In my neighborhood, there is one skinny little street called Gang Mawar, on which my communal villa is located. Gang Mawar runs from the main road, Jalan Hangtuah, and comes out again on Jalan Sedap Malam. Midway along Gang Mawar, there is a connection with one other skinny little street linking it, ultimately, to the Bypass, the main thoroughfare through Sanur. Aside from this anemic little artery, all other lanes end in dead ends.
I discovered a number of these this morning while trying to find some way to make a less repetitious circuit. There are any number of dogs along each dead end who will tell you to turn around and go back because you're wasting your time, but I decided to look for myself anyway. On the third dead end or so, I came upon a fellow standing outside the gate to his house who was able to authenticate what the dogs on that dead end had already been shouting at me.
But as so often happens in Indonesia, a brief word was far from sufficient. In fact, there is no such thing as a brief word. After chatting by the gate for a time, the man, Putu by name, asked me to come and sit with him on his porch, put my feet up for a while, have a smoke together. He then wondered whether I would like a coffee, and ran across the alley to buy two packets from a little warung. Seeing that I was an enthusiast of the morning walk, or masquerading as one anyway, Putu was eager that we should walk together on the morrow.
You come here on motor and we walk to little park. Eight o'clock, ya? Every morning I walk at eight o'clock.
Well …
I'm sorry I cannot give you rice. My wife is at the market.
Oh well goodness no, don't be sorry. I've already eaten.
Next time fried rice, ya? My wife is at the market.
Where else in the world does one see generosity such as this? Where else in the world such congeniality?
This is one of the reasons, probably the main reason, that I cling to Indonesia--despite my poor health, despite the fact that some things might be more convenient back in America, despite the fact that healthcare would be superior, not to mention insured, despite the fact that common reasoning tells me that I am being unreasonable. It is the people. Men like Putu. Women like those who greet me along the way, Good morning, where have you been, where are you going? School boys who shout Hi, Mister! as they pass on motorbike. Little girls like my neighbor, Viana, who pops by my door on the way to school just to say hi. One can walk a mile in America and remain invisible every step of the way. Here, one exists. We all exist. No one is anonymous. No one is superfluous. No one is obscure, not even an old friend to obscurity such as I.
I discovered a number of these this morning while trying to find some way to make a less repetitious circuit. There are any number of dogs along each dead end who will tell you to turn around and go back because you're wasting your time, but I decided to look for myself anyway. On the third dead end or so, I came upon a fellow standing outside the gate to his house who was able to authenticate what the dogs on that dead end had already been shouting at me.
But as so often happens in Indonesia, a brief word was far from sufficient. In fact, there is no such thing as a brief word. After chatting by the gate for a time, the man, Putu by name, asked me to come and sit with him on his porch, put my feet up for a while, have a smoke together. He then wondered whether I would like a coffee, and ran across the alley to buy two packets from a little warung. Seeing that I was an enthusiast of the morning walk, or masquerading as one anyway, Putu was eager that we should walk together on the morrow.
You come here on motor and we walk to little park. Eight o'clock, ya? Every morning I walk at eight o'clock.
Well …
I'm sorry I cannot give you rice. My wife is at the market.
Oh well goodness no, don't be sorry. I've already eaten.
Next time fried rice, ya? My wife is at the market.
Where else in the world does one see generosity such as this? Where else in the world such congeniality?
This is one of the reasons, probably the main reason, that I cling to Indonesia--despite my poor health, despite the fact that some things might be more convenient back in America, despite the fact that healthcare would be superior, not to mention insured, despite the fact that common reasoning tells me that I am being unreasonable. It is the people. Men like Putu. Women like those who greet me along the way, Good morning, where have you been, where are you going? School boys who shout Hi, Mister! as they pass on motorbike. Little girls like my neighbor, Viana, who pops by my door on the way to school just to say hi. One can walk a mile in America and remain invisible every step of the way. Here, one exists. We all exist. No one is anonymous. No one is superfluous. No one is obscure, not even an old friend to obscurity such as I.
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