Tales of a Female Nomad (26 page)

Tu Man is taken aback by the thought that his children might not belong to him. After a moment of silence, he says, in a voice deep with wisdom, “Well, if divorce happened, she could have one of the children and I would keep the other.”

I smile and take his hand. “I am honored by your proposal. I will ask Jan and write you a letter.”

I go back to my room and pack my Indonesian dictionary.

The first thing I do when I get to my mother’s house is call Jan and tell her that a prince has asked her hand in marriage. Her response is, “Mom, what did you say?”

It takes me two days to write the letter. In very polite Indonesian I explain to Tu Man that I feel very sad because his offer has come when Jan is just beginning a new job and she cannot leave. “It is the American custom that young people get to know each other over a period of many months before they decide to marry. Because Jan and Tu Man (in Indonesian one uses the name of the person rather than “you”) are unable to get to know each other first, I cannot give my permission for the marriage.”

I hope he understands.

My mother’s Parkinson’s is getting worse. She needs twenty-four-hour care. Amparo can no longer do the job alone.

I also discover that most of my mother’s friends do not come any more. For most of her life, she was a leader in the community and the family member that everyone turned to. But her spirit has dimmed, her body is in the process of giving up, and I suspect it is too difficult for her colleagues and friends to witness her physical deterioration. Americans do not deal well with illnesses. People call and talk to Amparo (or me if I am there), but most of them cannot look at Mom’s tiny, weak body, though her mind is still sharp and alert. My mother is a gentle soul; she understands and forgives them.

The Hispanic community, like the Balinese community, comes from a different tradition, one that is loving and attentive to the older generation. My mother’s new community is Amparo’s family and Gera’s and their friends. From time to time I hear Mom greeting someone with “
Buenos
días.
” I think she’s enjoying the attention and the challenge.

Amparo tells me about Claudia, a friend of the family who lives in Colombia. She’s in her twenties, dying to come to the U.S., and . . . she’s a nurse. Who cares if she can’t speak English. She’ll learn.

The process of getting Claudia a work visa is long and complicated. It will take four months to get permission to bring her to the States. During those months I have a secret personal plan. I am going to train for the next leg of my journey: trekking in the mountains of Irian Jaya.

Eventually I’ll go back to Bali, but not yet. The fire that drew me to the
puri
is no longer burning. My friend, my teacher, my prince is gone.

Indonesia

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IRIAN JAYA: THE HIGHLANDS

The day Michael, the German guide, walked into the
puri
was the day I decided to visit Irian Jaya. By the time he left, I had set the date. One dinner and a lot of questions was all it took.

Irian Jaya is the western half of the island of New Guinea. I plan to get myself to the town of Wamena in the Baliem Valley, where, according to the guidebook, there are tons of guides available for treks into the mountains. I am setting aside three weeks for trekking in the highlands.

Then I’m going to meet Michael, and his group of two German men, in Wamena, and we’ll go south together. It will be the first tour I’ve ever taken, but it’s a tough trip to do on your own; you need guides and boats and places to stay in remote villages.

I tell no one about my secret plan to work on my body, but I’m very excited about it. I have resolved to diet, exercise, and work out with weights. I can close my eyes and see my new, lean, aerobically fit body, and I love it. For the first time in my life I am going to be one of those people I have read about, who hike at home for weeks, carrying weighted packs on local hills before they go off for their mountain treks. I image my new body and my increased energy, and it feels good. It’s a kind of self-blackmail. By choosing to go to the highlands, I am tricking myself into shape.

Except, I don’t do any of it. I never join a gym, I don’t diet, and I walk four times the week before I leave. That’s it.

Sometimes I really don’t understand me. I have put on a lot of weight since Mexico and I hate looking in mirrors. Photographs are even worse. Damn. Even when I set up a situation where I
have
to do it, I don’t. I have a lot to learn about facing physical challenges. When I board the plane, I am still overweight and out of shape.

The customs man at the airport in Jayapura, the capital of Irian Jaya, is about forty years old, handsome in his khaki uniform, broad shouldered with soft wavy black hair. He is wearing a nametag.

“
Selamat
pagi, Pak Sutrisna. Apa kabar?
” Good morning, Mr. Sutrisna. How are you?

He smiles at me. “You speak Indonesian.”

“Yes. I’ve been living in Bali.”

“I can hear your Balinese accent. Where are you going?”

“Wamena,” I answer.

The line behind me is at least twenty deep. Pak Sutrisna and I continue to chat. The next people in line, an American couple, are directing nasty comments toward me. The customs official doesn’t care. This is his territory; he can do what he wants. And what he wants to do is talk to me.

“I’m sorry the airport is such a mess,” he says. “When you come back, we’ll be in the new terminal.” He looks at my feet. “Those are beautiful boots. Will you sell them to me?”

My boots are leather and he’s right, they
are
beautiful. I put them on for the first time this morning.

“I can’t sell them to you. I bought them for my trek.”

“When you come back, then, after your trek, I would like to buy them.”

“They are very, very expensive. They are probably the most expensive boots in the world.”

“I want them,” he says. “How much?

“I paid 250 U.S. dollars.”

“Please come see me when you get back.”

I smile. In Indonesia, it isn’t polite to say no.

At first, I think that it would be impossible for him to find enough money to buy these boots. A starting government worker makes fifty dollars a month. But then I remember: he’s in customs, one of the most lucrative jobs in any developing country. “You must pay an extra twenty dollars to bring in diving equipment,” he can tell a tourist, and the tourist will pay. “That will be ten dollars tax for the video camera.” “There is a fee if you want to bring in the computer.”

