongside stationary motor scooter – mangy
dog. Mangy dog with grandma. Mangy dog with kiddos. Mangy dog alone. Mangy dog with other mangy
dogs.

I read somewhere that the Balinese consider dogs to be
demons (Hindi tradition). They have a saying about how you never trust dogs
because they’re suspicious (substantiated by the fact that dogs are first on
the scene to wolf down any offerings left on the street). At the same time,
nearly every Balinese family keeps a dog as house security. Go figure.

Mangy Dog

Honeymoon, Day 2

18^th January 2007, Amankila (Manggis)

We are in love.

With each other, of course. But also with Bali.
It isn’t our first time here, but familiarity hasn’t bred contempt.

That has probably much more to do with this being a
honeymoon than anything else, but so far, all forces have conspired to make the
past two days blissfully memorable. The flight to Denpasar was smooth. The
journey to Manggis was unimpeded. The welcome at the hotel was pleasant. The
location’s panoramic vistas are nothing short of breathtaking. The service has
been exceptional. The experience, so far, has been divine.

We think to ourselves, this is heaven. This is what gods and
angels must feel like when they go about their ways in their resort spa in the
sky. An infinity pool that plunges into the azure sea. A private pool lined
with candles for post-dinner shenanigans. Carved wooden furniture and
coral-shell detailing fill the suite. A basket of fresh, colorful fruit at
arm’s reach. And seafood barely plucked from the sea for dinner.

And then we think to ourselves, it’s the resort, it’s the
rarified Aman experience, exclusive to those who exhale gold vapor, and the few
fools who would pay hard-earned wages to live for a few days like those who
exhale gold vapor. Us, for example.

But isn’t this what romance and marriage and relationships
and dead-end careers and soulless corporate whoring is all about? The
opportunity to live like gods for one week? Better yet if you get romantic
credit for it?

Sunrise over Infinity at the Amankila

Been 5 days. Not much change. We’re still living with our respective parents.

There was one Syrian, with his bicycle, in our town.
I didn’t know if he was a Syrian or an Assyrian.
When I asked him his race, about which Saroyan had written
that all that was left were seventy thousand Assyrians,
where were sixty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine?
he didn’t answer, but smiled at the length of our street.
His pupils flashed like the hot spokes of a chariot,
or the silver wires of his secondhand machine.
I should have asked him about the patterns of birds
migrating in Aramaic, or the correct
pronunciation of wrinkled rivers like "Tagus."
Assyria was far as the ancient world that was taught us,
but then, so was he, from his hot-skinned camels and tents.
I was young and direct and my tense
was the present; if I, in my ignorance,
had distorted time, it was less than some tyrant’s
indifference that altered his future.
He wore a white shirt. A black hat. His bicycle
had an iron basket in front. It moved through the mirage
of sugar-cane fields, crediting suits to the cutters.
Next, two more Syrians appeared. All three shared a store
behind which they slept. After that, there was
a sign with that name, so comical to us, of mythical
spade-bearded, anointed, and ringleted kings: ABDUL.
But to me there were still only seventy thousand
Assyrians, and all of them lived next door
in a hot dark room, muttering a language whose sound
had winged lions in it, and birds cut into a wall.
- Derek Walcott, Midsummer (LIII)

It’s almost ten years since I first came across Walcott. We had a bunch of poems to read for Plotz’s Poco Lit class, including Midsummer (LII), which was an amazing piece of writing that framed the mastery of the english language as a struggle for anticolonial identity. I immediately developed a crush on Walcott’s use of English. But it wasn’t till the following week, when I heard Plotz read aloud Midsummer (LIII) that I fell in love.

I naively but very sincerely believe Derek Walcott is the best user of the English language alive. This is clearly open to debate, but in my mind, nobody alive has a better flair with words.

It’s to my eternal regret that I never had the ability to rattle off my favourite poems on command. (Serena, on the other hand, is utterly amazing in this aspect; she can even remember whole chunks of paras from Faulkner!) This means I’ve never been able to demonstrate the beauty of Walcott’s poetry in conversation. Not that my friends would’ve been interested in the first place. Unless the words come with some radio-friendly beat, it’s not bleddy likely!

Having dove into an advertising career that has taken me further and further away from ivory towers (admittedly I’m still treading in convulated bullpie), it became inevitable that some things, I just left behind. Walcott’s poetry, for example.

Some times though, you stumble upon past loves. Some, you simply cannot take with you into marriage. This one, I yearn to reconnect with. Walcott will be coming with us to Bali.