may 27, 2012

padangbai, bali

damn bank of america. and damn my own cheap, new york inner jew. the two of them, combined, have me locked out of my own bank accounts in lala land. how am i gonna come up with the 20 grand for my newly-purchased mimba village “villa”? because that’s exactly what i promised pak putu, dani and made. “no problem, just give me your bank account and routing number and i’ll make an international wire transfer.” they look at me and smile blankly, like i’m talking chinese, or maybe american business-ese. but money they know, and in a few hours made has gotten me the requisite bank account and routing numbers. problem is the damn bank of america.

the log jam started well before i got on the plane to bali. after i had already been talking about my infamous “3rd act” for almost a year, and i had decided to transfer half of my father’s inheritance from a long term retirement fund into a liquid bank account. that way, i thought, i could have instant access to the cash. “yeah, i’ll just open a balinese bank account with ties to a bank here in the U.S., dip my ATM card in over there, and i’ll be all set.” good idea, right? that’s what well-seasoned travelers do. electronic banking. dip and do. well it’s not… exactly… that easy. why? because there are no balinese banks with electronic ties to U.S. banks. at least not any that i can find. how can it be, right? don’t we live in an entirely inter-connected cyber world? global economy, dudes. all the banks are nefariously tied together in a 1% scheme against us 99 per centers, right? once again, not exactly.

first off, i naturally tried my own bofa (bank of america), the big boy of california and american banks with whom i’ve been banking since i moved to santa monica in 1982. no go. “sorry, we don’t have any associates in bali, indonesia.” really? that’s a surprise. but ok, “do you know any banks that do have associates in bali?” “no sir. good luck.” thanks for nothing bofa. i call around: jp morgan, chase, wells fargo. nada. then all the international banks: credit suisse, deutsche bank, lloyd’s of london. ditto. then more creatively, bank of china, bank of japan, india’s leading banks. still nothing. nobody will allow me to open a bank account in the U.S. that will do me any good in bali, where banks have names like BNI, BCA, BRI, all indonesian acronyms starting with big bad “B”. oh, there’s one indonesian bank starting with “c”, “citi bank”. great. but when i call, it turns out that it has absolutely no connection to new york’s “citi bank.” it’s just a stand-alone indo bank with no international ties.

ok, i’m a quick study. i get the picture. i’ll just transfer the retirement funds to one of my bofa accounts so i can make a wire transfer. i’ve already done it many times, transferring money to my wife’s mother’s account in sumatra. for a 45 buck transfer fee, it usually only takes 24 hours. pretty painless. i get on the plane with what i believe is liquid cash….

but i forgot the other half of the problem. me! or… the part of me that gets between me and everything i do. i call it my “inner jew”. not to be anti-semitic or self-loathing, but just to acknowledge where i learned it from: my jewish parents. and their jewish parents. and their whole lineage of money-lending merchants and bankers, who, throughout history have been notoriously and brilliantly “tight-fisted”, frugal, and wise about… the coin. and yes, with my parents growing up during america’s 1930’s depression, my family certainly learned, and taught me about, “the value of a dollar” like i said, it’s not something i’m proud of, nor pleased about how it gets in the way of making most of my decisions about most of the things in my everyday life, but hell, not to recognize its power and sway over me, would be even more foolish and self-deceptive.

anyway, before i get on the plane to bali, knowing that i won’t be using my t-mobile phone plan for a whole month back in lala land, i frugally cancel my cell phone account for the month. costs me only 20 bucks, saving me 140 buckeroos for me and da wife. i know i’m going to be buying a local phone chip for my new smart phone as soon as i arrive in bali, and that there’s no way i’ll be using my t-mobile service over there at exorbitant international roaming rates. like i said, i’m a savvy traveler.

but now i’m on the phone in padangbai with my local bofa branch manager (bank of america) in echo park, los angeles. savvy traveler that i am, i always travel with the business card of my local branch manager. it’s come in handy many a time from tight financial spots around the planet, and i know that having the “personal connection” within a faceless corporate behemoth like bofa makes all the difference in the world. it’s 7pm bali time, 10 am LA time. “yes, mr. villarosa, i’ve logged into my account with my site key. yes, my password works fine. it’s the bank’s online “safepass” security system that’s blocking me.” “have you gotten your safepass code on your cell phone, mr. trules?” “no, and i can’t… because i cancelled my damn t-mobile account while i’m traveling and your damn safepass won’t send the code to any international phone numbers.” “yes, that’s the bank’s policy, mr. trules.” “I KNOW THAT, mr. villarosa. but it’s a stupid policy. i’m here in bali and i need access to my own money, which is why i called YOU, mr. villarosa.” “calm down, mr. trules. i’ll see what i can do. please hold.” “NO, mr. villarosa, i can’t hold. i’ve already been cut off 3 times from other bofa reps in your san francisco corporate offices, and you and i are going to get cut off in about 60 seconds, because my indonesian phone chip can’t hold enough credit for more than a 3 minute call to america. can you please call me back?” “yes, mr. trules. let me sort this out and i’ll get back to you as soon as i can.”

that was over 24 hours ago and i haven’t heard back from mr. villarosa, although i have heard back from pak putu, ketut, and made. “no money yet, trrrules.” “yes, i know, made. but don’t worry. i definitely have the money in the bank. it’s just a technological problem. i’m trying to get it to you as soon as i can.” made nods his head. i know he’ll be reporting back to pak putu and ketut, and that i’m losing face and credibility every day i’m not getting the 20 grand to them. look, i realize that i’m in the 3rd world, 13,000 miles away from my bule home in los angeles. that’s as far as possible on this 26,000 mile round plant earth. i therefore know that these people and this culture are operating on a whole different set of rules and mores and expectations than my own. but i also know that these people believe in magic and spells and ceremonies, and in bomos, indonesian shamans who deal in the dark and in the light.

