Bali Bagus
Without Prejudice
In late May 1989, we went to Bali, feeling that we were stealing this much needed holiday from Bob. There had been a rush to get Alena and Lauren an Aussie passport. I went to the passport office, was given a number and told to wait. Lauren and I went shopping instead and came back three hours later and we were the next in line. Miss Floss liked her passport. her ticket to the world and from her passport photo she smiles, a child delighted.
Bob dropped us off at the airport, no kisses, no hugs for this family going overseas, but he did hand us $400, a hundred for each of us, his "girls". And we were going for 10 days, he was generosity personified. And he was gone. I was livid with him. Alena had a panic attack right then and there, she begged us, crying, to ring her Dad and get him to come back. To get her as she was not getting on that plane. But we eased her panic and within half an hour she was sitting on the plane, ear phones on and tucking into bacon and eggs.
We flew, my own little Motley Crew and I, out of Australia, and on to adventures, anew. We flew for what seemed hours and hours and then we were disembarking and approaching Denpesar airport. When we climbed out of the plane and on to the burning hot tarmac, the humidity soaking us like a wet blanket, the smell was indescribable. It's a mix of dead things, animals, mostly and shit and vegetation. I have smelt the same smell in every 3rd world country I have ever been to.Once you have been to any 3rd world country, you have been to them all. It's poor, there are too many people crushed in to too small a space and the sewers are open.
We caught a bus to Putri Bali Hotel and then we were in luxury, 5 star accommodation and the poor world faded away and the rich world beckoned, its seduction. We booked into our luxury room and went exploring. Alena stayed in the room at first, not venturing out, we tried to cajole her to come out and play, but she wouldn't. Everything "smelt" to Alena, the air, the food, fruit, even orange juice. She was happy to remain in the room, ordering room service,a burger and fries and coke in a can, "real food" to a 14 year old, scared little girl.
We, however, Debbie, Lauren and I went out to the magnificent pool, shining in the hot sun, beckoning us to social life and swimming and many drinks consumed at the swim up bar. It was so hot, that first day, that the pool was the only place to be. And within a few short steps through the stone arch was our very own slice of heaven, a private beach. We were in heaven, escaping the cold and rain of winter Melbourne, with it's hand and toe nipping cruel cold, and in another world, another country and we vibrated with the "specialness" of Bali.
We attempted breakfast the next day in the Hotel's fine dining room, but the prices were atrocious, so we went for a walk to the nearest Village, Nusa Dua and found our temporary home. We walked the hot street, looking for a place to eat and a young Indonesian man was calling us from the door to his restaurant. We went in and had vegemite toast, juice and tea for all of us and it cost a $1.00. We talked to the charming owner and his friend and he told us to "Don't, worry, be happy", the song by Bobby Ferrin was popular at the time and we sang it, wore tee shirts that phrased it in print and decided to not, worry and be happy.
We went to the "Happy Hour" at the Hotel that night and met people who were to become our "Bali Crew" There was Dudley, an older man who was very sad, as 6 months previously he had lost his beloved wife of 30 years.There was an English couple from Melbourne, with their grown son. A middle aged married couple, An older Dutchwoman with her "beau", Henry and us. All of us that met up that night were from Melbourne, except for the very fine, Jean Claude, who was from Italy and his beautiful girlfriend who was from another planet, with her tall "super model,"body and no words of English. For that 10 days she lay around the pool, never venturing out to the Villages or tours, just honing her tan.
We decided at the "Happy Hour" we would all go to Kuta the next day, for the shopping at the markets and grab some bargains. And that's what we duly did the next day on a bus. The beggars once we stepped from the bus, swarmed around us, and within minutes we had learned Indonesian for,
"I have no money"
There were hawkers and beggars everywhere and we could only travel a few steps before being accosted again, so we, the girls and I retreated to a cool Aussie Bar, where we had cold drinks and watched the bustling, boiling sea of poor humanity that begged in the streets. Two little rag a muffin kids stood at the doorway, looking shyly in at us. Debbie was charmed and beckoned them enter. But the bar man stopped her, told her beckoning with a crooked finger was considered "obscene" in Bali and were to beckon with one hand, palm down, in sort of an up side down wave.
And that beggars, especially children were not allowed to enter the bar.
