padangbai, bali, indonesia

now we’re at made’s house in mimba village. where all the other bules are living, scattered here and there, amongst the local balinese. where all the other bules own property. or… more accurately… don’t “own” property legally, but have nevertheless wangled their way through the corrupt indonesian bureaucracy to be… “living the dream.”

we’re sitting around another wooden table and the scrolls of paper are rolled out again. i’ve just met made 5 hours ago, but he’s already shown me the entire investment overview of both padangbai and mimba village. we’ve seen the expansive plot of land for the giant, upcoming japanese hotel-residential complex, the half-built concrete scaffolding for the korean mini-plex, and a number of other half-built plexes and private investments that made swears are going to make padangbai, and especially mimba village, bali’s next international eco-tourist magnet. i’m not so sure i’m interested in investing in the next bule magnet, since i’ve come here to get away from the tourist hordes of kuta, seminyak, and even ubud. this place is still lazy and undeveloped; it’s still charming and slow. there are no starbucks or mcdonald’s. there are no italian-owned furniture stores or trendy brazilian clothiers; no “brooklyn delis” or international bookstores, no endless rows of the same cookie cutter t-shirt-sarong shops. in fact, mimba village looks to me – right now – like a stalled or failed attempt to develop a rural banana and coconut field beachfront into a super, banana-beach mini mall. and its failure is exactly its charm and attraction.

i have to say that made’s tour has been impressive, especially to this area around the swiss-owned “white house” on the beach where we’ve been greeted by the copulating balinese pigs. made’s shown me several plots of land for sale all along the dirt road, “3 are. verry good.” “5 are. already have well dug for water. verry good.” uh oh. what’s an “are“? i’m desperately thinking to myself. i coyly flip out my new smart phone, and punch in “are“. one “are” equals almost 1100 square feet. ok…a little small… my LA home sits on 1600 square feet, but still 2-3 “are“… more than enough room to build a modest little “villa” for me, da wife, and friends. “how much, made?” “dis one, 3 and a half are, 500 million rupiah. good price, trrrules.” sure, if you realize that 100,000 rupiah is only a little more than 10 dollars. this is 3rd world inflation to the max. i do the math: 500 million rupiah… almost 53 thousand U.S. dollars. “too much, made. i’d first have to start building on the land.” “land most important, trrrules. how much you want to spend?” “uhhh… i don’t know made.”

it always comes down this, right? “how much you want to spend?”

the truth is, i really don’t know. and to be honest, the more revealing truth about me has always been: “as little as possible.” i’m not saying that this is one of my best, or most endearing, personality traits, but… it’s uncomfortably true. but what else would you expect from the son of a new york russian jewish family who went through the 1930s U.S. depression? just comes with the territory, and the tribe, i’m afraid. but okay, here i am, going through the motions of shopping for land for my “third act.” my father died just a few years ago, and he left his 2 beloved children as much as he could in his will and estate. i got the first $50,000 because that’s the amount he gave my sister for her first house about 20 years ago. me? i never owned property. never owned my own house. never wanted to. “bourgeois capitalistic encumbrance, man.” “money pit, dude.” those are the 2 anti-home owning encumbrances i’ve been carrying around with me for my first 64 years. “what do i need to own a house for? i’m already living on a hillside bohemian paradise, under the transcendent california sky, and i’ve been renting for 19 friggin’ years!” “yeah, man, but one day your landlady is going to die, or at least ask you to move, and you’re going to have to… and when she says so.” “yeah, yeah, of course, you’re right, dude. and that house costs $700,000 which i can’t afford the mortgage payments on, and… who needs a 30 years mortgage when i’m already 65 and i’ll never live to actually “own” the house?”

ok, ok, i’ll pay $50,000. that’s what dad left me to match what he gave my sister 20 years ago. it’s a free and clear investment. hell, i can get a lot more home for $50,000 here in bali, and especially in mimba village, than i can get in california or new york… or for that matter… in paris or amsterdam, or probably even ecuador or thailand, or any of the other places i’ve fantasized about retiring in for the last decade and a half. “fifty thousand dollars, made, that’s the most i want to spend.” “how much in rupiah, trrrules?” i’m a quick study. “about 500 million.” “for de land?” “no, made, for the land and the villa.” made breaks out into a broad, generous laugh. “500 million for land and villa? dat very funny trrrules.” “no, it’s not funny, made.” “not possible, trrrules.” i’m afraid i don’t see the same humor as made, but i get the point. my 3rd act, property-owning fantasy needs a major overhaul.

