padangbai, bali, indonesia
and that’s the way it goes down. first thing the next morning, the 3 princesses climb into the drivers’ car towards kuta, LA, & medan – without even a word to me. i’m stuck in the corner, air con-less room with gout. my wife has delivered a second-hand message to me that she wants a divorce, and she hasn’t spoken to me since she packed her bag and moved to room J.
i’ve tried to make amends. but with no success. i hear her laughing with the girls, but it’s a stone cold wall when it comes to me. she packs the rest of her bags in silence in the morning. she doesn’t answer my inquiries. or accept my apology. enraged malu rules the day.
now what? i’m alone in a small fishing village on the east coast of bali. it’s possible that my 10 year marriage is over. i’m hoping that it’s not. because this has happened before. bouts of enraged malu evoking threats of ending the marriage… usually accompanied by packed bags, air tickets purchased, and slammed doors in my face, both physically and metaphorically. still, after all these years and all these temporary ruptures, i never take them lightly. each and every time, i believe their veracity. each and every time, i’m devastated.
look, i married a woman 31 years my junior from a third world country whose native language isn’t english and who has a violent temper. her mother calls her emotional changeability “water on a leaf”…. meaning her emotions run off the leaf like rain, or… if the leaf is horizontal, they just ebb and flow with the changing tide. bob dylan says “you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” and i say, “love hurts.” it’s unpredictable. or at least, predictably hellacious. i don’t know why da wife always seems to take the most direct path towards resolution. sure, it’s something i admire about her: when she’s hungry, she eats. when she’s tired, she sleeps. but when she’s mad, she erupts. sort of like that explosive fire we saw in ubud during a cremation ceremony. or that active volcano we saw in east java, mount bromo… whose red, molten core spouted hot lava and ash over the entire town at random, unpredictable intervals. whose wrath covered the town’s crops in white ash for entire seasons. whose town folk walked around with towels over their heads to protect themselves from the raining volcanic ash. maybe that’s the key, a constant towel over my head. or perhaps, one in my back pocket.
but you gotta laugh to keep from cryin’, right? a woman is a woman is a woman. she has the inalienable right to change her mind. any time. for any reason. there’s no logic or rationale. you just have to submit. if she’s mad, she’s mad. apologize. it’s probably your fault anyway. if she’s pleased, she’s pleased. you probably had little to do with it. if she wants a divorce… give her one? not sure about that last one. seems to me that the job is rather to simply hang in there. ride out the storm. and to… let go. no matter how hard it is. bottom line, i’m not in charge here. no natter how smart, how controlling, how OCD, or how needy i am, i simply can’t control the relationship. marriage has a life of its own. its own ebb and flow. when it flows, i’m grateful. when it ebbs, like now… and i’m stuck inside of padangbai with the bali blues again, i just have to surrender. and remember… i got through my first 54 years without my hot-headed indoneisan princess. i guess i can get through the rest without her. or… as our bumpy history has shown, if i just hang in there, go about my own business, and “let it be” as sir paul would say, there is every piece of evidence that time will calm her down. that she’ll once again realize that she blew up out of proportion, that she misses me, appreciates me, yes, even needs me, and that she’s “not ready” to be on her own. in the meantime, i’ll just wait and keep myself busy…
i limp out to the front dining patio from my corner cell. past the blue green infinity pool; it seems to be almost glistening again. perhaps the balinese sun’s daytime glare is even more real than my morose, crippled, soon-to-be-divorced mood. i sit down and check off my breakfast order: one fresh mango juice, one banana pancake, one caffeinated ginger tea, and a side of fresh watermelon. not bad for a cripple. i look across the half-paved road to the “pandang” “bai”. glass. bay. four young boys are crossing the beach in the early morning light. the local “spider” and fishing boats dot the water front, and the day looms emptily in front of me. i feel emptier than the day.
