By nature, humans like to create categories. Classifying helps us determine where we fit, helps us to remember, and defines the world around us. I am no different. Below is how I would classify the expats I have seen/met.
1) The Exploiter. This is always a male. They come here to take advantage of the cheap labor, corrupt government, and attractive women who want a better life. You'll see them in bars, high-end shopping malls or resorts. They always have a woman much younger and far more attractive than themselves. From my experience, they are typically Australian or British. To my knowledge, I don't work with any of these. They could care less about learning the language or customs. Everyone here should bow at their feet. Many have wives back in their home country, and a local "wife" here.
2) The Lifestyle Seekers. These are men - and a few women - who have come here to live lavishly in a low cost environment. They are usually older - late 40's - and in middle or senior management with their organizations. Many have a local spouse who is far better than they could attain had they remained in their country of origin and very likely married for looks. Others definitely married someone like they would have at home - someone who makes them happy. Most have decided that this is where they want to be for an extended period of time. They learn the language - thanks to their spouse (what British colonialists would have called a "sleeping dictionary") - have learned the customs and live like a wealthy local. I know several of these in my community and at work.
3) The Passing Through. This group is either a very young professional on their first international assignment or someone who, with their family, are veteran expats on yet another assignment. There are a lot more women in this group, though still dominated by men. The Passing Through group is here on a temporary assignment with no intentions of putting down roots and staying for a long time (though, some Lifestyle Seekers did start this way). I have met several, and work with a few, in this group. Embassy workers, product/brand managers, and financial professionals most commonly fall in this category. Most I've met are on their 3rd or 4th assignment and already know where they are going after this one.
The expat spouses have their own categories too: those that are happy here, those that are making the most of it, and those that are bitter and never let you forget it. We've met at least one of each of these, too.
My wife and I are in the third group. I could see myself in the second group, though I know my wife never could, so we'll always be Passing Through.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Signature Resumes
When did the signature line of our emails become an opportunity to double as our resume? With degrees, advanced degrees, professional organization certifications, technical certifications and everything else for which people can receive a "certification", our credentials are often longer than our names.
Do I really need to care that you have your MBA, PMP, MCSD, CCNA? Or that you have an MBA and CPA? Or a PhD and Esq? If I have your email, I am either communicating to you socially, and none of that matters, or I'm communicating with you professionally, and I have already determined to work with you...so none of it matters.
Do people honestly believe that broadcasting their credentials enhances the value of their message? What's next - IQ, physical measurements, the size of the last fish you caught? Enough!
Here is the reality: the most successful people I know, including the executives of the company I work for, sign their communications with their name or, as is often the case, just their initials. No title, no credentials.
The really important people in the world don't need to tell you how important they are. You already know.
***ADDED 03 June: Here is another take from a good friend and even better person, Peter Faur.
Do I really need to care that you have your MBA, PMP, MCSD, CCNA? Or that you have an MBA and CPA? Or a PhD and Esq? If I have your email, I am either communicating to you socially, and none of that matters, or I'm communicating with you professionally, and I have already determined to work with you...so none of it matters.
Do people honestly believe that broadcasting their credentials enhances the value of their message? What's next - IQ, physical measurements, the size of the last fish you caught? Enough!
Here is the reality: the most successful people I know, including the executives of the company I work for, sign their communications with their name or, as is often the case, just their initials. No title, no credentials.
The really important people in the world don't need to tell you how important they are. You already know.
***ADDED 03 June: Here is another take from a good friend and even better person, Peter Faur.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Weekly update and the third chapter
The end of the rainy season in Jakarta appears to be the start of the pollution season. Overcast, gray skies that brought cleansing rain have given way to the nuclear winter orange of air pollution. During the "pollution season", Jakarta is bathed in an eternal dusk that migrates from sunkist to burnt sienna as the day grows older, more cars spew their exhaust, and the sun sets behind a curtain of smog.
Yesterday (Thursday) was a holiday in Jakarta as the city celebrated the Ascension of Christ. This is a Christian holiday I had never heard of. We took the opportunity to take a drive to our favorite zoo - Safari Park. We tried to leave the house around 9 AM. After a bathroom stop for my daughter and a return trip to the house to verify the pregnancy-induced-amnesiac didn't leave on her curling iron, we finally were able to leave the city at 11 AM.
Traffic was not too bad on the drive up. We bought bananas from a street vendor, and carrots from the usual suspects and headed up the hill in Puncak to visit the animals. It was crowded. On several occasions, I actually mistook the road were on as the parking lot at the end. At least three times I saw rows of cars through the trees and thought we had reached the end long before we actually had. The trip through the park typically requires 45 minutes. It took well over 2 hours.
Per usual, we had great animal encounters, though, so it made the trip worthwhile. One of the highlights was watching the zookeepers ride the elephants through the park. They've trained the elephants to pick up trash and put it in a bin on their back, collect money from the cars and hand it to the rider, and eat the food their given (like the bananas we gave them). I also learned the that animals are more than happy to come up to your car and take your carrots, but don't you dare try to touch them! I had a very large deer-like creature show me the business side of his horns when I tried to pat his head after giving him a carrot.
Due to a rambunctious child, we decided to forgo the rest of the activities at the zoo and head home. I don't know if this was a mistake or a wise move. We drove for about twenty minutes from the zoo to the main street heading back to Jakarta. We merged with traffic, went about 200 yards, and didn't move again for over an hour. At that point, they stopped all uphill traffic and made the road one-way, downhill. A drive that has in the past required 2 hours required 5. You do not know traffic until you know traffic in and around Jakarta.
The other thing that seems to be a constant for me in Jakarta is a head cold. I caught one in February on my pre-move visit. I caught one my first week here, and I have another one now. No fever, so it isn't swine flu, just a major sore throat and sinus pressure. I'm averaging a head cold every six weeks. I really hope that trend does not continue.
Lastly, I made a visit to the dentist on Wednesday because one of my teeth hurt. No cavities, no visible issues. He prescribed a toothpaste (the one I already use) and told me not to floss so hard. The interesting part was when I arrived. A mask-wearing nurse stopped me at the door, forced me to clean my hands with Purel, and I had to fill out a form indicating if I had been out of the country in the last 7 days or been near anyone known to have swine flu. They are taking it very seriously here and, knock on wood, still no cases in Indonesia.
Roger couldn’t see how things were going to come together. No matter how he massaged the numbers, high estimates on donations, low estimates on costs, he always came up short. He needed more cash and he needed it fast or the trip was not going to happen. This was not an outcome Dr. Roger Faith had anticipated. He had spent the last several years applying for every federal grant, every stipend from professional and non-profit organizations. He had endured the ridicule of his colleagues, laughing at his child-like passion pursuing a feat no one believed possible. His dogged determination and confidence in the eventuality he would prove them all wrong allowed him to ignore the surreptitious snickering, the whispered insults, the veiled condescension.
Looking over the numbers one last time – the pledged amounts and donated equipment in one column, costs of the excursion in the other – he feared he would continue to be the butt of jokes. The poor, pitiful professor who chased a phantom and ruined his career. Roger covered his face with his old, weathered hands. Hands that had logged long hours unearthing Egyptian artifacts outside Giza as an intern for the world renowned archaeologist Dr. Frederick Mochstein. Hands that had ached with arthritic intensity after spending several hours writing copious notes of his observations of the Naktu tribe in the Amazon jungle. He sighed deeply and leaned his long, thin body back in his soft, leather chair.
It was time to face facts. “Man-up”, as his father would say, to the reality that he was chasing a pipe dream. He thought back through his career. It had started promisingly enough – undergraduate at the University of Chicago, masters degree from Oxford, a prestigious professorship at Stanford where he authored several published papers detailing the findings of his research on the impact of introducing Western civilization’s ideals to the indigenous tribes across the world. He was a rising star. A burgeoning pillar of the anthropology society. Now, he was a laughingstock. All because he believed he had discovered an unknown, unstudied tribe on a remote island in Indonesia.
Roger sighed deeply, exhaling what was left of his professional pride, and prepared to type a resignation email to his boss. He preferred retirement to banishment; a quiet send-off to an ignominious departure. He would leave on his terms, albeit prematurely. His hands trembled slightly as he authored the end to his career. His final paper. A brief note:
Peter,
I have decided to retire. Thank you for my time at this prestigious institution.
Roger
He reviewed his final words. Was this really how his career would end? It seemed a waste. He felt he had so much more to give. Before he could hit SEND, Peter rolled into his office.
“How are things, Roger?”, he asked. ‘Does he know?’, Roger wondered.
Peter was the Dean of the Boise State Department of Anthropology. His large, bulbous eyes stuck out of his head like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube. He was a very large man without a hair on his head. When he was granted his first professorship, his new-found economic security resulted in him gaining five pounds per year. When he attained tenure, it jumped to ten pounds per year. Two years as Dean had added another thirty pounds. Twenty years working for scholarly institutions and neglecting to exercise resulted in the nickname “Porcine Professor”. Of course, he wielded so much power both at the University and in the community at large, no one dared utter the name within earshot.
“I’ve come to speak to you about your expedition to Indonesia”, Peter continued.
“I was just writing you an email about it”, Roger replied.
“I was wondering if you have obtained all of the funding you need?” Peter examined his fingernails with great interest.
“I’m about fifty thousand short”, Roger admitted. He slid the ledger he was reviewing across the desk for Peter to review. Peter glanced at it by looking downward with his enormous eyes but did not move to grab it.
“Then I have an opportunity for you.”
Roger minimized his email and looked at Peter expectantly.
“I received a call this afternoon from someone who is eager to fund your expedition”, Peter explained.
“That’s great!”, Roger said closing his email completely, deleting it from his computer’s memory so he wouldn’t accidentally send it. He leaned forward in his chair excitedly. Roger felt his career coming back to him. He could feel the adrenaline rush shoot through his blood. His mind began racing through all the preparations – identify eligible and worthy doctoral candidates, get appropriate immunizations, file necessary paperwork, make travel arrangements. “Who should I call to thank?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll call you directly. He has a favor to ask.”
Roger slowly sunk back in his chair again. A catch. The donor wanted to speak to him directly for a favor, which meant there was a stipulation to the donation. This was never a good sign. Did he want partial credit? Did he want to tag along with a film crew for his own documentary? Maybe he wanted ownership of the final product so he had the opportunity to censure the discovery. Every respectable academic rejected donations with strings attached. But Roger was desperate. He either took tainted money and pursued his dream. A life-changing, legacy creating dream. Or, he respectfully turned down the money, retired with what little respectability he had left, and moved to his cabin in Montana.
It took Roger just a few seconds to make up his mind: “What’s the favor?”
Yesterday (Thursday) was a holiday in Jakarta as the city celebrated the Ascension of Christ. This is a Christian holiday I had never heard of. We took the opportunity to take a drive to our favorite zoo - Safari Park. We tried to leave the house around 9 AM. After a bathroom stop for my daughter and a return trip to the house to verify the pregnancy-induced-amnesiac didn't leave on her curling iron, we finally were able to leave the city at 11 AM.
Traffic was not too bad on the drive up. We bought bananas from a street vendor, and carrots from the usual suspects and headed up the hill in Puncak to visit the animals. It was crowded. On several occasions, I actually mistook the road were on as the parking lot at the end. At least three times I saw rows of cars through the trees and thought we had reached the end long before we actually had. The trip through the park typically requires 45 minutes. It took well over 2 hours.
Per usual, we had great animal encounters, though, so it made the trip worthwhile. One of the highlights was watching the zookeepers ride the elephants through the park. They've trained the elephants to pick up trash and put it in a bin on their back, collect money from the cars and hand it to the rider, and eat the food their given (like the bananas we gave them). I also learned the that animals are more than happy to come up to your car and take your carrots, but don't you dare try to touch them! I had a very large deer-like creature show me the business side of his horns when I tried to pat his head after giving him a carrot.
Due to a rambunctious child, we decided to forgo the rest of the activities at the zoo and head home. I don't know if this was a mistake or a wise move. We drove for about twenty minutes from the zoo to the main street heading back to Jakarta. We merged with traffic, went about 200 yards, and didn't move again for over an hour. At that point, they stopped all uphill traffic and made the road one-way, downhill. A drive that has in the past required 2 hours required 5. You do not know traffic until you know traffic in and around Jakarta.
The other thing that seems to be a constant for me in Jakarta is a head cold. I caught one in February on my pre-move visit. I caught one my first week here, and I have another one now. No fever, so it isn't swine flu, just a major sore throat and sinus pressure. I'm averaging a head cold every six weeks. I really hope that trend does not continue.
Lastly, I made a visit to the dentist on Wednesday because one of my teeth hurt. No cavities, no visible issues. He prescribed a toothpaste (the one I already use) and told me not to floss so hard. The interesting part was when I arrived. A mask-wearing nurse stopped me at the door, forced me to clean my hands with Purel, and I had to fill out a form indicating if I had been out of the country in the last 7 days or been near anyone known to have swine flu. They are taking it very seriously here and, knock on wood, still no cases in Indonesia.
CANNIBALS
Chapter 1
Roger couldn’t see how things were going to come together. No matter how he massaged the numbers, high estimates on donations, low estimates on costs, he always came up short. He needed more cash and he needed it fast or the trip was not going to happen. This was not an outcome Dr. Roger Faith had anticipated. He had spent the last several years applying for every federal grant, every stipend from professional and non-profit organizations. He had endured the ridicule of his colleagues, laughing at his child-like passion pursuing a feat no one believed possible. His dogged determination and confidence in the eventuality he would prove them all wrong allowed him to ignore the surreptitious snickering, the whispered insults, the veiled condescension.