We stayed all day in Kuta, until dusk and dinner at the hotel beckoned. We dressed carefully for Dinner and sat the four of us at the table and talked. The next thing a Balinese Mariachi band approached our table and began to sing, "Welcome to the Hotel Putri Bali" to the strains Of "Welcome to The Hotel California and the girls began heaving with hidden laughter. I told them to cut it out, the earnest Band members faces beseeching with faux emotion and the harder and louder they sang, the more the girls laughed. They dropped their napkins on the floor and disappeared under the table, explosions of laughter erupting from them, that could be clearly heard.
I kicked out at them with my foot. Embarrassed for the plaintive, smiling band members. But the girls would not be stopped and I waved the men away in the end, Hand upside down, fingers waving and they left, and I turned on the girls to tell them off and ended up in convulsions myself . We went to Happy Hour that night singing "Welcome to the Hotel Putri Bali"in accented English. I have photos of us at the table, one of Lauren outstanding as she rests her chin on her hand and reflectively gazing at the camera, solemn, and inside she is erupting with laughter and trying hard not to show it.
Alena wanted her hair coloured, so we went looking fot the Hotel hairdresser. Alena was at the age where coloured her hair often, sometimes as much as every week. There had been red and green and purple and brown and streaks of various hues. Alena just could not seem to settle on any one style or colour and we were resigned to it. We found the hairdresser and Alena could not believe they had no blonde hair colour. There was only black and she raged about this and I explained to her that all the Indonesian people had black hair, all of them, so hairdressers didn't need blonde hair colour.
The two youngest girls found a huge coconut on the ground and commenced to try and break it. Lauren and Alena bounced it down stairs, pounded it into the concrete and threw it off higher floors into the concrete stairwells but still it would not break. Debbie and I would be relaxing in the ground floor room and all day we heard thump,thump, thump as the girls tried to break the coconut and worked on the project, tirelessly, until in exasperation Debbie and I threatened to beat them and they stopped.
As each day passed we ventured out in to Bali more, doing the monkey tour and took long rides into cool valleys and mountains, stopping to admire the views. The monkeys were small, evil and could turn nasty and I was not charmed by them. Lauren was but I wasn't. We went Para sailing, Lauren scrambling to be first up and the other girls and I holding back. But when Louise, the dutch Grandmother went up I knew I had to go up too. Photos show us with hair flying out behind us, running the beach and then taking off and flying in to the wild blue yonder.
And up there in the stratosphere was all calm and silence and terror as you looked down at the ant sized people. But after a while the terror leaves and all that is left is the beauty. You and the slight wind and the silence, looking down. And maybe that is what we do when we die. We are just spirit looking down, observing, not judging and even though it is beautiful where you are all warm and soft and relaxed, you yearn to return to the ant like people on the beach.
And you do, and you are exhilarated and "high" at your own bravery conquering your fears, your petty troubles having fallen away behind you in air and space and time. And in that moment you just "be", up high, you are as one with nature and your creator whoever he happens to be. I like to think of mine as a wise and kindly Father, of which I was lucky enough to have of my own. And then you are back amongst the living and they are patting you on the back and congratulating you and you revel in it. we had the best day that day, going up and coming down. And staying in a tented cabana safe from the roiling sun and drinking, eating and relaxing with just normal people that laugh and tell jokes.
We bonded that day as family, Bob's petty tyranies forgotten, trivial, firmly in the past.cold cruel winter Melbourne forgotten (I hardly ever break the "author, writer, observer barrier, but I will here. ) .....I am freezing, shaking with cold as I write this. I am at Kerrie Hancock's house in Korumburra, one of my most favourite places. I LOVE Kerry's house filled as it is with so much beauty. Old things are revered here as are animals and children and Kerry and I go back to when she was pretty little girl with a lisp at 6 and a fierceness that knew no bounds. It's her birthday today, shhhh and I can't believe she is 50 next year.
Yesterday, Ronnie, Kerry's man's, Mother died, Rose. A heart attack at 82, bless her xoxo, Ronnie is bereft and stunning in his dignity and grace for his Mother. We cry for his him and he assures us, it's OK and it's not.
But as I am trying to write today, a cat and a little dog, dressed in an angora jumper, vie for my attention. The cat, so like our own very beloved Mohammed, (Hamad) cat from the past weaves across my keyboard, bum in my face, demanding my strokes. He drapes himself on my lap and nudges me with his head and I laugh. I laugh at the little dog, too, in her warm jumper. Kerry must have passed that trait on to Lauren, as she too liked to dress her kitten, and the kitten never objected to looking silly and lay compliant in his pusher as Lauren wheeled Mush around the neighbourhood.
