The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
Top of the Pops
THERE was a British television drama series once called The Singing Policeman. It was quite good, even if the plot was a little stretchy. Later the Australians produced a drama called Changi (about the WW2 prison camp, not the airport), in which a similarly cerebral flashback singing format was used. The script muddled the history, but the series was entertaining and occasionally tuneful.
Closer to home, we have the Singing President. SBY has done this before, of course. Perhaps our first directly elected president didn’t really want to be a general and would have preferred to strut about the boards at entertainment centres, amid all those Dangdut stars. No matter. What is important is that he has decided to become a serial offender, musically speaking. He has launched his third music album featuring 10 original songs.
Of course, politics is all about making a song and dance of things. We quite like the concept of one of the songs SBY has created this time, titled “Selamat Berjuang”. That’s “Good Luck with Your Struggle”. Maybe he sings it to himself in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning. He does have that presidential election coming up in July.
Flagging a Problem
SPEAKING of elections, it’s good to hear that the Bali chapter of the Association of Indonesian Tour and Travel Agents (ASITA) has called on the provincial government to beat back the littering of the island by the flood of posters, flags and billboards associated with the national legislative elections due in April. According to chapter chairman Al Purwa, these things are polluting Bali’s famed and tourist-attracting vistas with scant regard for their aesthetic impact.
He asks (good on you, Al!): “How is it that one person can place thousands of photographs all over the place? What for? If someone wants to campaign let them do so by sharing their opinion on how to repair Bali, not by putting up pictures that are unfriendly to the environment.” It seems tourists have made some sour comments about this uncontrolled blocking of the views they’ve come to see. Fair point.
Points for Frequent Flights of Fancy
YOU’VE got to hand it to the notional flag-carrier, Garuda. It says it expects a 30 per cent increase in profits this year with the launch of new domestic and international routes (not including its trumpeted return to Brisbane which it announced and then forgot about when it found its seats were unsellable because everyone was already flying Jetstar and Pacific Blue).
Its forecast is on the basis that the 18 new domestic and four new international routes it is starting up this year will help it towards a net profit of $US70 million (Rp765 billion, up from Rp589 billion last year). Garuda is also introducing 14 extra Boeing 737-800 aircraft to its fleet in 2009.
Obviously their notional planners aren’t taking the same market reading as other airlines around the globe, which are preparing for empty seats throughout their flying metal tubes and a virtual collapse of the high-end, high-price, business travel sector.
By the Lord Harry!
ASSORTED Bules of a liberal bent everywhere (Bule is a not-terribly-polite Indonesian word for someone of a naturally paler hue than is normally seen within the kampung) are said to be outraged over allegedly racist remarks by Prince Harry, third in line to the British throne.
Britain’s Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, says he thinks Prince Harry knows the comments – made in a private video recording three years ago when the Prince, then a cadet at Britain’s Sandhurst military college, was in post-training wind-down mode in Cyprus – are unacceptable. There’s an element of the mealy-mouth in that assessment, but after all, Gordon’s a pollie under some personal pressure at present. And he did add that the Prince’s apology when his lapse of judgment came to light was genuine and that in view of this and his service in Afghanistan (where your enemies use bullets, not words) he should be given the benefit of the doubt.
Harry, now an officer in the Household Cavalry, was shown in the video asking “Where’s our little Paki?” of a fellow cadet – now an officer in the Pakistani army and a popular high-flier while at Sandhurst – and telling another cadet that the camouflage scarf he was wearing made him look like a Raghead, a derogatory term for Arabs in modern Britain’s ugly patois, but a word British troops customarily apply to the Taliban who shoot at them in Afghanistan. Even worse, it seems, he was videoed making a spoof telephone call to his Gran back at Buckingham Palace in London. Now that really is too much. Everyone knows it’s impossible to get past the switchboard operators there, especially if you ring up pretending to be Prince Harry.
There’s no doubt the young Lieutenant Windsor was in grave error. The chump clean forgot that nowadays you cannot joke at all, lest someone (it’s rarely the person who is the subject of the jest) becomes offended. Perhaps he was reminded of this significant fact when he fronted his commanding officer, which he had to do recently because of the silly row that erupted when the video found its way to the yellow press and got the egg-beater treatment.
Incidentally, one of Prince Harry’s fiercest critics was a gentleman called Keith Vaz, chairman of the British parliament’s home affairs committee and frequently described – doubtless to his entire satisfaction – as one of the country’s most prominent Asian MPs. He attacked as out of touch those people who had defended the Prince. “You cannot use language like that even in jest,” he said. “[The Prince] is third in line to the throne of England, he is a role model.”
Mr Vaz, by definition and residual hue, is not an ignorant Bule. But he is nonetheless apparently deficient in the knowledge department. Being a prominent parliamentarian, he should know that the monarch he serves (we hope loyally) is Queen of the United Kingdom. England is one part of that historic union. Perhaps, though, we should give him the benefit of the doubt too. It may be that in an emollient effusion of limelight-induced enthusiasm he quite forgot himself. It happens.
There’s a Local Whine Too
IT’S interesting to see that local wines – as in table wines bottled and partly grown in Bali – are not immune to the spiralling price of alcoholic beverages in pre-election Indonesia. Hatten wines, produced here, used to retail for just over Rp60, 000 a bottle. Now you can pay up to Rp160, 000 (although the Diary found some in a Sanur wine shop the other day for Rp81, 000).
Some of what goes into these wines – they are quite decent really, especially on a cost comparative basis – has to be imported and paid for in US dollars. But we hadn’t noticed a 100 per cent rise in the dollar against the rupiah in recent times. There’s inflation to take into account, to be fair. And the ruinous duty on alcoholic products, now seemingly being paid rather than evaded. But at the same time, when we uncork this little bottle we catch a whiff of an opportunistic nose.
Smile Along with Dubya
FORMER U.S. President George W. Bush, now quietly back at home in Crawford, Texas – where we assume that, as promised, he is re-learning the art of making coffee for former First Lady Laura – had to put up with a lot during his eight years in office that ended on Jan. 20. He particularly enraged the commentariat – worldwide – by his steadfast refusal to accept that terrorists (of any stripe, but particularly Osama bin Laden’s 9/11 crowd) are, like Brian in that delightfully sacrilegious Monty Python film, just very naughty boys. Instead he held firmly to the antediluvian view that they are maniacal mass murderers. He was further condemned for consistently failing to accept that the West alone is responsible for all the world’s ills.
As he left office, the Israelis and Hamas were again proving that politics in the Middle East are just a little bit difficult. Very few of the world’s problems can be immediately solved by accepting the advice of the Ernests and Ernestines who fell whole forests to fill the pages of the New York Times, the Washington Post, and sundry other newspapers and journals in other liberal places with fulsome and often fatuous opinion. Or for that matter by Bono, who knew Frank Sinatra, as he told us in his New Year debut guest op-ed piece in the NYT.
The former President, however, while he made horrendous mistakes in office (and publicly accepts this, which alone is a breath of fresh air in modern politics), is saved as a man – and on balance as a historical figure, despite his hysterical record – by his ability to laugh at himself. Would that some of his perennially brow-furrowed critics could do the same.
Take his last media conference at the White House – it was on Jan. 12 – just for example. He told the assembled press corps that he proposed to find something quickly to get busy with when he left office (aside from making the coffee). “I just can’t envision myself, you know, with a big straw hat and Hawaiian shirt, sitting on some beach ... particularly since I quit drinking.”
The better points about GWB are consistently missed by his critics. Also absent is any real recognition that – whatever the rhetoric – 9/11 really did change the world. It was rather sad to see Boris Johnson, one of Britain’s more enterprising Tories, joining the “Dubya was Dumb” brigade for the poisoned valedictories. Boris, now Lord Mayor of London, is best known for his incautious habit of celebrity bonking and his deep appreciation of the tart – in all the senses of the word. It is always as well to examine the mote is one’s own eye before pointing out those in others'.
Hard-wired on Instant
COFFEE freaks (like The Diary) have been warned. Consuming the caffeine in seven cups of instant coffee a day leaves you more likely to see, hear and smell things that aren't there. This is according to British researchers who, as part of a study designed to examine nutrition as a factor in hallucinations, found that people who drink at least 330 milligrams of caffeine (a stimulant) a day are three times more likely to have see things than those on less than 10 milligrams a day. Disembodied voices – perhaps it’s the Editor, asking himself why he hasn’t got the column yet? – are said to be a feature of caffeine induced hallucination, as well as seeing things that aren’t there and sensing the presence of dead people.
Points for Originality
IN the Wall Street crash of 1929 failed or malfeasant tycoons jumped out of windows (well very few did in fact, but like many Hollywood inspired fictions it’s now accepted as fact). In 2009 they do it differently – or at least, one of them has tried to. A fellow called Marcus Schrenker, some sort of junior Bernie Madoff according to the American press, attempted a particularly spectacular getaway as his life of scheming and defrauding crumbled around him. He hatched the idea of faking his own death in a plane crash.
Flying from Indiana to Florida – that’s about the same as from Bali to Jakarta, just incidentally – he radioed a distress call from his single-engine plane, telling air traffic controllers a cockpit window had imploded leaving him bleeding profusely. He then put on a parachute and jumped from the plane at 750 metres. Waiting for him not far from where he landed in a desolate area was a prepositioned motor cycle.
Sadly for him this scam – like his other ones – turned sour. Military jets scrambled to intercept his plane in the hope of providing assistance to the injured pilot reported it empty with the cabin door open. The man without the golden parachute was nabbed by a local sheriff a day or so later.
It’s a Bugger, Isn’t It?
LEADING independent Australian economic analyst Chris Richardson, director of Access Economics, speaking on ABC National Radio on Australia’s immediate fate as a result of the global economic crisis, brought some typically forthright and coarse Aussie lingo to the debate when he said the Australian budget was “buggered”. He explained: “A lot of things are buggered because the global economy is in real trouble. Four years of boom has collapsed in four months of chaos.” We note Australian Treasurer (finance minister) Wayne Swan immediately disagreed with this assessment. He said while it was true the budget was headed for deficit, it wasn’t buggered. We’ll see. Perhaps it’s just upside down in the swamp with its wheels in the air?
A fortnightly diet of worms and other non-theological experiences
Friday, January 23, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
HECTOR'S BALI TIMES DIARY [for Jan. 16]
The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
Barry’s Big Day is an Indonesian Event
WHEN former Jakarta schoolboy Barack (Barry to his Indonesian school chums of yesteryear) Obama takes the oath of office as America’s President on Inauguration Day (Jan. 20), history will be made. He will become the first American President with a real live Indonesian connection. That makes the circus outside the Capitol Building a kind of step-Indonesian Event.
To some people, he’s the FAAP (First African American President). To others he’s the NAC! (Not Another Clinton!) and to most he’s the NTOG! (Not That Other Guy!). To himself, he is the First Mutt: a delightfully self-deprecating way of pointing out that he is of mixed race. Race seems to be so important to many people. Most sensible people – oh, OK, apparently that does seem to rule out around 99.9 per cent of the world’s population – think character is much more vital statistic.
Never mind. In Washington this coming Tuesday the historic occasion will be observed first hand by the husband and one of the cousins of Yana Trisulo, a niece of Obama’s step father-in-law, Lolo Soetoro. How close a connection is that? Yana was invited but cannot attend because her father is in poor health. Obama’s mother, Ann Dunham, moved to Indonesia and married Lolo after Barack’s dad fled the nest in Hawaii and returned to Kenya. She and Lolo had a daughter, Maya Soetoro-Ng.
The Indonesian interest doesn’t stop there. Actress Ayu Azhari will also attend the big show. It seems her husband, Mike Tramp of the American musical group White Lion, has ties with the people organising the Obama Occasion. Officially, Indonesia will be represented by Ambassador Sudjadnan Parnohadiningrat. Teams of American protocol people have been working on that name-tag and pronunciation.
Meanwhile, the real interface of Indonesian-American relations is potentially facing some strain because of the newsworthy – if highly impractical, profoundly unhelpful and irredeemably stupid – desire of several thousand Indonesians to rush off to Gaza to fight the Israelis and the not unconnected political need, locally, for leaders heading into next year’s national elections to flourish their Islamist credentials.
The deadly complexities of post-1948 Middle Eastern politics have ever since bedevilled the world. That history, briefly, has consisted of the Arabs scoring own goals and the Israelis moving the goal posts: the faults are fatal and ubiquitous on both sides. It’s hard to see any reason to provide Hamas, which has been busily screwing the Palestinians who have the misfortune to live in Gaza, with even more self-detonating bombers or rocketeers. Or how presenting the Israelis with yet more targets to justify their policy of aggression as self-defence is in any way a good idea. The Palestinian people, as always the meat in the sandwich, need practical help. They won’t get that from lengthening the already exhaustive list of convenient excuses the Israelis have concocted to justify disproportionate military action or from adding to the rollcall of Jihadist martyrs.
Chazza the Grabber Shows How it’s Done
THERE will be a mind-boggling oversupply of visual imagery about in Washington next week when Barack Obama becomes the 44th President of the United States. It’s just so important these days to get that body language right when you’re making a point.
Ahead of the game – and that’s definitely where The Diary likes to be – here’s a photo that caught our eye. It might be a dodgy photo. That’s as in a doctored one: we didn’t ask; we didn’t want to; it’s just too good to miss. Visually speaking, it has it all: clear intent; inclusive motion; evident enthusiasm; and its message is right on the button (or very nearly!). Britain’s Prince Charles tends to get a terrible press. But Chazza is an old pro at the PR game even if – speaking only ornithologically of course – he’s apt to make a tit of himself from time to time.
Do Drop in for a Big Pitch
THE Ramachandra development on the Bukit – the hilltop site near Balangan now cleared of both bush and wild dogs where the company proposes to build dream homes with sweeping views for the foreign moneyed classes – put on a big show in Kuala Lumpur on Jan. 14 and 15. It sent round an e-circular to its list of contacts suggesting that those who still have the spare dosh should consider a New Year resolution to take more holidays in Bali, preferably in “an affordable luxury home in one of the best international destinations in the world.”
We wouldn’t argue with that assessment of Bali’s charms and place in the world. And despite the fact that marketing success for Ramachandra could mean car-loads of Malaysians will add to the round-the-clock chaos at the Nirmala crossroads on the road to Pecatu and Uluwatu, it’s a development to be welcomed. Maybe one day the nutheads who some months back destroyed the development’s expensive promotional signpost on the Balangan road will think so too.
They’re LOHFE-ing Again
CONVENIENCE stores are meant to be convenient, right? They’re there to provide the passing trade with the kind of things people tend to run out of at inconvenient times: milk, biscuits and chocolate; and even cigarettes, if you can bear the stares of the Smokeless Ones. That’s at a handy little mark-up of course. Sadly, as The Diary has noted before, these are the very items that one is likely to find oneself putting on the LOHFE list – the List of Hard to Find Essentials.
Thus it was that a visit to the Circle K store on Jl Raya Uluwatu near GWK on the hill at Jimbaran was such a disappointment for a Diary spy the other day. UHT milk and Dunhill Blue were required. So sorry, no have. Apa problem? Shrug. Great service, guys.
Luckily for him, our spy wasn’t in there for anything else that might once have been on the nearly-empty shelves.
Ooh La Laarrgghh!
HERE’S American commentator David Rothkopf on the frighteningly unknown kinetic qualities of the American economic collapse: “This is a particularly worrisome scenario because whereas a friendly downturn, like a friendly can-can dancer, shows its bottom early, this has been a very unfriendly downturn. No one can honestly say they know where the bottom is. The problem is made worse by the fact that in one key respect, an unfriendly downturn is also like a can-can show, because before it is over it may show a lot of bottoms.”
Speaking of Bums
WELL if it’s OK for car makers, why not the porn industry? America’s princes of prurience, Hustler publisher Larry Flynt and Girls Gone Wild video series creator Joe Francis, have asked the new U.S. Congress for a bailout – to “rejuvenate the sexual appetite of America,” which they claim has been sagging of late. Francis said in a statement: “Congress seems willing to help shore up our nation’s most important businesses, and we feel we deserve the same consideration. In difficult economic times, Americans turn to entertainment for relief. More and more, the kind of entertainment they turn to is adult entertainment.” Flynt and Francis, who admit the US$13 billion a year filthy pictures and video industry is not totally pointing south, sought a US$5 billion bailout from lawmakers.
Yes, well. No need to guess what two-word response was going to meet that pitch. We’ve all heard of the Continental Congress that set the United States on the road to independence from Britain in the 18th century. But a Sexual Congress is unlikely. Libidinous lawmakers everywhere invariably assert, when caught in indelicate circumstances, that sex is a private business.