Looking over the numbers one last time – the pledged amounts and donated equipment in one column, costs of the excursion in the other – he feared he would continue to be the butt of jokes. The poor, pitiful professor who chased a phantom and ruined his career. Roger covered his face with his old, weathered hands. Hands that had logged long hours unearthing Egyptian artifacts outside Giza as an intern for the world renowned archaeologist Dr. Frederick Mochstein. Hands that had ached with arthritic intensity after spending several hours writing copious notes of his observations of the Naktu tribe in the Amazon jungle. He sighed deeply and leaned his long, thin body back in his soft, leather chair.
It was time to face facts. “Man-up”, as his father would say, to the reality that he was chasing a pipe dream. He thought back through his career. It had started promisingly enough – undergraduate at the University of Chicago, masters degree from Oxford, a prestigious professorship at Stanford where he authored several published papers detailing the findings of his research on the impact of introducing Western civilization’s ideals to the indigenous tribes across the world. He was a rising star. A burgeoning pillar of the anthropology society. Now, he was a laughingstock. All because he believed he had discovered an unknown, unstudied tribe on a remote island in Indonesia.
Roger sighed deeply, exhaling what was left of his professional pride, and prepared to type a resignation email to his boss. He preferred retirement to banishment; a quiet send-off to an ignominious departure. He would leave on his terms, albeit prematurely. His hands trembled slightly as he authored the end to his career. His final paper. A brief note:
Peter,
I have decided to retire. Thank you for my time at this prestigious institution.
Roger
He reviewed his final words. Was this really how his career would end? It seemed a waste. He felt he had so much more to give. Before he could hit SEND, Peter rolled into his office.
“How are things, Roger?”, he asked. ‘Does he know?’, Roger wondered.
Peter was the Dean of the Boise State Department of Anthropology. His large, bulbous eyes stuck out of his head like toothpaste being squeezed from a tube. He was a very large man without a hair on his head. When he was granted his first professorship, his new-found economic security resulted in him gaining five pounds per year. When he attained tenure, it jumped to ten pounds per year. Two years as Dean had added another thirty pounds. Twenty years working for scholarly institutions and neglecting to exercise resulted in the nickname “Porcine Professor”. Of course, he wielded so much power both at the University and in the community at large, no one dared utter the name within earshot.
“I’ve come to speak to you about your expedition to Indonesia”, Peter continued.
“I was just writing you an email about it”, Roger replied.
“I was wondering if you have obtained all of the funding you need?” Peter examined his fingernails with great interest.
“I’m about fifty thousand short”, Roger admitted. He slid the ledger he was reviewing across the desk for Peter to review. Peter glanced at it by looking downward with his enormous eyes but did not move to grab it.
“Then I have an opportunity for you.”
Roger minimized his email and looked at Peter expectantly.
“I received a call this afternoon from someone who is eager to fund your expedition”, Peter explained.
“That’s great!”, Roger said closing his email completely, deleting it from his computer’s memory so he wouldn’t accidentally send it. He leaned forward in his chair excitedly. Roger felt his career coming back to him. He could feel the adrenaline rush shoot through his blood. His mind began racing through all the preparations – identify eligible and worthy doctoral candidates, get appropriate immunizations, file necessary paperwork, make travel arrangements. “Who should I call to thank?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll call you directly. He has a favor to ask.”
Roger slowly sunk back in his chair again. A catch. The donor wanted to speak to him directly for a favor, which meant there was a stipulation to the donation. This was never a good sign. Did he want partial credit? Did he want to tag along with a film crew for his own documentary? Maybe he wanted ownership of the final product so he had the opportunity to censure the discovery. Every respectable academic rejected donations with strings attached. But Roger was desperate. He either took tainted money and pursued his dream. A life-changing, legacy creating dream. Or, he respectfully turned down the money, retired with what little respectability he had left, and moved to his cabin in Montana.
It took Roger just a few seconds to make up his mind: “What’s the favor?”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Obesity and the second story
If we ever wondered why such a high percentage of Americans are overweight, we need look no further than our gluttonous gastronomical demands. Super size America!
http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/health/user-post-portion-explosion-456931/
BALI
Chapter 1
My story is less extraordinary than you might think. In my lifetime, I have met dozens of women who led more extraordinary lives, and hundreds more kindred spirits travelling the same life journey as myself.
For many years I thought the world would be a better place without the stories we all shared. As I met more and more women living the same life as myself, the more I came to believe that the world could not function without people like us. The uniqueness of my story, or lack thereof, is not what compels me to put pen to paper. I offer you my story hoping that in it, you may find solace, a release, or, most importantly, an unknown desire.
I was born in a small village on the Indonesian island of Bali. Famous for its temples, beach nightlife, and artisans, for many years I only ever knew it as wet, muddy, and full of people fighting for survival. One of my first memories was rushing to the center of the village, casting aside my doll made of sticks, a coconut shell, and a small corner of a canvas bag, to investigate all the commotion. When I arrived, the woman who lived in the small shack next to ours – Seprilanti – was kneeling on the ground wailing. Her husband was laying in front of her moving as if in a daze, half his left leg missing and gushing blood. Someone had run for the nearest medic while other women in the village began tying what was left of his leg in large cloths. He survived his injuries, but his wife, children, and later himself died a few years later of one of several diseases brought on by malnutrition. This was my beginnings.
It was less than 10 years later when my father forced me out of the house in a panicked fury the day I had my first menstrual cycle. My mother died of internal bleeding when I was a very young girl leaving my father inconsolable and alone with a daughter he wished a son. The only salve he found for his broken heart was a profound and fervent dedication to prayer. Never attentive when my mother was alive, he became even more withdrawn from me in her death as he pursued religious salvation.
The onset of my menstrual cycle, he believed, indicated that the gods were unhappy with him and had, as punishment, inflicted me with the same affliction as had killed my mother. To prevent further calamity, specifically to himself, he demanded I leave. None of the women in the village or my family could convince him otherwise.
I sought refuge with his sisters. All of them informed me that, as the eldest male in the family, regrettably, they all must abide by his decision. If he wanted me out, they were unable to take me. Rejected by my family, I attempted to find a home elsewhere in my village, yet no one would take me in. Those were tough times, rain was uncharacteristically scarce, and families were already feeling the burden of feeding everyone, adding another mouth was untenable. Unable to find a new home, in the quiet of the night, while my father was sleeping, I stole back into the only home I had ever known, packed what few belongings I owned – two dresses, my prayer sandals, a picture of my mother – took enough money for two days of food and a bus ticket, and, at the ripe age of thirteen, left my village with only the light of the moon to protect me from what lay waiting in the jungle.
By sunrise the next morning, I had managed to travel the ten kilometers, in the dark, to the nearest paved road. I did not know which direction would lead me quickest to the nearest town. I said a quick prayer to ask for guidance. I closed my eyes, spun around three times and opened them. I was looking down the road in the direction of what had been my left. I took one step forward when a loud rustling noise behind my back startled me. I spun around and was face to face with a wild leopard standing in the middle of the road. The morning sun glistened off its speckled back. It eyed me cautiously, looked up the road in the opposite direction I had planned to walk, and looked back at me. I stood motionless, holding my breath in terror. The amazing cat took one last look at me and with a quick push from its powerful hind legs, jumped into the jungle and was gone.
I collapsed in the middle of the road, my heart pounding. My hand instinctively clasped against my chest and I took deep breaths. ‘I must remember to ask for a sign that does not scare the life out of me next time I pray’, I thought to myself. I stood up, brushed myself off, and walked up the road where the panther had directed me.
By mid-afternoon, I had arrived in the town of Tampak Siring, sweaty, dirty, and dying of thirst and hunger. I used some of my meager cash to buy lunch and washed my face in their restroom. After lunch I asked the waiter where I could catch a bus to Ubud. My teacher had always been impressed with my drawings and I heard there was a small compound in Ubud where artists lived and worked. I was hoping they would allow me to live there, or that I could even make some money selling my own artwork.
The bus ride to Ubud required nearly the full remaining amount of my money. Ninety minutes after leaving Tampak Siring, I was there, standing at the gates to the Samiri Kuning Artisan Community. I walked in and a man wearing a sarong, sandals, and a white shirt stopped me immediately.
“Can I help you?”, he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I would like to speak with the head of the community about coming to live here”, I said, timidly.
“How old are you”, the man asked, more softly.
“I am thirteen”, I replied, standing up as straight as I could. “I’ll be fourteen in a few months.”
“I am sorry”, the man replied, truly apologetic, “You must be at least eighteen to join the community.”
I was doing my best to hold back my tears. Unsure of what my next step would be, and having no place to go for the night. I imagine my fears and emotions were having the best of me. I’m sure the disappointment was very transparent on my face and in my posture as the man said to me: “Do you have someplace else you can go?”
I shook my head. He smiled at me, concerned. Lifting my chin with a gentle finger, he looked into my eyes. He could see the water flooding them, though no tears yet streamed down my face. He took a step back and examined me. He asked me to stand still, looking up, and walked around me very slowly.
“Last night”, he began after circling me twice, “I dreamt about a beautiful young princess who was lost in the wilderness. When she stumbled into a village, frightened from the noises of the jungle, she asked everyone she met for help. No one would provide it. Finally, a very old man, one who could barely see or speak, agreed to provide her shelter, a warm meal and a cool drink. As soon as she finished her meal, a royal search party arrived in the village asking if anyone had seen her. When the king found his daughter in the man’s home, he was so appreciative, he brought the man back to his castle and made him a Royal Advisor of Humanity.
“I was so moved by this dream, when I awoke this morning, the first thing I did was begin to paint. I completed five pieces before lunch. You remind me of the princess from my dream.” At this, he smiled at me, looking once again into my eyes. “You have the eyes of a princess.”
“Thank you”, I replied turning to leave, uplifted by his words, but still dejected and scared.
“I have a deal for you”, he said, gently grabbing my arm. “I work much more effectively if I have a model for my paintings. If you will agree to sit for me, and be the inspiration for my princess, I will tell our leader that I need you for artistic inspiration – that you are my muse – and he must allow you to stay until I complete the representations of my vision. This should provide you a few weeks time to find a new place to live. How does that sound?”
I fell to my knees in gratitude holding his hand to my face. “I cannot thank you enough”, I said through teary eyes which I could no longer prevent from dampening my face. “You will not regret helping me. I will remember this always.”
He smiled at me warmly, softly patting my hand. “My name is Manu”, he said, lifting me to my feet.
“I’m Ria”, I replied, wiping my tears on my sleeve.
For three weeks I spent my mornings sitting quietly on a stool in Manu’s studio looking up, looking down, looking right, tilting my head – whatever he asked for – while he stood behind his easel and canvas. At lunchtime each day he would cover whatever he had worked on, not showing it to me, and set it aside. In the afternoon, Manu would greet customers who arrived by bus or chauffeur driven car to buy one of the many paintings the artists had on display and help them in selecting a painting or two for the walls of their opulent homes. I spent my afternoons cleaning the studio, Manu’s room, and any other odd jobs the artists had for me. I definitely wanted to earn my keep.
At the end of three weeks, Manu broke the news to me. “I have completed my work, Ria. The head of our community reminded me that our deal was that you would leave when I completed the art for which you were the inspiration. Our deal is up.”
I was in disbelief. With the cleaning and odd jobs, none of which I received payment for, I had not left the community. I was no better than I was three weeks earlier when I arrived. I’m sure he saw the fear in my eyes. The same fear he saw the day we met.
“Do not worry just yet, Ria, as I have a new deal for you.”
My heart leaped. I owed this man more gratitude than I believed I could ever repay.
“You were the inspiration for my paintings, and I believe you will also help inspire their sale. I have procured you one more week, provided you help me sell my paintings. Any that sell in this first week, I will give you ten percent of their sale price as thanks. How does that sound?”
“Like the gods continuing to answer my prayers”, was all I could reply.
“Good”, Manu replied, emotionless. “I paint in the Balinese style. Some customers like this style, others do not. We all work together in this community. A painting sold by anyone benefits everyone. Our job is not to convince the sale of any single painting. Our job is to introduce our customers to all the paintings we have to offer and hope that they find inspiration in one and want to buy it. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Good. When I have a customer ask me for something in the Balinese style, I will give you a signal. I want you to walk over to them, offer them some water and smile at them with your biggest smile. Think you can do that?”
“I know I can”, I said, and showed him my smile.
“Okay, not that big”, he said. “Something softer. More like Parvati smiling adoringly at Shiva.”
I tried again, tilting my head slightly down and to the right when I smiled. He smiled back and nodded.
“That’s exactly what I need you to do”, he said patting me on the head.
The next morning, I awoke early and completed all of my tasks before breakfast. I quickly consumed my nasi goreng and rushed back to the room I shared with Manu to change into the prettiest dress I owned. At 8:30, the first busload of tourists arrived, mostly Australian and Japanese. I waited patiently in the corner, eagerly waiting for one to express an interest in the Balinese style of painting.
By lunchtime we had seen several busloads and even more rented drivers. Several had purchased one, or more, of the many paintings. None had even set foot in the Balinese art room. I grew disheartened and Manu advised me to be patient and give it time.