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but i also have this odd feeling that these people see me as sort of a western bomo. i mean, here i am, a 64 year old, strange-looking man, limping around padangbai with gout, who is constantly attached to this little black electronic box, a 10 inch travel laptop that i take with me everywhere i go. it shows me pictures, gives me knowledge, and has vast connections to people and places… far away from this little island, where the local villagers are not exactly cybernetically up to date. needless to say that “undeveloped” and “pristine” come at a price. i also have a digital camera with which i show them pictures… from india and scandinavia and morocco and machu pichu, places that look exotic and magical to them. i also have a digital tape recorder that plays their voices back to them when i want to remind them of something they said, and i wear a flash drive dangling from a string around my neck, along with bakti’s new gili island animal amulet for protection, and a silver figa from brazil (a forearm holding a fist with a thumb between the middle and index fingers) that my brazilian friends gave me “for strength” that i’ve been wearing since 1989 when i had cancer. so maybe it’s true; i’ve surrounded and hung myself with a lot of western and worldly “juju”.

it’s now the middle of the night. i’m 24 hours behind the eight ball because i haven’t delivered the 20 grand to my new “partners”. they’re being patient. or not. but now i’m once again enmeshed in my mosquito net, even though i don’t think there are any mosquitos here in padangbai. then again, i think i’ve been warned loudly and clearly enough by da wife’s dengue, not to take any more unnecessary chances.

i’m startled awake. it must be the two teutons next door, with their gigolo-entertaining antics, but no… it’s dr. bobbha calling again, from hingham, mass., “amongst the rats”, as he likes to call his condo-packed cocoon of conformity. i’ve sent out another desperate e-mail to my closest childhood friends, all of whom have become their parents’ expected sons, good new yawk “doctuhs” and “lawyuhs”, to ask for financial help and circumscribe bank of america’s online security system, protecting me from access to my own money.

“you gotta be kidding, trules! you’re lucky i’m even calling you back. i can’t leave any trace of transferring funds to indonesia. 20 thousand bucks! how am i gonna explain that to my accountant? you can’t make an international transfer of more than $10,000 to any single party without the IRS busting you. besides, you gotta be outta your mind to be spending that kind of cash on property you can’t legally own. have you really thought this through?” “yeah, i have dr. bobbha. you know you’ve always played things a lot more conservatively than i have. you’ve planned your whole life out, gone to med school, saved your money, put your daughter through college, but what? you’re miserable. divorced. you almost physically killed your business partner last year, and you almost died 6 months ago from some kind of crazy, unexplainable neuro-muscular trauma. sometimes, bobbha, you just gotta say ‘what the fuck?’ know what i mean?”

i hear myself. i sound like tom cruise’s creepy teenage guru in “risky business” convincing him to have a party that will destroy his parents’ house while they’re away for the weekend. “yeah, sometimes, ok. but just think about it, trules. i don’t want you to throw away your life savings.” “it’s only money, bobbha. i still have my retirement account. you know i always wanted to do something like this.” “right. just don’t come crying to me when your money’s gone. be careful, trules.” thanks, bobbha. especially for the tip about the 10 thousand dollars.” i hang up.

i don’t sleep the rest of the night. bobbha’s fearful words haunt me ’til morning. sure, i’ve been my own, want-to-believe-myself, devil’s advocate on the phone with bobbha, but there’s still a conservative part of my new york middle class self that has the same fears and doubts as he does. and sure, i like to see myself as a wild and wacky, risk-taking, no-holds-barred artiste-clown, but i also know that when i google my bohemian-titan role model himself, bob dylan, i am no longer surprised at the number of houses he owns around the world. maybe it’s true, you can take the boy out of the new yawk suburbs (or minnesota in dylan’s case), but you can’t take the new yawk suburbs out of the boy!

at 6 in the morning, i call mr. villarosa again. it’s 3 in the afternoon in LA. “sorry, mr. villarosa is out sick today. can i help you, sir?” “riggghht! you can help me, ma’am. mr. villarosa told me he would call me back 24 hours ago because i need to make an international wire transfer, but now mr. villarosa has a fucking headache or has to get his daughter some new fucking braces or… right … you can help me � by disabling my fucking online security safepass and letting me transfer my own money to wherever the fuck i want to! can you please do that for me? can you? before this real estate deal, the first one of my entire 64 year old life, slips meaninglessly away into the fucking tranquil balinese ‘glass bay’?”

i don’t actually say any of that, but by the time i limp my way to breakfast where pak putu, dani, and made are all awaiting me at the long wooden table, i am more than riled up and confused, not to mention embarrassed that i haven’t delivered on my financial promise.

but then again… maybe it’s a “sign”. that i can’t access my money. that i couldn’t open a balinese bank account before the trip. maybe it’s one of my famous “signs” that i shouldn’t be making this investment. maybe instead, i should speak to one of the many bule lawyers or bule real estate advisors in seminyak, bali’s toney version of beverly hills, who can review my situation and write me some legal language that can actually protect me in a balinese courtroom, instead of relying on my own hand written scrawl that i improvised at putu’s house less than 48 hours ago. because… do i actually know what i’m doing? what i’m actually getting myself into? no, i fucking don’t! i’m just some flip-flopping, wanna-be-retired, romantic american bule who wants to buy a little piece of balinese paradise for his idealized 3rd act… who keeps feeling his own mind slamming diametrically from one side of his brain to the other, from the right brain, trulesian romantic to the left brain straight-jacketed bobbha. or, as they say in my tribe with two heartfelt and conflicted words, “oy vay.”

i sit down at the table and i feel my future facing me head on.