Our original plan of hopping to another island that next week fell by the wayside as we both confessed that neither one of us wanted to leave Dumaguete, aptly nicknamed the City of Gentle People. We made it out to Apo Island a few more times with Nate and his crew. The rest of the time we took long strolls along the promenade and enjoyed doing nothing but resting in one another’s presence. While my initial expectations, especially around sex, had crashed and burned, I wasn’t disappointed in how things went most of that week. She always talked of our need to cultivate a quiet stillness in our relationship–and I suppose we were doing just that.
She also mentioned Fr. Jack a few times, and I knew she was hinting at me getting in touch with him. She may have had a point, as my time with the Center was coming to an end whether I believed it or not. Soon, I would be a burden to them no matter how much money I chipped in to ameliorate the drain on resources my presence there was having on them. I also felt an attraction to Fr. Jack’s story, and my curiosity began to grow each day. Before he left, Patrick had written the email address down in case we wanted to go out there (“he loves visitors”, I heard him say more than once), and I kept noticing it on the little table next to the hotel room door, edges of the paper curled up.
One morning I woke up and without thinking too much about it I grabbed the paper, went downstairs to the hotel’s computer and fired off a message to Fr. Jack. In my email I told him about my background and all that I’d been doing, as well as meeting Patrick. I suggested that if he were interested I could make a visit out there to see if I could “help” in any way. I had a few other emails to go through, one from Don out to shareholders that notwithstanding the market turmoil, we should expect the sale to go through by October 20th, less than a month away.
Unlike the Shangri-La, which had a Wi-Fi connection in each room, the best the Dumaguete hotel could offer was a single computer in the lobby for guests to use. I only saw foreigners on it that seemed to use it as their sole means of staying connected to home. With Elena around, I didn’t need so much of that. After I cleaned out my inbox, I was about to close out and get up, when I saw a bolded message come through. It was a reply from Fr. Jack. At first, I thought it had bounced back, and was about to check the paper again to make sure I had the correct email address. After I opened the message, I realized he had responded. It was curt, but welcoming: Sure, pop on over whenever you can. We’d love to have you!
My cynical side suggested he was most interested in me as a social investor, and that’s what drove his hasty, welcoming reply. It didn’t matter, I was already hooked and ready to go. I wasted no time in booking a flight out there, making sure I was on the same flight to Hong Kong with Elena later in the week. I also sent emails off to Sarah and Edwin, letting them know of my change of plans and that I wouldn’t be coming back to Manila just yet. This new adventure felt like the right thing to do. When I told Elena about it later she smiled and gave me a hug. It was as if she was several steps ahead of me and reveling in my catching up. Our relationship seemed to improve after that, and we spent the next few days in sweet seclusion from the outside world.
Of course, our last morning together we had another fight, much worse than the previous blowout. It stunned me into confusion watching her morph from pussycat to raging monster because I left a wet towel on the bathroom floor rather than on the rack. At the drop of a hat, all my words were turned against me and instead of a sweet face I stared at a gloomy iron fortress. Just when I thought we had found serenity down a path of intimacy, she found a way to destroy it all in minutes. It was as if I had stumbled into a maze and couldn’t find my way out. I had lost her.
Part IV | JAVA
CHAPTER 1 | one night in hong kong
Elena had a short connection in Hong Kong, so we had little time for more than a quick embrace before she flew off again. As I watched her red hair bounce away and through the gate, it dawned on me that we’d had the best and worst week of our relationship. We’d made the most of rocky patches, made difficult through seeing each other at our worst. Something sinister seemed to be working to undermine the foundation of our tender connection. I could blame it on her, or even us. Once she was out of sight, I wondered how much of the problem lay with me–with my mind–monkey mind as she called it. Through her influence I noticed the little beast hell bent on analyzing everything into a negative slant until it had cast even the purest light into darkness–always at odds with my higher self. Perhaps it was the way she said good luck with an ominous air instead of goodbye, as though I was off to slay a dragon that just might kill me. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she did ask at one point during the week how the crumbling tower was going. That made me angry, and I shot her a snide remark. Ultimately, we were headed in opposite directions. I let out a deep sigh, conceding that I might not ever see her again.
On the off chance I could catch him during my four-hour layover in Hong Kong, I had emailed Kyle, a former colleague of mine who’d taken a job there decades earlier. We managed to keep in touch over the years and met up whenever we were in the same city for a conference or something. Lucky for me, he was available and recommended I take the MTR train to Hong Kong Station for dinner in Soho. I’d made the route once before around mountains and water, reveling in the picturesque landscape made better by a brilliant sunset. I always liked Kyle, someone who shared my gallows humor, something I usually kept to myself but couldn’t help unfurling in his company. I met him at Société Générale, where I worked for two years right out of Wharton. He was an expert on telecommunications and foreign markets, particularly in Asia, and he had stayed on with that bank to make his own fortune while I’d rolled the dice with Don. Kyle was one of the quickest thinkers I’d ever met–a mind like a laser and a wiry body that burned through a few thousand calories a day just thinking.