“A piece of art is as selective about its owner as the owner is of his or her art”, he explained. “They must fall in love with each other for the match to work. Love takes time. Don’t lose faith.”
By the end of the second day, things had not changed. Hundreds of visitors, dozens of purchases, none in the Balinese style. There seemed to be a great interest in sweeping landscape paintings of the local rice fields – more realist in style.
On the morning of the third day, I dutifully took my post. I decided the prior evening that if no one had expressed an interest by mid-day, I was going to ask Manu for the afternoon off so I could begin my search for a job that paid and a new place to live. Maybe someone was willing to take a chance on a very young nanny, or a shop keeper would throw me a few rupiah and a place to sleep if I cleaned the shop and their house. I didn’t care, so long as I had a safe place to sleep each night out of the rain and away from the wild dogs and jungle cats.
At 10 AM, a black BMW pulled slowly into our community and parked outside the gallery. A well-dressed chauffeur walked around the car and opened the door for its occupant – a casually dressed man with dark hair slightly greying at the temples, light eyes, and a fair complexion. He walked with confidence and greeted Manu with a smile. The man spoke a few words and Manu nodded, motioning the man to follow him.
I watched Manu with lazy eyes from my spot in the corner, expecting him to lead the new visitor to the same room everyone else seemed to ask for. To my surprise, he gave me the hand signal we had worked on – hands crossed in front of his belt, index fingers pointing to opposite feet. I leaped to my feet so quickly I knocked over my stool. The loud crashing noise of metal hitting concrete echoed off the brick walls of the gallery, startling all of the patrons. Manu did his best to maintain his composure, though I could see the fury in his eyes. I was playing a part, and the noisy, clumsy girl was not part of the script.
I grabbed the tray of water bottles and walked slowly, with small steps, over to them. Quietly, timidly, and with all respect and deferential courtesy I could muster, I bowed slightly and said: “Excuse, sir, can I offer water?” I raised the tray in front of him and, with head slightly bowed, looked up at him with wide eyes and smiled how Manu had taught me.
The man looked down at me for what seemed minutes, gave me a casual, disinterested smile, and grabbed a bottle. He and Manu then walked silently past me and entered the Balinese art room. They were gone twenty minutes and, unable to sit still, I paced back and forth in my corner the whole time. When I saw them emerge, I sat down as quickly as I could and watched anxiously as the man returned to his car empty handed.
I was heartbroken. The plan had failed. Not only had he not bought Manu’s paintings, he hadn’t bought any. It was nearing mid-day, and I was preparing how to explain to Manu my plans for finding a new place to live when I saw the chauffeur exiting the cashier’s office carrying twelve cardboard tubes. Manu followed closely behind smiling exultantly. The man was already in his car when Manu and the chauffeur arrived. They placed the tubes in the trunk, Manu bowed graciously and fervently several times, then waved as they drove off.
As soon as the car had pulled out of the driveway and turned out of sight, Manu rushed over to me, arms extended and lifted me off my feet.
“Ria, you are more than my inspiration, you are my good luck charm!”
“Did he buy one of yours?”, I asked excitedly, assuming the answer would be yes but not wanting to get my hopes up.
“He didn’t buy one”, Manu said, waiting for the disappointment to register on my face, “He bought them all! Not only that, he paid full price! No one pays full price for a painting. It’s a haggle, and they know that. He didn’t want to haggle. He just wanted the paintings. The paintings of YOU, Ria!”
I cried out with joy, once again causing the patronage to look my direction. This time I didn’t care.
“How much did we make?”, I asked, expecting a few hundred thousand Rupiah.
“He paid 500 US Dollars per painting. Six-thousand in total. Half of that goes to the community, so your ten percent cut of my share is $300!”, Manu exclaimed excitedly.
“Only $300”, I replied, saddened.
“Only $300!”, Manu laughed at me, “That’s 3.6 million Rupiah! It’s a fortune around here, Ria!”
My mouth dropped. I’d never even seen that much money. On our best day, my father had earned 100,000 Rupiah selling our vegetables in Tampak Siring. He would never believe I had earned nearly 4 million Rupiah just for sitting on a stool and letting someone paint me.
“Does this mean I can stay?”
“If you bring $6,000 every three weeks, I don’t see how the community can disagree!” Manu, typically a very reserved and stoic man, was finding it hard to contain his excitement. “I’ve never made $3,000 for my artwork before, Ria. I’ve never made that in a full year before. The gods have smiled favorably on me for listening to the visions of my dreams. My family will now have the safety and security I have struggled so hard to provide for them. I, now, am indebted to you, Ria. Thank you so much.”
He leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek. I was dumbstruck. Someone I felt I owed my life to was telling me he was indebted to me. I had no words for this situation. I simply said: “You’re welcome.”
The next day I awoke and did my chores a little more slowly. Now that we had no more paintings to sell, I did not know how I would spend the rest of my day and I wanted to stay busy so I did not interupt or interfere with the normal workings of the community. Shortly after breakfast, as I was sweeping the floor in Manu’s studio, he knocked softly and entered.
“Malcom – the head of the community – would like to speak with you”, he said, unable to look me in the eye. “I will walk you there.”
“Did you talk to him about my continuing to live here?”
Manu nodded his head but still did not look me in the eye. He motioned to the door with a sweeping gesture of his hand. I set down my broom and exited the studio. Manu followed and walked beside me through the community to Macolms office.
Malcom was a short, squat man with large features and a flat nose. He stared at me from behind his desk through large, round glasses. His stubby fingers were busy counting piles of money and his bald head glistened with sweat despite the cool air blowing from the overburdened air conditioner. He finished counting and made a note on his ledger before addressing me.
“I believe Manu explained to you the rules of the community with respect to our minimum age”, he began. I nodded. “I am pleased with the results you have had on Manu’s artistic output and subsequent sale. You have greatly benefited the community, and Manu specifically.”
“I was only doing what I could to repay the kindness Manu showed me”, I replied. He studied me intently for a few moments then placed an envelope in front of me and continued.
“In the envelope you will find ten percent of Manu’s portion of the sale of his artwork. That money will last you a long time, if you spend it wisely and guard it closely.”
“Are you asking me to leave?” I had not been prepared for this.
“No, I’m telling you to leave”, he replied without hesitation or emotion.
“But you just said that I greatly benefited the community...”
“We have rules”, he interrupted. “Those rules allow us to continue operating within favor of the government. You must understand that I must protect the interests of the community as a whole over any individual.”
“I have nowhere else to go”, I complained.
“That is not entirely true”, he replied. Confused, I looked at him expectantly. “I received a call late last evening from one of our regular patrons, Pak Webster Cartwright. He is the gentleman who purchased Manu’s paintings. Your paintings”, he emphasized. “He said having those paintings in his house, having your eyes staring at him, haunted him from the minute they adorned his walls. He was unable to sleep, so he called me to inquire after you. I advised him of your current housing situation. He would like to extend you an invitation to stay with him, as his guest, for an indeterminate period of time.”
He took off his glasses and stared at me intensely. I could see a kind heart behind those weary, emotionless eyes. “I advise you to accept his offer. This is a far better opportunity than I believe you will ever have again, should you reject it.”
I considered his words carefully. Less than three weeks ago I was living in a one room, dirt floor house in a small village that I only left to attend school. Now Malcolm expected me to accept the offer of a bule, a grown male bule, who wanted a young girl to come live with him. I had not yet been exposed to men who liked young girls – the village was quite sheltered from such, abnormalities – but my instincts told me something was not quite right.
“What if I do reject the offer”, I asked, buying time to think.
“I do not care”, Malcolm replied. “As far as I am concerned, you have two options.” He pointed at the door to his office.
“The first option is to walk out that door, sit down in the car that is waiting for you, and drive to Denpasar to live with Pak Cartwright. Your second option is to walk out that door, walk down the driveway to the street, and decide if you are going to turn left or right. In either case, you are walking out that door and leaving this community. The choice is yours.”
There was a knock at the door. Malcolm sighed “Come in”, and Manu entered holding the bag I had arrived with packed with what few belongings I had. He quickly deposited them next to my chair, bowed to Malcolm and left.
“The time for your decision has arrived”, Malcolm said, lifting the envelope full of money off his desk and waving it in front of me. “Take your money, and your belongings, and leave. Should you want to come back when you are eighteen, we can discuss new arrangements. For now, I wish you well and thank you for your service.”
I took the money from his hand, grabbed my belongings and walked out the door. The car Malcolm had indicated awaited my decision was idling in the driveway. As I stood on the moist dirt pondering my situation, I closed my eyes and once again asked the gods for a sign – this time one that would not scare me. I opened my eyes and saw Manu standing at the car holding open the door. For the first time, he was able to look at me.
I thanked the gods and sat in the back of the car.
“You’ve made the right decision, my princess”, Manu said with a sad smile. “You know where to find me should you need anything.” The car moved forward the minute he closed the door. Two hours later I stepped onto the paved driveway at Webster Cartwright’s mansion.
http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/health/user-post-portion-explosion-456931/
BALI
Chapter 1
My story is less extraordinary than you might think. In my lifetime, I have met dozens of women who led more extraordinary lives, and hundreds more kindred spirits travelling the same life journey as myself.
For many years I thought the world would be a better place without the stories we all shared. As I met more and more women living the same life as myself, the more I came to believe that the world could not function without people like us. The uniqueness of my story, or lack thereof, is not what compels me to put pen to paper. I offer you my story hoping that in it, you may find solace, a release, or, most importantly, an unknown desire.
I was born in a small village on the Indonesian island of Bali. Famous for its temples, beach nightlife, and artisans, for many years I only ever knew it as wet, muddy, and full of people fighting for survival. One of my first memories was rushing to the center of the village, casting aside my doll made of sticks, a coconut shell, and a small corner of a canvas bag, to investigate all the commotion. When I arrived, the woman who lived in the small shack next to ours – Seprilanti – was kneeling on the ground wailing. Her husband was laying in front of her moving as if in a daze, half his left leg missing and gushing blood. Someone had run for the nearest medic while other women in the village began tying what was left of his leg in large cloths. He survived his injuries, but his wife, children, and later himself died a few years later of one of several diseases brought on by malnutrition. This was my beginnings.
It was less than 10 years later when my father forced me out of the house in a panicked fury the day I had my first menstrual cycle. My mother died of internal bleeding when I was a very young girl leaving my father inconsolable and alone with a daughter he wished a son. The only salve he found for his broken heart was a profound and fervent dedication to prayer. Never attentive when my mother was alive, he became even more withdrawn from me in her death as he pursued religious salvation.
The onset of my menstrual cycle, he believed, indicated that the gods were unhappy with him and had, as punishment, inflicted me with the same affliction as had killed my mother. To prevent further calamity, specifically to himself, he demanded I leave. None of the women in the village or my family could convince him otherwise.
I sought refuge with his sisters. All of them informed me that, as the eldest male in the family, regrettably, they all must abide by his decision. If he wanted me out, they were unable to take me. Rejected by my family, I attempted to find a home elsewhere in my village, yet no one would take me in. Those were tough times, rain was uncharacteristically scarce, and families were already feeling the burden of feeding everyone, adding another mouth was untenable. Unable to find a new home, in the quiet of the night, while my father was sleeping, I stole back into the only home I had ever known, packed what few belongings I owned – two dresses, my prayer sandals, a picture of my mother – took enough money for two days of food and a bus ticket, and, at the ripe age of thirteen, left my village with only the light of the moon to protect me from what lay waiting in the jungle.
By sunrise the next morning, I had managed to travel the ten kilometers, in the dark, to the nearest paved road. I did not know which direction would lead me quickest to the nearest town. I said a quick prayer to ask for guidance. I closed my eyes, spun around three times and opened them. I was looking down the road in the direction of what had been my left. I took one step forward when a loud rustling noise behind my back startled me. I spun around and was face to face with a wild leopard standing in the middle of the road. The morning sun glistened off its speckled back. It eyed me cautiously, looked up the road in the opposite direction I had planned to walk, and looked back at me. I stood motionless, holding my breath in terror. The amazing cat took one last look at me and with a quick push from its powerful hind legs, jumped into the jungle and was gone.
I collapsed in the middle of the road, my heart pounding. My hand instinctively clasped against my chest and I took deep breaths. ‘I must remember to ask for a sign that does not scare the life out of me next time I pray’, I thought to myself. I stood up, brushed myself off, and walked up the road where the panther had directed me.
By mid-afternoon, I had arrived in the town of Tampak Siring, sweaty, dirty, and dying of thirst and hunger. I used some of my meager cash to buy lunch and washed my face in their restroom. After lunch I asked the waiter where I could catch a bus to Ubud. My teacher had always been impressed with my drawings and I heard there was a small compound in Ubud where artists lived and worked. I was hoping they would allow me to live there, or that I could even make some money selling my own artwork.
The bus ride to Ubud required nearly the full remaining amount of my money. Ninety minutes after leaving Tampak Siring, I was there, standing at the gates to the Samiri Kuning Artisan Community. I walked in and a man wearing a sarong, sandals, and a white shirt stopped me immediately.
“Can I help you?”, he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“I would like to speak with the head of the community about coming to live here”, I said, timidly.
“How old are you”, the man asked, more softly.
“I am thirteen”, I replied, standing up as straight as I could. “I’ll be fourteen in a few months.”
