A Year Of Loss-And Don't Worry, Be Happy- Bobby Ferrin
Without Prejudice
In 1989 the song that played on the radio, over and over was Bobby Ferrins, Don't Worry Be Happy. With its strong calypso beat ( a sound I adore as I visited Trinidad and Tabago at 16, and being me fell in love with a cute merchant seaman named Derek Harper)
It was to be a year of loss for me. There was no Don't Worry Be Happy, in my life. It was to be a year of loss, a year of heartbreak, a water shed year of epic proportions. How I survived it I will never know. Why I survived it I know now, looking back in hindsight, almost thirty years down the track.
But even with the years that have rolled by, even with all the grace and blessings I have in my life, now, even with the fact that physically, mentally and emotionally I am in such a better place in my life, I would love to go back to that time. Just one more time.
I would love to go back to Nusa Dua when Bobby Ferrin warbled his song and we swam to the swim up bar and ordered cocktails we couldn't really afford. When coconuts were bounced down the stairs to make them break and they never would. They were too green we found out later and could only be opened with a grim determination and a sharp knife and still took ages to saw thru leaving the dark green skin with ugly open slashes that looked like a body hacked to birds.
Ah, Balu Bagus. Beautiful Bali. With its heat and smell and humidity and smiling open faced people. The streets of Kuta swarming with beggars and merchants that invited us to try their wares. Loud. Noisy, confusing hot Kuta.
The only relief found in an Aussie bar where fans whirled on the ceiling, where half darkness gave the illusion of coolness and a cold Pilsner soothed our dry dusty throats. We sat, Deb and I trying to coax cute little kids towards us with what is considered a rude hand gesture to the Balinese, a crooking of the index finger towards our bodies. We were corrected immediately by the Aussie bar owner and barman.
Thereafter we bent our hands, turned downwards and scooped air towards us in an act of supplication. And the children understood. But with a few short sharp words in Balinese the barman stopped the children's hesitant approach and ordered them no further. We thought he was mean and left the bar and approached the sweet morsels of brown skin and plumpness, dropping coins in their hands and watched them scurry away with delight.
Then we were swamped once again with adult beggars and merchants and learned immediately the Bali words for " No Money" it was a relief to get back to the Putri Bali hotel and its coolness. With its Balinese Troubadours, who sang Welcome To The Hotel Putri Bali to the tune of Hotel Californua and sent us into paroxysms of laughter. We laughed so hard I had to make two of the girls hide their heads under the table. And we could still hear them still erupting in gasps of laughter.
Deb and I hid our mouths of mirth and tried to pay attention to the music.but it was impossible we also erupted in guffaws and acted interested in what was beneath the table. We came back up for air and smiled at the chubby older men troubadours which to them meant we were delighted and they pressed closer to us and played even louder than before. We nodded and smiled and left, erupting in explosions of laughter all the way back to our room.
Ah, Bali Bagus
A trip never forgotten. A memory seared in our minds, a memory encased in shining amber, glossy
In 1989 the song that played on the radio, over and over was Bobby Ferrins, Don't Worry Be Happy. With its strong calypso beat ( a sound I adore as I visited Trinidad and Tabago at 16, and being me fell in love with a cute merchant seaman named Derek Harper)
It was to be a year of loss for me. There was no Don't Worry Be Happy, in my life. It was to be a year of loss, a year of heartbreak, a water shed year of epic proportions. How I survived it I will never know. Why I survived it I know now, looking back in hindsight, almost thirty years down the track.
But even with the years that have rolled by, even with all the grace and blessings I have in my life, now, even with the fact that physically, mentally and emotionally I am in such a better place in my life, I would love to go back to that time. Just one more time.
I would love to go back to Nusa Dua when Bobby Ferrin warbled his song and we swam to the swim up bar and ordered cocktails we couldn't really afford. When coconuts were bounced down the stairs to make them break and they never would. They were too green we found out later and could only be opened with a grim determination and a sharp knife and still took ages to saw thru leaving the dark green skin with ugly open slashes that looked like a body hacked to birds.
Ah, Balu Bagus. Beautiful Bali. With its heat and smell and humidity and smiling open faced people. The streets of Kuta swarming with beggars and merchants that invited us to try their wares. Loud. Noisy, confusing hot Kuta.
The only relief found in an Aussie bar where fans whirled on the ceiling, where half darkness gave the illusion of coolness and a cold Pilsner soothed our dry dusty throats. We sat, Deb and I trying to coax cute little kids towards us with what is considered a rude hand gesture to the Balinese, a crooking of the index finger towards our bodies. We were corrected immediately by the Aussie bar owner and barman.
Thereafter we bent our hands, turned downwards and scooped air towards us in an act of supplication. And the children understood. But with a few short sharp words in Balinese the barman stopped the children's hesitant approach and ordered them no further. We thought he was mean and left the bar and approached the sweet morsels of brown skin and plumpness, dropping coins in their hands and watched them scurry away with delight.
Then we were swamped once again with adult beggars and merchants and learned immediately the Bali words for " No Money" it was a relief to get back to the Putri Bali hotel and its coolness. With its Balinese Troubadours, who sang Welcome To The Hotel Putri Bali to the tune of Hotel Californua and sent us into paroxysms of laughter. We laughed so hard I had to make two of the girls hide their heads under the table. And we could still hear them still erupting in gasps of laughter.
Deb and I hid our mouths of mirth and tried to pay attention to the music.but it was impossible we also erupted in guffaws and acted interested in what was beneath the table. We came back up for air and smiled at the chubby older men troubadours which to them meant we were delighted and they pressed closer to us and played even louder than before. We nodded and smiled and left, erupting in explosions of laughter all the way back to our room.
Ah, Bali Bagus
A trip never forgotten. A memory seared in our minds, a memory encased in shining amber, glossy
