Nuts to You

Unless you are at least a half a hundred years old, you have never tasted the greatest nuts in the world, those of the Shah of Iran. Only the wealthiest in Iran were able to savor his Persian nuts. Do you wonder how this has any relevance to today’s political mess in the Middle East? It goes back through history, to the meddling of the CIA, to the US Military, and to several of our presidents meddling with my favorite snack food, the pistachio.
Each December, I longed for the arrival of a huge carton to arrive in the mail from the Shah of Iran’s pistachio company. This box was as anticipated as eagerly as the appearance of Santa himself. My family would purchase a case of Iranian pistachios as holiday gifts for their deserving friends. The twelve-inch bags of nuts cost ten dollars in 1967. I was the delivery girl. Those on the gift list watched by their doors for me to arrive, holding the Shah’s nuts in my hands. Everyone loved the Shah’s nuts. He had the tastiest nuts on the globe, and thanks to the great-grandson of a president, we could put them in our mouths anytime we pleased.
You see, two years after I was born, in 1953, Kermit Roosevelt, Jr, yes, his name was Kermit, completed the CIA’s first overthrow of a foreign government. Code-named, Operation Ajax, it worked just like a toilet bowl cleanser. The newly elected president of Iran, Mohammed Mosaddeq, was scrubbed away like a scum ring. Mosaddeq had upset the US and Britain, because he had nationalized the oil companies of Iran. Even though the oil did not belong to the West, we had controlled it for years. We did not enjoy playing fair. Kermit and his pals orchestrated a coup d’état that began the 26-year dictatorship of the Shah. The Shah loved his western buddies and exported his oil, carpets, and pistachios to them. Sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? It was nuts to Mosaddeq, and lots of nuts for me.
These happy days for the Shah and his secret police force, not dissimilar to the SS, lasted until 1979, when very much like today, the people took to the streets. In Tehran, they demonstrated against the ten percent unemployment in their country, the nasty police, the Shah, and us, the US. When the crowds got too much to handle, the Shah left on a sudden vacation and never returned. The Ayatollah Khamenei swooped in wearing a flowing white, Shiite Islamic robe, and the good times ended. Thanks to Jimmy Carter’s southern hospitality, the Shah was given asylum in the Untied States. They had a lot in common. They were both nut farmers.
This camaraderie pissed off the Ayatollah. Everyone in Iran remembered what Kermit had done to their beloved Mosaddeq. Iranian students stormed the American embassy and took hostages. The US countered with another operation called, Eagle Claw. Unfortunately, the eagle turned out to be more of a wounded pigeon, and for 444 days, Americans were glued to their televisions watching their impotent government held hostage. Nuts to Carter. His career was over. The Shiites were in control of Iran. From 1979, the power of that region remained in a delicate pyramidal balance between Iran, Afghanistan and Iraq. That same year, an embargo was placed on goods from Iran, which not only included oil, but my beloved pistachios as well.
Now as a college graduate, I had become completely addicted to yummy nuts. I only cared about the oil, because sleeping in my car with my husband, in the long gas lines in the summer of 1979, was not particularly fun. There were no Iranian nuts which to pass the time. The embargo had seen to that. However, with Hollywood’s Ronald Reagan at the helm, the California farmers began growing pistachios. As a Middle East nut aficionado, I find the California pistachio as bland as a mashed banana. Nuts to Iran, to the Ayatollah, and to me.
After many years, things began to change for Iran. That fateful attack by the Taliban on September 11th caused the US jumped in again. They ousted the governments of Afghanistan and Iraq. Whoops, gone now were Iran’s two biggest regional enemies, the ones who had held them in check for twenty-five years.
In 2010, the pro-Iranian Hezbollah party forced the collapse of the pro-US government in Lebanon. And the beginning of this year, we saw Egypt’s Hosni Mubarak, friend of the US, leave for a sudden vacation after only eighteen days of protests and demonstrations by his people. At this moment, Syria and Iran, who were unusual bedfellows in their hatred of Saddam Hussein, are discussing their plans for the future of Egypt over a big fat bowl of pistachios. The people of Libya, Bahrain, Morocco, Jordan, and Yemen have gone to the streets to protest their governments. The powers in the Middle East are currently spinning. Qatar and Oman are reported by the media, as tilting toward Iran like the moons that circle Jupiter.
It appears to me that the US and her allies in the West will have to take action again. We failed with Operation Ajax and Operation Eagle Claw. Operation Iraqi Freedom has lasted for eight years. I propose a new strategy - Operation Pistachio. We need to liberate the Iranian pistachio trees for the world. Since President Reagan’s rule, California has had its chance to earn money by growing pistachios. Their state is as bankrupt as a Donald Trump casino. It’s nuts to California now. We need to improve foreign relations with Iran by importing their nuts again. In doing so, Iran would be bound to us in a symbiotic relationship, not unlike that of Anna Nicole Smith and her octogenarian oil magnate, not for our thirst for oil, but rather for our pistachio consumption.
We need to march in the streets from Hershey, Pennsylvania to Orange County, California, holding our banners high for Iranian pistachios in all of our ice cream flavors. Ben and Jerry, are you listening? We need to replace popcorn in the movie theaters with those delicious little nuts. Make a pledge now, to never order cashew chicken for a take out dinner. Here’s to pistachio chicken instead. Our new war cry for Peace in the Middle East will be: Nuts to Us!

Water in the Valley of Clay

Not in a wide rush like the Columbia,
rather in dribbles from a palm-sized pipe,
protruding out of the hillside,
the rusty liquid spills.

Pulsing with invisible flatworms,
the precious fluid pools and lazily crosses
sparse fields of rice, which shelter
mosquitoes and malaria.

Silent children stoop to fill discarded bottles-
drop by drop. This is what they do each day.
I use their water to flush waste down my toilet,
or rinse off the dinner I was too full to eat.

My clothing is named for that great
Northwest River, which flows down from the Rockies,
but hid in my pocket are snapshots of children
who bear heavy burdens in the Valley of Clay.

The Mink Brigade

Linda made me promise to behave. My reward would be a placemat sized, engraved invitation for the Inauguration of George H W Bush. I would be attending the biggest Texas party since Lyndon Johnson propped his boots on the Oval Office desk. I packed my Stetson and shredded my Democratic Party ID card. I was on my way to Washington with Linda.
I met Linda at Girls Raised In The South meeting held in Seattle. We stood around the buffet complaining about the Northwest, while we stuffed deviled eggs into our mouths. We became fast friends. Linda was from Texas and had big blond hair. At SMU, she was the head majorette. It earned her a gold sequined outfit that accentuated her Texas sized boobs. Even though I had no big hair, I had lived in Dallas. I knew how to say, “Shit howdy,” with the best of them. My favorite line from a jukebox was, “Don’t cry down my back, baby, you might rust my spurs.” My twang was twanging up like a banjo in anticipation of the Inauguration. I could hardly wait to be in DC with the Texans.
We packed our chiffon evening gowns, curling irons, and a Brinks truck full of jewelry. We arrived at the posh, private University Club. We were knee deep in velvet, polished mahogany and American flags. Our first stop was Linda’s friend’s suite. They had personally seen that Bush had crushed Dukakis in every state but ten. Shit howdy. They were pleased as punch to see us.
They handed us our inauguration tickets, and explained that we had responsibilities. We were to work the event. We would seat the diplomats right below the presidential podium.
The next morning, we dressed in our knit suits with the fancy buttons and cloaked ourselves in mink. Linda took the command. She would stand in the center aisle and personally guide the guests to their seats. I would wait at the left side of the grand marble steps that led to podium. I held in my hands the list of all diplomats allowed entrance into our secure area. We were very important. We were the mink barricade.
I was drawling out, “Welcome to Bush’s Inauguration,” to a silver haired man with glasses and his aide.
“May I see ya’ll’s invitation please?” The embarrassed aide stated that he had forgotten their invitations.
“I’m sorry. This area is reserved for diplomats. Ya’ll can find seating in the public area.” I pointed to the tiny dots of people, about a mile back, standing behind the television trucks. Both men looked perturbed.
“Madam, this is Javier Perez de Cuellar.”
“Why that’s nice.” I smiled at the older man. “But rules are rules, and you must have an invitation. I can’t let just anybody in.” I stood firm in my fur coat.
“Madam, this is Javier Perez de Cuellar, the Secretary Gen-er-al of the United Nations.” He stressed the word general by slowly pronouncing every syllable.
Cuellar? I had never heard of this guy. What happened to U Thant?
I looked at my list. There he was. In my best southern Spanish accent., I said, “I am ever so sorry Seen-yors.” I pointed them to Linda who was staring in our direction.
Later, I noticed there were papers on the marble steps blowing in the breeze. I snatched them up and stuffed them into the trashcan by the center aisle. There was a man standing near the trashcan.
“Excuse me sir, you’ll have to move.” He did not speak, so I continued, “You’re blocking the view.” I pointed behind me to Cuellar.
“I’m CIA,” he said with no expression.
“I can’t help that. You’ll simply have to move.” It’s impossible to argue with a lady in a mink coat. “Do you see that man there? That’s Javier Perez de Cuellar, the Secretary Gen-er-al of the UN. He cannot see because of you!” Everyone knows that in Texas Hold Em, a general trumps an agent. As he slid off to the side, Linda charged up.
“What do you think you are doing?”
“What do you mean? That guy was in front of our area.”
“No. You let someone in without an invitation.”
“That was the…”
“Nobody gets in without an invitation.”
“But, he was on my list.”
I looked at my hands. I was holding no list. I had lost my list! I remembered the trashcan and picking up papers off the steps. Had I thrown it out? Maybe that CIA guy did a sleight of hand and stole it. He was pissed off that I made him move.
“Forget the list,” she said,” Just make sure that, from now on, everyone has an invitation.”
That’s when a man with twinkling eyes walked up to me.
“Welcome to the Inauguration. May I see your invitation?”
With a deep voice and a smile, he said, “I don’t have an invitation.” His thick black eyebrows and matching mustache made him look like Groucho Marx without the cigar. He was obviously a gatecrasher.
I went through my rehearsed dialogue, pointing to the tiny crowd of people in the distance.
“I’m on the list. I am Saddam Hussein.” The twinkle in his eyes became knife sharp.
“I’m sorry, Mr.-Whose Sane?”
“President Hussein. I am the President of Iraq.”
No, no. Hussein was a king from Jordan. I knew that. Did he think I was stupid?
“That’s nice,” I said, “but you must have an invitation.” I bristled my mink.
“Let me see your guest list,” and he grabbed hard at my coat. I heard the stitches pop in the seam of my sleeve. He had ripped my mink! This was war.
He began to shout in a weird language. The CIA man rushed over. He threw himself between Hussein and me.
“What’s the problem?”
“This man was not invited, then he assaulted my coat! ” I stared at Saddam.
“I’m leaving. You’ve not heard the last from me!” Saddam shot me a glare.
“Oh, go hide in a hole,” I muttered under my breath.
I thanked Mr. CIA, who was whispering into his lapel pin.
Linda came running up. I told her about the gatecrasher and being saved by the CIA. We seated ourselves on the front row and watched Ronald Reagan hand George Bush the reins of power. Ronny’s neck was wrapped in a good guy white scarf, and George sported a silver tie. I turned to Cuellar behind me and gave him a big thumbs up.
Later that afternoon, while we looking for ourselves on television and getting gussied up for the Black Tie and Boots Ball, we heard Dan Rather talking about an Arab man at the Inauguration. Apparently he felt snubbed and had stormed back to Iraq in his private jet. Could that have been same the man who claimed to have forgotten his invite? What a pissy guy.
Saddam Hussein was like a toddler begging for attention. After the Inauguration, President Bush gave him attention. He blasted the hell out of him in Desert Storm. Perhaps if Saddam had been a bit more responsible and held on to his invitation, he could have danced the Texas two-step like the rest of us.

