Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  Aside from feeding her, everything related to Lola was Bernard’s responsibility. She saw me as an intruder on their boat. I was tolerated but not indulged. My duties were relegated to housekeeper and cook. All acts of food preparation held her enthralled, and I couldn’t turn my back for a second. To keep Lola out of trouble, I fed her peanuts while I cooked. She stuffed them into her cheeks until she looked liked a chipmunk and kept begging for more. When her ploy for more didn’t work, she scurried into a corner and took them out of her mouth to be eaten one by one, her back to me in case I might want her to share.

  My status improved when my father-in-law came for a brief visit. There was now a lower person in the hierarchy. So low in fact, that he was subject to bites after a Lola/Bernard brawl. I felt sorry for him. He had to endure his wife Dède at home, and now on vacation, he had another self-centred female to deal with. The poor man spent his entire vacation hanging on to a flashlight to ward off attacks. When he saw Lola coming, he’d bop her on the head. She got the message and kept her distance, but it was an uneasy truce.

  I tried to make his visit as comfortable as I could. It touched me that he spent hours looking for a nice gift for his wife, knowing how much ill will she had towards him. He was a caring man who embraced my sons, and I thought he deserved better.

  During a day’s sail to Malaysia, Lola and Bernard had words. The sails were up and a light breeze pushed the ketch at a nice speed. Lola was having a fine time jumping from mast to mast, something she liked to do when the boat was moving with the sails unfurled. But she couldn’t let go of that last argument they’d had. At one point, she swooped down and grabbed the flashlight from my unsuspecting father-in-law and threw it into the sea. Bernard went after her and Lola took off. Just as Bernard was about to grab her, she jumped overboard. To this day, I don’t know how she did it, but she managed to climb up the stern and there she was — soaking wet and triumphant.

  We later discussed what we were going to do with her. It was a delicate subject. Bernard was in love. But this couldn’t go on. She couldn’t be trusted around matches, had already eaten the teak on one of the lockers under the galley sink and was starting on another. We couldn’t leave her behind when we went out. We had tried that by putting her in a bucket with a net over it suspended from the ceiling of the salon by a rope. While we were gone, she managed to swing the bucket from side to side and with a hand stretched through the net, shredded the curtains covering the portholes. And because she had no papers, we had to hide her in a shoulder bag when we took her with us. I wanted her gone. Bernard couldn’t do it.

  That changed when we were invited to a party at the home of one of my colleagues. We brought Lola with us with the idea of tying her to the bedpost in the bedroom of our host, making sure to check on her from time to time. Within minutes of her confinement she ripped apart the entire bedding. Feathers were strewn everywhere. Our host wasn’t amused. Lola had gone from a novelty to a liability. Even Bernard acknowledged she had to go.

  The next day, we took her to the Singapore zoo. The zookeeper told us they generally didn’t take domesticated monkeys because they couldn’t adjust, but Lola was still young enough, and she might get adopted into the group. We went with her to her cage and saw there were about a dozen monkeys that looked like her. We felt the adjustment would be easy. Lola saw it differently. She looked at her fellow Macaques and froze. She had no idea what they were.

  The zookeeper tried to reassure us. “She’ll be okay,” he said, but we weren’t so sure.

  “We’ll be back in a few days to see how she’s doing,” Bernard said.

  When we returned a week later, Lola was part of the pack. It was hard to differentiate her from the others, and she had lost all interest in us. Bernard was crushed.

  “She’s ignoring me,” he said. “Do you think she’s already forgotten us?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She’s a monkey.”

  I knew Lola had a special place in Bernard’s heart, and I knew she had felt something for him, the man who saved her from the sea, but I wasn’t very sympathetic. It’s hard to be generous when your coffer is empty. A smile, a look, a touch would have filled me, but I had not received that. I had nothing to give.

