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If Agan married Bonni, their kid would be “Agan Bonni”… kewll…
Some girls like to be pampered and taken for a moonlit stroll along Bengawan Solo’s river bank, passing magnificent sawah or endless warung and then whisper ‘em sweet little lies at a romantic lampu petromaks light dinner at Ibu Achmad’s greasy spoon Lesehan while street pengamen are interpreting Anggun’s Au Nom De La Lune or more precisely Inul’s Kucing Garong.
I never had imagined my rather cool and somewhat sarcastic remark could trigger such a romantic outpouring. I’m even tempted to follow your advice and give it a try. Who knows what would happen to the kucing garong. She might be tamed.
i am marrieg no.i marrieg indonsia girl mind.my age 30.
I am married now, but it was not long ago when I was still single in Jakarta. My conclusion over a period of a few years is that the place is full of chaff, and that you have to sort through lots and lots of it to find a good kernel. Yeah, there’s plenty of pretty, yet vapid, brain-dead girls. There are plenty who are nominally “educated” and have university S1 degrees, but formal education is no substitute for a sound mind that thinks on its own. Too many are into the I-am-Muslim-so-it’s-my-way-or-the-highway. I took the highway all the time. Who do these veritable kampung girls think they are with these ultimatums? Then there’s the poser type who think of themselves are super-modern and hip. Talk to them for a while about things not related to material possessions and image, and you realize that mentally she is still neck-deep in the kampung. Lots of chaff, lots and lots of chaff in Jakarta.
Too many are into the I-am-Muslim-so-it’s-my-way-or-the-highway. I took the highway all the time. Who do these veritable kampung girls think they are with these ultimatums?
Absolutely. It’s these women that need to get married for their own security.
A real man doesn’t need a woman for his security. Men don’t need marriage much at all.
Who do they think they are trying to kid? They need to convince ME why I should marry them… not act all entitled and high and mighty like they are some special flower that needs to be “won” over by me treating them special. They should be letting me get my way on EVERYTHING if they want me to do that for them. They expect me to join their religion? Get out of here!
Of course, they don’t have to win me over or do anything for me either. I’m not forcing anyone…. but then, I am quite happy with my single life, so no harm done.
Then there’s the poser type who think of themselves are super-modern and hip. Talk to them for a while about things not related to material possessions and image, and you realize that mentally she is still neck-deep in the kampung.
Gah…. I hate this too. To these girls, I am just the trophy bule husband and they’re chronic sex witholders. Trying to act all “western” and fashionable. Pah. They just want money.
Some women say that bule in Jakarta are sombong. Well, there’s a reason for it.
Modernity is a state of mind, a set of social relations. Modernity is NOT owning the latest Blackberry while you still go to the dukun. Modernity is not owning a Louis Vutton bag while you live in a delapidated kos, sleep on the floor and eat your mystery meat bakso with your hands. Modernity is not parading up and down Pacific Place while your dad still hopes that you marry within your suku, religion and village. Modernity is not looking down on people with dark skin while you spend half of your salary on whitening creams. Lots of chaff, lots and lots of chaff. And they have the temerity to give me ultimatums. WTF do they think they are?
^^ Waduh, another two happy and satisfied customers!
Pak ET :
Who knows what would happen to the kucing garong. She might be tamed.
don’t even go there -maybe Ceu Deta can vouch for us that Kucing Garong is usually
a “ He”- unless of course you are now batting for the other side.
And they can’t help but to sing…
Strumming my pain with his fingers…
Singing my life with his words…
Killing me softly with his song…
Killing me softly with his song…
Telling my whole life with his words…
Killing me softly with his song…
While cooking indomie with small panci in their kos kosan…
I will defer to your apparently broader range of expertise on this particular field of Indonesian adventure. But yes, chaff, quite…
In a funny sort of way I think this is a manifestation of exactly what my take on this topic has always been. After all, we are really just talking about “people” here – or “women” if you really must – rather than some generic monolith called “Indonesian girls”.
Now obviously in Britain and America there are millions and millions of girls whose attitudes I would personally find appalling, whose conversational standards I would find stultifying, and whose interests and ambitions I would find idiotic. The “chaff” in your charming phrase.
But here’s the rub – I would be unlikely ever to go as far as a first date with one of them, and certainly no further, and funnily enough, I bet you wouldn’t either.