a few tourists are sitting amidst the maybe 20 tables or so. it’s still low season at the home stay and padangbai isn’t known for its tourist hordes. it’s more of a lazy, still-undeveloped fishing village that acts as a port of departure for indonesian islands to the east. lombok, famous for its pearls. komodo, famous for its “dragons”. flores, sulawesi, ad infinitum towards any of the archipelago’s other 16,995 islands. locals often take the 5 hour ferry to lombok; tourists more often take the 1 hour speed boat the same distance at 8 times the price, to one of the 3 tiny gili islands, backpacker havens, where wannabe hippies who were born a generation or two too late, and michael phelps-looking australian surfers, can still revel until early morning under the spell of their “full moon” parties. but like i said, here at the padangbai beach home stay, on my “morning after”, things are… slow.
merde! it’s greta and berta, the villainous duo of my marital malu catastrophe. we catch each others’ eye, quickly look away, and they take the table farthest away. but i can still see the back of their teutonic blond heads. i know they’ve heard every violent word of our entire conjugal ordeal, maybe even with a repeat of the killer D word, “divorce”, through the useless bamboo walls; so i pick up my cell phone and laptop and move to the table closest to the sea. at least here, i can focus my eyes solely on the “padang” “bai”, without the holier-than-thou scrutiny of my gigolo-loving germans.
breakfast arrives. served by the lovely ayu. she’s thin as a wisp, looks about 15 years old, with the prettiest balinese face in padangbai. she certainly could have been a local dancer in one of the gorgeous barong ballets that we bules so love to attend. “where’s your wife, pak trules?” “uh…” wrong question, this morning, ayu. i have no idea where she is, except… not here. she’s probably just arrived in kuta, is collecting our bags that we left there for two weeks, is hopefully not throwing mine into the trash, and she will soon be on a plane to medan, perhaps never to be seen again. “she went back to kuta, ayu.” “ooh, very sad, pak trules.” “yes, ayu, sad.” is ayu being polite? just making breakfast conversation? or is she somehow psychically and magically attuned to my emotional state? at least she’s called me “pak” trules. that’s with a silent “k”, so it sounds like “pa trules”. it’s the way you address someone of… ahem… age, in bali, and hopefully it endows a bit of respect in its greeting. hey, at least i get a “pak trules” this morning. thanks, ayu.
i eat breakfast. the delicious mango, banana, and watermelon do start to sweeten my day a bit, along with the placid “padang bai” and the brightness of ayu’s face and conversation. i fiddle around on my lap top for a while, waiting for the german enemy to depart. hey, i’m supposed to be starting my 3rd act, right? looking for property to buy, or to rent, or to… something or other. but the painful truth is… i’m stuck inside of padangbai with the bali blues and gout. i can’t get around. can’t even ride my beloved, rented motorbike around town. not to mention to other towns � to check out real estate, geography, price comparisons, neighbors, restaurants, medical facilities, tourist services… all of which are supposed to help me choose the specific locale for my 3rd act… which at the moment… seems very much a middle-age fantasy.
i start from where i am. right here. sitting at the padangbai beach homestay, with my wife far, far away. “who owns this place, ayu?” she smiles perkily. “miss dani and pak putu.” “do they live here in padangbai or somewhere else in indonesia?” ayu giggles like a balinese school girl. “they live here, pak trules. dat their car right dere.” she points to a black ford esquire parked outside an open garage. it looks sort of out of place here in bali � a big american gulliver amongst all the lilliputian motor bikes. there is a young, brown-skinned man washing the car with a hose and sponge, and a young-ish, thickly set indonesian woman talking to an elderly man dressed in gray, pleated american trousers with a white t-shirt. he has his white hair pulled sleekly back in a ponytail and he reminds me of mr. miyagi from “the karate kid” except he’s not nearly so squat. he looks like a man of… substance.
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i limp over to the car in my un-ugliest american way, and smile. “nice car,” i say, knowing as much about cars as i do about astral physics. the couple turns and the woman speaks. “you stay here?” “yes, very nice place,” i say truthfully. “how many days?” she asks keenly. “i don’t know exactly. maybe longer than i expected.” i smile and indicate my inflamed red big toe. “hurt?” she asks again keenly. “a little.” “very too bad.” she says. sleek mr. miyagi smiles sympathetically. “you must be miss dani,” i say, trying to match her keenness. “how you know?’ i smile and point my index finger to my head. “very smart.” she gives up a tight little laugh. the older man smiles and nods. “i’m a professor in america.” the older man with the white pony tail turns to me and bows formally. “pro-fes-sor,” he greets me with obvious respect and a twinkle in his eye. i pick up his cue and his gesture and i return the bow, the twinkle, and the respect, “pak putu.”