Back To Bali .........
We went everywhere in Bali, on the back of tiny noisy scooters, tear arsing through skinny roads, drivers hell bent on seeming to want to kill us as we clung terrified at their waists and waited for death. We went to the villages and the sea shore and had our hair braided in the sun as we lay on mats and had massages from women dressed if full length sleeved tops and pants and cooli hats. When we asked them were they not hot, they replied yes, but to be covered and to be seen to have lighter skin was their aim. And here we were ,lying in the sun, getting brown. Ah, the irony !
But the feeling was heaven, the strong fingers massaging our muscles and cares away. Lauren had her hair braided her long tresses encased down her back. I have a photo of her walking away from me picking her way through the sand in bare feet. And I know at that time and on that day my child was full to the brim with happiness. Bob saw the photo years later and thinking it was me, said.
God, I'd recognise that body, anywhere"
I didn't bother to enlighten him it was his daughters body he was showing his disgust at. Silly man. And if he reads this, I am so sorry Bob, but you really were an uncaring man. And just because others think you have mellowed, I don't. You had a great family that loved you and would have followed you anywhere, and did, Then you turned into an absolute cock head, and the rest is history. If you don't like my stuff, don't fucking read it. OK , or sue me, but you won't, because it's all true as we saw it. You missed out.
I love my kids and my ever growing brood of "useless Little bastards". Kyle is a fine man/boy and you have no had influence on that. you could have been a great influence to him, taught him to be a man, a real one. Jade is to die for, a model student, volunteers at a school for handicapped children and she can sing, really belt out a tune. Zachary is a tall shy sensitive neat boy, who has a heart of gold and wants to be a policeman. He loves his Dad, even though he knows he is "Troubled", these kids don't ask for a lot.
Then there is the amazingly tall. skinny beautiful Ashleigh and she is and always has been a mini me of her extremely beautiful Mother, you remember her don't you?? The baby you worshiped. The first one, the one that you cried over when she took her first steps towards you. her names Debbie. And you should be proud of her. You didn't see Debbie hug that stupid awful plastic box they gave us with Laurens Ashes in and cover it with kisses and hug it to her while tears streamed her face in agony and we sat there crying too. Appalled, beyond appalled. Dead ourselves,
And I took her ashes home for 5 years. Did you ever think what it was like for us ??? When you took the cars and the house and the money in spiteful, mean spirited ways.
And six months before Lauren's death, in Bali we went to the mountains, she so alive and happy and we ate unhygenically and squatted over holes in dirt to pee, trying to keep our feet away from the piss and shit surrounding the toilets. It was putrid and ignorant and poor and that part of it I hated, thinking,
"Why??,"
Why were some people forced to live this life of poverty and squalor and the simple answer was, they knew of nothing else and apart from being poor and ignorant or non academic they were HAPPY. They had each other and their culture and their religion and they revered family and children and work and a good humble peaceful existence. and their happiness showed on their faces and shone out out of their eyes, blinding me. They lived on a $1 a day and worked ten hour days, 7 days a week, and they were happy. Outside every doorway were statues and candles and food, their celebration of their beliefs. They were simple people with a simple culture and I thought,
"These people have something and it's beautiful"
And I had something beautiful too, memories of Lauren as happy as ever I had seen her. She loved Bali, was a fierce bargainer, better than any of us, shooing shop keepers away with a wave of her imperious hand. She bought so much stuff and I ordered a leather jacket for her and boots. the other girls too and me. I had made, a fabulous pair of snake skin shoes in teal, for something like ten dollars and wore them everywhere. Didn't matter I had a cupboard full at home, I reasoned the ones at home were Bob's taste not mine. He had bough them home from the Philippines. Mary Janes, very boring. My snake skins were sexy and high and individual. Fantastic.
And we had such fun the girls and I, lounging around the pool in the scorching heat, meeting up with the Happy Hour others and met a charming japanese girl, her friend was sick with Bali Belly so we took her under our collective wing and hung out with her, teaching her English and she, us, teaching us Japanese. We decided to start fine dining from then on. Spending up big on Bob's credit card. not too much, but enough. I used my child endowment, leaving it for years to mature. I had once used it for the Business to pay wages, so my little thrifts came in handy sometimes. I needed to feel that the money was mine. Tired of control and waiting. Tired of my husband.
