padangbai, bali, indonesia

we’re staying at the padangbai beach homestay. “padang“, glass. “bai“, bay. padangbai, glass bay, the still-undeveloped fishing village on the still-pristine east coast of bali, still far away from the tourist hordes of kuta beach, legian, seminyak (the beverly hills of bali), and even its hindu-bali cultural heart, ubud, in the rice fields of the wet, rolling center of the island.

in just over 2 weeks, we’ve survived da wife’s dengue fever in kuta and my head-on motor bike collision in amed. we’ve joined in monkey chant celebrations in ubud, had mis-adventures at babba’s “good karma” bungalows in amed, and taken near, “ticket to the moon” psychic rides on gili trawangan. we’ve gone into business with the factory owners of beautiful, exotic pearls on lombok island, scraped our legs raw on jagged coral, snorkeling in amed, and we still have our 2 princesses with us: one “funky” princess, patrizia, from LA, and the other “sumatran” princess, nirma, from medan. and now, both accident and incident have led us here to this lovely beach front homestay in padangbai.

we’ve been here just 2 days but it’s nearing the end of the road for the 2 indo-chola princesses. patrizia flies back to LA tomorrow night (“i don’t wanna go home.”), and nirma flies back to medan (“i can’t wait to get home,” in indonesian)… about the same time as da wife, who is also going back to her hometown, medan, to further style & develop the new fashion store, above which, on the 2nd & 3rd floors of the newly purchased “ruko“, are living her mother and sister, along with her brother & sister-in-law and her 3 rug rat nephews. i’m supposed to take all 3 princesses back to agung’s cottages in legian, tuck them into a taxi, and send them on their way. then, i’m supposed to start the solo, 10 day part of my month-long, balinese adventure, to find some property to begin my “third act”.

the only problem with my plan is that… i’ve developed yet another bout of.. gout.

“gout?” you say? yep. gout! i’m amazed at how many people don’t know what it is. sure, maybe you’ve heard of it, but… exactly what the hell is gout? often called the “rich man’s disease”, or the disease of kings, princes, sultans, and fakirs (that’s the only one i may qualify for), it’s a painful, arthritic, frequently-chronic disease of the joints, often first attacking the big toe joint with pain, redness, & swelling. it’s also often passed on genetically, from father to son (thanks, dad!), which along with the richness of fat cats eating too much lobster, peanut sauce, or beer, may account for the inherited king to prince syndrome. clinically, however, gout is caused by an increase in uric acid, some kind of “heterocyclic wiki blah blah compound” in the blood which, depending on dietary intake, like drinking too much bintang beer for my 1st two and a half weeks in bali, results in the aforementioned crippling & immobilizing, pain in the right big toe!

but like i said, i’ve had it before… the last time in new yawk, 2 christmas-new year’s ago, during the “great blizzard of 2010″… where i spent the holidaze completely covered in white amidst the quickly-gentrifying, formerly hasidic, but then still primarily-black, residential brooklyn hood. so that while my wife and her sexy indo-girlfriend were out gallivanting around manhattan’s rockefeller center and central park in the never-in-indonesia snow, i was stuck housesitting in snow-blanketed bed-stuy, brooklyn, waiting for my chinese herbs to arrive from the great silver lake in LA. yeah, the last time i was on “vacation”, i was “gouted” too. you’d think i’d know better by now. take the goddam chinese herbs with me on out of town trips, when i change up and over-indulge the ol’ diet, with all the unfamiliarly delicious, but nevertheless still, uric acid- producing delicacies. especially when i’m out of the goddam country. think, trules, think!

in any event, i’m stuck in the corner room at the padangbai beach homestay, the room without the air con or hot water (my shylock choice), waiting for my chinese herbs to arrive from our house sitter in LA — and i have gout! yes, my right big toe is swollen to more than twice its size. and yes, it’s red, painful and immobilizing. but no… it’s not the worst of my problems.

it’s da wife. and the 2 other princesses, patrizia and nirma.

who i’ve gallantly babysat and chaperoned for the last two and a half weeks. who i’ve put in taxis and juggled hotel rooms for, while da wife was laid up in the hospital. who i’ve gotten international phone chips and external modems for, and tried to make sure were safe while still encouraging them to get out of the hotel without their cousin and best friend. who i’ve had driven and ferried and speed-boated all over the island for the last 10 days, from white sand beach to verdant green rice field to adjacent lombok island and back, but who… have surprisingly risen to the occasion and actually seemed to bond together like genuine indo-chola sisters. so no, patrizia and nirma, they’re not the worst of my problems either.

