He blew into the hotel restaurant tempestuously just as I was sitting down for dinner. A fedora rested firmly on his head, which he removed for dramatic effect as he looked pointedly at me and said, “Now who are you? Where do you come from?”
“I’m American.” I said. He made the sign of the cross over my head and he said, “All of your sins are forgiven! The SIN of Bush!” he almost shouted. “I am a writer, have you read my column? Here it is,” he whipped out the Bali Times from under an arm and pounded it onto my table, pointing at his column. I looked down at the paper, “Paradox in Paradise, Spirits of the Island.”
“I’m a writer, too.” I said. “Oh is that so? For which publications do you write? I write for a magazine in India, which has 3 million readers. In India, a very small readership!” He laughed quite loudly. So loudly that the group of French couples that arrived today as I was taking a nap looked over at us, disapprovingly. I guess, as I’ll be in Paris next week, I need to get used to this look. I shot them a look to say, “I’m not with him!” as he said, “Get it? In India, three million readers isn’t so much because there are so many people there.” Again he laughed, but this time he looked for confirmation that this was a funny joke from the girl who walked in with him as well. She looked at him and the corners of her lips curled up slightly, and then looked away.
I remember when I first became friends with Basia, so long ago. She used to tell me her traveling stories and I would listen, in awe. She was the first person who told me about her adventures and made me realize that I could do it, too. By the time that I had met her, she had already done a huge backpacking trip around Europe, ending at her grandparent’s house in Poland. She and her friend had such a great trip that at her grandparents’ house they sat around with a map and determined their next big trip: India. As much grief that Basia would cause me further down the line, I do owe her for making it sound easy, and showing me that anyone can do it.
As they were backpacking across Europe, Basia and her friend Anna came up with a saying for this certain type of man that they would meet occasionally on their travels: “M.O.W,” which stands for “Man Of World.” It’s hard to explain but easy to spot. He’s older, knows a little bit about everything and isn’t afraid to tell you all about it –do you have a few hours? He’s traveled everywhere that you have -- and then some – and done it with more panache. Dramatic, dangerous with a flourish, slightly patronizing. Bombastic and charming all in the same minute. Perpetually single: love affairs are more his style. The very definition of “Peter Pan Syndrome.” Interesting for a conversation, but tiring and tedious long-term.
Exactly the man who was now sitting at the table next to me.
“So, what kind of writer are you?” the M.O.W. asked.
I don’t really know how to explain my writing at the moment. Short stories? Non-fiction? Unpublished works of art?
“Well, I’m actually kind of a freelancer. I just finished an internship in Banda Aceh.”
“And what were you doing at your internship?” I explained to him my work with the IRC, and then tried to shift the conversation over to the girl who had arrived with the M.O.W.
“And what do you do?” I asked her.
She laughed self-consciously before she said anything.
“Don’t laugh! I’ve been telling her that all day!” he barked.
“I’m a healer. Everyone has the power, within himself or herself, to heal their minds and spirits. I’m a medium for this channel. I open up the room inside of people so they can realize their own power,” she said with a German accent.
By their body language I could tell that they weren’t together together, they were just having dinner together. She looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed by him. The girl was lifted up a little higher in my esteem.
“I’m a traveler, a writer, a nomad!” He said, ensuring that the conversation went back to him. “I’m Indian, English, Spanish, Welsh. My family is one of the wealthiest families in Calcutta. I was married for twenty years but I left my wife over a fight we had three years ago and never returned,” he said. The owner of Wawa Wewe, who is friends with Charles (who apparently is a regular), came over to our tables, which were positioned, on the floor. He started talking to Charles and so the German girl came over and sat closer to me. We began chatting.
“So, you’re American, are you? Have you read Jack Kerouac?” he asked, interrupting us.
“Yes.” I said.
“Allen Ginsberg?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who Arthur Miller is?”
I scoffed at him.
“Yes.” I didn’t like this quiz, but I guess I passed.
“Okay, good. I need an American’s perspective on the column that I wrote last night. I will read it to you.”
He lifted his car keys in the air and jangled them.
“Wayan! Get me my laptop out of my car! Wayan!” he shouted.
I remember the hardest thing about traveling in India was understanding the caste system, and the feeling of entitlement that so many in the higher castes had towards those in the lower caste. I saw it again, now, in Charles. He didn’t say please, or thank you as Wayan got the keys and delivered his laptop. It was expected.
