Author Archives: Ian

Better a Racist

Posted on by
3

Well here I go, ready to be slammed, labeled, ostracised and abused.  (I don’t know wether to say sorry in advance or apologise?)

I just watched ‘Gran Torino’ the movie with Clint Eastwood that has more racial vilifications and politically incorrect moments than the David Chappelle Show or a Steady Eddie comedy routine or the latest (not funny) comedy show on SBS Legally Brown.  But, I have worked out that any comedy routine is okay and funny (even if it’s not) if you do it about yourself, or your own race (no matter how stereotypical the joke), or your disability, or your sex…. Just don’t have no white man doing no black joke or misogynistic joke or visa versa!  (I used the word misogynistic just to let you know that if you are a man do not do woman jokes – no matter how funny, I’m taking even if they hilarious – as it means that now and for ever more you hate women, and discriminate against them, and suppress them… be warmed).

Of course, I was thinking about all this after Gran Torino and watching the football a few weeks ago where the biggest story of the day was calling for the heads of players who had ‘defaced’ a poster of two players with the highly scandalous comments of ‘going to the Mardi Gras’ or similar…. The details really aren’t important. I thought it was funny, as it was.

What is important is that I am a white Anglo Saxon male, and it’s probably my fault anyway.

I am sometimes ashamed and often confused at my whiteness.

I read up on political correctness, as I realised not being politically correct was somehow all my fault. In my reading I started to think perhaps it was not created how I thought: perhaps it was not even what I thought. I also wondered how come there are all these politically incorrect jokes, which I think are sometimes really funny, still being created that don’t actually destroy society. Below (I understand if you want to skip it) is the history of political correctness and to tell you the truth – I don’t get how we got from that to this? (sometimes I don’t even know what this is?):

    • Historically the term “politically correct” was used disparagingly, to refer to someone whose loyalty to the Communist Party line overrode compassion, and led to bad politics. It was used by Socialists against Communists, and was meant to separate out Socialists who believed in egalitarian moral ideas from dogmatic Communists who would advocate and defend party positions regardless of their moral substance. Reference – “Uncommon Differences”, The Lion and the Unicorn Journal
    • In the 1970’s according to one version, political correctness actually began as an in-joke on the left: radical students on American campuses acting out an ironic replay of the Bad Old Days BS (Before the Sixties) when every revolutionary groupuscule had a party line about everything. They would address some glaring examples of sexist or racist behaviour by their fellow students in imitation of the tone of voice of the Red Guards or Cultural Revolution Commissar: ‘Not very “politically correct”, Comrade!’ Reference – Hall, S. (1994) “Some ‘Politically Incorrect’ Pathways Through PC”
    • In the 1990’s political correctness is one of the brilliant tools that the American Right developed in the mid–1980s, as part of its demolition of American liberalism…. What the sharpest thinkers on the American Right saw quickly was that by declaring war on the cultural manifestations of liberalism – by levelling the charge of “political correctness” against its exponents – they could discredit the whole political project. —“Words Really are Important, Mr Blunkett”, The Observer (16 December 2001)

I also note that not being politically correct often is used to exclude groups from things, a sort of discrimination for everyone except the minority. But, I wondered considering the above brief and probably not totally correct history if in fact political correctness and racism are both things that we don’t understand.

I was thinking, that surely thinking is a matter for me and only saying or doing can possibly be something wrong, well at least as viewed by the rest of the world as opposed to someone reading my mind.

I got to thinking about my career and realised that I had been called a ‘white cunt’ more times than I had publicly vilified another race, which when I think about it is never. I think about the time I have discriminated against another person, for any reason, and there is a void of examples.

I got to thinking about the time I was having a smoke and was asked by a group of Aboriginal people for one and said I had just popped down from my office with one, and sorry I didn’t have any others. I was called a white cunt, abused and threatened with violence. I rang the Police and the abuser was arrested. I was approached by one of the group afterwards and asked very politely why I had called the Police and I told them. They said they were very sorry it had happened. They stood there for a moment, obviously thinking, and then said, if I hadn’t invaded their country in the first place, and made them speak English, then I couldn’t have been sworn at and I should be ashamed of being a Captain Cook invader. I couldn’t argue with that and went back to my office. I was confused as I did somehow feel guilty. Should my guilt be more than a passing thought or should I be ashamed.