  During Christmas vacation I went for a two-week holiday to Bali with one of my colleagues from work. I wanted to sail there with Bernard, but he wasn’t interested in going anywhere. He had relaxed into a daily routine of boat maintenance, TV watching, and evening socializing. It wasn’t how I had envisioned sailing, and I found this lifestyle boring. The thought of a change of scenery excited me. Little did I know how exciting Bali would be.

  My travel companion, who was from Australia, and I decided to forego Kuta Beach with its hordes of tourists and high-rise hotels and head directly for Ubud, the cultural centre of the island. Hotels weren’t allowed in Ubud, so we booked a one-room house in a private garden. Once inside the grounds, we felt as though we had left the real world and stepped into a canvas by Rousseau. Hibiscus grew over our heads, and the leaves were at least a foot and a half across. Our little house was of carved stone.

  The owner told us he had brought each stone up from the river himself and then chiselled the intricate relief carvings we saw on its outer walls. We had no running water, but an opening in one of the walls was set with a stone basin that ran from the outside in. Every morning hot water was poured in from the outside so that we could bathe. After bathing, we’d open our door to a huge bowl of mango, banana, and papaya sprinkled with coconut shavings that had been left on our doorstep.

  The owner was a rice farmer, but he was also a skilled stone mason and sculptor. “I tend my rice fields,” he said, “but I’m an artist.”

  That was true of everyone we met in Ubud. They worked the land, but this was not what they told us when we questioned them. They were dancers, or musicians, or sculptors, or artists. It was not unusual to see children being trained in their compounds by their parents in one of the arts. In the evening we joined the locals to listen to male frogs serenading females. If the performance was good, the people clapped. We were told the gamelan, a musical instrument peculiar to Indonesia, was inspired by frog vocalization, Bali having many species, each having its own sound. Some evenings we attended Kecak performances, a hypnotic series of sound and ritualized movement executed by men who seemed to be in a trance, and soon put us there; or watched the exquisitely graceful Legong dance performed by young girls who were certainly in a trance-like state.

  Grace came easily to the Balinese. I remember climbing a narrow mountain path on my hands and knees trying to keep up with a young woman in a sarong who was carrying a table on her head and moving before me like a mountain goat. In processions that were almost a daily occurrence, women carried huge baskets of fruit on their heads with total ease. Their lithe, sinuous movements were a beautiful sight, but then everything in Ubud was beautiful.

  One time we passed a stream that widened into a small pool where an older woman was bathing, naked from the waist up. A man had stopped to talk, perhaps a friend or neighbour. A few years earlier the government had passed a law saying blouses had to be worn but old habits die slowly. I felt privileged to be there at the end of an era.

  I loved everything about this island — the brilliant green, terraced rice fields, the elegant bamboo structured homes, the physical drama of an island carved from a volcanic aftermath with its varied landscape of mountains, rivers, and fertile plains, and the fact that a man could only enter a temple wearing a sarong with a hibiscus behind each ear and a woman had to enter the same way but with only one hibiscus.

  “It’s disgraceful,” the local tourist guide said to me on seeing two young Australian men enter a temple in shirt and jeans. “Would they enter their own church that way?”

  Yes, I thought, but didn’t say. The tourist guide hadn’t travelled out of the country, but his English was good, so I imagined there must be a language school on the island. I played with the idea of teaching English, a
nd settling in Bali forever. It wouldn’t be unheard of. Many artists came to visit and never left. Others arrived with no artistic talent, and were now selling Balinese craft all over the world in order to stay. They built their homes along the shore of a local river.

  I met a young graphic artist from Saskatchewan who came on holiday shortly before me, and like me, was mesmerized by this otherworldly paradise. He was determined to stay. He took me by motorcycle into the mountains to meet the craftsmen and to look at some of the wooden pieces of sculpture and furniture he was selecting to send back. He had already spoken to the government about doing this and was in the process of filling a container. In the early eighties there was a huge market for Balinese craft. I couldn’t wait to get back and tell Bernard. This could be our survival.

