The Mothers' Group

by Fiona Higgins

  ‘Do you know where I can fix my tyre, Ibu?’ asked Made. ‘I’ve never visited this area before.’

  ‘There’s a petrol seller straight ahead, on the right.’

  ‘Is it very far, Ibu?’ Made glanced at the sun rising higher in the sky. Soon the heat would become uncomfortable.

  ‘Not far. You tell him that Ibu Lia sent you. He will help.’

  Made thanked the woman and continued on to the petrol seller’s. There she sat in the shade of a coconut palm while the tyre was patched by a boy of no more than eight years.

  ‘You have a strong son,’ Made said, smiling at the petrol seller. ‘Just like my brother.’

  ‘Where did you say you were going?’ asked the seller.

  ‘Sanur, sir, to find my cousin.’

  ‘Sanur? On a bicycle?’ The seller threw back his head and laughed. ‘Did you hear that?’ He gestured to his son, then turned back to her. ‘You know how far that is, don’t you, buffalo brains?’

  Made shook her head. She felt ridiculous. But if she didn’t get to Sanur, what hope did her family have? Tears began to slide down her cheeks, dropping into the dust in front of her.

  ‘Now you’ve made her cry, Dad,’ the boy said in an accusing tone. He wheeled Made’s bicycle towards her.

  The petrol seller stood up from behind the stall and squatted next to Made.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked, his tone kinder.

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Then you’re old enough to know that it’s too far to cycle to Sanur. Do you know where you’re going?’

  Made shook her head. She knew nothing of distance or maps.

  The man sighed. ‘My brother drives the bus to Denpasar,’ he said. ‘He’ll be coming through in an hour. Why don’t you save your legs and catch the bus? Then you can cycle from Denpasar to Sanur. That’s not so far.’

  ‘That is very kind,’ said Made. ‘Ibu Lia said you would be kind to me. But . . .’ She reddened. ‘I have no money for the fare, sir.’

  The man looked at her. ‘Well, if Ibu Lia knows you, I’m sure my brother can give you a free ride.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’ Made stooped forward into a bow, touching her hand to her heart.

  The seller stood up. ‘Sanur’s a big place, and shifty too,’ he said. ‘Be careful down there.’

  The bus traversed winding mountain roads and, eventually, the heavy traffic of Denpasar’s outskirts. Made sat at the rear of the vehicle, next to an elderly woman with three chickens and a goat tethered to her seat. The frequent lurching of the bus and the panicked bleating of the goat made her feel queasy. On several occasions she thought she might be sick, but she pinched her nose to control the urge. The petrol seller had been right, she reflected. She never would have made it by bicycle.

  When they arrived in the centre of Denpasar, the driver unloaded her bicycle from the luggage rack on the roof of the bus.

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, sir,’ Made said.

  ‘Sanur’s to the south, that way,’ replied the driver, pointing to a highway.

  Made had never seen so many vehicles. Trucks carrying all manner of cargo careered down the carriageway, weaving between motorcycles and four-wheel drives. Buses competed with minivans for space in the narrow shoulder, where she would be cycling. Quietly, she prayed for safe passage before mounting her bicycle.

  It took her more than two hours to reach Sanur, stopping for directions along the way. When she finally arrived at Pantai Raya Resort on Duyung Road, the sun was setting. Breathless with fatigue, she stopped on the footpath and stood astride her bicycle, staring at the ocean. It was bigger than she’d imagined. The waves made a peculiar sucking sound, like the rush of strong wind through a forest. The air was sharp and cool, carrying pungent aromas she’d never smelled before. She was as far from her mountain home as she’d ever been.

  She approached the resort’s security post and smoothed her hair with one hand. Pantai Raya was one of the best-known resorts on the island, favoured by diplomats, corporate travellers and government officials. Only the wealthiest tourists could afford to stay there.

  A middle-aged man in a brown uniform looked up from his newspaper. Six security screens blinked black and white behind him. Beyond the security post, dozens of cottages with thatched roofs dotted tropical gardens. Pebbled paths sloped down to a golden sweep of sand.

  ‘Yes?’ the security guard asked, his tone uninterested.

  ‘Sir, my name is Made. I have come to visit my cousin Ketut. She works here.’

