Tales of a Female Nomad (35 page)

About five stops after I get on the bus, a withered woman in her eighties sits behind me and announces to everyone on the bus that she lost her husband last year and she’s been sick ever since. The doctors are too dumb to figure out what’s wrong with her. She can’t afford the medicine they’ve told her to buy. And she hurts all the time.

“This country doesn’t care about its old people,” she screams. Everyone is avoiding her glance.

I turn around and say to her, “I’m so sorry you’re hurting. You are absolutely right about medicines. These days no one can afford to buy them.”

“You know,” she says, softer but still loud enough for everyone to hear, “all over the world countries provide health care for their people. And here we are, the richest country in the world, and our government doesn’t care what happens to people when they get old and sick. Remember when Hillary Clinton had a plan for universal health care? Now there’s a smart lady. She cares. Where is the conscience of our Congress?”

The woman is astonishingly articulate and her argument is lucid. I wonder when she lost touch and began ranting. Who was she forty years ago? Or even three? How did she get to this place? She gets off before I do. I say good-bye and wish her luck.

REI is fun. I wander for about two hours, picking out a blue Gore-Tex parka and a pair of Teva sandals. (I’ve been here only five months and already I’m buying labels!) When I’m ready to go, I stand in the cashier’s line and put my purchases on the counter.

She smiles sweetly as I reach into my book bag for my wallet. It isn’t there.

At first I suspect it’s been stolen; but when I think about it, I realize that the book bag has never left my sight. The more I think, the clearer it becomes. My wallet is sitting on the counter at home. I took it out of the book bag to get the bus change and I never put it back in. And then it hits me. I don’t have the bus fare to get home.

Jan is an REI member and I have her number. I ask the cashier if she can charge $1.25 to Jan’s membership number and give me bus fare.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she says. “I can’t do that.”

I ask where the customer relations desk is and I take my purchases to put on hold. My head is spinning. I don’t even have a quarter to make a phone call, but it doesn’t matter because there’s no one I can call. And it’s too far to walk.

I’m going to have to beg for this money. But from whom? Maybe the other customers, who can certainly afford to give me $1.25. Then I realize that they will probably try to avoid my eyes, like the people on the bus avoided that other woman. I look at my appearance and realize I could easily pass for a homeless person. I am wearing sweatpants and a worn purple jacket, the one we wrapped that dying baby in more than a year ago.

Maybe I should go outside and find a cop. I wonder how many hard-up middle-aged women approach cops every day for money. Maybe I should just get on a bus and plead with the driver.

I think again about the old woman on the bus. She was just ranting. I’m going to be begging!

I get to the customer relations desk and stand in line. First I give the young woman my purchases and ask her to hold them for me. Then I tell her my story and ask if she can charge $1.25 to Jan’s membership number and give me the money.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sweetly. “I can’t do that.”

Oh, God. This is really happening; I’m not imagining it! I look around at all the people and I feel so alone, so alienated. Here in Seattle, in the U.S., in this upscale sporting goods store, I am the outsider.

I’m going to give it one last shot. I ask for the manager of the department. She points to José, a young man two lines over. When I get to the front of his line, I tell him my story and make the same request.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. Then he reaches in his pocket and takes out $1.25.

An hour and a half later, I return to REI with his money, a credit card, and a note to the store manager about the kindness of José. I wonder if he has any idea how much that meant to me.

While I’m in Seattle, the news of the economic disaster sweeping Southeast Asia breaks. Indonesia is one of the hardest-hit countries. When I left more than a year ago, one U.S. dollar was worth 2,500 rupiah. In June of 1998, the paper reports that the dollar is now worth 16,950 rupiah. It hurts. Indonesia is not a country and a government to me. It is Wayan and Tu Biang and Putu and Dayu Raka. It is Pak Tut in the gallery and Nyoman and the guides. What is happening to them? I make plans to go back.

Bali has never left me. There are moments when I stare out my living room window at Lake Washington, and instead of seeing the lake with Mount Rainier looming in the distance, I see terraced rice fields with dragonflies fluttering in the sun.

Sometimes I hear Tu Aji’s voice when I am telling a story, “And then? And then?” he says, impatient, as always, to hear the rest. And I often think of that invisible world, filled with spirits both good and bad. If it exists in Bali, it must be in Seattle too. But I feel so distant from spirituality here in the land of Microsoft. And I miss it. Does Tu Aji hear me when I “talk” to him from Seattle? How about my parents? I find it easier to “talk” to all of them when I’m in Bali.

I especially think of Bali during my yoga and meditation sessions with Jip. I feel a peacefulness in my soul that reminds me of the serenity I felt in Bali. In spite of the caste system, in spite of women’s second-class status, in spite of the feudalistic society, I yearn to be back.

New Zealand

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NEW ZEALAND VIA BALI

I’m going back to Bali. The Southeast Asian economies have collapsed and the news out of Indonesia is scary: the country is exploding with violence. I need to see firsthand what is happening.

In July of 1998, Wayan writes that there has been no violence in Bali, but tourism is dead and many people have no work. Businesses are closing and banks are failing.

