In Bali, it’s easy to feel like a million bucks. Actually, it’s more like a million rupiah, which is the local currency. At the moment, one U.S. dollar buys you about 15,500 Indonesian rupiah. The biggest bill I’ve seen is a 100,000 rupiah note—about six dollars in Yankee greenbacks. In practical terms this means two things:
We are Balinese millionaires
My wallet is stuffed
To help you visualize what I’m talking about, I took the money out of my wallet and, like a gangsta, threw my cabbage across the bed. Needless to say, Christina was impressed; she even started calling me Big Daddy Warbucks.
With so much money burning a hole in our pockets, we decided to hit a local flea market. To get there, we took a Grab, which is Indonesia’s answer to Uber. The ride took about ten minutes and cost 43,000 rupiah, or just under $3. Actually, the ride, including taxes and Grab’s platform fee, was only 28,000 rupiah, but Big Daddy Warbucks is a generous tipper.
“You should move to Bali,” our driver told us. “Foreigners love it here because it’s so cheap.”
“But what would we do?” Christina asked.
“Open a nightclub,” he said. “All the nightclubs are owned by foreigners.”
“But there are already a lot of nightclubs,” I said. “It might be a tough market to crack.”
“No, easy,” our driver said, pointing to a rice paddy. “You can buy that land cheap and start a nightclub.”
I doubt we’re going to move to Bali to open a nightclub, but with the way things are going back home you never know. So, for shits and giggles I asked Christina what she’d to call our hypothetical nightclub.
“Sexy Fun Times,” she said.
I thought that was a good name because everyone loves sexy fun times. But if we’re expats on the run from fascism, I want a classic name like Rick’s Café Américain. Of course, Bogart gave up the love of his life for a noble cause in Casablanca, so maybe calling our nightclub Rick’s Café Américain is a bad omen for our relationship. I’ll have to noodle on it—when and if the time comes.
In the meantime, the Seminyak flea market was a lot of fun. After some good-spirited haggling, Christina got herself a “phenomenal deal” on a wicker tote bag. I tried to negotiate a deal on a friendship bracelet, but the man selling it wanted 400,000 rupiah, and I felt weird trying to buy my own friendship.
Eventually, the flea market gave way to a commercial district with a mix of trendy local shops and western brand names. Christina found a few more “great deals,” but for reasons that escape me, you’re only expected to haggle over the price if the proprietor sells their wares from an open-air establishment; inside a brick-and-mortar store, you pay the list price. But all commerce in Bali—from brand names like Polo to mom & pop stalls in the flea market—have one thing in common: Canang sari.
At one of the shops we stopped at, I asked the proprietor about the offerings.
“It’s to say thank you, to be grateful for all you have,” she explained. “When you start your day, you make an offering, but this offering is old and doesn’t look very good because my day is almost over. The next person will make a new offering.”
The offerings vary, but they’re always housed inside small square baskets.
“This one has flowers, fruit, and candy,” she said.
“And a cigarette,” I added.
“Yes, but these are not like real cigarettes. They’re special for offerings.”
“Special how?”
“They’re cheap,” she said. “You don’t smoke them.”
“But the candy and flowers are real?”
“Oh yes. You offer whatever you have, but candy and flowers are best.”
I don’t know much about Hinduism, but it seemed to me that the Hindu gods have their priorities in order: fake cigarettes, real candy. Maybe when we get home, I’ll take up the practice. Lord knows I’ve got to do something with all our leftover Halloween candy.