“I am sorry”, the man replied, truly apologetic, “You must be at least eighteen to join the community.”
I was doing my best to hold back my tears. Unsure of what my next step would be, and having no place to go for the night. I imagine my fears and emotions were having the best of me. I’m sure the disappointment was very transparent on my face and in my posture as the man said to me: “Do you have someplace else you can go?”
I shook my head. He smiled at me, concerned. Lifting my chin with a gentle finger, he looked into my eyes. He could see the water flooding them, though no tears yet streamed down my face. He took a step back and examined me. He asked me to stand still, looking up, and walked around me very slowly.
“Last night”, he began after circling me twice, “I dreamt about a beautiful young princess who was lost in the wilderness. When she stumbled into a village, frightened from the noises of the jungle, she asked everyone she met for help. No one would provide it. Finally, a very old man, one who could barely see or speak, agreed to provide her shelter, a warm meal and a cool drink. As soon as she finished her meal, a royal search party arrived in the village asking if anyone had seen her. When the king found his daughter in the man’s home, he was so appreciative, he brought the man back to his castle and made him a Royal Advisor of Humanity.
“I was so moved by this dream, when I awoke this morning, the first thing I did was begin to paint. I completed five pieces before lunch. You remind me of the princess from my dream.” At this, he smiled at me, looking once again into my eyes. “You have the eyes of a princess.”
“Thank you”, I replied turning to leave, uplifted by his words, but still dejected and scared.
“I have a deal for you”, he said, gently grabbing my arm. “I work much more effectively if I have a model for my paintings. If you will agree to sit for me, and be the inspiration for my princess, I will tell our leader that I need you for artistic inspiration – that you are my muse – and he must allow you to stay until I complete the representations of my vision. This should provide you a few weeks time to find a new place to live. How does that sound?”
I fell to my knees in gratitude holding his hand to my face. “I cannot thank you enough”, I said through teary eyes which I could no longer prevent from dampening my face. “You will not regret helping me. I will remember this always.”
He smiled at me warmly, softly patting my hand. “My name is Manu”, he said, lifting me to my feet.
“I’m Ria”, I replied, wiping my tears on my sleeve.
For three weeks I spent my mornings sitting quietly on a stool in Manu’s studio looking up, looking down, looking right, tilting my head – whatever he asked for – while he stood behind his easel and canvas. At lunchtime each day he would cover whatever he had worked on, not showing it to me, and set it aside. In the afternoon, Manu would greet customers who arrived by bus or chauffeur driven car to buy one of the many paintings the artists had on display and help them in selecting a painting or two for the walls of their opulent homes. I spent my afternoons cleaning the studio, Manu’s room, and any other odd jobs the artists had for me. I definitely wanted to earn my keep.
At the end of three weeks, Manu broke the news to me. “I have completed my work, Ria. The head of our community reminded me that our deal was that you would leave when I completed the art for which you were the inspiration. Our deal is up.”
I was in disbelief. With the cleaning and odd jobs, none of which I received payment for, I had not left the community. I was no better than I was three weeks earlier when I arrived. I’m sure he saw the fear in my eyes. The same fear he saw the day we met.
“Do not worry just yet, Ria, as I have a new deal for you.”
My heart leaped. I owed this man more gratitude than I believed I could ever repay.
“You were the inspiration for my paintings, and I believe you will also help inspire their sale. I have procured you one more week, provided you help me sell my paintings. Any that sell in this first week, I will give you ten percent of their sale price as thanks. How does that sound?”
“Like the gods continuing to answer my prayers”, was all I could reply.
“Good”, Manu replied, emotionless. “I paint in the Balinese style. Some customers like this style, others do not. We all work together in this community. A painting sold by anyone benefits everyone. Our job is not to convince the sale of any single painting. Our job is to introduce our customers to all the paintings we have to offer and hope that they find inspiration in one and want to buy it. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Good. When I have a customer ask me for something in the Balinese style, I will give you a signal. I want you to walk over to them, offer them some water and smile at them with your biggest smile. Think you can do that?”
“I know I can”, I said, and showed him my smile.
“Okay, not that big”, he said. “Something softer. More like Parvati smiling adoringly at Shiva.”
I tried again, tilting my head slightly down and to the right when I smiled. He smiled back and nodded.
“That’s exactly what I need you to do”, he said patting me on the head.
The next morning, I awoke early and completed all of my tasks before breakfast. I quickly consumed my nasi goreng and rushed back to the room I shared with Manu to change into the prettiest dress I owned. At 8:30, the first busload of tourists arrived, mostly Australian and Japanese. I waited patiently in the corner, eagerly waiting for one to express an interest in the Balinese style of painting.
By lunchtime we had seen several busloads and even more rented drivers. Several had purchased one, or more, of the many paintings. None had even set foot in the Balinese art room. I grew disheartened and Manu advised me to be patient and give it time.
“A piece of art is as selective about its owner as the owner is of his or her art”, he explained. “They must fall in love with each other for the match to work. Love takes time. Don’t lose faith.”
By the end of the second day, things had not changed. Hundreds of visitors, dozens of purchases, none in the Balinese style. There seemed to be a great interest in sweeping landscape paintings of the local rice fields – more realist in style.
On the morning of the third day, I dutifully took my post. I decided the prior evening that if no one had expressed an interest by mid-day, I was going to ask Manu for the afternoon off so I could begin my search for a job that paid and a new place to live. Maybe someone was willing to take a chance on a very young nanny, or a shop keeper would throw me a few rupiah and a place to sleep if I cleaned the shop and their house. I didn’t care, so long as I had a safe place to sleep each night out of the rain and away from the wild dogs and jungle cats.
At 10 AM, a black BMW pulled slowly into our community and parked outside the gallery. A well-dressed chauffeur walked around the car and opened the door for its occupant – a casually dressed man with dark hair slightly greying at the temples, light eyes, and a fair complexion. He walked with confidence and greeted Manu with a smile. The man spoke a few words and Manu nodded, motioning the man to follow him.
I watched Manu with lazy eyes from my spot in the corner, expecting him to lead the new visitor to the same room everyone else seemed to ask for. To my surprise, he gave me the hand signal we had worked on – hands crossed in front of his belt, index fingers pointing to opposite feet. I leaped to my feet so quickly I knocked over my stool. The loud crashing noise of metal hitting concrete echoed off the brick walls of the gallery, startling all of the patrons. Manu did his best to maintain his composure, though I could see the fury in his eyes. I was playing a part, and the noisy, clumsy girl was not part of the script.
I grabbed the tray of water bottles and walked slowly, with small steps, over to them. Quietly, timidly, and with all respect and deferential courtesy I could muster, I bowed slightly and said: “Excuse, sir, can I offer water?” I raised the tray in front of him and, with head slightly bowed, looked up at him with wide eyes and smiled how Manu had taught me.
The man looked down at me for what seemed minutes, gave me a casual, disinterested smile, and grabbed a bottle. He and Manu then walked silently past me and entered the Balinese art room. They were gone twenty minutes and, unable to sit still, I paced back and forth in my corner the whole time. When I saw them emerge, I sat down as quickly as I could and watched anxiously as the man returned to his car empty handed.
I was heartbroken. The plan had failed. Not only had he not bought Manu’s paintings, he hadn’t bought any. It was nearing mid-day, and I was preparing how to explain to Manu my plans for finding a new place to live when I saw the chauffeur exiting the cashier’s office carrying twelve cardboard tubes. Manu followed closely behind smiling exultantly. The man was already in his car when Manu and the chauffeur arrived. They placed the tubes in the trunk, Manu bowed graciously and fervently several times, then waved as they drove off.
As soon as the car had pulled out of the driveway and turned out of sight, Manu rushed over to me, arms extended and lifted me off my feet.
“Ria, you are more than my inspiration, you are my good luck charm!”
“Did he buy one of yours?”, I asked excitedly, assuming the answer would be yes but not wanting to get my hopes up.
“He didn’t buy one”, Manu said, waiting for the disappointment to register on my face, “He bought them all! Not only that, he paid full price! No one pays full price for a painting. It’s a haggle, and they know that. He didn’t want to haggle. He just wanted the paintings. The paintings of YOU, Ria!”
I cried out with joy, once again causing the patronage to look my direction. This time I didn’t care.
“How much did we make?”, I asked, expecting a few hundred thousand Rupiah.
“He paid 500 US Dollars per painting. Six-thousand in total. Half of that goes to the community, so your ten percent cut of my share is $300!”, Manu exclaimed excitedly.
“Only $300”, I replied, saddened.
“Only $300!”, Manu laughed at me, “That’s 3.6 million Rupiah! It’s a fortune around here, Ria!”
My mouth dropped. I’d never even seen that much money. On our best day, my father had earned 100,000 Rupiah selling our vegetables in Tampak Siring. He would never believe I had earned nearly 4 million Rupiah just for sitting on a stool and letting someone paint me.
“Does this mean I can stay?”
“If you bring $6,000 every three weeks, I don’t see how the community can disagree!” Manu, typically a very reserved and stoic man, was finding it hard to contain his excitement. “I’ve never made $3,000 for my artwork before, Ria. I’ve never made that in a full year before. The gods have smiled favorably on me for listening to the visions of my dreams. My family will now have the safety and security I have struggled so hard to provide for them. I, now, am indebted to you, Ria. Thank you so much.”
He leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek. I was dumbstruck. Someone I felt I owed my life to was telling me he was indebted to me. I had no words for this situation. I simply said: “You’re welcome.”
The next day I awoke and did my chores a little more slowly. Now that we had no more paintings to sell, I did not know how I would spend the rest of my day and I wanted to stay busy so I did not interupt or interfere with the normal workings of the community. Shortly after breakfast, as I was sweeping the floor in Manu’s studio, he knocked softly and entered.
“Malcom – the head of the community – would like to speak with you”, he said, unable to look me in the eye. “I will walk you there.”
“Did you talk to him about my continuing to live here?”
Manu nodded his head but still did not look me in the eye. He motioned to the door with a sweeping gesture of his hand. I set down my broom and exited the studio. Manu followed and walked beside me through the community to Macolms office.
Malcom was a short, squat man with large features and a flat nose. He stared at me from behind his desk through large, round glasses. His stubby fingers were busy counting piles of money and his bald head glistened with sweat despite the cool air blowing from the overburdened air conditioner. He finished counting and made a note on his ledger before addressing me.
“I believe Manu explained to you the rules of the community with respect to our minimum age”, he began. I nodded. “I am pleased with the results you have had on Manu’s artistic output and subsequent sale. You have greatly benefited the community, and Manu specifically.”
“I was only doing what I could to repay the kindness Manu showed me”, I replied. He studied me intently for a few moments then placed an envelope in front of me and continued.
“In the envelope you will find ten percent of Manu’s portion of the sale of his artwork. That money will last you a long time, if you spend it wisely and guard it closely.”
“Are you asking me to leave?” I had not been prepared for this.
“No, I’m telling you to leave”, he replied without hesitation or emotion.
“But you just said that I greatly benefited the community...”
“We have rules”, he interrupted. “Those rules allow us to continue operating within favor of the government. You must understand that I must protect the interests of the community as a whole over any individual.”
“I have nowhere else to go”, I complained.
“That is not entirely true”, he replied. Confused, I looked at him expectantly. “I received a call late last evening from one of our regular patrons, Pak Webster Cartwright. He is the gentleman who purchased Manu’s paintings. Your paintings”, he emphasized. “He said having those paintings in his house, having your eyes staring at him, haunted him from the minute they adorned his walls. He was unable to sleep, so he called me to inquire after you. I advised him of your current housing situation. He would like to extend you an invitation to stay with him, as his guest, for an indeterminate period of time.”
He took off his glasses and stared at me intensely. I could see a kind heart behind those weary, emotionless eyes. “I advise you to accept his offer. This is a far better opportunity than I believe you will ever have again, should you reject it.”
I considered his words carefully. Less than three weeks ago I was living in a one room, dirt floor house in a small village that I only left to attend school. Now Malcolm expected me to accept the offer of a bule, a grown male bule, who wanted a young girl to come live with him. I had not yet been exposed to men who liked young girls – the village was quite sheltered from such, abnormalities – but my instincts told me something was not quite right.
“What if I do reject the offer”, I asked, buying time to think.
“I do not care”, Malcolm replied. “As far as I am concerned, you have two options.” He pointed at the door to his office.
“The first option is to walk out that door, sit down in the car that is waiting for you, and drive to Denpasar to live with Pak Cartwright. Your second option is to walk out that door, walk down the driveway to the street, and decide if you are going to turn left or right. In either case, you are walking out that door and leaving this community. The choice is yours.”
There was a knock at the door. Malcolm sighed “Come in”, and Manu entered holding the bag I had arrived with packed with what few belongings I had. He quickly deposited them next to my chair, bowed to Malcolm and left.
“The time for your decision has arrived”, Malcolm said, lifting the envelope full of money off his desk and waving it in front of me. “Take your money, and your belongings, and leave. Should you want to come back when you are eighteen, we can discuss new arrangements. For now, I wish you well and thank you for your service.”
I took the money from his hand, grabbed my belongings and walked out the door. The car Malcolm had indicated awaited my decision was idling in the driveway. As I stood on the moist dirt pondering my situation, I closed my eyes and once again asked the gods for a sign – this time one that would not scare me. I opened my eyes and saw Manu standing at the car holding open the door. For the first time, he was able to look at me.