If you protest, the customs guys can keep you sitting on a bench for hours. In the end, you’ll probably pay. You can’t appeal to his boss, because the boss is getting a cut. You don’t have any recourse, unless you speak the language. Then you just make a joke out of it and everybody laughs.

Maybe Pak Sutrisna will start his boot account this minute with the angry people behind me. They are carrying big bags filled with wetsuits, regulators, and expensive electronic depth-safety computers. There is no official charge for bringing these things in. But these tourists don’t know that. Besides, anger is
never
rewarded in Indonesia.

So, on second thought, I realize it is likely that Pak Sutrisna will have the money for my boots in less than a week. Perhaps by the end of the day.

He gives me his card. “Come see me when you get back.”

(I don’t. I wonder what he did with the money.)

I check into a motel near the airport. Tomorrow I will take another plane to Wamena. There are more than 250 tribes in Irian Jaya, many in the highlands around Wamena, each with its own customs and language. Many are still living the lives their ancestors lived, still using stone implements, hunting with bows and arrows, growing yams on the sloping hillsides. The western world didn’t even know there were people tucked into the mountains until a seaplane landed on a lake in 1938.

Today, with the ill-conceived blessing of the United Nations, the western half of New Guinea is a province of Indonesia, though the people share neither race nor history with the other Indonesians. The natives are black, of Melanesian descent, with curly hair and features similar to those of the aboriginal people of Australia. They share a race and history with the people of Papua New Guinea, the independent country that is the eastern half of the island.

The Indonesians, on the other hand, are light brown with straight hair, and they are thought to be of Polynesian descent. Wherever you go in the towns and cities of Irian Jaya, there are “straight-haired” people. They are the soldiers, sent by the government, many of whom consider the natives savages and animals. They are the police, who are said to beat up the indigenous people for fun. They are the transmigrants, whom the government is bringing over by the thousands from other islands. And the businesspeople, who are nearly all from somewhere else. Irian Jaya feels like an occupied land.

The indigenous people talk of massacres and land theft and destruction of holy places. They are angry. Some talk about amassing guns and infiltrating the police. But logic suggests that the Indonesian government will win. The government is the police and the army; the arsenals are theirs.

My next-door neighbors in the motel are three women. Ursula and Teresia are from Austria, both single and in their thirties. Their friend, Elsa, is a white woman from Namibia. The three of them met in Borneo a couple of years ago. We are all planning to trek in the highlands, and we’re booked on the same flight to Wamena.

We arrive at the departure terminal early. So do dozens of other travelers. The room is small and crowded, stuffed with mostly European backpackers. Indonesian is the only language coming over the screeching audio system that squashes the words until they come out an incoherent jumble of sounds. I can’t understand a word.

The time for our flight comes and goes. The flight doesn’t. No one knows what’s happening; all we know is that none of the scheduled flights is taking off.

I climb through the bodies and backpacks that are flopped and strewn all over the floor and find my way to a uniformed man in an office. I lean in, smiling. “
Selamat
siang, Pak. Apa kabar?
” Good day, sir. How’s it going?

Teri—his name is pinned to his khaki shirt—smiles. “You speak Indonesian. Please sit down. Where are you from?”

“Originally from America,” I say. “But I have been living in Bali for a number of years. And you?”

“I’m from Sumatra,” Teri answers.

I ask him what his job is, and he tells me that he is the man in charge of flight scheduling. Bingo!

While the noise of chaos spills through the door, we talk about families, lives, and jobs. After about ten minutes of chatting (one never goes straight for the heart), I ask about the flights into Wamena.

“
Pintu
tutup,
” he smiles. The door is shut, meaning clouds are covering the gap in the mountains that leads into the valley. There will be no flights today. There had been none the day before. The passengers are accumulating.

“Maybe tomorrow. We never know,” he says. “Sometimes the clouds lift for just an hour. We’re only half an hour away, but clouds are unpredictable. As soon as we get the call, we take off. Your ring is very beautiful,” he adds.

“Thank you,” I say and stretch my hand out so he can see it close up.

Two days’ worth of people, six flights’ worth of passengers will be carried over into a third day. The logistics of getting everyone out is mind boggling. As far as I know, there are no extra planes, and each new day brings three new full flights for possible cancellation. It is going to be chaotic when the “door” finally opens.

Teresia, Ursula, Elsa, and I find a Chinese restaurant for dinner and talk until midnight. The next day we are back in the airport with three days’ worth of waiting passengers. I stick my head back into the office. “Good morning, Teri, how are you?”

“
Rita,
selamat pagi. Silahkan, duduk.
” Good morning. Please, sit down.

We talk some more . . . about Bali, about America, about my beautiful ring that I bought in Bali for two dollars.

The call comes in while I am sitting there. The clouds have lifted. The first plane in three days will take off immediately. “I have three friends with me,” I say as I hand him the ring.

“Go quickly to the desk over there and give them this paper.” He writes some numbers down. Please come see me when you get back. Maybe we can have dinner.”

“Sure,” I say. “We’re engaged now.”

I don’t think he gets it, but we laugh, shake hands, and nod heads. The plane, with the four of us among the passengers, takes off a few minutes later.

When we get to Wamena, we arrange the trek. Like Edmund Hillary before he climbed Mount Everest, we assemble our team: Merinus, the guide; a cook; five porters (one for each of us and one for the cook). Because I speak Indonesian we are able to hire a non-English-speaking guide at half the price of the bilingual guides.