Tales of a Female Nomad

by Rita Golden Gelman

  That first night, as I listen to the croaking frogs in the lily pond outside my window, I think about what I can do to reciprocate. I have been given this exquisite place to live in, without even a hint of their wanting anything in return. But life has taught me the doctrine of reciprocity, and I have found that it is alive and well and operating all over the world. Kindnesses must be returned.

  What I have to offer is English.

  The next day I walk to the Tilem gallery, about half a mile down the road, and reintroduce myself to Pak Tut, the manager. I have met him many times over the years because I always bring guests to this extraordinary gallery.

  The two young guides from my house are working. “Selamat datang, Bu Rita,” they say softly, welcoming me. Everything in the Njana Tilem Gallery is gentle, including the staff.

  Pak Tut introduces me to the other guides, and he and I chat a while. I tell him I am here to talk to Dayu Raka about how I might use my English to help her and her family. I am thinking about giving English lessons to her eight-year-old son, conducting formal classes for the guides in the gallery (they begin the next week), and perhaps helping Pak Tut with gallery correspondence. But I have to tread lightly. I don’t want her or the family to feel obligated to accept my offer. And I don’t want Pak Tut to feel judged or hurt if I correct his English. He speaks well and writes well; but English is not his first language.

  “If there is anything I can do to help you,” I tell him, “Please let me know.”

  “Oh, there is,” he says, and he takes an album from a shelf. The album is filled with plastic slips that hold sheets of information. “When we sell a sculpture of a god or a character from the Mahabharata or Ramayana, we give the buyer an explanation of the piece. I would like it very much if you would read the stories and correct any mistakes.”

  “I’d be happy to do it, but I want to warn you before I begin, that as a writer and an editor, I always have corrections. I hope you will not be insulted if I make changes.”

  “I would be happy to learn from you. Take the album home and read it tonight. Tomorrow we can discuss your comments.”

  The grammar in the stories is impeccable. The sentences are correct. But Pak Tut is not a writer. He offers more information than the customer needs, filling the stories with the names of mothers and fathers and sisters and priests instead of telling a good story. And often he rambles, as do the texts of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana (and the Bible and the Koran). We talk about the idea of telling stories in a more modern style. Pak Tut says he would be happy to rewrite everything with me.

  The next day we begin what will take us two months to finish. We take out a sheet and I read it. Then he shows me some sculptures of the characters in the sheet so I know how they are represented. And then we sit down and he tells me the story of the sculpture. I ask him questions. Together, we write a new story on the gallery’s computer.

  For me, our sessions are fantastic. I feel as though I am taking a class in Balinese folklore and Hindu religion. Pak Tut is a scholar and a fine teacher.

  For Pak Tut, our sessions are a revelation. He cannot believe how slow I am, struggling with words, staring into space until I come up with a way of presenting a theme.

  “English is your first language,” he says to me one day. “And you are a writer. I thought you would just sit down and write.” I wish I could.

  I love spending time in the gallery, especially in the collection room, which is filled with carvings by Tilem and his father that are not for sale. They are so exquisite that I often find myself in tears simply because I am in their presence. No one has been able to buy an Ida Bagus Tilem sculpture since the early seventies, when Tilem decided that he would not sell any more of his or his father’s work. (The gallery sells the sculptures of their students, the master carvers who sit in the courtyard every day, carving.)

  Pak Tut tells me that King Hussein from Jordan fell in love with one of Tilem’s masterpieces, The Seven Circles of Life. After making several offers and being rejected, he finally sat down and wrote a blank check. The carving still belongs to the family.

  Pak Tut and I develop a close relationship. So do Raka and I. (She has asked me to call her Raka, without using the brahmana label.) She invites me to family ceremonies and offers me her driver if I have errands to do. When we go to the supermarket in Denpasar together, she always insists on buying me lunch or dinner. Raka is not comfortable when I offer to pay; it is far more common that the members of this leading and highly respected family be the givers, not the takers.