Running into Joe

I had just arrived in Albany, New York from the Deep South. With the help of my best friend, Trudy, I found all the things I needed for a good life up North, a drycleaner, a hairdresser, and a cheap manicurist. However, on this day, my baby’s infected ears were redder than my nail polish, and I needed to find a pharmacy. He had been wailing since we left the doctor’s office. The prescription for his eardrops was in hand, but where was I to go?
It was 1988. I grabbed the yellow pages, but they were useless. The print was too small, and I was getting eyestrain trying to decipher it. I threw the book out. I couldn’t dial directory assistance either. My husband had put his foot down on 411. I had called the operator so often that the phone company mailed me a free T-shirt. No one gets freebies from the phone company. I had also received an engraved thank you for being such a wonderful 411 customer. I was thrilled. My husband was not amused. He explained that I could have purchased a lot of T-shirts with the fifty dollars they charged for happy dialing. I was wearing my free fifty-dollar shirt, when I realized that I should call my buddy Trudy for help finding that pharmacy.
I met Trudy at my “welcome to the neighborhood” dinner party, that I threw in honor of myself. My transition north of the Mason Dixon Line had been horrible. No one brought me brownies, deviled eggs, or came over to say, ”howdy.” I decided to welcome myself. My party was a huge success, mostly because of the cocktails. Yankees can drink like fish. When it was all over, I had a new best friend- Trudy.
Trudy was at work. As I waited on the phone for her to answer, I realized that I had made a huge social faux pas. I was makeup-less, and my hair was in a dirty ponytail. I was dressed in sneakers and sweats. What would my mother have thought? In the South, judgment would be passed with a, “poor dear,” but only for non-family members. Like all southern belles, my mother could cuss like a convict. She would have had a hissy fit, if she had seen how I looked that day.
The secretary told me that Trudy was on her way. Trudy was the speechwriter for Senator Joe Bruno. He was an important guy. He was second only in prominence to the governor of New York. He was tall and good-looking, with grey hair and flag pins on his lapels. He looked like a senator. This was all that mattered in politics. Coming from upstate New York, being an Italian Republican didn’t hurt him either.
Trudy looked good beside Senator Bruno. She wore tight suits and high heels. With the exception of her accent, she could have been a southern gal, an executive from Atlanta or Richmond. She knew how to bat her eyelashes. The wind from those lashes could knock a full-grown man down from a hundred paces.
In a breathless whirl, Trudy finally picked up the line.
“ You have got to come down here and meet the Senator.”
Every time I talked with Trudy, she wanted me to meet Senator Bruno. I am a democrat, a donkey, and had moved into a republican town. Trudy was trying to teach me how to embrace my inner elephant.
“I can’t. I got a kid screaming in the background.”
“Joe’s not in today anyway,” she said, and continued with, “…the senator this, and the senator that…” until she finally gave me the directions to the pharmacy at the Mall.
I crammed my son into his green snowsuit, and wrapped a blanket around him. With his sweating red face and his green outfit, he looked like a martini olive strapped into a car seat.
We were finally off to the Mall. I sang in the car to amuse him. I burbled to get him to smile. He retaliated with his bottle; a quick left to my head. Formula spilled down my jacket. I could smell myself, and it wasn’t Eau de Channel. There were only five more miles to the Latham Circle Mall. I tried to think of happy thoughts, of a palm tree and a sandy beach, or wait, perhaps a job in a suit with high heels. I needed to tell Trudy that I could write speeches too.
When I turned into the parking lot, I blasted by the handicapped area, covering an old man with a cane in a spray of snow. That’s when it happened. My car began to skid. It had been years since I had been in an accident. I resorted to a string of expletives. I have always wondered if my language at that particular moment impacted my toddler. I am sure that both of our mouths were rounded into the shape of the word “Sheeit!” which we were screaming simultaneously in southern accents.
My beautiful, unscratched, wood paneled station wagon was fishtailing down the parking lot toward the mall. We could have slid easily through the entrance doors to retrieve the eardrops, drive thru style, if not for the large white Mercedes sedan that stood in our way. “Sheeit!” my baby and I screamed as we careened closer to the fanciest vehicle in the parking lot.
We bounced off the Mercedes like a billiard ball, slamming back into the bumper like a banked shot, and then came to rest around the corner by the curb. I jumped out of my car to survey the damage. The side of the Mercedes was streaked with black gashes and a huge dent. I had really done it now.
I knew how snooty people were about their Mercedes Benzes. You always knew if they owned one. They pontificated about S-Classes or C-Classes, and God help you if they went to Germany to buy the thing. They would never shut up. I had just crunched the magnificent CL-Class Coupe, the biggest Benz of all. My husband would be furious. My insurance would skyrocket. I would be in the papers in the morning as the Mercedes murderer.
Three tall grey haired men, dressed in identical cashmere overcoats, emerged from their battered sedan. I could see that things were getting worse. They looked like attorneys. I had hit a carload of attorneys. I needed to take control. I grabbed my purse and rifled through its contents for paper. There was none to be found. I tore out a deposit slip on which to write. If push came to shove, the men in cashmere could drop some money into my bank account. After this, I would need a bundle of cash to pay for the accident. I scrawled my name and contact information on the back of the slip.
With lightening fast wit, I initiated a preemptive strike. In my sweat pants and formula splattered jacket, and with as much bravado as I could muster beneath my dirty ponytail, I shook hands with the driver and thrust him my note.
In a rapid fire I began, “Hi. It’s all my fault. I’ll pay for everything. Here’s my information. I have to go. My baby’s in the car. Sorry. Bye.” Then, I fled in my sneakers. I don’t remember any of the men saying a word as I ran back to my car, slammed the door, and drove off.
Later that afternoon, when life had returned to normal, the telephone rang.
“Hi. This is Senator Joe Bruno. I am calling to see if you are all right after the accident this afternoon. You left so quickly. I was concerned.“
Senator Bruno! My friend Trudy’s Senator Bruno? I had not only killed a luxury car, but I might as well have hit the governor! I began apologizing profusely.
He also apologized for my ramming into him. Boy was he smooth. He chatted on and on, concerned for my kid, and asking questions about me. As he talked, I felt my eyelashes begin to bat. I was helpless to his powers. In one short conversation, he had turned me into a Republican. Weak kneed and giggling all over myself, I was ready to write a check to the Republican Party.
As soon as I hung up the phone with the Senator, I called Trudy. With great glee, perfect timing, and in my thickest southern accent, I said, “Trudy. I ran into Joe Bruno today.”
“Really? Where?”
It was easy, like shooting an elephant at close range, but I delivered the punch line with style. It was the well-timed closing to the joke of my day.

