padangbai, bali

ok, the decision’s been made. time to get the 20 grand for the purchase of my new balinese banana and coconut field into the bank account of my new “partners”.

still, the problem is goddam bank of america (bofa).

their complicated, multi-layered online security system is “protecting” me from accessing my own money. i call a spade a spade: bofa is fucking “blocking” me. my local branch manager in echo park, mr. villarosa, has proved entirely ineffective. he hasn’t even returned my phone call, which he promised to do 2 days ago. it’s clearly time to take matters into my own hands.

i call my partner in crime on the other side of the planet, 13,000 miles away, in sunny pasadena. the mandela man. he doesn’t know he’s my partner in crime � yet � but drastic times call for drastic measures. mandela is a people pleaser; he finds it hard to say no. he’s about my best friend and i need his help. unfortunately, 11 a.m. bali time is 2 in the morning pasadena time. but as i said, desperate times call for desperate measures. “mandela, how goes it? sorry for the hour, but i need your help.” “what’s up, trules? i hope you don’t want me to do anything illegal.” “not exactly, my man, but can you call me back? my indonesian phone card is gonna run out in about 90 seconds.” “sonofabitch, trules.” but he does. and i proceed to tell the great mandela about the goddam bank of america, and how i need access to 20 grand of my own money, 10 grand at a time (thanks to the tip from dr. bobbha who said the IRS would be on my case at the end of the year if i transferred more than 10 grand to any single individual). “ok, what do you want me to do?”

“ok, here’s the plan.” and i lay it out for mandela. “you’re going to be me. i’m going to give you my user name and password, you’re going to login into my account, and we’re going to set your cell phone up with my “safepass” security system.” “what’s safepass?” “it’s complicated, mandela. don’t ask too many questions. it’ll take all night. just do what i tell you?” “will i get into any legal trouble?” “no. i don’t see how you can. you’re just being me.” “what if they trace it back to my computer?” “they won’t!” jeez, why are all my friends so paranoid? don’t they know “to live outside the law you must be honest?” “it’s my own goddam money, mandela! how are they gonna, or even wanna, trace anything back to your computer?’ “i don’t know. i just don’t want to get my family into any trouble.” “i understand. you’re a husband and a father now, not a single operator anymore. you gotta look out for them. but you gotta trust me. nothing will happen to you.” i can’t believe myself: “just trust me.” “ok, i’ll do it. for you. just not now. or did you forget, it’s 2:30 in the morning here.” “yeah, ok, sorry. it’s just that i’m under a lot of pressure to get this done ASAP. what time can we skype each other?” “i have to leave for work at 8. howse 7:30 in the morning?” “sure, ok. that’s 10:30 at night here. perfect. like in 5 hours.” “exactly. now will you let me get back to sleep?” “of course. i really appreciate, man. i’m gonna name a tall coconut tree in the yard after you, the �mandela’ tree’.” “goodnight, trules.” and he hangs up.

i’m shameless. but what choice do i have? “to live outside the law, you must be honest.”

at 7:30 sharp i skype mandela. he’s groggy but awake. he’s eating breakfast with his 5 year old daughter, kayla shirl. “let me go into the office.” “sure.” i wait impatiently as mandela explains to his daughter that “i have to speak to uncle gino in the office for a little while.” “noooo,” she commands, as the great mandela pulls himself away from fatherhood on my behalf. barely. “ok, thanks, mandela dude. this shouldn’t take too long.” mis-spoken words, if i ever spoke any. i proceed to walk him through the log in and password to all my money in the world. yeah, he’s my best friend in LA, but it still feels weird to give anyone access to my bank accounts. i trust him, right?

everything takes 10 times longer than it should. 10 times longer than it would take me on my own. if goddam bofa hadn’t locked me out of my own bank account. we can’t get the “safepass” set up, linking his cell phone, instead of mine, to an automated password that will come from bofa that will allow him to actually set up an international bank account and designee to transfer my first 10 grand to. the website keeps locking him out and we have to start all over again. by 8 a.m., our window of opportunity is closed and the great mandela has to go off to be a people-pleasing development officer for one of southern california’s great private institutions of higher learning. “sorry, man, we’ll have to do this after work.” “can’t you do it from you office.” “and risk losing my job? are you kidding me?” “what are you talking about? you’re just being me, accessing my own fucking money!” “sorry, trules. no can do. skype me after work.” “what time?” “7 o’clock.” “that’s… 4 in the morning bali time”. (beat) “ok.”