But we decided to have fun and stepped it up, dinners at local restaurants, fresh fish caught that day, piled on to our plates by bare chested men with sweat running down their faces and endlessly smiling. We went to an Indonesian Dance with dinner and little painted girls came on and danced, trying to drag "The Colonel, Dudley" up on the dance floor. Lauren looked like an ungilded lily amongst the painted faces of the dancing girls, so pretty with their long arms embracing the air and the audience all at the same time. Lauren wore her new pink playsuit that night and had her mouth glossed for the first time. This always made her pout her lips like a groper for some reason. And we would tell her not to pout.
The girls went to the temples by themselves with the others from Happy Hour, bringing back photos of a pig on a stake ready for eating soon with poo coming out of its bottom. (Hey!, these are my girls! ) And other photos of them standing on the steps to the Temple, properly skirted in skirts provided by the monks. We went to the rock pools after climbing for what seemed like hours in a rainforest. The walk was worth it, the place was like a fairy grotto, all natural, warm waterfalls that you could stand under easily bathed as you were in waist high water, almost like being a bath. It was sensual and lush.
We went out on a boat, a small boat in the baking heat and bobbed up and down in it after snorkeling. Dudley looked a bit green around the gills and tipped his hat lower on to his head and pretended he was asleep. The chatty English couple peeling fruit, hairy fruit that looked like gonads, Dudley said. He watched"Lily" peel a banana that was orange instead of yellow and chomp it in half, decidedly with a quick little snap, like a tiny turtle he said, He watched Lily with half closed eyes and when she popped the hairy fruit in her mouth after taking ages to peel it, he almost lost his lunch right then and there, sliding down the wooden bench and covering his head with his hat. He lay inert. the Ernest Hemingway of the group, the Old Man Of The Sea.
We were busy with Lauren, she was never a good traveler, I'd given her Dramamine before we left, but it didn't work and she was heaving over the side of the boat. At the same time she let out several resoundingly loud farts and we covered up her fat little bottom with a towel and hoped no one else had heard. Fat chance of that, the farts were like rifle shots, crack, crack, crack and the girls and I stood shaking with silent laughter as we tried to cover Lauren's embarrasment, and it went on for minutes.
Lauren heaving and farting and us laughing. (Please don't think it's irreverent of me to talk out about Lauren in this way, ) I like to remember her as a whole human being, warts and all. Not a white Angel with wings but as she was, only older. We petted her and got her out of the boat and on to dry land and she was better within minutes. We didn't tell her about the farting, it would only upset her. And that night we all had farting competitions, the girls and I. Daring each other on and on. It was like being let out of jail. No Bob to tell us off for being 'something" other than the Stepford Wives and daughters we had become.
We were sad to depart Bali, not wanting to face a freezing cold Melbourne, bathed as we were in Hot Golden days. I had the hair braiding done, just before we left. I wore my handmade leather cowboy boots and a tie dyed dress and Deb said I looked like Whoopi Goldberg" and I had to laugh and agree. But our flight was not till later, at midnight, so we had another whole wonderful sun filled day, swimming at the pool. Lauren, nicknamed Otter, by Dudley, met an American lady who told her of the Southern California sea otters who were endangered. Lauren asked me if I would take her there someday and I replied,
"Of course!"
She was very concerned about them dying off and wanted to go there, help, somehow.
And we flew home the thousands of miles to home, getting in the front door at about 6am, turning the heater on and retiring to bed for the day. Bali was over, our holiday was over, and later down the track I had to inform the Happy Hour Crew of Lauren's death. they were fantastic, sending flowers and calling me. Dudley came over one Sunday and Ken and Simone, called in one day headed for their home in Tassie. I wrote to Kakayo, the japanese girl and she sent back a silk hand made card and an Origami of a Butterfly. I spoke to the Bali Boys and it was terribly sad.