I got to thinking about all the things I am ashamed of for being white.

  • I am ashamed of the Anagu Pitjantjajara Yankunytjatjara (APY) Lands. If you have been there you will know that it is a third world country in the middle of our country and we ignore it.  Also if you only say APY and can’t pronounce the full title – perhaps you should be ashamed.
  • I am ashamed of not being able to identify the difference between sorry and an apology. I am sorry a lot of things happened but how do I apologise for things that happend before I was born and I had no control over. I am more sorry because I have worked on the APY lands.
  • I am ashamed I have never been in a mosque, an Australian Hindu or Buhdist temple, a Synagogue and lately a church.
  • I am ashamed that languages are lost, stories are lost and history is forgotten.
  • I am ashamed I speak only one language.
  • I am ashamed that I don’t know any boat people.
  • I am ashamed that our country is so vast and yet so empty.
  • I am ashamed that maybe the wars the we fought didn’t give us the results they were fought for, other than victory.
  • I am ashamed of multiculturalism, because I don’t know what it means.  I don’t know what Australian culture is either, is it multicultural or are we multi cultures living separate in the one country.  Am I part of the multi cultural society as my ancestors were German or am I Australian – am I an oppressor, an invader?  I cant remember doing any of those thing though? I sorry my ancestors came here and who should I apologise to?

I suppose I could do something, so I am, I am writing this and putting my name to it.

I am saying three men walk into a bar, and they are friends and they take the piss out of each other, because that is being Australian; yet none of them were born in Australia.

I watch the movie ‘They’re a Weird Mob‘ and am grateful that there is no more ‘six o’clock swill’ and laugh at the stereotypes of the era, who when I come to think about it, built our country.

I wonder why ‘Gran Torino’ wasn’t banned and realise it is a movie about values not racism or vilification or hurt feelings.

I want a more peaceful life, but it is often too complicated and filled with messages I don’t understand anymore: perhaps I am just getting to the same point as Walt in Gran Torino. It was what I wrote about What is Being a Man, well, my definition of being a man.   But, it is not about being a man, it is about being part of the human race. It is so much about what we say and not what we do, that in the end we say nothing and do nothing.

Can white men really jump. We can jump to conclusions, we can also jump to the defence of others, we can also jump out of the way and let it all happen because we’ll get blamed for it anyway. Sorry.

I have decided that being a racist, or politically incorrect are not the same thing. I am politically incorrect, but I am also Australian and we give everyone…. Read that everyone, a fair go. That fair go is also about giving it to ourselves, along with an entire diatribe of genuine, heartfelt, witty, funny piss taking.

Call me a ‘snowflake’ a ‘Captain Cook’ a ‘white cunt’ and I’ll reckon you must be a mate, an Australian, as no body takes the piss as good as we do.

But, discriminate against my mate, suppress my mate, threaten my mate, take away my mate’s stuff, hurt my mate and I will defend their wurlie, their tent, their igloo, their adobe, their home…. I will stand by their side and fight for them with all that is mine against any foe.

After all, I am Australian and when we are not taking the piss out of each other we are usually fighting side by side…. And even then we are taking the piss out of each other!

Just one last thing. I am truly sorry. I am sorry that in trying to become a better man I still find it necessary to want the rest of the world to be better as well, albeit accompanied by a good long piss take without filling in a hurt feelings report!

I think I will be a better man by paying more attention to what people do and not what they say: sticks and stones and all that…..

Better Patience – Part 2

Posted on by
Reply

Okay the spelling of patience from my previous post Better with Patients – Part 1 has changed and that is mainly because I am running out of patience.

I have been home from my operation for a week or so and initially sitting around doing nothing seemed like a good thing.  Also I was taking pain killers so just about everything was fuzzy and funny.

Now, I am just sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I got to thinking about the little aches and pains that creep into your life as you get a little older; and the fact that you never appear to get enough sleep, even when you go to bed at times that in the past you were going out.   Of course these are aches and pains that are unfathomable to youth – as they were to me, until recently.  I now understand that part of being a patient is having patience.  Although I now understand that being patient is the same as being a patient.

I want to have a little whinge about a few things in the hospital but now I am home and the pain is fading, so are my motivations for complaining about people doing a hard job, in hard circumstances, often for hard to deal with people; I have decided that I don’t want to be one of those people, well, this time anyway.