  The security guard folded his newspaper. ‘We have eighty staff members. What is her job?’

  ‘She’s a cleaner, sir. I’m hoping to find work here too.’

  The security guard yawned. ‘You and half of Bali.’

  ‘Please, sir.’

  The security guard cleared his throat, rolled a glob of phlegm around his mouth, then spat it out the side window of his booth.

  ‘I’ll call housekeeping.’ He picked up a telephone and dialled three digits. ‘Security,’ he announced. ‘There’s a girl here looking for a cleaner called Ketut. Her cousin, she says. Do you know her?’

  Made waited.

  ‘What time tomorrow? Right, thanks.’ The security guard replaced the handset. ‘It’s your cousin’s day off. She’s on tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. Come back then.’

  Made gripped the handlebars of her bicycle. ‘Sir, I left my village early this morning. I am happy to come back tomorrow, but I have nowhere to stay tonight.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Please, sir, may I stay in Ketut’s room?’

  ‘No.’ The security guard was firm. ‘You say you’re her cousin, but can you prove it? Besides, only staff and paying guests are permitted on site.’

  Made stared at him, helpless. The sound of the ocean was frightening.

  ‘What will I do?’ she asked, her voice shaking.

  ‘Come back tomorrow.’

  It was cold, colder than a mountain evening, lying on the beach. She attempted to shelter from the wind by curling up against the exposed roots of an enormous banyan tree and resting her head on her knapsack. Her limbs throbbed from the day’s exertions, but sleep evaded her. She was too alert to the foreign sounds around her, too frightened of being discovered, too ashamed of her predicament, too homesick. She missed her mother’s familiar smell, the smoothness of her skin, the warmth of her embrace. She imagined lying next to Komang in the bed they’d always shared, their toes touching, giggling at each other’s jokes. She drew the flap of her knapsack around her ears, attempting to muffle the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes encircling her. All night she drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

  In the stillness before dawn, she was jolted awake by a snuffling sound. Her heart raced as she tried to make out the creature in the sand nearby. She sighed with relief; it was only a stray dog scrounging for scraps. Her body was stiff and her clothes damp. The beach was shrouded in mist, but she could detect a faint arc of light creeping across the eastern horizon. She slung her knapsack over her shoulder and began to walk across the sand, her limbs warming with the movement.

  She gazed out at the endless green expanse beyond, heaving with hidden currents. The ocean was alive, she could feel it. Her uneven breaths were barely audible above its rhythmic surge; she felt insignificant in its presence. This sea had delivered sustenance to the people of Bali since the beginning of time. A light breeze tugged at her clothes, like the invisible spirits of ancestors calling her on.

  The mist swirled and suddenly parted. In the semi-darkness, not two metres ahead of her, an elderly woman stood facing the sea. Her skin was dark and her frame skeletal. Her long hair, streaked with silver, cascaded down her back. Made gasped and immediately crouched down on the wet sand.

  ‘Dewi Sri,’ she breathed.

  The woman was a crone: she looked nothing like the goddess of rice venerated in the small shrine in her father’s field. But the name had sprung instinctively to Made’s lip
s. A tingling crept along her spine and down her arms.

  The woman did not acknowledge Made’s presence. Instead she stood, unmoving, her eyes fixed on the sea. Her clothes flapped in the breeze. A batik sarong was wrapped around her body, fixed in place by a bright yellow sash. A blue shawl of woven lace lay over her right shoulder. Her lips were moving, but Made couldn’t make out the words. She stooped to place an offering on the sand. A lychee, rice, a sweet cake and several brightly coloured flowers were nestled within the basket. The woman staked the offering to the sand with a wand of burning incense, then turned towards Made and smiled. Her mouth was stained with the reddish-brown juice of betel leaf and several of her teeth were missing.

  ‘The most important thing, child, is not what is in the basket, but that the offering is made with love.’ Her voice crackled like dry wood on the forest floor. She was terrifying, yet strangely familiar. ‘Even the fanciest offering, given without love, is worthless. True love is divine.’

  Made stared at the woman, speechless.

  The woman nodded once, then turned and disappeared into the billowing mist.

  Made took several steps forward. She wanted to follow the woman, to sit at her feet. To tell her about Wayan, her parents, Komang and the responsibility that was now hers. To beg for the woman’s help and protection against the many things of which she was ignorant.

