Dear Journal of the historical investigations of the island of Bali, by Paulina M. Gifford, Hereafter, this journal is solely to be used for matters of historical investigation. However, until such time as any aforementioned historical investigations commence, I shall allow myself to use it for a few tiny morsels of personal introspection. After all, should anything happen to me, my personal introspections may prove to be very important historical documents.
They will come together to form a brave work by the voice of a new generation: A Portrait of a Twenty-first Century Teenager.
My first personal observation is set in the Melbourne International Airport, Tullamarine. The persons present are Paulina M. Gifford (myself), currently taking a break from reading the latest Garth Nix novel; my mother, Hannah G. Gifford, who is currently reading The Spell of Power: A History of Balinese Politics 1650–1940, by Henk Schulte Nordholt; Mrs Jennifer D. Blue, who is currently reading Land Use and Environment in Indonesia, by Wolf Donner; and Daisy (aka ‘Zee’) Blue, who is not reading anything. She is, in fact, applying lip gloss. And has been for quite some time. Not that I am staring at Daisy Blue.
Well, maybe I am. But only for the purpose of anthropological investigation, so I can write about it in my journal, for the benefit of future generations.
In fact, I can’t stop staring. She doesn’t look real. She’s too . . . too . . . shiny. And thin. She’s really, really thin. She looks like a Chupa Chup. A lemon Chupa Chup, with her blonde hair and her tiny, tiny stick of a body. She scares me. It’s like when there’s a car crash and you don’t want to look, because you know it won’t be a pleasant sight, and yet your eyes are drawn to it; you can’t help it.
But back to my forthcoming journey. I consider myself to be extremely fortunate to have a mother who is in a position to take me with her on jaunts and expeditions. Indeed, many of my classmates have never even visited mainland Australia! I cannot imagine such a sheltered existence. I love to travel, especially to sites of great historical significance. My aim is to one day become a historian, in the mode of Simon Schama.
Although I do not believe I will become a television historian. I believe books to be a much more suitable medium for history. Television rather demeans the seriousness of true historical endeavour, don’t you think?
Daisy Blue would love to be on television. She certainly seems qualified. Everyone on television looks like an alien to me. I secretly believe, in fact, that they all are. That’s why they wear so much make-up, to cover their green scales.
Why did Daisy Blue have to come on this trip? I plan to visit many sites of historical significance: the monkey forest in Ubud; the water palace at Tirta Gangga; the Mother Temple of Besakih, on the slopes of Mount Agung . . . I bet all Daisy Blue plans to do is shop. Which wouldn’t be a problem; except my mother made me PROMISE to spend time with her – in fact, she made me promise to ‘look after Daisy Blue’.
‘Daisy has never been overseas before,’ Mum said, her green eyes narrowing at me the way they do when she is making a BIG IMPORTANT POINT.
Mum is very keen on BIG IMPORTANT POINTS. Which are integral to her line of work. Political speeches are all about BIG IMPORTANT POINTS.
I have learned from experience that agreeing with Mum’s BIG IMPORTANT POINTS is the only sensible course of action.
So, even though it will be an obstacle to my aims for this holiday, I will keep my promise and ‘look after Daisy Blue’. After all, did not most truly great observers of historical events have to overcome obstacles? Herodotus had to overcome many in his travels around Ancient Greece. Not that I am equating myself with the ‘Father of History’. It was just an illustrative point. I am a fan of illustrative points. I very much doubt Daisy Blue even knows what an illustrative point is. In fact, I find it inconceivable that we have anything in common at all.
Superficially speaking, one might assume we would be quite similar – what with our mothers both being speech-writers. However, I believe that Daisy Blue may have been switched at birth. Perhaps her real mother is actually Gina Harrison’s mum. Gina Harrison’s mum is known for being something of a flake, which is lucky for me because given a maternal figure more concerned with her daughter’s academic prowess Gina could easily be beating me in Maths. She is astonishingly good at quadratic equations. Thankfully, Gina is also blessed with a rather curvaceous anatomy, as well as brains and, sometimes, this anatomy means that she has some repulsive boy making gooey eyes at her. This occasionally distracts Gina from her schoolwork. Hurrah! Thankfully, also, my mother always encourages me to achieve highly and her constant support and gentle stimulation have significantly contributed to the fact that I am a shoo-in to be dux of my year. And, if I achieve dux, I am a certainty for an accelerated scholarship to university.
Especially if I think of a superior concept for my major project. Which is why Bali is an absolute gods-send (see how I invoked the polytheistic nature of the Hindu religion that predominates in Bali? It was clever and also quite amusing!). There will be a wealth of historical information for me to consider as a catalyst for the investigations I plan to undertake. Indeed, if Daisy Blue does wish to accompany me in my travels around the westernmost of the Lesser Sunda Islands, between Java to the west and Lombok to the east, then she will just have to endure a pace that will accommodate my historical investigations.
Thankfully, the odds of Daisy actually wanting to spend time with me are almost microscopically small.
Not that I could have said that in reply to Mum’s BIG IMPORTANT POINT, of course.
Now, as I am staring at Daisy Blue, I wish I had been more assertive with Mum. I wish that, instead of, ‘Yes, Mum,’ I had said ‘But Mother, it is clear that Daisy Blue is an alien species and as such is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, due to the fact that she has a laser gun tucked in the belt of her miniskirt, and eyes that can turn you to stone.’
Indeed, that is what Daisy Blue’s glare feels like.
Not that I care. I don’t care at all about what Daisy Blue thinks of me. Therefore, I resolve to never again write about Daisy Blue.
From now on, until the end of my trip, I will confine my observations and investigations to the history of Bali.
Paulina M. Gifford