The Blair Which Project
ALL has been revealed. The reason Barack and Michelle couldn’t get rooms at Blair House, the official government guest house in Washington, until Jan. 15 – only five days out from that big bash where Barack gets to say the pro-forma words required of a president at his inauguration, the crowd gets to go wild, and then everyone gets down and grooves, was that the former Man of Steel, ex-Australian PM John Howard, was in town to collect a gong from Dubya. Apparently he had lost his notes, and thought he was the Man of Steal. It seems the White House, for some reason similarly forgetful of other priorities, invited the ex-Australian PM to check in at Blair House instead of at any one of the over-supply of super-plush hotels somewhere else in town. Howard did so of course, overlooking the inclement fact that in western democracies former leaders pack about as much throw-weight as kitty litter while being of marginally less utility.
The fatuous little row that then erupted, chiefly in Australia where all sorts of summer-season commentators leapt at the chance to aim another kick at the country’s No Longer Dear Leader, but also among the more rabid of America’s media mouths-for-hire, has been entertaining in a mindless way. Although this New Age habit of giving out gongs just for turning up for work is itself a little tiresome. The Diary proudly bears the post-nominal NG (No Gong).
Howard was one of three dear leaders (two former, one current) who lined up this week to get the Medal of Freedom from soon-to-be kitty-litter George W. Bush. His companions were that other forgotten war-gamer, Britain’s ex-PM Tony Blair – no prizes for guessing why he opted for a Washington hotel instead of the official guest house: it’s never a good idea to confuse the doorman – and Colombian President Alvaro Uribe Velez.
A Plague on Unromantic Scientists
LOVERS the world over will be saddened to hear that the veteran British rocker Bryan Ferry was right on the money when he sang that love is a drug. So much for Shakespeare, you might say. Or maybe not: the rejected Helena in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” does suggest in her soliloquy – so OK, self-servingly – that “Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”
Scientists, of course, are not romantics. They find out all sorts of terrible facts and then blab out the horrid details, regardless of our feelings, or whether or not we would rather dream on. Now one of them, an unromantic fellow called Dr Larry Young, a neurobiologist at Emory University in the United States, has worked out – and told us (damn him!) – that love is simply a chemical reaction, a combination of circuitry and neurochemicals. How boring is that?
It was much better when it was the mysterious subject of most music and art; when it was left unfettered to consume people's narcotic-free waking moments; and when it created a gapingly inexplicable hole upon its precipitous departure. Where is the magic in learning that love is not a many splendored thing at all, but just an evolutionary event, something chemically induced to keep pairs together? Dr Young has a lot to answer for. He says – wet blanket that he obviously is – that what we know as love is really just something that comes about “through a series of chemical reactions that happen in the brain, so a certain number of chemicals reacting in certain parts of the brain."
And the news gets worse. He made this entirely regrettable – and thoroughly forgettable – discovery while working with North American prairie voles (Microtus ochrogaster), which habitually cohabit in volishly loving pairs. Prairie voles? For goodness sake! The good doc should get a life. And he might even keep it for a while if he stays away from his little mates. The chief impact of prairie voles, cross-species speaking, is that they are a leading reservoir in North America of pasteurella pestis, the unpleasant micro-organism that causes plague in all its several nasty forms.
Barry’s Big Day is an Indonesian Event
WHEN former Jakarta schoolboy Barack (Barry to his Indonesian school chums of yesteryear) Obama takes the oath of office as America’s President on Inauguration Day (Jan. 20), history will be made. He will become the first American President with a real live Indonesian connection. That makes the circus outside the Capitol Building a kind of step-Indonesian Event.
To some people, he’s the FAAP (First African American President). To others he’s the NAC! (Not Another Clinton!) and to most he’s the NTOG! (Not That Other Guy!). To himself, he is the First Mutt: a delightfully self-deprecating way of pointing out that he is of mixed race. Race seems to be so important to many people. Most sensible people – oh, OK, apparently that does seem to rule out around 99.9 per cent of the world’s population – think character is much more vital statistic.
Never mind. In Washington this coming Tuesday the historic occasion will be observed first hand by the husband and one of the cousins of Yana Trisulo, a niece of Obama’s step father-in-law, Lolo Soetoro. How close a connection is that? Yana was invited but cannot attend because her father is in poor health. Obama’s mother, Ann Dunham, moved to Indonesia and married Lolo after Barack’s dad fled the nest in Hawaii and returned to Kenya. She and Lolo had a daughter, Maya Soetoro-Ng.
The Indonesian interest doesn’t stop there. Actress Ayu Azhari will also attend the big show. It seems her husband, Mike Tramp of the American musical group White Lion, has ties with the people organising the Obama Occasion. Officially, Indonesia will be represented by Ambassador Sudjadnan Parnohadiningrat. Teams of American protocol people have been working on that name-tag and pronunciation.
Meanwhile, the real interface of Indonesian-American relations is potentially facing some strain because of the newsworthy – if highly impractical, profoundly unhelpful and irredeemably stupid – desire of several thousand Indonesians to rush off to Gaza to fight the Israelis and the not unconnected political need, locally, for leaders heading into next year’s national elections to flourish their Islamist credentials.
The deadly complexities of post-1948 Middle Eastern politics have ever since bedevilled the world. That history, briefly, has consisted of the Arabs scoring own goals and the Israelis moving the goal posts: the faults are fatal and ubiquitous on both sides. It’s hard to see any reason to provide Hamas, which has been busily screwing the Palestinians who have the misfortune to live in Gaza, with even more self-detonating bombers or rocketeers. Or how presenting the Israelis with yet more targets to justify their policy of aggression as self-defence is in any way a good idea. The Palestinian people, as always the meat in the sandwich, need practical help. They won’t get that from lengthening the already exhaustive list of convenient excuses the Israelis have concocted to justify disproportionate military action or from adding to the rollcall of Jihadist martyrs.
Chazza the Grabber Shows How it’s Done
THERE will be a mind-boggling oversupply of visual imagery about in Washington next week when Barack Obama becomes the 44th President of the United States. It’s just so important these days to get that body language right when you’re making a point.
Ahead of the game – and that’s definitely where The Diary likes to be – here’s a photo that caught our eye. It might be a dodgy photo. That’s as in a doctored one: we didn’t ask; we didn’t want to; it’s just too good to miss. Visually speaking, it has it all: clear intent; inclusive motion; evident enthusiasm; and its message is right on the button (or very nearly!). Britain’s Prince Charles tends to get a terrible press. But Chazza is an old pro at the PR game even if – speaking only ornithologically of course – he’s apt to make a tit of himself from time to time.
Do Drop in for a Big Pitch
THE Ramachandra development on the Bukit – the hilltop site near Balangan now cleared of both bush and wild dogs where the company proposes to build dream homes with sweeping views for the foreign moneyed classes – put on a big show in Kuala Lumpur on Jan. 14 and 15. It sent round an e-circular to its list of contacts suggesting that those who still have the spare dosh should consider a New Year resolution to take more holidays in Bali, preferably in “an affordable luxury home in one of the best international destinations in the world.”
We wouldn’t argue with that assessment of Bali’s charms and place in the world. And despite the fact that marketing success for Ramachandra could mean car-loads of Malaysians will add to the round-the-clock chaos at the Nirmala crossroads on the road to Pecatu and Uluwatu, it’s a development to be welcomed. Maybe one day the nutheads who some months back destroyed the development’s expensive promotional signpost on the Balangan road will think so too.
They’re LOHFE-ing Again
CONVENIENCE stores are meant to be convenient, right? They’re there to provide the passing trade with the kind of things people tend to run out of at inconvenient times: milk, biscuits and chocolate; and even cigarettes, if you can bear the stares of the Smokeless Ones. That’s at a handy little mark-up of course. Sadly, as The Diary has noted before, these are the very items that one is likely to find oneself putting on the LOHFE list – the List of Hard to Find Essentials.
Thus it was that a visit to the Circle K store on Jl Raya Uluwatu near GWK on the hill at Jimbaran was such a disappointment for a Diary spy the other day. UHT milk and Dunhill Blue were required. So sorry, no have. Apa problem? Shrug. Great service, guys.
Luckily for him, our spy wasn’t in there for anything else that might once have been on the nearly-empty shelves.
Ooh La Laarrgghh!
HERE’S American commentator David Rothkopf on the frighteningly unknown kinetic qualities of the American economic collapse: “This is a particularly worrisome scenario because whereas a friendly downturn, like a friendly can-can dancer, shows its bottom early, this has been a very unfriendly downturn. No one can honestly say they know where the bottom is. The problem is made worse by the fact that in one key respect, an unfriendly downturn is also like a can-can show, because before it is over it may show a lot of bottoms.”
Speaking of Bums
WELL if it’s OK for car makers, why not the porn industry? America’s princes of prurience, Hustler publisher Larry Flynt and Girls Gone Wild video series creator Joe Francis, have asked the new U.S. Congress for a bailout – to “rejuvenate the sexual appetite of America,” which they claim has been sagging of late. Francis said in a statement: “Congress seems willing to help shore up our nation’s most important businesses, and we feel we deserve the same consideration. In difficult economic times, Americans turn to entertainment for relief. More and more, the kind of entertainment they turn to is adult entertainment.” Flynt and Francis, who admit the US$13 billion a year filthy pictures and video industry is not totally pointing south, sought a US$5 billion bailout from lawmakers.
Yes, well. No need to guess what two-word response was going to meet that pitch. We’ve all heard of the Continental Congress that set the United States on the road to independence from Britain in the 18th century. But a Sexual Congress is unlikely. Libidinous lawmakers everywhere invariably assert, when caught in indelicate circumstances, that sex is a private business.
The Blair Which Project
ALL has been revealed. The reason Barack and Michelle couldn’t get rooms at Blair House, the official government guest house in Washington, until Jan. 15 – only five days out from that big bash where Barack gets to say the pro-forma words required of a president at his inauguration, the crowd gets to go wild, and then everyone gets down and grooves, was that the former Man of Steel, ex-Australian PM John Howard, was in town to collect a gong from Dubya. Apparently he had lost his notes, and thought he was the Man of Steal. It seems the White House, for some reason similarly forgetful of other priorities, invited the ex-Australian PM to check in at Blair House instead of at any one of the over-supply of super-plush hotels somewhere else in town. Howard did so of course, overlooking the inclement fact that in western democracies former leaders pack about as much throw-weight as kitty litter while being of marginally less utility.
The fatuous little row that then erupted, chiefly in Australia where all sorts of summer-season commentators leapt at the chance to aim another kick at the country’s No Longer Dear Leader, but also among the more rabid of America’s media mouths-for-hire, has been entertaining in a mindless way. Although this New Age habit of giving out gongs just for turning up for work is itself a little tiresome. The Diary proudly bears the post-nominal NG (No Gong).
Howard was one of three dear leaders (two former, one current) who lined up this week to get the Medal of Freedom from soon-to-be kitty-litter George W. Bush. His companions were that other forgotten war-gamer, Britain’s ex-PM Tony Blair – no prizes for guessing why he opted for a Washington hotel instead of the official guest house: it’s never a good idea to confuse the doorman – and Colombian President Alvaro Uribe Velez.
A Plague on Unromantic Scientists
LOVERS the world over will be saddened to hear that the veteran British rocker Bryan Ferry was right on the money when he sang that love is a drug. So much for Shakespeare, you might say. Or maybe not: the rejected Helena in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” does suggest in her soliloquy – so OK, self-servingly – that “Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”
Scientists, of course, are not romantics. They find out all sorts of terrible facts and then blab out the horrid details, regardless of our feelings, or whether or not we would rather dream on. Now one of them, an unromantic fellow called Dr Larry Young, a neurobiologist at Emory University in the United States, has worked out – and told us (damn him!) – that love is simply a chemical reaction, a combination of circuitry and neurochemicals. How boring is that?
It was much better when it was the mysterious subject of most music and art; when it was left unfettered to consume people's narcotic-free waking moments; and when it created a gapingly inexplicable hole upon its precipitous departure. Where is the magic in learning that love is not a many splendored thing at all, but just an evolutionary event, something chemically induced to keep pairs together? Dr Young has a lot to answer for. He says – wet blanket that he obviously is – that what we know as love is really just something that comes about “through a series of chemical reactions that happen in the brain, so a certain number of chemicals reacting in certain parts of the brain."
And the news gets worse. He made this entirely regrettable – and thoroughly forgettable – discovery while working with North American prairie voles (Microtus ochrogaster), which habitually cohabit in volishly loving pairs. Prairie voles? For goodness sake! The good doc should get a life. And he might even keep it for a while if he stays away from his little mates. The chief impact of prairie voles, cross-species speaking, is that they are a leading reservoir in North America of pasteurella pestis, the unpleasant micro-organism that causes plague in all its several nasty forms.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
HECTOR'S BALI TIMES DIARY [for Jan. 9]
The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
Perhaps Not Tonight, I’ve Got a Headache
ACCORDING to the Bali AIDS Commission, the proliferation of “kafe” outlets (small, generally suburban and rural places that serve up gutrot alcohol, eardrum-destroying music and dangerous sex) is putting Bali at risk of an HIV epidemic. The commission says many of these places employ willing waitresses who will put out for a modest (perhaps that should read an immodest?) emolument and don’t bother with sensible things like condoms. But then their clients don’t bother thinking with their brains either, and therein lies the problem.
It beggars belief – well it would almost anywhere else than in Indonesia, perhaps, where turning a blind eye to illegality in return for corrupt considerations or payment in kind is a political and bureaucratic art form – that such places are permitted to exist unchecked. At the very least, it is a public health issue and – as the commission says – operators who propose to profit from prostitution should be made to provide condom vending machines.
Such machines are ubiquitously found in places of entertainment all over the world. In Britain, you can’t walk into the lavatory in a pub without running into Latex Lane. Some machines are apparently multi-role. A Diary spy in the UK reports sighting a vending machine at one alehouse where buttons one-to-three and five-to-eight give you – for a fee far deeper than the short pockets of most Indonesian sex-seekers – a range of products that promises protection as well as unlikely enhancement of your forthcoming experience. Button four gets you Nurofen tablets.
Days of Whine and Rosés
FRESHLY back from a brief trip to Britain where, according to Michael Burchett, general manager of the Conrad Hotel at Nusa Dua and chairman of the Bali Hotels Association, a glass of wine costs 20 to 30 per cent or even 50 per cent less than it does in Bali (it was nice too!), The Diary returns to the topic of Indonesia’s Sick Joke de Jour, the ridiculous liquor situation.
We’re all in favour of stamping out corruption – goodness, The Diary even has that special anti-corruption hotline number on speed dial in the mobile phone, just in case some nattily-uniformed whistle-blower tries to get heavy – but there’s more to the drink drought than a commendable (if shinily new and arguably tinny) focus on malfeasance.
Burchett, interviewed on the Australian ABC radio programme “AM” back on December 19, had this to say about the situation: “The challenge we have now in Bali is that a glass of most wine will cost you, you know 20 to 30 per cent, maybe even 50 per cent more than what you'll pay in London or New York or Moscow and that doesn't make sense for Bali so we need to fix that and fix it quickly.”
That’s it in a nutshell: It simply doesn’t make sense. And we need to fix it quickly. If the real issue is the immorality – Koranic or otherwise – of drinking alcohol, then those who think so should front up honestly, gird themselves with the courage of their considerable convictions, and say so. But as Burchett says – and we’re sure responsible drinkers, resident and visitor alike, would agree – it just doesn’t make sense for Bali.
We need to put out an urgent all-points bulletin: Find common sense! Quickly!
Cursors! It’s Done it Again
THE lords of cyberspace, those irritatingly unreachable entities who govern matters such as whether your internet connection works or not, have a horrid way of blighting one’s life. You go away for a week, leaving your expensive wireless gizmo wotzit thingo at home for a rest. You come home and try to connect, only to discover that not only has your fair-weather friend Wifi had a rest, but has apparently left the building.
Well, no. It’s physically there. It’s just that while the lights are on, there’s nobody’s home. They blink at you, just as they are supposed to do. But you find that in your absence you have become “local only”. That’s just fancy computer talk for “you’re cactus.” You interrogate the network setup. It tells you that you cannot communicate with your DNS. As any internet user can tell you, without access to your DNS, it’s as if you’ve never been born. You wonder why (well briefly, because there’s no point – you know this from bitter experience – questioning the behaviour or motivation of cyber thingies). You do what your ISP always tells you do: basically disconnect, count to 10, and reconnect before you blow your own fuse. You try this several times. And the little blighter still doesn’t work.
You’re paying a mint for this premium service. A whole circuit, let alone a fuse, is about to blow about that. You ring up the help line operated by your pricey provider – though clearly unwillingly, only 9-to-5 Mon-Fri, and strictly on the basis that anyone who calls must be a mental defective – and they tell you to disconnect, count to 10, and try again, because everything looks fine at their end. Been there, done that, you cry in exasperation. Why would I put myself through the agony of calling if I hadn’t already tried to fix it, you clowns, you feel like saying; but of course do not.
Your laptop computer has been away on your trip with you. It worked perfectly. You fiddled with nothing. You certainly did not change any “parameters” (whatever they are). Although you did use other wireless networks. Is this the problem? Is your Wifi sulking because it thinks you’ve been seduced by some other comely little gizmo?