Church, Offerings, Fortunetellers, and Aliens- Part 5

Sunday began with hiring a hiring a driver to find a church. In a spiritual country with freedom granted by the Indonesian Constitution to four religions, five if you separate Christian Catholic and Christian Protestant as they do, there is no church nearby. Apparently there is a protestant church that exists in Ubud, the tourist destination of Bali, but they are not allowed a building in which to meet. The local Expats just shook their heads when I inquired. The churches have a lot of persecution here. You have to go to Denpasar which is one and a half hours away. So when did Christians shy from persecution?
My friend who teaches English in Ubud and I hopped in a small van and introduced ourselves to the driver. She bargained the price of the ride from thirty thousand rupiah to fifteen thousand. You have to watch out, the tourist don’t know what they are doing. They pay double and it wrecks it for the rest of us living on Indonesian salaries. I paid fifty thousand for the same trip the day before. Don’t be sucked in by the smiles. I love the smiles. That was one of the reasons I returned to Bali. Whoops.
We told the driver that we were late for church and to please hurry. Bouncing along the bumpy dirt road on which I lived brought us to a traffic standstill on Ubud’s main road. A tour bus was trying to back into a small parking space in front of the central market. It was an amazing feat to watch the driver skillfully swing a vehicle wider than the road into a narrow spot between hundreds of motor scooters. Traffic stopped in both directions. I felt like I was on 405 in Seattle anytime after 3 PM. There was nothing to do but stare with the hundreds of people on the sidewalks and those waiting in their vans. The cars in both directions were packed so close together that rear view mirrors nearly touched. Even the motor scooters were unable to pass. Motor scooters never obey the logic of two way traffic. When they stop, you know that the traffic mess will take a while to correct. We were getting later by the minute and had not even left Ubud.
We had been delayed by another group of foreigners who would file out into the heat to buy sarongs, puppets, fans, and carved wooden penis key chains. They would return to their air-conditioned cocoon with flimsy red bags stuffed full, and feeling great that they had bargained so skillfully. It was always the same. The vender would begin with a large toothy smile; a smile that needed braces, tooth whitener, and a cap for a broken incisor. When the buyers would begin the bargain dance, the street vendor would show his large sad eyes. Their prey would protest personal pleas to help their poor families by purchasing two carved Buddha statues. The salesmen would shamelessly beg the shopper to be the first sale of the day by taking home a set of intricately carved chop sticks. Only a dollar. One hundred thousand rupiah. Wait. One hundred thousand rupiah is ten dollars. Their sales skills put an IBM salesman or a politician to shame. Once the fish had been hooked, the vender would press in closer, close enough that the shirts of Indonesian and tourist would touch. He would touch the fleshy white arm and pat softly. Out of sheer exhaustion and heat, the sale would be made and the rupiah paid. Four more venders would pull in close with the same sad eyes, and the same appeal to bring luck to their day. The feeding frenzy would begin. The tourist would rush to the air-conditioning of his bus and the venders would smile again.
Finally the traffic cleared, and we began the hour journey through Balinese villages and rice paddies. The villages merged one into the other. Small temples with lego-like pillars and red brick accents were marked with the palm penjors which swayed in the wind to imaginary music. The green moss covered statues, clothed in black and white checked fabric, and yellow fringed umbrellas marked the temple entrances. Offerings of palm leaf containers littered the streets, the cars, and the steps of every structure.
Each village has three temples behind the main wall. One is for the founder of the village and where Brahma, the guard of the South resides. In Hinduism, gods guard to the five corners of the world. When these guardians are taken together, they form the symbol of a swastika. It is difficult to see swastikas on t-shirts hanging for sale in Ubud shops. However, here it is the sign for peace, safety, and blessings. Another temple building in the compound is for the worship of Vishnu, the guard of the North, and where area village activities are held, such as cock fights on days of celebration. The third is for the controller of the middle of the world, Shiva, whose temple building is where the souls of the dead are judged and a future life of either heaven or hell is determined.
The temple is the religious and social center of each village. Although poor, the people of the area must maintain the temple and participate in rituals. By active participation with celebrations and exorcisms, the cosmic order of life is maintained. Divine powers are worshiped and demonic ones are exorcised. Like the Balinese dancer who pauses on one foot, spine curved, and head tilted without a quiver, good and evil remain in check this way, in a delicate balance to insure prosperity and an abundant life for the village.
Skinny speckled chickens with their chicks scurrying behind, ran from the street as we passed by. They fluttered to the top of walls that opened to a complex of family homes. The roosters screamed their crows at our van, and the scruffy dogs barked. In the backyard, behind the individual houses and paths, we could see banana trees, papaya, coconut, and bamboo. Each extended family lives together behind such a wall, in their own rendition of the Garden of Eden.
One of my favorite sights was the neighborhood gas station. Either in front of a snack store, perched in the darkness beneath a tin roof, or part of a small square cinderblock repair shop, was a wooden rack holding glass liter bottles. We slowed to make a right turn in the road. Some bottles had the vodka labels still attached. An enormous plastic funnel rested on the top of the rack. Gas costs about forty-five cents a liter. I think of all of the scooters jamming the roads in Ubud, running on cheap petrol. A woman in a tight pink dress pulled up on her motorcycle, took down the funnel, and began filling her tank. We sped up again, following the line of motor scooters making their way to the capital city of Denpasar.
At the edge of the village in the stream by the road an elderly man bathed. Two women sat by the ditch and washed their clothes, rubbing shirts against the rock of the wall. Another filled a water container. I refrain from snapping a photo out of modesty for the naked man who stopped rinsing his hair to stand and watch us pass. He bent over again and scooped water into his hands. He was unconcerned by the stream of motorcycles and vans passing by. This was time for his morning bath. He would bathe again in the same spot before the sun set and the light was still good.
The walled homes in the villages which lined the narrow stone irrigation ditches gave way to village rice paddies. The Balinese are excellent farmers. They build their farmland as high as there is enough water with which to irrigate. The terraced rice fields follow the contour of the hills in such way as to take your breath away. Workers can be seen with conical straw hats and rusted scythes cutting clumps of precious rice from the stalk. I saw a pair of oxen bound by a carved wooden yoke trudging through a field. I snapped as picture as I gazed out of the rear window of the van. Rice is not just a commodity for the farmer. It is a Goddess and treated accordingly. I watched a woman holding a decorated bamboo pole and with a basket of offerings on her head, walk along the dike toward her field. She was about to tie an offering to the stem of a rice plant in the corner of her plot. Hopefully the goddess would be appeased and the harvest good.
We passed a large banyan tree that grew by the bend in the road. The road had been build to accommodate the tree. The Balinese people view as holy anything that is strange, large, or that they do not understand. This huge tree was large enough to have become holy. It was marked with black and red checked cloth tied around the trunk. A shrine sat beside the road under its branches. Colorful remnants of flowers and fruit withered in the heat as offerings to the spirit of the tree in an attempt to please the spirit. I thought of the roadside memorials around Seattle, left to remember loved ones who had died in car accidents on bends so similar to this. Perhaps prevention is the best approach. Appease the spirit of the tree first, then maybe memorials would not be necessary. A motor scooter whizzed by our van on the curve of the road. The father and mother wore helmets for safety. The baby was perched on the father’s lap, hugging the handlebars and laughing as his hair flew in the wind. An older sister stood between her mother and father tilting into the turn. Her eyes connected to mine as they passed by my window. Neither child had on helmets. Appeased spirits or not, offerings are less efficient than laws forbidding children on motorcycles and enforcing the use of helmets for safety. I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. I hoped it would not rain before we made it to Denpasar.
