The devil in 10 cent beads

I met a couple women at a travel book reading in the San Francisco Bay Area where I live; they were friends of a friend. When we found our trips to Bali would intersect, we decided to get together. It was their first time to Bali, and I wanted them to really “see” it.

Because Bali’s economy revolves around tourists (and also handicraft exports), it is quite possible to go to Bali and never see it, only seeing the false, sometimes overly soft and sometimes overly harsh world created for tourists. It’s not difficult to find Bali underneath the tourist trappings. Back in the villages, away from the tourist towns and the tourist traps, it’s still Bali. But you do have to make a bit of an effort.

I met up with my acquaintances in Lovina where I was visiting some friends I had not seen in years. They had spent a week in Ubud taking batik and cooking classes for tourists and learning to tie sarongs. They had gone on bird walks and generally seemed to have made good use of their time. I introduced them to some of my friends, took them to dinner at a local friend’s house in a nearby village and suggested quiet, nature destinations. Back in Ubud later, I arranged an introduction to a famous painter, took them to temple in an out-of-the-way village where another friend taught them how to pray, and went along with them when my friend Wayan Subawa (who I had recommended as a guide) drove them through the villages where they saw wedding preparations and visited some ancient ruins. In return, they let me come along on some of the jaunts you really have to make the first time you are in Bali, but probably don’t want to do again. I wasn’t all that busy, so I thought, what the hell.

That is how I recently found myself at GitGit to see the waterfalls once again, GitGit, that enclave of women waving sarongs at you and children of tender years running after you in hordes, frantically pushing junk necklaces in your face and chanting the prices in a deeply disturbing, monotone – many too young to understand what they are saying. The mothers train their children from toddlers to run up the hills and through the jungle to cut tourists off at the pass so they can not get by without fighting their way through outstretched hands filled with cheap beads. GitGit is always like this, even at the so-called “quiet” waterfall. (There are three different waterfalls at three different locations in GitGit.) The mothers themselves stand at their vendor stalls on the upper path of the long way down to the waterfalls, demanding outrageous prices for other junk, and when you keep walking, of course those prices suddenly drop to 1/20 of the original price quoted. Hey, I’m all for bargaining, but don’t insult me.

Cut to Denpasar. Yesterday I went to the lavish opening parade of the huge, internationally famous, annual Bali Arts Festival. I’d gone to performances there before, but never the opening parade, so when my friend Ketut A. asked me to go with her, of course I went. I’ve known Ketut for years, and had not seen her for a few weeks, not since I brought her a letter from her sister in the States. We decided to go in style by car rather than motorbike, so my buddy Wayan Subawa drove us down. He always goes every year to the parade anyway, so we made it a party.


The Bali Arts Festival is probably the biggest yearly event in Bali. Dancing and musical troupes from all over Indonesia and even the world perform there. In addition, there are exhibitions of painting, wood carving, cooking, clothing and every kind of art. In other words, it is a very big deal. It attracts a primarily local crowd. The westerners you see there are mostly expats (trust me, you can tell) with the occasional tourist who is usually an arts connoisseur.

There were thousands of Balinese lined around the huge, beautiful green square in Denpasar to watch the parade of dancers, musicians and floats go by. Picture the Macy’s Day Parade, Bali style. Vendors walk through the crowds selling drinks, peanuts, lumpia and even pizza. Other vendors grill babi (pork) sate along the sidelines. After about an hour there, shuffling for a place to best see and photograph the parade, something struck me. Not one person had run over to me shoving any trinkets, drinks, sarongs or anything else in my face because I am “tamu.” (Literally, “tamu” means “guest”, but it often really means anyone from outside Bali with what might locally be considered big bucks.) In Denpasar, at the biggest event in Bali, I was just one of the crowd.


And that is the difference between visiting a tourist trap and visiting anyplace or anything at all away from the traps. I remember the same thing in Jamaica. In Negril, being the target of annoying beach boys trying to pick up “rich” white women, and in Mandeville, being treated like a human being, because Mandeville is a working city, not a tourist destination.

Heavy influxes of tourists who are substantially richer than the local population always mean a devastating corruption of the culture. The result? The mothers at GitGit shamelessly teaching even four-year-olds to run after tourists and shove necklaces at them even when they are told “No” repeatedly, even when it is said in Indonesian or Balinese. Poverty, you say? Most of those people own land, luxurious vegetable gardens and rice fields. These are not desperate people, yet they exploit four-year-olds for the price of a 10 cent necklace. What life lessons are these children learning? Of course, I can't speak for the Balinese, but many I know are also truly horrified by this.

There’s a lesson in this someplace, but I’ll let you come to your own conclusions.