So what gives when bules – even those with a dash of self-respect, and every inclination to form a serious relationship with an actual person, rather than an ancient shop-soiled idea about “the Orient” – turn up in Indonesia and start dating?
How come they need to go through a relatively lengthy, broad, and apparently random, period of dating before discovering that – low and behold! – there is plenty of “chaff” here too (something that most people would take as an absolute given in their own country, no?).
You’re going to love where I’m going with this, Mauricio, I know you are; no way you’re going to roll your eyes and call me a pretentious dickhead, or anything like that…
Ryszard Kapuscinski wrote about the way that every “foreigner” we meet “consists of two beings whom it is often difficult to separate” (and you could very easily trade the term “foreigner” in this for every example of your particular “other” – women, homosexuals, Muslims, Jews, lefties, right-wingers, punk rockers, whatever).
Firstly, he’d have it, the foreigner is a real person, a unique individual like you or I. But then “the other being, who overlaps and is interwoven with the first, is a person as a bearer of racial features, and as a bearer of beliefs and convictions”. In short, the foreigner is a generic representative of their race, nationality and culture.
Definitely seems like in this discussion of “dating Indonesian girls” that first part of Kapuscinski’s twofold identity often gets obliterated altogether. Hence the monumentally inane comments from apparently otherwise intelligent people in which, amongst other things, “Indonesian girls” – all of them! – get granted “fragrant sensuousness” and such like…
Now, there is, I think I think it’s fair to say, a certain kind of “white man in the tropics” (and I don’t, categorically, under any circumstances, place you amongst their ranks, let me make that very clear indeed), who actually arrive in Indonesia/Southeast Asia to “find a woman”, or who decide shortly after arriving that this is the place to do so.
Quite frankly I find that very concept so stupendously bleak, that if it wasn’t for the fact that those same guys often end up spouting monumentally reductive and obnoxious lines – about human beings – on internet forums, I would weep for them, rather than being mean and calling them sexual refugees.
Given the particular baggage that those guys arrive with it’s hardly surprising that they rarely get past the Part II of Kapucinski’s “foreigner”, and often as not bash endlessly away with “admiring even while denigrating” stuff about graceful sensuousness, and so on.
Equally unsurprising that, if things go bad, they end up flipping the other way into blanket hostility in which Indonesian girls – all of them! – are gold-digging Muslim supremacist sex-withholding virgin-whores (not something I personally recognise, incidentally, but I guess it’s who you know, not what you know, or something like that).
But it does also seem that many bule guys without those particular issues – amongst whom I’m pretty sure you rank, and amongst who I’ll take the liberty of ranking myself – who happen to find themselves “dating” in Indonesia, have a bit of trouble with that twofold identity thing too. They sometimes actually spend time in sustained relationships with Indonesian people who – if you transposed their character traits, with the necessary cultural adjustments, onto a British or American girl – they wouldn’t even bother having a conversation with back home…
I guess it’s just more, um, chaff to my mill on the point that trading in reductive concepts like “Indonesian girls” will only see you end up compromised with one half of your intellect shut down, wallowing in overcompensation, or flamingly bitter.
Oh ya, on the blackberries? Amen to that, mister, and sorry for being a pretentious dickhead
one vist visa com.i am silver jewllery work.my address pakistan city kamoke mohala dolat pura street doctor naeem wale.name muhammad asif s/o/ ashiq…i am a muslim.2 day one visa com.pleas you help me.
@Timdoggie u bloody hound – Just read your bloody post and realized why me lovely mum couldn’t get me to go to bloody church if she bleedin paid me! Bloody judgmental piece of self congratulatory bleedin nonsense of why your bloody smarter than every other bleedin bule who came to Indonesia’s shores. I like it a hell of allot better when you bloody well speak of things you know about like bleedin India and Pakistan. Indonesian girls just cannot be dissected so bloody easily. They are marvelous creatures well versed in the art of love and seduction despite their lack of bloody exposure to world events and topics. An Indonesian girls bloody smile alone can captivate a man and leave him in a bloody trance for weeks, months or even bloody years. Yes they can drive men bloody nuts about their materialism, religion, taking care of their bloody families and their wild jealousy tantrums but that’s all about their culture and what they are taught to expect from a man who bloody well loves them. And let me tell you, when they love you, I promise you mate, that you will never be loved better by any other woman in your bloody life. An Indonesian woman is a bloody double edged sword and is not meant for the bloody timid man but rather for true connoisseur of love.
