Tales of a Female Nomad (15 page)

I confer with the scientists and they tell me that tour boats stop in the bay on the other side of the island. They decide that we should all walk across in the morning. Hopefully I’ll be able to hitch a ride.

Everyone comes for the walk. I’m flattered because it’s a long, hot walk in the early morning sun, and we have to climb two big, rocky hills. After a two-hour trek, we get there, but there’s no one in sight. We wait in the hot sun.

Then, an hour after we arrive, a boat comes into the bay and the passengers are brought to shore.

The guide, the passengers, and Enrico, the crew member who is ferrying everybody, are surprised to see people on the island without a boat. I explain my predicament and ask if I can hitch a ride back to Santa Cruz.

“We have another three days,” says the guide, “before we go to Santa Cruz. We do have an empty bunk, but you’ll have to ask the captain.”

Enrico ferries me to the boat. The captain is OK with my joining the tour, but he is worried that the passengers might object. He tells me that they are a group from Canada. I promise the captain, if I get their OK, that I will entertain them with stories of my adventures in Mexico and Guatemala and Nicaragua.

“If they agree, it’s OK with you?” I ask.

“Por supuesto. Cómo no?”
Sure, why not?

So I am ferried back to the island to pitch my proposal to the passengers. And that’s how I end up a hitchhiker on a twenty-person luxury cruise ship.

When I get back to Santa Cruz, I feel explosively free. I have slept with sea lions, sailed with strangers, cooked bread on a fire in the middle of nowhere. I feel as though the ties that have forever bound me to a place, a culture, a way of life, have finally been cut, and I am free to be me in the world.

I love this place and the way it makes me feel. When the book is completed, I get a brilliant idea: I’ll become a Galápagos guide and live here.

Every boat that takes tourists around the island has to have a registered guide. I’ll take the course, which is given here on Santa Cruz. Guides have to be bilingual; I’m almost there. I like the sound of the academic part . . . studying the geology of the islands, animal behavior, weather, marine biology. All subjects I love, a lot of which I already know from my research. I’m a very good swimmer and a former lifeguard, which would be useful skills on a boat. I also like the laid-back life of the guides, hanging out with the locals, going out on yachts, lecturing to groups of tourists. I could get used to that.

I have to admit that part of the appeal of becoming a guide is thinking about telling people in the States that I’m a guide in the Galápagos Islands. I love the idea. It would be fun, safe, and healthy.
Cómo no?

I actually fill out the application and talk to some guides and the National Park Service, but in the end, I decide to wait and think about it. I never officially apply. Waiting and thinking is not a good strategy for making decisions; all sorts of practical matters get added into the process. Spontaneity is better. For me. But, hey, just the thought that I was considering becoming a guide in the Galápagos is exhilarating.

Indonesia

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE FORESTS OF BORNEO

By the time I leave the Galápagos Islands, I feel ready to conquer the world. But I don’t know where to go. The answer comes to me at my college reunion in Waltham, Massachusetts.

It’s been thirty years since I’ve seen my Brandeis classmates, and my eyes keep flipping from the familiar names on the tags everyone is wearing to the less familiar faces. We were a small, coed class of around 217 and the ambiance at the Friday night cocktail hour is friendly and easy. Yet, it is here in this warm and accepting setting, while I am sipping my red wine and smiling a lot, that I realize for the first time that I am a threat to tenuous marriages.

David L. was a friend when we were both students. I remember vividly the many lazy afternoons when we’d sat in our jeans and turtleneck shirts under a tree on the hill overlooking the library, talking about things like the existential meaning of life, and arguing about which was the best pizza at Saldi’s. Now, thirty years later, we both sneak a look at the other’s name tag before we commit to a hug.

Today, David is a successful, distinguished, graying lawyer, sharply dressed in creased khaki pants, a navy blazer, a silk tie, and a crisp white shirt that has flown in a suitcase from the West Coast without getting a wrinkle. He introduces me to his wife, who, like most spouses at reunions, is standing a half step behind her mate. As I talk about my three years in Central America, and my idyllic stay in the Galápagos, I notice a tightening around David’s mouth and a simultaneous widening of his wife’s eyes.

“You’re doing this alone?” she asks.

Their physical positions have altered. She is leaning toward me, animatedly asking questions, and he is a half step back. It happens three more times that night and many times over the next years. Usually it’s the women who identify with me and ask the questions. It isn’t the details of my travels that intrigue them; it’s the fact that I am living a rich, fulfilling life. And I’m doing it without a man. For many women, my story awakens buried dreams or stimulates new ones. I can tell by reading eyes and body language when I’ve touched a sensitive nerve.