It’s Not on the Cards
WE HEAR that on one Pacific Blue flight from Bali to Perth – pre-Christmas, prior to the holiday rush, and on a fortunately less than full plane – someone forgot a crucial essential: the immigration cards you have to fill in on board before the fearful Aussies will even do you the honour of confiscating your peanuts. Not the sort of thing that the upfront Brit entrepreneur Richard Branson, chief of the Virgin Empire of which Pacific Blue is a small antipodean part, would like. At all.
A Whole in One?
GOLF has always been a mystery to The Diary. It is a mystery deepened by the fact that whenever – and this has been very rarely – a golf club has been wielded (always in jest, never in anger), the ball flies straight and true off the tee: That is, for 50 metres before it turns sharp left and disappears forever in the thickets that line the fairways.
So it was interesting to hear from an old friend recently who told us a delightful little tale about the game the Scots claim to have invented (their weather being so foul you have to lash out madly at it with sticks). He says he was asked to play in a golf tournament and at first said “Naaahhh!” But then, he says, the organisers got on to him and told him: “Come on, it’s for handicapped and blind kids.” He adds: “Then I thought: I could win this.”
The Lady had Bite
NEARLY 50 years ago, when apartheid (“separate development”) was at its most horrid heights in white-misruled South Africa, the quiet courage of Helen Suzman became a beacon, an emblem of decency and hope, for all those who opposed the concept that one race should lord it over another and who were horrified that this pernicious denial of human rights was being meted out by the closed (and small) minds of the Afrikaner community.
She was one of a small number of white South Africans who publicly criticised the apartheid dreamed up by the Afrikaner community, Africa’s only “white” tribe, to protect themselves from economic and political domination by black South Africans. Sadly and sourly, it was a dispossession too many English-speaking South African whites happily acquiesced in as a means of securing their own short-term advantage. Apartheid was and remains the direst taint upon the whole 500-year history of Europe’s global diaspora.
For 13 years (1961-1974) Suzman was the only Progressive Party member in South Africa’s whites-only parliament. Through this time she never failed, as far as possible, to investigate the often tragic consequences of apartheid legislation. Although she represented an affluent white constituency, she saw herself as an “honorary ombudsman for all those people who have no vote and no Member of Parliament.” Within months of her retirement in 1989, she had the pleasure of witnessing the collapse of apartheid and the introduction four years later of parliamentary democracy.
So it was sad to learn she had died on New Year’s Day, aged 91. A light has passed from the world. But Suzman’s legacy, one shared with the gallant band of white South Africans who stayed to confront the Apartheid regime at home rather than running for the safety and comfort of overseas exile, exists in the free South Africa of today. The country is governed by the African National Congress – though perhaps not for long since true democratic freedoms have now generated new and competing political dynamics – in a deliciously enlightening riposte to the Afrikaner dinosaurs who ruled their own particular bit of Earth for far too long.
Suzman was a liberal in a South Africa that, in those days, routinely punished and even terrorised such soft thinking. She was a parliamentarian whose uniqueness was not just that of her own strength of character, but also of her friendless singularity in what should have been the people’s parliament. It was the Jewish Suzman in parliament, as it was the Anglophile Donald Woods in the media and the Jewish activist Joe Slovo in the “terrorist” African National Congress, who kept alight the flame of decency and who gave the lie to hardline Afrikaner myopia. There were many others – pre-eminently ANC leader Nelson Mandela from his Robben Island prison but, let it always be noted, Afrikaners among them – who similarly worked to ensure that the “Afrikaner putsch” finally ended.
It’s not just today’s South Africans but the world that owes each of them thanks for courage, conviction and commitment to humanity far beyond the call. They all bit the Afrikaner dog. And Suzman, paradoxically perhaps because of the essential gentleness of her nature, bit it hardest of all.
Our Macaques are Little Sweeties
RESEARCHERS say studies indicate female macaques utter 13 times more friendly communications (with other macaques) than males, in a further advancement of the cause of feminism (primate branch). That’s good to know. The Diary will be sure to let Angelo Sanfillipo and his little friend Lulu at Dream Village on Lombok’s lively Gili Trawangan in on the secret. Especially Lulu, whose friendly macaque habits include rapid-reaction raids on lady’s handbags. Cigarettes and lighters are a favourite target. We think she thinks she’s Marlene Dietrich.
Incidentally, we’re indebted to that earnest English journal for worry-wort chatterers, Prospect, for this essential update on dinner-table conversation topics.
What a Blast
NOW here’s something that helps put the global financial crisis in proper perspective. A team of astronomers in Western Australia is cock ‘a hoop because they’ve just captured an image of the explosion of a star 11 billion years ago. That’s how long it took the flash of light from the event to reach us here on the third rock from the Sun. At that rate, Earth’s problems seem infinitesimal indeed.
There’s an interesting sidelight to the story, too. The team’s expensive computer-controlled digital camera system, integrated with the telescope, went on the blink at precisely the wrong instant in intergalactic time – so they had to record the show on a video camera.
A further thought occurs: This event would doubtless completely mystify the one in five students who took the basic science British GCSE exam last year who believes the Sun orbits the Earth (and who cannot even have heard of Galileo). Not to mention the similarly challenged one in 10, sitting the same senior school exam, who did not know that a rechargeable battery could be used more than once.
Perhaps Not Tonight, I’ve Got a Headache
ACCORDING to the Bali AIDS Commission, the proliferation of “kafe” outlets (small, generally suburban and rural places that serve up gutrot alcohol, eardrum-destroying music and dangerous sex) is putting Bali at risk of an HIV epidemic. The commission says many of these places employ willing waitresses who will put out for a modest (perhaps that should read an immodest?) emolument and don’t bother with sensible things like condoms. But then their clients don’t bother thinking with their brains either, and therein lies the problem.
It beggars belief – well it would almost anywhere else than in Indonesia, perhaps, where turning a blind eye to illegality in return for corrupt considerations or payment in kind is a political and bureaucratic art form – that such places are permitted to exist unchecked. At the very least, it is a public health issue and – as the commission says – operators who propose to profit from prostitution should be made to provide condom vending machines.
Such machines are ubiquitously found in places of entertainment all over the world. In Britain, you can’t walk into the lavatory in a pub without running into Latex Lane. Some machines are apparently multi-role. A Diary spy in the UK reports sighting a vending machine at one alehouse where buttons one-to-three and five-to-eight give you – for a fee far deeper than the short pockets of most Indonesian sex-seekers – a range of products that promises protection as well as unlikely enhancement of your forthcoming experience. Button four gets you Nurofen tablets.
Days of Whine and Rosés
FRESHLY back from a brief trip to Britain where, according to Michael Burchett, general manager of the Conrad Hotel at Nusa Dua and chairman of the Bali Hotels Association, a glass of wine costs 20 to 30 per cent or even 50 per cent less than it does in Bali (it was nice too!), The Diary returns to the topic of Indonesia’s Sick Joke de Jour, the ridiculous liquor situation.
We’re all in favour of stamping out corruption – goodness, The Diary even has that special anti-corruption hotline number on speed dial in the mobile phone, just in case some nattily-uniformed whistle-blower tries to get heavy – but there’s more to the drink drought than a commendable (if shinily new and arguably tinny) focus on malfeasance.
Burchett, interviewed on the Australian ABC radio programme “AM” back on December 19, had this to say about the situation: “The challenge we have now in Bali is that a glass of most wine will cost you, you know 20 to 30 per cent, maybe even 50 per cent more than what you'll pay in London or New York or Moscow and that doesn't make sense for Bali so we need to fix that and fix it quickly.”
That’s it in a nutshell: It simply doesn’t make sense. And we need to fix it quickly. If the real issue is the immorality – Koranic or otherwise – of drinking alcohol, then those who think so should front up honestly, gird themselves with the courage of their considerable convictions, and say so. But as Burchett says – and we’re sure responsible drinkers, resident and visitor alike, would agree – it just doesn’t make sense for Bali.
We need to put out an urgent all-points bulletin: Find common sense! Quickly!
Cursors! It’s Done it Again
THE lords of cyberspace, those irritatingly unreachable entities who govern matters such as whether your internet connection works or not, have a horrid way of blighting one’s life. You go away for a week, leaving your expensive wireless gizmo wotzit thingo at home for a rest. You come home and try to connect, only to discover that not only has your fair-weather friend Wifi had a rest, but has apparently left the building.
Well, no. It’s physically there. It’s just that while the lights are on, there’s nobody’s home. They blink at you, just as they are supposed to do. But you find that in your absence you have become “local only”. That’s just fancy computer talk for “you’re cactus.” You interrogate the network setup. It tells you that you cannot communicate with your DNS. As any internet user can tell you, without access to your DNS, it’s as if you’ve never been born. You wonder why (well briefly, because there’s no point – you know this from bitter experience – questioning the behaviour or motivation of cyber thingies). You do what your ISP always tells you do: basically disconnect, count to 10, and reconnect before you blow your own fuse. You try this several times. And the little blighter still doesn’t work.
You’re paying a mint for this premium service. A whole circuit, let alone a fuse, is about to blow about that. You ring up the help line operated by your pricey provider – though clearly unwillingly, only 9-to-5 Mon-Fri, and strictly on the basis that anyone who calls must be a mental defective – and they tell you to disconnect, count to 10, and try again, because everything looks fine at their end. Been there, done that, you cry in exasperation. Why would I put myself through the agony of calling if I hadn’t already tried to fix it, you clowns, you feel like saying; but of course do not.
Your laptop computer has been away on your trip with you. It worked perfectly. You fiddled with nothing. You certainly did not change any “parameters” (whatever they are). Although you did use other wireless networks. Is this the problem? Is your Wifi sulking because it thinks you’ve been seduced by some other comely little gizmo?
It’s Not on the Cards
WE HEAR that on one Pacific Blue flight from Bali to Perth – pre-Christmas, prior to the holiday rush, and on a fortunately less than full plane – someone forgot a crucial essential: the immigration cards you have to fill in on board before the fearful Aussies will even do you the honour of confiscating your peanuts. Not the sort of thing that the upfront Brit entrepreneur Richard Branson, chief of the Virgin Empire of which Pacific Blue is a small antipodean part, would like. At all.
A Whole in One?
GOLF has always been a mystery to The Diary. It is a mystery deepened by the fact that whenever – and this has been very rarely – a golf club has been wielded (always in jest, never in anger), the ball flies straight and true off the tee: That is, for 50 metres before it turns sharp left and disappears forever in the thickets that line the fairways.
So it was interesting to hear from an old friend recently who told us a delightful little tale about the game the Scots claim to have invented (their weather being so foul you have to lash out madly at it with sticks). He says he was asked to play in a golf tournament and at first said “Naaahhh!” But then, he says, the organisers got on to him and told him: “Come on, it’s for handicapped and blind kids.” He adds: “Then I thought: I could win this.”
The Lady had Bite
NEARLY 50 years ago, when apartheid (“separate development”) was at its most horrid heights in white-misruled South Africa, the quiet courage of Helen Suzman became a beacon, an emblem of decency and hope, for all those who opposed the concept that one race should lord it over another and who were horrified that this pernicious denial of human rights was being meted out by the closed (and small) minds of the Afrikaner community.
She was one of a small number of white South Africans who publicly criticised the apartheid dreamed up by the Afrikaner community, Africa’s only “white” tribe, to protect themselves from economic and political domination by black South Africans. Sadly and sourly, it was a dispossession too many English-speaking South African whites happily acquiesced in as a means of securing their own short-term advantage. Apartheid was and remains the direst taint upon the whole 500-year history of Europe’s global diaspora.
For 13 years (1961-1974) Suzman was the only Progressive Party member in South Africa’s whites-only parliament. Through this time she never failed, as far as possible, to investigate the often tragic consequences of apartheid legislation. Although she represented an affluent white constituency, she saw herself as an “honorary ombudsman for all those people who have no vote and no Member of Parliament.” Within months of her retirement in 1989, she had the pleasure of witnessing the collapse of apartheid and the introduction four years later of parliamentary democracy.
So it was sad to learn she had died on New Year’s Day, aged 91. A light has passed from the world. But Suzman’s legacy, one shared with the gallant band of white South Africans who stayed to confront the Apartheid regime at home rather than running for the safety and comfort of overseas exile, exists in the free South Africa of today. The country is governed by the African National Congress – though perhaps not for long since true democratic freedoms have now generated new and competing political dynamics – in a deliciously enlightening riposte to the Afrikaner dinosaurs who ruled their own particular bit of Earth for far too long.
Suzman was a liberal in a South Africa that, in those days, routinely punished and even terrorised such soft thinking. She was a parliamentarian whose uniqueness was not just that of her own strength of character, but also of her friendless singularity in what should have been the people’s parliament. It was the Jewish Suzman in parliament, as it was the Anglophile Donald Woods in the media and the Jewish activist Joe Slovo in the “terrorist” African National Congress, who kept alight the flame of decency and who gave the lie to hardline Afrikaner myopia. There were many others – pre-eminently ANC leader Nelson Mandela from his Robben Island prison but, let it always be noted, Afrikaners among them – who similarly worked to ensure that the “Afrikaner putsch” finally ended.
It’s not just today’s South Africans but the world that owes each of them thanks for courage, conviction and commitment to humanity far beyond the call. They all bit the Afrikaner dog. And Suzman, paradoxically perhaps because of the essential gentleness of her nature, bit it hardest of all.
Our Macaques are Little Sweeties
RESEARCHERS say studies indicate female macaques utter 13 times more friendly communications (with other macaques) than males, in a further advancement of the cause of feminism (primate branch). That’s good to know. The Diary will be sure to let Angelo Sanfillipo and his little friend Lulu at Dream Village on Lombok’s lively Gili Trawangan in on the secret. Especially Lulu, whose friendly macaque habits include rapid-reaction raids on lady’s handbags. Cigarettes and lighters are a favourite target. We think she thinks she’s Marlene Dietrich.
Incidentally, we’re indebted to that earnest English journal for worry-wort chatterers, Prospect, for this essential update on dinner-table conversation topics.
What a Blast
NOW here’s something that helps put the global financial crisis in proper perspective. A team of astronomers in Western Australia is cock ‘a hoop because they’ve just captured an image of the explosion of a star 11 billion years ago. That’s how long it took the flash of light from the event to reach us here on the third rock from the Sun. At that rate, Earth’s problems seem infinitesimal indeed.
There’s an interesting sidelight to the story, too. The team’s expensive computer-controlled digital camera system, integrated with the telescope, went on the blink at precisely the wrong instant in intergalactic time – so they had to record the show on a video camera.
A further thought occurs: This event would doubtless completely mystify the one in five students who took the basic science British GCSE exam last year who believes the Sun orbits the Earth (and who cannot even have heard of Galileo). Not to mention the similarly challenged one in 10, sitting the same senior school exam, who did not know that a rechargeable battery could be used more than once.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
HECTOR'S BALI TIMES DIARY [for Jan. 2]
The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
Some Handy New Year Advice
THE Diary does not believe in New Year resolutions. They are self-indulgent recipes for disaster. Born of unfounded hope, they are almost invariably destined to die of neglect in three days. Instead, we like to focus on keeping safe, being nice to the neighbours – in the broadest sense of that term – and having fun.
So here’s some handy New Year advice for those of you who have to drive on Bali’s roads – at random, which is how most drivers in Bali do it; or regularly, therefore making mandatory the practice of clasping some favoured protective talisman tightly to your chest.
1. Indonesia notionally drives on the left. Always veer left if approached from any direction by a yellow truck, a petrol tanker or a bus driving at speed and maniacally. Unless it’s on your left, in which case you’re toast. And that’s if you can see it in the cloud of black smoke all trucks and buses produce so that potential victims cannot identify the registration plate or the driver.
2. Indonesians actually drive all over the place: wherever comes to mind is the rule. This is especially so with motorbikes (see below).
3. White lines have nothing to do with keeping left or even (what a concept!) in lane. They are driver testing devices: you get brownie points if you can keep your vehicle centred over the white line.
4. Most Indonesians ride motorbikes: On your right; on your left; up your clacker. Motorists are supposed to know the road rules (we think). Motorbike riders are exempt from this requirement.
5. No one turning out onto busy roads ever looks right. They might see the approaching traffic. Nor do they stop. That could cost them valuable points in the highly popular national Shit-That-Was-Close near-miss competition. (There’s a tour drive company in Bali, clearly an honest one, whose fleet of people-carriers is proudly decaled Naramis Transport.)
6. On the open highway (ha!) a vehicle flashing its right-turn indicator (a) may be turning right, though this is highly unlikely; (b) might be saying it’s safe to pass (it never is); (c) could have a driver who has activated the indicator by mistake while sending text messages on his mobile phone; or (d) may be thinking about turning left, eventually; say in 10 km or so, or perhaps next year.