They sometimes actually spend time in sustained relationships with Indonesian people who – if you transposed their character traits, with the necessary cultural adjustments, onto a British or American girl – they wouldn’t even bother having a conversation with back home…
Well he might if she was considerably younger, say his daughter’s age, and attractive and, moreover, showed some interest in him. And this is not uncommonly the case with “Western” intrusion in the local marriage market when social/financial advantages are traded off against erotic ones (perhaps this occurs more often in Thailand and the Philippines than in Indonesia).
In earlier stages of this market in the West, when women were more dependent on men, this age gap was not uncommon either. And it was not always a matter of marked social inequality (e.g. a marriage with the kitchen maid). The marriage proposal of the 73-year old Goethe to the 19-year old Ulrike von Levetzkow is a case in point. Admittedly the old bard was regarded as a bit ridiculous even then, but the proposal was taken seriously enough for the Grand Duke of Sachsen-Weimar to intermediate in it (as to marriage with the ‘kitchen maid’ – he had this experience as well with his “bed treasure” – “bettschatz” – Chritiane Vulpius).
The lady turned him down (she never married) but the old man got at least his “Marienbader Elegien” out of the affair.
The whole “white man in the tropics” is sort of ridiculous anyway. It doesn’t take long in Indonesia to figure out why being white is valued so much. The higher classes didn’t work in the field, and therefore are not dark from the sun, whilst the lower classes who worked outside in the field are very hitam indeed. The fact that being white should be associated with higher status is just a hangover from the days of colonization, or perhaps even before then. The fact that Indonesian women still get hung up on being white, having white kids, etc , despite a valid (and ridiculous and outdated) reason is quirky at best and shallow at worst. I’m sure a whole thesis on this could be written on this topic, but who cares honestly?
There’s “chaff” in just about any country you go to…. of course, not everybody fits the category. of course the ones who DO fit it earn my ire anyway. The ones who don’t are awesome.
Every culture has some ugly part to it. You try enough women out and you see what those things are. There’s good and bad with everything however, and most of the time you just have to roll with the punches.
Here’s another no uncommon “type”. The “type” that manages to land work in embassies or foreign cultural centers. My god, you’d think they’d been made ambassador or somethin’! And they still carry their typical Indonesian pejabat attitude that they have to be distant and aloof in order to project authority and wibawa. For crying out loud, you are only local staff! It’s not like you are international staff outside your own country. For crying out loud, the ambassador himself is more down to earth than you. Get over yourself. Lots of chaff, lots and lots of chaff…
HI I’m Etty. I’m looking forward a good man. Are you the ONE for me? My english just so so but improve.
I’m SERIOUS. i dont want waste my life just by myself. I really want a husband who company me, responsibility person and look after each other in any condition, happy and sad , life sometimes up and down but we always together no matter what. . This is me, if you like me and I like to know you better. You are very welcome to visit me. Just let me know, perhaps you and me will have conection each others and meant to be together.
Same here , Im looking forward serious relationship for marriage with someone who care and love, humble , humorious , relax and acceipt me just the way Iam. I had three childreen and all allready married and busy with their own family. Me, just only me. I dont want to be lonely until the rest of my life. I’m a single mum, long time i being a single. I think i want to move forward starting a new life, all my childreen’s allowed me to married again with someone who love me. That’s why. im here to founding the the right person who want share his life with me and want grow older together with me until the rest of our life. This is me, if you like me well take me to serious relationship ( Marriage ), Do you want spend time with me , Im sure i can spoil you with my homemade foods, Im a good cooking no perfect but I think im good, Do you like singing, we can singing together and travelling together. Looking forward to hear more about you …Cheers…
This is my home adress at Jakarta , indonesia : Jalan Batu Ratna IV No. 57, RT.17/RW.05, Condet Batu Ampar, kramat Jati, Jakarta Timur, 13520.
Home number at Jakarta , indonesia : 021- 80889027.
my email : firstname.lastname@example.org
I’m even tempted to follow your advice and give it a try.
don’t even go there -maybe Ceu Deta can vouch for us that Kucing Garong is usually a “ He”-
ET, don’t get easily tempted. Although Agan’s idea of a romantic date may sound more enticing than getting caught in the rain and escaping to the dunes of the cape (masuk angin… the horror!), some women would rather be dying from masuk angin than having to put up with sweet little lies from kucing garong.