I thanked the gods and sat in the back of the car.
“You’ve made the right decision, my princess”, Manu said with a sad smile. “You know where to find me should you need anything.” The car moved forward the minute he closed the door. Two hours later I stepped onto the paved driveway at Webster Cartwright’s mansion.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Writing - a gift and a curse
I believe I've mentioned in prior posts that I'm trying to write more. I have like 15 ideas for novels that I keep starting and stopping work on. I've already finished 5 plays - 3 of which I'm interested in actually staging when we return.
In any event, starting with the below, I'm going to publish the first chapter of three of the novels I've started and let all of you tell me which one to actually finish. I'll post one today, one tomorrow, and one the next day. I don't have names for any of them, so I'll refer to them as Mexico (below), Bali (the next one) and Cannibal (the third)....maybe now my wife will actually read them.
MEXICO
Chapter 1
Mexico - 1984
The sun shone bright and hot as Miguel Posada escorted his wife, Inez, home from church. She had long before grown too heavy from the weight of her pregnancy to ride the mule they usually used on the four mile walk. Normally, they would still be sitting in church, listening to the priest’s sermon and praying for a healthy child, instead of walking in the heat of the day. But today, she could not sit comfortably. The pain in her back was too much, and she felt faint.
It was the young couple’s first child, and everything was new, exciting, and frightening, all at the same time. Inez didn’t know what she should be doing, but she knew she could no longer sit in a hot pew between her husband and an old lady who smelled of rotting chilies. She motioned to Miguel that they needed to leave and, ever the doting husband, he obliged.
The walk back to their one room adobe home in the jungles outside the Ladas Mines in southern Mexico followed a well-worn, but seldom traveled, dirt road. There were not many buildings, or people for that matter, between the small town where they went to church, and where they lived on a small plot of land Miguel had inherited from his father. As they walked, Miguel pestered Inez with questions: “Are you okay?”, “Do you need to lean on me?”, “Should I go get help?”
“Cayate!”, she finally screamed at him, “Shut up!”. Wounded, but understanding, Miguel walked with her in silence. When they arrived home, he knew his sister – who had stopped attending church after she lost her husband in a mining accident – would be able to help his wife. Though she never had children herself, she was the midwife for their cousin two years ago and had experience in this area so foreign and mysterious to himself.
Two miles from their house, half way home, Inez fell to her knees groaning. Her breath quickened, and she gripped the soft dirt on the side of the road. Miguel kneeled beside her, rubbing her back.
“What’s wrong”, he asked, knowing the answer.
“I think the baby is coming”, Inez said, sweat pouring off her forehead, still out of breath.
“You need to get up”, Miguel said, trying to lift her to her feet. “We need to get home to my sister. She will know what to do”.
“No, I can’t”, Inez panted, crawling over to a tree and leaning against it, her knees drawn to her chest. “I can’t get up. I won’t make it that far. The baby is coming. I know it.”
“What do you want me to do”, Miguel said frantically, panicking. He removed his shirt – the only nice, white shirt in his possession. “Here, we will wrap the baby in this.”
Miguel handed her the shirt and began pacing. Then it struck him that the baby may be thirsty and he should get some water.
“I need to find water”, he exclaimed, looking at his wife who was now screaming from the force of another contraction. He waited for her to relax, and then said it again. “Do you want me to get you some water? Or water for the baby?”
“No”, she panted. “Go get your sister. She will know what to do.”
“I can’t leave you here alone”, Miguel insisted. “I want to be here for you.”
“You don’t know what you are doing”, Inez hissed. “Go get your sister. If she wants to bring water, she will!”
Miguel hesitated long enough for Inez to let out another agonizing scream before he took off as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran the remaining two miles faster than he had ever run before, completing the trip in just under twelve minutes in 100 degree heat wearing worn leather dress shoes two sizes too big.
“Mariel! Mariel!”, he screamed, rushing into his house. She wasn’t there. He rushed over to her house, adjacent to his. She wasn’t there, either. Out of breath and needing water for himself and the baby, he ran the 200 yards to the well. He nearly collided with his sister as she carried two heavy buckets full of water on her return trip.
Miguel grabbed a bucket from her and drank quickly and deeply.
“Miguel! Que hace?”, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Inez”, he panted. “She’s having the baby.”
Mariel dropped the buckets and ran towards the house. “Where is she?”, she asked when Miguel had caught up.
“She’s about two miles up the road to church”, he responded.
“What!? You left her alone on the side of the road?!”, she yelled, smacking him about the head. “Idioto!”
“She couldn’t continue. She said I should come get you”, he explained, trying to deflect her blows.
“Never listen to a woman going into labor! They are not rational”, she scolded. “We must hurry.”
Miguel and Mariel rushed back to the house, untied the mule, packed a few sheets in the pack and climbed on top. They smacked the mule and ten minutes after he had arrived, they were galloping back the two miles to Inez. Six minutes later, a total of thirty-six minutes after Miguel had left, they found Inez lying naked by a tree and heard the piercing cry of a baby.
Miguel leapt off the mule before it had come to a complete stop and rushed to his wife’s side. Her lower half was covered in blood, and she appeared to still be bleeding. She was weary, but softly comforting the crying child, oblivious to her own pain. She looked up at him and smiled.
“You have a daughter”, she informed him. “Maria Alejandra Mariel Posada”.
He collapsed to his knees and looked into the soft, brown eyes of his little girl. A small, white butterfly flapped softly in circles around her head as if looking for a safe place to land. She stopped crying long enough to look up at the new face hovering over her, then began shrieking again, causing the butterfly to make a hasty retreat. He laughed and cried at the same time, and began caressing his child’s head.
Mariel hurried beside them, took one look at Inez and her face blanched. She pushed Miguel softly aside and motioned for him to move away with the baby so she could attend to Inez.
“Inez, esta mia, Mariel”, Mariel began, “Como sientes? How do you feel?”
“I’m very tired”, Inez said softly. “Did you see my beautiful daughter?”
“Si, mi hermana, I saw her. She is muy bonita – very beautiful”, Mariel comforted, “you did very well”.
“It hurt”, Inez said. “It hurt more than I thought it would.”
“It’s done now”, Mariel replied. “You have a healthy baby girl with ten fingers, ten toes, and the right numbers of everything else.”
“She did not want to come into this world so quickly”, Inez whispered, drifting to sleep.
“What do you mean”, Mariel asked.
“She backed in. She tried to stay in the womb, but it was time for her to join us”, she explained.
Breech. Mariel had never witnessed a breech, but she knew from talking to other women that breech births were not good. When a baby backed into the world, they come out much bigger than when they come out head first, and cause much more damage to their mothers. Many mothers did not survive. They had told Mariel that if her cousin had a breech baby, first she should try to turn it around before it came out. If she could not, she should do everything she could to stop the bleeding and immediately call a doctor.
Mariel did not know how to stop the bleeding. She remembered once in an old movie she had seen on a date with her late husband that they applied pressure to wounds, but she did not know how to apply pressure to the birth canal. She took the sheets out of the mule pack and wrapped them tightly around Inez’s lower body, hoping that would help. She then covered Inez to keep her warm and provide some modesty, and went to speak to Miguel.
Miguel was cradling his swaddled baby, rocking her back and forth, cooing to her. “Miguel, your wife needs more help than I can provide”, Mariel explained. Miguel’s face went from proud to stricken.
“What do you mean?”, he asked.
“You need to rush into town and get the doctor. Tell him that Inez gave birth to a breech baby, he will know what that means”, she explained.
“Breech? My daughter is perfect, what do you mean ‘breech’”, he demanded.
“There is no time to explain. Give me the baby and rush into town. The doctor will understand”, she explained. Then, much softer, “your wife’s life is in danger, hermano, you must hurry.”
Miguel looked at her briefly, saw the seriousness in her face, hopped on the mule, slapped it twice, and rushed into town. As he expected, the doctor was not in his office. He hurried to the church where they were just finishing communion. He burst through the doors causing everyone to turn, startled, and stare at him.
“My wife just gave birth”, he yelled, “I need the doctor. My sister says it was a breech baby!”
The women in the church gasped, collectively, while the men jumped and rushed to Miguel. The doctor fought his way through the crowd until he found Miguel.
“Where is she now”, he asked.
“She is about two miles up the road, with my sister and my baby daughter”, Miguel explained. “We can get there quickly on my mule.”
“Does anyone have a wagon nearby we can use?”, the doctor asked the congregation.
“I do”, an old farmer replied.
“Good, go get it ready and bring it around front. We’ll need it to bring Inez to her home”, the doctor explained. “Where is my wife?”
“I’m here, mi amor”, she said, touching his shoulder.
“I need you to go to our house, get my kit, and meet us at the Posada’s. Can you do that for me?”
“Si, I will hurry”, she replied, rushing out of the church.
“We must go”, the doctor said to Miguel. Then, turning to the priest he said, “Pray for us, Father.”
The farmer was rounding the corner of the church with his horse-drawn cart as Miguel and the doctor exited the steeple. The doctor climbed into the cart as Miguel mounted the mule and they all galloped to Inez. When they arrived, the doctor quickly inspected the baby and, assured that there was no cause for concern, turned his full attention to Inez.
He unwrapped the sheets to get a better idea of the situation. He remained calm, wrapped her in clean sheets, and he and the farmer helped her into the cart. Trained in Mexico City, Doctor Alberto Ibarra returned to his rural roots to give back to the community that had recognized his promising young mind and banded together to send him to school. Without their contributions, he would not have attained a medical scholarship, so he was spending his career helping his community instead of chasing prestige and wealth.
Dr. Ibarra’s training included many hours and courses detailing the obstetrics profession. In fact, the bulk of his coursework to become a general practitioner focused on addressing the medical needs of a pregnant woman. He had attended many births, had even delivered a few babies as an intern, so he knew the severity of the situation. In a breech birth, the size of the baby is everything. Babies under six pounds usually are not life-threatening, but require antibiotics and palliatives to relieve the pain. Babies over six pounds cause tremendous internal bleeding that can be difficult to stop and quickly endangers the mother’s life. Most deaths during child birth are the result of breech babies over six pounds. If a breech baby is over ten pounds, without immediate corrective action or a caesarean, both mother and child are likely to not survive.
Inez’s baby appeared to weigh between six and eight pounds. Inez, however, was a small woman with a tiny build. A six pound baby delivered head-first would have been difficult. With a breech baby, Dr. Ibarra was amazed she remained conscious through the whole ordeal. That alone gave him faith that she would overcome the challenges ahead of her.
When they arrived back at the house, Inez was listless with shallow breathing and a fever, but was still alive. Dr. Ibarra and Miguel hurried her to the bed and immediately began cooling her with cold, wet towels. The doctor’s wife arrived shortly thereafter, and he gave Inez an injection of morphine, antibiotics, and a clotting agent to try and speed the healing process. Then they waited.
Hours passed. The sun set. Mariel fed baby Maria goat’s milk because her mother was in no condition to feed her. Everyone – Miguel, Mariel, Dr. Ibarra and his wife – huddled around Inez. Dr. Ibarra would check her vital signs every fifteen minutes, looking for any sign of improvement. She slept quietly clutching baby Maria tightly to her chest. Shortly before 11 PM, well after a full moon had risen high in the sky, Inez took a deep breath, smiled serenely, and then breathed no more.
Dr. Ibarra shooed a motionless monarch butterfly from Maria’s nose, gently lifted her sleeping body from Inez’s chest, and lay her in a small basket at the foot of the bed. Miguel was weeping quietly from his chair in the corner of the room where he had held vigil, refusing food or drink, while his wife failed to recover from her injuries. Sra Ibarra laid a sheet gently over Inez’s lifeless body. They quietly grabbed the basket with Maria and left Miguel to mourn in private.
The day of Maria’s birth would also be the day of her mother’s death. Maria weighed in at six pounds, three ounces, but she was big enough to cause her mother’s death. Though he would never admit to it, it took many years for Miguel to forget that his daughter had killed his wife. It wasn’t until he could see that Maria had Inez’s smile, and that her forehead wrinkled the same way when she was concentrating before he forgot that her birth had caused her mother’s death and began to see that Inez was still alive inside Maria. Maria was the last piece of Inez that Miguel had, and he would hold onto her as tightly as he could.
In any event, starting with the below, I'm going to publish the first chapter of three of the novels I've started and let all of you tell me which one to actually finish. I'll post one today, one tomorrow, and one the next day. I don't have names for any of them, so I'll refer to them as Mexico (below), Bali (the next one) and Cannibal (the third)....maybe now my wife will actually read them.
MEXICO
Chapter 1
Mexico - 1984
The sun shone bright and hot as Miguel Posada escorted his wife, Inez, home from church. She had long before grown too heavy from the weight of her pregnancy to ride the mule they usually used on the four mile walk. Normally, they would still be sitting in church, listening to the priest’s sermon and praying for a healthy child, instead of walking in the heat of the day. But today, she could not sit comfortably. The pain in her back was too much, and she felt faint.
It was the young couple’s first child, and everything was new, exciting, and frightening, all at the same time. Inez didn’t know what she should be doing, but she knew she could no longer sit in a hot pew between her husband and an old lady who smelled of rotting chilies. She motioned to Miguel that they needed to leave and, ever the doting husband, he obliged.