I need to know that my friends can feed their families. Most of them are not losing money in the failing banks; they live from one day to the next without savings, hoping that they will be able to make the monthly payments on their motorcycles. Their money problems are much more basic than banks: food, clothing, gas for the motorcycle, and money to pay for the ceremonies that are the essence of Balinese life. If they are in trouble, I want to be there for them.

For me, financially, the time to help has never been better. The volatile rupiah has strengthened a little in the last two months, but its value is still dramatically diminished. By August, a dollar converts to 12,000 rupiah. When I left, it was worth 2,500.

My plan is to stay in Bali for a month. Before I leave Seattle, I have to decide where to go when the month is over. My destination has to fit with my plan to work on a proposal for a book about my life as a nomad. That means I have to settle in somewhere for about six months. I’ll need English-language libraries, not too many distractions, and a relative degree of comfort.

It would be logical to work in the U.S., but I can’t afford it. I’ve been in Seattle now for nearly seven months, in an apartment that is costing me fifteen hundred dollars a month. My annual income last year was in the vicinity of twenty thousand dollars, and I don’t want to dip into my savings again.

Like most of my destination decisions, this one comes about serendipitously. Bron, my landlady in Seattle, who has become a good friend, is from New Zealand. I’ve looked through her books and pictures; the country is exquisite. Not only that, her parents live in Auckland, run a literary agency, and they already know about me from Bron. And the best part, if I settle in New Zealand for a while, Jan, Mitch, and Melissa say they’ll come visit.

Additionally, Servas is strong in New Zealand. Even though I don’t plan to stay with Servas people (I will look for something to rent), if I need friends, I can always call and meet them.

My month in Bali is both happy and sad. I love seeing everyone, but life is hard. The first thing people say, after telling me how fat I’ve gotten, is that the price of rice has nearly doubled. There is an uncharacteristic fear of the future, rare in a community that usually lives in the present.

I am angry at the injustices of the world economy. For the western tourist with dollars, everything is ridiculously cheap. I can buy sarongs for a dollar-fifty, meals in the best restaurants for two dollars, and antiques and jewelry and artwork for five times less than the same things cost a year ago. It’s wrong and I am overwhelmed by the urge to give away dollars on street corners.

Except in emergencies, I have never gotten into the habit of giving people money. I feel strongly that accepting charity robs people of their dignity and usually puts them in the uncomfortable position of being unable to reciprocate.

Reciprocity is an on-the-ground, real concept in Bali. When you bring a wedding gift, you bring it on a tray or in a basket with rice and sugar. Your tray is “checked” when you arrive, as you might check a coat in a restaurant. When you retrieve your tray, it is filled with cakes or fruit or some other food item for you to take home.

In 1990, when I was giving the king’s wives English lessons, I grew very close to them. When it was time for me to leave Bali for a three-month visit to the United States, I decided to give each of them, and their unmarried daughters, a small gift. Hoping to bypass the reciprocity ethic, I distributed the gifts one hour before I was to leave for the airport; too late, I thought, for them to bring me anything.

I was wrong. As my bags were being loaded into the car, a procession of princesses arrived bearing rings and gold flowers and sashes and fans.

What the Balinese do not understand is that I have already received my gifts from them. Their inviting me to share their ceremonies, eat at their tables, and learn their skills is more valuable to me than the gifts I bring to them. But I cannot convince them; so usually I do not bring gifts.

Mostly my contributions to the cultures and the people I am visiting take the form of teaching English, visiting schools, and just letting people know they have as much to give me as I have to give them. I ask them to help me with language and to teach me their customs. I always accept food and drink when they are offered. On occasion, though I do not smoke, I will ask for a cigarette, just to lower my pedestal and give someone a sense of giving to me.

When I bring clothes from the U.S. (for Tu Biang to give away), they are always secondhand. Most of my Balinese friends think I collect them from acquaintances and that they cost me nothing, which takes the clothes out of the gift category. But actually, I fill up my giant duffel bag with dozens of T-shirts and dresses and pants and toys that I have bought in Goodwill and the Salvation Army. If there is a label on a T-shirt, which would indicate that the item is new, I remove it. In the past, the only time I have given people money has been for emergencies, for my annual contribution to the neighborhood organization (the
banjar
) or for a family ceremony where all family members are expected to help out.

This visit is different. My friends do not need English lessons; they need food. For many of them, a five-dollar gift is the equivalent of a week’s salary. It seems unfair that I should have become so rich and they so poor.

Everyone knows what has happened to my dollar and they are not as uncomfortable as they once were about accepting my gifts. So I tile a bathroom floor for one friend, which will allow the family to have paying guests in their home. And I help other friends to paint some rooms and put in furniture so they can become a “homestay,” if and when the tourists return. And I am uncharacteristically generous to other friends. I hope I am not causing them shame.

The day before I leave Bali to go to New Zealand, I begin to feel the anxiety that always sweeps over me when I’m going to a new place. I haven’t done any research on New Zealand; I haven’t even bought a guidebook. I have no idea where I will go from the airport. I need the name of a bed and breakfast or a backpacker place.