Villages flowed into rice paddies which turned into jungles and back again into villages as we wound our way through central Bali toward the south. We had arrived at our destination, too late for the service. The large Catholic Church loomed above us with Asian parapets crowned with crosses. Three modern arched porches tried to mimic the great medieval cathedrals of Europe. The whitewashed stone interior was decorated with colorful stained glass windows. Mary, dressed in an Indonesian orange and purple headpiece, cradled the white baby Jesus. Beautifully sculpted angels adorned the interior columns. They perched above our heads like Balinese dancers in ceremonial costumes wearing feathered wings. We wandered the empty aisles snapping photos and listening to our shoes click against the floor and echo in the vastness of the building. We found a man cleaning the back corner of the nave that pointed to the side Deli and noted that a church service was in process on the second floor of an office building across the road. We made our way over to the Christian City Church.
The room was an unadorned rectangle with silver folding chairs and a stage at the end. We were immediately handed a tray with the last two communion wafers and tiny shot glasses with bitter wine. A friendly young woman whispered that she would find us two seats in a room overflowing with rocking and singing worshipers. Yesus tuhan kau rajaku. The words projected on the screen from the stage were sung by all. Indonesian is an easy language to read. Every letter is pronounced with little inflection. We sang along in Indonesian. The women in front of us bounced and jumped to the music as if they were at a Rolling Stones concert. Most people had their hands in the air. I clapped along.
The visiting speaker was a missionary from the north of Bali. He had come to Indonesia fourteen years before with his wife, small infant, and no money. He described being called for his mission and the work that he did through the churches and schools. He asked for help, for people to respond to his plea by becoming missionaries to spread their faith. The women in front responded with yes, periodically throughout his speech. He called for the congregation to come forward to receive a blessing. Everyone rose. I was still seated. My friend gave me a stare, and I rose to go with her to the front.
The minister of this second floor office building church was a woman with a kind smile, soft voice, and the body of your Auntie Nellie. She came to me and asked my name, and if I lived in Bali. When she had learned the essential facts, she laid her hands on my head, and said she knew that I had many decisions to make. She assured me that I would take the right path and be blessed. Thank you Auntie Nellie. You a have a wonderful congregation in this unadorned room. As we walked out to leave, I wandered down the hall to the narrow porch on the side of the building. It overlooked the grounds of the Catholic Cathedral. On a table sat a small hot plate, a couple of woks hanging on the wall, a tray of clean glasses, and a makeshift sink. This was the Christian City Church kitchen. Tokay called the lizard from his hiding place in a tree nearby. By Bali standards, this was a blessed moment.
Agus, our driver, was waiting under the shade of a palm tree. I felt horrible that I had forgotten to invite him into the service. What kind of a missionary was I? We treated him to lunch at a warung near the post office. Agus is shy and reluctant to smile. He came from a small village in the north of Bali where he and his family tended the rice fields. His wife and two children were there now with his mother and father. He smiled when he mentioned his two sons. The eldest was ten. He left them for the month to stay in Ubud at the home of a friend and work as a driver for tourists. He would alternate months between the fields and his job as a driver. His life was not easy. He said that he would not have entered the Christian church. He was Hindu. I explained that I would love to visit the temple during a celebration. Aren’t you curious? He just smiled and remained silent.
After we returned from Denpasar and my friend departed, I asked Agus if he knew the location of Ketut Liyer from Ubud, the fortuneteller made famous in the Book, Eat, Pray, Love. The Expats called the bestselling memoir ELP and give it mixed reviews. The astrologer, healer, and medicine man, they unanimously referenced as Ketut Liar. I had met an Indonesian woman at lunch the day before, who revealed that she had her palm read by Ketut earlier that week and been brought to tears during her reading. She had learned things about her brother that were personal, and that she did not want to share. She gave him a glowing recommendation. Why not go for a reading? I had a few hours to spare. I would find the famous fortuneteller. I was sure that he would bond with me, and that I would learn truths worthy of tears.
We battled the traffic in the center of Ubud, until we came to a quiet narrow road lined with ornately carved doorways and flowering vines that cascaded over stone walls. A temple decorated with offerings stood across the road to Ketut’s home. I was nervous to be arriving on a whim with no appointment. Agus assured me that he had brought many tourists there before. Everyone would have to wait their turn to see the famous old man, with or without an appointment.
Ketut sat upon woven bamboo mats on the raised, red tile porch of his house. Books and mailing envelopes were piled on tables at the end of the porch. Two Japanese women and one man sat cross-legged on a large mat beside the old man. Ketut’s son wore a white polo shirt, a white Destar traditional turban, and pointed for us to take a seat on the porch opposite his father. A large clock hung on the wall behind him and clicked away the time.
The young woman had a full round face and giggled as Ketut whispered words in Japanese to her while he examined her palm. She would cover her mouth to hide her giggles. I could hear him say occasionally in broken English, You very, very lucky girl. She covered another giggle. I wanted to joke around with Agus, speculating on my fortune soon to be read. What if Ketut told me that I was unlucky? I would have to be carried from the porch in tears. I knew that Agus would not understand my jokes. This was a respected healer and astrologer. It was not a joking situation. I surveyed the groups of people waiting patiently on the porches of the surrounding homes in the compound. If each one took as long as this Japanese woman, how long would it take for me to make it back to Ubud where my friend was waiting for me at Starbucks? I smiled at the son and then at Ketut. It was the Indonesian way. I would will myself to the head of the line.
I watched as Ketut turned the girl around and pulled down the collar of her blouse. He rubbed his hands on the back of her neck and across her shoulders. He examined her legs and touched her tibia with his fingers. He felt her face and the top of her head, then held her hand and stroked her forearm. She giggled throughout the process. Between his words in Japanese, I heard him repeat, You very, very lucky girl. She thanked him profusely by bowing and shaking hands, as did her companions. They took photos with the old man. The young girl opened her wallet and handed money to Ketut’s son. After another couple was presented for a reading, it was my turn.
I removed my shoes and left them at the base of the first step to the porch, taking my place on the mat beside the sage. I was smiling broadly. He looked me directly in the eyes and then spoke. You stay right here. I have to pee. I burst out laughing. These were the first words spoken to me by a Balinese medicine man. He rose and walked through the wooden doors, disappearing into the darkness of his house. Alrighty then. I waited. When he returned, I stood up to show my respect. He told me to sit down. Then he sat down. I was laughing, and he began to laugh too. This was going to be an unusual reading.
What do you want to know?
I don’t know. What do you have to tell me?
Do you have any questions?
No, just tell me what you see.
So he asked me what everyone in Indonesia asks first. Where are you from? After telling him the specifics and learning that I was divorced, he began.
You very very pretty.
Thank you, and I giggled. Ketut must have the same effect on all women. He took my hand in his and began his reading by examining the lines in my palms.
You will live to be one hundred years old.
Really? My dad died at fifty-four.
He did not like to be second guessed. He showed me the definitive line that proved I would live to be one hundred. Ok. Ok. Now where the heck am I going to find the funds to survive until I am one hundred?
You will have lots of money.
Good. That question was answered.
You very, very pretty. I giggled again. I couldn’t help myself. At least I didn’t cover my mouth.
Your mouth as sweet as sugar. This time I laughed instead of giggled. I think I heard him tell the Japanese girl the same thing. He laughed too.
Your eyes are very merry.
Yes, I am a merry person. We were laughing after each sentence.
You very smart.
Thank you, I said politely this time.
You very impatient, aren’t you?
Well. I guess, maybe, I might be. I thought that yes, I had been impatient. I knew that I had outlived my father. I was living each day as my last, trying to maximize each moment. I thought this was a good thing. Now that I was living to one hundred, perhaps I could slow down. Thanks Ketut.
You have lots of boyfriends.
Uh, I don’t think so. Well, maybe there could be. I don’t know. I certainly didn’t sound very smart or definitive. Perhaps I should resort to giggling again.
Ketut turned my hand. There was a tiny line on the side of my palm below my pinky finger.
You be married again. This time, marriage last until your last days.
Really? I blurted my response. That’s great. Are you sure?
Ketut did not like being doubted. Of course he was sure. That tiny, indecipherable line proved it so. I would be married, and only once more. I was so interested in seeing the line, the guarantee of a future husband that I forgot to ask for details, such as a name of my groom and a date of the nuptials. I could begin planning.