pak putu leans over to miss dani and says something to her in balinese, a language even more unintelligible to me than my wife’s bahasa indonesia, the country’s main language attempting to unite the 17,000 tribal islands together. dani explains, “my husband no speak english very good. he apologize. he says you speak to me.” pak putu looks me directly in the eye, bows formally again with his palms resting over his heart, smiles warmly, and walks off towards infinity… i mean, towards the infinity pool.
“come, we sit over dere.” dani guides me back to the dining patio as i limp pathetically behind her. she sits down, gestures that i should sit across from her, and calls another young girl over to us. “you want coca cola, mister?” “no,” i smile, but i’d love some ginger tea.” “vedy good,” she returns my smile. “you like ginger tea?” “yes, very much.” she smiles again. i seemed to have passed a little test. some hot indonesian ice is thawing a bit. “what you want, mister?” i know she’s not asking about the tea.
“well, i’m 64 years old, miss dani, and i’m trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life.” “you 64?” she says incredulously. “yes, i think so.” “you look vedy strong, mister.” i think she means �healthy’. “please call me �trules’ or �pak trules’, if you like.” “ok, pak trrrules, how you stay so strong?” “i got married very late in life, miss dani. and i play tennis.” she smiles. “you call me �dani’, pak trrrules.” “ok, dani, how old is your husband?” “he 58. but vedy strong too. busy all night.” she laughs awkwardly and covers her mouth. i guess she did mean “strong”. i laugh with her. i think we’re melting the cultural divide with a little international sex banter, sip by sip from our ginger tea.
“how i help you, mistuh?” “�trules’,” i say again. “i want to find out how to buy a piece of land here in bali, dani.” “ohhhh, very difficult, trrrules.” “why do you say that?” “bule can not own property in bali, trrrules.” “oh.”
i’ve heard this before… that the indonesian government prevents bules from owning property. makes perfect sense. in other 3rd world countries, like jamaica, which do allow westerners to own property, far too much land is gobbled up by foreigners, pricing out local citizens and transforming them from potential land owners into 2nd class citizens. movie stars like harrsion ford and ally macbeal, and fat cat golf course moguls, scoop up pristine white sand beaches in negril and montego bay and have the poor locals serve as their gardeners and cabana boys. at least indonesia seems to be keeping the shoe on the right foot.
“maybe i can rent, dani.” “much better, trrrules. because buy, you need local �sponsor’.” “what’s that?” “dat mean someone like me buy property for you. and you live dere no problem.” i think miss dani is more than a few steps ahead of me. “but too hard for you, trrrules. maybe you forget buy property in bali.” now i’m not sure what she means. does she want to buy property for me or just send me back to lala land? she must see the disappointment and confusion on my face. “don’t worry, trrrules. i have brother. he know all about buy property. he help many bules.” “really?” i can hear the sound of my own voice. if fish could talk, it’s definitely the sound of one swallowing the bait “hook, line, and sinker”.
“yes, true, trrrules. i call my brother for you.” “really?” there it is again… the gullible, swallowing sound. dani flips out her cell phone and punches in the speed dial number. i feel even more like an assembly line catch of the day. she rattles off some quick-fire balinese. she’s looking me right in the eye. sizing me up? she finishes the conversation, picks up her ginger tea and smiles tightly. “no problem, trrrules. he come talk to you.” “when?” “right now. he have motor bike.”. she smiles again inscrutably. or at least i can’t read it. but i’m more than a little surprised. not about the motor bike, but about what i’ve just gotten myself into. i think my “3rd act” is smiling at me like a tiger…
half an hour later, “made” is sitting with dani and me at the wooden table. i now finally have a coca cola that dani’s ordered me, and made (mah-DAY), is showing me a map of padangbai. his name, “made”, is typical balinese. in fact, if i go to any hindu-balinese ceremony in town, in fact anywhere in bali, and i call out, “made”, i already know that 25% of the people there will turn around to reply. howse that, you say? well, it turns out that every 4th child in bali has the name “made”. another fourth have the name “wayan”, meaning 1st born. a second 25% have this man’s name, “made”, meaning 2nd born. a third 25% of all balinese children have the name “nyoman”, third born, and a final 25% have the name “ketut”, 4th born. and this is true for both male and female children, who all get officially named in a ritual “baby-naming” ceremony on their 12th day on the planet. fifth born, you ask? they start all over again: wayan, made, nyoman, ketut, with some complicated variations of course, based on caste and tribe, that go far beyond this bule’s comprehension. but the balinese believe that a child’s name will affect the course of their entire life.