  I am also teaching English to her eight-year-old son, Gustu. Every day after school he comes to my house with Nyoman, the fourteen-year-old boy who is Gustu’s companion when Gustu is not in school. Raka has told me that it is her dream that Gustu be able to speak many languages.

  Nyoman, the young man who takes care of Gustu, participates in our classes. But when I bring out the markers and drawing paper, he moves off by himself, creating beautiful flowers and scenes and characters from history. He is clearly talented. His job, when Gustu is in school, is to sweep the grounds of the family gallery compound and wash windows. He works long hours, from early morning until Gustu goes to sleep. And sometimes he does the night security watch. Nyoman is surrounded by art and carvings and brilliant carvers, but the only art he is creating is with magic markers.

  One day, after several months in Raka’s house, I decide that I would like to travel to the Balinese island of Nusa Penida, where Nyoman is from. I steal Nyoman (with permission) for three days. Wayan from Kerambitan comes too. Together we visit the seaweed farms, sleep at Nyoman’s uncle’s house, and wander along the beach. As we walk on the sand, Nyoman keeps picking up pieces of coral or driftwood.

  “Look,” he says, pointing to the twists and turns of a piece of wood. “See the fish. Look at the shrimp.” And later, “This one has the head of giant.”

  I can feel the sculptor in this boy; it is crying out to be developed. I see coral and driftwood; he sees alligators and gods.

  When we return to Mas, I tell Nyoman that I want to thank him for being my guide by buying him a set of carving tools. When I hand him the money to buy tools, I tell him there is a string attached to the gift: like an evil witch in a fairy tale, I want his first baby. He agrees. Shortly after that I leave Bali for a trip to the U.S. for five months.

  When I return to Bali, Raka again offers me her home. This time I have brought a telephone and wires. Putu connects my extension cord to the main box, and I have a phone in my room. I can hardly believe it. Before I left the U.S., I signed on with Compuserve. Now I can talk and e-mail with my kids, with friends, with my agent and editors.

  Staying in touch gives me a foot in both worlds. From the first e-mail I send, I am addicted. Even though I’m a nomad, now and probably forever, I have a permanent cyber-address that will follow me around the world.

  When I first arrive at the gallery after my five-month absence, Nyoman rushes over to me. He is excited. “It is finished,” he tells me, referring to his firstborn sculpture. I ask him to present it to me formally in the gallery, and I sit down on the visitor’s couch and wait while he goes to get my gift. I am expecting a fish or a piece of fruit; it is, after all, his first woodcarving. He walks in holding a head about a foot and a half tall.

  “It is the giant who ate the moon,” he tells me. “See, he is about to eat her.”

  The monster’s mouth is open in a grotesque way and one of his eyes is shut “because he has just seen his own image in the lotus pond and he is horrified at the expression on his face.”

  The carving is incredible. I am thrilled and feeling a little guilty at being gifted this magnificent sculpture. I think about telling him to sell it, but I’m afraid he’ll think I don’t want it. And I’m worried that he may be insulted if I offer him money.

  Raka shows me another piece he has finished, of fish and shrimp, hiding and intertwined in twists and turns of wood that has become ocean. She paid him nearly one hu
ndred dollars for it. She also tells me that she wanted to buy his giant-head, but he told her it was for Ibu Rita.

  Nyoman stops by my house later that day and I ask him where he got the wood for my giant. From the cook’s woodpile, he tells me. Too shy to ask the gallery for a hunk of wood, he’d found a piece that was destined to become fire.

  I am overwhelmed with his talent. I ask him when he has time to carve. At dawn before he begins his job of sweeping and washing windows, and after dark, when his gallery chores are finished. I cannot help but wonder what he would be creating if he had time.

  I am feeling the urge to interfere. I have to stop myself from speaking to Raka about giving Nyoman time to carve. I know it is wrong to step in where I don’t belong, but I want so badly for this young man to fulfill his potential. I stay away from the gallery, knowing that I cannot trust myself.

  I stay in Bali for only two months. On my last trip to the U.S. I discovered that my mother’s health was failing, and I am afraid to be away from her for a long time. I have a sense that these are her final days, and I want to be nearby. Additionally, because of the Nyoman conflict surging inside me, I’m pleased to be leaving.

  When I see my mother’s condition, I am frightened. She sleeps most of the day, and says little. Her eyes tell me she has had enough, but her heart is strong and her appetite hearty. I decide to put my travels on hold and stay for a while.

  I do not want to live in Mom’s house and break the routine; it is working well. I am also afraid that if I live with her, I will not be able to write, and I have several children’s book projects that I’m working on. So I rent a house at Fairfield Beach (I answer an ad for a “share”), about ten minutes from my mother’s house, and I visit her every other day. She says little during our visits. But I have learned to be comfortable in silence. Each time I see my mother, I think she will not make it through the night. I keep wanting to say good-bye, to give her permission to leave, but I cannot.

  While I am there, Mitch becomes engaged to Melissa Tarkington, a beautiful young woman who connects with my mother in a very special way. The first time they meet, I watch the two of them together. There is a sincerity and genuine interest in Melissa’s eyes and voice as she asks my mother about her Russian ancestry. And my mother, who has barely talked in weeks, sits there telling Melissa stories, with a look of joy on her face.

  For nearly a year, I live in Fairfield. Then one day I have a realization. Perhaps my being there is preventing Mom from moving on, encouraging her to fight what must be an agonizing battle, because she doesn’t want to abandon me. How much better it would be if she could yield to serenity and peace. I wish I could tell her that it’s OK, that there is another world where she will feel no pain; but I sense that she doesn’t want to hear it from me.

  I believe that people can choose the time when they will die, and I fear that my presence is trapping my mother in her suffering. I decide to return to Bali.

  Jan’s call comes ten days after I am back in Raka’s house; my mother has died. Perhaps she really was waiting for me to go.

  Within minutes of the call, my Mas community is there for me. Putu and Raka’s driver pack my bags and bring me water (I have an insatiable thirst). Nyoman arrives and packs up my computer and printer. Raka’s husband finds me a flight to the United States. Raka brings me lunch. And as the car passes the gallery on the way to the airport, Raka’s family and the entire staff of the gallery, more than twenty people, are out in front, waving and wishing me well. I do have a community; and at that moment, I feel and need and appreciate their love and support.

  In a way, I have already mourned my mother’s passing; her special glow has been fading for several years. But facing the reality that she is no longer here is still painful. The house is empty without her, and there is something missing inside me. Her ability to inspire people to get involved in charitable work will keep her legacy alive forever; and I’m sure that her spirit, like Tu Aji’s, will continue to offer the world her wisdom.

  It takes my brother and me more than four months to go through the cellar and the attic, to fix up the house, sell it, and settle the estate.

  Just before I leave, I take a trip to Vermont, where Mitch and Melissa are going to have their wedding. They are living in Seattle, and I’m geographically much closer. I meet with people like florists and chefs and hotel owners. I like being a traditional mom for a change.

  Soon after I get back from Vermont, I leave for Bali.

  First I visit the puri, and then I move back into Raka’s house; but things are different. There are no more classes in the gallery for the guides, Gustu is too busy to study English, and Pak Tut’s projects have been completed.

  In looking for new and appropriate ways to contribute to the culture, I decide to teach an English class three nights a week to Putu and Nyoman and two young men from the neighboring island of Lombok, Budi and Ogi.

  I met Budi when I stopped in at the Lombok craft shop in the center of Ubud that Budi was managing. Business was slow and we talked for more than an hour. Budi was saying how badly he wanted to take an English class, but he couldn’t afford the tuition. I told Budi that if he was serious, I would start a class.

  “The class is free,” I tell Budi when he and his friend Ogi arrive at the house. “But if you sign on and don’t show up, you have to pay.” (I never held them to it, but I like the concept.)

  Our class meets regularly for nearly two months. Budi and Ogi are especially diligent. I enjoy their enthusiasm and I’m pleased with their progress.

  Then one day Budi and Ogi tell me they are going home to Lombok, an island four hours away by ferry, to celebrate the end of the Muslim holiday of Ramadan with their families. Budi invites me to join his family for the holiday weekend.

  I’ve been thinking about going to Lombok to take a scuba diving course, and there is just enough time for me to take the course and then visit Budi’s family. I make plans to leave the next day for the little island of Gili Trawangan off the coast of Lombok.

  Our scuba classes begin in a pool. There are only two students. The first time I go under with the tank on my back, the mask on my face, and the regulator in my mouth, I feel as though I am only half breathing and I am overcome with a claustrophobic sensation. After several more efforts, I can stay under long enough to do the exercises, but I’m not relaxed. I’m glad we’re in a pool; there is something reassuring about knowing I can swim a few seconds and stand up.

  The next day we go off into the sea, where we go down twelve meters for fifty-two minutes. First we do the class tasks, getting used to the regulator, and then breathing from someone else’s regulator, and then filling our masks with water and emptying them. We get acquainted with buoyancy and weightlessness as we move through an underwater forest of coral and dozens of gorgeous tropical fish. And turtles. And anemones and a manta ray with a twelve-foot wingspan about ten feet away. How glorious.

  Four dives, several videos, a math class, and a written exam later, I am presented with my Padi Open Water card. Yippee! I’m a scuba diver.

  As soon as the class is finished I take off for Budi and Ogi’s village, which is about five hours’ worth of boats, buses, more buses, and finally, a horse and carriage away. As we clomp the final few miles into the village, a motorcycle pulls up behind the carriage and two girls call to me.

  “Who are you going to visit?” asks one of them.

  “Budi and Ogi,” I say.

  “Budi is my brother,” she smiles. And they speed off to tell Budi that I am arriving.

  Toward evening, one of Budi’s teenage girl-cousins asks me if I would like to join her and the women of the village tonight out on the street. At least that’s what I think she says.

  “Oh, yes,” I answer. “I would like that very much.”

  “You will have to dress in traditional clothing. I will help you.” And off she goes.

  The white hooded blouse is like a tent. The head part of it nearly covers my face, and the rest
hangs down past my hips. Neatly ironed and much whiter than the whites in my wardrobe, it slips on easily. She also brings me a sarong, white with black squares, similar to the one I just brought to Budi’s mother; Budi had helped me pick it out. “No colors,” he’d said when I brought him into a shop in Bali.

  By the time we are ready, it is dark out. “Come with me,” says my guide and we go outside and begin walking. As we walk, my young friend teaches me a chant praising Allah. I am wearing rubber flip-flops with very worn thin soles and I can feel the tiny rocks in the dirt alleyway that leads to the main road. Once again, I am following someone somewhere, but I have no idea where.

  I am pleased when we finally arrive among a group of her friends, most of them in their late teens, like her. They are standing around a ten-foot-high, twelve-foot-wide model of a mosque. It is exquisite in its details, with columns and entryways and a tower at the top from which the call to prayer is given. The girls explain to me that there is a contest every year to see which of the three mosque congregations in the village can make the best model mosque. They are speaking quickly and I am able to understand most of what they are telling me. Unfortunately, I miss the point of this gathering, which is to organize a procession of the three mosques.

  Soon after we get together, one of the young women in the group tells everyone to line up, and suddenly I am third in from the side and fifth from the front, and I am part of the procession. And then we begin walking and chanting the prayer I was just taught.

  At the end of the first block I see Budi and his family. They see me and wave and point me out to the people around them, all of whom crane their necks to spot the tourist in the middle of this holy procession. My face is nearly covered and my shape is well hidden under the white tent I am wearing. And . . . it is dark.

  As we walk, I hear voices in the crowd on my left, the side where Budi was standing. “Turis.” “Turis.” “Turis.” The news moves through the spectators like a giant wave. I hear the voices before we pass and the cries of discovery as we go by. “Di mana?” “Di mana turis?” Where? Where is the tourist? The game moves just ahead of the procession. The point of it all is to find the turis . . . me!! I have become Waldo!