Beautiful Bali Beach and the tale of the Old Man’s sarongs

Once upon a time, there was a girl who went to Bali for a holiday.

There is a special quality to the Bali life of ex-pats and how that lifestyle is reflected in their fashion. As I met dozens of these ex-pats, I kept stumbling similar qualities of their dress, their physical appearance in terms of beauty treatments, hair, facial adjustments. I had never seen people who looked like this. They were like aliens to me and I wanted to go up to them and prod them to check they were actually real.

I didn’t know what an ex-pat was until I arrived in Bali; my travelling companion, the Boyfriend, pointed out the label of these people once we had met a couple of them. He explained they were people who had moved to Bali for work or now retired leisure. In short, they were immigrants to the country that had more money than the locals who enjoy the lower cost of living and the all year round heat.

I was at the most enchanting beach party in Seminyak; I had managed to scheme my way into an engagement party between a fat, rounded American and an over-plastic surgeon worked Australian woman, both of which were well into their forties. Both were lovely and had a very sweet, accepting manner and kindly let me be a part of their celebrations. I had the best spot at the beach party. I parked myself on a wicker chair in the far corner of the beach that the party occupied. From here, I could cite a full length view of the guests walking in and the entire scope of the party once they had arrived. It became a game as I judged, unfairly, every guest’s entire appearance with special attention being paid to the item of their wardrobe they chose to wear.

The unofficial uniform of an ex-pat consists of a key staple qualities; everything must be linen and bellow off the skin into the wind revealing charcoaled, wrinkled skin. The females are constricted by halter neck tops or dresses that push their bosoms up to nestle under their chins. They wear over strapped heels in the sand that are a pastel peep toe. The men are all in white three quarter capris or sarongs; all are bare foot with perfectly manicured toes and a severe allergy to closed leather shoes. Everyone is worked to an inch of their life by the friendly local plastic surgeon and their make-up, men and women included, is sprayed on like wall paint.

I don’t know what it about these people but you can see in it their manner, their relaxed shoulders that they are so very happy. Am I envious of how they live? I can’t quite work out if I am. Can I be an ex-pat when I am older if it means sans linen and plastic surgery?