7. Traffic lights in Indonesia go amber before they go green (if they’re working). All Indonesians have an undetectable chromosome that compels them to hit the hurry-up-in-front horn before the light goes amber. The further back in the queue they are, the more ahead of the game.
8. Most intersections have free left turns on red. Don’t stop there if you’d planned to go straight ahead. You will spark a riot and a policeman will materialise from nowhere and demand large sums of untraceable currency.
9. Everyone goes straight ahead from right-turn lanes at traffic lights. That is, except for the buzzing cloud of motorbikes on your left, and an occasional yellow truck: these will turn right, across your bows, as you pull away. Use your hazard lights to indicate straight ahead. It never means you’ve broken down (most Indonesian vehicles are beyond repair anyway).
10. If you hear a siren, it may be an ambulance out trying to run down some customers, or it could be a huge police escort for the shiny new Mercedes limo of the acting deputy assistant under paper-shuffler in chief. If the latter, assume that the unintelligible high volume staccato you’re hearing from those loud-hailers means “get out of the way NOW” and do so. The difficult bit: guessing which point of the compass they will come from.
George, You Were a Shoe-In for a Laugh
PRESIDENT George W. Bush, who vacates the office on Jan. 20 but keeps the title for life because Americans, whose Constitution officially denies them the dynasties they crave, need to venerate their former elected kings, got a bad press for most of the past eight years – no, make that all of the past eight years – and in many instances quite unfairly. But then again, he had this habit – we’re sure it’s a Texas thing – of making himself a target, although only lately for irate Iraqi journalists with throwaway shoes and masochistic desires to investigate rumours that the “New Iraq” police might have changed their long-standing policy of beating up miscreants.
Dubya, as the header gabblers of the media dubbed him for his mangled middle initial, often generated irritation of shoe-throwing levels. The Diary got heartily sick of hearing him say he was going to bring people to Justice – we checked, thinking this must be in Colorado; but it’s actually in Mingo County, West Virginia – when he meant Gitmo (as in Guantanamo Bay, site of America’s eternal shame). Never mind, shortly he’s off to Truth or Consequences. That’s in New Mexico, by the way. It’s just a short taxpayer-funded Former POTUS plane ride away from his home at Play Ranch, Texas.
He was provoked of course. No one can ever forgive that certified nutcase Osama bin Laden for being such a sour little rich Saudi frat boy that he went off and founded his own chapter of MMA (Mass Murderers Anonymous), or that silly Saddam for not seeing the writing on the wall or even that Mars Bar on the night table in his funk hole.
Bush did bring so many of his problems on himself. But never mind. He also gave us a laugh, and not just because as a Harvard MBA he would never have spotted that American-generated global meltdown coming, or the Wall Street crooks behind it all. Here at The Diary, we’re still rolling around the floor at his Dec. 16 statement on same: “I've abandoned free-market principles to save the free-market system.” We are indebted to Slate Magazine’s “Bushism of the Day” chuckle corner for the reference.
At the same time, in the fatuous fashion of modern politics, it has become the custom of the commentariat to focus on what they hate without retaining the objectivity to see beyond their own moral blindness. Bush has a self-deprecatory sense of humour that many people – and especially his blinder critics – could usefully emulate. His gag at the Dec. 19 unveiling of his presidential portrait (see photo) is a case in point: “I suspected there would be a good-size crowd once the word got out about my hanging.”
We’ll miss you, George. And anyway, we’re fresh out of shoes.
Exit Stage Left
HAROLD Pinter, the English playwright, actor, political activist and Nobel Prize winner, who has died aged 78, was a man who played many roles over the years. That he was a focus – and of course thought himself the locus – of Leftist mindset was never in doubt. His plays were compelling; his social and political arguments less so. That’s not a partisan judgment: human society advances through the arguments put forward by great minds and Pinter was, if nothing else, a great mind.
Unfortunately, like many on the Left, he would brook no argument with his positions. The Left was right. The notion that the good thinkers of the collective soft Left could ever be wrong was never one that entered his brain. He said in his Nobel acceptance three years ago that “the crimes of the US have been systematic, but few people have talked about them.” For cant and total rubbish, not to mention a complete absence of historical perspective, you can’t beat that comment for plain stir-crazy.
He was a better commentator when thinking out loud about the trade that he practised with such compelling talent. He said – again in his Nobel speech, a masterly presentation – that “a writer’s life is an almost naked activity. You are out on your own, out on a limb.”
He also said – in a moment of naked honesty whose fundamental irony, given it came from him, that he likely missed – that language in art is “a highly ambiguous transaction, a quicksand, a trampoline, a frozen pool that might give way under you, the author, at any time.” So true: And as he also said, “the truth is illusive, but the search is compulsive.” Quite so: It’s essential, too. Playwrights with searing talents like Pinter are very rare. Fellow-travelling political guerrillas like Pinter – unfortunately – are two a penny.
Deep Throats
TIME and tide, as that inescapable aphorism puts it, waits for no man. Numbered in the clutch of notables who left us at the end of the year – Pinter above, Eartha Kitt (of whom more below) among them – was Mark Felt, who died at 95 on Dec. 19. Felt was not an entertainer, although he was responsible for Richard Milhous Nixon, prissy-faced president and foul mouth extraordinaire, being even more inventive than ever with his strange hobby of cussing on tape. He was Deep Throat, the man who arguably did more than anyone else to protect democratic values in America in the 1970s.
It is a tribute to his unimpeachable honesty and uprightness that he told friends six years before he finally revealed himself in the pages of the magazine Vanity Fair – decades after the event – that he was ashamed of being Deep Throat, the man who exposed the Watergate scandal by doing what grubby little politicians – like Richard Nixon – never want people to do except if to their benefit: by leaking to the media. He had no reason to feel ashamed.
Another deep throat who assuredly was an entertainer was the American Eartha Kitt, the singer Orson Welles once described as the most exciting woman in the world. She was 81. Kitt rose from poverty to become not only a singer but also a dancer, actress and self-professed “sex kitten”. She made herself one of the most remarkable and distinctive entertainers in the history of cabaret and the light musical stage.
Matt’s Place is a Great Spot
THE Diary spent Christmas and the week up to New Year in Darkest Old Dart, aka Britain, which Indonesians know as Inggris because – as the regrettably non-dominant non-English native cultures of the British Isles know only too well – the English have always been a tad confused about their real place in the world.
The temporary domicile was the area of Lincolnshire on the east coast known as South Holland (it looks like it; it just lacks little boys showing commendable willingness to stick their fingers in dangerously leaky dykes). This was the home of Matthew Flinders, the British explorer-seaman who did everyone a favour in the early 19th century by charting much of Australia’s coastline and proving to early Aussie travel agents that development of a mass holiday market for Australians in Bali would have to wait for the invention of the aeroplane, because of that bit of water in the way.
The weather was on a cool side. Try 3C for your day’s maximum temperature and see how you like it. Getting back to Bali was a treat in every respect! But there were compensations, aside from the fact that if you’re a natural night owl, midwinter Britain is the ant’s pants: it’s dark until after 8am and dark again by 4pm. A better compensation was to find the Flinders Bar at The Black Bull in Donnington – it’s just over the road from The Black Swan, so Matt obviously got about his birthplace on his return from the antipodes with tall tales and true about the strange creatures he had seen there. How could a passing Aussie fail to drop in at the Flinders Bar? Well, this one couldn’t. And it wasn’t just because his favourite Scottish brew, Carling ale, was handily on tap.
OK, Holiday Over
THE Diary, as noted above, is pleased to be back home in Bali. The holiday’s over. It’s time for that other annual ritual: standing by with the mop and bucket for the monsoon rains with which the Island of the Gods traditionally greets a new year.
Some Handy New Year Advice
THE Diary does not believe in New Year resolutions. They are self-indulgent recipes for disaster. Born of unfounded hope, they are almost invariably destined to die of neglect in three days. Instead, we like to focus on keeping safe, being nice to the neighbours – in the broadest sense of that term – and having fun.
So here’s some handy New Year advice for those of you who have to drive on Bali’s roads – at random, which is how most drivers in Bali do it; or regularly, therefore making mandatory the practice of clasping some favoured protective talisman tightly to your chest.
1. Indonesia notionally drives on the left. Always veer left if approached from any direction by a yellow truck, a petrol tanker or a bus driving at speed and maniacally. Unless it’s on your left, in which case you’re toast. And that’s if you can see it in the cloud of black smoke all trucks and buses produce so that potential victims cannot identify the registration plate or the driver.
2. Indonesians actually drive all over the place: wherever comes to mind is the rule. This is especially so with motorbikes (see below).
3. White lines have nothing to do with keeping left or even (what a concept!) in lane. They are driver testing devices: you get brownie points if you can keep your vehicle centred over the white line.
4. Most Indonesians ride motorbikes: On your right; on your left; up your clacker. Motorists are supposed to know the road rules (we think). Motorbike riders are exempt from this requirement.
5. No one turning out onto busy roads ever looks right. They might see the approaching traffic. Nor do they stop. That could cost them valuable points in the highly popular national Shit-That-Was-Close near-miss competition. (There’s a tour drive company in Bali, clearly an honest one, whose fleet of people-carriers is proudly decaled Naramis Transport.)
6. On the open highway (ha!) a vehicle flashing its right-turn indicator (a) may be turning right, though this is highly unlikely; (b) might be saying it’s safe to pass (it never is); (c) could have a driver who has activated the indicator by mistake while sending text messages on his mobile phone; or (d) may be thinking about turning left, eventually; say in 10 km or so, or perhaps next year.
7. Traffic lights in Indonesia go amber before they go green (if they’re working). All Indonesians have an undetectable chromosome that compels them to hit the hurry-up-in-front horn before the light goes amber. The further back in the queue they are, the more ahead of the game.
8. Most intersections have free left turns on red. Don’t stop there if you’d planned to go straight ahead. You will spark a riot and a policeman will materialise from nowhere and demand large sums of untraceable currency.
9. Everyone goes straight ahead from right-turn lanes at traffic lights. That is, except for the buzzing cloud of motorbikes on your left, and an occasional yellow truck: these will turn right, across your bows, as you pull away. Use your hazard lights to indicate straight ahead. It never means you’ve broken down (most Indonesian vehicles are beyond repair anyway).
10. If you hear a siren, it may be an ambulance out trying to run down some customers, or it could be a huge police escort for the shiny new Mercedes limo of the acting deputy assistant under paper-shuffler in chief. If the latter, assume that the unintelligible high volume staccato you’re hearing from those loud-hailers means “get out of the way NOW” and do so. The difficult bit: guessing which point of the compass they will come from.
George, You Were a Shoe-In for a Laugh
PRESIDENT George W. Bush, who vacates the office on Jan. 20 but keeps the title for life because Americans, whose Constitution officially denies them the dynasties they crave, need to venerate their former elected kings, got a bad press for most of the past eight years – no, make that all of the past eight years – and in many instances quite unfairly. But then again, he had this habit – we’re sure it’s a Texas thing – of making himself a target, although only lately for irate Iraqi journalists with throwaway shoes and masochistic desires to investigate rumours that the “New Iraq” police might have changed their long-standing policy of beating up miscreants.
Dubya, as the header gabblers of the media dubbed him for his mangled middle initial, often generated irritation of shoe-throwing levels. The Diary got heartily sick of hearing him say he was going to bring people to Justice – we checked, thinking this must be in Colorado; but it’s actually in Mingo County, West Virginia – when he meant Gitmo (as in Guantanamo Bay, site of America’s eternal shame). Never mind, shortly he’s off to Truth or Consequences. That’s in New Mexico, by the way. It’s just a short taxpayer-funded Former POTUS plane ride away from his home at Play Ranch, Texas.
He was provoked of course. No one can ever forgive that certified nutcase Osama bin Laden for being such a sour little rich Saudi frat boy that he went off and founded his own chapter of MMA (Mass Murderers Anonymous), or that silly Saddam for not seeing the writing on the wall or even that Mars Bar on the night table in his funk hole.
Bush did bring so many of his problems on himself. But never mind. He also gave us a laugh, and not just because as a Harvard MBA he would never have spotted that American-generated global meltdown coming, or the Wall Street crooks behind it all. Here at The Diary, we’re still rolling around the floor at his Dec. 16 statement on same: “I've abandoned free-market principles to save the free-market system.” We are indebted to Slate Magazine’s “Bushism of the Day” chuckle corner for the reference.
At the same time, in the fatuous fashion of modern politics, it has become the custom of the commentariat to focus on what they hate without retaining the objectivity to see beyond their own moral blindness. Bush has a self-deprecatory sense of humour that many people – and especially his blinder critics – could usefully emulate. His gag at the Dec. 19 unveiling of his presidential portrait (see photo) is a case in point: “I suspected there would be a good-size crowd once the word got out about my hanging.”
We’ll miss you, George. And anyway, we’re fresh out of shoes.
Exit Stage Left
HAROLD Pinter, the English playwright, actor, political activist and Nobel Prize winner, who has died aged 78, was a man who played many roles over the years. That he was a focus – and of course thought himself the locus – of Leftist mindset was never in doubt. His plays were compelling; his social and political arguments less so. That’s not a partisan judgment: human society advances through the arguments put forward by great minds and Pinter was, if nothing else, a great mind.
Unfortunately, like many on the Left, he would brook no argument with his positions. The Left was right. The notion that the good thinkers of the collective soft Left could ever be wrong was never one that entered his brain. He said in his Nobel acceptance three years ago that “the crimes of the US have been systematic, but few people have talked about them.” For cant and total rubbish, not to mention a complete absence of historical perspective, you can’t beat that comment for plain stir-crazy.
He was a better commentator when thinking out loud about the trade that he practised with such compelling talent. He said – again in his Nobel speech, a masterly presentation – that “a writer’s life is an almost naked activity. You are out on your own, out on a limb.”
He also said – in a moment of naked honesty whose fundamental irony, given it came from him, that he likely missed – that language in art is “a highly ambiguous transaction, a quicksand, a trampoline, a frozen pool that might give way under you, the author, at any time.” So true: And as he also said, “the truth is illusive, but the search is compulsive.” Quite so: It’s essential, too. Playwrights with searing talents like Pinter are very rare. Fellow-travelling political guerrillas like Pinter – unfortunately – are two a penny.
Deep Throats
TIME and tide, as that inescapable aphorism puts it, waits for no man. Numbered in the clutch of notables who left us at the end of the year – Pinter above, Eartha Kitt (of whom more below) among them – was Mark Felt, who died at 95 on Dec. 19. Felt was not an entertainer, although he was responsible for Richard Milhous Nixon, prissy-faced president and foul mouth extraordinaire, being even more inventive than ever with his strange hobby of cussing on tape. He was Deep Throat, the man who arguably did more than anyone else to protect democratic values in America in the 1970s.
It is a tribute to his unimpeachable honesty and uprightness that he told friends six years before he finally revealed himself in the pages of the magazine Vanity Fair – decades after the event – that he was ashamed of being Deep Throat, the man who exposed the Watergate scandal by doing what grubby little politicians – like Richard Nixon – never want people to do except if to their benefit: by leaking to the media. He had no reason to feel ashamed.
Another deep throat who assuredly was an entertainer was the American Eartha Kitt, the singer Orson Welles once described as the most exciting woman in the world. She was 81. Kitt rose from poverty to become not only a singer but also a dancer, actress and self-professed “sex kitten”. She made herself one of the most remarkable and distinctive entertainers in the history of cabaret and the light musical stage.
Matt’s Place is a Great Spot
THE Diary spent Christmas and the week up to New Year in Darkest Old Dart, aka Britain, which Indonesians know as Inggris because – as the regrettably non-dominant non-English native cultures of the British Isles know only too well – the English have always been a tad confused about their real place in the world.
The temporary domicile was the area of Lincolnshire on the east coast known as South Holland (it looks like it; it just lacks little boys showing commendable willingness to stick their fingers in dangerously leaky dykes). This was the home of Matthew Flinders, the British explorer-seaman who did everyone a favour in the early 19th century by charting much of Australia’s coastline and proving to early Aussie travel agents that development of a mass holiday market for Australians in Bali would have to wait for the invention of the aeroplane, because of that bit of water in the way.
The weather was on a cool side. Try 3C for your day’s maximum temperature and see how you like it. Getting back to Bali was a treat in every respect! But there were compensations, aside from the fact that if you’re a natural night owl, midwinter Britain is the ant’s pants: it’s dark until after 8am and dark again by 4pm. A better compensation was to find the Flinders Bar at The Black Bull in Donnington – it’s just over the road from The Black Swan, so Matt obviously got about his birthplace on his return from the antipodes with tall tales and true about the strange creatures he had seen there. How could a passing Aussie fail to drop in at the Flinders Bar? Well, this one couldn’t. And it wasn’t just because his favourite Scottish brew, Carling ale, was handily on tap.