it’s da wife.

who has been giving more and more time and attention to the 2 other princesses. and less and less time… to me. i know it’s the guilt she feels over leaving patrizia on her own, first time out of the country, while she was laid up in the denpasar hospital for a week. i know it’s the compounded guilt she feels for leaving her younger cousin, nirma, on her own, also the first time out of her native city, after promising her a once in a lifetime post-college graduation trip to magical bali. believe me, i get it. i understand guilt. “you don’t understand, tru-les, i have to show them what i promised.” what the…? can she read my mind? i just said i understand guilt.

so we’re both tucked away in the corner, fan only-cold water room of the lovely homestay, except… da wife isn’t here that often. she’s over in room J, visiting the 2 princesses who have the air con and slightly more opulent room. no problem about the no air con; the problem is the no wife. she knows the schpiel: “i don’t mind traveling with your good friend and favorite cousin, as long as you pay attention to me too and we all have a good time… together.” i know she’s heard me. i’ve schpieled it more than once. and i think i’ve been more than generous… an adaptable, accommodating, top notch tour guide who’s made everyone feel safe and secure, and basically taken care of all concerns. ok, sure, i’ve been micro-managing and a little OCD, but hey, somebody’s got to be in charge, right? plus, i’m the mature, senior citizen here, the so called world traveler. and hell, i’ve slept on a 4 foot vinyl couch in the dengue hospital for 7 days straight, still being pleasant, informative company, me thinks. so what exactly is da wife’s problem?

ohhhh, i forgot. it’s… the girls next door. the german, gigolo-loving girls next door! berta and greta. i met them the first day here, fresh off the boat from lombok, as soon as we checked into the beach front homestay and i jumped into the perfect, blue-green infinity pool. and there was greta… blond hair pulled back into a tight euro-bun, just sitting there cool as ice in the hot balinese sun.

she’s stretched out on top of her batik sarong on a chaise lounge at the far end of the pool. i swim a couple of lengths, splash around a bit, and she doesn’t look up once. but being the gregarious, un-ugly american i try to be when traveling, i politely introduce myself. “excuse me, sorry to interrupt your serenity, but do you speak english?” always a good ploy when traveling: asking an obvious tourist if she speaks english (which naturally, 95% of tourists do). like a few other of my practiced travel tidbits, it’s similar to my franco ploy when visiting the anti-american french in paris: “excusez moi, je suis un stupide americain et je parle un petit peu de francais, mais blah blah blah.” (excuse, me, i am a stupid american and i only speak a little french, but blah blah blah can you help me?) it usually works, you know, in a self-effacing, clown-like way.

greta looks up and smiles coolly. i think it’s a smile, maybe she’s only gnashing her teeth. “yes, of course.” “great, have you been here long?” she stops gnashing. “well, about 3-4 weeks. and i’ve been here before.” “great. you must obviously like it. what should we do while we’re here?” this is the normal travel talk, whether it’s between adventurous 20 year old backpackers, or slow motion AARP senior citizens. “where have you been?” “where are you going?” “what’s your favorite place?” “best experience?” it’s usually an easy, enthusiastic exchange, nothing very personal or intimate, just a mutual love of travel. you suddenly have a new friend. maybe even a new best friend. sometimes you connect, choose to travel a few days, even weeks together, sharing rooms, meals, and expenses to stretch your never quite big enough travel budget. when you part ways at a fork in the road, or when you, even more sadly, have to return home to routine and reality, you swear that you’ll stay in touch with each other, yet usually after the 1st exchange or two of travel photos and e-mails, you soon fall out of touch and simply become fond memories of “your trip to… wherever”. and actually, it’s not really sad; it’s just the way of the road.