  The first rays of sun fell on her face and stretched across the deserted beach. As the mist began to clear, the jagged outline of jetties, flagpoles and reclining chairs emerged, littered like flotsam and jetsam across the sand.

  The old woman was nowhere to be seen.

  Made turned back the way she had come.

  It was time to find Ketut.

  ‘Little cousin!’ cried Ketut.

  Made stood to one side of the security post, conscious of the guard’s glare.

  ‘You look awful. Are you alright?’ Ketut dropped her bags and hugged Made to her chest.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Made lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘But I slept on the beach last night.’ She nodded in the direction of the guard. ‘He wouldn’t let me in.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ Ketut’s bright eyes danced. ‘What are you doing here? Let me look at you. You’ve grown so big.’

  Made smiled. Ketut herself, at twenty, looked much older in her crisp brown uniform.

  ‘Mother would never admit it,’ said Made, ‘but it’s been terrible since Wayan . . .’ She bit her lip as tears spilled down her cheeks.

  ‘Poor darling,’ said Ketut, drawing Made to her chest again.

  ‘I need to find work.’ Made wiped her eyes with her sleeves. ‘I thought you might help me, Tut. Is there any work going here?’

  Ketut shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It is very hard now, after the bombings. Not so many tourists. But I can introduce you to Ibu Margono today. You’ll need to get changed first. Come with me.’

  Ketut marched over to the security booth and, holding Made’s hand, smiled at the guard.

  ‘Sir, this is my cousin. She is a village girl from the mountains, looking for work. She needs a bath before I can take her to see Ibu Margono. May I seek your approval to take her to my quarters?’

  The guard smiled at Ketut. There was a leering quality to his gaze. ‘Well, since you asked so nicely, Miss Ketut, certainly.’

  He pushed a clipboard towards Made. ‘Sign here. But make sure you report back to me by this time tomorrow,’ he added. ‘We don’t want people overstaying their welcome.’ His breath stank of cigarettes and coffee. Made recoiled, stepping away from the booth.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ketut, shepherding Made up the driveway.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ the guard called, his eyes following them. ‘Have a nice day, Miss Ketut.’

  Made showered in Ketut’s room, then borrowed a fresh change of clothes. While she was changing, Ketut telephoned ahead to organise a meeting with Ibu Margono, the manager of guest amenities.

  Don’t get your hopes up, though,’ said Ketut as they walked to ‘Ibu Margono’s office in the administration building. ‘She’s a bit of a dragon.’

  Made bowed her head and said a silent prayer, preparing for the worst. Ketut knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ commanded a voice.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ whispered Ketut. She turned the handle and pushed Made into the room.

  Ibu Margono’s office was dominated by a large timber desk. Bangkiri wood, Made guessed. Papers, folders and clipboards were stacked in neat piles across its varnished surface.

  ‘You’re a village girl, then?’ asked Ibu Margono, leaning back in her chair and studying her.

  Made nodded.

  ‘Did you complete your schooling?’

  ‘I finished middle school,’ Made replied.

  ‘And what experience do you have working in this sort of environment? Where’s your CV?’

  ‘I don’t have a CV,’ said Made. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure what it was. ‘I’ve never worked in a resort before.’

  Ibu Margono put down her pen with a loud sigh. She looked irritable.

  ‘But I’ve worked hard all my life, with my parents,’ said Made quickly. ‘I have experience cooking, cleaning, sewing, tending fields and animals. I’m a diligent worker. I’m willing to learn new skills.’ She swallowed, desperate. ‘And if you give me a chance, I’ll be loyal to you always.’

  Ibu Margono drummed her fingers on the desk.

  ‘Loyalty is hard to come by in this day and age,’ she said. ‘Especially in this part of the island.’

  Made hesitated. ‘Whatever you ask, I will do your bidding, Ibu.’

  Ibu Margono looked at her. ‘We’ll just see about that.’ She opened the top drawer of her desk and removed a clipboard. ‘One of our housekeeping staff resigned yesterday due to ill-health.’

  Made began to smile. ‘Oh, thank you, Ibu . . .’

  ‘But this is a Western-style resort,’ barked Ibu Margono. ‘And these are difficult times. Do you understand what that means?’