I have remained a hermit during the initial part of my convalescence.  I understand that most times people really don’t want to hear about you being sick as they already have enough to deal with in their own lives.  Plus who needs further feelings of obligation slowing you down to your next planning meeting or Facebook update.  Also, it is like when you greet work colleagues or acquaintances and say “Hello, how are you?” and they actually tell you!

Anyway all this is part of my plan to retire the fittest I have ever been in my life – I think I have said before that I intend to retire to live, not die – bearing in mind there are many forms of dying in retirement, not just the physical type.  I just have to attend to a little ‘mono-ab’ problem and the monkey on my back called smoking.

So being a patient has taught me a little about patience.  It also taught me that no matter how much you may want to share your pain, in the end you have to decide if you are going to endure it until it gets better or make everyone else suffer along with you.

Irrespective of which one you choose, often getting better, or not getting better, is not so much about how sick you are, but how you look at it.

I think I am a little better now, not only physically, but as a man, and perhaps even as a patient.

 

 

 

 

Better Patients – Part 1

Posted on by
2

No I didn’t spell patients wrong, I am talking about being a hospital patient.  Well today I am.  I think I am about to write this post in more than one part, the before and after  operation. (I hope there is an after!)  It is nothing spectacular I am getting done, just routine getting old maintenance. I have decided that when I retire in the next couple of years I am going to be the fittest and healthiest I have been in my life; I intend on being retired for a long, long time!  Plus, I don’t want to be one of those old people who only ever talk about their illness and ailments – I once heard that the health issues of the elderly are often serious, but rarely interesting.  I don’t want to be boring, so I am going to be healthy. It is a minor hernia operation, but I have told people that is just a cover, as I am going in for a penis reduction…. Oh, groan.

In the lead up to arriving today I have completed a series of forms that required every detail of my life, in duplicate and verily witnessed.  I  posted these in prior to arrival for no doubt continuous scrutiny, copying and rubber stamping.  I presume this all must have happened, because when I arrived today the file the receptionist, or admitting nurse, had, was about 6 inches thick. I don’t feel that sick?

I’m glad I filled in all those forms as I got to repeat my name and spell it about 11 times… I got to the point where I thought I was on an episode of ‘candid camera’ or some getting punked show…. or, worse, she thought I was an imposter.  Anyway, I eventually got my wrist identification band, which then immediately had to be cut off and replaced as it didn’t have my middle name.  I assured the nurse I was the only person with that first name and last name in Australia and the other one was a musician in the USA… Did she initially think I was him, I didn’t think he was that famous.

We sat in the nice waiting room, we being my wife and I. My wife had come on the pretext of looking after me but I wanted her there to verify my identity. A short time latter a very nice lady volunteer called Kersti called out my first name, I checked my wrist band, it was me!  She then verified my surname telling me that she wasn’t allowed to call out surnames as it was a breach of privacy – although the nurses were allowed to do it volunteers weren’t.  I told Kersti that I was a bit reluctant to go with her as she wasn’t wearing Hi-Viz (see my post Better with Hi-Viz) and too my relief she immediately got on board and told me all the rules they had to follow, some of which appeared to be just to make things more difficult.

Let me transgress here for a bit. Kersti was a very attractive lady who later told us she was 70 years old. She had been a volunteer at the hospital for 6 years. She made our arrival wonderful. Volunteers…. Most of my life I have not really understood the concept. Kersti was the epitome of the concept. She was doing it to make my world, the new, perhaps often really nervous patient, a better place, to feel welcome and at ease. I am now sitting waiting for my operation, glad that I met her and feeling that little bit happier because I met her. I am glad I noticed her.

Kersti showed us around my room and then with a smile and cheerfulness that still lingers, went onto the next person who she was going to make a difference in their day – I have no doubt, all positive.

I haven’t been to hospital for a while and luckily have private insurance and am in a private hospital. My memory of when I was here a few years ago is that it didn’t look so tired. I don’t listen to the news too much about the state of our medical services, because, I am like everyone else and don’t worry until it affects me and then, I’ll tell you,  it is a bloody disgrace!  Just an observation that a lot of our ‘public’ stuff is looking a bit tired in lots of places and over made up in others. Priorities are no doubt set by the whim of some, the noise of others and the patience (the correct patience) of the rest of us.