we walk down a hundred yards to the naked and sprawling black sand beach. it’s endless – in both directions. “where are all the people, made?” “no people, trrrules.” (i love the way all indonesians, including my wife, add a couple of ‘r’s to my name and just let it rrr-oll it off their tongues.) “why no people?” “verry, complicated, trrrules. many rules, many laws, here in bali. dis beach open to de public, but dis land owned by private family. dey fight wid each other to see who control de land. land verry important, trrrules.” okay, i’ve gotten made’s point. several times already. “land verry important.” but look, there still are no people on this endless black sand beach. it’s just about half a mile south of the famous “white sand beach”, padangbai’s claim to fame in the “bali’s most beautiful beach” competition, but here there are no people. “can you swim her, made?” “yah, sure, but must be careful about tide. only swim early morning, like blue lagoon.” “blue lagoon” is another of padangbai’s well-known beachfront paradises, where bules snorkel, scuba, and buy cheap trinkets from locals on the beach. but here, the beach is still barren of bules. no locals either, or trinkets. or 2 leggeds of any kind. “you mean, if i live in mimba village, i can just walk down this road, next to this giant “white house”, and come to the beach? what about the road? who owns it?” it public road, trrrules. public beach. yah, sure.”

ok. i can’t afford a big “white house” right on the naked black sand beach in mimba village. and i certainly don’t need a big “white house” for 30 guests that only fat cats with deep, swiss bank account pockets can afford. but maybe… just maybe… i might find a way to spend my dad’s $50,000 inheritance on a little piece of mimba paradise… just a stone’s throw from this sprawling black sand beach, and just 2 stone throws from padangbai’s white sand jewel of beach, both staring out at the dancing “glass bay” (padang bai) and all points east… towards… infinity.

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so the scrolls of paper are sprawled out on the wooden table, and made’s on the phone with another of his bule “clients”. rolf, from australia. i’ve asked to speak to rolf to ask him about his dealings with made. as i said, i’ve just met my main man, made, 5 hours ago, and he now has me sitting across a table from him, in his home, trying to get me to jump on board his train of opportunity. so far, he’s appeared to be entirely open and forthcoming, in our intimate and intense real estate relationship on the back of his motor bike for the last 5 hours. he answers all my questions without hesitation. he has told me, without my asking, that he used to be a steroid-taking body builder, a bule-loving scuba instructor, and for a while, even one of the infamous balinese boy gigolos on the beach. i think, maybe after i buy some land from him, i’ll introduce him to greta and berta. though probably not, because made’s now married to ketut, and they have 2 young’uns running around the house, hendy and dima. but made’s openness is definitely disarming. how could this straight forward, third world man cheat me after introducing me to his wife, kids, and even to his “adopted” swiss father, ben, who lives in the house next door? ahhh, but that’s just the question looming deep in my doubter’s paranoid psyche: “am i being set up?”

“yeah, mate, made’s a straight up dude. no worries.” right. rolf has “no worries” about made. that’s a good sign. “he did all the paper work for me. couldn’t have done it without him. i’d trust him with my second kid.” “what about your first, rolf?” “that too, mate.” rolf seems to be just as forthright and easy going as made. what’s my problem, then? “how long do you know him, rolf?” “let’s see, mate, maybe five, six, seven years, as long as i’ve been in bali.” “and he’s your ‘sponsor’ here for the land you bought?” “that’s right. look, mate, you have nothing to worry about with made. he’s all aces.” “thanks, rolf, i’ll give you a call if i have any other questions.” “straight away, mate. good speaking with you. just jump in, mate. the water’s fine.”

great. “all aces.” “jump in, mate.” “the water’s fine.” sounds like an australian cheerleading camp for… the balinese hustle. i don’t know what to think, so i call my one american friend in bali, carl, who used to work for some hollywood big wig, but who now lives near seminyak with his land-owning balinese wife, itu, with their 3 bouncing balinese kids. carl’s a more than practical guy who has been trying to get me to move to bali for years. he’s driven me to and from the denpasar hospital when surya had dengue fever, and he’s given me his own sales pitch about buying property outside seminyak at what he thinks is a price i can afford. “listen, gino.” that’s the name he calls me, my old clown name from new yawk when i ran for mayor of my home town as clown candidate, “gino cumeezi”. “i know you’re all excited here, gino pal, about buying the land and living the dream, but let’s slow down a bit, huh? no need to rush into things here. have you looked around the island? done your research? they’re a lot of options in bali. let’s just cool our jets with this made.”