You very healthy.
Good, good. I smiled. Ok, so this guy knows his stuff. He gazed at my finger tips, my head, and pressed his fingers on my forehead between my eyes. He felt my wrist and forearm. As I glanced down, I noticed his long yellowed nails for the first time. I stared into his face and saw deep creases in his thin cheeks. He smiled as I looked into his eyes. He was missing all but a few teeth that bucked forward and matched his nails in color. His eyes twinkled. As he held my hand I could tell that he enjoyed his profession.
Ketut’s outfit was as unique as the man himself. He wore a yellow and green Nike soccer shirt with the logo of Brazil. From his neck hung a brown and amber necklace made of carved beads. His head was wrapped in a brown batik Destar, and around his thin waist was tied a beautiful blue and gold sarong. On his wrist was a big faced watch with hands and numbers large enough to see without glasses.
I am old man. Ninety six. Would marry you if I could have sex. We both laughed.
You very healthy, he repeated. Your kidneys good. Your gall bladder good. Your heart good. Each time he felt a different part of my hand. When you get married, on wedding night, you have sex three times before 3 AM.
Alright! Damn this man is good! Three times.
You not sleep. You have sex three times before 3 AM. I was laughing hard now, as was Agus and Ketut’s son. Another driver who spoke English was laughing as well and seemed to look at me with interest. This will be a good selling point for me in the future. Thanks Ketut. This may be what guarantees that the tiny line below my pinky was accurate.
He turned me around and pulled down the neckline of my top. He rubbed his fingers along my back. I held my hair up with my hands to give him easier access to my shoulders. He rubbed his fingers down the front of my leg.
How you get around at home? You walk? You use car?
I hated to tell him that I used a car. I use a car. But, I do like to hike, I mean trek.
You use car. You not in an accident.
No I have never been in an accident.
You very, very lucky girl. I had to laugh at that one. You very, very pretty. When you get married, you let me know. I marry you if I could have sex. I am ninety six. No more sex.
With the repeated referrals to marriage, I was beginning to feel grateful that Ketut was too old for sex. I was off the hook, and I didn’t have to disappoint Bali’s most famous fortuneteller. I smiled and shook his hand. The session was over.
He looked at me and said, You pay two hundred fifty thousand rupiah.
I felt sure that this was fifty thousand more than the Japanese girl had to pay. Since I do not speak Japanese, I could not tell if she was going to have a lot of sex on her honeymoon. I decided that it was well worth the extra five dollars. I said goodbye, but knew I would be seeing Ketut again. I had to bring my future husband back to meet him and report on our wedding night.
Agus and I headed back to the car for a quick drive back to the center of Ubud. The traffic had thinned. My friend was still at Starbucks. I am a lucky, luck girl. We decided to meet later for drinks at Deli Cat and talk about the day. She wanted to hear the details of my session with the fortuneteller.
Deli Cat is a small restaurant and bar that borders the soccer field in the center of Ubud. It is known for excellent cheap food and as a gathering place for the drinking Expat crowd. This was my second time there. The porch is too small for more than three tables. We shared a place with a mother and son from Spain and ordered Rose. I am not a Rose drinker, nor am I a wine aficionado. However, I can tell a bad wine, and I can appreciate a fine one. There are few fine wines in Bali and none without an enormous price tag attached. We ordered ice to help improve the flavor of our carafe.
We were laughing over the stories of our day, the rain, and discussing Christianity, when my friend’s friend dropped by our table. He ordered a nice red wine and offered to share. Another friend came over as well. We were now a party. The subject had already been determined. Religion. Erik was from Norway. He had lived in Ubud for years. He knew his wines and had definite opinions about organized religions. The candle on the table flickered in the darkness as we made sure that the wine glasses remained full during our serious discussion.
He was concerned about the control of Hinduism over the population of Bali. The people are poor. The requirements of their religion to make offerings, support the temple, and pay for the cremation of loved ones as well as their own, is an enormous financial responsibility.
In Balinese Hindu society, a body must be cremated. It is the supreme offering made in one’s life. It is believed that through cremation, the body of the deceased is cleansed and purified by fire, therefore allowing the spirit to be incarnated into a better human being. Bodies are only buried when the cost of cremation is too much for a family to afford. The dead will remained buried until the ceremonies can be paid for, or the cost of a mass cremation is shared by the village for the poor.
Every tourist begs their guide to see a cremation. Preparations can takes months. It begins with the entire village bringing gifts to the home of the deceased. The family must entertain their visitors with food and music. A tower is constructed to bear the body to the location for cremation. The more important the individual, the larger the tower.
The day I landed in Bali was the cremation of the Ubud King, Ida Dewa Agung Peliatan IX. There had not been a royal cremation for nearly a hundred years. What incredible luck! His tower had eleven tiers and was over 82 feet tall. The ten ton structure was carried for almost two miles by hundreds of men. Bearing the weight of such a heavy structure, the men were replaced frequently. Power lines had to be removed so that the tower could process through the streets of Ubud. The procession had the ambiance of a Macy’s Day Parade. Vendors sold balloons, pinwheels, food and handicrafts to the tourists. It was another feeding frenzy of buying and selling. A huge sarcophagus in the shape of white bull was decorated with golden necklaces and headdress, and stood on a carved gold canopied platform. With the bull was placed an enormous crowned snake-like dragon. All were to be incinerated with the body of the King. Before the fire was lit at sunset, the priests prayed and anointed the body with holy water. Thousands of people came to watch. I was there as well. I am a lucky, lucky girl. The King’s cremation was a fortune. It made the cost of a bar mitzvah or a wedding pale in comparison. Ida Dewa Agung Peliatan IX went into the next lifetime in style.
Erik drank his red wine and contemplated the afterlife. He was not a fan of any organized religion, but was a fan of Nostradamus. Deli Cat closed, and the staff left us on the porch with wine refills and the candle still burning as midnight turned into the next day. Erik explained his personal philosophy. We were part of a grand and complex cosmos, watched over by aliens. There was no heaven or hell. We made our own heaven and hell. Our relationship to the divine being was a personal one, and required no church or religious ceremony, no offerings or appeasements. The aliens were advanced beings that had learned to live in other dimensions, in other vibrations. A shift in life as we know it was closer at hand. We would have to learn how to shift into new vibrations ourselves.
My friend compared the aliens to Angels. I clung to the power of group prayer and my experience with miracles and faith. I described my trip to Burundi, Africa, and how Christianity had done so much for that beautiful but war torn country. Erik finally allowed that there might be exceptions to his philosophy. Perhaps I had experienced the one exception. We finished the wine and remarked that our discussion needed to be continued before my month in Indonesia came to an end. The night and the day had flown by as had my November in Bali. I would be leaving soon.
I rode back home on the back of my friend’s scooter with my hair blowing in the night air. The heat of the day had vanished. The rain had stopped. When we reached my house, and the motor of the cycle was turned off, the Tokay could be heard in chorus with the smaller geckos. I thought of angels and aliens, offerings and services, priests and fortunetellers, as I walked in the darkness.
We are all bound by our humanity. If a cremation purifies your soul and your life has been a good one, then blessings to you. If you leave a Sunday service and don’t forget the poor you encounter on the way to lunch, or golf, or the beach, then blessings to you as well. If aliens or angels protect you on your way through this life, then you definitely are blessed. Afterlife, rebirth, new vibrations, heaven, or hell; unless we are blessed by the tiny line beneath our pinky to live to be one hundred years old, we will know the answers soon enough. Why sweat it now?
I walked down the dark, rocky drive to my villa. There were three offerings of colorful flowers placed in a tiny square palm tray on the top step in front of my kitchen door. I had rats in the lower terrace earlier in the afternoon. I mentioned my concern to the housekeeper. Offerings to good spirits are placed in shrines or upon decorated bamboo poles. Offerings placed on the ground are meant to appease evil spirits. In the absence of traps, the Orkin man, or a cat, I hoped these offerings would work. I said my prayer as I gingerly stepped over the flowers that lay on the ground. Keep me safe through the night, Oh Lord. I went inside to huddle in my bed beneath the mosquito net until the morning came, and I woke again to a new day.