i don’t need to set my watch alarm to wake up at 4. i’m already awake. i can’t sleep. i get 2 or 3 more phone calls from my american friends to whom i’ve previously sent e-mails. none can transfer any money to me in bali, and each tells me i’m out of my mind to be trusting people i met just 3 days ago with my life’s savings. i protest. “i still have my retirement account to fall back on. i already set this money, my father’s money, aside to invest � half in bali, half in medan.” “but your wife just threatened to divorce you!” “yeah, but she’s done it before and she’ll probably do it again. it seems to come with the territory.” “you’re gonna be coming home in 3 days, trules. why don’t you wait �til then to decide? let calmer heads prevail.” “it’ll be too late in 3 days. the train will have left the station. i have to shit or get off the pot. now!” “ok. good luck, trules. i hope you know what you’re doing.” “me too. me too…”

these conversations and their endless variations are running through my head as i toss, turn, and await 4 a.m. to finally roll around. every logical and cautious thing they’ve said makes perfect logical and cautious sense. bules can’t own property in bali. i’m a bule. i’m trusting made, ketut, and putu to be my “sponsors” and partners, even though i just met them in padangbai less than half a week ago. i will have to trust them to complete building “our” 2 houses on the property, to build a pool, to landscape and maintain the property, to hopefully rent it out when i’m not there, and to deal with me fairly about all expenses and future income. there are so many things that can go wrong, so many risks. i can see that it’s clearly my desire that’s driving things forward, not my logic or caution. i just want to own property in bali. i have no real legal protection, even though we will go to the local notaris, get the required certipicate, pay the required property tax, and sign more than enough indonesian documents, none of which will i understand, all so that i can begin my idealized “3rd act.”

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as 4 a.m. arrives, i concentrate on the one balinese and indonesian word i’ve learned from made just today at the breakfast table, looking out at the padang (glass) bay. “percaya” (per-chaya). “trust.” it’s the only word that applies here. when i look into the village chief’s eyes, do i trust him? when i hear him say, “i respect you, pro-fes-sor”, do i believe him? i’ve already answered these questions. yes and yes. so who am i gonna listen to here? to my fearful, rational bule self and all the inner and outer voices who caution me against moving forward with my balinese dream house into my future? or… to my desire and percaya, and to that part of myself who married an indonesian woman 31 years his junior after meeting her in front of a kuta beach bank for just one night in bali, who has taken chances and lived without a safety net for most of his adult life, who has marched to the beat of his own drummer ever since he cut the parental umbilical cord and became the artist-warrior he’d like to believe he still is?

i open my little travel laptop computer and skype the great mandela in sunny pasadena. the staccato and mechanical skype ring tone sounds like a blaring air raid warning in the silence of the balinese night. i think of the two teutons next door. this must be the third night in a row that my desperate, middle of the night real estate conversations have awakened them, but i can’t worry about our convoluted and hypocritical relationship between the paper thin walls. but i do them a minor favor by picking up my laptop and walking out to the infinity pool. mandela picks up. “listen, man. i’m eating dinner with the family. can you give me another half an hour?” but it’s….! “yeah, sure.” i hang up and walk down to the padang bai (glass bay), a few hundred feet from the pool, out in front of the homestay. the sky is flirting with dawn, and the bay is rhythmically lapping up against the shore. everything is calm. peaceful. not a soul is awake along the whole padang bay. i realize that the storm and the urgency is all within me. that life back in LA, in mandela’s life, is run of the mill “normal”. that it’s dinner time with wife and daughter. that i’m an intrusion, a pain in the ass. i stare out over the glass bay and steady myself. it’s beautiful here. and things will “work out” one way or the other. they always do. there’s no “win” or “lose”, it’s just…. life.

i skype mandela back. he’s already in his office and online with bofa, our mutual enemy. i walk him through the login and password process again. we go to the international transfer tab. fill out the transfer recipient’s name, address, bank account, and routing numbers. click “continue”. the dreaded online security “safepass” hurdle appears. this time we’re ready. the “safepass” code comes directly to mandela’s cell phone in about 10 seconds and he punches the code into the screen. bingo! we’re in. after that it’s a breeze. 10 grand is sent electronically to made’s BNI account. he’ll get an instant e-mail and have access to the cash in 24 hours. finally! we go for the second 10 grand to deposit into putu’s account.

we’re blocked. we can’t register putu as a recipient for the transfer. we try 3 times. nada. do we have the wrong account? does bofa not recognize putu’s bank the way it recognized made’s? we have no idea. and it’s time for mandela to get back to the wife and kid. “thanks, man. at least we got 10 grand transferred. that should give me some credibility and some breathing room. let’s try again in 12 hours. i’ll check with putu and made and try to straighten things out on this end.” “ok, trules, but this is taking up a lot of time. i’m on a short leash.” “i know, man. i really appreciate it. tell kayla shirl that i’ll name a second coconut tree after her.” “i will. speak to you in the morning.”