“i know. you’re right, carl, but one, i don’t have a lot of time left on the island, and something about this place just feels right to me. and two, i can’t exactly get around with my gout. know what i mean?” “i do, my brother. but let cooler heads prevail. have you…………….?” and carl then lays into all the western logic and questions we bules have been so programmed to ask: “maybe you should get some good, solid legal advice, gino. i know this american lawyer in seminyak.” “are you sure you know this made well enough for him to be your sponsor? you know that as soon as anything goes sour, your agreement with him, no matter how much balinese paperwork you’ve signed, is as good as him paying off an indonesian judge for a hundred bucks!” “i know, i know, carl. you’re right. a part of me is just as scared and skeptical as you are. but i’m here now. in padangbai. in mimba village. and my whole future just seems to be opening up right in front of me.” “gino, my man, listen to yourself. i know you a long time, my brother, and i’ve never heard you talk like this. you’re usually a careful and cautious guy. especially around money, if you know what i mean.?” “i know exactly what you mean, you anti-semitic motherfucker.” we both have a good laugh to break the cautionary spell. “just be careful, gino. there might be something in the water you’re drinkin’.” “thanks, carl. more later….”

made drives me back to my home stay after having given me the full, all-day real estate monty. i need some time to process it all. questions are chasing fears quickly around my mind, in circles. how would i get the funds here? i didn’t set up a balinese bank account linked to my, or any, U.S. bank, before i left, and as it stands, i’m blocked from my own bank of america account – for online security reasons. what about actually plunking down the 50 grand on a piece of land, sponsored by some ex-gigolo i just met less than half a day ago? and exactly what piece of land am i actually considering buying? i don’t really know. they’re all empty lots i’d have to build on. i know, i know, “land verry important.” what would my father say? oy! i think carl must be right: i’m losing my mind; it must be the water.

i limp back to my corner cell. it’s a few hours before night fall, which is pretty early in bali because we’re right on the equator. of course, greta and berta are sitting on their front porch, seriously studying their ubiquitous backgammon table. they look up as i approach and pass the coiled snake in its glass cage. we catch each other’s eye, and just as quickly, avert them again. they must know the wife’s not here with me anymore, and that my earlier, holier-than-thou gigolo lecture isn’t holding much water at this point. no doubt, they’ve heard the big D word (“divorce”) through the bamboo walls, and that’s bad enough. it’s just easier to avoid any more conversation.

i can’t sleep. it’s not so much the paper-thin walls and the gigolo-entertaining germans; it’s more the anxiety and confusion in my brain about what i’ve gotten myself into. every 90 minutes, i seem to wake up thrashing, not knowing where i am, until i recognize the gauzy mosquito net surrounding me and the empty space in the bed next to me. da… wife. every time i wake, panic-stricken, i send out a call for help, in the form of an e-mail, each time to a different childhood friend back home. “home”, of course, is anywhere but here, padangbai, bali, which is exactly13,000 miles away from any thread of logic or sanity that i was raised on. exactly half the circumference of the globe. my e-mails make their way electronically to new york city, hingham, massachusetts, and to yuma, arizona, where i have a solo law practitioner friend who’s seen me through the best and worst of times. unfortunately, there’s a 15 hour time difference on the other side of the world, so not one of my friends answers me back. needless to say, it’s a long night of the soul.

i “wake up” anything but refreshed, and limp my way to the same breakfast i had the day before. banana pancake, fresh mango, watermelon juice. for some reason, it doesn’t taste as fresh or as delicious as it did yesterday. after my ginger tea, i jump into the infinity pool instead of the shower, trying to get the blood running to my brain, and by 9 a.m., made is back sitting on my front porch. “what next, made dude?”