OK, Holiday Over
THE Diary, as noted above, is pleased to be back home in Bali. The holiday’s over. It’s time for that other annual ritual: standing by with the mop and bucket for the monsoon rains with which the Island of the Gods traditionally greets a new year.
Friday, December 19, 2008
HECTOR'S BALI TIMES DIARY [for Dec. 19]
The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
It’s That Girl Again
SCHAPELLE Corby, who basks in the glory of being Bali’s celebrity convict and prime tenant at Kerobokan Jail, is back in the news again. She is a subject of a music video featuring what is touted as Tara Hack’s “highly acclaimed” song about the poor little Aussie girl’s predicament, titled “Saya Tidak Bersalah” (“I’m Not Guilty”).
Perhaps the second line of the ditty should go: “Maaf Sekali Saya Lupa Narkotika di Dalam Bagasi Saya” (“So Sorry I Forgot About the Drugs in My Baggage”).
The video features people in various places around the world “demonstrating their opposition to her continued incarceration”. The promoters say it illustrates how concern for Corby is now truly international as it includes representation from the United States, Australia, Britain, New Zealand, Europe and Canada, among other places.
The music bit was provided by “Artists for Schapelle”. A spokeswoman for this eclectic group of people without better causes to spruik, Rachel James, says: “The world is watching the Australian government doing nothing to help, with their media covering their tracks. The world is watching the appalling injustice and cruelty of this case. When the world hears her cries for help and learns of her story, national boundaries become absolutely irrelevant.”
If these guys really believe all of that nonsense, they must be smoking the same stuff Corby flew into Bali in her boogie-board bag. If they weren’t off with the fairies, they would be championing the causes of other less high profile prisoners who actually do have something to gripe about and don’t benefit from the sort of wall to wall, entry at will care (and care packages) Corby does. But if you’re interested, you can check for yourself at Schapelle.net (we kid you not). Go straight to jail at http://www.schapelle.net.
And that’s not all. We hear Corby’s sister, the far from publicity shy Mercedes, has posed nude for one of those Aussie rags that cater to the lower end of the food chain. Mercedes lives in Bali too, but not – as far as we know – at public expense. The Diary can think of all sorts of reasons to own a topless Mercedes. But that would be one with wheels.
‘Tis the Season for Much Folly
AS we head into Christmas and New Year, as always we head as well into what is commonly called the Silly Season. Originally this meant that the media – bereft of real stories because all their usual rich sources of copy, usually politicians, were off having a knees-up somewhere – found all sorts of non-stories to print instead. How fortunate we are in Indonesia that the silly season apparently affects politicians too.
First we have President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono signing into law the anti-pornography legislation that has Bali (and numerous other provinces fearing cultural oppression) up in arms. Mr President: What about unity in diversity? Then we have Culture and Tourism Minister Jero Wacik calling for everyone just to accept the new laws. Minister, it is abundantly clear that everyone is not just going to accept them. And then we have Trade Minister Mari Pangestu – normally a welcome voice of common sense – saying the tough new import laws that have cleared shelves of all sorts of products tourists like to buy and eat will be delayed. They “took effect” on Dec. 15, but shelves have been empty for weeks.
On the anti-pornography law, as The Diary has noted before, the way to proceed (if we must; and if the Constitutional Court rules in favour of the new law) is to make its implementation a matter for individual provinces. Blanket enforcement – which Minister Wacik apparently thinks everyone should just accept – would be a step towards an Islamic state, if not a Javanese empire. That’s the real political problem the President and others should be worrying about. On the imports law, again as The Diary has noted before, if the government wants to apply new national standards on imported foods, it should first work out what those standards should be, and then set up a checking system that can actually work.
A New Year resolution would seem to be in order: When having bright ideas, think about them first.
Lombok Gets its Aussie Connection
WE hear that IndoJet, the arm of Australian boutique airline OzJet that flies from Perth to Bali, is adding Lombok to its destinations, with a weekly service to Mataram from Perth on Sundays. Lombok has long sought direct input from Australia, and while the new service only connects it with Perth – on the opposite side of the country from the really big travelling populations – it’s a great start. It is good news for Lombok and something we here in Bali should applaud. Our neighbouring island is a great place for a holiday and it deserves more exposure – and more tourists – than it currently gets.
Until now only Silk Air – the Singapore Airlines subsidiary – has provided Lombok with direct (non-stop) international connections, with three flights a week between Singapore and Mataram. Other tourists arriving by air have to transit Bali and deliver themselves to the uncertain scheduling of the three airlines that operate the Denpasar-Mataram shuttle. Resorts on Lombok have never felt confident enough with these schedules to recommend guests feel safe about checking out on the day of their international flight home from Bali.
Lombok is getting a new airport – Mataram’s Selaparang runway is too short for big jets – in the south of the island. The Dubai-based Emar developers are preparing the ground in the south (it’s a fantastic ocean coast there with spectacular scenery) for a “tourism precinct” development. Hopes are high that Gulf-oriented tourism will eventually give the island a much needed boost.
That Gulf May Be Widening
THE world financial crisis may be having an effect on the global reach of the Gulf economies that could have an unfortunate flow-on effect here in Indonesia. Money is apparently getting a lot scarcer than it was. Anecdotal evidence from the Australian construction firm Leighton indicates the development bubble in Dubai – home of Emirate Airlines and of Emar, the development corporation heavily engaged in Lombok’s southern tourism project – has rather suddenly deflated.
We hear that about 50 hotel projects have been cancelled, that estimates of apartment construction for the next three years have been halved from 50,000 to 25,000, and that investors who bought apartments in Dubai off the plan have suddenly realised that the music has stopped.
The basic problem appears to be that with falling oil prices and the flood of red ink all over national and corporate balance sheets around the globe, surpluses in the hitherto golden Gulf States may soon turn to deficits of around 30 per cent of local GDPs. The word is that Dubai is the most vulnerable because it does not have much oil, its banks are heavily exposed to property, and its economy is reliant on tourism, financial services and trade.
Let’s hope the suggestion that the global recession will be short (and as un-sharp as possible) and that those who suggest the worst will be over by the time 2010 rolls around are on the money.
Meanwhile, Eagles Don’t Fly (Again)
IT SEEMS Garuda, which a little while ago announced it was resuming its lapsed Bali-Brisbane service, won’t in fact be starting any time soon. Apparently it has failed to attract sufficient bookings for its start-up services and is now saying it hopes to get off the ground to Brisbane some time in 2009. No doubt the presence of both Pacific Blue and Jetstar on that route has had an impact on Garuda’s prospects. It was last into the race for business from Brisbane – Australia’s third-largest city – playing tail-end Charlie to the new Aussie entrants.
Garuda stopped flying to Brisbane (and Auckland in New Zealand) in 2005. It had a useful monopoly on that route then, an advantage it rather foolishly lost. The ball game is now totally different.
All Set to Kill the Golden Goose?
THESE are difficult times for tourism, and likely to get more difficult in the near term, as the world slides into deeper economic difficulties. So it is interesting to look at new figures that show starkly the additional cost international hotels are putting on their accommodation at a time when most tourists have less money to spend.
Many in Bali have increased tariffs for 2009 by up to 25 per cent following strong occupancy levels for much of 2008. That might be sensible market pricing in normal times – if more people want access to a finite resource, prices should reflect that demand – but it takes on a different complexion when tariff rises are looked at in combination with shifts in foreign exchange rates. This is compounded in Bali where international hotels universally price in American dollars.
On this basis, in 2009 South Koreans will pay 88 per cent extra for their hotel accommodation, Britons 71 per cent extra, Australians 68 per cent extra, Indians 55 per cent extra, Euro-spending Europeans 41 per cent extra, and Malaysians 35 per cent extra. The Japanese, in contrast, are paying only 3.5 per cent extra.
At a time when employment uncertainty is the unwelcome guest at the family table, putting a wildly unreasonable premium on a Bali holiday is a good way to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Or persuade even more potential hotel customers to choose villa accommodation instead.
What? No Haloumi!
VISITING Candi Dasa – which we see is being billed as “the jewel of the east” in local promotions – is always a pleasure. There’s all that inexpensive beachfront accommodation (without the actual beach of course, since they sold all that coral all those years ago). There are those great sea breezes. And then there’s Vincent’s, a restaurant that The Diary favours for its outré ambience – though it is sadly far less outré now the proprietors have removed much of the explicit art that used to adorn the walls and create conversation – and its menu.
But a recent visit proved, alas, that the “they shall not have their foreign foods” brigade has struck again. A highlight of the menu at Vincent’s is grilled Haloumi (a cheese from Cyprus that aficionados kill for). A request for this fine dish elicited the now boringly standard response diners get at eating establishments all over the island: “So sorry. No have.” They do a great Mie Goreng, though ... and Rocket Salad with Blue Cheese is a must.
Great Boots!
AUSTRALIAN Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, surely in the running for this year’s award for most trips to Bali by an Aussie, was here for the Bali Democracy Forum earlier this month. Perhaps he would have found time to ponder the perfection of democratic intent implicit in the new anti-pornography law. Naturally, that’s nothing to do with Australia – it is a purely domestic problem – but, well, you know, Kev’s a worrier.
On a brighter note, he did give President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono – who was also at the forum and hopefully also pondering democratic niceties – a very nice pair of RM Williams boots. RM’s are Aussie iconography at its best. The Diary happily owns a pair, slightly older than the set now in the possession of SBY.
Other footwear is available this season too (photo). It might come in handy if you’re prone to slips – Freudian or otherwise – or if you have a clumsy friend on your Christmas list.
A Lombok Mystery
WE happened upon a copy of the Lombok Times the other day, a rare enough event in any case but rarer still for its recycling in the December edition of a calumny perpetrated earlier this year by the International Herald Tribune, which alleged that local luminary Howard Singleton, proprietor of The Office at Senggigi, a fine watering hole, was an Aussie.
He wasn’t when The Diary was a regular at The Office, and as we reported at the time of his Unfortunate Mention, he seemed a little miffed at being fingered as a colonial. He’s a Brit; and not one of the obnoxious ones, either, though there are a few of those about both sides of the Wallace Line.
Either Howard has come out of the closet with some hitherto darkly kept secret, and is a secret Toegripper from Down Under, or the Lombok Times got it wrong. Inquiries will be made.
Have a Good Break
SINCE there’s no paper next week, The Diary is taking a break too. Season’s greetings to all readers and we’ll see you again when the little counter has clicked over to 2009.
It’s That Girl Again
SCHAPELLE Corby, who basks in the glory of being Bali’s celebrity convict and prime tenant at Kerobokan Jail, is back in the news again. She is a subject of a music video featuring what is touted as Tara Hack’s “highly acclaimed” song about the poor little Aussie girl’s predicament, titled “Saya Tidak Bersalah” (“I’m Not Guilty”).
Perhaps the second line of the ditty should go: “Maaf Sekali Saya Lupa Narkotika di Dalam Bagasi Saya” (“So Sorry I Forgot About the Drugs in My Baggage”).
The video features people in various places around the world “demonstrating their opposition to her continued incarceration”. The promoters say it illustrates how concern for Corby is now truly international as it includes representation from the United States, Australia, Britain, New Zealand, Europe and Canada, among other places.
The music bit was provided by “Artists for Schapelle”. A spokeswoman for this eclectic group of people without better causes to spruik, Rachel James, says: “The world is watching the Australian government doing nothing to help, with their media covering their tracks. The world is watching the appalling injustice and cruelty of this case. When the world hears her cries for help and learns of her story, national boundaries become absolutely irrelevant.”
If these guys really believe all of that nonsense, they must be smoking the same stuff Corby flew into Bali in her boogie-board bag. If they weren’t off with the fairies, they would be championing the causes of other less high profile prisoners who actually do have something to gripe about and don’t benefit from the sort of wall to wall, entry at will care (and care packages) Corby does. But if you’re interested, you can check for yourself at Schapelle.net (we kid you not). Go straight to jail at http://www.schapelle.net.
And that’s not all. We hear Corby’s sister, the far from publicity shy Mercedes, has posed nude for one of those Aussie rags that cater to the lower end of the food chain. Mercedes lives in Bali too, but not – as far as we know – at public expense. The Diary can think of all sorts of reasons to own a topless Mercedes. But that would be one with wheels.
‘Tis the Season for Much Folly
AS we head into Christmas and New Year, as always we head as well into what is commonly called the Silly Season. Originally this meant that the media – bereft of real stories because all their usual rich sources of copy, usually politicians, were off having a knees-up somewhere – found all sorts of non-stories to print instead. How fortunate we are in Indonesia that the silly season apparently affects politicians too.
First we have President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono signing into law the anti-pornography legislation that has Bali (and numerous other provinces fearing cultural oppression) up in arms. Mr President: What about unity in diversity? Then we have Culture and Tourism Minister Jero Wacik calling for everyone just to accept the new laws. Minister, it is abundantly clear that everyone is not just going to accept them. And then we have Trade Minister Mari Pangestu – normally a welcome voice of common sense – saying the tough new import laws that have cleared shelves of all sorts of products tourists like to buy and eat will be delayed. They “took effect” on Dec. 15, but shelves have been empty for weeks.
On the anti-pornography law, as The Diary has noted before, the way to proceed (if we must; and if the Constitutional Court rules in favour of the new law) is to make its implementation a matter for individual provinces. Blanket enforcement – which Minister Wacik apparently thinks everyone should just accept – would be a step towards an Islamic state, if not a Javanese empire. That’s the real political problem the President and others should be worrying about. On the imports law, again as The Diary has noted before, if the government wants to apply new national standards on imported foods, it should first work out what those standards should be, and then set up a checking system that can actually work.
A New Year resolution would seem to be in order: When having bright ideas, think about them first.
Lombok Gets its Aussie Connection
WE hear that IndoJet, the arm of Australian boutique airline OzJet that flies from Perth to Bali, is adding Lombok to its destinations, with a weekly service to Mataram from Perth on Sundays. Lombok has long sought direct input from Australia, and while the new service only connects it with Perth – on the opposite side of the country from the really big travelling populations – it’s a great start. It is good news for Lombok and something we here in Bali should applaud. Our neighbouring island is a great place for a holiday and it deserves more exposure – and more tourists – than it currently gets.
Until now only Silk Air – the Singapore Airlines subsidiary – has provided Lombok with direct (non-stop) international connections, with three flights a week between Singapore and Mataram. Other tourists arriving by air have to transit Bali and deliver themselves to the uncertain scheduling of the three airlines that operate the Denpasar-Mataram shuttle. Resorts on Lombok have never felt confident enough with these schedules to recommend guests feel safe about checking out on the day of their international flight home from Bali.
Lombok is getting a new airport – Mataram’s Selaparang runway is too short for big jets – in the south of the island. The Dubai-based Emar developers are preparing the ground in the south (it’s a fantastic ocean coast there with spectacular scenery) for a “tourism precinct” development. Hopes are high that Gulf-oriented tourism will eventually give the island a much needed boost.
That Gulf May Be Widening
THE world financial crisis may be having an effect on the global reach of the Gulf economies that could have an unfortunate flow-on effect here in Indonesia. Money is apparently getting a lot scarcer than it was. Anecdotal evidence from the Australian construction firm Leighton indicates the development bubble in Dubai – home of Emirate Airlines and of Emar, the development corporation heavily engaged in Lombok’s southern tourism project – has rather suddenly deflated.
We hear that about 50 hotel projects have been cancelled, that estimates of apartment construction for the next three years have been halved from 50,000 to 25,000, and that investors who bought apartments in Dubai off the plan have suddenly realised that the music has stopped.
The basic problem appears to be that with falling oil prices and the flood of red ink all over national and corporate balance sheets around the globe, surpluses in the hitherto golden Gulf States may soon turn to deficits of around 30 per cent of local GDPs. The word is that Dubai is the most vulnerable because it does not have much oil, its banks are heavily exposed to property, and its economy is reliant on tourism, financial services and trade.
Let’s hope the suggestion that the global recession will be short (and as un-sharp as possible) and that those who suggest the worst will be over by the time 2010 rolls around are on the money.
Meanwhile, Eagles Don’t Fly (Again)
IT SEEMS Garuda, which a little while ago announced it was resuming its lapsed Bali-Brisbane service, won’t in fact be starting any time soon. Apparently it has failed to attract sufficient bookings for its start-up services and is now saying it hopes to get off the ground to Brisbane some time in 2009. No doubt the presence of both Pacific Blue and Jetstar on that route has had an impact on Garuda’s prospects. It was last into the race for business from Brisbane – Australia’s third-largest city – playing tail-end Charlie to the new Aussie entrants.
Garuda stopped flying to Brisbane (and Auckland in New Zealand) in 2005. It had a useful monopoly on that route then, an advantage it rather foolishly lost. The ball game is now totally different.
All Set to Kill the Golden Goose?
THESE are difficult times for tourism, and likely to get more difficult in the near term, as the world slides into deeper economic difficulties. So it is interesting to look at new figures that show starkly the additional cost international hotels are putting on their accommodation at a time when most tourists have less money to spend.