So I will not go to Bali again. I loved it but I just can't. I will travel to Southern California one day and imagine Lauren is one of the Sea Otters, frolicking in the Ocean. That where I like to think she is, gently rolling in the sea and sun, waiting for me. And when it's my turn to take the Golden Stairs to Heaven, I know she will be there, holding out her hands and smiling xoxo
In late May 1989, we went to Bali, feeling that we were stealing this much needed holiday from Bob. There had been a rush to get Alena and Lauren an Aussie passport. I went to the passport office, was given a number and told to wait. Lauren and I went shopping instead and came back three hours later and we were the next in line. Miss Floss liked her passport. her ticket to the world and from her passport photo she smiles, a child delighted.
Bob dropped us off at the airport, no kisses, no hugs for this family going overseas, but he did hand us $400, a hundred for each of us, his "girls". And we were going for 10 days, he was generosity personified. And he was gone. I was livid with him. Alena had a panic attack right then and there, she begged us, crying, to ring her Dad and get him to come back. To get her as she was not getting on that plane. But we eased her panic and within half an hour she was sitting on the plane, ear phones on and tucking into bacon and eggs.
We flew, my own little Motley Crew and I, out of Australia, and on to adventures, anew. We flew for what seemed hours and hours and then we were disembarking and approaching Denpesar airport. When we climbed out of the plane and on to the burning hot tarmac, the humidity soaking us like a wet blanket, the smell was indescribable. It's a mix of dead things, animals, mostly and shit and vegetation. I have smelt the same smell in every 3rd world country I have ever been to.Once you have been to any 3rd world country, you have been to them all. It's poor, there are too many people crushed in to too small a space and the sewers are open.
We caught a bus to Putri Bali Hotel and then we were in luxury, 5 star accommodation and the poor world faded away and the rich world beckoned, its seduction. We booked into our luxury room and went exploring. Alena stayed in the room at first, not venturing out, we tried to cajole her to come out and play, but she wouldn't. Everything "smelt" to Alena, the air, the food, fruit, even orange juice. She was happy to remain in the room, ordering room service,a burger and fries and coke in a can, "real food" to a 14 year old, scared little girl.
We, however, Debbie, Lauren and I went out to the magnificent pool, shining in the hot sun, beckoning us to social life and swimming and many drinks consumed at the swim up bar. It was so hot, that first day, that the pool was the only place to be. And within a few short steps through the stone arch was our very own slice of heaven, a private beach. We were in heaven, escaping the cold and rain of winter Melbourne, with it's hand and toe nipping cruel cold, and in another world, another country and we vibrated with the "specialness" of Bali.
We attempted breakfast the next day in the Hotel's fine dining room, but the prices were atrocious, so we went for a walk to the nearest Village, Nusa Dua and found our temporary home. We walked the hot street, looking for a place to eat and a young Indonesian man was calling us from the door to his restaurant. We went in and had vegemite toast, juice and tea for all of us and it cost a $1.00. We talked to the charming owner and his friend and he told us to "Don't, worry, be happy", the song by Bobby Ferrin was popular at the time and we sang it, wore tee shirts that phrased it in print and decided to not, worry and be happy.
We went to the "Happy Hour" at the Hotel that night and met people who were to become our "Bali Crew" There was Dudley, an older man who was very sad, as 6 months previously he had lost his beloved wife of 30 years.There was an English couple from Melbourne, with their grown son. A middle aged married couple, An older Dutchwoman with her "beau", Henry and us. All of us that met up that night were from Melbourne, except for the very fine, Jean Claude, who was from Italy and his beautiful girlfriend who was from another planet, with her tall "super model,"body and no words of English. For that 10 days she lay around the pool, never venturing out to the Villages or tours, just honing her tan.
We decided at the "Happy Hour" we would all go to Kuta the next day, for the shopping at the markets and grab some bargains. And that's what we duly did the next day on a bus. The beggars once we stepped from the bus, swarmed around us, and within minutes we had learned Indonesian for,
"I have no money"
There were hawkers and beggars everywhere and we could only travel a few steps before being accosted again, so we, the girls and I retreated to a cool Aussie Bar, where we had cold drinks and watched the bustling, boiling sea of poor humanity that begged in the streets. Two little rag a muffin kids stood at the doorway, looking shyly in at us. Debbie was charmed and beckoned them enter. But the bar man stopped her, told her beckoning with a crooked finger was considered "obscene" in Bali and were to beckon with one hand, palm down, in sort of an up side down wave.
And that beggars, especially children were not allowed to enter the bar.