Especially if she has half a brain. Save the memory bytes.
My Last 6 Dates in Bali
I had a date this past Sunday. As usual, it followed a series of brief flirtations on DIA (dateinasia.com), an insipid internet dating site that brings together the players and the played. It’s what the filmmaker, Claude Lelouch, would call ‘Le chat et la souris’ — but here the murder is more subtle – it’s a crime of the heart. What is most memorable about the ‘date’ was not the famished woman opposite me deepthroating the smoked duck, but rather how it mirrored the last half-dozen such crash-and-burn encounters. Like variations on a symphonic theme, my Bali dates progress with the same theme and variation as Beethoven’s Fantasia in G minor.
O.K., maybe I’m a sexaholic, a 40-something stud wannabe seeking a woman my daughter’s age (or less) with whom I can play ‘whose your daddy’/ hide the sausage/’look ma, no hands’. Maybe, like effete royalty, I’ve a cultivated an underserved sense of entitlement that, despite sporting a belly that doubles as a Djembe at the local drum circle, insists that I am ‘entitled’ to a skinny woman of not more than 40 kg (88 lbs. for the metrically challenged). Honestly, I’ve had larger bowel-movements than 40 kg after an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. Let’s face it; petite girls make your pathetic small penis assume humongous Jay-Z proportions. If you can’t get Beyoncé we men lower our standards to the sub-basement level and settle for Bouncé, the nearly high school graduate who works at a real estate office/call center/internet café/laundry and who doesn’t notice your hairy back and receding hairline because she has her eyes on the prize: s-e-c-u-r-i-t-y. Sure, her vacuous emails resemble SMS texting and her SMSs resemble Newtonian formulae but at least she’s fluent in Facebook where she spends most of her waking hours updating her photos and status. Like a cyborg her right hand has merged with her hand phone and she can text and thumblash her BFFs at supersonic speeds. Yes, Bouncé’s got some awesome, kick-ass skillz!
We decide to meet at her favorite mall/fast food restaurant/Starbucks. Sometimes we meet at a real restaurant with table cloths and snooty gay waiters who were fired from Abercrombie & Fitch for shoplifting. Here in her fantasy milieu 9acting the Queen) she’ll definitely order the imported steak/smoked duck/whatever’s the most expensive thing on the menu. If fact, she often doesn’t know what she’s getting because she orders by price alone. ‘Are you sure you want that $200 bottle of Merlot? You told me wine gives you a headache.’ On the bright side ordering an expensive meal means she’ll most likely sleep with you. She just wants some prepayment – a little tit for tat. She’s also testing the waters to see if there’s any ‘sugar’ in the daddy. But I’m getting ahead of myself. She’s not even here yet. I’ve nursed this Bintang so long it’s wearing a cast and crutches.
Finally, she arrives—only 45 minutes/2 hours/a week late. Holy fried bananas! She’s prettier/fatter/taller/fuglier/darker/older than I expected (her pix must have been retrieved from a time capsule – yeah girl, you were cute in high school in 1997) – but what are expectations anyway but laying the groundwork for future disappointments. Keep an open mind. Be a man! Whatever doesn’t destroy you makes you seek refuge in Häagen-Dazs. Often our white chocolate raspberry truffle is doused in an ocean of cheap perfume – eau-de-knockoff – which triggers my allergy to ‘cheap shit’. If the perfume is real it means her last boyfriend bought it – an impulse item she snatched up when she pretended to shop for an eyeliner pencil (for that Goth ‘Twilight’ look). If you handed her your credit card for 5 seconds she would buy gum and an iPhone. That’s why I keep plenty of gum in my pocket.