As Wayan was getting the laptop, Charles seemed to be stuck on the topic of America. “You know, I have family in Minneapolis and New York. They keep telling me to come visit. It is my dream to start in California and travel across America by bus and write about it, just like Kerouac. My family there says that they don’t understand why people hate Americans, because everyone that they know is lovely,” he said.
“You know, it’s very fashionable right now to criticize America. Fashionable, and not very original,” I said. “Trust me, it’s been done.”
Just then the laptop was delivered and he read his column to me, the German girl, and the owner of the hotel, who was appropriately named Made. The writing was actually really good. His column was about modernization, and it actually praised the works of many American writers, as well as Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan. It talked about how, when he was in college in Calcutta, reading the works of American writers helped him think beyond India and realize that there was a bigger world.
“I like it,” I said to him.
“As an American, do you think that people in Bali will understand all of the references?” he asked me.
“You know, I think that most people will be able to relate. Even if they’ve never read Ginsberg, everyone has heard of Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan,” I said.
“You’re right. You’re right,” he said. From there, he started telling the German girl and me about the last three years of his life. Basically, after having a fight about design with his wife – they had a textile company together – he left everything and went to England for two years and lived there with some “very, very rich friends.” He was dropping names so fast I could almost literally see them hitting the floor. From the UK he came to Bali and has been here since September. I could tell, by the cadence of his voice, that this was a story that he had told again and again.
“So, you stay in Ubud,” he said to me. “Did you like it there?”
“I loved it there. I ended up making some really great friends and we had a good time.”
“Ex-pat friends, or local friends?” he asked.
“Local friends,” I replied.
“Okay, good. Don’t become friends with any ex-pats there. I wrote a column about it, which was very controversial. So many people come to Bali and just get stuck here. I call them driftwood. Don’t become friends with the driftwood.”
“Well….you’re an ex-pat,” I said to him.
“NO! I am not an ex-pat. I have a working VISA, I am a writer. I am NOT driftwood!” the M.O.W. almost spat at me. I didn’t want to argue with him, but he was about as ex-pat as they come.
Around this time, another woman arrived, very flustered and distracted. A dog arrived with her and promptly began running around like crazy, checking everything out.
“I’m so late! I slammed my phone in my car door and broke it. Then, as I was leaving Ubud, my car broke down. I was already late leaving Ubud anyway because I had to wait for three hours at the bank,” she said in an Australian accent.
“This is Susan,” Charles said. She extended a hand, and then sat down. We talked for a while about the writer’s festival, where Susan is launching a book. I told them that I was taking a session there, and of course, Charles had an opinion.
“Nobody can teach you something creative. You either have it, or you don’t. So it’s a waste of time,” he said. “And anyway…..” he said, looking directly at me, “why were you in Banda Aceh, helping people? Why don’t you help people in your own country, like the victims of Hurricane Katrina? Where was your government then? Maybe you should stay at home and do your work where it is really needed.”
As anyone knows, I am always up for a good debate. We were off. We volleyed back and forth, the M.O.W. and I. The German girl and Susan listened.
Soon, Charles said something that offended Susan and she got up, in a huff. “I am going to go and get my bags out of my car,” she said. “I want Room #1! Why can’t I have Room #1?” she asked Made.
I hid my head. Apparently, Room #1 is the best room in the house and I got it because I called in advance (thanks, Martin!).
“You can’t have Room #1 because it’s taken,” Made said.
“By whom?” she screamed.
“I think I have Room #1,” I said. “I’ll help you move your bags into your room,” I said, looking for a way to break off and smooth things over. I was getting tired and it was getting late. The German girl also used this as an excuse to leave, and Charles was driving her home. We all said our goodnights.
The thing is, I really enjoy meeting new people and hearing new perspectives. I even really like being around strong personalities – so many people in the world, quite honestly, bore me. Meeting interesting new people and learning about their lives is, in my opinion, what life is all about. I’m just not interested in a one-man show.
I feel as if my time in Bali is meant to be about centering, and I’m not interested in being with people, at the moment, who need the spotlight. I really just want to curl up in the corner and watch how the tides and winds change throughout the course of the day from the daybed located on my veranda.
P.S. Can you tell who is getting ready for her character development and non-fiction session at the Ubud Writer's & Reader's Festival?
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