Shimmering blonde is listening to the sound of the tropics. She is sitting on a small balcony of a small hotel room. In Bali, there are many hotels and many hotel rooms. She is siting on the floor, with her legs crossed, talking to herself out loud…
I had a plan…
My plan was to slowly sink into the melancholy of this island, to find a little peace. This island is good for that kind of things if you know where and how to look for them. This island is slow, slower than the rest of the world. Despite busy streets, aggressive sellers, lethal heat… All that is only an illusion. And maybe it is just what makes this island special. Its ability to fool people. If someone asked me why this island, someone to whom I really care to answer – I’d say slowness. The one that is hidden.
Or at least that is how it was before.
This time it is not happening. This is not any more place designed for gradual immersion in slow island life – my immersion into the ocean, into the smoke of incense sticks, the sounds of gamelan orchestra.
I drive my motorcycle around – Canggu is good for driving without a goal. Read some of the tourist guides if you don’t know what I am talking about when I am talking about Canggu. Although, to be clear from the very beginning, tourist guides will not help you much in understanding of this place. In fact, those books will not help you at all. Tourist guides are completely meaningless and good for nothing. These guides will talk about some trivial things – where you should eat or sleep, how much will it cost all together, although even this information at the time of your reading will be outdated. Especially on this island where things are changing faster than anywhere else. In the case of Canggu, guides will talk about sleepy fishing village, about the beach of black sand and countless ceremonies in the temples around. Ha, it has nothing to do with reality. At least not in my world where this quasi-sleepy fishing village is almost chocking and falling apart because of the constant roar of motorbikes, because of more than the occasional rock and roll.
Nothing here is sleepy – this place is under fierce attack of young individuals with nicely combed hair (lots of gel) – I am talking about the boys now, girls here don’t care much about their hair, or at least it looks so, or at least they pretend it is so. The boys I observe with more attention nevertheless. Their clothes are ironed, mustaches and beard are freshly trimmed, they are the owners of the vintage (retro) bikes and clothing. They represent a new movement of young people, somebody told me.
Oh, I do not really have anything against. They do not oppress anyone, they do not preach to anyone. They actually don’t even exist really. They have no philosophy, ideology, and with that fact they are the pioneers in human history, although still slightly similar to the Oscar Wilde’s dandy’s who spent hours in front of the mirror taking care about details of their look (twisting their mustaches). But they are also better product of this time – impersonal, but because of that also harmless, rambling in this, generally accepted, but still non-existent virtual reality of political (and every other) correctness.
After driving my motorbike, when I land in one of the nests where they spawn, I will order a carefully designed cafe latte, I will sit there on my tight ass, the product of many arduous trainings that endlessly goes on my nerve (yes, I am also part of the crew). I will observe this once sleepy fishing village that is now dotted with graffiti and messages of salvation of the world and nature. We care, we care so much, we will make a difference. Just in the time between combing and gelling our hairs. Before we go on another grueling training that will shape our beautiful muscles.
While I drink my latte, I will choose my internet connection. All of us who sit and drink coffee will look smart. We’ll be absolutely concentrated while we rotate our fingers from left to right like schizophrenic idiots over the shimmering screens. We will have such a great fun.
How did we only get ourselves involved into this shit?
Who cares about slow immersion into the sounds and smells of this island. There should probably be some things more important than that. Like for example to try and point at the absurdity of what’s around us.
* * *
Blonde is looking at the chaotic lights of the little chaotic town stretched over the shores of the Island of Bali.
Oleh Berislav Longcarevic