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anyway, in my un-ugly way, i sort coax from greta that she’s had a romance, or two, with a young balinese man, or two. the same for her german friend, berta. and although the courtship has always been sexy, attentive, and romantic at first, the “relationship” has never ended well, usually falling apart over long distance and… money. yep. the way of the world when it comes to the discrepancy between love and financial inequality in the gap between the first and third worlds. “i tried to explain to him that i wasn’t rich. that i worked for a living. but there was just no way he could believe me when i was staying in bali for a month, scuba diving every other day, eating in restaurants nightly, and sitting around the pool every night.” greta sounds bitter. she’s been hurt. and disappointed. by love. and i understand. not only because i’ve had more than my share of failed romance, but mostly because i’ve been married to my 3rd world, indonesian wife for 10 years, during which time i’ve had to battle first hand with the discrepancies between age, culture, and economics.

i tell her about me and my wife. she seems interested and… we talk, rather intimately, about third world romance, gold digging, gigolo-ing, and a whole range of socio-economic-lovelorn issues. greta even lowers her icy, well-toned body into the pool and warms up. we’re chatting and getting to know each other, in ways that sometimes only ships passing in the night can do, and when berta comes back from a day at padangbai’s famous “white sand beach”, greta introduces me to her. berta, contrary to greta, seems to still be in a “long distance relationship” with a handsome balinese suitor, so she doesn’t seem so bitter. but she also seems realistic, “i’m enjoying it while it lasts.” i repeat myself a bit, telling berta about what i’ve already told greta, about my 10 year, more than “challenging” relationship with my indonesian, 3rd world wife. for a moment, it seems to me, i appear as somewhat of a “hero” to the 2 beautiful frauleins, having found a way to balance stubborn cultural inequalities with love, and to survive the strain of international partnership to boot.

turns out however, that greta and berta are a loud, rather-insensitive german party duo, especially when we discover they’ve invited over a whole bevy of young balinese boys that evening for beer drinking and laughter… which tear through the paper thin walls of our adjacent room until 4 in the morning. “hey, ladies, i thought we were all here to relax!” i don’t actually say it out loud, but more of that shortly. turns out neighbors hold little back in the throes of war and revenge.

meanwhile, the wife is entertaining, and/or being entertained by the 2 princesses — in room J, or at the poolside tourist bar next door, or at the beachside sarong shops, or just about… anywhere and everywhere they go. as i said, i don’t mind; i know that “girls just wanna have fun.” i want them to enjoy each other, as long as “we’re all having fun”… together. but there hasn’t been much “together” since we’ve been here in padangbai. because just as bubbly and effusive as she’s been around da girls, da wife’s been equally mute and glum around me. she’s either lying on the bed studying her computer, or talking on the phone to medan, which i know, is stressful. she’s trying to set up the new home and fashion store there with long distance instructions. she’s replaced her strong-willed mom as the financial matriarch of the family, and although that just might have something to do with me and her privileged life in amer-ee-ca, i don’t seem to be getting much credit. so sure, i know da wife’s under a lot of pressure, from both her family in medan and from the princesses here in padangbai, not to mention her being just 1 week out of her dengue fever in denpasar, but “hey”, i want to shout, feeling like ratso rizzo limping across 42nd street in the movie, “midnight cowboy”, as the new yawk cabbies practically run him into the road, “hey, i’m walking here!” or, as might be more appropriate, “hey, anybody in goddam bali know i’m friggin’ here?” but… i hold my acid tongue, allowing my self-sacrificing silence to continue to fall upon deaf ears; as da wife maintains her entirely painful and indifferent cool.

around midnight, she walks into our room from her all day visit to room J. not a word to me. she lies down on the bed, opens her laptop and disappears.

i stare at her. i know she feels it. my anger. my need. nada. i walk out on the bamboo patio, come back in and… stare some more. “what?” she finally says defensively. “are you ok?” “yes.” back to the computer. rising tension. “what?” she says again, this time ramping up the hostility. “what’s wrong?” “nothing.” “then why aren’t you talking to me?” “i’m busy.” this is getting really close to the infamous “straw”. “look, we’re supposed to be on vacation, having a good time. but it seems like you don’t even want to be around me.” “everything’s fine!” my voice finally cracks, “everything’s not fine!” ok, yeah, i’ve escalated the volume, not a good idea with da wife.