Alone- Part 4

I had dinner last night with George Orwell in a small Balinese-style restaurant on the main street of Ubud. I learned about his philosophy. I laughed too loudly when he described the horrible, exhausting struggle of writing, comparing it to a long bout with a painful illness. Writing and painting are very similar. I had been painting that day in the garden of the villa where I am staying this month. I was sipping on a glass of wine in celebration of the long and painful painting illness that I had just survived. I toasted George, for his insight, his beautifully crafted words, and the fact that he was my night’s dinner companion. I laughed again as he described writers as vain, selfish, and lazy. He noted that they were driven by an unknown demon that can neither be resisted nor understood. Cheers, George. You got it. I put down my wine glass and turned the page of his book. I could not be happier, sharing my satay with such a renowned author. His book was a gift from a new friend on Bali. When I am finished, someone will appear who will want and need to have dinner with George too. I will pass my gift on.
Seven months ago, I was on a tour bus in Bali heading to the volcano Batur, where I was to have lunch. Although I was with a dive group from Seattle, I was alone. I sat with the only child on our tour. All of the other adults were in pairs. She liked my attention, and I like kids. As our guide, Made, talked into his microphone and described the rice paddies we were passing, I noticed a large cabochon ruby ring on his finger. It was set in the yellowest of gold and was sizable enough to be worthy of the Smithsonian’s gem collection. The brilliance of his ring washed away his monologue. I could not hear his words. I could only see his ring. When he paused, I complimented his ruby. He thanked me and told me the story of his treasure.
In broken English, he relayed that while visiting his temple, the priest had found a large ruby. Made was not specific. Perhaps it had been a gift to the temple. While Made presented his personal gift of offerings, the priest handed him the ruby and said it belonged to him. I was amazed. Such a precious stone, one that would have been the show piece of any Seattle jewelry store, was given to a man of limited means and without any thought of compensation. Made spoke into his microphone with little flair, as if this was just another day in his life. He had a jewelry maker design the setting. I commented with a chuckle that his children must be thrilled with the thought of inheriting such a prize. My thoughts had wandered back to Seattle and the Last Will and Testament that lay tucked in my safe in the event of my death. Made tilted his head back and laughed in a high pitched giggle typical of Balinese men. No. This ring was his, until it was time came that it was no longer his. Then he would pass it on to another.
Such a simple thought devoid of greed. I had a similar experience. The day before Palm Sunday in 2008 was a particularly rough day for me. I was in the middle of my divorce. That Saturday ended with a flurry of emails that left me with a feeling of helplessness. My husband had photographed and counted the candlesticks, as well as all of our possessions, down to the Halloween and Easter decorations. Nineteen pairs of candlesticks. Half of the Halloween decorations? I felt emptied.
The next day I was accompanying my niece as she went shopping in Palm Springs. I had been looking for something special to wear on my left hand, but was afraid to spend any money. I wanted a Greek ring to replace my wedding band. My mother’s family was from Greece. I watched my niece trying on jewelry, as I chatted with a stranger at the counter. After purchasing several pieces for his girlfriend, he insisted on buying something for me. Despite my objections, he chose an expensive ring and handed his credit card to the clerk. This ring was designed by a Greek artist and looked nothing like a wedding band. It was exactly what I had wanted. It had a cross of topaz in the center. I tried not to take it. He handed me a small shopping bag tied with a ribbon. The transaction was complete. The gift was given. It was what I wanted, on the day that I needed it most.
I spent months looking for the stranger to thank him and send him a gift in return. I never could track him down. I wear the ring every day as a reminder that God will provide, and that I will be safe. It is my ring until it is no longer mine. When the time comes, I will pass it on. It is not my gift to keep. The gift for me will be giving it away. Whether gifts comes from a Hindu temple or a jewelry counter in Palm Springs on Palm Sunday, I am convinced that we are all connected through the gifts we give to others. Some gifts are expensive treasures like rubies or Greek rings. Some gifts are simple as a smile.
My waiter stopped at my table to pour more water. I read his name tag. He was Wayan, He asked where I was from. I placed George Orwell on the table and smiled at Wayan. He smiled too. He was eager to use his English in conversation. I told him that I was from Seattle. His smile hung on his face without changing. America, I continued. He brightened and told me that he had a friend in America. I introduced myself by name, and we shook hands. He explained the meaning of his name. He was the first born in his family. The Balinese have four names. It does not matter if the child is a boy or girl. Their name reflects the birth order in the family. Wayan was proud of being the first. I loved his smile. I explained that Microsoft, Bill Gates, and Starbucks came from where I lived. His smile never changed, and thus I was sure that he did not know to what I was referring. However, he was enjoyed our connection. We shook hands again, and I told him how pleased I was to meet him. I assured him that we would meet again. I returned George Orwell to my backpack, and headed down the stairs from the restaurant and onto the sidewalk.
The evening had grown dark while I had been at dinner. I was not particularly interested in wending my way home with my small flash light. The sidewalks dip and rise like a mountain chain. They are littered with offerings. Walking the streets of Ubud is like traversing an obstacle course. My villa is on a street with no sidewalks. Jalan Sandat is a rocky dirt road with few street lights. Chickens roam free and fighting roosters crow from their bamboo cages. Bali street dogs are everywhere, and at night their barking scares me. I have been told that they will not bite, but I have also been told that rabies is a new problem. I chose not to get the rabies inoculation before traveling to Indonesia. I was feeling vulnerable.
There was a crowd of men standing on the corner of Ubud’s main road and my dark side street. They looked up and stared at me as I approached. Their motor scooters were parked in disarray by the sidewalk. Could anyone give me a lift to the end of Jalan Sandat? What? Two thousand-five hundred Rupiah. Two dollars and fifty cents. Sidewalk robbery! I negotiated the price down to two dollars. I was desperate and did not want to walk by the dogs that I heard snarling in the distance. As I hopped on the back of a scooter, a stockier man approached. I could not understand his sentence above the revving of the engine. Cremation? Yes, I was at the Cremation the first day when I arrived. He smiled broadly. I remember you, he said. You were at the Cremation of the King. Yes I was. You remember me? He tilted his head back and laughed. Yes. I responded that he had a wonderful memory, and that I was sorry that I had not recognized him. I was so tired for having traveled for 32 hours to get to Bali. His smile seemed to say that he did not understand me. My name is Tula, and I held out my hand. He grabbed my hand and introduced himself as Made. He was number two in his family. I told him that Made had picked me up from the airport that day, and he laughed. He said if I needed another ride to come and find him. He pointed to the store closest to the corner of the main road. This was his home, above the snack shop. He lived on Jalon Sandat as well. We were neighbors. We both smiled. I waved goodbye as my motorcycle roared off. The dogs were barking while I sped away, up the dirt road thinking about all of the interesting connections in life.
The first place that I visited upon arriving in Ubud, was the high speed internet café at the corner of Jalon Sandat and the main road, the main source of connections in Bali. I wanted to chat with my friends back home. The café is air-conditioned, serves lattes that can rival a Starbucks, and attracts Expats from around the island. At each table are two chairs that face each other. I settled into my chair and connected my net book. As I sipped my coffee, I looked up to see a handsome man smiling across from me. I asked where he was from. California. We were both Americans and both from the west coast. We laughed at the coincidence. He asked me how long I was staying in Bali and why I had decided to come alone for a month. I told him that I was in search of connections, to see if Indonesia was a place that I might return to live. I wanted to see what role I could play if I lived in Bali. I had already met a friend from the internet who had spent the past twelve years of his life devoting himself to the orphans of the island. He was to show me around.
I continued on. I also love to paint, write, and scuba dive. He smiled again. He was a scuba diver. Although he would be leaving for Napa Valley in a couple of days, he had time to go diving one more time before he left. He would make the arrangements, and we could discuss them that night at the trivia contest at the Fly Café. Lots of Expats would be there. It was guaranteed to be lots of fun. Just grab a scooter and be there by 8:30.