After some strategically timed compliments, nice hair/eyes/smile/dress/perfume, the food arrives and she starts multitasking – eating and talking drivel simultaneously. I have developed the smile and filter technique to an art, pretending I’m listening while fantasizing about various Kama Sutra positions. I stare at her over glossed lips. Here comes the litany of complaints, the food still sloshing in her mouth: my boring job/I hate my boss he’s a jerk/my friend got a job on a cruise ship/do I have a job for her? She stuffs more food in her mouth: I love my family/I want you to love my family/I want my family to love you/I want you to make love to my family/my young sister needs money for school/my other brother applied for a job on a cruise ship/do I have a cruise ship? At last, the final mastication before desert (she ordered two because she couldn’t decide which one she wanted – ‘so let’s share’): I want 2 kids/I hope they have blonde hair and blue eyes like my friend’s kids/she married a bule and moved to Australia/I want a big house with a swimming pool/I don’t know how to swim/I want a cruise ship. Of course, the ‘I wanna’ list is much longer if the girl is from Bandung or Manado. And those pro-golddiggers seeking soulmates usually get what they really want — by the third husband. It inspired Kanye West to write these poignant lyrics:
She take my money, well I’m in need
Yeah she’s a triflin’ friend indeed
Oh she’s a gold digger way over time
That digs on me
Get down girl, go ‘head get down (I gotta leave)
Get down girl, go ‘head
Apparently there is no shortage of Bandung and Manado girls trawling Kanye’s ‘hood’ with their booties.
After three/five/seven seconds/minutes you’re convinced Bouncé is dumber than a bag full of hammers/into Oprah/has more self-help books than the Library of Congress/her favorite work of literature is Harry Potter/desperate to marry a bule (doesn’t matter if he’s older than her grandpa). There is some common ground here because I too am desperate — desperate to get laid. It’s been a while. With me it’s either feast or famine. She’s orders another Es Campur/Bali Moon/Pluto Punch/Sex on the Beach/Screaming Orgasm/Arak Attack. In fact she orders all of them (‘so let’s share’). Oh, shit, she has that twinkle in her eye, the one that says, ‘what are we doing next’? She saw me open my wallet to pay the bill and glimpsed my sexy ‘six pack’: Visa, Mastercard, American Express, Discover, Diners and Carte Blanche. This girl’s now stuck on me – like the one in Push Stars’ clingy lyrics:
She’s sticking to me like the salt from the sea
Sleeping on the shore
In my winter coat pocket I find the key to her door
It said I’ll love you more
Maybe it’s time to make my move. She’s bored me to tears but instead I say/I had a great time/you’re not just beautiful you’re smart (yeah, like a toaster)/I’d love to meet your family one day (can’t have too many gardeners on my estate)/your (retarded) brother and I would get along well (if I use him for fishing bait)/I hope you get that job on a cruise ship/I want you to see my beautiful villa in Ubud (stealthily moving in for the kill). She shakes my hand and offers me her cheek. I grab by the nape of her neck and kiss her passionately on the lips (gotcha!). Let’s get out of here and go to Ubud for a drink/desert/coffee/rough sex/lite BDSM/watch Gunung Agung erupt (like you will shortly).
I’m not that kind of girl (oh yes you are)/I want a man to respect me (as you giveth so shall ye receiveth)/tell your driver to stop at my place so I can pick up a few things (no doubt, more cheap perfume and a change of panties).
‘Hey, look at this million dollar view’ (from my bedroom in Ubud). Should I use a condom/maybe she has AIDs/maybe has more crabs than a seafood stall at Jimbaran/oh God, maybe she’ll want to go shopping for a new handphone/should I hide my wallet? But by now I’m thinking with the little head, not the big one (unless your Jay-Z).
Bouncé’s breast are not as big and firm as they appeared in the push-up bra. They’re a bit small and bouncy. That’s O.K. I’ve noticed age takes its toll even on twenty-somethings with stretch marks and cellulite dimpling their asses. We kiss again and have another go at it, this time inspired by Captain & Tennile’s plaintive lyrics:
Whoa-oh-ho-oh-oh-oh, baby, do that to me one more time
Once is never enough with a man like you
Whoa-oh-oh, do that to me one more time
I can never get enough of a man like you
Whoa-oh-oh, kiss me like you just did
Oh, baby do that to me once again
‘I had a great time’ (even though I did all the work). In Indonesia you usually don’t get oral sex on the first date (unless she’s had several bule boyfriends). I’ll call you/SMS/Facebook you. Mmmmmuah!
I have my driver take her back to Denpasar/Kuta/Seminyak to her miserable one room apartment in a boarding house she shares with a roommate. No hot water; the bathroom is just down the hall.
I return to my empty villa, brew a cup of Java and start scanning new profiles on DIA. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a sexual predator. I’m just frustrated that I can’t even remotely find the right woman. Sadly, if I can’t find a soulmate in Indonesia at least I can find some consolation in theic conquering this vast archipelago — one pretty girl at a time.
