padangbai, bali

pak putu’s dressed less formally today. he’s standing there at the small pool being repaired in casual tan trousers, sandals, and a brown t-shirt with a balinese scarf draped backwards over his neck. his ponytail is still tied back neatly, but it seems darker today than yesterday. maybe the night has magically revived his youth and vigor. i have a feeling he’s gotten up earlier than usual because it’s still hours before he’ll put on his pressed balinese sarong with his pressed white t-shirt to take on his more formal role as village chief. dani and made call him over to the breakfast table, and he floats over. we’re all here to do business, but putu seems to be on another wave length altogether.

the problem is that i’m still locked out of my bofa (bank of america) online account, and i haven’t transferred the money i promised 36 hours ago. my “partners” don’t understand things like safepass or online banking security, they just know that their new partner hasn’t delivered the 20 grand into their collective bank account.

“how your foot today?” dani greets me with an empathetic but tight smile. “same same,” i say, knowing the indonesian custom of putting two words together. like “jalan jalan” for “walking”. “makan makan” for “eating”. and “same same” for “same old same old”. cute young ayu comes over to take my breakfast order, which she already knows from routine, and dani asks, “you want coca cola?” i look at putu’s tall glass of iced coffee, and i ask “can i have one of those?” even though it’s not on the menu, i figure again, “when in rome….”, plus maybe the coffee will clear my muddled brain. “no problem,” dani answers, as she instructs ayu in balinese to get me one.

“listen, i’m sorry about the money. i hope made explained to you that it’s a technical problem. a computer problem.” putu looks at me, then at made; he says something to him in balinese. “pak putu want to know when you send money, trrrules?” “please tell him as soon as i can.” i look directly at putu as made translates, and we nod at each other. “we go to notaris as soon as you send money, trrrules. is better. we pay owners and sign papers before you go home.” “yes, ok, but i’m having trouble with my bank, and i leave in 3 days. i want my wife to come to see what i’m doing and to meet everyone, but i have to get the money first.” pak putu says something to made again. “you change mind, trrrules?”

i think pak putu, the village chief, has just read my mind. or at least, he’s tuning in to that fearful, bobbha part of my mind that half wishes this whole thing, this whole real estate opportunity, this whole 3rd act fantasy of mine, would all just disappear. bomos and shamans and village chiefs can do things like that. read people’s mind. or at least sense their energy. their doubt and ambivalence. i’m convinced pak putu is picking up on my all-night tossing and turning, and on my conversation with bobbha, counseling me to back up, to back away, from the table. i’m feeling this wave of doubt wash over me, while at the same time i’m feeling pak putu’s soul searching eyes boring into me.

oh, da wife part?

yeah, she’s contacted me from medan and asked how my gout is. she’s up to her neck in family affairs and in designing the new fashion store on the first floor of the family’s new 3 story ruko, bought with my money, and with time and distance between us, i dare say… she even misses me. no more mention of “divorce”. yeah, she’s even agreed to come to padangbai in a couple of days, two days before we fly back to LA, to meet my new “partners” and to see our new “home”. i know it’s the key to the whole venture. if da wife’s aboard, we have a chance. if not, she’ll never want to come to bali, where she’s already had a bad experience when she came here after high school to work, and no matter what i build in the middle of my banana and coconut field, it won’t come to fruition without her.

as far as the punishing threat of divorce just 4 days ago, i simply have to let it go, no matter how painful it was. i’ve married a temperamental young batak woman with emotions as fluid as “water on a leaf”, as her mother calls it. i should know by now, after more than 10 years together with her, that when her pride is injured, she will strike out in the strongest, meanest possible way she can. it’s what she learned growing up. hurt the small girl with the curly hair (the “ugly” hair), and look out; she will hurt you back ten times worse. it’s her defense, her expertise. so… enduring her volcanic eruptions and accepting her public disdain just make me stronger, more patient. she is my “practice”.

“no, not at all, pak putu. i haven’t changed my mind.” i hear the false words coming out of my mouth as i’m sitting at the breakfast table. “it’s just that my bank is blocking me from transferring the money.” the “head of the culture” speaks again in indonesian. made translates. “you no have money, trrrules?” “no, i have the money. i’m just afraid that i can’t get it to you before i leave on friday. maybe i’ll have to go back to LA and make the transfer from there.” “but we have to buy house now, trrrules. family already agree.” “i know, i know. i just can’t get the money from my bank.”

pak putu suddenly gets up from the table. he doesn’t say anything. he just silently explodes and storms off towards the infinity pool, although i don’t think it’s for a swim. it seems that the combination of my psychic ambivalence and my inability to transfer the money has blasted a hole in his ubiquitous serenity. “sorry, trrrules. pak putu famous for bad temper. almost never happen, but when do, verrry bad.” “no, i’m sorry, made and dani.” my iced coffee arrives with miss ayu, who puts it down shakily.

what the hell? now i’m really between a rock and a hard place. i’ve given my word to the village chief to become his wife’s partner, really his partner, on two houses in the middle of a banana and coconut field, and now i’m not only having 2nd thoughts, but my bank is giving them all a clear sign of my cold feet. dani speaks to made in balinese. then she says to me directly, “no prrroblem, trrrules. pak putu have plenty money; we buy property ourself.” and there it is. the ace in the hole. these people don’t need me. i walk away, they buy the property themselves, renovate it, dig themselves a pool, and fill the 2 houses with rental overflows from their beachfront homestay.

i’m not dumb. i can see the writing clearly on the wall, feel the pressure building inside me. what do i really want to do? buy the property and become partners with the village chief? or just be free and clear of it all, keep traveling the world whenever i’m off on my summer and winter breaks from the university? do i want to keep doing what i’ve been doing so comfortably for the last 2 decades or do i want to create a change? do i want to stay a rolling stone for the rest of my life, or do i want to finally put down some roots and gather some moss?