I always get annoyed at myself for not planning ahead, but I almost never do. Plans and beginnings are hard for me; but that doesn’t stop me from going. I guess I know, deep down, that the anxiety is worth the pay-off of yet another adventure.

On the way to the airport in Bali, I ask my driver to stop at the Telecom center, and I call Bron’s parents in Auckland. Barbara, Bron’s mother, answers the phone. I introduce myself. Her response to my request for a B&B recommendation is, “What flight are you on? I’ll pick you up and you will stay with us.”

I’m excited. Barbara tells me she has white hair. I tell her I’m wearing a purple jacket and carrying a yellow book. We will meet in about twenty hours.

My flight goes from Bali to Kuala Lumpur, three hours in the wrong direction (it was the cheapest flight), and then on to Auckland. When I get to the airport in K.L., I discover that my departure gate is right next to the transit hotel. I have four hours until my New Zealand flight boards.

I love transit hotels. I used to stay at the one in Singapore when I was en route to Bali (I made the reservations when I bought my plane ticket). As a transit passenger, I didn’t have to get my checked bags. I’d shower after the twenty-hour flight and sleep for six hours. When I got to Bali (it’s a two-and-a-half-hour flight), I was alive.

The transit hotel in Kuala Lumpur is new, open only a month. I don’t want to sleep; but it’s been four weeks since my last hot shower. I pay six dollars and I’m handed a towel. The shower room is immaculate and private, the towels are fluffy, the water is hot, the showerhead is powerful. Too bad they don’t have tubs; I could happily soak for two and a half hours (which is probably why they don’t have tubs).

When I emerge, I am clean and wonderfully soggy. And since I paid for my shower, I figure I’m entitled to sit on a comfortable couch and have some coffee in the hotel lounge. Beats the plastic airport seats. There’s even a rack of newspapers.

After an hour in the lounge, I decide to have dinner at the Thai restaurant in the main concourse; I need about ten dollars worth of ringgit from the money changer. When I get there, there’s a woman grumbling at the man in the booth.

“In the whole airport, there’s no place that I can get money with my Visa card?”

“Sorry.”

“I can’t believe it,” she says to me. “A newly renovated airport and I can’t get money.”

I hear her New Zealand accent. I figure the money changer doesn’t want her New Zealand money.

“I’m on my way to New Zealand,” I say. “If you have New Zealand dollars, I’ll get you ringgit with my travelers’ checks.”

“I don’t have cash. That’s the problem. All I have is my Visa, and in this whole airport, there’s no money machine! All I want to do is call a friend in K.L. and say hello.”

Meanwhile, I have changed a ten-dollar bill. “Here,” I say, handing her a bunch of coins, probably about a dollar’s worth.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I won’t be able to pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just take it.”

“Oh, no, really, I can’t.”

We go around again. Finally she says, “Well, maybe. What flight are you on? My husband is meeting me. He’ll have money and I can pay you back.”

“Please, just take it. Don’t worry about paying me back. Help somebody else someday.” Finally, she accepts.

She has obviously never been introduced to the “Favor Bank” concept, which asserts that the whole world is one giant “Favor Bank.” We go through life making deposits whenever we do favors for people, and that means that whenever we need a favor, we’re entitled to a withdrawal. It’s just as important to take out as it is to put in, because each time we accept a favor, we are allowing someone to make a deposit. I like introducing this idea to people who have trouble “taking.”

I have dinner and then I stop in the stationery store to spend my leftover coins. I pick out a newspaper and a magazine and go to the cashier. I have two ringgit. The purchases come to two-eighty.

“Oops,” I tell the cashier, starting back to the magazine rack. “I’ll find something cheaper.”

“No, no, no,” says a young, well-dressed Malaysian woman who is standing next to me, waiting her turn. “Here.” She hands the cashier the missing change.

“Thanks,” I accept with a smile.

Half an hour later, I squiggle into my window seat on the plane. The man wearing wire-rimmed glasses on his Teddy Bear face and eyeing the aisle seat is tall and big. He puts his bag into the overhead compartment and sits. I smile and nod. He does the same.

When the passengers are free to wander, several come over to talk to him. The subject is always the same: rugby.

“We’re all coming from the Commonwealth Games in Kuala Lumpur,” he explains without being asked.

During the ten-hour trip, I discover that my seatmate is Keith Quinn,
the
rugby broadcaster of New Zealand. Rugby is a national passion; they worship their All Blacks, the national team. (I am in New Zealand a year later when the All Blacks play France for the World Cup rugby title. Nearly everyone I know sets the alarm for some middle-of-the-night hour so they can watch. When New Zealand loses, the country goes into mourning. A few months later, when all those millennium polls are printed in the newspapers, the loss is voted a place on the list of worst twentieth-century disasters!) Keith Quinn, my seatmate, is the voice of the All Blacks. Nearly every Kiwi on the plane greets him by name.

When I mention that I’m a writer, Keith tells me that he’s written a few books as well . . . all of them about rugby. So now I know three people in New Zealand: one is a famous sportscaster and writer and the other two, Bron’s parents, the Richards, run the top literary agency in the country.