The second day of the reunion there’s an informal session where we are asked to talk about our lives, our thoughts, whatever. So I tell my story. I conclude by saying that I don’t know where I’ll be going next.

“If anyone has any ideas, I’d love to talk.”

Only one former classmate has a suggestion about where I might go.

“I’ve heard Indonesia is fascinating,” she says.

As soon as she mentions Indonesia, I remember a conversation I had with a Norwegian man from UNICEF when I was in Guatemala.

“Indonesian is an easy language to learn,” he told me more than a year ago. He suggested I start out in Yogyakarta, where there are more than fifty schools of higher learning and plenty of classes to choose from.

That’s it! I make up my mind before I ever leave the campus. I’m going to Indonesia. The minute I get back to my mother’s house, where I’ve been staying, I locate Indonesia in her atlas. It’s a country of islands, including most of Borneo, half of New Guinea, and all of Bali. I know nothing about its politics, its history, or its culture. I can’t wait to learn.

Two days later I walk into the Indonesian Consulate in New York and I’m directed to the office of Soehardjono, the man in charge of the press.

Soehardjono, Jono for short, is in his late twenties. A small, sturdy man with a warm crooked smile. I have brought him one of my books as proof that I’m a legitimate writer. He tells me that his wife collects children’s books.

Jono and I talk about our families, our background, and the difficulty of being a foreigner in the United States. He and his wife have been in New York for nearly a year and they’ve never been invited to an American home.

I tell him that I will be house-sitting in a beautiful area of Pennsylvania when I return from Indonesia in four months. I invite him and his wife to visit me for a weekend. (They do come and we have a great time, barbecuing, talking, and tubing down a river.)

Finally, we get to business. I tell him that I would like to know his country and that I am planning to begin by studying the Indonesian language in Yogyakarta.

Jono looks pleased. “I am from Yogya. How can I help you?”

There are two things I’m hoping he will help me with. I’d like him to talk to me about appropriate and inappropriate behavior. The customs are very different and I don’t want to insult anyone by mistake. And second, I’m hoping he can give me some hints about how I can arrange to live with a family.

He tells me to come back in a week.

The following week, Jono greets me like an old friend. Then he gets down to business.

“The first thing that you must never forget is you cannot give or receive with your left hand. It is considered rude and dirty.

“Another important thing to remember is that ours is a culture that has a great deal of respect for older people. If you are walking by an elderly person, you should lower your head and shoulder as you pass.”

Jono gets up from behind his desk and walks by me, bending his knees, and lowering the shoulder that is closest to me. His head too is lowered.

“Years ago, servants would crawl on the floor so that their heads would be lower than the person they were respecting. Today it is more symbolic, but still expected.”

“And you don’t think it would look as if I am mocking the custom if I do it?”

“Don’t crawl on the floor. But lowering your head and shoulder would be seen as a sign of respect. You don’t have to exaggerate; just show your respect. Also, never point your feet at anyone or rub a child’s head. Feet are dirty and the head is sacred.”

This is going to be interesting. I cannot imagine myself lowering my body before anyone. Will I do it or will I use the exemption that is given to foreigners?

“And now about a place to stay in Yogya. I have sent a letter in our diplomatic pouch to an old friend of mine from school. He owns a travel agency. I have asked him to find two families who might be interested in having you as a guest in their homes. Here is his name and the address of his agency. He will be expecting you. Good luck.”

Jono’s friend has done his homework. His agency is off the lobby of a starred hotel and he greets me warmly.

“As Jono suggested,” he tells me, “I have found two families who would like very much to have you. One is a retired couple who live in the center of Yogya, near everything. One of them speaks a little bit of English. The other family is a young couple, English teachers, who live in a suburb about fifteen minutes away from town. They work every day and have a baby who is cared for by a maid, so you would not be alone. You may stay with whichever family you want. The choice is up to you.”

I choose the English teachers. My first priority is learning Indonesian, and it seems to me that learning a language from scratch might be easier if I could ask questions and get answers from English speakers.

Jono’s friend drives me to the house, which is compact and immaculate. All the rooms are through doors off the living room: three small bedrooms and a kitchen. The couple is formal, in their early thirties, and a bit stiff compared to the effusiveness of the Hispanic families I have been living with. There is no question that I have entered another culture. I tell them that I am hoping to study Indonesian while I am with them.