When I saw him approaching me later at the station, I noticed his thin frame and flowing gait passing through people and couldn’t help thinking how God must have slipped up and sent his soul to the wrong birth country. It took him a while, but he’d found his way back to his true people like a homing pigeon. Even his face had the same angular features of the Orient, and if it hadn’t been for his bright green eyes and sandy brown hair he could have passed for a local no problem.
“What’s it been, fifteen years, Harry? Great to see you!” He stood opposite me, shaking my hand, an incredulous look passing over his features. “What the hell you doing out here? On your way to Bangkok for a little boom boom with a mamasan?”
“Hadn’t thought of that, but now that you bring it up, maybe I’ll change my plans. Can you recommend any good places?”
Kyle shook his head and laughed, realizing that the conversation could too easily get dragged down into the gutter, “It’s really great to see you, Harry. I have to say I don’t miss many people from the old days, but you were one of them for sure. He motioned for me to follow and we talked during the short trip to Soho. “Seriously, what are you doing out here?”
“Why so surprised?”
“Well, of all the people I know you’re the last I’d expect to leave the creature comforts of the free world and venture out into the unknown. Of course, Hong Kong isn’t all that different from San Francisco. You said you had a layover, but didn’t tell me where you’re headed.”
“Java.”
“Definitely not like San Francisco… or even Hong Kong. You really are stretching your comfort zone! I’d recommend Bali if you’re doing the white man’s vacation thing.”
“Maybe after this next stop, but I’m not here for a vacation. I retired, actually.”
“Hmmm….” His eyes softened into a curious smile. “Moving out here?”
“Nah.” I hesitated to tell him my real reasons, but I knew he wouldn’t stop prodding until he was satisfied he’d plumbed the depths of my soul. So, I figured I would lay my cards on the table to save the trouble. “You ever hear of microfinance?”
“What’s that, just dealing in ones and
fives?” he rattled off without missing a beat.
I chuckled at the jibe, “Something like that.”
“Interesting that you mention that. I read a few years back about that guy winning the Nobel Peace Prize for microcredit. Something about loaning small amounts of money to villagers, right? I’m guessing that microfinance means more than just microcredit loans.”
“Yeah, savings, insurance, et cetera.”
“Somebody’s making a buck somewhere,” he said with a cynical glance as we made our way up a long set of stairs that passed dozens of restaurants and shops more western than eastern. Lots of bistros. I waited until we’d settled into a table at an Italian place before responding to his remark.
“I prefer to call it social investing.”
“Jesus, Harry. I knew you were a barefaced opportunist,” he said in a mocking tone. “But isn’t this going a little too far? Making money off the backs of the poor? You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“Laugh all you want, but it’s doing some good.”
“Oh, I see… making up for a few decades of sharking, eh?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I’m all for bringing capitalism to the edges of the world. Why not? But I’m not sure this microcredit or microfinance stuff is going to be their ticket out of poverty.”
“How so?”
“White man came out here centuries ago and screwed up island life, made a mess of it. Imagine, for a few millennia all people had to do was simply reach up and pick their food right off the tree. Colonialists changed that paradigm. First, they stripped ‘em of their natural resources, then taught ‘em how to fight over what’s left; but they couldn’t teach something that is still so ingrained in the western mind and can’t really be taught to people who don’t have the same agricultural history. There’s a big reason why savings rates are so high in places like Norway. Saving money is a natural progression for people used to storing up salted cod and canning fruits and vegetables to survive a long winter. Savings cultures make it over the long haul because they know how to manage money wisely. It’s fine to roll the dice and make a few loans, but these people will be hard-pressed to learn to save in a way that’s going to build true wealth. Very few people rise out of poverty taking on debt.”
“That’s a pretty bleak picture.”
“It’s worse. As soon as someone makes a bit of money, their circle of friends and family come out of the woodwork expecting to be helped. Social capital is way more important out here than anything else. You don’t help those around you, and well… you’re not gettin’ very far. So, it’s just not possible for most people to climb out of poverty as they keep gettin’ pulled back down off the ladder. Of course, the Chinese don’t have that problem as much.”
“Well, they’ve got those harsh winters, right?”
“Maybe a bit of that or even Confucianism. Could also be the one-child policy–smaller families with not as many mouths to feed. They’re called the Jews of Southeast Asia for a reason. Most of them live by two rules: invest wisely and don’t commit the cardinal sin of letting your child marry outside the tribe. The minute a Chinese man marries a Malay, it’s all over. Whole new family wants a piece of him.”
“Gee Kyle, that doesn’t sound politically correct now, does it?” I couldn’t resist taking him to task.
“Yeah, well. While you champagne liberals over on the Left Coast are arguing about what to say and how not to offend people, the rest of the world just keeps moving the way it does–the way it always has. Besides, there’s always going to be poor in the world.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I guess after seeing a few of their faces up close I can’t help but try to give a few of them a leg up.”
“That’s fair. So, how you going about it?”