I had been in town for hours. I had a dive buddy and someplace to be on a Friday night. I remained at the Internet café and talked with a Canadian realtor who ran a Bali bookmobile program and supported a medical clinic. I listened to the discourse from a retired analyst who was convinced that the monetary system was soon to collapse and recommended buying gold despite the current high selling price. I agreed with the students from Ireland and France that Bali would be a great place to be if all hell broke loose.
I remained in the café for most of the afternoon. I got the scoop on island life from the next group of expats connecting to friends across the globe. I was told that there are three groups of foreigners living in Ubud. Everyone had been reduced to a stereotype. The hippies, health nuts, and spiritual ones meet at a café nearby. A finger pointed to the window toward the left. They love to meditate and do yoga. There will be a meditation festival next week in the soccer field near the palace. They would all be there. I thought of Eat, Pray, Love. The second group was the European intellectuals. They meet at a restaurant farther away off the main road. They drink a lot and think they are smart. They love to discuss books and politics. They are mostly from Germany and Holland. Then there are the artists, writers, and Australians. They drink a lot as well. It was decided by the internet café crowd that I was one of these. I tried to explain that I didn’t drink much and couldn’t see myself fitting into any stereotype. No. It had been agreed upon. I would be a perfect Aussie drinking artist writer. They meet at the Fly Café just beyond the statue on Friday nights for a wild game of trivia. Hey, maybe they were right. I had already planned to go there that night. Everyone shook hands, smiled, and wished each other a happy day. I headed out to explore the sidewalks. I waved to the men smoking on the corner by their motor scooters. Made dropped his cigarette and smiled. Sorry number two. Don’t need a lift today. Thanks anyway.
I had come to Bali by myself, but I did not feel alone. I arrived at the Fly Café with my new dive buddy calling my name to join his table. I was introduced to my team of trivia competitors. They were called the Big Lebowski’s which is one of my favorite movies. This was a definite fit. Tonight however, the group’s name had been changed. Because of a tennis match being aired on television, many people had not shown up to play. The team was much smaller than usual. They needed me. We were now the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers. I like these people. They are funny.
By the end of the competition, I had connected to another close friend, a beautiful woman who had come to Bali to teach English. I wanted to be a teacher too. We planned to meet for brunch and discuss the process for getting certified to teach English abroad. The puzzle pieces of my life were fitting together, one at a time. Perhaps this part came from a stack of pieces carved in Indonesia.
Conversations continued around the table. My dive buddy had met me before. One year ago I had been in his shop in northern California. My nephew had designed his website. After a tour of wineries in Napa, we had stopped by his design shop to do business. Now I was about to go diving half way around the world with someone I did not know that I knew. If you miss a connection, sometimes you have the opportunity to make it again. Life is wonderful that way.
One connection seems to lead to another, like synapses firing off each other in the brain. Connections expand like a web reaching out and growing from one thing that it touches to another. Trivia night with the artists, writers, and Australians, led me to Wednesday Movie Night at the home next to my villa. When Lauren Bacall finished kissing Cary Grant in the Alfred Hitchcock film, Notorious, and I could barely contain my romantic sigh. My new movie loving friends felt the same way. Before the evening was over, I found myself with plans to attend Saturday Trivia Night with the Dutch at Ubud’s romantic hideaway restaurant, Han Snell. I had crossed over into the Expat’s second group.
Han Snell was a Dutch artist. He died in 1998. He had been sent to Indonesia as a soldier to fight the nationalist, and defected to their side. He lived in Bali as a painter from 1950, became an Indonesian citizen. This had been his restaurant. Now after winning Saturday Trivia with a charming Dutch Expat from Holland, I was sharing dinner with his family in Han Snell. They had all been friends of the famous artist. His daughter is the current owner of the restaurant. Before they drove me home to number thirty Jalon Sandat, I was invited to world’s best spa, where my new friend, the owner, worked in the daytime as the general manager. The world’s best spa? I am a person of superlatives. I could hardly wait. I had been the only person from the Wednesday night movie to attend Saturday Trivia. I was not about to miss a connection.
Movie Night also provided the introduction to my third group of friends, the hippie spiritual healthy eaters. Before the film began and Cary Grant took my breath away, I introduced myself to a fascinating French woman drinking a glass of red wine. She wore several beaded necklaces, a flowing vest over her sheer top, and multiple bangle bracelets. She was an artist and a writer, and had lived in Bali for years. She handed me her card. I told her how I loved being in Paris for Christmas and New Years. I raved about French food. I listened as she spoke with her flowing French accent. She would be covering the meditation festival on Saturday. Do I meditate? Would I care to join her? If not, go to the painting workshop on Saturday morning. There would be a live nude model. The model was a ballet dancer. All the artists in Ubud would be there. The studio was just around the corner from Jalon Sandat. She could not come because of the festival, but we would find a time to go out into the countryside to plein air paint together soon.
She told me of a yoga class that met in her friend’s home. It was run by a famous instructor whose books had sold millions of copies. There are two students in the class, but I could come too. It was alright that I could not touch my toes. Yes, it was even alright that I cannot touch me knees. She would bring a mat for me. I need only bring a sarong and show up. I will show up. That is what I do in life now.
Everyone I met has been surprised that I have no card or cell phone. Do I not want to be connected? You must get a cell phone. I laugh. I have a deposit slip with me. Feel free to make a deposit anytime. I can walk down to the internet café. I have the movie night, and two trivia nights. I have been invited to the monthly Bali Women’s club luncheon by a founding member. I have been asked to volunteer at the private English speaking school in Ubud. I have cards for clinics, bookmobiles, and resale shops that benefit the handicapped. My teacher friend and I are responsible for the turkey and dressing at the Expat Thanksgiving dinner. I also have the street corners with the waiting drivers and the smiling waiters at the restaurants throughout Ubud. And there are always the orphanages. I have promised to go back. In my busy life, it is important to return there with a gift of hugs, and the willingness to listen.
Am I alone on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean, exactly twelve hours ahead of New York, where I know not a single soul? Not at all. The French couple from the small flat at the entrance to number 30 Jalan Sandat has moved in with me. They had to leave their flat as it was rented to two teachers who have come to Ubud for a couple of weeks. My new French roommates live in India. They moved to be close to their spiritual teacher and have taken on Indian names. They have to leave their country every six months as a requirement to renew their visa. Health care is also excellent in India. I was told by Hiadas, that Shanti needs to be there. She is dying. The housekeeper tells me that she has some form of cancer. My French is limited as is their English. We communicate mostly with smiles. I do not know the details of her disease. She is in a wheel chair, and he lovingly cares for her. I have watched him gather flower blossoms that have fallen from the trees on Jalon Sandat to bring home to her. He floats them in a bowl of water to see her smile.
My villa is large. There is plenty of space for a wheel chair to maneuver, and there is a beautiful lotus pond by which to sit. They are paying me to be here. I feel embarrassed taking their money, but the owner of the villas negotiated the deal. He did not want me giving away my privacy for free. He did not know that I have come to Bali in order to make connections. For the next week or so, Shanti, Haidas and I will sit by the pond and listen to the roosters, the lizards, and the barking dogs. We are surrounded by the loud hum of life reverberating from the jungle and the small rocky road outside of our gate.
The Tokay Gecko calls his name from the thick greenery that forms the invisible walls of the villa. Tokay, Tokay. To the Balinese, the voice of a lizard is the voice of God. In any serious discussion, God’s support or anger is determined by the response of the lizard that calls from the distance. Bali must be blessed because the lizards cry continually. The Tokay is the loudest.
I think I will paint a portrait of Shanti for Haidas. Maybe that is why they have moved in with me. Tokay, Tokay. Today will be a good day.