Many in Bali have increased tariffs for 2009 by up to 25 per cent following strong occupancy levels for much of 2008. That might be sensible market pricing in normal times – if more people want access to a finite resource, prices should reflect that demand – but it takes on a different complexion when tariff rises are looked at in combination with shifts in foreign exchange rates. This is compounded in Bali where international hotels universally price in American dollars.
On this basis, in 2009 South Koreans will pay 88 per cent extra for their hotel accommodation, Britons 71 per cent extra, Australians 68 per cent extra, Indians 55 per cent extra, Euro-spending Europeans 41 per cent extra, and Malaysians 35 per cent extra. The Japanese, in contrast, are paying only 3.5 per cent extra.
At a time when employment uncertainty is the unwelcome guest at the family table, putting a wildly unreasonable premium on a Bali holiday is a good way to kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Or persuade even more potential hotel customers to choose villa accommodation instead.
What? No Haloumi!
VISITING Candi Dasa – which we see is being billed as “the jewel of the east” in local promotions – is always a pleasure. There’s all that inexpensive beachfront accommodation (without the actual beach of course, since they sold all that coral all those years ago). There are those great sea breezes. And then there’s Vincent’s, a restaurant that The Diary favours for its outré ambience – though it is sadly far less outré now the proprietors have removed much of the explicit art that used to adorn the walls and create conversation – and its menu.
But a recent visit proved, alas, that the “they shall not have their foreign foods” brigade has struck again. A highlight of the menu at Vincent’s is grilled Haloumi (a cheese from Cyprus that aficionados kill for). A request for this fine dish elicited the now boringly standard response diners get at eating establishments all over the island: “So sorry. No have.” They do a great Mie Goreng, though ... and Rocket Salad with Blue Cheese is a must.
Great Boots!
AUSTRALIAN Prime Minister Kevin Rudd, surely in the running for this year’s award for most trips to Bali by an Aussie, was here for the Bali Democracy Forum earlier this month. Perhaps he would have found time to ponder the perfection of democratic intent implicit in the new anti-pornography law. Naturally, that’s nothing to do with Australia – it is a purely domestic problem – but, well, you know, Kev’s a worrier.
On a brighter note, he did give President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono – who was also at the forum and hopefully also pondering democratic niceties – a very nice pair of RM Williams boots. RM’s are Aussie iconography at its best. The Diary happily owns a pair, slightly older than the set now in the possession of SBY.
Other footwear is available this season too (photo). It might come in handy if you’re prone to slips – Freudian or otherwise – or if you have a clumsy friend on your Christmas list.
A Lombok Mystery
WE happened upon a copy of the Lombok Times the other day, a rare enough event in any case but rarer still for its recycling in the December edition of a calumny perpetrated earlier this year by the International Herald Tribune, which alleged that local luminary Howard Singleton, proprietor of The Office at Senggigi, a fine watering hole, was an Aussie.
He wasn’t when The Diary was a regular at The Office, and as we reported at the time of his Unfortunate Mention, he seemed a little miffed at being fingered as a colonial. He’s a Brit; and not one of the obnoxious ones, either, though there are a few of those about both sides of the Wallace Line.
Either Howard has come out of the closet with some hitherto darkly kept secret, and is a secret Toegripper from Down Under, or the Lombok Times got it wrong. Inquiries will be made.
Have a Good Break
SINCE there’s no paper next week, The Diary is taking a break too. Season’s greetings to all readers and we’ll see you again when the little counter has clicked over to 2009.
Friday, December 12, 2008
HECTOR'S BALI TIMES DIARY [for Dec. 12]
The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
Dogs Collared in Bukit Job
THE rabies scare in the Bukit/Jimbaran area has had an interesting side effect. A lot more dogs these days are wearing collars. Some seem to do so proudly, as if proclaiming: “I’m a PET”. Others do it with very evident distaste, as you would expect of a hound hitherto free of any branding or restriction. And many others, whose owners apparently aren’t up for spending collar money, now appear wearing pretty little ribbons round their necks. These might look all right on poodles. On a pooch whose life is The Street, they look uncommonly comical. Some of the poor beribboned ones seem to carry an air of terminal embarrassment.
Much has been made of the fact that Bali is a “rabies-free” area. It’s a claim advanced much in the same way – and from the same delusional and self-serving direction – as the French like to pretend La Rage never makes it west of the Meuse. Rabies is a viral disease. It is impossible to conclusively test for it until it begins to affect a victim’s central nervous system. The only way anywhere is “rabies-free” is on the basis of no reported cases of the disease (in Bali until the present outbreak no cases had been recorded in more than a decade). Islands with strict quarantine laws, significantly distant from other landmasses, may indeed be free of rabies. Britain and Ireland are; Australia and New Zealand are; some remote Pacific islands are. It is very doubtful that anywhere in Indonesia falls in reality into the “100 per cent certainty of freedom from rabies” category.
But this is not necessarily a problem. A raft of diseases exists in the world that has been reduced – sometimes to virtual invisibility – by public health measures, preventive health infrastructure, and above-slum-level sanitation and rubbish disposal. That’s certainly the case in Bali. But it can never mean that such diseases no longer exist as a threat or that outbreaks will not occur. The action taken in Bali to control the rabies outbreak and prevent cases occurring outside the areas already affected has been swift – Governor Made Pastika deserves great credit for that – and (despite criticism that culling wild dog populations is no solution) effective. A proper preventive programme of vaccination for domestic dogs should be introduced on an ongoing basis and made compulsory, as should registration of animals. Public subsidies are needed to ensure local dog owners don’t face the prospect of spending a year’s salary on anti-rabies shots for their pets and working dogs (expatriates can bear the full cost and if necessary should be made to). Domestic pets should not be allowed to roam widely and any not required for licensed breeding should be sterilised so they do not add to the wild dog population. Wild dog packs should be regularly culled.
The rule must be: If you own a dog or care for it in any way – such as, say, using otherwise wild dogs to help you round up livestock and the like – then you are responsible for properly feeding it and, within your financial means, ensuring its health and welfare. This is expensive but within the mutual-responsibility culture of Balinese communities it would be manageable. All that is needed is the will to act – and education in why it is necessary. And it is necessary because no one, and no domestic animal, should die of rabies today. If the residual risk of contracting the disease is recognised by the authorities, if vaccine is readily available, if at-risk domestic animals are protected, if wild dog populations are minimised, and if quarantine laws are effectively enforced to permit entry only of vaccinated animals, the disease is a minimal threat.
Oh To Be in Ubud, Now the Rains Are Here
THE Diary has a day job in the VFR industry. That’s as in the strong travel and tourism market sector that involves “Visiting Friends and Relatives”. That’s as in, they visit you, if you live in a lovely place like Bali and they don’t. The Diary, in day job mode, has in consequence many friends who decide they would like to discover – or rediscover – the delights of Bali and that’s good. It means all sorts of opportunities to visit nice places like Ubud, Candi Dasa and others, that might not otherwise make it onto the everyday schedule.
A recent visit to Ubud brought a further benefit (and not only to the VFR party being shown around). A pleasant stay at Janet DeNeefe’s Honeymoon Guesthouse and the opportunity to sample some of the famed cuisine from Casa Luna was only part of this. OK, so it rained. You expect that in the rainy season. Indeed there are people to be found who would complain bitterly – not to mention wicker endlessly about climate change – if it didn’t. It makes everything lush and green, creates cleansing flows in some of the little streams, and leads to some remarkably fresh post-downpour evenings and early mornings. What fun it is to have one’s visitors from chillier climes wondering why, when they decided to travel to the tropics, they left their woollies behind.
A minor medical issue for one of the party on the trip in question – involving those strangely redundant and oddly named things, wisdom teeth – also demonstrated the efficiency of local medical services. The town has every reason to be the tourist drawcard it is. And those smiles on the street – ubiquitous everywhere in Bali – are a pleasant reminder indeed that the world is really a beautiful place.
No Hg Up Ovr Txtsm
U CN RLX: Mobile phone texting is not killing the English language. We hear this encouraging intelligence from an Australian researcher, Dr Nenagh Kemp (though should that, we wonder, be Nngh Kmp?), who presented her findings at the Research Network in Human Communication Science conference in Sydney. (It’s amazing what people will go to in Sydney when it’s not Mardi Gras season.) Dr Kemp apparently found 55 undergraduates with nothing better to do than read and write text messages using normal English and abbreviated text language (she calls this “textism”) and turned them into lab rats.
Surprise! She discovered that proficient texters are usually better at reading and using traditional spelling and grammar. It probably helps if you’re in a position to guess what the excised vowels might be in a sequence of consonantal gobbledegook. The prize for the bleeding obvious from this research, however, goes to the finding that while it is quicker to write in “textism” (txtsm, surely?), it can take twice as long to work out what the message says.
For many people in Bali, this difficulty is compounded. When your grasp of even the fully spelt-out version of Bahasa Indonesia is less than perfect, it’s a real bother trying to work out what on earth all those mobile telephone providers are trying to tell you or sell you in their annoying text messages that clog up your phone on Friday nights and weekends.
They Really Are a Weird Mob
AUNTY, as Australia’s national broadcaster the ABC is known, has been spreading her wings with audience participation. In collaboration with the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra (the notional capital) the ABC has commissioned 30 video portraits on the theme “My Favourite Australian”. A public vote last year produced a “Top Ten” list. Olivia Newton John, the 1970s pop singer, won top billing. John Farnham, another singer (he was Johnny Farnham, he of “Sadie the Cleaning Lady” fame, before he got all serious, message wise), made it in at No. 3. Tasmanian tree hugger Bob Brown, head of the Australian Greens, took No 4 spot. George Bush’s former Aussie Man of Steel John Howard (the ex-PM) scored No 5. Oddly, his GWB-anointed and self-proclaimed non-rusting successor, now known to the world as www.KevinPM, didn’t rate a mention. But the vote was last year, after all, when the unusual concept of Kevin the Great was still just a twinkle in a latte lapper’s eye.
This year the ABC ran a poll for “Most Inspiring Unsung Heroes”. Terry Hicks, father of Australian Guantanamo Bay detainee David Hicks, got an honourable mention in such a lengthy list of the unsung that most seem to have difficulty even popping up on Google. But you have to hand it to Terry Hicks for his cast-iron faith in the fact that his son, formerly a soldier of misfortune with Al Qaida’s feared strike force of formerly Infidel irregulars (he won’t say, but we think he served in the 1st Battalion The Regiment of Royally Useful Fools – “Osama’s Own”), would instantly revert to being just a regular guy if returned to Australia for a light slap on the wrist and a crash course in how to spread Vegemite.
Incidentally, 2008 has been the ABC’s most successful ratings year yet. It won a prime time free-to-air share of TV viewing of 17 per cent. Your Diarist declares an interest: is interested to note that one of the top programmes on ABC1 TV was “Australia: Land of Parrots”. Don’t think we’ve seen that on the ABC’s Australia Network satellite system yet. There’s been plenty about galahs though.
The ‘Bam’s Pointe Man: From Door Opener to Gate Keeper
RAHM Emanuel, named by President-elect Barack Obama as White House chief of staff, is a fellow for fancy footwork. Well he did train for ballet before deciding he could make a better Pointe in the financial world. He got his big start on the road to the political big time when, leaving the Clinton White House as a senior political adviser at the height of the Monica Lewinsky scandal in 1998, he was picked up by big-time Wall Street operator Bruce Wasserstein, a major Democrat Party donor. It was a move that netted him a place in the then sunny world of hedge funds, earned him a US$18 million-plus fortune in two-and-a-half years and then – in the tried and true manner of welding political connections to the mega-bucks world of influence – facilitated a pirouette into national politics.
It’s interesting that the little known portion of his life before he was elected to a House of Representatives seat from Illinois has now attracted the attention of the American media, ever anxious to spot a mote in the eye of anyone but themselves. “I had this idea that this could work and that it had upside,” the New York Times reports Wasserstein, now chairman and chief executive of Lazard, the investment bank, as saying of Emanuel’s recruitment to the Gordon Gecko world of Wall Street. “It worked out better than I could have hoped.” And better than Emanuel could have imagined as well. It turned his White House contact book into paying clients and his renowned negotiating skills and famous intensity into a super-plus for lucrative mergers and acquisitions.
Since entering politics, however, it would seem Emanuel has been his own man on business and financial regulation. While friends of Emanuel’s from his private-sector days say he still keeps in touch to stay on top of business insights on economic issues, he voted with other Democrats last year on a bill that significantly increased the tax rate on profits earned by private equity firms and sponsored a bill to curb the ability of hedge fund managers to defer paying taxes on earnings held in offshore tax havens. He supported another measure that imposed new reporting requirements on financial firms for what investors pay on stocks and mutual funds. Emanuel gave the New York Times his side of the story: “I would say I’ve been as tough on my friends as others. I call it like I see it.”
Eye Contact? You Were Lucky!
YOUR Diarist’s rheumy old eye was caught by the item last week on a curious aspect of baby care. It was in the Health page of course, an area of journalism which is nowadays essential because everyone is afflicted by that horrific modern condition MIA. No, we don’t mean “missing in action”: we’re not talking bureaucrats out to lunch or policemen on excused bribes duty. It’s much more serious. It’s Medically Induced Angst.
The item was about how putting your baby in a forward-facing “buggy” is bad for it. Apparently it can cause those infant entities so abused to become stressed by the lack of eye contact they then have with the person pushing them along. In your Diarist’s younger days – when he not yet even a fledgling, merely a hatchling – this was the least of his worries. It was generally his Mum or his Gran pushing him along and the street scene, although hardly colourful, was at least interesting. At the time (read on) it must have been like trying to negotiate a Kuta walkway. Of course, he was in a pram – proper name perambulator, sometimes even more grandly known as a “baby carriage”. This was before buggies or strollers and certainly those ridiculous papoose-sling things had been invented.
But he cast his mind back, as he is wont to do when nothing current is attracting the cognitive processes, and he does remember being told the story of one traumatic event from his pram days. It was in early 1945, in London – which the fortunes of war had dictated would be his hatching place – and at the time when that murderous little curiosity Adolf Hitler was having his last rabid quiver and aiming his fire-and-forget V1 and V2 rockets at Winston Churchill. And missing him, of course, instead clobbering people whose only offence was a rather fierce belief that Winston was a better sort of chap than Adolf. These circumstances were just one of those things: In adversity, curse and carry on. That’s the spirit. None of that namby-pamby, touchy-feely stuff then.
Anyway, the incident is definitely an act of parental abandonment that today would not only cause recurrent episodes of MIA throughout one’s whole life, but also have whole squadrons of social workers descending upon one (most sensible people would favour the remote risk of a V1 or V2 over that outcome). In those stoic days, it simply became just another family tale.
It seems Mum had sauntered down to the post office – as you would with a three-month-old baby in a pram and a likely misguided missile threat in the air – and having done whatever it was she was doing there (it may have had something to do with posting a letter; or perhaps she was getting more ration coupons), the poor dear, so recently blessed by motherhood, completely forgot about the pram, the baby, and indeed, her proud new status, and sauntered back home.
Enter granny, never one to miss a beat or a baby. Where is the baby, she inquired sweetly, doubtless thinking the pram and its infant contents had been parked in the weak English spring sunshine under the apple tree in the back garden. Oh, um, well... [The rest is deleted on grounds of taste. Mums NEVER say things like that.]
Never mind. After the double sprint back to the post office, pram and contents were retrieved unharmed. Babies didn’t talk to strangers in those days either. Well, other than to coo, boo and gurgle of course – and wonder where the hell Mum is.
Dogs Collared in Bukit Job
THE rabies scare in the Bukit/Jimbaran area has had an interesting side effect. A lot more dogs these days are wearing collars. Some seem to do so proudly, as if proclaiming: “I’m a PET”. Others do it with very evident distaste, as you would expect of a hound hitherto free of any branding or restriction. And many others, whose owners apparently aren’t up for spending collar money, now appear wearing pretty little ribbons round their necks. These might look all right on poodles. On a pooch whose life is The Street, they look uncommonly comical. Some of the poor beribboned ones seem to carry an air of terminal embarrassment.
Much has been made of the fact that Bali is a “rabies-free” area. It’s a claim advanced much in the same way – and from the same delusional and self-serving direction – as the French like to pretend La Rage never makes it west of the Meuse. Rabies is a viral disease. It is impossible to conclusively test for it until it begins to affect a victim’s central nervous system. The only way anywhere is “rabies-free” is on the basis of no reported cases of the disease (in Bali until the present outbreak no cases had been recorded in more than a decade). Islands with strict quarantine laws, significantly distant from other landmasses, may indeed be free of rabies. Britain and Ireland are; Australia and New Zealand are; some remote Pacific islands are. It is very doubtful that anywhere in Indonesia falls in reality into the “100 per cent certainty of freedom from rabies” category.