I am still glad that I am sitting here, waiting for my operation, which was first diagnosed 8 weeks ago, with a good surgeon, and not like a mate in the public system who is still waiting for his operation 4 years later!

Funnily enough, I am not too nervous. I suppose it it like flying in a plane. We all get a bit nervous, but the odds of anything going wrong, even in today’s bad patch, are still pretty remote. Plus, as I wrote about earlier in the post Better Fathers Day it is amazing that considering the things we did as kids we have survived this long anyhow. I reckon the odds are in my favour that I will pull through.

I suppose, if all does go well, I will be a better man, at least physically anyway. I’ll let you know, hopefully.

 

Better Father’s Day

Posted on by
3

I decided to post about Fathers Day after Father’s Day because we are not just Fathers for one day.

I often do this on people’s Birthdays by sending them the card a few days after and mentioning that now their birthday is over, I hope they had a great day but celebrating a life is everyday.  I suppose I also do it so they will remember my card and not all the cards they go on their birthday or more importantly not all the Facebook messages they go from 200 half friends: by the way if you missed my Facebook birthday message it is because I don’t send them.

I had my opinion changed a few years ago about cards and present which you can read on my post Better Experience the Presents. In line with this I got a great card from my kids on Father’s Day but didn’t quite understand the ‘Grumpy Old Man’ stubby holder and mug!!

Dad as a Teenager

Dad as a Teenager

Dad - always smiling

Dad – always smiling

I think as Fathers we always think we could be doing a better job. I have the greatest cure for that type of thinking. I think about what I was doing as a kid and how my parents didn’t know half of what I got up to and in any case I lied, often only by omission, but a lie nevertheless. I realise that our kids are giving us the half truths all the time so as a parent they are just glad we don’t know what they are really getting up to, so being a good Dad is not finding out, I reckon. And, when you do, don’t be to harsh about it just because you never got caught when you were a kid!

After all out job is pretty simple. Keep them fed, clothed, sheltered and at school and most of all let them know they can be happy in a pretty flawed world.

I suppose being a Dad is as much about what we learned being a kid. I want to be like my Dad or I don’t want to be like my Dad, either way we learned something.

I wrote a lot about getting over, and rewriting the past in my post ‘Better at Time Machines‘ if you are interested.  One thing I do know, doesn’t matter about your past, it is how you look at today, and perhaps tomorrow that counts.  I think this is where we make the choice to be happy.

I also think that our Dads are a great influence, good or bad.

I was lucky, mine was all good.  I think the silent majority get to look back at their childhood and say it was pretty good.  I noticed the other day on Facebook a mate in his late 50s posted something about his Dad who had died when he was 21 years old – the influence of Dad’s is for life – and I think just as much if not more so after their death.

I once was attempting to explain this to my kids and did it with the following anecdote (I think I may have posted this before but I am of the age that if I tell the kids I can’t remember because I am getting old, unfortunately they believe me! – just found it in my post ‘Better Happy Posts‘ if you are interested – but here it is again anyway):

The other day I was trying to explain to the kids what were the important things in life and knowing the ‘value’ of something. I said I would be happy to have no job, no house, no possessions except the clothes I was wearing and perhaps a tooth brush in my back pocket. I would give it all away, all my ‘things’ to spend 1 minute with my Dad. I told then if I could do this, I would, with no regrets. I miss him as much today as I did all those years ago. I now attempt to honour him by living a life that would make him proud…. and sometimes when I falter, I know he would understand, forgive me and know (which is all he ever expected on any of us) I am doing my best. I love my Dad and I miss him.

I know we often try as Dads to be all things, especially attempting to teach our kids about our mistakes so they don’t repeat them.  We just have to remember for them it isn’t a repeat it is a first time discovery!  I suppose we just gotta let it happen and hope for the best – the odds are in our favour that they will make it.

Bob Kearney (see my post ‘Better with Bob‘) once said to me that he had a boring Granfather and in his old age he didn’t want to be a boring Grandfather; but, more important than being interesting was being interested.  I think that’s what our kids really only ever want anyway.

So now that Fathers Day is over and we have received all the accolades (and hopefully those of you with young kids great paintings of things that you had to have explained to you – PS keep these in the hidden kids 21 embarrassment file!) lets think about making our days as Dads count a bit more, lets be interested.