“Bambang and I leave for work at eight each day,” says Diana. “We return at four. Didi is the maid. She will be happy to help you. Our baby is one and a half years old. He is also learning Indonesian. Didi will be a teacher to both of you.”

My room is small, clean, and spare, and there is even a light on a table next to the bed. This is obviously a well-ordered home with a routine. There will not be much adventure here, but that can come after I have learned to speak the language. We negotiate a price of eight U.S. dollars per night, including food. I move in that afternoon.

Within minutes of my arrival, Inid, Diana’s sixteen-year-old sister, bursts through the door holding a tiny white
Shih Tzu.
Tall, slim, and model-beautiful with shoulder-length black hair, Inid rushes over to me, hand out for a shake.

“Hi, my name is Inid. This is Fifi. Come. I will take you for a ride.”

Inid is stealing me. I’m not sure her sister and brother-in-law are happy about it, but when I look to them for permission, they gesture that I should go.

Inid and I walk up the street to the house where she lives with her mother. She brings me in for a quick introduction and a dog drop-off. Then she hands me a helmet. Yay! It’s not going to be all that stuffy after all.

We shoot through the quiet tree-lined streets on her motorcycle, me holding onto Inid’s waist, and Inid pointing and calling out the Indonesian names of things like
dokar
(horse and carriage),
ojek
(motorcycle taxi),
masjid
(mosque),
gereja
(church). I repeat the words into the wind and promptly forget them. This is not going to be an easy language to learn.

“House my friend,” says Inid as she stops in front of a typical suburban home. I hop off the back and follow her inside. She introduces me to a beautiful girl with shoulder-length, shiny black hair that smells sweet from the perfume of a recent shampoo. We sit in the living room for five minutes as the girls giggle and chatter in Javanese, the language of Java; nearly everyone in Indonesia speaks two languages, the language of their island and the language of the country. Minutes after we arrive, Inid jumps up and takes my hand. “Come.”

We ride around several more streets and stop again. “House my friend,” says Inid, and we repeat the routine. Finally, after I have been shown off to her three best friends, we pull into the parking lot of a big Catholic church. I am surprised to find out that Inid and her family are Catholics in a Muslim country.

“Come.”

My little dictator-guide takes my hand and we go into a huge hall for a choir rehearsal. Inid is in the choir. The choir director tells me in English that the group is going to be touring Europe in a few months and she invites me to sit and listen. They sing “Ave Maria” and “Greensleeves,” and some wonderful tribal songs with drums and exotic instruments.

When the rehearsal is over, we whiz home, pick up Fifi, the dog, at Inid’s, and report on our afternoon to Bambang and Diana. I have learned how to say good afternoon, thank you, traffic light, motorcycle taxi, and horse-drawn carriage.

The next morning I hear Bambang and Diana drive off in their car as I am lying in bed doing leg lifts, holding
Indonesian Made Easy
in my hands. I count to five over and over again, staring at the book and counting my legs lifts. Five times five on each side and then five more sets of five on each leg while lying on my back.
Satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima. Satu,
dua, tiga, empat, lima. Satu, dua, tiga, empat, lima.
By the time I’ve finished my leg lifts, I can count to five. I dress and go out the door.

Didi is in the living room sweeping the floor. She greets me with a big smile and says,
“Saya menyapu.”
Then she points to herself and says,
“Saya.”
She begins to sweep and says,
“Me . . . nya . . . pu. Saya menyapu.”
Again she points to herself,
“Saya.”
To the broom,
“Sapu. Saya menyapu.”

I take the broom and do exactly what she did, saying the words she has taught me. She smiles, proud to be such a good teacher. We both laugh. I decide on the spot that I will not go to a school. I will learn from Didi and Inid, and, I discover later, the neighborhood children.

During the week I do errands and walk and wander with Didi and the baby. As we walk, she points and names, alerting both me and the baby that we are about to learn a new word. I learn goat and swing and kite and nose and mouth and eyes. We have a little trouble when she says something conversational, something that she can’t point to.
“Saya capet”
(pronounced “chapet”), she says one day during our afternoon walk. I know it’s descriptive of herself—
saya
means
I.
The
am
is understood; there is no verb
to be.
But since there is nothing she can point to, I have to guess at the meaning of
capet. “Saya capet,”
she says again, this time bending her knees and sort of rolling her eyes. I still don’t get it.