But this is not necessarily a problem. A raft of diseases exists in the world that has been reduced – sometimes to virtual invisibility – by public health measures, preventive health infrastructure, and above-slum-level sanitation and rubbish disposal. That’s certainly the case in Bali. But it can never mean that such diseases no longer exist as a threat or that outbreaks will not occur. The action taken in Bali to control the rabies outbreak and prevent cases occurring outside the areas already affected has been swift – Governor Made Pastika deserves great credit for that – and (despite criticism that culling wild dog populations is no solution) effective. A proper preventive programme of vaccination for domestic dogs should be introduced on an ongoing basis and made compulsory, as should registration of animals. Public subsidies are needed to ensure local dog owners don’t face the prospect of spending a year’s salary on anti-rabies shots for their pets and working dogs (expatriates can bear the full cost and if necessary should be made to). Domestic pets should not be allowed to roam widely and any not required for licensed breeding should be sterilised so they do not add to the wild dog population. Wild dog packs should be regularly culled.
The rule must be: If you own a dog or care for it in any way – such as, say, using otherwise wild dogs to help you round up livestock and the like – then you are responsible for properly feeding it and, within your financial means, ensuring its health and welfare. This is expensive but within the mutual-responsibility culture of Balinese communities it would be manageable. All that is needed is the will to act – and education in why it is necessary. And it is necessary because no one, and no domestic animal, should die of rabies today. If the residual risk of contracting the disease is recognised by the authorities, if vaccine is readily available, if at-risk domestic animals are protected, if wild dog populations are minimised, and if quarantine laws are effectively enforced to permit entry only of vaccinated animals, the disease is a minimal threat.
Oh To Be in Ubud, Now the Rains Are Here
THE Diary has a day job in the VFR industry. That’s as in the strong travel and tourism market sector that involves “Visiting Friends and Relatives”. That’s as in, they visit you, if you live in a lovely place like Bali and they don’t. The Diary, in day job mode, has in consequence many friends who decide they would like to discover – or rediscover – the delights of Bali and that’s good. It means all sorts of opportunities to visit nice places like Ubud, Candi Dasa and others, that might not otherwise make it onto the everyday schedule.
A recent visit to Ubud brought a further benefit (and not only to the VFR party being shown around). A pleasant stay at Janet DeNeefe’s Honeymoon Guesthouse and the opportunity to sample some of the famed cuisine from Casa Luna was only part of this. OK, so it rained. You expect that in the rainy season. Indeed there are people to be found who would complain bitterly – not to mention wicker endlessly about climate change – if it didn’t. It makes everything lush and green, creates cleansing flows in some of the little streams, and leads to some remarkably fresh post-downpour evenings and early mornings. What fun it is to have one’s visitors from chillier climes wondering why, when they decided to travel to the tropics, they left their woollies behind.
A minor medical issue for one of the party on the trip in question – involving those strangely redundant and oddly named things, wisdom teeth – also demonstrated the efficiency of local medical services. The town has every reason to be the tourist drawcard it is. And those smiles on the street – ubiquitous everywhere in Bali – are a pleasant reminder indeed that the world is really a beautiful place.
No Hg Up Ovr Txtsm
U CN RLX: Mobile phone texting is not killing the English language. We hear this encouraging intelligence from an Australian researcher, Dr Nenagh Kemp (though should that, we wonder, be Nngh Kmp?), who presented her findings at the Research Network in Human Communication Science conference in Sydney. (It’s amazing what people will go to in Sydney when it’s not Mardi Gras season.) Dr Kemp apparently found 55 undergraduates with nothing better to do than read and write text messages using normal English and abbreviated text language (she calls this “textism”) and turned them into lab rats.
Surprise! She discovered that proficient texters are usually better at reading and using traditional spelling and grammar. It probably helps if you’re in a position to guess what the excised vowels might be in a sequence of consonantal gobbledegook. The prize for the bleeding obvious from this research, however, goes to the finding that while it is quicker to write in “textism” (txtsm, surely?), it can take twice as long to work out what the message says.
For many people in Bali, this difficulty is compounded. When your grasp of even the fully spelt-out version of Bahasa Indonesia is less than perfect, it’s a real bother trying to work out what on earth all those mobile telephone providers are trying to tell you or sell you in their annoying text messages that clog up your phone on Friday nights and weekends.
They Really Are a Weird Mob
AUNTY, as Australia’s national broadcaster the ABC is known, has been spreading her wings with audience participation. In collaboration with the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra (the notional capital) the ABC has commissioned 30 video portraits on the theme “My Favourite Australian”. A public vote last year produced a “Top Ten” list. Olivia Newton John, the 1970s pop singer, won top billing. John Farnham, another singer (he was Johnny Farnham, he of “Sadie the Cleaning Lady” fame, before he got all serious, message wise), made it in at No. 3. Tasmanian tree hugger Bob Brown, head of the Australian Greens, took No 4 spot. George Bush’s former Aussie Man of Steel John Howard (the ex-PM) scored No 5. Oddly, his GWB-anointed and self-proclaimed non-rusting successor, now known to the world as www.KevinPM, didn’t rate a mention. But the vote was last year, after all, when the unusual concept of Kevin the Great was still just a twinkle in a latte lapper’s eye.
This year the ABC ran a poll for “Most Inspiring Unsung Heroes”. Terry Hicks, father of Australian Guantanamo Bay detainee David Hicks, got an honourable mention in such a lengthy list of the unsung that most seem to have difficulty even popping up on Google. But you have to hand it to Terry Hicks for his cast-iron faith in the fact that his son, formerly a soldier of misfortune with Al Qaida’s feared strike force of formerly Infidel irregulars (he won’t say, but we think he served in the 1st Battalion The Regiment of Royally Useful Fools – “Osama’s Own”), would instantly revert to being just a regular guy if returned to Australia for a light slap on the wrist and a crash course in how to spread Vegemite.
Incidentally, 2008 has been the ABC’s most successful ratings year yet. It won a prime time free-to-air share of TV viewing of 17 per cent. Your Diarist declares an interest: is interested to note that one of the top programmes on ABC1 TV was “Australia: Land of Parrots”. Don’t think we’ve seen that on the ABC’s Australia Network satellite system yet. There’s been plenty about galahs though.
The ‘Bam’s Pointe Man: From Door Opener to Gate Keeper
RAHM Emanuel, named by President-elect Barack Obama as White House chief of staff, is a fellow for fancy footwork. Well he did train for ballet before deciding he could make a better Pointe in the financial world. He got his big start on the road to the political big time when, leaving the Clinton White House as a senior political adviser at the height of the Monica Lewinsky scandal in 1998, he was picked up by big-time Wall Street operator Bruce Wasserstein, a major Democrat Party donor. It was a move that netted him a place in the then sunny world of hedge funds, earned him a US$18 million-plus fortune in two-and-a-half years and then – in the tried and true manner of welding political connections to the mega-bucks world of influence – facilitated a pirouette into national politics.
It’s interesting that the little known portion of his life before he was elected to a House of Representatives seat from Illinois has now attracted the attention of the American media, ever anxious to spot a mote in the eye of anyone but themselves. “I had this idea that this could work and that it had upside,” the New York Times reports Wasserstein, now chairman and chief executive of Lazard, the investment bank, as saying of Emanuel’s recruitment to the Gordon Gecko world of Wall Street. “It worked out better than I could have hoped.” And better than Emanuel could have imagined as well. It turned his White House contact book into paying clients and his renowned negotiating skills and famous intensity into a super-plus for lucrative mergers and acquisitions.
Since entering politics, however, it would seem Emanuel has been his own man on business and financial regulation. While friends of Emanuel’s from his private-sector days say he still keeps in touch to stay on top of business insights on economic issues, he voted with other Democrats last year on a bill that significantly increased the tax rate on profits earned by private equity firms and sponsored a bill to curb the ability of hedge fund managers to defer paying taxes on earnings held in offshore tax havens. He supported another measure that imposed new reporting requirements on financial firms for what investors pay on stocks and mutual funds. Emanuel gave the New York Times his side of the story: “I would say I’ve been as tough on my friends as others. I call it like I see it.”
Eye Contact? You Were Lucky!
YOUR Diarist’s rheumy old eye was caught by the item last week on a curious aspect of baby care. It was in the Health page of course, an area of journalism which is nowadays essential because everyone is afflicted by that horrific modern condition MIA. No, we don’t mean “missing in action”: we’re not talking bureaucrats out to lunch or policemen on excused bribes duty. It’s much more serious. It’s Medically Induced Angst.
The item was about how putting your baby in a forward-facing “buggy” is bad for it. Apparently it can cause those infant entities so abused to become stressed by the lack of eye contact they then have with the person pushing them along. In your Diarist’s younger days – when he not yet even a fledgling, merely a hatchling – this was the least of his worries. It was generally his Mum or his Gran pushing him along and the street scene, although hardly colourful, was at least interesting. At the time (read on) it must have been like trying to negotiate a Kuta walkway. Of course, he was in a pram – proper name perambulator, sometimes even more grandly known as a “baby carriage”. This was before buggies or strollers and certainly those ridiculous papoose-sling things had been invented.
But he cast his mind back, as he is wont to do when nothing current is attracting the cognitive processes, and he does remember being told the story of one traumatic event from his pram days. It was in early 1945, in London – which the fortunes of war had dictated would be his hatching place – and at the time when that murderous little curiosity Adolf Hitler was having his last rabid quiver and aiming his fire-and-forget V1 and V2 rockets at Winston Churchill. And missing him, of course, instead clobbering people whose only offence was a rather fierce belief that Winston was a better sort of chap than Adolf. These circumstances were just one of those things: In adversity, curse and carry on. That’s the spirit. None of that namby-pamby, touchy-feely stuff then.
Anyway, the incident is definitely an act of parental abandonment that today would not only cause recurrent episodes of MIA throughout one’s whole life, but also have whole squadrons of social workers descending upon one (most sensible people would favour the remote risk of a V1 or V2 over that outcome). In those stoic days, it simply became just another family tale.
It seems Mum had sauntered down to the post office – as you would with a three-month-old baby in a pram and a likely misguided missile threat in the air – and having done whatever it was she was doing there (it may have had something to do with posting a letter; or perhaps she was getting more ration coupons), the poor dear, so recently blessed by motherhood, completely forgot about the pram, the baby, and indeed, her proud new status, and sauntered back home.
Enter granny, never one to miss a beat or a baby. Where is the baby, she inquired sweetly, doubtless thinking the pram and its infant contents had been parked in the weak English spring sunshine under the apple tree in the back garden. Oh, um, well... [The rest is deleted on grounds of taste. Mums NEVER say things like that.]
Never mind. After the double sprint back to the post office, pram and contents were retrieved unharmed. Babies didn’t talk to strangers in those days either. Well, other than to coo, boo and gurgle of course – and wonder where the hell Mum is.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
HECTOR'S BALI TIMES DIARY [for Dec. 5]
The Bali Times is at www.thebalitimes.com
The Real Way to Beat Terrorism
THE frightful terrorist assault on the Indian city of Mumbai is – yet again – a case of everyone’s worst nightmare coming true. How unfair and irritating it would be to find that one’s earthly span was marked for precipitous foreclosure at the hands of some mindless little scumbag murderer armed with a gun he would be much better employed using on himself.
We here in Bali know that the best way to deal with the fact of murderous terrorism – that is after the fact of course – is to refuse to bend to the terrorists’ will: to get on with life; to strive to make it better; to attract again the visitors and their dollars that keep our economy growing; to build jobs and futures; and to keep the beneficence of the world spotlight shining upon us.
Mumbai is an astonishing and complex city (read Suketu Mehta’s book about it, “Maximum City”). In The New York Times last Sunday, Mehta had an important piece on how best to defeat the terrorists who attacked it, and why it is important not to run away. Here’s its key point:
That’s fighting spirit, as we have seen in Bali and shall now see in Mumbai. It says to the terrorists: You will never win, you bastards.
Meanwhile, Aussies Want Mollycoddling
IN THESE days – from Bali to Mumbai via New York, London and Madrid – travellers must recognise that simply by exercising the right of freedom of movement they attract a measure of risk from the desperate and dangerous who roam the globe in pursuit of murderously foolish goals. Governments everywhere issue travel advice to their nationals (we here in Bali are subject to the downside of the long-standing Australian advice to “reconsider” the need to travel to Indonesia) and indeed an Australian advisory was in place for India prior to the murderous attack on that country’s financial capital. We note with interest that in the aftermath of the Mumbai mayhem, that advisory has been raised to equal that existing in relation to Bali and the rest of Indonesia.
The Indian emergency, however, proves the utility of such warnings from the point of view of officialdom (“Can’t say we didn’t warn you – take your lawsuit elsewhere”); and demonstrates the amazing capacity of some Australians to blame their own predicaments on anyone other than themselves. The tabloid media carries much of the responsibility for this. It seeks out “celebrities” – the quotation marks are an essential modifier in this instance – and should any such luminaries be handily available, acquires colourful first-person copy. One such person – apparently someone called Brooke Satchwell, a former mini-starlet in some mindless Oz soap opera, who it seems was confined to her bedroom with her boyfriend by the emergency – complained that she was unable to obtain immediate assistance from Australian consular officials while gunmen were in the building shooting people.
Get real! Contrary to Brooke’s – and many Australians’ – apparent belief that their country’s small consular corps should include commando units uniquely equipped with ESP (so they know where they’ll be needed) and handily sited in the immediate vicinity tasked to rush straight to their assistance (they will Brooke no delay), deal with any threat to Australians present and provide immediate rescue and evacuation, no such action is ever possible.
Bending Their Minds to Banning Yoga
YOGA is not something that normally fixes The Diary’s attention, other than as something to avoid (like, for example, examining one’s navel; or injury). The preference is for passive manipulation at the hands of a gentle Balinese or Javanese masseuse. Well there’s that, plus the risk of risibility from looking like a cross between a very raw Falun Gong recruit and someone trying to keep up with a Jane Fonda DVD.
At the same time, it’s hardly subversive, or for that matter necessarily an activity that would normally – one would think – offend the Prophet, who on most readings of the Koran is channelling the instructions of a remarkably open-minded deity. So it is something of a surprise that the Majelis Ulama Indonesia – Indonesia’s highest Islamic clerical authority – should have advised the faithful to suspend their yoga activities while it deliberates whether the practice is haram (religiously unlawful). If a fatwa is issued, MUI says, it would merely be advisory.
The decision follows a fatwa issued by the Dewan Fatwa Nasional Malaysia, proscribing yoga as a form of Hindu religious practice, because of its meditative elements. Hinduism in Malaysia is of the Indian variety, far removed from the Hinduism practised in Bali and bereft of the syncretism that so marks the universal practice of faith – in all its guises – in Indonesia.
Fine Music and all that Jazz
THE annual Jakarta jazz festival was held last weekend – it rained again, but it always does: that’s why they call it the blues, or maybe Jakarta – and this year’s gig (officially Jakjazz 2008) was better than ever. Among a stellar international and local line-up, it featured Michelle Nicolle, celebrated as Australia’s finest jazz singer.
She was there with the assistance of the Australia-Indonesia Institute which for two decades has been a prominent supporter of bilateral cultural links. It’s an element of the complex – and overwhelmingly productive – relationship between the two neighbouring countries that often doesn’t get the publicity it deserves.
We’re no strangers to jazz in Bali, of course. The Diary is a regular foot-tapper at the Jazz Cafe in Ubud, for instance, where they serve up great Indonesian performers along with yummy food. The guy with the sax on Wednesday nights is just out of this world. That celebrated free sax exponent, Bill Clinton, would lock himself in a cupboard (alone) if he was to hear him.
Please Mind Your Language
THE “classless” Britain that is said nowadays to exist has, among other things, reduced to a mere rump the number of Britons who can actually speak the Queen’s English; and apparently to even fewer the number who actually want to. It has done this by embarrassing the well-spoken and well behaved into silence while promoting the foul vowels and fractured syntax of the new masters, the inarticulate and uneducated (in the true sense of that latter term). The old “caste talk” has been outlawed by the uncultured who think nothing of murderin’ grammar (if they know what grammar is; or care).
It is of course no bad thing that Britain has disposed of the anachronistic division of society based on nicely rounded vowels and inherited worthlessness. It is far better that any society should freely promote its best and brightest, regardless of birth or other inheritance. No tears should be spilt over the demise of such upper-class put-downs as “HMG” – “home-made gent” – and we can with some equanimity (perhaps) accept that in English nowadays it is permissible to say “pardon” when you mean “sorry”; or even, though at a greater stretch, when you mean “what?”; or “serviette” instead of “napkin”, or “toilet” in place of “lavatory”.
All this has only curiosity value outside Britain itself, since English long ago ceased to be English at all. This is a factor that has still to become apparent to some English pundits, it seems, at least if recent expressions of distaste in journals such as The Spectator (continuously published since 1828 is its proud boast) are to be accepted as representative.