We stayed all day in Kuta, until dusk and dinner at the hotel beckoned. We dressed carefully for Dinner and sat the four of us at the table and talked. The next thing a Balinese Mariachi band approached our table and began to sing, "Welcome to the Hotel Putri Bali" to the strains Of "Welcome to The Hotel California and the girls began heaving with hidden laughter. I told them to cut it out, the earnest Band members faces beseeching with faux emotion and the harder and louder they sang, the more the girls laughed. They dropped their napkins on the floor and disappeared under the table, explosions of laughter erupting from them, that could be clearly heard.
I kicked out at them with my foot. Embarrassed for the plaintive, smiling band members. But the girls would not be stopped and I waved the men away in the end, Hand upside down, fingers waving and they left, and I turned on the girls to tell them off and ended up in convulsions myself . We went to Happy Hour that night singing "Welcome to the Hotel Putri Bali"in accented English. I have photos of us at the table, one of Lauren outstanding as she rests her chin on her hand and reflectively gazing at the camera, solemn, and inside she is erupting with laughter and trying hard not to show it.
Alena wanted her hair coloured, so we went looking fot the Hotel hairdresser. Alena was at the age where coloured her hair often, sometimes as much as every week. There had been red and green and purple and brown and streaks of various hues. Alena just could not seem to settle on any one style or colour and we were resigned to it. We found the hairdresser and Alena could not believe they had no blonde hair colour. There was only black and she raged about this and I explained to her that all the Indonesian people had black hair, all of them, so hairdressers didn't need blonde hair colour.
The two youngest girls found a huge coconut on the ground and commenced to try and break it. Lauren and Alena bounced it down stairs, pounded it into the concrete and threw it off higher floors into the concrete stairwells but still it would not break. Debbie and I would be relaxing in the ground floor room and all day we heard thump,thump, thump as the girls tried to break the coconut and worked on the project, tirelessly, until in exasperation Debbie and I threatened to beat them and they stopped.
As each day passed we ventured out in to Bali more, doing the monkey tour and took long rides into cool valleys and mountains, stopping to admire the views. The monkeys were small, evil and could turn nasty and I was not charmed by them. Lauren was but I wasn't. We went Para sailing, Lauren scrambling to be first up and the other girls and I holding back. But when Louise, the dutch Grandmother went up I knew I had to go up too. Photos show us with hair flying out behind us, running the beach and then taking off and flying in to the wild blue yonder.
And up there in the stratosphere was all calm and silence and terror as you looked down at the ant sized people. But after a while the terror leaves and all that is left is the beauty. You and the slight wind and the silence, looking down. And maybe that is what we do when we die. We are just spirit looking down, observing, not judging and even though it is beautiful where you are all warm and soft and relaxed, you yearn to return to the ant like people on the beach.
And you do, and you are exhilarated and "high" at your own bravery conquering your fears, your petty troubles having fallen away behind you in air and space and time. And in that moment you just "be", up high, you are as one with nature and your creator whoever he happens to be. I like to think of mine as a wise and kindly Father, of which I was lucky enough to have of my own. And then you are back amongst the living and they are patting you on the back and congratulating you and you revel in it. we had the best day that day, going up and coming down. And staying in a tented cabana safe from the roiling sun and drinking, eating and relaxing with just normal people that laugh and tell jokes.
We bonded that day as family, Bob's petty tyranies forgotten, trivial, firmly in the past.cold cruel winter Melbourne forgotten (I hardly ever break the "author, writer, observer barrier, but I will here. ) .....I am freezing, shaking with cold as I write this. I am at Kerrie Hancock's house in Korumburra, one of my most favourite places. I LOVE Kerry's house filled as it is with so much beauty. Old things are revered here as are animals and children and Kerry and I go back to when she was pretty little girl with a lisp at 6 and a fierceness that knew no bounds. It's her birthday today, shhhh and I can't believe she is 50 next year.
Yesterday, Ronnie, Kerry's man's, Mother died, Rose. A heart attack at 82, bless her xoxo, Ronnie is bereft and stunning in his dignity and grace for his Mother. We cry for his him and he assures us, it's OK and it's not.
But as I am trying to write today, a cat and a little dog, dressed in an angora jumper, vie for my attention. The cat, so like our own very beloved Mohammed, (Hamad) cat from the past weaves across my keyboard, bum in my face, demanding my strokes. He drapes himself on my lap and nudges me with his head and I laugh. I laugh at the little dog, too, in her warm jumper. Kerry must have passed that trait on to Lauren, as she too liked to dress her kitten, and the kitten never objected to looking silly and lay compliant in his pusher as Lauren wheeled Mush around the neighbourhood.