The walk back to their one room adobe home in the jungles outside the Ladas Mines in southern Mexico followed a well-worn, but seldom traveled, dirt road. There were not many buildings, or people for that matter, between the small town where they went to church, and where they lived on a small plot of land Miguel had inherited from his father. As they walked, Miguel pestered Inez with questions: “Are you okay?”, “Do you need to lean on me?”, “Should I go get help?”
“Cayate!”, she finally screamed at him, “Shut up!”. Wounded, but understanding, Miguel walked with her in silence. When they arrived home, he knew his sister – who had stopped attending church after she lost her husband in a mining accident – would be able to help his wife. Though she never had children herself, she was the midwife for their cousin two years ago and had experience in this area so foreign and mysterious to himself.
Two miles from their house, half way home, Inez fell to her knees groaning. Her breath quickened, and she gripped the soft dirt on the side of the road. Miguel kneeled beside her, rubbing her back.
“What’s wrong”, he asked, knowing the answer.
“I think the baby is coming”, Inez said, sweat pouring off her forehead, still out of breath.
“You need to get up”, Miguel said, trying to lift her to her feet. “We need to get home to my sister. She will know what to do”.
“No, I can’t”, Inez panted, crawling over to a tree and leaning against it, her knees drawn to her chest. “I can’t get up. I won’t make it that far. The baby is coming. I know it.”
“What do you want me to do”, Miguel said frantically, panicking. He removed his shirt – the only nice, white shirt in his possession. “Here, we will wrap the baby in this.”
Miguel handed her the shirt and began pacing. Then it struck him that the baby may be thirsty and he should get some water.
“I need to find water”, he exclaimed, looking at his wife who was now screaming from the force of another contraction. He waited for her to relax, and then said it again. “Do you want me to get you some water? Or water for the baby?”
“No”, she panted. “Go get your sister. She will know what to do.”
“I can’t leave you here alone”, Miguel insisted. “I want to be here for you.”
“You don’t know what you are doing”, Inez hissed. “Go get your sister. If she wants to bring water, she will!”
Miguel hesitated long enough for Inez to let out another agonizing scream before he took off as fast as his legs would carry him. He ran the remaining two miles faster than he had ever run before, completing the trip in just under twelve minutes in 100 degree heat wearing worn leather dress shoes two sizes too big.
“Mariel! Mariel!”, he screamed, rushing into his house. She wasn’t there. He rushed over to her house, adjacent to his. She wasn’t there, either. Out of breath and needing water for himself and the baby, he ran the 200 yards to the well. He nearly collided with his sister as she carried two heavy buckets full of water on her return trip.
Miguel grabbed a bucket from her and drank quickly and deeply.
“Miguel! Que hace?”, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Inez”, he panted. “She’s having the baby.”
Mariel dropped the buckets and ran towards the house. “Where is she?”, she asked when Miguel had caught up.
“She’s about two miles up the road to church”, he responded.
“What!? You left her alone on the side of the road?!”, she yelled, smacking him about the head. “Idioto!”
“She couldn’t continue. She said I should come get you”, he explained, trying to deflect her blows.
“Never listen to a woman going into labor! They are not rational”, she scolded. “We must hurry.”
Miguel and Mariel rushed back to the house, untied the mule, packed a few sheets in the pack and climbed on top. They smacked the mule and ten minutes after he had arrived, they were galloping back the two miles to Inez. Six minutes later, a total of thirty-six minutes after Miguel had left, they found Inez lying naked by a tree and heard the piercing cry of a baby.
Miguel leapt off the mule before it had come to a complete stop and rushed to his wife’s side. Her lower half was covered in blood, and she appeared to still be bleeding. She was weary, but softly comforting the crying child, oblivious to her own pain. She looked up at him and smiled.
“You have a daughter”, she informed him. “Maria Alejandra Mariel Posada”.
He collapsed to his knees and looked into the soft, brown eyes of his little girl. A small, white butterfly flapped softly in circles around her head as if looking for a safe place to land. She stopped crying long enough to look up at the new face hovering over her, then began shrieking again, causing the butterfly to make a hasty retreat. He laughed and cried at the same time, and began caressing his child’s head.
Mariel hurried beside them, took one look at Inez and her face blanched. She pushed Miguel softly aside and motioned for him to move away with the baby so she could attend to Inez.
“Inez, esta mia, Mariel”, Mariel began, “Como sientes? How do you feel?”
“I’m very tired”, Inez said softly. “Did you see my beautiful daughter?”
“Si, mi hermana, I saw her. She is muy bonita – very beautiful”, Mariel comforted, “you did very well”.
“It hurt”, Inez said. “It hurt more than I thought it would.”
“It’s done now”, Mariel replied. “You have a healthy baby girl with ten fingers, ten toes, and the right numbers of everything else.”
“She did not want to come into this world so quickly”, Inez whispered, drifting to sleep.
“What do you mean”, Mariel asked.
“She backed in. She tried to stay in the womb, but it was time for her to join us”, she explained.
Breech. Mariel had never witnessed a breech, but she knew from talking to other women that breech births were not good. When a baby backed into the world, they come out much bigger than when they come out head first, and cause much more damage to their mothers. Many mothers did not survive. They had told Mariel that if her cousin had a breech baby, first she should try to turn it around before it came out. If she could not, she should do everything she could to stop the bleeding and immediately call a doctor.
Mariel did not know how to stop the bleeding. She remembered once in an old movie she had seen on a date with her late husband that they applied pressure to wounds, but she did not know how to apply pressure to the birth canal. She took the sheets out of the mule pack and wrapped them tightly around Inez’s lower body, hoping that would help. She then covered Inez to keep her warm and provide some modesty, and went to speak to Miguel.
Miguel was cradling his swaddled baby, rocking her back and forth, cooing to her. “Miguel, your wife needs more help than I can provide”, Mariel explained. Miguel’s face went from proud to stricken.
“What do you mean?”, he asked.
“You need to rush into town and get the doctor. Tell him that Inez gave birth to a breech baby, he will know what that means”, she explained.
“Breech? My daughter is perfect, what do you mean ‘breech’”, he demanded.
“There is no time to explain. Give me the baby and rush into town. The doctor will understand”, she explained. Then, much softer, “your wife’s life is in danger, hermano, you must hurry.”
Miguel looked at her briefly, saw the seriousness in her face, hopped on the mule, slapped it twice, and rushed into town. As he expected, the doctor was not in his office. He hurried to the church where they were just finishing communion. He burst through the doors causing everyone to turn, startled, and stare at him.
“My wife just gave birth”, he yelled, “I need the doctor. My sister says it was a breech baby!”
The women in the church gasped, collectively, while the men jumped and rushed to Miguel. The doctor fought his way through the crowd until he found Miguel.
“Where is she now”, he asked.
“She is about two miles up the road, with my sister and my baby daughter”, Miguel explained. “We can get there quickly on my mule.”
“Does anyone have a wagon nearby we can use?”, the doctor asked the congregation.
“I do”, an old farmer replied.
“Good, go get it ready and bring it around front. We’ll need it to bring Inez to her home”, the doctor explained. “Where is my wife?”
“I’m here, mi amor”, she said, touching his shoulder.
“I need you to go to our house, get my kit, and meet us at the Posada’s. Can you do that for me?”
“Si, I will hurry”, she replied, rushing out of the church.
“We must go”, the doctor said to Miguel. Then, turning to the priest he said, “Pray for us, Father.”
The farmer was rounding the corner of the church with his horse-drawn cart as Miguel and the doctor exited the steeple. The doctor climbed into the cart as Miguel mounted the mule and they all galloped to Inez. When they arrived, the doctor quickly inspected the baby and, assured that there was no cause for concern, turned his full attention to Inez.
He unwrapped the sheets to get a better idea of the situation. He remained calm, wrapped her in clean sheets, and he and the farmer helped her into the cart. Trained in Mexico City, Doctor Alberto Ibarra returned to his rural roots to give back to the community that had recognized his promising young mind and banded together to send him to school. Without their contributions, he would not have attained a medical scholarship, so he was spending his career helping his community instead of chasing prestige and wealth.
Dr. Ibarra’s training included many hours and courses detailing the obstetrics profession. In fact, the bulk of his coursework to become a general practitioner focused on addressing the medical needs of a pregnant woman. He had attended many births, had even delivered a few babies as an intern, so he knew the severity of the situation. In a breech birth, the size of the baby is everything. Babies under six pounds usually are not life-threatening, but require antibiotics and palliatives to relieve the pain. Babies over six pounds cause tremendous internal bleeding that can be difficult to stop and quickly endangers the mother’s life. Most deaths during child birth are the result of breech babies over six pounds. If a breech baby is over ten pounds, without immediate corrective action or a caesarean, both mother and child are likely to not survive.
Inez’s baby appeared to weigh between six and eight pounds. Inez, however, was a small woman with a tiny build. A six pound baby delivered head-first would have been difficult. With a breech baby, Dr. Ibarra was amazed she remained conscious through the whole ordeal. That alone gave him faith that she would overcome the challenges ahead of her.
When they arrived back at the house, Inez was listless with shallow breathing and a fever, but was still alive. Dr. Ibarra and Miguel hurried her to the bed and immediately began cooling her with cold, wet towels. The doctor’s wife arrived shortly thereafter, and he gave Inez an injection of morphine, antibiotics, and a clotting agent to try and speed the healing process. Then they waited.
Hours passed. The sun set. Mariel fed baby Maria goat’s milk because her mother was in no condition to feed her. Everyone – Miguel, Mariel, Dr. Ibarra and his wife – huddled around Inez. Dr. Ibarra would check her vital signs every fifteen minutes, looking for any sign of improvement. She slept quietly clutching baby Maria tightly to her chest. Shortly before 11 PM, well after a full moon had risen high in the sky, Inez took a deep breath, smiled serenely, and then breathed no more.
Dr. Ibarra shooed a motionless monarch butterfly from Maria’s nose, gently lifted her sleeping body from Inez’s chest, and lay her in a small basket at the foot of the bed. Miguel was weeping quietly from his chair in the corner of the room where he had held vigil, refusing food or drink, while his wife failed to recover from her injuries. Sra Ibarra laid a sheet gently over Inez’s lifeless body. They quietly grabbed the basket with Maria and left Miguel to mourn in private.
The day of Maria’s birth would also be the day of her mother’s death. Maria weighed in at six pounds, three ounces, but she was big enough to cause her mother’s death. Though he would never admit to it, it took many years for Miguel to forget that his daughter had killed his wife. It wasn’t until he could see that Maria had Inez’s smile, and that her forehead wrinkled the same way when she was concentrating before he forgot that her birth had caused her mother’s death and began to see that Inez was still alive inside Maria. Maria was the last piece of Inez that Miguel had, and he would hold onto her as tightly as he could.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The Battle Royale
In February, when I went to dinner with my departing colleague, we discussed getting together after I had moved for an athletic competition. We went back and forth on possible sports - tennis, he had never played it; racquetball, same thing; badminton, not quite what we were looking for. We finally settled on basketball, which we both felt we were equally bad at. Those of you who have ever seen me try to throw Christmas wrapping paper into an open bag know this to be true for me. I've missed the trash can standing directly over it. In fifth grade, I had to write "I will never try to make a basket and miss" during recess for Mr. B. That was his rule. You could try to throw it into the trash, but if you missed, you had to spend recess writing that.
A few weeks ago, we settled on May 17th (Happy Birthday sis!) as the date. The last several weeks have been full of trash talk - in reverse. I would tell him how much I'm practicing, and how little it is helping. He would tell me he is going to the gym three times a week and running but that he doesn't have a hoop to practice with. All of the back and forth culminated with today's competition.
People came from far and wide to witness the spectacle (well, really just from Jakarta - and really just our wives and kids - but they did witness the spectacle!) With great fanfare, we warmed up in the scorching late-morning sun. I would take shots from the perimeter - and miss badly. He would run layups and did not make one until around his 20th attempt. We finally decided we were ready and settled on a game. Twenty-one.
Here are the rules, as we played them:
1) Any basket made from inside 3-pt range was worth 1 point.
2) Any basket made from outside 3-pt range was worth 2 points.
3) Free throws were worth 2 points.
4) Once you make a basket, you get to shoot free throws.
5) You keep shooting free throws until you miss
6) On a turnover, you had to take the ball outside the three point range before coming back for a basket
With the rules established, I tossed him the ball and let him start - we were on my home court. We trade errant shots for about three or four attempts each. Then he gets serious. He gets the ball and then drove right, spun left, and before I knew what was happening, he had made a layup and was standing at the free throw line. He makes the first free throw and goes up 3-0. He misses the second, giving me my another opportunity with the ball.
I take the ball back behind the three point line and do the only move I know how, the only move I had practiced all week - drive left, spin right, and do a moving sky hook as I drift left to right. Luckily, it bounces off the backboard and falls through. I go to the free throw line with sweat dripping in my eyes. I try wiping it away, but my eyes are now stinging. I send my wife to get my sweatband, and she heads back to the house. I take my first free-throw, and throw it over the backboard out of bounds.
My opponent gets the ball and takes it back behind the three point line. I follow, giving him distance so I can block his drive to the hoop. He looks at me and says: "You know, I won the 3-point competition in High School", and drains a three point shot for two points. He's now up 5-1 and I'm beginning to wonder how 'bad' he really is.
