Pauperization in Bali

foto by gembong ismadi

Sayu, just called her with that name, leaved her village together with her husband, to seek fortune to Denpasar. They were heavy-hearted to leave their only one son who was just six year-old. They trusted the grandmother to take care of their child. One of a thousand reasons they went to work in Denpasar was, because they didn’t have large garden or rice field in their village. Their parents “just” inherited them garden 15 acre in width, which could accommodate some of banana cluster, some rambutan trees, and some cocoa trees. Before working in Denpasar, besides taking care of the garden, the husband sometimes worked as a construction coolie. While Sayu took care of two pigs and a cow which were got by “ngadas” from the neighbor. In short, this married couple was a portrait of poor farmer in general in Bali, although actually there was no too much problem with their income in the village. As common expression in village, that was the most important thing was the kitchen blew the smoke, that’s enough.

But every day this married couple thought, that now their child had begun to school and grew up. The life cost and the school needs of their child would more than before. There was no just to make the kitchen blew the smoke, but the continuity of life would demand more properties.

Half year working as a cleaning service in a Japanese restaurant in South Denpasar, in which the working time was eight hours per day, Sayu got salary Rp. 400.000 per month. Without any allowance, she just got once lunch in restaurant, plus the working uniform. Meanwhile, her husband worked in another place with income Rp. 700.000 per month plus once lunch allowance.

If those were summed, their income per month was Rp. 1.100.000. Then, that income was used for room fee (that too far from comfortable) Rp. 200 thousand, breakfast and dinner for two persons Rp. 360 thousand per month, detergent, soap, tooth paste, shampoo, face powder, lipstick, deodorant, mosquito repellent and water for two persons per month was Rp. 150 thousand, then was also used for bed credit, bed sheet and pillow Rp. 200 thousand, so the income of this married couple remained Rp. 190.000! It was not yet used for petrol of their old-motorcycle that was used for working.

In Kuta tourism center, a boy who admitted from Seririt regency, Singaraja, worked as a waiter of a star-hotel restaurant. In that place, he and teens other employees had worked for four years. Now, just called the boy as Budi, “had succeeded” to get salary in the amount of Rp. 850.000 per month (just a little over the UMK of Badung ( the minimun salary of Badung regency), plust transport charge Rp. 100.000. Totally, Budi earned Rp. 950.000 per month.

From the total salary, Budi should pay his room Rp. 300.000 per month. Then, the cost of his eating and cigarette a month Rp.420.000. (Budi just bought food once a day, because he could eat in his working place once). Besides that, Budi also spent about Rp. 150.000 a month for other needs such as washing tools and bathing and water supply in his boarding house. So, Budi’s salary remained Rp. 80.000 a month.

It was not also different from Nengah from Jembrana. This father of a three year-old girl worked as a currier in a goods-carrying industry (well known as cargo) in Denpasar, owned by a businessman from Jakarta. As a permanent employee, Nengah received his main income Rp. 600.000. Incentive Rp. 150.000, transport charge Rp. 350.000, service charge regularly Rp. 75.000 and rent-motorcycle fee Rp. 50.000. Totally, Nengah got Rp. 1.225.000,-.

Same as other lower class, Nengah should also pay the room Rp. 300.000 a month. He should look for rather large room because he took his wife and child together with him. For eating needs (daily cooking and milk for the child), this small family spent money for daily expense Rp. 500.000 on an average a month. The cost of washing tools and bathing and mosquito repellent was Rp. 150.000 a month. There was still monthly outcome for paying the electricity and water jointly in the boarding house Rp. 30.000 a month and unpredictably child-care fee was Rp. 100.000 on an average a month. Therefore, roughly the income of this small family remained Rp. 145.000.

The questions are, how should Sayu meet the daily needs and her child school fee in the village with money Rp. 190.000 a month? What kind of prosperous family could Nengah and his family build with remaining money Rp. 145.000? What kind of future would Budi face if his pocket only remained Rp. 80.000?

They could not even cover the end of the month properly, much less a future. Because as a human being that coincidentally born and lived in Bali, in fact every month they should also spend for social fee like attending invitation in relatives and friends who had ceremonial feast, religion ceremony in family and in the village, and the cost of a piece of suitable cloth. It was not yet the cost for toothache medicine, headache, traffic ticket fee, administration fee in the district as a new comer, parking fee and other fees.

With income which is not so much a month, as society, tens thousand Sayu, teens thousand Budi and teens thousand Nengah, absolutely cannot yet feel the freedom and sovereignty in their life. They do not even have ability and freedom for repairing plaited bamboo’s wall of their parents’ house, much less hoping that they can give something for developing their village.

Then, everyone can have opinion, that the job vacancies and job opportunities which as if are created and opened by the tourism capitalist with its all aspects and effects in Bali, are not a blessing like what is thought all this time. It is not different from the presence of colonizers, who clearly ignored the ethic of life and the human right in this independent world, because they apparently did not have commitment for changing the condition in their surrounding, from poor and dull became better. The job opportunities that are created, in fact are just able to accommodate the sweat of the workers just for developing and increasing their industries. So, what is the difference between the presences of the future’s hope youths who work in the crotch of the tourism capitalists’ octopuses and the Nusantara’s societies who previously worked under the boot of colonizers?