Back To Bali .........
We went everywhere in Bali, on the back of tiny noisy scooters, tear arsing through skinny roads, drivers hell bent on seeming to want to kill us as we clung terrified at their waists and waited for death. We went to the villages and the sea shore and had our hair braided in the sun as we lay on mats and had massages from women dressed if full length sleeved tops and pants and cooli hats. When we asked them were they not hot, they replied yes, but to be covered and to be seen to have lighter skin was their aim. And here we were ,lying in the sun, getting brown. Ah, the irony !
But the feeling was heaven, the strong fingers massaging our muscles and cares away. Lauren had her hair braided her long tresses encased down her back. I have a photo of her walking away from me picking her way through the sand in bare feet. And I know at that time and on that day my child was full to the brim with happiness. Bob saw the photo years later and thinking it was me, said.
God, I'd recognise that body, anywhere"
I didn't bother to enlighten him it was his daughters body he was showing his disgust at. Silly man. And if he reads this, I am so sorry Bob, but you really were an uncaring man. And just because others think you have mellowed, I don't. You had a great family that loved you and would have followed you anywhere, and did, Then you turned into an absolute cock head, and the rest is history. If you don't like my stuff, don't fucking read it. OK , or sue me, but you won't, because it's all true as we saw it. You missed out.
I love my kids and my ever growing brood of "useless Little bastards". Kyle is a fine man/boy and you have no had influence on that. you could have been a great influence to him, taught him to be a man, a real one. Jade is to die for, a model student, volunteers at a school for handicapped children and she can sing, really belt out a tune. Zachary is a tall shy sensitive neat boy, who has a heart of gold and wants to be a policeman. He loves his Dad, even though he knows he is "Troubled", these kids don't ask for a lot.
Then there is the amazingly tall. skinny beautiful Ashleigh and she is and always has been a mini me of her extremely beautiful Mother, you remember her don't you?? The baby you worshiped. The first one, the one that you cried over when she took her first steps towards you. her names Debbie. And you should be proud of her. You didn't see Debbie hug that stupid awful plastic box they gave us with Laurens Ashes in and cover it with kisses and hug it to her while tears streamed her face in agony and we sat there crying too. Appalled, beyond appalled. Dead ourselves,
And I took her ashes home for 5 years. Did you ever think what it was like for us ??? When you took the cars and the house and the money in spiteful, mean spirited ways.
And six months before Lauren's death, in Bali we went to the mountains, she so alive and happy and we ate unhygenically and squatted over holes in dirt to pee, trying to keep our feet away from the piss and shit surrounding the toilets. It was putrid and ignorant and poor and that part of it I hated, thinking,
"Why??,"
Why were some people forced to live this life of poverty and squalor and the simple answer was, they knew of nothing else and apart from being poor and ignorant or non academic they were HAPPY. They had each other and their culture and their religion and they revered family and children and work and a good humble peaceful existence. and their happiness showed on their faces and shone out out of their eyes, blinding me. They lived on a $1 a day and worked ten hour days, 7 days a week, and they were happy. Outside every doorway were statues and candles and food, their celebration of their beliefs. They were simple people with a simple culture and I thought,
"These people have something and it's beautiful"
And I had something beautiful too, memories of Lauren as happy as ever I had seen her. She loved Bali, was a fierce bargainer, better than any of us, shooing shop keepers away with a wave of her imperious hand. She bought so much stuff and I ordered a leather jacket for her and boots. the other girls too and me. I had made, a fabulous pair of snake skin shoes in teal, for something like ten dollars and wore them everywhere. Didn't matter I had a cupboard full at home, I reasoned the ones at home were Bob's taste not mine. He had bough them home from the Philippines. Mary Janes, very boring. My snake skins were sexy and high and individual. Fantastic.
And we had such fun the girls and I, lounging around the pool in the scorching heat, meeting up with the Happy Hour others and met a charming japanese girl, her friend was sick with Bali Belly so we took her under our collective wing and hung out with her, teaching her English and she, us, teaching us Japanese. We decided to start fine dining from then on. Spending up big on Bob's credit card. not too much, but enough. I used my child endowment, leaving it for years to mature. I had once used it for the Business to pay wages, so my little thrifts came in handy sometimes. I needed to feel that the money was mine. Tired of control and waiting. Tired of my husband.