I know in being a better man, I MUST be a better Dad.

Better with Hi-Viz

Posted on by
4

Every now and again the world seems….. just…. somehow wrong.

I was taking my wheelie bin out the other night and was about to step onto the footpath when I realised I did not have on my Hi-Viz vest for working on (or near) roads.  I suddenly thought to myself I wonder how many other people are walking on the footpath, especially on bin night, no doubt in imminent danger of some risk!

Only that day I had seen 500 metres of Marion Road reduced to one lane; thankfully with Hi-Viz cones and more signs than I can remember – except of course the sign saying we could do 60 again which was so far in the future I needed the Tardis to reach it.  I was grateful that these safety precautions were being taken for the two guys, suitably attired in Hi-Viz vests who were standing on the footpath were all the work was being done.

4882(Remember I am taking my bin out as I am thinking this – without a Hi-Viz vest on and suddenly break out in a cold sweat that danger is imminent!)

I was so glad that these two workers were safe, on the footpath, in their Hi-Viz, standing there.  Then suddenly, within the blocked off lane a truck need to reverse, albeit in the blocked off lane.  Suddenly one of the Hi-Viz footpath men steps (bravely!) straight in front of the only lane of traffic open and stops 100 cars (he did this all with a smoke in his mouth, and a goatie beard) with a nonchalant wave of the hand.  The power and the bravery of the Hi-Viz!  To my relief I did see that the truck in the blocked off lane was able to back safely and the guy standing in the middle of the road, now talking on his mobile phone (multi tasking of the Hi-Viz) did have ‘traffic controller’ written on the back of his vest.  In almost no time the crawling one lane of traffic proceeded with the over the shoulder wave of our brave Hi-Viz traffic controller.

And….. it got me to thinking (bearing in mind at this time I am frozen with fear in my driveway with the wheelie bin in one hand and my foot paused inches above the dangerous footpath!) I had recently seen the Police in their new uniforms, in just about every circumstance wearing Hi-Viz with ‘Police’ written on it.  I was confused as I thought we were supposed to recognise the uniform, and if we were supposed to recognise the Hi-Viz, why didn’t they make the new uniforms out of Hi-Viz.

4882 - 3These thoughts were too much for me and I walked back into the house, sheltering behind the wheelie bin from imminent danger and decided to do something about it.  We needed a plan, danger was everywhere.

I went inside and was about to get a coffee when I noted that none of my coffee cups had warnings on them that the contents may be hot, I don’t even want to talk about the kettle or toaster.  I suddenly realised the world is such a dangerous place that it should have a large warning sign on it (perhaps on the back of the moon for people approaching) or at the very least a warning sticker.  I realised that all speed limits should be zero and if there ever was a crash then traffic lights could be erected at the intersection until we have traffic lights at every intersection (traffic lights would be in Hi-Viz).

It became obvious the longer that I thought about it, that all clothing sold should be Hi-Viz, honestly why take a chance.

Tomorrow I am going to the council to get my street turned into a temporary wheelie bin mall on bin night and demand they supply Hi-Viz vests (to match my other clothes) for taking out the bin.  I take no responsibility, after all it’s the governments fault for not protecting me.

Maybe, instead, I will think about being a better man, and not worry so much.

Better at Time Machines

Posted on by
1

As I have been experimenting with my blog, I have been going over recent posts and fixing up any errors. These are usually spelling (Yeah, I know, there are probably still heaps of spelling errors… never was my strong point!) errors or typos. To date in all my reviewing and editing I have left the basis of the content the same.

I have been wondering though, if the time will come that if I no longer believe in something I wrote in the past, I will change it or write a new post to clarify some new position, I now, just as vehemently hold, as I did the one in the past that I originally wrote about.  (I think I understand what I just wrote?)

My problem with changing a previous post is that I feel as if I am cheating my past.

Sounds like a bit of a who cares or so what scenario, but, would it be the same if we suddenly looked in our history books, or old copies of the newspaper and found that the past had somehow changed.  It would be like the changing of history in the novel (and then movie) “1984” by George Orwell.

I suppose it is not the change that troubles me, but, the possibility that it would be accompanied by denial.

But, I think we all create time machines with our memories.  Keeping a blog or a journal is a bit of a reality check on what really did happen – or more to the point, our view of what happened at the time.