Interesting read… sounds like my life.
Sometimes I tend to think that the real sexual refugees are the local women.
Gosh, looks like i gave the old buffalo another little poke. And on it lumbers…
muhammad asif – absolutely, couldn’t agree more.
Patrick – I love you too.
Arie – actually I wasn’t really thinking of that particular kind of situation; I had more in mind guys, say, well under 40, who come to Indonesia in the first instance as part of a serious career, or in the name of (non-sexual) adventure, who don’t appear to have any chronic social problems or insecurities, and who enter the local dating scene with women not that far off their own age.
But with reference to what you’re talking about, well, yes, you are entirely right, of course.
Nay – the “white man in the tropics” is an endlessly fascinating topic, especially if you are one yourself (and I get the feeling that in these parts, most of us are, are we not?).
Mauricio – these Jakarta girls sound great. I should spend more time in the capital. And doesn’t Etty sound great, btw?
balipoet – now that I seriously enjoyed, nasty though it undoubtably was, and certainly not the way I choose to go through life. But I doff my cap to your wordsmanship. I was proper good.
@Big David and friends – “You only hurt the one you love” Really like those lyrics from that old song…. Siapa cintamu bebe?
Thanx Nay for the thumbs up and Timdog for the ‘doff of the cap’. The ensuing breeze managed to chase away a few unrelenting mosquitos who were dive bombing my ear like it was Pearl Harbor.
On the subject of consolation prizes, I guess we put up with the ‘chaff’ing because of something that’s implicit but mostly unaddressed in this forum — something that’s been skirted in that polite Indonesian way that assumes the shortest distance between two points is a zig zag. Did I hear anyone say, ‘Yo’, we dudes get to play hide the salami with women half our age!’ Let’s be honest. In Western society that kind of arm candy is a luxury reserved for celebrity and the the seven figure rich.
A female acquaintance of mine, of contemporary age, seeing the intrinsic folly of my recent May-September pas de deux, tried to convince me of its inanity with the following rationale, “Just look at the math. She’s 26. You’re 52. Twenty-six goes into fifty-two two times!”
To which I replied, “Yes, that’s true. But look at it from my point of view. Fifty-two goes into twenty-six a few hundred times.”
She stood stupefied. Apparently, my cogent out of the box and into the sand box thinking threw a shovelful of dirt in the face of her less than compelling math skills.
“You know, you should get yourself a boy toy,” I said. “I bet beneath your proper exterior there lurks a real cougar ready to pounce.” I punctuated the challenge with a guttural, “Grrrrr.”
“Grrrrr,” she echoed, with a playful roll of her French nails. Then our Mrs. Robinson hastily departed, no doubt, to do some serious beef cake surfing on toyboywarehouse.com.
Male friends, on the other hand, lived vicariously through my latest conquest, giving me more thumbs up than a Roeper & Ebert review of a mediocre flick. When those two pathetic clowns finish their stint as film critics living on kickbacks, they’re sure to find new careers as butt plugs awaiting their talents.
“Heeeeey,” ululated one such approving fan, trying to fist bump me in approval whilst my hands dug deep in the Mariana Trench of my cargo shorts pretending to plumb for change. “I bet she’s hot.”
“What do you expect, we’re on the f*cking equator,” I glibly answered.
“She’s hot, right? Practically creaming,” he persisted, again attempting at a fist bump.
“Yup, like a Jersey cow with an inflammation of the udders,” I offered, eschewing proffered fist and punching him square on the shoulder. “The tart is practically a creamsicle on legs, melting in the waft of my cup of steaming ramen noodles.”
“Way-to-go!” his attempted fist bump morphed into an unrequited high five. “Catch you later, man.”
“Not if the Avian flu catches you first,” I said, fist bumping him in the solar plexus. “Later.”
“For what do we live,” said Jane Austen, “but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?” The sun dried spinster was on the money.
Another fifty-something-and-then-something acquaintance of mine, puzzled more by the intellectual chasm than the physical, inquired in all sincerity, “I’m having a hard time figuring out what you two can possibly talk about? You’re an erudite man of the world and she’s an addle-brained opportunist who sees you as little more than an ATM.”
“I’m having a ‘hard time’ too,” I answered.
“Seriously,” she prodded me, like a masochist in a sadist’s jar.
