With John Penrose in some coffee shop in Kuta in 2011
There are all sorts of expats in Bali, hiding out in this shifting community of the planet's "homeless and assetless", languidly killing time like characters in a Graham Greene novel. They are Westerners who have been ill-treated and badly wounded by life and, after having made a mess of their lives back home, have stopped the whole struggle and decided to camp out in Bali indefinitely, where they can live in a gorgeous house for $200 a month, perhaps taking a young Balinese man or woman as a companion, where they can drink before noon without getting any static about it, where they can make a little money exporting a bit of furniture for somebody or selling real estate to other Westerners who've fallen for this misguided dream of a Balinese paradise. But generally, all they are doing is seeing to it that nothing serious will ever be asked of them again. These are not bums, mind you. This is a very high grade of people, multinational, talented and clever. Everyone used to be something once (generally "married" or "employed"); now they are all united by the absence of the one thing they seem to have surrendered completely and forever: ambition. To quote my favourite writer Joseph Conrad: "... in all they said - in their actions, in their looks, in their persons - could be detected the soft spot, the place of decay, the determination to lounge safely through existence." Needless to say, there's a lot of drinking.
Of course, Bali is not such a bad place to putter away your life, ignoring the passing of the days. Most Bali expats, when you ask them how long they've lived there, aren't really sure. For one thing, they aren't really sure how much time has passed since they moved to Bali. But for another thing, it's like they aren't really sure if they do live there. They belong to nowhere, unanchored. Some of them like to imagine that they're just hanging out for a while, just running the engine on idle at the traffic light, waiting for the signal to change. But after several years of that they start to wonder ... will they ever leave? Conrad again: "Their death was the only event of their fantastic existence that seemed to have a reasonable certitude of achievement."
Which is not what you would say of John Penrose who was an extremely talented and cultured man whom we met by chance sometime in 2011 at our favourite retreat at Banjar Hills - and we are so glad we did! He was a retired Australian school teacher who had already then lived for the past fifteen years in Bali. What he didn't know about Bali wasn't worth knowing and, of course, he spoke the language like a Balinese.
He used to give personalised guided tours in a lovely, laid-back way - no hassling, no pressures - and assisted with just about anything else you may need help with - making hotel bookings, buying and shipping home Balinese artifacts ... you name it, he did it. We kept in contact with him, even after he had left Bali for the still unpolluted Lombok, because we had enjoyed his company and also because we thought we might one day stay in his then new B&B, and perhaps even follow in his footsteps.
You may have noticed that in describing John I've been using the past tense throughout, because for some time now my emails to him have bounced and the last entry on his facebook page is dated October 2019.
To paraphrase an already much misquoted Mark Twain, I hope that my assumption of his death is greatly exaggerated, and he's still living his dream and one day I'll hear from him again. Lagi di mana ni, John?
P.S. I made some inquiries and have just had word from Adam Chad: "Hi Peter, unfortunately, John passed away in Lombok in October 2019. He was quite unwell for the last few months of his life." So sorry to hear it. And he passed away so soon, just 73 years old. Still, a life well lived!
P.P.S. On www.naa.gov.au I found an old Passenger Arrival Card after John had returned from a month-long holiday in Bali in 1972 while he was still living near Tamworth and still working as a young twenty-five-year-old teacher:
