Tales of a Female Nomad

by Rita Golden Gelman

  Amparo’s children and grandchildren come frequently as well. My mother’s house, which had gotten old and stodgy in recent years, is a pulsing, multigenerational community.

  I stay in the States for several months, taking care of business, both mine and my mother’s, getting health checkups, meeting with my agent and my publishers . . . and most important, catching up with Mitch and Jan. They are both successful journalists in New York. I love seeing them in their adult worlds, wrapped in glamorous, high-profile lives.

  Mitch has just reported the inside story of how a drunk motorman caused a subway crash in New York City. (That reporting would help his paper win a Pulitzer Prize.)

  Jan is working on the popular gossip column in New York magazine called “Intelligencer.” She talks to celebrities every day and is building an impressive list of “informants.” Jan and Mitch are both interesting and talented people. I enjoy being with them. They have active and full lives; I’m glad I do too. I’m going back to Bali.

  Garuda, the Indonesian airline, flies out of Los Angeles to Bali. I decide to stop and visit a friend in L.A. for a week before I return to Bali. On the last day, as I am getting ready to leave for the airport, my mail package from Connecticut arrives at my friend’s house. My brother waited until the last minute to send it so that I’d be up-to-date. One of the envelopes contains a telegram from a woman friend in the Netherlands whom I met at the puri. It was delivered to my mother’s house four days ago. No one noticed it was a telegram, so it was tossed into the Rita pile, to be FedEx’d with everything else.

  A second telegram was sent to Jan’s address, this one from Tu Biang and her sons. It is in one of those red striped envelopes that says, “Open immediately. Urgent information inside.” Or something like that. It was delivered to Jan with the regular mail four days ago, and Jan figured it was a solicitation letter for starving children in Ethiopia or pandas in China, something that could wait a day or two. Her mail package arrived in the same FedEx delivery.

  I open both telegrams on the day I am returning to Bali . . . the day of Tu Aji’s cremation.

  I remember nothing about the twenty-two-hour journey from L.A. to Bali except watery eyes and the recurring thought that something very deep and important has been taken from me. In the taxi riding to Kerambitan, I am disoriented. Everything looks strange; it is as though I have never been here before.

  I have no idea what I will find in the puri. Tu Aji is the puri. Tu Aji is Bali. And now, suddenly, he isn’t. I am hurt. He knew I was coming back today. Why didn’t he wait so I could have said good-bye? Perhaps he knew that I could not have given him permission to leave.

  I am dreading my reentry. I won’t even have the comfort of the rituals. They are over. So are the processions. All those things that make death easier. The family has spent the last five days releasing his spirit from this world and wishing him well in the next one. I don’t even believe he is dead.

  I arrive in Kerambitan from the airport at eleven o’clock at night. The puri is full of people. Tu Biang, the nine sons, and all their wives and children are there. And friends and family and two women from the Netherlands who studied with him, one of whom had sent me the telegram I received too late. We all hug and cry. I sleep that night on a mattress on the floor next to Tu Biang and four of her grandchildren.

  Three months later I am still in Kerambitan. It is not the same. Without Tu Aji, the essence of the puri is gone. But I cannot abandon his family. Tu Biang has said that she feels stronger because I am there; she is frightened that all the westerners who have always come to study with Tu Aji will stop coming. She is right to worry. The intellectual elegance that he brought to the puri is gone. I feel his loss intensely. From time to time I am overwhelmed with sadness.

  There is a small altar in Tu Aji’s library where I can stand among his books and papers, light a stick of incense, and have a conversation. I bring him the chocolate he was not supposed to eat while he was alive. I tell him about ideas I have for books. One day I spend half an hour communicating with Tu Aji, and then I walk out of the library and begin writing. I can’t stop. It is as though I am possessed. I’m writing an allegory about animals who live in a banyan tree in Bali. Tu Aji is in it. So am I. We are a mouse and a bird, from opposite ends of the world, who become the best of friends. The words are pouring out of me. I can barely do anything else.

  For three weeks I write fiendishly. Then, in the middle of my inspired writing, I get word by mail that I have sold a book to an American publisher. A few hours later, a young man from the village arrives at my patio with two tourists from Germany.

  Bali is loaded with tourists, but very few of them ever find their way to Kerambitan, which is nothing more than a comma in the guidebooks. The ones who do have chosen to detour from the recommended itineraries. They’re rarely American, usually interesting, and always a touch adventurous. And since I am the only westerner in residence, when tourists appear in the village, they are brought to me. I think of it as holding court in my little part of the palace.

  Michael, the German tourist (who is with his mother), has just come from leading a tour on the southern rivers of Irian Jaya, the easternmost province in Indonesia. For a long time I have been wanting to tour Irian Jaya, the western half of the island of New Guinea. Only two things were lacking: a guide and the money. That day they walked in together. After a dinner of nonstop questions from me, I tell Michael to sign me up for his next trip, which is several months from now.

  When he leaves, I try to settle into a routine, but it is difficult; my head is still racing and often disoriented. Sometimes I fill my days with writing. Other times I sit with the women and make offerings. In the early mornings I bike to the beach and walk alone on the black sand, watching the waves and staring out into the vast sea.

  In the evenings I often have a young visitor. Wayan is one of the few Kerambitan youths who is brave enough to visit me in the puri. At first he comes to practice English, and we talk after dinner for an hour or two a few times a week. Wayan has worked hard on his English, memorizing lyrics, accompanying himself on a guitar as he sings pop American songs. His vocabulary includes the graphic and colorful language of heavy metal and the beautiful romantic words of love songs.

  Gradually our friendship deepens and I often ask him for favors, to take me on his motorcycle to the Telecom center at odd hours, or to deliver me to a tourist part of the island where I can watch CNN or eat a Thai dinner. Over the next years, Wayan is one of the most stable parts of my life. Along the way he graduates from a school of tourism and becomes a certified guide. I introduce him to visiting friends, both old and new, and he guides them around the island. He also helps me do the research for a children’s book about how rice grows in Bali, whizzing me from one rice field to another on the back of his motorcycle, looking for stages of plant development.

  Wayan and I laugh a lot. It is important for me to have a friend outside of the puri. There is little laughter these days within. Among the people in Tu Aji’s family, I talk most often to Tu Man. He is trying to find out who he is without his father. Most Balinese men his age (thirty-four) are married, but I have never seen Tu Man with a woman. I have never even seen him look at a woman. From time to time he and I go off on his motorcycle to do errands: we buy birds in the bird market in Denpasar (two parakeets die in their paper bags before we get them home); we buy a table for the garden; we buy tiles for the bathroom. We often pass beautiful women, but Tu Man never looks.

  Tu Man moves slowly and talks slowly. He spends hours clipping hedges, planting cuttings, thinning flowers. Often in the early morning I see him standing in the garden staring at his plants for long periods of time in a sort of meditation. He is an architect by training, but his love is taking care of the garden and the birds. Unlike his father, whose laughter frequently filled the puri with his love of life and his enthusiasm for discovery, Tu Man has a weighty demeanor.

  One of the only times I have ever seen Tu Man laughing was whe
n Jan was here. She and I involved him in a cross-cultural comparison of animal noises. Tu Aji was still alive, but he was out for the evening. Tu Man does not speak English, and he has never been interested in learning. So, during the four months Jan was in Bali, they never talked. But one night, Jan and I were sitting at the table after dinner and Tu Man joined us. The night air was filled with the mating calls of frogs. I imitated them with the American version of a frog call.

  “What does a Balinese frog say?” I asked Tu Man.

  He made a frog sound. “Dokodokodok.”

  “And a goat?” I said, making an American goat noise. He did a goat in Balinese, “Mbeek, mbeek.”

  Cats in Bali say, “Meong, meong.” Dogs say, “Ngongkong, ngongkong.”

  Pigs, “eeleng.” Horses, “Hiiiiik, hiiiiik.” Ducks, “Kwek, kwek, kwek.”

  The three of us laughed and oinked and meowed and meonged and kweked.

  In those days, Tu Man didn’t mix much with guests. People came to see Tu Aji, and Tu Man was far in the background. That night of animal noises was the only time he ever interacted with Jan.

  It is more than two years since the night of the animal noises. Four months since Tu Aji’s death. I am leaving again. This time I plan to be in the U.S. for several months. Amparo has written that everything is fine with my mother, but I want to see her. The driver is picking me up at eight in the morning to go to the airport.

  At seven I wander over to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. I am sipping it at the table, mentally checking off all the things I have to do before I leave, when Tu Biang joins me. I can tell immediately that something is up. She is carefully dressed and combed, and when she says that Tu Man has asked her to talk to me, her tone is formal. I am nervous; formality does that to me.

  Tu Biang is the first to speak. “Last night Tu Man asked me to speak to you before you leave. He would like me to ask you for Jan’s hand in marriage.”

  I never saw it coming.

  “If Tu Man married Jan, you and I would be besan. I would like that,” says Tu Biang with a big smile.

  This is not something they arrived at lightly; it is a considered decision. I must be very careful.

  “I am honored that Tu Man would like to marry Jan. And you are right. It would be nice if we were besan.” I laugh. “But I think it would be very difficult. They don’t speak the same language, and they hardly know each other. In the West, young people get to know each other before they decide to marry.”

  “They could learn to love each other,” she says. “That is what happened to Tu Aji and me.”

  At this point Tu Man joins us. He has waited an appropriate amount of time. Now it is his turn to talk to me, with his mother present.

  I speak first. “Tu Man, I am honored that you would like to marry my daughter. I am also surprised. You have talked to me many times about the difficulties of an East-West marriage. Have you changed your mind?”

  “I thought about it,” he says. “And I realized that it is not the same for everyone. We are all different people. I would give her freedom. If she wanted to live in the United States for six months, that would be all right with me.”

  “But if she married you, she would want you to be with her.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I have to be here.”

  “You know that more than 50 percent of the marriages in the United States end in divorce . . . and usually the woman is given custody of the children.”

  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.”