“Stumbling, mostly. I was in Mongolia and the Philippines. Found a few of these small banks that are helping the poor. Did a little bit of due diligence on them, though they’re a lot different than regular banks, as you might suspect. Same setup with branches and loan officers, but the whole atmosphere is different than your average bank. Hell, one of them has branch pastors who go out and pray with delinquent clients for the money to come from God. At the end of the day I’m just going with my gut. As you know, it always comes down to people and whether or not we have faith that we’ll get our investment back plus the interest.”
“And what’s that?”
“Around seven percent.”
“Wow–can I have a piece of that action?”
“You want to invest?”
“Hell no! That’s not a bad borrowing rate!”
“But you’re a poor credit risk, Kyle. Remember the poker game where I had to front you a few hundred? Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever got paid back.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t I cover this dinner and we’ll call it even?” He shot me a sheepish grin and stuffed his face with a piece of buttered bread.
“By the way, how are things going for you? How d’you like it out here?”
“Couldn’t be better. I feel at home in Asia. Better living, better food, better women, for sure.”
“Yeah, Hong Kong is nice, came here once several years ago. I can’t say Manila or Ulaanbaatar knocked my socks off. They both have their charms, I suppose.”
“Well, you’ve got to get out of the big cities. Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok. They’re okay, but most of the others are cesspools. Manila and Jakarta are the worst. Great people, but traffic and trash everywhere. Once you get out a bit, it’s a different kettle of fish.”
“Yeah, that was my experience as well in Mongolia and the Philippines. What places do you recommend out this way?”
“Well, pretty much anywhere in Thailand. Dalat and Halong Bay in Vietnam. If you’re a scuba diver, Indonesia has some great dive spots. Not much on Java, where you’re going. I recommend Sulawesi and Komodo for that. Of course, there’s always Bali. Stay out of Kuta, though.”
“Why so?”
“Too many Bogans.”
“Bogans?”
“Yeah, just imagine fat, tattooed rednecks with mullets and Australian accents walking down the street drinking Bintang beer out of the bottle. They must have some cheap flights from over there, because the whole place is overrun with these characters. Sadly, Kuta’s become the Faliraki of Southeast Asia. So, if you get to Bali, just stay away from the area around the airport. Then again, that’s pretty much true for any city.”
“I’m intrigued by Indonesia.”
“It’s a very interesting part of the world. Pretty crowded. I think it’s like the fourth largest country in the world. Like the Philippines, it’s spread out over several islands. The most fascinating part to me is the vast religious spectrum. The western half, Sumatra and such, are hard-core Muslim. Java is Muslim too, but not so intense. In fact, as you work your way eastward it becomes more and more moderate. Bali is on its own as it’s Hindu. Lots of interesting statues there. After that, it starts to become Christian. Timor Island. That place is a trip! The western half belongs to Indonesia and the eastern half is its own country. Indonesia controlled it for a few decades, and before that the Portuguese ran it for centuries. The Portuguese didn’t leave much except traces of their language and last names. When the Indonesians let them have their independence, at least they gave ‘em a massive status of Jesus. Cristo Rei–you can’t miss it as it’s sitting on top of a mountain overlooking the capital.”
“Did the Portuguese control Indonesia?” True to his form, Kyle espoused an encyclopedic grasp of the region vis-à-vis my own lack of knowledge in colonial history.
“No, the Dutch. The Dutch East India Company ran the country for about few hundred years. After it folded the Dutch government took over for the next hundred and fifty, before handing it back to the locals at the end of World War II.”
“Are they on good terms these days?”
“Could be worse. After the Dutch Foreign Minister attended the sixtieth
anniversary of Indonesia’s independence, it seems to have improved relations a little. Foreign direct investment has picked up a bit.”
“You seem to know a lot about Indonesia.”
“Well, a quarter of a billion people and nearly everyone has or wants a cell phone. So, it’s in my interest to know a bit about the place. Like most countries, it’s controlled by a few powerful families. Rural Java can be quite beautiful if you know where to go. Where exactly are you headed to?”
“Adipala. South part of the island.”
“Hmm… never heard of it.”
“I think it’s somewhere in the middle,” I said, searching my brain for the location on the map I had glanced at after Patrick first pointed it out to me.
“Might be tricky getting there.”
“I’ll probably take a local flight or something. Maybe I’ll stay in Jakarta for a day or two. What do you think?”
“Well, if you think Manila traffic was bad, wait until you experience Jakarta. Though your flight this evening should get in early enough tomorrow to avoid some of it. I suggest getting out of Jakarta as quickly as possible.”
We ordered our food; I had the lasagna and he a light pasta dish and salad. It tasted like heaven as I hadn’t had Italian food since San Francisco. The Barolo went down like an elixir, and I felt a wave of comfort hit me, not realizing how much I missed the tastes of home which only Hong Kong seemed able to replicate. I could see how a foreigner might live a comfortable life in these surroundings, and Kyle smiled at my enthusiasm.
Crossing Allenby Bridge Page 14