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Last week I was out walking in a far flung rather beautiful corner of Bali. It was a place I know fairly well where people still retain their traditional values and smile all day long. Well they did!
Something was different. Perhaps it was the display of assertive whittling with rather sharp knives on every street corner that alerted me to the fact that these people had a distinct lack of peace and harmony.
I continued my walk down through the beautiful fields and along a narrow track overlooking a stream. Funny I thought, this track used to be much wider than this, you could get a car along it. Picket fences had been erected on each side of the track to make it narrow and then I noticed something very strange, barbed wire! It was hidden in the bushes along the side of the road. Barbed wire is not something the Balinese use a great deal.
I turned a corner and there in front of me was a building. It hadn’t been there before. It was a sort of Gulag, stark grey walls 3 metres high with broken glass along the top was built right up to the side of the track and down the hillside towards the bank of the stream. An uglier structure was hard to imagine and built here in this pristine beautiful place.
As I approached the building I heard a sort of whimpering sound. It wasn’t clear at first where it was coming from but then I saw him. A rather large European man had got himself entangled in the barbed wire and was huddling under a bush.
“I don’t understand” he whimpered. “What did I do wrong?”
I sat down beside him and he started to tell me his story. He had bought the land from a local farmer. He had given a nice birthday present to a government official and had even made a sizeable contribution to the Police widows and orphans fund. The farmer had a very helpful brother (a nice man he said) who had sorted out all the legal documents. Then he had built his “dream” home. I am not quite sure what his background was but if this was his dream I sensed a long and successful career looking after guests of the judicial system.
In Bali, in spite of a set clear planning rules, arrangements can be made and so things went well until one day he found he couldn’t get his car down the road. Then he found his windows kept mysteriously breaking in the night and his car tyres were punctured by barbed wire hidden in the road.
He suspected one of his neighbours was a little peeved.
At this point he paused and winced a little so I reached out the hand of international friendship and adjusted the barbed wire to a more comfortable position. I couldn’t help noticing that it was rather fine quality barbed wire, well made and with a good solid galvanised coating.
“I don't suppose you know where they bought the barbed wire” I ventured. “No I suppose not.”
My eyes wandered idly over the stark and ugly lines of the minimalist design of the Gulag.
“Have you spoken to the local Kepala Dusun?” I said
“The who”
“The local village head” I replied. “What about the banjar? Did you discuss your plans with the local community, there is rather a wonderful process here called socialisation where everyone is told what is happening and the local people can provide advice and get used to the idea.”
“But this is my land” he retorted “I can do what I want”
At this point I noticed that the Gulag had been built across an irrigation canal which had been diverted into the stream. Already the green paddys below were turning a rather nice shade of autumnal brown.
“The Balinese have a different concept of land ownership” I pointed out. “They consider it a communal resource and have a relaxed sense of ownership. Our western approach of confrontational and aggressive ownership is a little difficult for them to grasp.”
“This land is mine, mine, mine” he stated emphatically (he would have stamped his foot if he could). “ I want to build a bridge across the river” he added.
“Foreigners cannot own land in Bali” I said. “It is not possible in Indonesia to have freehold title in the way we understand it with our name on a title deed.”
This man is not listening I thought.
Clearly the people were severely aggrieved. It had become a major issue in all the surrounding area. In the absence of any legal process to go through they had resorted to the only means they had – “barbed wire diplomacy”.
The saddest thing was that all foreigners were clearly not welcome here anymore.
It was a classic lose, lose situation. He has spent a fortune building a Gulag, complete with double garage and nice ornate guard towers. He cannot get his car anywhere near and is surrounded by delightful people who have turned angry and aggressive. The local community have lost their beautiful environment and their irrigation system.
I left him there in the road mumbling something about building castles overlooking the Rhine and as I continued my afternoon walk I pondered how it is that some people come and live in this beautiful place and learn nothing from the local people. They impose themselves on their neighbours in the hostile and confrontational way that is common in Europe, they build buildings that abuse the local landscape and then they wonder why they have problems.
The Balinese of course have their own way of sorting these issues out. Their fundamental strength is in their communities which give them a thought out and rational approach to dealing with issues combined with the strength of numbers.
They stand together and can make life very difficult for people who neither heed nor respect the wishes of the community. It is a system as old as time itself and a sign of an advanced self regulating civilisation. No violence, aggression or confrontation is needed just a steady passive resistance. If only the world listen we could learn from these people.
Perhaps one dark night the evil spirits may do their worst who knows, with a bit of luck the Gulag might get struck by lightening.
Phil Wilson
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