"Down and Out in Bali"

They say that when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade.  Well that's all good and well, but currently, we find ourselves being stretched to the limits of optimism and good humour.  

Turns out that we are soon to be homeless and unemployed.  Okay, to be fair, we've been unemployed for several months now - nothing new there.  But the homeless element lends our situation a somewhat tragic air, as our potential new place just fell through - oops.

So now with just eleven days and counting, we have had to consider the possibility that we have used up all the magic that Bali had allotted for our motley crue.

Here's the evidence:

1.  Our super-friendly, 'you're like my family' landlord Ms. Putu, has lied to us, spread rumours about why she's 'evicting us' prematurely to other residents of the compound, and is making the vibes round here tense and unsavoury to say the least.  Teetering past in her usual high heel/tight skirt combo several times a day, she actively ignores us and we she...

2. My former eye infection has returned with a vengeance, and has now spread to both eyes, causing serious discomfort - not to mention cloudy vision - not advisable when trying to dodge fresh doggie doo-doo, splattered frogs or tiny flower and incense offerings on my morning run.  A sidelong glance in the mirror reveals that I look like a crystal meth addict.  Not a good look.

3. My baby toe on the left foot remains severely sprained thanks to Dumpies outburst last week,  making walking difficult and painful.  I can now be recognised a street away by the old lady shuffle and gait thing i have going on.

4. A totally bonkers grey-haired yoga devotee has moved in next door with a burly balding German lad she met in a local cafe.  She is old enough to be his mother, hails from California and decided on Bali as a permanent home 'until cremation' (her exact words) even before she had ever set foot on the island.  She is a strong believer in 'Chi' and believes this place - despite its rat problem - will not only help 'heal' her but build up her dwindling reserves of 'Chi'.  She now feels comfortable enough to wander into our place when we're not here and avail herself of our dvds - a level of familiarity which both confounds and mildly distresses me.

5. We're continuing to lose a ridiculous amount of clothing from the local laundry.  My knicker supply has now dwindled to half of what it was, and poor Dumps has lost not one but both of his swimsuits.  He's taken to floating around in the pool in his tiny underpants and adidas shorts.

Anyway, the sun is shining, i've had the good fortune to be able to indulge in double my usual latte quota this morning, and however short the proverbial stick we seem to be drawing these days, our luck is bound to change...eventually.  And even if it doesn't, Bali is a sure sight better than monsoon-ridden Goa at the moment.

And hey - we have that crrrrrrazy road trip to Lombok to look forward to in a few weeks.  Sick bags aside, should be fun (I hope).

"Bunnies Beware-y"

I had to miss my morning run today on account of having a sprained toe.  How did I get this sprained toe you ask?  No, it wasn't a dark curse put on me by our increasingly antagonistic landlady, Ms. Putu...rather it was Dumpie, mid-temper tantrum, smashing a huge bottle of apple juice onto my unsuspecting toe beneath the table.

I screamed.  Kadek came running, assuming that 'Miss Natasha' had lost the plot and was going to go on a killing rampage (I might have - I certainly got close enough considering the pain of it).

Dumpie was put in a 'time out' in his bedroom, from which he kept escaping, and I sat at the dining table, wincing in pain and feeling sorry for myself.

Luckily, the day didn't shape up to be all bad.  We at least found somewhere to move to after we get turfed out of here two weeks today.  Handily, it's just up the road and is a lovely open-air jungle type house overlooking a ravine.  We shall literally feel like we're living in the tree tops.

The place comes complete with two adorable tiny bunny rabbits which are allowed to roam free during the day.  The boys will love them, and they are just enough chromosomes away from resembling rats or mice, so no problem there (unlike gerbils, guinea pigs or hamsters).

True, the husband and I are mildly concerned about the bunnies welfare at the hand of the monsters, but that's not going to stop us from taking the place.  Aside from being accidentally stepped on, tossed over the side of the open air lounge into the ravine below during an improvised and unsupervised ballgame , or meeting their misfortune in some other way (which only parents of little boys might be privy to), there's not a lot that could go wrong....right?

"Two is Trouble...Four is More"

Our Australian friends left us to fly back to Sydney.  Egg is most unhappy about this.  It appears that he has developed his first proper 'girl crush' on his little Aussie friend - who is all long blond hair and infectious giggles.

The two of them spent the fortnight cuddled up together, whispering, swimming, hatching plans and watching movies together.  Inseparable they were...even insisting on 'sleep-overs' most nights.  (Dumps was incredibly lenient about the whole 'three in a bed' thing - perhaps too much so - but won't dwell on that at the minute.)

The three year old little boy who by all accounts should have gotten on like a house of fire with Dumps...spent more time in back seat shenanigans, fighting for seat space and defending himself against the established hierarchy he unwittingly walked into.