anyway, dani has left me in the capable hands of her “brother”, made, who i already know from da wife’s extended use of family names in her own sumatran clan, may not literally be her brother at all. “brother”, “uncle”, “nephew”, “cousin”, they’re all names of address in indonesia. and especially here in bali, they must be helpful substitutes for distinguishing between all the “wayans” and “ketuts” running around. but whether here in bali, when dani calls made her “brother”, or in medan, sumatra, when da wife simply calls her sister-in-law, “sister-in-law” in lieu of her given name, i know that i should probably just learn the nomenclature, rather than try to understand it. it has a long precedent behind it. it’s called “when in rome, do as the romans do.” and who knows, maybe the hindu-balinese culture or the batak sumatran tradition are both a lot older than ol’ caesar augustus himself!
made has un-scrolled all kinds of papers on the table in front of us. we’re the only two left sitting in the dining area. the other overnight tourists, along with the long-residing germans, have gone off scuba diving or snorkeling, or maybe shopping for gigolos, while i goutly carry on with made. i keep looking up from the papers, which are written entirely in bahasa indonesian, seeing the padang bai, glass bay, calmly reflecting something lovely and eternal about the day. why do i feel like this beached whale, sitting at this wooden table with this young balinese shark, unable to swim away or even limp my way back to my corner room? maybe… it’s because i’ve opened my big bule mouth asking miss dani how to buy property in bali. and now i’m getting the answer, in concrete but incomprehensible ways, sitting here with made, who tells me that he has several other bule customers who he has helped do the very same thing i want to do: buy property, which remember, i can’t own, here in bali.
the next thing i know, i’m on the back of made’s motor bike, getting a personalized real estate tour of padangbai. at least two things feel good: one, i’m out of my corner cell, distracted from the state of my marriage (or soon to-be-ended, marriage), and two, i’m pretty sure that i won’t be getting into another head on motor bike collision with made driving. the cool breeze from the bike’s glide through the hot, humid air is a constant pleasure, and even the helmet that made has brought me isn’t an impediment. but after driving me around for a couple of hours through the 1 horse fishing village (or is it a 1 �whale’ village?), made drives me over the small hill leading to padangbai’s famous “white sand beach”, to… mimba village, where the real bule real estate action is happening. turns out, that made himself lives in mimba village, next door to his adopted swiss father, ben, who is only one of many bules living and owning property in mimba village. “look, over dere. dat french. over dere, australian. over dere, look. german.” i look at all these village abodes. ok. french, australian, german, fine. but what do they have to do with me?
then we head down to the beach on a narrow, well-worn, dirt path. “we go see swiss villa. verry nice. i do all paper work. certificate. land title. property tax. all.” i’m getting this entire real estate education on the back of a motor bike as we gently bump along the path to the beach. made stops in front of a gated wall at the end of the dirt path. he parks the bike; i get off. we walk to the wooden gate which is slightly ajar. “ooohaaah,” he yodels, something like one mating bird calling to another. “oooohaaah,” another yodel comes back confidently. made pushes open the wooden gate; apparently he’s gotten the “go ahead”, and… we enter… a sprawling balinese paradise. there’s a big white house, hotel size, maybe large enough for 40 guests. a huge green, newly-planted garden: spikey bamboo, tropical red and pink flowers, water-spouting concrete cherubs, and the all-pervasive balinese wink at pleasure and bestiality: two gray, earth-made copulating pigs, adorning the entrance way.
i hope they’re not a porcine sign (and i believe in “signs”)….. that i, “trrrules”, am also going to get fucked………….