This is a serious offense of human right that continuously happens in this God’s island. Is there anyone who realizes it? Maybe no one! Because the elites just keep quiet and take part enjoying all of that. Because the societies also keep quiet while dazzled by the shining of colorful lamps in star – hotels which who knows the owner , mesmerized by the magic of escalators and lifts in malls which who knows the owner, surprised by the line of luxurious cars along the street from Kuta to Sanur which who knows the owner.

In this context, really, Bali has buried the human right happily with small changes that flow from bikinis of the tourists who come to buy the twilight in the beach, who come to buy the fresh air in the mountain, who come to buy the glance of legong dancers in the dim corners of star – hotel yard. But no one can change it.

nanoq da kansas

translated from indonesian firs by yudi ariani

To Every Man’s House who Became Father

The Short Story by Nanoq da Kansas

“Has dad ever thought that is dad appropriate to be called as a hero for us?” suddenly my five children asked me together. They asked me that question when I was relaxing, enjoying shiny evening weather at the back garden of our simple house, on an antique rocking chair given by one of my son in law, in the middle of green grasses, between a lot of clump trees arranged neatly, in the north west corner of the small pond made by a famous gardener in our town.

I was surprised. Astonished looking at their lips stuck beautifully in my children’s face from the oldest to the youngest. I was surprised by their togetherness. It was the first time they looked out me as compact as this. Previously, they never did it. Previously, I didn’t know.

I looked at them one by one, that three handsome faces and that two beautiful faces. Here they were. Five generations for continuing my life who were handsome and beautiful. Five persons as the result of me and my wife’ love, who now become persons with their own job and status, even who have given me some funny and naughty grandchildren. Here they were, my five children who at the moment looked at me and for the first time asked me: “Has dad ever thought, that is dad appropriate to be called as a hero for us?” damn! They forced me. Forcing me to the vaguest corner in my skull. Pressing my body into the place without dimension in my chest. Damn! I narrowed my eyes, tried to think.

All this time, what had I done and given to them? I loved my wife, then they were born one by one. Then my wife and I look after them, grew them up as the other parents did. My wife and I grew them up with all normal things, plain, something that flew based on the beat of the life that we found, that we walked on.

My wife and I had grown up the children in a family that I thought it was normal and like what a truly family was. If I thought they were wrong, I warned them. If I thought they were naughty, I scolded to them. Beating their bottom or tweaking their ears, once punishing them to stand looked out the wall for tens minutes. I praised or gave them reward for something that made them appropriate to receive it. Inviting them to make some jokes, discussing, having different opinion, or agreeing a case or asking them to forget the things that should be forgotten. I invited them to do jobs that they should do.

Swear! I really felt I had given everything to them, to my children. Inviting them to walk on and enjoy this life from drops of the most pain of my sweat to the most famous of my prosperity in my life history. Even I had given my blood and marrow to them. My breath. My soul. My love. My love and affection. My inner self. My weakness. My madness. My everything.

And at the moment, suddenly they came together with compact lips asked me: “Has dad ever thought that is dad appropriate to be called as a hero for us?”

Damn! How sweet they were when they utter those words. How simple their facial expression when they bombarded that question precisely on my forehead. And suddenly how dim the sky on my head. I didn’t understand, why suddenly I felt they pushed me to the vaguest corner in my experience. Why suddenly I felt under pressure in a place without dimension.

My eyes glittered. Perhaps I was little bit tired. And they, my five children, did not yet move from my face. They still waited. Instead, they seemed to have more desire of the answer from my mouth. In a vague glance, I looked at them did not blink their eyes looking out me. Even their breath was felt touching my chick and coming out at my nape. I closed my eyes. The rocking chair was felt moving by itself. Swinging my body and my feeling.

I didn’t know how long, I was speechless. Then I felt their hands, my children’s hands began to be impatient. They began shaking my body. And their lips still repeated the same question: “Has dad ever thought that is dad appropriate to be called as a hero for us?”

I narrowed my eyelid. Then slowly I felt those hands began scratching my body. Firstly they gouged out my eyelid with their index fingers, then they pried my mouth with all their fingers. Then those hands move to my chest. Those strong hands and smooth hands began pulling my stomach skin and also my rib, opening all of my thoracic cavity widely. They scraped there continuously. Kept on seeking more curiously. The longer the time, those hands were more uncontrolled. And then their breaths changed into bellow of a creature that I never knew it before. But I was still speechless. I still ……

Perhaps my face, my chest, my stomach, my head and all of my body had been messed up by them when I let myself flew slowly from the rocking chair. I flew leaving them. Leaving the clump trees, the green grasses, the small pond…., and quietly I flew to every man’s house that became father.***

bali in a twilight.
for the late wayan mandra, my father,
who had taught the simple life and love for us, his children.

translated from indonesian fisrt by yudi ariani