He missed the free throw, and I corral the ball, take it back then drive to make my layup, but miss the free throw. We trade a few more missed shots - his from 3-point land, mine as attempted layups. At 7-5, him, we decide to take a break until I get the sweat out of my eyes and wait for my headband. We're both dead from the heat by this point, too.
After the break it was obvious who gained the benefits of rest. He's driving the hoop, sinking jump shots from behind three points, and I'm watching my ball go over the back board, spin past the hoop, or miss the board altogether. He's dribbling around me, shooting over me and even passed the ball to himself by bouncing it under my legs. To make matters worse, during one of my missed shots, I feel a twinge in my arm and it hurts to lift my arm over my head. Before long he's up 20-9 and I'm sucking wind.
Then, it happened. I found my shot. He's doing his fancy dribbling and I reach in enough to stop the ball in its spot while he continues running. Quickly, I grab it, pass back to the three point range and drive the hoop. I jump in the air, fight through the pain in my arm and sink a shot. I announce the score: "20-10".
His wife says: "It's that really the score?"
"Yep", I say, "He's winning." Silence after that. I miss my free throw, but am able to block his next shot and make one of my own. It's now 20-11.
I stand at the free throw line, dribble the ball twice and take my shot. The ball hits the backboard, hits the side of the rim, and drops. 20-13, still my shot. I remember that to make free throws, you just need to do the same motion consistently. I dribble twice and take my second shot. It hits the center of the square on the backboard and falls: 20-15. I'm scoring more prolifically than I have all game - 5 straight points, and I've reached the highest streak I've had while practicing, but it's still my shot. I dribble twice, take my shot, and it goes in: 20-17. My next free throw shot is a little off, but it still drops: 20-19. One more shot, and I've mounted the biggest comeback in the history of Jakarta's games of 21.
I look at my opponent and say: "you know, if I make this, I win."
"Good luck", he says. I dribble twice, follow through with my motion - slight jump, one hand shot, backspin on the ball. The ball leaves my hand, rises through the air, heads gracefully towards the hoop, and keeps going, over the backboard.
My opponent takes the ball, heads back to three-point land, stops and sinks a jump shot to win the game. I only have two comments:
1) The game was a far larger thrashing than the final score would lead you to believe
2) From now on, I will practice while wearing contacts, not glasses. I never went over the backboard in practice, and I think my depth perception varies widely between the two mechanisms of vision correction.....at least that's the story I'm telling.
After the game, we came back to the house for lunch and to let the kids play - he has two boys near my daughter's age. We finished the day watching the kids swim in the kiddie pool and letting my muscles atrophy in retaliation for the over-exertion.
When everyone had left, and my wife and daughter were taking a nap, I had to go to the spa for a 90-minute massage so that I'm able to walk and breathe tomorrow. So far, so good. That was the best workout I've had since I've been here and hopefully we'll do it again - and I'll make it tougher for him to beat me.
A few weeks ago, we settled on May 17th (Happy Birthday sis!) as the date. The last several weeks have been full of trash talk - in reverse. I would tell him how much I'm practicing, and how little it is helping. He would tell me he is going to the gym three times a week and running but that he doesn't have a hoop to practice with. All of the back and forth culminated with today's competition.
People came from far and wide to witness the spectacle (well, really just from Jakarta - and really just our wives and kids - but they did witness the spectacle!) With great fanfare, we warmed up in the scorching late-morning sun. I would take shots from the perimeter - and miss badly. He would run layups and did not make one until around his 20th attempt. We finally decided we were ready and settled on a game. Twenty-one.
Here are the rules, as we played them:
1) Any basket made from inside 3-pt range was worth 1 point.
2) Any basket made from outside 3-pt range was worth 2 points.
3) Free throws were worth 2 points.
4) Once you make a basket, you get to shoot free throws.
5) You keep shooting free throws until you miss
6) On a turnover, you had to take the ball outside the three point range before coming back for a basket
With the rules established, I tossed him the ball and let him start - we were on my home court. We trade errant shots for about three or four attempts each. Then he gets serious. He gets the ball and then drove right, spun left, and before I knew what was happening, he had made a layup and was standing at the free throw line. He makes the first free throw and goes up 3-0. He misses the second, giving me my another opportunity with the ball.
I take the ball back behind the three point line and do the only move I know how, the only move I had practiced all week - drive left, spin right, and do a moving sky hook as I drift left to right. Luckily, it bounces off the backboard and falls through. I go to the free throw line with sweat dripping in my eyes. I try wiping it away, but my eyes are now stinging. I send my wife to get my sweatband, and she heads back to the house. I take my first free-throw, and throw it over the backboard out of bounds.
My opponent gets the ball and takes it back behind the three point line. I follow, giving him distance so I can block his drive to the hoop. He looks at me and says: "You know, I won the 3-point competition in High School", and drains a three point shot for two points. He's now up 5-1 and I'm beginning to wonder how 'bad' he really is.
He missed the free throw, and I corral the ball, take it back then drive to make my layup, but miss the free throw. We trade a few more missed shots - his from 3-point land, mine as attempted layups. At 7-5, him, we decide to take a break until I get the sweat out of my eyes and wait for my headband. We're both dead from the heat by this point, too.
After the break it was obvious who gained the benefits of rest. He's driving the hoop, sinking jump shots from behind three points, and I'm watching my ball go over the back board, spin past the hoop, or miss the board altogether. He's dribbling around me, shooting over me and even passed the ball to himself by bouncing it under my legs. To make matters worse, during one of my missed shots, I feel a twinge in my arm and it hurts to lift my arm over my head. Before long he's up 20-9 and I'm sucking wind.
Then, it happened. I found my shot. He's doing his fancy dribbling and I reach in enough to stop the ball in its spot while he continues running. Quickly, I grab it, pass back to the three point range and drive the hoop. I jump in the air, fight through the pain in my arm and sink a shot. I announce the score: "20-10".
His wife says: "It's that really the score?"
"Yep", I say, "He's winning." Silence after that. I miss my free throw, but am able to block his next shot and make one of my own. It's now 20-11.
I stand at the free throw line, dribble the ball twice and take my shot. The ball hits the backboard, hits the side of the rim, and drops. 20-13, still my shot. I remember that to make free throws, you just need to do the same motion consistently. I dribble twice and take my second shot. It hits the center of the square on the backboard and falls: 20-15. I'm scoring more prolifically than I have all game - 5 straight points, and I've reached the highest streak I've had while practicing, but it's still my shot. I dribble twice, take my shot, and it goes in: 20-17. My next free throw shot is a little off, but it still drops: 20-19. One more shot, and I've mounted the biggest comeback in the history of Jakarta's games of 21.
I look at my opponent and say: "you know, if I make this, I win."
"Good luck", he says. I dribble twice, follow through with my motion - slight jump, one hand shot, backspin on the ball. The ball leaves my hand, rises through the air, heads gracefully towards the hoop, and keeps going, over the backboard.
My opponent takes the ball, heads back to three-point land, stops and sinks a jump shot to win the game. I only have two comments:
1) The game was a far larger thrashing than the final score would lead you to believe
2) From now on, I will practice while wearing contacts, not glasses. I never went over the backboard in practice, and I think my depth perception varies widely between the two mechanisms of vision correction.....at least that's the story I'm telling.
After the game, we came back to the house for lunch and to let the kids play - he has two boys near my daughter's age. We finished the day watching the kids swim in the kiddie pool and letting my muscles atrophy in retaliation for the over-exertion.
When everyone had left, and my wife and daughter were taking a nap, I had to go to the spa for a 90-minute massage so that I'm able to walk and breathe tomorrow. So far, so good. That was the best workout I've had since I've been here and hopefully we'll do it again - and I'll make it tougher for him to beat me.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The news is in, we're having a ......
Boy!
Okay, probably only like six of you didn't already know that. News seems to travel very quickly these days.
In other news....
My daughter has her first boyfriend, which makes me wonder what, exactly, they are teaching in that school. She told us last night at dinner that she loved - yes, she actually used that word - a boy at school. She also said she loved her teacher. Today, when my wife dropped her off, the little boy ran up and grabbed her hand and ran back into the classroom to play. I told my wife, when we learned we were having a daughter, that life would be difficult. When you have a boy, you have one penis to worry about. When you have a girl, you have EVERY penis in the world to worry about. And so it begins.
Nightlife in Jakarta is interesting. I don't mean bars and clubs, I mean the animals you hear in the middle of the night. I always know what time it is by the sounds I hear coming from outside the house. At 8 PM every night, it's time for the bats. They have a shrill screech as they take flight and try to catch as many mosquitoes as possible. We see them, flying their erratic, drunken flight, if we take a walk after dinner. At 9 PM the frogs come out. It took me quite a long time to realize the noise we were hearing was a frog. For a while, I thought the noise was one of the kids in the neighborhood with a noisemaker. The best way to describe it is to imagine the sound a donkey makes "HEE-haw", give it the voice of Disney's Chip and Dale chipmunks, and have them say "F--- me". We laugh every time we hear it. The other, more unfortunate, noise, seems to occur every Sunday night after 8 PM. It's a siren. Brief, blippy, bursts. BLOOP........BLOOP. Spaced a minute apart. Luckily, it usually shuts off after about an hour.
Two last pieces of news. I've activated anonymous comments for my blog. You no longer need to login to post a comment. We are also communicating with everyone on Skype. If you want to converse with us via video - and for free - send me an email and I'll send you our Skype info.
Okay, probably only like six of you didn't already know that. News seems to travel very quickly these days.
In other news....
My daughter has her first boyfriend, which makes me wonder what, exactly, they are teaching in that school. She told us last night at dinner that she loved - yes, she actually used that word - a boy at school. She also said she loved her teacher. Today, when my wife dropped her off, the little boy ran up and grabbed her hand and ran back into the classroom to play. I told my wife, when we learned we were having a daughter, that life would be difficult. When you have a boy, you have one penis to worry about. When you have a girl, you have EVERY penis in the world to worry about. And so it begins.
Nightlife in Jakarta is interesting. I don't mean bars and clubs, I mean the animals you hear in the middle of the night. I always know what time it is by the sounds I hear coming from outside the house. At 8 PM every night, it's time for the bats. They have a shrill screech as they take flight and try to catch as many mosquitoes as possible. We see them, flying their erratic, drunken flight, if we take a walk after dinner. At 9 PM the frogs come out. It took me quite a long time to realize the noise we were hearing was a frog. For a while, I thought the noise was one of the kids in the neighborhood with a noisemaker. The best way to describe it is to imagine the sound a donkey makes "HEE-haw", give it the voice of Disney's Chip and Dale chipmunks, and have them say "F--- me". We laugh every time we hear it. The other, more unfortunate, noise, seems to occur every Sunday night after 8 PM. It's a siren. Brief, blippy, bursts. BLOOP........BLOOP. Spaced a minute apart. Luckily, it usually shuts off after about an hour.
Two last pieces of news. I've activated anonymous comments for my blog. You no longer need to login to post a comment. We are also communicating with everyone on Skype. If you want to converse with us via video - and for free - send me an email and I'll send you our Skype info.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Ramblings....
Forgive me if I wax quixotic....
I spent the week in a perpetual state of dysphoric fatigue. The prerequisites for me to sleep are silence and darkness. Late night thunderstorms provide neither. Regardless of the level of my exhaustion, I have been unable to enter the peace of slumber until long after the sun has departed our grimy city. The blare of the alarm clock at 5 AM is often mistaken for some warning siren for whatever character I happen to be playing in that evening's dream. At some point, I finally realize the sound is calling me to leave the ethereal world of dreams and rejoin the terrestrial. I slowly roll out of the warmth of my bed, place two bare feet on the cold marble floors, and begin my day with a long, hot shower.
I've discovered that when I spend my weeks in a stupor of caffeine induced highs, sleep deprivation, and high activity: 1) I write better, 2) I'm more creative (see #1), 3) I work harder (mostly so I don't fall asleep at my desk) and 4) I'm more reflective on life. So, at the risk of sounding like a dreaded Democrat:
1) The more time I spend here, the harder it is to believe my position in life is based on hard work, education, and choices I've made to advance. I work with too many women who are secretaries or, in some cases, maids who have law degrees to believe that I have complete control of my destiny. I've always felt that education and motivation can overcome any obstacle. Indonesia is teaching me otherwise. Availability of opportunity plays a tremendous role. Being born in the United States was not a choice I made, it was luck of the cosmic draw. I owe much of my success to the fact that I was born in a country that has opportunity.
2) Blue sky in Jakarta is a scarce commodity. I've seen colors I never knew the sky could be, but seldom blue. There is the orange haze of morning when the pollution from 18 million people commuting to their various jobs paints the sky with noxious fumes. When the storms come in mid-day, we have skies that remind of the burnt sienna crayon in the 64 pack of Crayolas. For the heavy storms, skies are black as starless nights and the city is hidden in a cloak of rain and shadows. On weekends, before the rain comes, I get my one shot at seeing blue skies.
3) Rain doesn't wash away pollution, it bonds with it. The rivers and creeks in the city are never any color other than brown. After a heavy rain, the streets and sidewalks are slick like oil spills. You seldom seem birds - the canaries in the mine, so to speak. Although the fact that you can find "pigeon" on the menu at many restaurants may contribute to this.