At the same time, as one of its erudite stable of writers recently noted, there’s no reason – beyond public pressure to do so – why it should be hip to be rude. To which The Diary would add: or coarse; or to think that nothing has impact unless prefixed by the copulatory adjective; or to accept swallowed vowels and truncated pronunciation. What happened to the letter “G”? For that matter, who let the Americans in the back door? (This last comment is made under advisement, given the preferred spelling style of the august journal in which The Diary appears.)
Very Nearly an Unpacific Blue
RICHARD Branson’s chummy little Aussie Virgin offshoot, Pacific Blue, has hung out its shingle at new premises on Jl By Pass I Gusti Ngurah Rai – a travel agent office, just north of the airport turnoff. Well, after a struggle: a Diary spy spotted the crew detailed to perform this complex task nearly dropping the whole show once, and then getting the thing up crooked before trying a third time and finally getting it right.
The presence of a Pacific Blue office will greatly assist Bali residents who want to fly the “reverse” route to that chosen by the airline’s customer base in Australia.
Fried rice, meatballs and hairy fruit
ACCORDING to an impeccable source – President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono – U.S. President-elect Barack (Barry to his old Jakarta school chums) Obama asked him in a recent telephone conversation “Apa kabar Bapak Presiden” and said he missed several fine Indonesian delicacies such as nasi goreng, bakso (meatballs in soup) and that wonderful fruit rambutan.
During his campaign for the presidency, Obama said that he would visit Indonesia within 100 days of taking office. President Yudhoyono has suggested he visit after attending the APEC meeting in Singapore next year. President-elect Obama drops that pesky suffix to his title on Jan. 20 when he becomes the real POTUS.
Obama is no stranger to Bali. He came here some years ago on a sabbatical with wife Michelle intending to finish his best-selling book. It was an audacious hope: like most tourists who visit us here at Sybarite Central, all that hard stuff apparently got shoved into the “do later” file.
But The Diary can recommend some great local places to eat nasi goreng, bakso and rambutan – or for an even spicier experience, some real Balinese food – if the presidential schedule permits a visit to our island, which we (of course) would rate as a “must”.
Andy Got a Jump on the Law
IN case you’re ever asked – well, you never know: you might find yourself at a trivial pursuit night, or have to sit in on one of those silly Aussie history for citizenship sessions; though they have managed to come quite a long way from the days when they used Gaelic as a language barrier to intending settlers – the jolly swagman in Australia’s unofficial anthem, “Waltzing Matilda”, was called Andy. The Diary learns this from yet another blonde joke that’s doing the rounds, concerning a test being applied to applicants for entry to heaven, since (heaven knows why) the place is apparently getting a little crowded.
The final question (it’s posed by St Peter as custodian of the gates) goes: What was the name of the swagman in “Waltzing Matilda”? The blonde gets it right first time. “It’s Andy,” she told St Peter. “Andy?” replied the saintly one, floored by the quick answer. And of course he had to ask why. “How did you arrive at that answer?”
“Easy,” said the blonde. “Andy sat, Andy watched, Andy waited til his Billy boiled.”
“Waltzing Matilda” was penned in the magic and frankly spooky Queensland bush in the late 19th century by the Australian bush poet and balladeer Banjo Paterson. It concerns a swagman (tramp, itinerant) who, having illegally purloined a passing jumbuck (sheep) to have with his billy tea (don’t try it!) for dinner and then, being bailed up by the squatter (grazier) and a troupe of troopers (mounted police), escaping justice by jumping into a billabong (water pool) and drowning. As the song goes on to lament, Andy’s ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong. Paterson was a Scotsman, by the way. That could explain a lot.
Cliff Richard Might be a Better Bet
THE Australian Navy – known in acronym as the RAN, for Royal Australian Navy – has recently been in the news because the top brass announced proudly the fleet would stand down for two months over Christmas, in pursuit of the new “family friendly” image being promoted by the Senior Service. Well, it wasn’t quite true, of course, even though it was an absolute gift to those chuckleheads in the Oz media who like to have a laugh at the expense of people who actually do have productive jobs and apply their skills in the national interest. Operational deployments will continue. Specifically, the fairly intense offshore waters patrols in Australia’s north – that bit of water between them and us – will be unaffected by the holidays.
Meanwhile, we hear that the RAN has a new anthem – performed initially by an Aussie minstrel group called (not ominously we hope) New Empire – with which to launch its latest advertising campaign, due out next month. It’s called “Hero”. That’s funny, given the RAN’s extended Christmas-New Year break programme. Cliff Richard’s catchy little 1960s hit about how “we’re all going on a summer holiday” (Cliff sang and starred in the eponymously titled movie, an early teen flick) was surely tailor-made for instant success.
Blog It for Business
NOW here’s a project that catches the eye – the government is urging bloggers to promote Indonesia’s attractions. At The Bali Times we do that every week, of course, and happily, because the more people who know about what Indonesia offers visitors, the more of them are likely to turn up at the immigration desk in the arrivals hall at Ngurah Rai with hard currency to spend.
The government’s plan is to spark a creative craze among the country’s travel and tourism countries. To this end, teams of IT experts (a terrifying thought!) and travel writers have criss-crossed the archipelago urging people to start their own or corporate blogs to support Indonesia’s promotional effort, and giving lessons on how to do it successfully.
It’s a good idea. The Blogoshere is becoming a very highly populated space.
The Real Way to Beat Terrorism
THE frightful terrorist assault on the Indian city of Mumbai is – yet again – a case of everyone’s worst nightmare coming true. How unfair and irritating it would be to find that one’s earthly span was marked for precipitous foreclosure at the hands of some mindless little scumbag murderer armed with a gun he would be much better employed using on himself.
We here in Bali know that the best way to deal with the fact of murderous terrorism – that is after the fact of course – is to refuse to bend to the terrorists’ will: to get on with life; to strive to make it better; to attract again the visitors and their dollars that keep our economy growing; to build jobs and futures; and to keep the beneficence of the world spotlight shining upon us.
Mumbai is an astonishing and complex city (read Suketu Mehta’s book about it, “Maximum City”). In The New York Times last Sunday, Mehta had an important piece on how best to defeat the terrorists who attacked it, and why it is important not to run away. Here’s its key point:
[T]he best answer to the terrorists is to dream bigger, make even more money, and visit Mumbai more than ever. Dream of making a good home for all Mumbaikars, not just the denizens of $500-a-night hotel rooms. Dream not just of Bollywood stars like Aishwarya Rai or Shah Rukh Khan, but of clean running water, humane mass transit, better toilets, and a responsive government. Make a killing not in God’s name but in the stock market and then turn up the forbidden music and dance; work hard and play harder.
That’s fighting spirit, as we have seen in Bali and shall now see in Mumbai. It says to the terrorists: You will never win, you bastards.
Meanwhile, Aussies Want Mollycoddling
IN THESE days – from Bali to Mumbai via New York, London and Madrid – travellers must recognise that simply by exercising the right of freedom of movement they attract a measure of risk from the desperate and dangerous who roam the globe in pursuit of murderously foolish goals. Governments everywhere issue travel advice to their nationals (we here in Bali are subject to the downside of the long-standing Australian advice to “reconsider” the need to travel to Indonesia) and indeed an Australian advisory was in place for India prior to the murderous attack on that country’s financial capital. We note with interest that in the aftermath of the Mumbai mayhem, that advisory has been raised to equal that existing in relation to Bali and the rest of Indonesia.
The Indian emergency, however, proves the utility of such warnings from the point of view of officialdom (“Can’t say we didn’t warn you – take your lawsuit elsewhere”); and demonstrates the amazing capacity of some Australians to blame their own predicaments on anyone other than themselves. The tabloid media carries much of the responsibility for this. It seeks out “celebrities” – the quotation marks are an essential modifier in this instance – and should any such luminaries be handily available, acquires colourful first-person copy. One such person – apparently someone called Brooke Satchwell, a former mini-starlet in some mindless Oz soap opera, who it seems was confined to her bedroom with her boyfriend by the emergency – complained that she was unable to obtain immediate assistance from Australian consular officials while gunmen were in the building shooting people.
Get real! Contrary to Brooke’s – and many Australians’ – apparent belief that their country’s small consular corps should include commando units uniquely equipped with ESP (so they know where they’ll be needed) and handily sited in the immediate vicinity tasked to rush straight to their assistance (they will Brooke no delay), deal with any threat to Australians present and provide immediate rescue and evacuation, no such action is ever possible.
Bending Their Minds to Banning Yoga
YOGA is not something that normally fixes The Diary’s attention, other than as something to avoid (like, for example, examining one’s navel; or injury). The preference is for passive manipulation at the hands of a gentle Balinese or Javanese masseuse. Well there’s that, plus the risk of risibility from looking like a cross between a very raw Falun Gong recruit and someone trying to keep up with a Jane Fonda DVD.
At the same time, it’s hardly subversive, or for that matter necessarily an activity that would normally – one would think – offend the Prophet, who on most readings of the Koran is channelling the instructions of a remarkably open-minded deity. So it is something of a surprise that the Majelis Ulama Indonesia – Indonesia’s highest Islamic clerical authority – should have advised the faithful to suspend their yoga activities while it deliberates whether the practice is haram (religiously unlawful). If a fatwa is issued, MUI says, it would merely be advisory.
The decision follows a fatwa issued by the Dewan Fatwa Nasional Malaysia, proscribing yoga as a form of Hindu religious practice, because of its meditative elements. Hinduism in Malaysia is of the Indian variety, far removed from the Hinduism practised in Bali and bereft of the syncretism that so marks the universal practice of faith – in all its guises – in Indonesia.
Fine Music and all that Jazz
THE annual Jakarta jazz festival was held last weekend – it rained again, but it always does: that’s why they call it the blues, or maybe Jakarta – and this year’s gig (officially Jakjazz 2008) was better than ever. Among a stellar international and local line-up, it featured Michelle Nicolle, celebrated as Australia’s finest jazz singer.
She was there with the assistance of the Australia-Indonesia Institute which for two decades has been a prominent supporter of bilateral cultural links. It’s an element of the complex – and overwhelmingly productive – relationship between the two neighbouring countries that often doesn’t get the publicity it deserves.
We’re no strangers to jazz in Bali, of course. The Diary is a regular foot-tapper at the Jazz Cafe in Ubud, for instance, where they serve up great Indonesian performers along with yummy food. The guy with the sax on Wednesday nights is just out of this world. That celebrated free sax exponent, Bill Clinton, would lock himself in a cupboard (alone) if he was to hear him.
Please Mind Your Language
THE “classless” Britain that is said nowadays to exist has, among other things, reduced to a mere rump the number of Britons who can actually speak the Queen’s English; and apparently to even fewer the number who actually want to. It has done this by embarrassing the well-spoken and well behaved into silence while promoting the foul vowels and fractured syntax of the new masters, the inarticulate and uneducated (in the true sense of that latter term). The old “caste talk” has been outlawed by the uncultured who think nothing of murderin’ grammar (if they know what grammar is; or care).
It is of course no bad thing that Britain has disposed of the anachronistic division of society based on nicely rounded vowels and inherited worthlessness. It is far better that any society should freely promote its best and brightest, regardless of birth or other inheritance. No tears should be spilt over the demise of such upper-class put-downs as “HMG” – “home-made gent” – and we can with some equanimity (perhaps) accept that in English nowadays it is permissible to say “pardon” when you mean “sorry”; or even, though at a greater stretch, when you mean “what?”; or “serviette” instead of “napkin”, or “toilet” in place of “lavatory”.
All this has only curiosity value outside Britain itself, since English long ago ceased to be English at all. This is a factor that has still to become apparent to some English pundits, it seems, at least if recent expressions of distaste in journals such as The Spectator (continuously published since 1828 is its proud boast) are to be accepted as representative.
At the same time, as one of its erudite stable of writers recently noted, there’s no reason – beyond public pressure to do so – why it should be hip to be rude. To which The Diary would add: or coarse; or to think that nothing has impact unless prefixed by the copulatory adjective; or to accept swallowed vowels and truncated pronunciation. What happened to the letter “G”? For that matter, who let the Americans in the back door? (This last comment is made under advisement, given the preferred spelling style of the august journal in which The Diary appears.)
Very Nearly an Unpacific Blue
RICHARD Branson’s chummy little Aussie Virgin offshoot, Pacific Blue, has hung out its shingle at new premises on Jl By Pass I Gusti Ngurah Rai – a travel agent office, just north of the airport turnoff. Well, after a struggle: a Diary spy spotted the crew detailed to perform this complex task nearly dropping the whole show once, and then getting the thing up crooked before trying a third time and finally getting it right.
The presence of a Pacific Blue office will greatly assist Bali residents who want to fly the “reverse” route to that chosen by the airline’s customer base in Australia.
Fried rice, meatballs and hairy fruit
ACCORDING to an impeccable source – President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono – U.S. President-elect Barack (Barry to his old Jakarta school chums) Obama asked him in a recent telephone conversation “Apa kabar Bapak Presiden” and said he missed several fine Indonesian delicacies such as nasi goreng, bakso (meatballs in soup) and that wonderful fruit rambutan.
During his campaign for the presidency, Obama said that he would visit Indonesia within 100 days of taking office. President Yudhoyono has suggested he visit after attending the APEC meeting in Singapore next year. President-elect Obama drops that pesky suffix to his title on Jan. 20 when he becomes the real POTUS.
Obama is no stranger to Bali. He came here some years ago on a sabbatical with wife Michelle intending to finish his best-selling book. It was an audacious hope: like most tourists who visit us here at Sybarite Central, all that hard stuff apparently got shoved into the “do later” file.
But The Diary can recommend some great local places to eat nasi goreng, bakso and rambutan – or for an even spicier experience, some real Balinese food – if the presidential schedule permits a visit to our island, which we (of course) would rate as a “must”.
Andy Got a Jump on the Law
IN case you’re ever asked – well, you never know: you might find yourself at a trivial pursuit night, or have to sit in on one of those silly Aussie history for citizenship sessions; though they have managed to come quite a long way from the days when they used Gaelic as a language barrier to intending settlers – the jolly swagman in Australia’s unofficial anthem, “Waltzing Matilda”, was called Andy. The Diary learns this from yet another blonde joke that’s doing the rounds, concerning a test being applied to applicants for entry to heaven, since (heaven knows why) the place is apparently getting a little crowded.
The final question (it’s posed by St Peter as custodian of the gates) goes: What was the name of the swagman in “Waltzing Matilda”? The blonde gets it right first time. “It’s Andy,” she told St Peter. “Andy?” replied the saintly one, floored by the quick answer. And of course he had to ask why. “How did you arrive at that answer?”
“Easy,” said the blonde. “Andy sat, Andy watched, Andy waited til his Billy boiled.”
“Waltzing Matilda” was penned in the magic and frankly spooky Queensland bush in the late 19th century by the Australian bush poet and balladeer Banjo Paterson. It concerns a swagman (tramp, itinerant) who, having illegally purloined a passing jumbuck (sheep) to have with his billy tea (don’t try it!) for dinner and then, being bailed up by the squatter (grazier) and a troupe of troopers (mounted police), escaping justice by jumping into a billabong (water pool) and drowning. As the song goes on to lament, Andy’s ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong. Paterson was a Scotsman, by the way. That could explain a lot.
Cliff Richard Might be a Better Bet
THE Australian Navy – known in acronym as the RAN, for Royal Australian Navy – has recently been in the news because the top brass announced proudly the fleet would stand down for two months over Christmas, in pursuit of the new “family friendly” image being promoted by the Senior Service. Well, it wasn’t quite true, of course, even though it was an absolute gift to those chuckleheads in the Oz media who like to have a laugh at the expense of people who actually do have productive jobs and apply their skills in the national interest. Operational deployments will continue. Specifically, the fairly intense offshore waters patrols in Australia’s north – that bit of water between them and us – will be unaffected by the holidays.
Meanwhile, we hear that the RAN has a new anthem – performed initially by an Aussie minstrel group called (not ominously we hope) New Empire – with which to launch its latest advertising campaign, due out next month. It’s called “Hero”. That’s funny, given the RAN’s extended Christmas-New Year break programme. Cliff Richard’s catchy little 1960s hit about how “we’re all going on a summer holiday” (Cliff sang and starred in the eponymously titled movie, an early teen flick) was surely tailor-made for instant success.
Blog It for Business
NOW here’s a project that catches the eye – the government is urging bloggers to promote Indonesia’s attractions. At The Bali Times we do that every week, of course, and happily, because the more people who know about what Indonesia offers visitors, the more of them are likely to turn up at the immigration desk in the arrivals hall at Ngurah Rai with hard currency to spend.
The government’s plan is to spark a creative craze among the country’s travel and tourism countries. To this end, teams of IT experts (a terrifying thought!) and travel writers have criss-crossed the archipelago urging people to start their own or corporate blogs to support Indonesia’s promotional effort, and giving lessons on how to do it successfully.
It’s a good idea. The Blogoshere is becoming a very highly populated space.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)