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 Never attentive when my mother was alive, he became even more withdrawn from me in her death as he pursued religious salvation.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.