  While I spent my time checking out Balinese craftwork, my Australian travelling companion filled her days with a young Balinese gentleman she’d met in a restaurant. “He’s in love with me,” she said, gushing. “We have a connection.”

  “I’m not so sure.” I reminded her of our cab ride from the airport to Ubud.

  “I’m available,” the cab driver had said. “Australian and Swedish women like us. They come to Bali for sex.”

  “Are you married?” I had asked him.

  “Of course, I have two children — a very nice wife.”

  “Why do you do this?”

  “Do what? We are a tourist country. We fill the needs of our tourists.”

  “Doesn’t your wife mind?”

  “No, why should she mind?”

  “This is different,” my travelling companion retorted.

  One night she didn’t return to our room. I assumed that she and her soul mate had decided to consummate their “connection.”

  That morning she stormed into our little guesthouse. “That bastard,” she shouted. “He asked me for money. I refused and he got upset. Imagine — HE got upset.”

  My colleague and I still had a few days of vacation, but I was now the only one enjoying our trip. We left Bali on the day of a mass cremation — five rich men and a bevy of poor were to be cremated at the same time with no cost to the poor. Many families had waited for months for the rich to be cremated to be able to join the procession carrying the remains of their own dead to the place of cremation. Five huge, black, ornately adorned papier mâché bulls led the procession, one for each of the men who would be put into them before the actual burning.

  The procession wove in and out of streets in the hope of confusing the spirits so they wouldn’t return home. Gamelan music was also employed to disorient the spirits while the women of the village swayed elegantly in their colourful batik sarongs carrying huge baskets laden with fruit and flowers on their heads. Men accompanied them in their black and white chequered sarongs, hibiscus behind each ear and Nike running shoes. It seemed to be the official male dress of Ubud.

  I knew I’d mourn leaving a place with so much physical beauty and cultural richness, and I thought how fitting for my last day in Bali.

  Back in Singapore I tried to talk Bernard into buying crafts from Bali and selling them in Western markets. He wasn’t interested. It was my last attempt at trying to use the Santa Rita as a vehicle for our future. Now, more than ever, I wanted to make it to Europe where there would be a better market for selling yachts.

  I gave my notice of resignation to the British Council and looked forward to the day we’d be able to sail out. I had made good friends in Singapore, knew I would miss them and promised to stay in touch. Still, I felt a great excitement at the prospect of lifting anchor and heading towards unexplored waters. I hadn’t lost my wanderlust, and felt more secure having put some well-needed money into the kitty. Bernard was as excited as I was to continue the journey. As soon as my teaching contract ended, we lost no time in provisioning and preparing the Santa Rita for the next leg of our voyage.

  Chapter 21

  FROM DOLPHINS TO DHAL

  Winter 1984: From Singapore To India

  It is good to have an end to journey toward;

  but it is the journey that matters in the end.

  — ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  As luck would have it, or so we thought, a fit Barbie and Ken look-alike couple approached the Santa Rita and asked if we needed crew. “We’re on our way home to Switzerland,” they said, “and if you’re heading towards Europe, we’d be happy to work in exchange for passage.”

  With Stefan no longer on board to give us a hand, it seemed like a good idea. “Glad to have you,” Bernard said.

  Early next morning, the couple arrived at the water’s edge with their backpacks, and waved at us to pick them up with the dinghy. Barbie cradled a ten-kilo bag of carrots.

  “Nice of you to share,” I said as I extended my hand to help her aboard.

  “You make a mistake,” she answered, clutching the carrots tighter to her chest. “This is mine. Food for the skin.”

  The carrots went into their cabin along with the couple, and were never seen again.

  We soon learned that besides the periodic squalls, possible pirate attacks, and half-sunk containers that always gave us stress in the Malacca Strait, we now had the burden of an unseasoned crew, and worse, an unseasoned crew who refused to learn anything. The Barbie and Ken look-alikes viewed sailing as an opportunity for endless sunbathing and room service. At the first sign of work, they disappeared into their cabin and didn’t resurface until mealtime.