“just shut up. i’m ok.” back to the computer screen. “well, i’m not ok. and don’t tell me to shut up. you don’t seem ok to me. you won’t even look at me!” “what do you want me to say?” “i don’ know. but this vacation is costing us a lot of money and i think i’ve been really generous taking patrizia and nirma with us, and…” ooops. serious game error. red flag. red flag! she gets up, goes to her purse, violently rummages through it, grabs all the rupiah in it and hurls a fistful of it in my face. “here, take your money!” “great!” i grab my towel, storm out the door, and march off the pool. i scream over my shoulder, “this is all about money, right?” i see greta and berta sitting on their front porch, staring down hard at their backgammon board. i walk past the 10 foot long python coiled up in its glass cage, thrown down my towel and jump into the pool.

now if there’s one thing you need to know about my wife… or maybe it’s the entire indonesian culture… or maybe it’s the specificity of the indonesian language, it’s the word malu.

when she first translated it, da wife used the english word “shy”. it never really hit the mark. over the years, the translation more accurately became “embarrassed”, or sometimes more generally “uncomfortably self-conscious”. i think “embarrassed” is closest, but sometimes “boiling over to rage from being humiliated” is what’s actually going on in da wife. and while i’ve been swimming in the pool, cooling off from our latest marital clash, she’s been building her malu into… murderous rage. at me, that is. she… wants to… kill me. because it turns out that she’s also realized that our entire financial fisticuffs have been overheard by the gigolo-loving germans, greta and berta. next door. not only did i raise the violent red malu flag by bringing up the basic financial disparity between us, but i did it publically, and loudly, with the paper-thin walls offering absolutely no buffer whatsoever.

there’s no irony lost on me that i’ve once again put my big bule foot in my big bule mouth (bule = gringo in indonesian). far from backing up my claim to the gigolo-loving germans that my marriage was the rare case of love overcoming age, culture, language, and financial disparity, i have instead loudly demonstrated the exact opposite: that my explosive marriage is just as dangerously entangled in financial and cultural inequality as their gigolo-failed love affairs. careful what you claim, big boy, life has a ironic way of coming around and biting you in your sagging, arrogant-sized ass.

but ok, ok, i can live with life’s ass-biting irony. i can live with the instant karma of life’s punishment for my arrogant claim of international romantic immunity. i can even live with having to walk by greta’s and berta’s room 5 times a day, knowing how satisfied they both are with my karmic comeuppance. but i can’t live… without my wife… who has packed up a small, multi-colored travel bag and… moved over to room J with the princesses.

fuck me. i’m now stuck in the air con-less corner room in padangbai, with gout, next to the 2 gloating germans, with my big fucking bule foot stuck so far down my big bule throat that i’m helplessly battered, beat up, immobile, and now… martitally abandoned.

what now? all 4 of us are supposed to leave first thing in the morning for kuta, agong’s, and the airport. i’ve already booked the car. but i have an… ahem… problem. my wife won’t speak to me. at all. so after 2 suffering painful hours of self recrimation, i limp gamely and goutly over to room J, the princess fortress. patrizia is sitting out on the front porch, soaking up the humid night air. she rolls her eyes heavenward when she sees me. i roll back and say, “would you ask my wife if she’ll come out and speak with me?” patrizia shakes her head without much hope, but goes inside to do my bidding. i wait.

the air is hot, wet, and heavy. the glistening blue-green infinity pool doesn’t look nearly as attractive as it did 2 days ago, or even… 2 hours ago. patrizia comes out. alone. “she doesn’t want to talk to you.” she rolls her eyes again. she’s in a tough position. “ask her if she wants me to go back with me to kuta with you guys.” “what do you mean? i thought we were all going in the morning.” “yeah, that’s the plan, but i have a feeling things are changing. plus, if you haven’t noticed, i can barely walk. if she doesn’t want to speak to me and doesn’t want me to go to kuta, i’ll just stay here.” “stay here?” patrizia is stunned. my statement doesn’t compute. “just ask her what she wants, patrizia.” patrizia rolls again and turns toward the door. i sit down and await the verdict.

after what seems like… a 20 year prison sentence… patrizia emerges. she’s in obvious pain. i feel sort of bad for her, being caught like this between her violently malu friend and the long-suffering, hospitable host of her LA friend’s husband. she clenches her lips together. she does not want to deliver the message. “just spit it out, patrizia. it’s not your problem.” patrizia winces. “she says… she wants… a… divorce.” the words come out slowly, like film director, sam peckinpah’s, machine gun bullets to my chest. we stare at each other. patrizia looks down at the blue-green pool. it has no reflection at all. it’s entirely dead.

i walk back to my corner room. slowly. past the backgammon playing, gigolo-loving germans. another find mess you gotten yourself into, trules……….