  Made shook her head.

  ‘It means standards of cleanliness that you can’t even imagine. It means being able to eat breakfast off the bathroom floor. Do you understand?’

  Made nodded, uncertain if she did.

  ‘And you’ll also be responsible for placing offerings around the resort. Every morning, without fail. Can you do that?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Made replied. It was an activity she was familiar with at home. ‘I’m an early riser.’

  Ibu Margono unclipped a form and passed it to Made. ‘Fill this in and return it to me tomorrow. Report for duty at six am.’

  Made nodded again. ‘Yes, Ibu Margono.’

  ‘You’ll be working under Gusti Agung, head of housekeeping. If he’s happy with you by Saturday, you can keep your job and a permanent room in the staff quarters. In the meantime, you can share with Ketut. The wage for cleaners is twenty thousand rupiah per week, including on-site accommodation. Are you satisfied with that?’

  Made attempted to contain her excitement. An extra eighty thousand rupiah a month would mean her family could return to two meals a day, with a little left over for savings. She thought of her mother, so thin and anxious, and her empty leather pouch.

  ‘Yes, Ibu Margono.’

  The next day, Gusti Agung demonstrated the meticulous standard of cleaning required. They stood outside a newly vacated cottage on the ocean side of the resort. Gusti Agung gestured to a trolley crammed with mops, brushes, dusters and cleaning products.

  ‘This is your trolley, no one else ever uses it,’ he said, his tone stern. ‘It’s your responsibility to refill it every day from the store run by Pak Anto. If you start using too much of one thing, Pak Anto will know. And he’ll tell me.’

  Made was puzzled by the inference. She wasn’t a thief.

  ‘The first thing is, you need to be neat and tidy.’ Gusti Agung looked her up and down. ‘Our foreign guests expect the best. Always tie your hair back.’
He passed Made an elastic band and she hurriedly pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  Gusti Agung stared at Made’s feet. ‘And no open-toed sandals. Get yourself a proper pair of shoes.’

  Made wondered how much this would cost. She would ask Ketut to show her the cheapest market stalls in Sanur.

  ‘Now,’ said Gusti Agung, pushing open the cottage door. ‘Let’s get started.’

  Over the next hour, Made learned that bed sheets had to be changed on a daily basis, even if the guest had not slept on them. All towels had to be replaced, unless a guest hung them neatly back on the towel rack. This had something to do with the resort’s environmental policy.

  ‘And as for bathrooms, Westerners have standards way beyond our own,’ Gusti Agung explained, brandishing a toothbrush. ‘Use this for hard-to-reach crevices around faucets, shower screens, plugholes. And don’t think you can just wipe over the top of them. Our guests pay top rates. They will report anything less than perfect. And if that happens, I’ll deduct a penalty from your wage.’

  All furniture had to be dusted and polished, the carpet vacuumed, bathroom and mini-bar replenished, mirrors and glassware buffed, ashtrays emptied and washed, cushions shaken and plumped, any missing items documented, curtains repositioned and tied with a sash, frangipani and hibiscus flowers tastefully arranged on the vanity and, finally, air freshener sprayed throughout the rooms. Made doubted she could remember it all.

  Gusti Agung closed the door. ‘Now, your turn,’ he said. ‘Do cottages four through to ten. Their guests have all checked out. Call me if you have any questions.’

  By the end of her first day, Made’s back was aching. By Saturday, she was exhausted.

  ‘You’re a good worker, I can see that,’ said Gusti Agung, passing her a pile of neatly pressed brown clothes. ‘Here are your uniforms. And your first pay packet. Welcome to the team.’

  Made smiled, grateful. She stuffed the white envelope, weighty with thousand-rupiah notes, into her pocket. She’d never felt so tired. She’d always worked hard for her parents, but at least there’d been a rest period between noon and three pm, the hottest part of the day. Not at Pantai Raya. She was expected to clean up to twenty cottages in ten hours, and thirty minutes per cottage was hardly enough. She didn’t even have a lunch break. Instead, she snacked on guest leftovers—pastries from bread baskets, pieces of fruit, cheese and crackers. At night, dinner was provided in the staff quarters—large servings of rice or noodles, sometimes with pieces of fried chicken or fish.