4) Indonesians - at least the ones I work with - never lose that childish appreciation of life. When I hear laughter, it's the giddy laughter of people who aren't fearful of having to maintain the material trappings of life. The laughter of people who laugh with pure joy, and excitement, and happiness; not the stiff laugh of the stoic, the polite laugh of the professional, or the reserved chuckle of the somber religious. People here laugh with their souls. It's a pleasure to witness.
In addition to Indonesia, my company has a tremendous asset in the Congo. It's not fully operational yet, but we have recently produced our first ingot, which is a huge accomplishment. As the global provider of technology - and the closest team to Africa - my team supports any software needs of the operations in Africa. To this point, no one has asked me to visit Africa - nor do I expect them to - though many of my colleagues here in Indonesia and back in Phoenix have participated in building the network on the ground in the Congo. My team, to this point, has supported their efforts from Jakarta.
This week I had the opportunity to speak with some of the colleagues who travel there. Americans think the environment in Indonesia is odd. Indonesians say the Congo is odd. A few stories I will always remember:
1) On his first trip, one of my colleagues was driving from base camp into Lubumbashi to have dinner at one of the local restaurants. His driver spoke only French, and he spoke only English. He was running late, so the party waiting at the restaurant called his cell phone to inquire as to his position. When he answered the phone, his driver became immediately agitated. He slowed the car down to a crawl while my colleague spoke on the phone. In the Congo, you do not stop on the roads. When a car stops, locals immediately surround the car and the situation becomes very dangerous very quickly. Driving slowly is ill advised for the same reason. If you look ahead and see an obstacle, you choose a new route so you don't have to slow down. Needless to say, my colleague was not happy with the driver slowing down. The longer my colleague spoke, the more nervous the driver became. As they neared an intersection, the driver pulled to the side of the road and abruptly stopped. My colleagues realized the car had stopped because he was on the phone, so he quickly hung up the phone, and the driver continued. At dinner, he explained what had occurred on the drive over. The GM of the site told him why. He was driving past the governor's mansion in the heart of the city. There are armed guards that have permission to open fire on anyone who is on a cell phone as they drive by. The government is concerned the cell phone is triggering a bomb. The driver knew this, my colleague didn't.
2) One of the systems my team installed and supports is a Universal ID system. The UID System has terminals at all major security check points where employees have to provide proof of their identity. Swiping the card displays a picture of the approved card holder so security can verify the person using the card is the person we expect to have it. People in the Congo do not like to have their picture taken. This makes security badges a difficult challenge. The reason they don't like to have their picture taken is probably not what you think - they aren't afraid it will capture their soul. The Congo has lived in a perpetual state of Civil War. They are afraid if you have their picture, you will show it to someone who will then come and kill them. I can't imagine living in a country where that was my first thought at having a picture taken.
3) Another colleague, on his first trip to the Congo, got off the bus and immediately started taking pictures of the surrounding area to share with family and friends upon his return. This wasn't in the city, this was on company owned facilities. Within 15 minutes, the military arrived, fully armed, walked up to him and said "no more pictures", and walked away. He didn't take the camera out the rest of his trip. I probably would have wet myself.
4) Another odd situation we have is ownership. We recently received a request to modify our UID system to include printing some additional language for the back of the card indicating the ID card is company property. Apparently, we have had several parties refuse to return their cards at the end of their employment. We gave them the card so, in their mind, it was now theirs. They didn't associate possession of the card with possession of employment with our company. Not sure that a label is going to solve that problem, but it wasn't worth arguing over 4 hours of work.
5) In a country ravaged by Civil War, long term is not in the mindset or vocabulary. I'm surprised we aren't paying people at the end of every day. It is very obvious, however, that no one thinks beyond the current week - often the current day. We have had situations where we have told an employee that we need them to move servers from one building to another building by the end of the day and they have responded "Okay, but first I must find food for my children". It appears the lower you go on Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the more interesting are the challenges.
One last item. If anyone wants to send us a care package, here are the things we need:
1) Cinnamon gum
2) Seagram's
3) Bagels
4) Refried Beans
5) Tortillas
On Monday, I'm having breakfast with Steve Ballmer, the CEO of Microsoft. It's not a one-on-one breakfast, I'm part of a group, but it is a small group. Should be interesting. Hopefully I'll blog more than one entry next week.
Oh, and I've told my staff to not use English when the email me. I have to learn Bahasa Indonesia at some point. Now's as good a time as any.
I spent the week in a perpetual state of dysphoric fatigue. The prerequisites for me to sleep are silence and darkness. Late night thunderstorms provide neither. Regardless of the level of my exhaustion, I have been unable to enter the peace of slumber until long after the sun has departed our grimy city. The blare of the alarm clock at 5 AM is often mistaken for some warning siren for whatever character I happen to be playing in that evening's dream. At some point, I finally realize the sound is calling me to leave the ethereal world of dreams and rejoin the terrestrial. I slowly roll out of the warmth of my bed, place two bare feet on the cold marble floors, and begin my day with a long, hot shower.
I've discovered that when I spend my weeks in a stupor of caffeine induced highs, sleep deprivation, and high activity: 1) I write better, 2) I'm more creative (see #1), 3) I work harder (mostly so I don't fall asleep at my desk) and 4) I'm more reflective on life. So, at the risk of sounding like a dreaded Democrat:
1) The more time I spend here, the harder it is to believe my position in life is based on hard work, education, and choices I've made to advance. I work with too many women who are secretaries or, in some cases, maids who have law degrees to believe that I have complete control of my destiny. I've always felt that education and motivation can overcome any obstacle. Indonesia is teaching me otherwise. Availability of opportunity plays a tremendous role. Being born in the United States was not a choice I made, it was luck of the cosmic draw. I owe much of my success to the fact that I was born in a country that has opportunity.
2) Blue sky in Jakarta is a scarce commodity. I've seen colors I never knew the sky could be, but seldom blue. There is the orange haze of morning when the pollution from 18 million people commuting to their various jobs paints the sky with noxious fumes. When the storms come in mid-day, we have skies that remind of the burnt sienna crayon in the 64 pack of Crayolas. For the heavy storms, skies are black as starless nights and the city is hidden in a cloak of rain and shadows. On weekends, before the rain comes, I get my one shot at seeing blue skies.
3) Rain doesn't wash away pollution, it bonds with it. The rivers and creeks in the city are never any color other than brown. After a heavy rain, the streets and sidewalks are slick like oil spills. You seldom seem birds - the canaries in the mine, so to speak. Although the fact that you can find "pigeon" on the menu at many restaurants may contribute to this.
4) Indonesians - at least the ones I work with - never lose that childish appreciation of life. When I hear laughter, it's the giddy laughter of people who aren't fearful of having to maintain the material trappings of life. The laughter of people who laugh with pure joy, and excitement, and happiness; not the stiff laugh of the stoic, the polite laugh of the professional, or the reserved chuckle of the somber religious. People here laugh with their souls. It's a pleasure to witness.
In addition to Indonesia, my company has a tremendous asset in the Congo. It's not fully operational yet, but we have recently produced our first ingot, which is a huge accomplishment. As the global provider of technology - and the closest team to Africa - my team supports any software needs of the operations in Africa. To this point, no one has asked me to visit Africa - nor do I expect them to - though many of my colleagues here in Indonesia and back in Phoenix have participated in building the network on the ground in the Congo. My team, to this point, has supported their efforts from Jakarta.
This week I had the opportunity to speak with some of the colleagues who travel there. Americans think the environment in Indonesia is odd. Indonesians say the Congo is odd. A few stories I will always remember:
1) On his first trip, one of my colleagues was driving from base camp into Lubumbashi to have dinner at one of the local restaurants. His driver spoke only French, and he spoke only English. He was running late, so the party waiting at the restaurant called his cell phone to inquire as to his position. When he answered the phone, his driver became immediately agitated. He slowed the car down to a crawl while my colleague spoke on the phone. In the Congo, you do not stop on the roads. When a car stops, locals immediately surround the car and the situation becomes very dangerous very quickly. Driving slowly is ill advised for the same reason. If you look ahead and see an obstacle, you choose a new route so you don't have to slow down. Needless to say, my colleague was not happy with the driver slowing down. The longer my colleague spoke, the more nervous the driver became. As they neared an intersection, the driver pulled to the side of the road and abruptly stopped. My colleagues realized the car had stopped because he was on the phone, so he quickly hung up the phone, and the driver continued. At dinner, he explained what had occurred on the drive over. The GM of the site told him why. He was driving past the governor's mansion in the heart of the city. There are armed guards that have permission to open fire on anyone who is on a cell phone as they drive by. The government is concerned the cell phone is triggering a bomb. The driver knew this, my colleague didn't.
2) One of the systems my team installed and supports is a Universal ID system. The UID System has terminals at all major security check points where employees have to provide proof of their identity. Swiping the card displays a picture of the approved card holder so security can verify the person using the card is the person we expect to have it. People in the Congo do not like to have their picture taken. This makes security badges a difficult challenge. The reason they don't like to have their picture taken is probably not what you think - they aren't afraid it will capture their soul. The Congo has lived in a perpetual state of Civil War. They are afraid if you have their picture, you will show it to someone who will then come and kill them. I can't imagine living in a country where that was my first thought at having a picture taken.
3) Another colleague, on his first trip to the Congo, got off the bus and immediately started taking pictures of the surrounding area to share with family and friends upon his return. This wasn't in the city, this was on company owned facilities. Within 15 minutes, the military arrived, fully armed, walked up to him and said "no more pictures", and walked away. He didn't take the camera out the rest of his trip. I probably would have wet myself.
4) Another odd situation we have is ownership. We recently received a request to modify our UID system to include printing some additional language for the back of the card indicating the ID card is company property. Apparently, we have had several parties refuse to return their cards at the end of their employment. We gave them the card so, in their mind, it was now theirs. They didn't associate possession of the card with possession of employment with our company. Not sure that a label is going to solve that problem, but it wasn't worth arguing over 4 hours of work.
5) In a country ravaged by Civil War, long term is not in the mindset or vocabulary. I'm surprised we aren't paying people at the end of every day. It is very obvious, however, that no one thinks beyond the current week - often the current day. We have had situations where we have told an employee that we need them to move servers from one building to another building by the end of the day and they have responded "Okay, but first I must find food for my children". It appears the lower you go on Maslow's hierarchy of needs, the more interesting are the challenges.
One last item. If anyone wants to send us a care package, here are the things we need:
1) Cinnamon gum
2) Seagram's
3) Bagels
4) Refried Beans
5) Tortillas
On Monday, I'm having breakfast with Steve Ballmer, the CEO of Microsoft. It's not a one-on-one breakfast, I'm part of a group, but it is a small group. Should be interesting. Hopefully I'll blog more than one entry next week.
Oh, and I've told my staff to not use English when the email me. I have to learn Bahasa Indonesia at some point. Now's as good a time as any.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
I see dead people....and eat mexican food
I think if you live long enough, have enough adventures, and really just leave your house on a regular basis in a large city, you will, eventually, see something you wish you hadn't. For me this happened Friday morning on the way to work. The lane my driver normally uses to take me to work in the early mornings (I'm on the road before 6 AM) - the Bus Way - was blocked. They weren't even letting motorcycles on it. A few minutes later we learned why - there was a dead body in the road. Fresh, too. When we drove by there were no police, no medical response unit, and a large pool of blood draining from the body's head. The body itself was twitching in what I can only describe as the gasping I've seen from fish when you are cutting their heads off. Gruesome, graphic, macabre - I know. That's how I started my morning. The day did improve from there, thankfully.
Today (Saturday) we met my admin for dinner at the only Mexican restaurant in all of Jakarta. And, I can thankfully say it is truly a Mexican restaurant. My wife says she can always tell by the salsa they serve with the free chips when you first sit down. Hacienda is located in the Arcadia building of the Plaza Senaya mall (which is across the street from Senayan City, where we had looked for it last weekend). Between the four of us, we ate the Mexican food equivalent of "hitting the cycle" - tacos, burrito, enchiladas and quesadillas. We went to Cold Stone for the obligatory ice cream dessert.
Plaza Senaya also has a bowling alley on the top floor. We all tried our hand at bowling. I did okay with a 133 - 4 spares and one strike. My daughter - who refused help and did not have bumpers - bowled a 16. My wife, who trailed my daughters after 2 frames, bowled the lowest score I've ever seen her bowl, so I won't repeat it here (though she averaged less than 6 per frame). We're blaming it on the extra real-estate her arm needs to navigate (her bump) when she swings the ball.
Today (Saturday) we met my admin for dinner at the only Mexican restaurant in all of Jakarta. And, I can thankfully say it is truly a Mexican restaurant. My wife says she can always tell by the salsa they serve with the free chips when you first sit down. Hacienda is located in the Arcadia building of the Plaza Senaya mall (which is across the street from Senayan City, where we had looked for it last weekend). Between the four of us, we ate the Mexican food equivalent of "hitting the cycle" - tacos, burrito, enchiladas and quesadillas. We went to Cold Stone for the obligatory ice cream dessert.
Plaza Senaya also has a bowling alley on the top floor. We all tried our hand at bowling. I did okay with a 133 - 4 spares and one strike. My daughter - who refused help and did not have bumpers - bowled a 16. My wife, who trailed my daughters after 2 frames, bowled the lowest score I've ever seen her bowl, so I won't repeat it here (though she averaged less than 6 per frame). We're blaming it on the extra real-estate her arm needs to navigate (her bump) when she swings the ball.
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