As far as Dumpie is concerned, he is ruler over all.  Mostly this is because Egg could care less about status and lets Dumpie have his way.  This other little boy did not share the same opinion.

Thus most of the trip was spent running to and fro at the first sign of a wail, and trying to ascertain who was at fault (usually Dumps), what had happened (a shove?  a pinch?  biscuit theft?) and what was to be done about it (usually very little but a good telling off, given that there were often no witnesses save a slyly grinning Dumps proclaiming his innocence, and a very angry red-faced three year old pointing fingers across the room in anger).

Despite all this, the three adults present (myself included) managed to prevail upon a lovely local girl to babysit for us on two separate occasions - giving us ample opportunity to sample the local cocktails and fine cuisine in restaurants which don't cater to spontaneous food fights, mid-meal tantrums and cushion throwing.

A fine holiday was had by all.  They shall be sorely missed, and we don't know when we'll next see each other again.....it could be a few years (sigh).

So Egg continues to pine for his new 'best friend' and bemoan her absence...Dumpie continues to, in copycat fashion (and not entirely believable given his behaviour), 'pine' for the little boy, and the husband and I come away from the experience with renewed respect for those who choose to continue procreating up to the tidy sum of four.

Two kiddies is full on.  Four is just...well...mental.  Unless one is possessed of the patience of a saint, has enough money to afford full-time LIVE IN help (we had two Balinese ladies on the go and still!), and has GIRLS...I just don't know how one is to survive the experience with nerves and other relevant mental faculties intact.

As parents to four headstrong, close-in-age daughters, it is nothing short of a miracle that my own parents are still sane, functioning human beings, living outside of an institute for the mentally and emotionally challenged.

Hats off to you both...how did you do it?!

Respect :)

"It's All Going A Bit Hmmmmmm-Shaped"

You know how people sometimes begin to resemble their pets?

Well I have been beset with another eye infection, and with my squinty right eye all red and almost swollen shut, I now resemble a RAT.  Great.

Furthermore, Dumps wet the bed last night...our bed.  But according to Dumps, that's not such a big problem, as he nonchalantly explained during our pillow talk this morning.

"Mama, just get that woman to change the sheets.  Or Kadek can do it.  It's no problem, they do it."

I'm a bit worried with the speedy rate by which the monsters have adapted to having 'help'.  With one, and sometimes two Balinese women helping out on a daily basis, they have come to expect pancakes on tap, their dirty laundry whisked away and returned spotless, and have compliant playmates in the form of Wayan and Kedak - who are always hovering nearby for an impromptu game of 'hit the Putu's orchid'.  What's going to happen when I am back to being the only 'help' round here?

Still, I guess we have bigger problems at hand.  We need to find somewhere to move in two weeks, and are still not having any luck on that front.  Moreover, the husband wants to do a two week 'road trip' through Lombok after that - the prospect of which I'm finding a bit daunting.

For starters, both our children get car sick.  Moreover, I'm not sure it's advisable that our little crew be cooped up in a vehicle for that long - not unless we bring our very own 'Relate Counselor' along for the ride.  I don't think even the combined mightiness of our respective ipods and the in-car speakers will keep us from losing the plot.

"Chucked Out Of Paradise"

Life in Paradise has taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Yesterday afternoon, we were unceremoniously asked to leave our current digs by our landlady Mrs. Putu.

She began the conversation by asking us to pay her some money for the local village as a 'tax' or some such.  I reminded her that several weeks ago she had explained to us that she is responsible for paying this unofficial tax for any tenants in her holiday homes.

But worse was to come.

"You are leaving on July 23rd?" she said, phrasing it like a query but also a comment.

The husband looked up from his computer, a worried and confused expression on his face.

"Um, no.  We hadn't decided to leave" the husband said.

"Somebody is taking this place on 23rd July" she stated, this time more firmly.

"What?" the husband exclaimed, rising from the table and staring at her in shock.

"That's three weeks away!" he said, motioning for me to come over and get involved.

"But we reserved this place for three months" I tried to reason.  "When were you going to tell us?"

"Just a minute" the husband interjected, "Are you saying you want us out of here?  You want us to leave?"

Mrs. Putu put her head down briefly then looked up, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Yes.  Yes I do."

A most uncomfortable exchange of information followed, wherein the husband and I stared with dismay at our soon to be 'former' landlady, disappointment written all over our faces.

It turns out that Mrs. Putu has apparently been shedding crocodile tears, covertly in her home, over the demise of her precious orchids, her precious flowers which the monsters have supposedly been damaging - unbeknownst to us.

Then she tried to say how she liked our children but...

The husband pointed out that for several weeks now we've been graciously putting up with the huge construction job going on around us, and have been very understanding about the constant stream of workers filing past with cement on their heads - the ongoing circular saws shattering any semblance of peace.

Then I brought up the rats.