Keeping all these records are a good thing unless they just remind you of bad times and bad people.  I suppose that one of the advantages of time passing is that memories and feelings do fade; well most of the time.

I definitely think there is a ‘limitation of time on childhood trauma’ and in saying that I am not saying that bad things didn’t happen that changed and destroyed lives or there weren’t bad people in our lives in the past that may still need to be punished; what I am saying is that there is only one life so why should we let someone or something from our past wreck our future.

In the book Too Soon Old Too Late Smart by Gordon Livingston (a really good read by the way) he goes on to say that we are responsible for most of what happens to us – I am sure this is not always the case, such as when we are kids, but we are most certainly responsible for what we do from that time on.  Most importantly, for me, who lives regret as a daily mantra he said:

“Coming to terms with the past is inevitably a process of forgiveness, of letting go, the simplest and most difficult of human endeavours.  It is simultaneously an act of will and of surrender.  And often seems impossible until the moment we do it.”tardis-in-space-tardis-6289810-1280-768

So maybe the ‘time machine’ is actually in us, we just have to switch it on.

I know one thing, I took his advice a few months ago with someone I had spent an entire lifetime hating.  And I just stopped hating them, I actually forgave them, and I let it go.  It was an act of will and surrender and I really didn’t know what it was like until the actual moment I really (Really!) did it.  Suddenly I was in the Tardis with Dr Who and I did turn back time.  The unfortunate part is that at that same moment I realised how much time I had lost.

Maybe my quest to be a better man is about using the time machine for good not evil.

 

Better Holidays

Posted on by
Reply

I started this post when I was in Bali sitting by the pool overlooking the rice paddies and tropical paradise which had been our view for the previous week.  Our holiday came to an end and usually around that time I am looking forward to going home.

It was time to pack my bag and go through the hassle of airports and the boredom of a longish flight home.

But, this time I felt different.

I didn’t buy very much, just a little present for my Mum who I think has imagined every possible travelling horror happening to us on a daily basis, and has called to check we are okay and not drinking the water!

What is different is that I am not recounting the bargain purchases, or luxury accommodation or new tan, but remembering the relationships I have experienced with the people, their culture and their country.

We danced the dance many times by driving our rented car around the towns and through the country as I described in my post Better Driving or Dancing.  We saw where the weavers make their thatch roofs, the silvers smiths make jewellery, the carvers carve and the people live in their often very modest homes.

I returned home with many gifts given to me by the people of Bali, gifts that they gave me for free, I didn’t have to ask them, I only had to notice.

  • I receive a large package of humility for not appreciating my life so much.
  • I received the understanding of another language which although barely enough, was more than I had ever used before.
  • I received smile, after smile, after smile from happy locals who returned every wave.
  • I received patience, in driving and in waiting for others who were in a hurry.
  • I received the joy of generosity, that I demonstrated.
  • I received the appreciation of people worshiping.
  • I received the gift of time.

I think most of all I received a knowledge that my life is privileged (see Better being privileged post), often excessive, often angry and often the minutes are wasted on things that really, really don’t matter.

In the future my wife and I have decided to be ‘discoverers’ and not tourists.  We want to be travellers and adventurers, not the bungie jumping sort of adventure, but the adventure you have when being with other, different people you can make wonderful discoveries.

A smart young man named James Castrission who was the first person to cross the Tasman Sea from Australia to New Zealand in a kayak, I think summed up adventure and possibly even tourism if you think about it the right way, by saying:

“Adventure is not about being the first person to cross an ocean or the first person to climb a mountain.  Adventure is what happens with the internal growth within:  It’s about pushing your personal boundaries to places that you wouldn’t normally be in, in normal society.  Then coming back and being able to lead a life richer because of this.”

Maybe when we look at it like this, a tourist becomes an adventurer when they come home with more than cheap T-shirts, stubbie holders, a tan and sunset photographs.  Maybe a tourist is always an adventurer if they just take the time to notice, to enrich their own lives, with the lives of the people who live where they are visiting.

I know one thing, I will be a better adventurer.

Better in the morning

Posted on by
Reply

image
This is just a quick post, because it is morning and we are all in a hurry…..

Well usually.

I am still in Bali and I captured my morning in the attached picture….