“The secret,” I said “is compartmentalization. I don’t seek a woman to fulfill all my needs — physical, emotional, intellectual. That’s why so many of us are miserable. We want to have it all and are hung up on finding this elusive Holy Grail. I just want the physical companionship of a young woman and I get my intellectual needs fulfilled by watching Sesame Street and Woody Allen movies.”
“And your emotional needs? Who fulfills those?” asked my cynical friend, undressing a Snicker bar with her mouth.
“The emotional spectrum is broad,” I said, “but not half as broad as your light bending ass. Those needs are dysfunctionally met, in part by family and in part by frivolous lawsuits. Even my young lady fulfills quite a bit of my day-to-day emotional needs. Once we set up ‘house’ I go into autopilot and step into many of the personas that comprise a ‘real’ relationship. It is a pseudo-secure universe framed by ‘Good morning, dear’ and ‘Good night, my love, flip over’ and the emotional flow it subsumes. Like the tides of the ocean they are predictable, tug at our hearts and occasionally drown semen.”
“Are you sure those are your emotional needs?” Energized by the sugar rush, she proceeded to play Devil’s Advocate, a role she was comfortable with having been Satan’s lapdog while working in advertising sales. “Emotions run the gamut from love to hate and the infinite nuances in between. You’ve narrowed the range considerably with this superficial specimen you’ve bedded. I would suggest, if she indeed meets your needs, you’re quite shallow.”
“Who can really separate our complex emotional spectrum of love, lust, charity, nurture, malice, forgiveness, etc., from the power play between the sexes. ‘Shallowness’ are you call it, is not without immeasurable depth when it comes to this dynamic equilibrium hosted by the interplay of these genders, scrapping for control.”
“You’re playing with words.”
“You’re just jealous because I have something to play with other than comfort food you Neolithic battle-ax.”
Our exasperated Venus of Willenorf left in a huff taking with her enough emotional baggage to gorge the cargo hold of a C-5 freighter plane.
In the 2004 remake of Alfie, about a Don Juanesque serial flinger, Jude Law shares with us his revelation that “… In every doomed relationship, there comes what I like to call the Uh-Oh moment. When a certain little something happens, and you know you’ve just witnessed the beginning of the end. And suddenly you stop and you think, Uh-Oh, iceberg ahead.” A variation of this has its literary precedent resonating in Jane Austen’s comedy of manners where Darcy tells Elizabeth, “My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.” Unfortunately, Darcy’s epiphany is less memorable than Alfie’s because these uptight English gentlefolk have too much pride and prejudice to get it on.
In my most recent misalliance with a pert breasted, wasp-waisted café mocha crumb cake, a similar adumbration came when she echoed a gecko calling out from a niche of my Balinese roof. This peculiar ritual may be a Javanese version of the love struck pulling petals from a flower, saying, ‘she loves me’, she loves me not’ but definitely boasts a more Asian emphasis on pragmatic materialism. Their dialogue went thusly:
Yes, my tight-assed tidbit egregiously defamed the gecko, who was just being a gecko in the most essential of Platonic forms. Do we besmirch a cat for its meow? Do we throw mud at a pig for its oink? Do we kick a dog for barking? Never mind that last question. Hell no, we don’t! And to vilify the gecko for mere shekels! My mealy mouthed morsel crossed the line with this trespass. This became the Uh-Ohhh moment in our relationship that foretold a lone caboose will irrevocably follow this sorry train of events. Alas, my Titanic ‘iceberg’ emerged, signaling the end.
But if I hear another f*cking flute, Celine, I’ll shove it up you and René’s May-September asses.
When I read your ‘life story’ i thought it was madness! I had a date a few days ago with an expat who’s staying at the most expensive hotel in town, he told me almost the same testimonial in dating indonesian girls. He said, “You wear a very lil make up but look good.” I was wondering how thick were his ex gfs make up? He told me about the louis vuitton and all fashion designer’s stuff, blackberry, high maintenance, etc, etc. I mean I don’t hate louis vuitton, I love it, but I’d rather invest my money for some more useful things. – Although if a guy gives me an LV bag, which I never ask, I won’t reject it – He even got threatened to marry her or else she would leave him for a more rich bule. – Although the sex was great – This is crazyy… How could you guys got involved with such girls? Just reading and listening to the ‘victim’s story makes me wanna puke!