That did it.  She got tears in her eyes and stormed out, clearly offended, whether true or not, that I had insinuated that her former home was rat-infested.

The husband and I were left starting at each other in shock, distinctly pissed off and not a little hurt.  What happened to Mrs. Putu's insistence that we were like 'family' to her, and our belief that we'd made a friend for life?  Heck, we'd even paid good money to watch her play Gamalan in her local dance and music troupe a few weeks back - proudly beaming at her onstage and posing for pictures afterwards.

Of course, we're not convinced that it's simply a case of broken orchids...or mischievous monsters.

No, we suspect it's a little more along the lines of now that construction has finished on her new outbuildings, and this place no longer resembles a giant building site, she knows that she can charge a heck of a lot more for our digs and is going to turf us out in the name of the almighty Rupiyah.

And did I mention that it's high season?  And everywhere is booked up?

We've been totally Putu'ed.

"There's A Rat In Da Kitchen What I'm A Gonna Do"

There's a rat in our kitchen.  Really.  The husband spotted it the other morning while he was making tea and took the (wise) decision not to alert me to this fact, knowing full well that within minutes of hearing the news I'd have our bags packed, belongings stashed in the boot, deposit be damned.

The other morning, our friend, who is staying in the tiny villa beside us, told us that a little kitten jumped in her path as she strolled the few metres home the night before.  The husband and I raised eyebrows...was there a little kitten on the premises?

And two nights ago, sitting by the pool enjoying the sultry evening air, my friend and I shrieked with alarm as we spotted a giant rat running around inside our villa, climbing the glass walls and looking for all intents and purposes, very much at home.

I begged my friend to step inside the villa first, make sure the coast was clear, then shut the door behind her as I cowardly made a mad dash to our bedroom, slamming the door and executing a rather ungraceful, flying leap into the marital bed, clutching onto the back of my snoring husband for dear life.

"A rat!  A rat!  There's a RAT in our HOUSE!"

Distinctly nonplussed, he mumbled something which sounded suspiciously like "You imagined it", then drifted back into heavy slumber.

Ha!  If I were to imagine such a thing, my brain surely couldn't have come up with the gargantuan measurements of said rodent in question.  It shed some light on the 'little kitten' theory to be sure.

When I informed our landlady, the illustrious Mrs. Putu, she, to her credit, feigned horror - her tatooed-on eyebrows raised into identical arches of shock, informing me that tomorrow she was having a special ceremony to bless and protect her newly erected buildings.  She assured me that the priest or whatever would say a special prayer to get rid of the rats.

So that's sorted then.

"Don't Mess With A Fun Loving Criminal And His Scooby-Snacks"

Today I had what I hope is not a foreshadowing of future run-ins with the law where my youngest is concerned.


There I was in the parking lot of the Bintang Supermarket, loading up the back seat with yet more groceries which will no doubt go 'off' or get consumed by greedy ants before we even get a look in.


Nevertheless, I was suddenly surprised by a tap on my shoulder, turning to find a rather meek but resolved looking young supermarket employee motioning towards Dumpie in the car.


"Sorry that boy take and no pay" he said, looking apologetic that he had been dispatched to deal with such nasty business - and with a foreigner no less.


"Dumpie?  Did you take something from the store?" I asked, mortified, whilst peering into the nether regions of the back seat.


That's when I noticed a giant roll of jelly sweets peeking out from beneath his little thigh.


The husband roared from the front seat and Dumpie burst into tears as I grabbed the contraband sweet and shamefaced, handed it to the even more shamefaced employee.  He scuttled off as I took Dumpie in my arms, consoling him and telling him off at the same time (a great parental standby that one).


What I neglected to mention of course was that earlier, inside this selfsame supermarket, I had already suffered the indignity of having to pay for an empty packet of pricey chocolate sweets which Dumpie had grabbed off the shelf and torn open with his little teeth.


This violent rupture caused the little chocolate balls to go multi-directionally airborne in the Fresh Produce section, and my guess is that this is where Dumpie likely picked up store securities attention.  It came down to strict damage limitation as I tried valiantly to tear Dumpie off the dirty floor, where he was frantically trying to shovel in as many sweets as his tiny little mouth could hold.


Later on the husband and I asked Dumpie why he did it...why he left the store with something that he hadn't paid for.


"Because you give me no money!" he answered indignantly.

"It's Raining It's Pouring (And England Ain't Scoring)"

I have a conundrum.  It's 10:45pm local Bali time and the husband is perched up against the telly watching England lose embarrassingly to Germany in the World Cup Final.  This would be fine (well, not the losing part - that's disgraceful and depressing) except for the fact that every time Germany scores another goal or England messes up, he yells fit to raise the dead.

And there are a lot of dead around here.  There is a cemetery just down the road.  And this week happens to be 'Cremation Week' in the local village, where people band together, save funds and burn their loved ones together (well the ones who are already dead at any rate) in a giant cremation ceremony because....well, it's cheaper we've been told.