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i wish the answer would just come to me.

it doesn’t. and i flash back to another time of crippling indecision. i’m standing in the tiny bathroom of my loft on 23rd street and park avenue south in manhattan. 1982. i pay 400 dollars a month and the building is rat-infested in its bowels. i’m standing in the tiny bathroom, by myself, trying to come to a decision while my whole clown company of ten is waiting out in the rehearsal space of the loft. they’re waiting for me to make a decision about whether to present this piece we’ve been rehearsing for 3 months � or � to abandon it altogether. all my artistic eggs are invested in this one piece, a ragged clown ballet choreographed to beethoven’s 7th symphony, the “dance symphony”, my favorite. we’re still in the middle of the glorious first movement, and i’ve choreographed all these non-dance-trained clowns, to do a pretty decent ensemble job of supporting me, the central clown character, to � get out of bed in the morning.

beethoven’s gigantic musical score almost overwhelms the mundane, pedestrian clown act of getting out of bed, but in some other way, it poignantly underscores the impotence of a single individual trying to accomplish a simple human act against the indifference of the monolithic universe. it takes 9 minutes of beethoven to do it, and a company of 10 to accomplish it, but i feel like i’ve pushed all these non-dancer clowns to bend to my artistic will for 3 months, not something they signed on for, and which i’ve felt their resistance to the whole way. i can’t push anymore. we have a festival deadline and i have to say yes or no.

i’m standing in my own tiny bathroom, feeling as impotent as gino, my clown character, and just as he can’t muster the will to get out of bed, get dressed, and get out the door, i too, can’t muster the will to push these 10 clowns to go any further against their will. i’m not paying them enough, and they’re not enjoying it enough.

i fold. i open the bathroom door, walk my 10 yard gallows walk to stand in front of the entire company, and i… call it quits. “no more rehearsals. we’re disbanded until further notice.” i collapse the whole 3 month project in on itself, our entire 3 years together as a company, and i quit. i hand in my crown as clown king of new yawk, move to california 4 months later, and never complete my score with mr. beethoven.

and now here i am again, sitting with dani, made, with pak putu off somewhere beyond the infinity pool, facing my own demons, my own fears, my own ambivalence, my own aching indecision. do i jump in and just figure out how to get the damn money into their bank accounts, or do i use goddam bank of america as a convenient excuse, a “sign”, to back out and quit? again!

i look over my shoulder towards (the) infinity (pool), looking for the answer, and there is… pak putu, walking slowly back to the table. i rise hastily from my chair, place my 2 hands over my chest, and i bow to him. it’s my way of apology; i don’t know what else to do. he places his 2 hands over his chest and returns my bow. it’s become our little ritual of mutual recognition, like maybe these two old survivors, these two old warriors, have gathered a little knowledge, a little wisdom in all their cumulative years on the planet. my “partner” speaks. in english! “professor, i know you have lit-tle money, but i… respect you.” he looks directly into my eyes. this is the richest and most powerful man in padangbai. the “head of the culture.” as his wife has already said, he doesn’t need me or my father’s inheritance money. all of it would buy him just another corner in his already temple-like home if he wanted it for that.

no, he wants me as a partner for some other reason. he wants my western, bule savvy. he wants to bring padangbai into the modern world. he wants me to bring people to padangbai. with my laptop. with my social networking. with my zip drive and my digital camera and my digital tape recorder. with my smart bule brain! as if he’s reading my mind again, he says to me, again in english, “marketing, professor.” he smiles and bows again. once again, i return his bow. it seems like his english is pretty damn competent and communicative whenever he wants it to be. he sits down to the table again. i follow suit.

what more is there to say? pak putu has said it all. it’s time to not only step up to the plate, where i’ve already been for most of the last week, but it’s time to swing the bat. i either hit the ball or strike out. but if i don’t swing, i know one thing only. i won’t get a hit. they’re all looking at me. it feels like i’m back in that tiny bathroom again on park avenue south, facing another life changing decision. do i go forward? or quit? again? time has slowed down, just like the moment of decision in new york. i recognize it. but this time, there are 3 others in the bathroom with me. still, i’ve never felt so alone. where’s my mother? my father? gone. my wife? back in medan. i’m here alone. where i want to go forward, but where i’m “crippled” with fear.

i look at putu. what i see is that part of myself that i want to be. that higher, wiser, braver part of myself. i see a man of the east, head of his own culture. a man of wisdom and of responsibility. a responsibility that seems almost too much to bear. deciding the fate and direction of the entire village and all its members, i feel that pak putu wants some help. some relief. i think he even wants me to be his partner for this very reason, even though i know this is a crazy, self-centered idea. but what i also know, is that i’m already internalizing him, through my idealized idea of pak putu, what i really want myself to be. not a coward. not a quitter. but a wise, risk-taking bule shaman. a western man who can have a life in this eastern, more primitive, more instinctive, more natural, and more “magical” culture. who can make things happen from a place deep inside himself. who can have the detached, smiling, though sometimes explosive, wisdom of a village chief, yet still be his own innate smart, aggressive, new yawk ju-marketing-clown-bomo self. and to have all of this, all these parts of myself, be my strength, not my weakness.

i reach out my hand to pak putu. he gives me his. we look at each other, through our eyes to our hearts. we shake hands.

“partners.”