Holidays in Babel
“Come, let’s build ourselves a city with a tower reaching the heavens, so that we can make a name for ourselves; otherwise, we’ll be scattered over the face of the whole earth.” Genesis
I’m nestled under the shade of a beachfront veranda on Semanijak Beach, Bali. I’m leisurely sipping freshly squeezed orange and apple juice, savoring a latte, and occasionally indulging a Marlboro. Waves from the Indian Ocean relentlessly roll in. Multi-coloured banana lounges, bean bags, and spiked umbrellas are strewn across the sand. Thousands of rookie holiday surfers paddle and occasionally fall off oversized boards, guided by Balinese instructors standing waist-deep in the sea. A recently constructed 8 km paved path hosts a procession of tourists navigating bars, juice stands, food stalls, and trinket markets.
In 2019, Bali welcomed 6.3 million tourists. The top 10 countries of origin, in descending order, were Australia, India, China, the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, France, Singapore, Malaysia, and South Korea. As of the present, halfway through 2023, tourist numbers stand at 2.3 million. While they are increasing, reaching pre-pandemic levels this year seems unlikely.
Tourist numbers don’t overly concern me. I’m more focused on us, the tourists – around a billion of us out of the 7 billion on this planet who have the option to travel to places like Bali. These are places where much of the population can’t experience what we do, where the cost of our airfare exceeds their annual average salary. I’m also considering many other places that aren’t tourist destinations, where the cost of my juice, latte, and Marlboro surpasses the annual average salary.
Beside me sits a pale middle-aged woman, sipping a greenish cocktail from a martini glass. She wears designer sunglasses and a wide white straw hat adorned with a blue ribbon. There’s nothing exceptional about her, me, or the crowd around us. A slow techno drum and bass beat fills the air, setting the rhythm for the passing parade of people strolling along the beachside This is the Bali experience: indulging in a variety of food, enjoying cocktails, receiving massages, manicures, pedicures, and purchasing frivolous items. The competition for tourist spending is fierce in Bali, leading to the continuous construction of apartments, villas, and resorts with ever more captivating architectural designs – lavish bedrooms, bathrooms, infinity pools, and exotic gardens.
“Are you not entertained?” – a line immortalized by Russell Crowe in the movie “Gladiator.” I want to pose this question to everyone, including the woman nearby: “Are you not entertained?” Never in history have we lived in such luxury.”Are we not entertained?” If the social scientists are right, if the statistics are right, that our mental health, anxiety and depression in the West are at unprecedent levels then we are not entertainment but distracted.
Here’s one possible explanation: back at home, we’ve fallen under the sway of a strange way of thinking. We’ve developed a performative fixation on avoiding offense to anyone’s identity. At the same time, the world’s poorest and most exploited countries in the world, even after the supposed end of colonialism in 1945, still remain the most impoverished. The same colonized African countries continue to be exploited by us. While we’re cautious not to offend in anyway our African or Middle Eastern friends and colleagues, we don’t hesitate to support or ignore our governments who directly bomb or fund the bombing of their country of origin. It confounds me how we can collectively cheer the bombing of Bagdad, Fallujah, Damascus… then express genuine sympathy for the inevitable millions of refugees these actions cause. We never consciously connect the refugee’s plight with our cowardice to challenge our government’s foreign policy. Instead, we magically transform any culpability into this performative compassion.
Now back to that white guilt. Before 1945, most white people in white countries lived in brutal conditions. Life expectancy in early 20th century Western Europe barely exceeded 30. Imperialism benefited a tiny, privileged percentage. Almost everyone toiled long hours in harsh conditions without respite. Education was reserved for a wealthy minority, food scarce, and healthcare unknown. Life was short, harsh and brutal. If anyone has any doubts about how truly hellish life was during the industrial revolution in Europe, I suggest reading Orwell’s “The road to Wigan pier” to disabuse yourself. By comparison, the masses of the underdeveloped world, the supposed poorest countries, during the guilty colonial era, enjoyed idyllic lifestyles.
The pre-1945 Colonial harvest wasn’t manufactured goods or even essential commodities for the masses, but luxuries for the elite. The guilt narrative is misplaced in the past. If it belongs any-where, it rightfully belongs in the present where the line of exploitation does bestow an inexhaustible supply of cheap products to all of us. On the other hand, it makes not a bind bit of sense for a society that self identifies as secular to be riddled with a quintessentially Christian idea of guilt.
I ordered a cocktail and started up a conversation with that woman sitting next to me. Next year we are off to Vietnam together. Apparently, the food is amazing and cheap too.
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