Haro

Haro is a Balinese word that I've grown quite fond of these days, largely due to Bu Ary's bad influence. It's kind of the equivalent of "meh" or "blah" in English; the textbook definition is an expression of disapproval/upsetness with one's self. I think I'll try and bring it back to the states with me.

Anyhow, I've been getting some feedback about that last post, namely that it's apparently bad to disparage one's own work in a public forum, especially if it's one's own public forum. But either way, I was less than satisfied with that post, and decided to let you all know. As I was writing. It probably had something to do with the fact that I was feeling neglected by compatriots in the western world, and the fact that I was stuck dealing with a persistent tropical cold (how do cold viruses survive in this heat?). For the record, the cold remains, but should be gone tomorrow.

Back to topic, this mood kind of persisted and grew as we went to Denpasar, capital of Bali, for what amounted to a working vacation in a nice hotel. Nothing spectacular, save for some interesting thoughts brought about by my ill humor and impending worry about ISP. What I'm building to is that I had a cool realization: I was standing at the window of my hotel room, looking out at the attractive skyline of Denpasar in the late afternoon, when I realized that I don't belong here. This isn't my island. Bali is a magical place, true, and quite appealing for tourism due to culture and natural beauty, but it's for the Balinese. Us westerners, we really only serve to mess things up here. The island is increasingly abandoning traditional ways in favor of the easy and lucrative life that supporting tourism promises. One lecturer pointed out (and I don't know the facts on this) that almost eighty percent of the island's income derives from tourism now. This is no longer an agricultural society, and it's having an impact on culture as people now turn what were formerly "extracurricular" pursuits (like art and music) into a profession, as tourists will come and pay good money for bits of foreign culture. So the culture gradually becomes commercialized, and loses its soul. This is fine, because Balinese culture is so strongly tied to religion, and religion can't be commercialized, right? Wrong. The influx of money leads to more and more ornate ceremonies, which could be considered a good thing as far as physical manifestation of devotion goes, but some people believe (and this is the gut feeling I get, even though I've only been here for about eight weeks) that this is leading to a kind of soullessness, a going-though-the-motions regarding what was formerly earnest expression of faith. I'd be skeptical if certain parties in Ubud a few years ago hadn't sold the TV rights to a big cremation to the European networks and actually turned a profit on what's supposed to be a sacrifice of time and money. Haro.

But it wasn't just me getting riled up about the evils of tourism (economic imperialism) that was getting me down. As a student, I really have no place on this island. As I watched the traffic, I realized that as much as I try to learn Balinese culture and live that life, I will always be a foreigner. Even Pak Tom, Bu Ary's American husband, isn't sure whether or not he'll be staying here for the rest of his life, and he's the closest thing I've seen to a westerner who's managed to become a part of the society here. But I'm not even a foreigner. I'm fifth business to this island. There are the locals, the people who live on this island literally and culturally. There are the tourists, of differing species (spiritual, surfer, European, Australian, family or party), who are here to have a good time and leave. There are the expats, also of differing species but really more on a spectrum of earnestness vs. obnoxiousness, who have decided to live here for profit or pleasure. And then there's me. I'm not quite a tourist, certainly not an expat, but never will be a local. Fifth business. And, at that moment in Denpasar, it seemed like I was really just a glorified tourist, abroad under the auspices of education.

And then I remembered the adventure, something that I think made all the difference. It didn't really solve any of these quandaries, but it helped me rationalize them. These doubts, this worry and wonder, all of this is part of the process of being a poor little mahasiswa (college student) lost in a strange land, feeling like he's been there for so long but really not yet a week over the halfway point of the journey. Everyone doubts, and the doubts will eventually become part of the story. In the meantime, I'm here on a journey (to the heart of the Balinese dream), and that alone sets me apart from all the other whitey on this island who think they belong here. I know I don't belong. My time is finite, but while I'm here I'm gonna get me some knowledge, and maybe some good will come of it later. Maybe I'll help the island. Maybe it'll be a selfish pursuit. But no matter how I look at it, I'm still better than the tourists. Haro.

Another great thing about haro is that you can misuse it all the time because it sounds so cool. That turned out to be a little more inspiring than I'd originally planned, so here's the short Balinese adventure of the week, a visit to our local temple's odalan, which is a yearly ceremony for those of you who don't remember. There's a big temple in Bedulu, Pura Samuan Tiga, that all the host families go to worship at because it's local, as well as a few people from elsewhere nearby. Because we got back in the afternoon, I got to go with my host uncle and pray at night, which ended up being so much cooler than daytime. We rode over and joined the throngs of happy worshipers walking into the temple, which was all lit up with floodlights. But not in the ugly parking lot-style that we'd use. Instead, they lit only the various temples and shrines, which served to highlight all the shiny and brightly colored offerings and statues within, while spilling enough residual light to illuminate all the worshipers sitting on the lawn praying (yes, there's a lawn at Samuan Tiga). Prayer done, we got to wander around and see the different gamelans that had come to play, pretend to listen to a guy reading the Ramayana in some language I don't understand, and watched some mask dancing, including the dancer making fun of one of the girls because he's related to her host father (so it's okay!). What set this one apart, though, was the neighborly feel: I ran into a few other students who came to pray with their families, and my Uncle saw lots of friends and family to banter with. There were only a few whiteys in the audience, but apparently they were local, and they wore proper formal clothes, so it was less of a "ugh, whiteys" thing than "oh, what are you doing her?" Good fun indeed.

Well, that's about all that there is to say I guess. I'll probably finish my art project tomorrow, and there aren't any other excursions planned before ISP, so that's the next big adventure for me. Apart from the usual big adventure of everyday living here, I guess.