He even got threatened to marry her or else she would leave him for a more rich bule.
ha ha ha ha ! that’s hardly a “threat”. When you’re surrounded by lots of different women, the loss of one girl acting crazy is not a loss at all!! Especially one who acts like that!
Again… who do these girls think they are?
I wise man knows that ANY woman he is seeing can replace him in a matter of days, simply by opening her legs for some random guy… maybe at a bar or someplace. Men don’t have that ability. For a man to commit to a “relationship” where a woman can abuse it at any moment of her choosing (and they often do, whenever they get bored) is a really BAD move for a man!
Men are already “handicapped” by the flightiness, disloyalty, and white lies of women in general. Give us a break!
Although the sex was great – This is crazyy… How could you guys got involved with such girls?
The way I see it… I would actually be doing them a favour by giving them an opportunity to escape the shackles of conservative society and have sex without any of the social problems or ramifications, and maybe experience a different world for a bit. Trouble is, these girls like to bite off more than they’re entitled to, and then unfortunately we’re forced to cut them off.
Love is about giving more than receiving. I have no problem with the giving part as long as the woman is deserving.
The common charge from Indonesian women is that single bule men are all players. Well, what exactly do they expect when there’s a dearth of serious GF or wife material? Courses for horses. Of course, bule men are gonna play and play a lot when what’s on offer is only good for playing. Had I confined myself to waiting for a kernel to emerge instead of sifting through the chaff, I would have been celibate for years! When you offer peanuts, men are likely to want to just monkey around.
Had I confined myself to waiting for a kernel to emerge instead of sifting through the chaff, I would have been celibate for years!
The only way to find a life partner is to try many of them out.
You can’t have a “serious” relationship without it starting out casual.
Besides, “serious” relationships are not fun anyway.
When you offer peanuts, men are likely to want to just monkey around.
That’s always the problem I’ve found. Most young girls just think that a man is going to “white-knight” them and save them from their boring jobs and empty lives. Fact is, us men don’t need marriage so for us to want to commit the woman actually has to offer something to *improve* our lives, and not make them difficult or be a drain upon them. Quite the opposite really. She has to add to our lives, otherwise men are going to think “What’s the point?”.
Most of the time, the woman is looking to get than to give anything — and hence, which man can be bothered with them?
The most these women have to “offer” is their body for cash, or at least the threat of “no money, no honey”. That’s a false choice. Sex is a commodity to men.
Some women may think “Nobody buys the cow if the milk is given for free”, but guess what? Milk is a commodity, there are many cows offering free milk, and no man wants to own a cow!
…besides, good sex is always mutual. If a woman thinks she is somehow “losing out” on having sex, she really shouldn’t bother with men at all. Don’t show up for dates!
…besides, good sex is always mutual.
In my experience, yes it’s true… If it’s not mutual orgasms than maybe orgasm and money? But some indonesian women don’t search for money, even if they are much younger than you… Me, I can buy him, his style, and his money if a guy offends me with such ‘being materialistic’ thing. I never ask money for my taxi anyway LOL – Although if a guy buy me a latest sport sedan, I would not reject it, at all -
I am so sorry for those bad testimonials… But believe me, somewhere out there, there are still many great great great indonesian women. Many many many, lots lots lots!! Some people were just not lucky enough!
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After I reading all this letters. I’m thinking, Are still any a good bule outthere who want married Indonesian lady, without thinking negative things about Indonesian woman all the time. I admired them : They’re all a good looking man, no matter you small, tall, fat, thin, etc….
I think Bule more respect woman. Loyal. Kindness. descent. Nobody Perfect in this world. As long as you good, no matter in anywhere people will treat us good too. Same like Indonesian woman. Man and Woman, always thinking about sex and money all the time. But let face it guys!!!!! If we all want have normal life and a nice family, try to positif thinking. Man, working because his responsibilty as a man in his family to support his family. Woman, as a houswife look after her family. Man and Woman loyal each others and love each others. That’s would be nice!!!!!God Bless you all….Cheerss…
OMG. Is it my imagination or has this thread become an extension of the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival?
I enjoyed reading balipoet’s amusing satirical piece of writing, whether the story is genuinely real, superfluously modified, or purely fictional. A nice way of retelling the already commonly told (nearly boring) stories.
If it would ever make it as a novel, the title could be “One hundred years of solitude: Memoirs of a lost soul in Ubud”