People and Fish- Part 3

One of my greatest adventures in 2010 was learning to scuba dive. I have always been in love with people. Before I learned to dive, I did not know how much I loved fish. Once you see what lies beneath the surface, you life is changed forever. Isn’t that always the way? Below the waves waits Bob the Grouper. He hangs by the shallow Caribbean corals off the coast of Little Cayman Island in hopes that divers will swim by and stoke his scales. There is nothing like feeling the skin of a living fish suspended in water. There is nothing like diving.
After my slow start as a scuba diver in the cold water of the Puget Sound, I found myself on a trip to the Wakatobi Resort in Indonesia. I had a rudimentary idea of where I was going. Indonesia was somewhere above Australia. I had never heard of Sulawesi, the enormous U-shaped Island to the west and only knew of Bali to the south, through books and Hollywood films. The day I walked into my dive shop to inquire about dive locations, one precious space opened up on the trip to Indonesia. There had been a cancelation. It was the scuba adventure of a lifetime. I wrote a big fat check and tried to submerge the fear of traveling to the other side of the globe with strangers. Something was calling me. I was not about to miss it.
The location was exotic. The Wakatobi Dive Resort is situated on Tolandono, one of a circle of islands called Tukang Besi, southeast of Malaysia. The surrounding coral reefs extend for 100,000 square miles and encompass one of the largest protected marine parks in the world. From the air, the reefs look like a glass marble, swirls of turquoise, green, and blue. The scuba divers who stared down at the coral reefs below were awestruck. It is reassuring that nature such as this exists, and the excitement was tangible. We watched uninhabited jungle islands pass beneath us. The round dark tops of palm trees formed thick unbroken masses from shoreline to shoreline. There were no huts or roads to break the lush green vegetation. We felt lucky to be visiting a place that few tourists find. Places such as these are where divers go.
The plane landed at a tiny private airport. We were loaded into several ramshackle vans and driven through narrow island dirt roads past cinderblock style houses. Small children ran to the road to watch the vans pass. We hiked down the stone steps to our waiting resort boat. We watch the sea gypsies swim beside the dock. The sea gypsies are the Indonesian homeless who live on the water throughout the archipelago. We were handed pink welcoming drinks and iced towels to wipe the sweat from our faces. Ours is not the life of most Indonesians. The children waved to us as we slip away into the darker blue water.
Wakatobi Dive Resort looks like the set from Gilligan’s Island. The waves lap against the narrow white sand beach where tall palms curve down and back up again, reaching for the sky. The smell of sea salt and jungle fill the air. We put down our drinks and made our way along shell lined paths to our bungalows. We had barely arrived, and it was time for our first dive. We rushed into our wetsuits to explore the house reef, one of the best in the world.
We only swam a few meters when the underworld magic of this coral reef was revealed. We released our air and sank below the surface to have a closer look. Like an underwater garden, the reef bloomed in color, shape, and texture. Everything was alive with activity. What appeared to be a feathery green and black fern was an animal reaching for food in the passing current. What seemed to be a sediment rock was a deadly stonefish waiting for prey. Anemones of pink or orange sheltered fish of matching colors. Camouflage and color is the way of life for creatures beneath the surface of the sea. Schools of dazzling striped or spotted fish swam around us. Some fish were both striped and spotted, as if the decision made at their creation was a jumbled error. I was amazed and gasped in my regulator, not for air, but in joy for the viewing the reef for the first time. I had been at Wakatobi for a matter of hours, and I had seen incredible things.
Divers seek tiny creatures like a treasure hunt, peering under ledges on rocks for slugs in brilliant blue and yellow. We hovered beside pink fan coral with magnifying glasses in search of pygmy sea horses. We strained our eyes at the sand looking for crocodile fish buried for protection. The moray eels yawned their jaws to display their teeth as we drifted on the current near their hiding holes. All the while the goby fish peered at us to see if we were predators while his enlisted shrimp dug his hole. Life continued nonstop in the ocean while we, for as long as our air allowed, watched and learned.
Nowhere is there a more beautiful place than a dive site named for ancient Rome. In Roma the giant barrel sponges look like the ruins of Pompei. At the bottom of a ridge, a giant cabbage coral grows in the shape of an enormous pink rose. As we swam in humble respect for the underwater Indonesian landscape we were experiencing, a school of large silver snapper swam by. Then quickly to our side, a regiment of bright blue fusiliers darted in precision across the rose.
Oh the fishies, the beautiful fishies. My instructor, Marielle, laughed at my pleasure as she wrote the names of fish on her slate. We could not speak. We had regulators in our mouths to keep the air flowing and us alive. Without the use of spoken words, we communicated to each other with our hands. We tapped our chests to tell each other how much we appreciated the unique sights that drifted by.
It is a bonding experience to engage in a life threatening activity with another person. A diver does not dive without his buddy. It is a dive buddy’s responsibility to make sure that his partner is safe. Every few minutes you make eye contact with your buddy and signal with your fingers the message, Are you OK? If only relationships were that caring above the water’s surface on the land, every few minutes someone looking and checking to see, are you OK? Eyes beside you that watch closely for your response. Yes, I am OK for now.
A diver can easily get narced. This is the slang for nitrogen narcosis, when too much nitrogen had gathered in your blood. One of the first symptoms can be a lack of focus or perhaps giddiness. As I swam circles like a mermaid and chased fleeting turtles, Marielle was always watching. If I became narced, she was ready to help me to the surface and share her life sustaining air. The lessons of scuba can extend beyond the water, to the eyes of those in need with whom we have contact. Are you OK for now? Let me know, and I will be there to help if you need me.
Returning home from such a beautiful place with such great need was difficult. I knew that one day I would return to Indonesia. In the mean time, I began diving in the Puget Sound. Diving in a drysuit is much more difficult than in warm tropical waters. It is difficult to achieve neutral buoyancy with the addition of quilted undergarments, rubber boots, huge gloves, a thick hood and thirty-two pounds of extra weight. Air is added to the suit itself for warmth against the nearly freezing temperatures. This must be regulated. Visibility is limited. Having a dive buddy close at hand is essential.
Darrell is my instructor at Elliot Bay. He is patient and supportive, generous with his compliments and encouragement. He loves to share what he finds beneath the surf with other divers. While most people feasted on calamari over the water at Seattle’s famous Seafood Restaurant, Salty’s, a hand full of divers submerged below the surface to see the North Pacific Giant Octopus that lives twenty meters away. Hidden under submerged boats and artificial reefs, these enormous creatures lazily eye their visitors with their ten foot tentacles as the rest on bottom of the bay. Darrell and I paused on the bottom as well, watching in amazement at the very existence of such an incredible animal. Darrell grabbed a large orange Sea Star and placed it on my head, like a fancy Easter bonnet and then snapped a photo. I laughed in my regulator. Darrell constantly checked my eyes behind the lens of my mask. Are you OK? Let me know if you are OK. We were here together to make sure that we were both safe on this day’s journey in the salt water of the Sound. That’s how it goes when you dive together. Hey Darrell, I am more than OK. I am fabulous. I took off my orange Sea Star bonnet and looked for more treasures in the deep.
I am reluctant to quote Blanch Dubois, “that I have always relied on the kindness of strangers,” but in June, through strangers on Face Book, I met a group of divers heading to the Caribbean. Again there had been a cancellation. One precious spot remained on a trip to the Cayman Islands, and it was offered to me. I jumped at the chance to see more warm water coral reefs. I had been the Caymans only once before, and it was not to dive.
In 1998, several women asked me to join them on a golfing trip to Grand Cayman Island during the November Pirate’s Week. When we landed at the airport, were handed rum drinks by costumed revelers. The party had begun, before we ever reached baggage claim. The leader of our group knew how to party. She owned a condo with her lover on Cayman, along with a bank account where we assumed that money was hidden without scrutiny from the IRS and his ex wife. This trip was doomed before it began. Upon reflection, I am not surprised. Far to the east, storm clouds were gathering.
We landed at night and awoke in the morning to a beautiful narrow white beach. The sky was dark with what appeared to be the typical tropical storm. It was too rainy to play golf, so we played cards instead in the afternoon and headed to dinner for more parting. We were not about to miss a moment of Pirate’s Week. The next day at the pool, we chatted with a group of divers from New Jersey. They had just chartered an airplane to leave the island that afternoon. They were cutting their dive vacation short because of a Hurricane named Mitch that was on the way. I looked around. The rain had stopped. Where was the hurricane? I asked how much it cost to charter a plane. They asked me how much my life was worth and laughed. I began to feel uneasy.
We went into George Town to discuss the storm over fried clams and beer. I looked into the harbor and explained with authority to my buddies that the Navy vessel moored in the bay was a guarantee that we need not be concerned. When hurricanes approached, the Navy always moved their ships to sea. We clicked our beer glasses to calm waters and par golf, when all of a sudden, the Navy ship turned and headed to sea. Mitch was on the way, and the military was not taking any chances.
After learning that all return flights home were booked, and that we would be staying on Cayman for our first hurricane, we looked for candles, matches and flash lights in our holiday condo. None were to be found. The grocery store was nearly as vacant. What had been an aisle filled with loaves of bread a day and a half earlier, was barren. Shoppers were swarming through the aisles grabbing any food and supplies they could find. We managed to buy a few candles and some batteries for the sole remaining flashlight that we triumphantly claimed for our own.
Grand Cayman Island is a sandbar in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. The news had reached Seattle that a category five storm was nearing the island. Husbands were calling, concerned about Mitch. They wanted us to leave. There were no planes left to charter. Our host’s lover warned of being too low to the ground in their condo, or too high up in a hotel room if we were to rent one. Everyone else received calls from Seattle, pleas to head to the airport and find a plane. Where was my dive buddy to ask if I was OK? I called home. No worries. You’ll be OK. It’s just a storm.
The television and radio blared continual reports throughout the night as to Mitch’s location. It was predicted to be a direct hit. All foreigners were to be evacuated out immediately. We dragged our unopened golf bags and our suitcases to the airport at 5 AM and watched the palms that lined the tarmac bend flat to the ground in the rushing winds. Huddled on the floor, we waited for our names to be called. Yes. It was our turn to leave. The early morning had turned into late afternoon, and we were finally getting our chance to go home, away from the storm. We did not care that United Airlines was flying us to Miami on an Aeroflot jet. As I gripped the armrest in the wind of our departure, I thought about the people remaining behind on the floor, and the natives who were not being flown to safely. I am going to be OK. Are you?
On my return twelve years later, I was pleased to see that Mitch had spared the Cayman Islands. Only one dive boat was lost in the storm. Mitch decided to turn at the last moment and do his worst to the Spanish speaking countries of Honduras, Nicaragua, and Guatemala.
Now I was back again. I met my new dive buddies at the Grand Cayman Airport. Pirate week and free airport rum drinks were still five months away. Little Cayman rested quietly off the shore of its bigger sister, waiting for the few arriving divers who flew in to enjoy the reefs and the wrecks. I was immediately welcomed by a friendly group of gregarious divers from North Carolina. They were the Gypsies and were happy to welcome a new member. No problem that you traveled here alone. We will all be your dive buddies.
The experienced divers heaped praises on my skill, boosting my confidence, and gently made suggestions to improve my diving ability. They were always checking to see if I was OK on land as well as underwater. They called my name as I entered the bar to come and join them for drinks. They made sure there was a seat at the dinner table, so that I would never dine alone. I was part of their diving family, a Gypsy Diver too.
This is where I met Bob. I was swimming along the reef, minding my own business, when Bob decided to swim along. He nuzzled below me and did not flinch when I reached down to touch his side. We had been told by our dive master that Bob would be waiting. We were instructed the proper way to pet a fish. We would damage his skin if our caresses did not follow his scales. We had to respect the innocence of a Grouper so friendly that he would let us run our hands along his sides. We had to be careful. I settled as closely to the coral below without touching the bottom, so that I could float beside Bob, as if we were lying together, side by side in a bed. Our heads were close and I cooed to him in bubbles, trying to explain how moved I was that he had decided to be there with me. He seemed for a moment to understand my English, distorted by bubbles from the regulator. Are you OK? I am more than OK as I talk with you now. Be safe from fishing nets, hooks, and sharks. I like you my friend.
I have made a promise to never eat a Grouper again. I think of Bob happily swimming on the current in the Little Cayman reef. I would hate to think that any harm would come to him. And, like the day that I was following the reef when Bob came close to swim beside me, I swim along in life day by day. Perhaps someone will join me for a while. However, there are too many wonderful things to experience while swimming, many wondrous places to go, and many people to meet, to be concerned about who is swimming and where. The current will take me along. It’s been an incredible year drifting along the reefs of the world, and there is one last reef to explore.
I have come back to Indonesia. I am in Bali, this time for a month. I am here to see if this is where I might stay for a while. I am here to make connections with the people of Indonesia. I have packed my dive equipment, my plein air palette and oils, my laptop, and my book of prayers.
I walk back and forth along the long rocky road each night, and back and forth again each morning. On one end of my street lives an old and famous Balinese artist. He has invited me to join him for coffee. At end of the main road, in the opposite direction, is a scuba shop. They are waiting for me to call and return for another dive to a remote and exotic underwater location.
At every corner of the street, and in between, on every road in Ubud, sit the poor, asking to take me on the back of their scooters for twenty cents, so that I won’t have to walk by myself alone down the rocky road. They sleep in the backs of their trucks and smoke on the curbs in front of the few shops that stay open twenty-four hours a day in hopes of a customer. They are polite and always smile. Their smiles belie their true feelings of hunger or despair.
Twenty cents for a ride. Twenty cents that would lie discarded on an American road, walked over by those who pass by, too lazy to bend down and pick up such an insignificant amount of money. On my way home from dinner I am asked at least thirty times if I could use a ride. No thank you. I am OK. I do not need a ride. I am fine on my own, walking on my way alone. Are you OK tonight? Are you OK this morning? What can I do to help you?