We were in a bar on Jalan Legian and I knew we were in a bit of strife because big Larry's left leg had started to move back and forth like a windscreen wiper to the beat of the music, his knee acting like a radar scanning the pub for any woman who might have been separated from her pack and be easily dragged onto the dance floor by a bloke who has got about as much rythum as a three legged jiraffe with the hiccups trying to get off a bouncy castle - me mate Larry can't dance. The other likely scenario to present itself tonight after a couple more B'tangs is my other mate Craigo will turn into an Aussie helicopter pilot and start swinging his singlet above his head exposing holiday makers from around the world to a hairy, fat, flabby, amber filled belly that has a movement and rythum all of its own making, and I have actually seen this disco frenzied gut dislodge other smaller revellers to some distance as Craigo erupts on to the dance floor like a bowling ball scattering pins. And the sad reality is I will soon be joining my mates with an uncoordinated pigeon headed goose waddle dance of my own around the periferies of the dance floor marveling at my celebratory body movement as I do and wondering why we don't all sell up and move to Bali where we can spend the rest of our lives going from Kuta pub to Kuta pub showing off our obvious dancing talent. Maybe even get up to some of those flash Seminyak bars and show them a thing or two, yeah!!
I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't jump on an Air Asia flight from Perth a couple of times a year and land three and a half hours later on Bali where I essentially disgrace myself and behave with little consideration expected of one my age, and I almost welcome the following days'consequences as it stands in testament of having too much fun the night before. If I didn't have these two week periods of release in Bali I'd no doubt become one of those people that write countless letters to their local council informing them of a neighbor who continually refuses to put his wheelie bin exactly one metre from the curb side on collection days as council guidelines stipulate. Or I would end up having a very large collection of unusual salt and pepper shakers or toilet roll holders. I need Bali, I need Bali more than a pair of undies needs a bum.
Yes, Bali is my little tropical Tardis that transports me to a place that recharges my batteries and reinvigorates my soul preparing me for another few months in the often sterile mundanity of western living. But alas I fear the once exotic freshness fostering gay abandon of the island has now been polished with the corporate cloth of capitalism, shining its surface beyond recognition of the rustic charm that stood before and as a result Bali edges ever closer to being just a mirror image of the western world that I so need to escape from time to time. Where once you flew in to Ngurah Rai over tropical lushness and a pristine coast, you now see cranes and the construction of tall concrete buildings lined parallel with a beach that if you were to go strolling along before seven in the morning would find you stepping between plastics, paper and other less pleasant deposits yet to be removed by the clean up brigade each day. Added to that,the attitudes of the island and its people seem to have transformed over time with a 'what's in it for me' always seeming to lurk in the background of every conversation like a sneaky thief.
Yes, I know all things are transient and things can never stay the same. And of course it is a selfish, self centred desire to want to keep the growth and development of Bali and its inhabitants in a regional time warp for my personal pleasure but that just shouldn't and won't happen. None the less, I wonder if the time is quickly approaching where the pigeon headed goose waddle dance has become an endangered act of personal relief and release for me on Bali. I fear it may have to be relocated to another place to ensure its survival.