#12 Uprooted and Rooted

Fuck. We’re back.

Yup, you heard it right. Reluctant Steve has been thrust overseas yet again. Even I didn’t expect to be uprooted so soon. Three weeks—what an eager beaver!

I must confess, there were murmurings of a return trip to Bali when negotiations with the wife were first had. Naturally, I expected that the first ordeal would be enough to close the book on this travel compulsion. But, alas, she was still keen. 

And, what’s worse, I found myself compelled to return too. Not just because of my (now wavering) commitment to her, but because I needed to. And no, I hadn’t caught the travel bug. Frankly, I’d had it with bugs. But, for the first time, staying in New Zealand was far less manageable than travelling.

Home and Homeless

When we arrived, New Zealand’s summer was in its pubescent state, striking a fine balance between cooler nights and gradually heating days. So it was a good time for our transitioning thermostats to return. Some days, I was even convinced that the temperature had begun to exceed Bali’s - isn’t it amazing how quickly the brain represses trauma! Given the season, I was even excited to show off how tanned I was from the trip, only to discover that it mostly washed off in the shower. 

The other thing that washed off in the shower was our delayed Bali Belly. Yes, it wasn’t the indulgence in Bali’s exotic foods and sanitation (flashback to the local river) that upset our stomachs, but returning to our mostly dairy diet after a month away.  

This hardship was compounded by the fact we were sharing other people’s toilets! You see, my dastardly wife had cleverly doubled down on the Airbnb opportunity when booking the first Bali trip (furthering her intentions) so it was unavailable until February. I was home, but I had no home to go cue tiny violins. Others were enjoying it. 

I know - I would often see them through the windows. 

So we took turns staying with friends and family. Don’t get me wrong - I was grateful for the extended hospitality and emotional support. But sharing living spaces with others while living out of a suitcase wasn’t exactly the reset I’d envisioned. I definitely recharged my need for connection - surprising myself at the level of gluttony I was capable of when pairing socialising with being wined and dined - or more accurately: rummed and tummed. 

Late nights, sleep-ins, no school for the kids, and no job. 

I was adrift, with a rapidly increasing midriff. 

Three Weeks of Chaos

The coming Age of Turmoil sadly commenced with a funeral, peaked with the 14th annual Expedition (perhaps a story for another day) and then concluded with a wedding, with no stop to the helter-skelter onslaught in between. My wife, determined to make a traveller out of me, booked more travel within New Zealand - to highlights like the outskirts of Dannevirke and an off-grid farm stay in Waitotara Valley. Travel wary fast became travel weary! 

To prevent diluting the experience, we filled the remaining gaps in the calendar with playdates for Africa (the expression - heaven forbid the actual thing!), as even people we would not typically see or want to see, wanted to hear about our adventures. People love a good bad news story. 

Unfortunately, the kids weren’t much help in this department. Despite everything they had experienced, their only reply was that it was “hot” and “good”. Pretty disappointing response, really - it was only one of those things. After some probing, they did rave about the cost of snacks in Bali. Problem was, they’d blown through all their money in the first 3 weeks. Bank of Dad was also depleted. 

Naturally one solution: child labour.

Before Bali, my kids had a pamphlet run. It’s the New Zealand rite of passage! I grew up with one, as did my father, and his father before him (I assume). It was intended to instill some genuine hard work ethic. Quite ironic when coming from their currently unemployed father. It paid poorly. Really poorly. But we had both time and a spine to kill so it made cents (dumb pun, but fitting). 

After Bali, the value of this job skyrocketed. The kids earn about $7.00 for one pamphlet run, or $3.50 each. F all. But, with the power of currency conversion, this becomes approximately 35,000 IDR. Which, in turn, becomes up to 35 separate trips to the local Bali warung for snacks. 

All of a sudden, we had two pamphlet runs on the go!

Sick of Free Spirits

And so, the three weeks blitzed by in sheer chaos. Gradually, I started looking forward to returning to Bali. There was a need that I couldn’t satiate in New Zealand. A need that I have now found can be quite divisive in people. The need is routine. 

There are two types of people in this world (kindly disregard everything else you may have heard). They are, routineers and free spirits. The latter, as I have come to appreciate, are clearly fucked in the head. My wife fits smugly in this category, so I can say this with great authority. 

Let me explain.

For me, without routine, I am lost. I end up lethargic, purposeless, and unsettled. It is a constant feeling of a lack of achievement or a sense that something is missing - regardless of exactly what is accomplished. An overall feeling of unfulfillment. 

When I have my routine, I have my plan. My compass. For me, this is captured in a holy scripture: my Man Planner. A simple page-a-day diary of odds and ends to complete in the day, celebrated briefly with sleep, before it’s on to the next page. A life on climate control. Bliss.

I put the content in consistent. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, this does not mean that I cannot be spontaneous! In fact, most days I have a period of time booked for such. 

So when I initially talked to my fellow routineers about my Bali trip, I was comforted by the discomfort that it caused them. Disrupting a well oiled routine. Shifting into the unknown. All the rest of the “icks”. They understood. We could pencil in some time for consolement. 

The unsettling part is, I felt more settled in Bali. What a phony! I had started to develop a routine just prior to leaving Bali. New Zealand was now jeopardising this. Different houses, no clear plans, living out of a suitcase - a free spirit's wet dream. For me, it was the unpleasant kind of hard. Defeated, I knew there was only one choice to resolve my woes. 

And so, guilt ridden and heavy hearted, I longed for Bali.