Paris was totally bored with mundane Perth. There was something about living in the most isolated capital city in the world that was, excuse the expression, isolating.
Embracing safe, suburban time wasters like organised religion, crocheting scrapbooks for the needy or surrendering her so-called free time to other people’s obnoxious children at local schools, did not resonate with Paris. Not even a quiver. She had two equally obnoxious children of her own who would probably appreciate some of her time, if she cared to ask them; she could not crochet to save her life and quite literally cringed at the thought.
Paris was terrified that her life was going to pass her by, and dreaded reading her eventual obituary which would say;
“Sorry about the sad passing of Paris, wish we could say more, but unfortunately she was as boring as bat poo and did nothing of any worth.”
It didn’t help that Paris was not spiritual – well, unless you count all the spirits she drinks; then yes, she is 100 proof. Praise Dan Murphy’s. Amen. Organising land rights for gay whales in a pestilence ridden slum, or inoculating endangered orphans against lumbago all sounded a little dangerous. Paris was selfish enough not to particularly care about the starving hordes to be found in seventh world countries, obviously unless they are serving the above mentioned booze. Then of course, she cared very, very deeply about their general state of health; steady hands and no communicable diseases being her top two priorities.
Retreating to an ashram to eat deities and worship mung beans wasn’t her thing either. She wouldn’t eat anything with the letters D I E T in it, regardless of how those letters were arranged. With her hormone levels plummeting and hot flushes escalating, the thought of squatting on a grotty temple floor responsible for rolling her own hemp tampons, was not appealing. The lack of Chardonnay or HRT; which were both interchangeable medicinal items in Paris books, made a root canal with a rusty jack hammer the preferable option. No, Paris was not a spiritual Lah-lah; she had used the pages of several spiritual tomes to make origami teabag squeezers.
She did, however, take final leave of her tentative grip on sanity. There was no lying face first on a cold bathroom floor communing with the All Powerful, no helpful suggestions from the Universe to “go back to bed”, no internal crisis about having children. Paris had already been there and had varicose veins to rival a Melways Map Book on both legs to prove it. No it was so much more – and less, than your mediocre to be expected fashionable mid life crisis. She just wanted to be different from the masses for a while. That’s all.
Bali offered just that, if you ignored the possibility of terrorist attacks. Obviously it was close to home, and offered a suitably decadent level of alcohol, food, and spa treatments for her increasing cellulite. There would be no requirement to change the world, no expectation to compete with Mother Theresa or to pretend she was off to find herself. She could just go there and relax. Maybe sip some cocktails under frangipani trees, who knew? It had to be better than death by housefrau.
There was also the small matter of her children. Paris had managed to raise unadulterated spoilt brats; not the nasty kind, just the ones that expect everything – now - and the more expensive the better. They had also committed the unthinkable, and turned her into her Mother. With every utterance from her lips, her Mother leapt out regardless of how many times Paris swore it wouldn’t happen, until Paris was channelling her daily. Okay, Mothering was never on her list of “Things I Do Really Well” – but surely she didn’t deserve this cruel and unusual punishment. Paris actually hadn’t had any contact with her mother for about a decade for various reasons, not least of all; they didn’t get along. That blood coagulates is the only evidence that it is thicker than water in Paris’s opinion; and her family had been mainlining Warfarin for years. Lip syncing her Mothers crappy lines was just too much.
Paris honestly felt that living in a third world country, immersed in a different society could only be beneficial in taming the “entitlement” philosophy her sons had picked up in Australia. The Bule boys were a product of their repulsive culture. They truly believed that life without several flat screen TV’s, or hot and cold running technology was not worth living. This had to change, and change fast as far as Paris was concerned, or she would not be responsible for her actions.
The Bule boys would surely benefit from the experience; as Paris often thought – school is fine, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your education. A year or so, seeing how the other half live, well, it couldn’t kill you; unless of course you contracted one of those communicable diseases – but really, what were the chances? She certainly didn’t want them growing up watching football on TV every weekend, thinking that “Facebook” constituted actual relationships or that “Neighbours” reflected real life. Paris wanted them to have a wider global view.
The other hurdle Paris faced was convincing her husband. He worked on the mines, and was not too impressed at the idea of his kith and kin suddenly having its main base in Bali. He prided himself on supplying his family with the best money could buy, despite their obvious lack of gratitude or appreciation. Why his wife would suddenly decide to go and live in abject poverty was a serious head-scratching predicament. Okay, the family was on their fifteenth holiday trip there, and did have a great time every time they went, but he is of a cautious nature, whereas Paris is just a certifiable lunatic.
Eventually he came around after many months of petulance, weeping and unrelenting domestic guerrilla warfare from Paris. She pranced around the kitchen like a demented lemur. Poor Suami was used to Paris’s particular brand of insanity – for years he had tolerated her doing all kinds of foolish and impractical things – the shoe fetish, the hat addiction, reading every style of self help books ever published then forcing him to change as after all it was HIS fault. Paris’s trademark crazy had been unremitting over the years.
That the poor man finally realized he was getting a break didn’t actually dawn on Paris, as she set about leasing out their home, resigning from her mind numbingly boring compliance job and throwing things recklessly in packing boxes ready for storage. While normally it can take Paris weeks to get around to removing a dust bunny that is threatening to devour the entire front portion of the house, she can move like greased lightening when given free reign with one of her more self gratuitous projects.