As if this weren't bad enough - a yelping, screaming husband rendering sleep impossible (and besides, who wants to stay up and watch your country disgrace itself yet again?) - it is absolutely pouring buckets down outside.  I love the rain, but three days of torrential tropical downpour and counting and I'm growing a bit tired of the whole scenario.

Besides which, given that our Bali bathroom is 'indoor/outdoor', it sounds like it's raining in our bedroom.  Not to mention the fact that should I be so unfortunate as to have the urge to empty my bladder anytime soon, I'll get drenched.  Nice.

Oh - and did I mention that Dumpie has parked himself in our bed for the night?

Anyway you look at it, it's going to be a wet one....(sigh)

"It's Vodka O'Clock"

For $6.70 you can procure, here in Bali, a 350ml bottle of 'Mansion House Vodka'.  It is precisely enough to be consumed in its entirety by three willing participants, leaving each with a rather squiffy hangover the following morning.  


Though a somewhat inferior Indonesian vodka, spontaneous 'capful-o-vodka shots' and Lindt dark chocolate chasers add a rather festive note to what would otherwise be a rather trying imbibing experience.  At any rate the husband, myself and our lovely girlfriend from Sydney had to justify the protracted journey last night in the rain, all of us huddled in the minivan, kiddies almost asleep, to all the Circle K's in the area, hunting down Mansion House Vodka like it was Prohibition.

This morning in the early hours we woke to a whiny, insistent Dumpie standing by our bed, poking us, admonishing us for lying prone, and pleading for us to get out of bed.

"Get up Mama!  Get up Dada! Geeeeet Uuuuuuuup Noooooooow!"

He claimed to be after a bowl of Rice Krispies.  However after the husband had leapt out of bed - deeming the abandonment of slumber preferable to the prolonged, mind-numbing whines of a three year old - Dumpie's story changed.

He came clean about the real matter on his mind:  his soiled underpants and the spherical globule of fecal matter contained therein.

"Mama, I make poo-poo in my pants," he confessed.  "You change me."

"Dumpie, is this why you wanted me to get up?" I asked.  "To clean you up?"

Dumpie nodded solemnly...busted.

So, hungover, exhausted, and feeling distinctly revolted, I turned on the shower and set about  scraping clean the dirty inner thighs of my youngest.  I stood there mentally grumbling and wondering why it's always me Dumpie corners to deal with his 'accidents'.

Several soapy suds later, Dumps was restored to a moderately clean state, and back in the fray, he joined the feral running of laps round and round the kitchen area with the other three munchkins.

Have I mentioned that the child to adult ratio has recently shifted to a worrying 4:3 scenario?  Egg and Dumpies Aussie playmates are here for two weeks of ice-cream licking, oreo cookie gobbling and chocolate wafer scoffing.  And they've gotten off to a great start.  Yesterday breakfast was a three course affair, consisting of numerous bags of crisps and countless Ritz crackers.

Only six months apart they are excellent playmates and at least keep themselves occupied most of the time - allowing the three adults in question to spend their time in more worthwhile pursuits like vodka sourcing and chocolate quaffing.

"R.I.P. Dreaded Dreadlock: I Won't Miss You"

For those who have been patiently following my ongoing rant about my accidental dread(lock), I have breaking news:

IT IS NO MORE.


Thanks to the ever-so-patient ministrations of my 'Angel-From-Oz' (a bestest friend who has come to visit us with her two little ones for a two-week Bali holiday), I have at last been freed from the tryranical clump of beastly knotted hair which tormented me on a daily basis.


I suppose a shout out of thanks should go out also to Kadek the Pembantu, who yesterday forewent her usual litre of extra virgin olive oil when making her afternoon popcorn snack, thus allowing me to soak my dreaded dread in it instead.


Thirty minutes, a cheap comb, and several grimaces later, not withstanding a huge sacrificial rats nest of a hairball later, my friend said 'Ta Da!' and I reached back...tentatively and felt...nothing. Hurrah!


Now I'm not about to suggest that I'm suddenly a Pantene Princess, posing under a waterfall in a too small bikini, tossing my chocolate locks to and fro...


Far from it.


But I WILL say that today, for the first time in many months, I was actually able to brush my hair.  How novel.


Thus I solemnly swear to never again NEGLECT my hairbrush to such an extent that I accidentally join another social tribe (see: 'Backpacker Scumbag'...subcategory D7).


Additionally,  I promise never again to clog cyberspace with uncontrollable rantings of an aesthetic nature...subjecting my loyal and ever-so-lovely readers to such an indulgent and boring thread (it's like dreams: if it's not yours, then who the heck cares).


I am a new woman now.  With a strict bedtime ritual of not less than fifty strokes on the Mason Pearson.