  “In place of getting two extra hands, we got two extra mouths,” I said to Bernard. “At least they can help with the night watches — not much skill required there.”

  On our second night in the Malacca Strait, we were sideswiped by a sudden squall. We roused our crew in an effort to get them to participate in reefing the sails. Bernard tried to shout directions to the clueless duo, but they lurched about the deck like pin balls in a pinball machine. Ken finally managed to grab hold of the boom. He then swung it in the direction of Barbie, knocking her to the deck. I secured the boom while Ken carried Barbie below deck and disappeared for the night.

  The next morning Ken surfaced to tell us that Barbie had a concussion. “I’ll have to take care of her until we reach a port.”

  Bernard’s face showed concern. “I’d like to see her,” he said and started towards the cabin.

  “She’s resting,” Ken said. “It’s better that you didn’t.”

  Our concern melted away when Barbie appeared later that day to take her usual sunbathing spot in the bow of the yacht. There was a slight bruise on the side of her forehead but nothing more. The accident did nothing to cut her appetite or change her daily routine of sunbathing, eating, and reading in her cabin while munching carrots.

  Meanwhile Ken, who didn’t have a concussion, followed her precise regimen. “I have to be with my girlfriend,” he informed us, “in case of complications.” Now there was not even the remotest possibility of either of them sharing the night watches. Bernard and I were furious. But at sea you learn to control your anger.

  I relaxed once we sailed past Sebang, the small island at the tip of Indonesia that marked the end of the Malacca Strait and beginning of the Indian Ocean. We were now past the threat of pirates and halfsubmerged debris waiting to damage the boat. But eight hours later the wind died, and Bernard couldn’t start the engine. After a quick check, he discovered a corroded heat exchanger and gearbox flooded with water. We had no choice but to backtrack to Sebang. With little wind and the current against us, the trip took a day and a half.

  In Sebang, we patiently waited three days for the heat exchanger to be repaired at a local machine shop. Barbie’s bruised forehead had healed by then, but neither she nor Ken made any effort to leave the yacht as they had threatened to do on the night of the accident. Bernard and I didn’t force the issue although we would have loved to have seen them go. International law states that if you take someone aboard your boat, it’s your responsibility to repatriate them, and we weren’t about to finance their trip back to Switz
erland. We were stuck with a bad deal.

  Once again on the Indian Ocean, Bernard and I took turns doing the two-hour night shifts. We no longer asked our crew, and they didn’t volunteer. The nights were so fresh and the sailing so smooth that I didn’t mind. It was the only time I was totally alone, and I savoured the privacy — my mind empty, my body moving in sync with the yacht, and my ear tuned to the soothing sounds of swishing water.

  During one of my watches, on a starless night, I lost all sense of boundaries. The sky and water were black, and there was no horizon line or point of reference to ground me. I was suspended in space. The auto-helm held a steady course, and without needing to give it attention, I drifted off like stardust in the Milky Way.

  The sudden onset of a deep, throaty “ahhh-hahh, ahhh-hahh” startled me from my trance. The heavy, rhythmic breathing resonated through the hull of the yacht, and sounded as though the planet was having an asthma attack — or maybe heavy sex. I peered over the starboard side, and saw nothing but a small window of black water ruffled by the wind. I moved to the prow and still saw nothing. The sound stopped when I got up to investigate.

  I relaxed. Whatever it was had gone. I wasn’t going to give it more thought, and returned to the cockpit. As soon as I sat down, a soft, persistent thump started to beat against the side of the hull. It was followed by more heavy breathing. For the second time I went to investigate, but again the breathing stopped before I reached the stanchion lines. I couldn’t find the source of the sounds. They came out of nowhere, and I felt vulnerable in the vast darkness. I imagined I was going to be sucked into something unpleasant, but I didn’t know what. After several bouts of trying to locate the sound, and convinced it was something threatening, I inched my way below deck to wake Bernard. I didn’t want to be out there alone with whatever it was.