She cheerfully ignored the incredulous looks of the more sane members of her acquaintance who spluttered dire warnings and fairly rational arguments as to the foolishness of her actions. However, those closest to Paris had always known of her penchant for doing bizarre things, and that her level of eccentricity was only rising as she aged. It didn’t help that she was now seriously hormonally challenged and dangerously addicted to the Oprah “Live Your best Life” website. Stronger HRT was not the answer – her glazed expression watching travel programs on TV was a far better indication of the current state of affairs. Paris certainly wasn’t going to let something like common sense stand in her way of an adventure.
Paris had also talked Suami into the idea of starting a business while they were there – this in theory, was to offset her sure-to-be hideous alcohol and botox bill whilst on the island. On their many holiday trips, Paris had spoken to many expats who “owned’ businesses there, so figured that she should be able to stick her perfectly manicured finger into the pie too. With a new found sense of responsibility and purpose, both of which were alien concepts, Paris set about finding a Business Consultant to smooth things over with the local Government.
Anecdotal evidence had given two sides of absolute polar opposites, with some wonderful stories of success and others that guaranteed the establishment of suicidal inclinations. Paris was diametrically opposed to using a noose as a necktie and determined to get it right. She set about gaining the correct legal advice necessary to ensure triumph, or at the very least to avoid the possibility of sharing a cell with Schappelle Corby. Night after night she trawled the internet, not at all sure of what she was looking for, but Paris was certain that it would leap out from the page when she saw it. At the end of the day, facing everyone at home after failing dismally was not going to do anything for Paris’s already questionable reputation for sanity.
Unfortunately most of what she found promised way too little in the way of assurances but wanted a lot initially in US dollars. Oh, but she could get a larger penis, guaranteed.
Desperation was setting in until she came across one particular website, run by an Indonesian woman who seemed to tell the truth about the difficulties, but also offered solutions around them. It was filled with fairly sensible sounding advice outlining the steps required, legal ramifications and alerts as to the calamitous consequences if expats got it wrong. Paris was soon in contact with her via email, and was stunned to receive a prompt reply. Oh, frabjous day! A ferocious email frenzy began in earnest, with the neophyte Paris parasitically sucking up every recommendation and item of fact from this staggering suppository of Indonesian legal knowledge. Paris was astounded at what she learned.
Indonesian law is an absolute minefield of loopholes, contrary statements and clauses, and makes Australian Legislation look like a Kindergarten Reader. There were several choices when establishing a company however, not all are available to westerners; there are no Equal Opportunities Commissions within cooee of Jakarta apparently. The easiest and cheapest appeared to Paris to be what is called a CV Company – the only drawback seemingly that it required two Indonesian Nominees to act as Director and Secretary, however this could be overcome by employing Nationals “in name only”. The business consultant assured her that she would be able to supply the names of suitable candidates, however Paris had her scam-o-meter turned up full, and wracked her brains for alternatives.
Paris was sure she could overcome this, as she knew of two Expat guys working for the same company as Suami (although in Indonesia), who had recently traded in their Australian wives for younger Indonesian models. These two fairly “westernised” ladies agreed to assist Paris “in name only” and Paris gleefully ticked another box on her to-do list. More lemur dances and prances were performed, more internet trawling was logged and Paris commissioned the business consultant to set up a CV company. Paris dealt directly with the owner whose name is identical to a smelly plant, which Paris will just call Garlic.
Being highly professional, Garlic did not turn a hair when Paris stated that she would pay via international transfer half of the required US $4000, and the other half on completion. The money was duly transferred, and it was all systems go, the final details regarding staffing, premises etc could be dealt with on Paris’s arrival in Bali and in the meantime, Paris would be kept up to date via the web. Smug feelings of self assurance set in with a vengeance. Suami shook his head at the pathetically excited Paris, and bookmarked mental health services in the Yellow Pages.
Paris had also to find an appropriate place to have the two woeful “wanna-have” children educated. Despite her desire to have them enrolled in the school of humanity, she understood the nasty legal requirement of a formal educational institution. Noting a disappointing lack of Communist Gulags on the island had led Paris to make enquiries into her second choice – the local International School.
Truth be told, she had actually already been to see the establishment during their last holiday. It had a startling resemblance to Hogwarts, and this appealed to Paris’s sense of the ridiculous no end. Envisioning frenzied games of Hindu Quiddich amongst the students, or failing that, at least mixing with several other cultures and religions galvanized Paris to sign up the Bule boys immediately. She completely ignored their pitiful screams of anguish on hearing the news.
She had also sleuthed out a suitably palatial villa to lease for a year. The Landlord was an Australian guy, who now “caretook” it for his Indonesian ex-wife; after she took it from him in the divorce. He had lived in Bali for 35 years, and was a fair dinkum lovely man; more than ready to sing an off key rendition of “Advance Australia Fair” with anyone who cared to join him. Paris knew that he was a tad “eccentric” but gravitated towards his open hearted enjoyment of life. He completely understood Paris’s motives, had experience and knowledge of the local goings on, and was an absolute hoot. He negotiated the terms of the agreement to Paris’s satisfaction with his ex-wife, and gave Suami the commitment of looking out for them while he was in Australia working. Finally it looked like Paris had all her ducks in a row – not realising that “Drunken Duck” was a favourite dish served up all over Bali, and not just for the tourists.