I was thinking how I usually spend my mornings rushing to go somewhere, usually late, kids and family also rushing, hurried breakfasts, mad drives to work with all the traffic working deliberately just against you (see my post on Bali driving)

So this morning it is a quick post to say, don’t miss the morning, don’t miss that moment when your day is just starting and might just be the best day of your life.

I have missed too many mornings, which led to bad days.

I am not always better in the mornings, but I think I will take a little more time to notice….. Wonder how I will go when I am back home….?

Have a better day, have a better morning.

Better driving or dancing?

Posted on by
3

Today I hired a car in Bali and drove with my wife from Seminyak to Ubud. I think the greatest protests about us driving were from friends at home who said we were mad.

Well that is true to a certain extent.

The madness is driving back in Australia, where the vehicles are fuelled by testosterone and anger. Where the need of the individual, far out weighs the transport of the many.

Well in Bali (and Thailand where I have driven before) it is not the will of the few that rules the road, it is that there are many and the few are many!

The motorbikes are like insistent flies on a summer BBQ except they move faster. A car is not close unless you can feel the wax on your duco bending with the proximity! Eye contact, hand gestures or indicators for that matter are not necessary as it is not about the driving it is about the dance.

You decided to drive in Asia so you decide that you are going to the dance. Your partners are everybody. The music is the rhythm of many moving to a different destination without haste but without restraint.

I like to drive in Asia because it teaches me that to wait, is to be waited for, to move in a direction is to be allowed, and waited for, to move in that direction, to be angry is to grind in your own tempest that effects nothing…

I suppose the reason that I love to drive in Asian is like a lot of things in Asia, it is not about me. The journey is about traveling, but the traveling is about discovery, the discovery is that you are not the most important person on the most important trip.

Drive in Asia and find that you can become a better driver in a world where it appears that everyone is driving in chaos and mayhem…. Then you discover that the chaos and mayhem really only exist inside your car.

I am a better man, and a better driver for driving in Bali.

I love the dance.

Better in Bali

Posted on by
1

I am sitting here in a lovely Villa in Bali relaxing and my wife is out shopping. We have had a mellow time of it since arriving.

The tourists (like us!) are everywhere although you never think you look like the rest of them.

The store holders go from happy and welcoming to insistent to dismissive at various stages of negotiation depending on prices and no doubt attitude… on both sides.

All the time we are going about our tourist life, there is another life going on in the background, often glanced at, but quickly dismissed as another shiny object takes our notice.

Yesterday I noticed. And today I saw.

Motorbikes everywhere but often this is the place of business for the small street vendor selling or dangerously transporting their wares to the locals and tourists. Buildings being pulled down or put up by swarms of men and women doing it in small pieces. The streets cleaned by the lone street sweepers and their small broom and bag. Garbage removed and sorted by hand, noticed only by the passing smell of the worker stirring up the garbage while sifting out the 1000 plastic bags that once would have been naturally compostable bags and plates and every container. Locals in small dark shops with unknown wares on display never entered. Trucks filled with tired and solum workers traveling down busy tourist streets at dusk packed in the back of tip trucks and utilities: their gazes go to the restaurants and bars just starting for the evening that they will never enter.

I saw a lot today and it didn’t make me sad, I just noticed it.

I suppose thinking now, so much of the life of the people here is reliant on the tourists coming. And really what can the tourist do. I think we can at least care. I think we can be polite. I think we can be respectful. I think we can behave like any visitor in someone else’s home.

I know that is what I did today.

I know me being a better man is not only about saying it, but it is also in what I do.

I tipped my taxi driver (The fare was $1.90 and I gave a $1.00 for himself)
I gave the old, old lady in the dark store where I bought eggs this morning twice what she wanted (I bought my dozen eggs for $2.00).
I eat their food (not a hamburger and chips, or branded take away – although today I did have a lunch in a small local restaurant that should have had a Hazchem warning!)
I look at them, not through them.
I smile at them.
I say hello, excuse me, no thank you, thank you, in their language.

I appreciate that I am a visitor in their home. And as a guest we know, back home at least, you should respect the host or leave.

Bali is a wonderful place, with a vibe that is not unlike the tentative hug of a friend just met: you have to know when it is okay to squeeze a bit tighter, become more familiar and form a long friendship. But, I think that comes by having many visits in all forms, and not just being the ‘plus one’ at a 10 day party.

Here’s to me having a new friend and being a good guest.