But we decided to have fun and stepped it up, dinners at local restaurants, fresh fish caught that day, piled on to our plates by bare chested men with sweat running down their faces and endlessly smiling. We went to an Indonesian Dance with dinner and little painted girls came on and danced, trying to drag "The Colonel, Dudley" up on the dance floor. Lauren looked like an ungilded lily amongst the painted faces of the dancing girls, so pretty with their long arms embracing the air and the audience all at the same time. Lauren wore her new pink playsuit that night and had her mouth glossed for the first time. This always made her pout her lips like a groper for some reason. And we would tell her not to pout.
The girls went to the temples by themselves with the others from Happy Hour, bringing back photos of a pig on a stake ready for eating soon with poo coming out of its bottom. (Hey!, these are my girls! ) And other photos of them standing on the steps to the Temple, properly skirted in skirts provided by the monks. We went to the rock pools after climbing for what seemed like hours in a rainforest. The walk was worth it, the place was like a fairy grotto, all natural, warm waterfalls that you could stand under easily bathed as you were in waist high water, almost like being a bath. It was sensual and lush.
We went out on a boat, a small boat in the baking heat and bobbed up and down in it after snorkeling. Dudley looked a bit green around the gills and tipped his hat lower on to his head and pretended he was asleep. The chatty English couple peeling fruit, hairy fruit that looked like gonads, Dudley said. He watched"Lily" peel a banana that was orange instead of yellow and chomp it in half, decidedly with a quick little snap, like a tiny turtle he said, He watched Lily with half closed eyes and when she popped the hairy fruit in her mouth after taking ages to peel it, he almost lost his lunch right then and there, sliding down the wooden bench and covering his head with his hat. He lay inert. the Ernest Hemingway of the group, the Old Man Of The Sea.
We were busy with Lauren, she was never a good traveler, I'd given her Dramamine before we left, but it didn't work and she was heaving over the side of the boat. At the same time she let out several resoundingly loud farts and we covered up her fat little bottom with a towel and hoped no one else had heard. Fat chance of that, the farts were like rifle shots, crack, crack, crack and the girls and I stood shaking with silent laughter as we tried to cover Lauren's embarrasment, and it went on for minutes.
Lauren heaving and farting and us laughing. (Please don't think it's irreverent of me to talk out about Lauren in this way, ) I like to remember her as a whole human being, warts and all. Not a white Angel with wings but as she was, only older. We petted her and got her out of the boat and on to dry land and she was better within minutes. We didn't tell her about the farting, it would only upset her. And that night we all had farting competitions, the girls and I. Daring each other on and on. It was like being let out of jail. No Bob to tell us off for being 'something" other than the Stepford Wives and daughters we had become.
We were sad to depart Bali, not wanting to face a freezing cold Melbourne, bathed as we were in Hot Golden days. I had the hair braiding done, just before we left. I wore my handmade leather cowboy boots and a tie dyed dress and Deb said I looked like Whoopi Goldberg" and I had to laugh and agree. But our flight was not till later, at midnight, so we had another whole wonderful sun filled day, swimming at the pool. Lauren, nicknamed Otter, by Dudley, met an American lady who told her of the Southern California sea otters who were endangered. Lauren asked me if I would take her there someday and I replied,
"Of course!"
She was very concerned about them dying off and wanted to go there, help, somehow.
And we flew home the thousands of miles to home, getting in the front door at about 6am, turning the heater on and retiring to bed for the day. Bali was over, our holiday was over, and later down the track I had to inform the Happy Hour Crew of Lauren's death. they were fantastic, sending flowers and calling me. Dudley came over one Sunday and Ken and Simone, called in one day headed for their home in Tassie. I wrote to Kakayo, the japanese girl and she sent back a silk hand made card and an Origami of a Butterfly. I spoke to the Bali Boys and it was terribly sad.
So I will not go to Bali again. I loved it but I just can't. I will travel to Southern California one day and imagine Lauren is one of the Sea Otters, frolicking in the Ocean. That where I like to think she is, gently rolling in the sea and sun, waiting for me. And when it's my turn to take the Golden Stairs to Heaven, I know she will be there, holding out her hands and smiling xoxo