i limp my way back to my room, past the 2 sleeping teutons. silence. i notice my limp is getting noticeably less pronounced. maybe the meds from the elephant-eared local doc are working. or maybe it’s a “sign”. whatever. by 9 a.m. breakfast time, after a wink of sleep, all three of my “partners” are eagerly awaiting me at the breakfast (negotiating) table. i give them a smiling thumbs up. they smile back. i think. “apa kabar, trrrules?” “baik.” “how are you?” “good.” another piece of bahasa indonesia that i’ve “mastered”. this time pak putu doesn’t stand from his chair, join his hands over his chest, and greet me with his usual twinkling-eyed “pro-fes-sor”. i think he’s tired of my back and forth commitment dance; he wants results. “check your phone, made. you should have an e-mail from my bank.” he does. “be-beep.” a beautifully sweet sound emanates from his device. “yah, trrrules. it’s dere!” smiles all around. but then, “only 10 thousand.” “yeah, i know. i couldn’t get the rest into pak putu’s account. my bank’s still blocking me. i have to check pak putu’s account info. maybe it’s his bank. but i’ll get the rest to you soon. i promise.” “when trrrules? owners waiting for money.” (beat) “this afternoon. i promise.”

the next time i see made, he’s gone home to mimba village, showered, done his other business, and come back to the padangbai beach home stay. i’m sitting on the small front porch of an un-occupied guest room, shouting numbers to mandela. i’ve called him in the middle of the night again. what with my “promise” to padangbai, i couldn’t exactly wait �til pasadena’s sunrise. as i said, the great mandela is a good friend and has a hard time saying no. we’re on skype, with an absolutely terrible connection. mandela can’t understand me if i say two numbers in a row. so i don’t. we’ve devised our bofa take-down system one number at a time. i shout a number, mandela repeats it back. “six.” “six.” “four.” “four.” “seven.” “what?” “seven.” “seven.” and so on. we do the same thing with indonesian spellings. “k”. “k.” “e.” “t?” “no! e!” if i wasn’t so desperate, it would be comical. in fact, it is comical, though it’s hard for me to appreciate the hilarity in the moment. made, on the other hand, certainly notices the loud hullabaloo.

i gesture him over. he comes over, half smiling, half perplexed. i have him lean into the laptop’s camera range. “mandela, this is my main man, made. made, say hello to the great mandela.” they greet each other with smiles from 13,000 miles away. “mandela has 2 coconut trees named after him and his daughter in mimba village. and right after this, we’re gonna name another one after his wife.” made has no idea what i’m talking about, but he smiles along. “money, soon, made.” his smile becomes broader and he sits down to watch the mad professor work his magic. “p.” “p.” “a.” “a.” “d.” “d.” “pa-dang-bai.”

the bank keeps kicking us out of the system every time we get to the “safepass” step. it’s a smart fucking security system. it wants to recognize what it’s familiar with. we feed it familiarity. we jab. it parries. we sneak around the back. it throws up another security wall. mother f-er! fortunately, it’s low season at the homestay, and we’re not creating a public spectacle, giving away all my passwords and protections for balinese broadcast. of course, the two teutons walk by in their local sarongs, right in the middle of this shouting skype exchange, on their way to the gigolo-lined, white sand beach. they throw 2 looks of disdain at me, punishing me for my keeping them awake another night in paradise, but i don’t have time for them now. we’ll work out our karma in the next lifetime. right now, one enemy is enough, and mandela and i have to defeat the cash-blocking security system of the evil bank of america.

more thrusts, more parries. human smarts against programmed logic. we forget about pak putu’s account and switch to made’s wife, also oddly named putu. “5.” “5.” “2.” “2.” i’m shouting the numbers loud enough to be heard all the way on lombok island, across the padang bai. “safepass” rears its ugly head again. we’re almost there. “be beep.” the code comes singing into mandela’s phone. he reads it. punches it into his screen. bingo! we’re in again. ten thousand dollars from pak trrrules bofa account in echo park, california, to made’s wife, putu’s account in mimba village, bali. bam! done. 21st century banking… the way it’s supposed to be done. made gets the instant e-mail notification on his cell phone, and all 3 of us fist bump each other through the computer screen 13,000 miles away.

fuck bank of fucking america! man conquers code! finally! i’m gonna be the proud owner of a house and villa in paradise!