The Last Paradise, page 15
The questions went on and on as Daisy’s mood switched from happy to worried, and back again. Finally, when Grace had reassured her that after their holiday in Bali they would come home, Daisy hugged her.
‘Yay!’ she yelled and hopped off Grace’s lap. Flapping her arms with excitement, she ran to find her grandmother, shouting, ‘Guess where I’m going, Nana!’
*
Grace handed her boarding pass to the flight attendant and walked into the air bridge tunnel towards the plane that would take her to Bali. She’d thought she’d never get there: every day during the past week she’d checked her phone and email, dreading seeing something from Lawrence that would make all her plans go up in smoke. But no email came, no text message, no call – nothing at all. Grace’s intense relief was mixed with bitterness. Did Lawrence care so little about his own daughter that he could not even be bothered to call her, or ask about her? After finding her seat, she checked her phone one final time before switching it off for the flight – there was nothing there other than fusspot Spencer bothering her with more irrelevant questions.
By some miracle there was no one sitting beside her. Grace finished the mimosa a flight attendant had brought her and pulled out K’tut Tantri’s book, glad she didn’t need earphones to block out a chatty neighbour. She couldn’t wait to leave her problems with Lawrence behind and sink back into Muriel’s world. Muriel had just set sail from New York and was about to set foot in Indonesia for the first time . . .
We dropped anchor at a cluster of wharves and warehouses called Tandjung Priok, the disembarkation point for Batavia, some six miles inland. That golden island where I hoped to live, that enchanted paradise of Bali where life would prove uncomplicated and exquisite, was still some distance off, waiting tranquilly between two oceans, the Indian Ocean and the Java Sea.
The dock laborers of Java were lithe, agile brown men, their bare shoulders and strong legs gleaming like metal in the equatorial sun. Lordly Dutchmen and other Caucasians, cool in starched white duck or seer-sucker, stood aloof from the antlike activities of the Javanese, and satisfied themselves that all was in order before they signaled for the shiny American-built motorcars, the taxis of Java, to take them home or to their clubs.
To reach Batavia, where I must arrange for my final objective, I drove along concrete-paved, canal-bordered roadways. The hotels in Batavia surprised me. There was the swank Hotel Des Indes, the comfortable Des Galleries, and the Netherlander of older fashion. All excellent. Important guests were received in the great houses whose green lawns surrounded the Koenigsplein, or King’s Square, and whose windows looked grandly out on the Governor General’s Palace. Java, like all the other islands of Indonesia, was then part of the Dutch East Indies, and Batavia reflected all that was best in colonial elegance.
I had planned to buy a motorcar and drive through Java to the little harbour of Banjuwangi, at the other end of the island, and then cross Bali Strait by native ferry. Dutchmen speaking good English were most eager to help me exchange dollars for guilders and negotiate the purchase of a motorcar until they learned that I intended making my journey alone. In Java, where every car owner has a chauffeur, it was not considered proper for a white man to be at the wheel himself, and for a woman it was unthinkable! I was implored to abandon my original idea and instead to ship my car and travel in comfort by the Dutch KPM steamship line. I listened politely to this advice, and verified information I had already obtained. There were fishermen at Banjuwangi who could be hired to sail a motorcar across the strait in one of their native praus.
I bought a small drophead car and decided to set out alone that same night. I wished to see the people of Java and the countryside at close quarters, and to me there was nothing frightening in driving alone across Java. I had often driven alone from coast to coast in America. But I am forced to record that this Java drive proved quite a different matter.
The roads were strange and I knew neither the language nor the value of the money. At night I found myself in a veritable jigsaw puzzle of twists and turns with unlighted oxcarts blocking the way. And as for lights, my car lamps proved to be of limited use. Gleaming faces seemed to absorb them and overhanging tree branches blotted the moonlight that crept fitfully through clouds. Java was a motorists’ nightmare, and I began to realize why my Dutch acquaintances had been so dissuasive. The air at least was pleasant with a smell of wet earth and the fragrance of strange flowers.
There were many false turnings and fruitless gesticulations of inquiry to local people who couldn’t understand me any more than I could understand them. I could see that I had started my drive grossly unprepared, but it didn’t matter. I was on my way to Bali and never doubted I should arrive there.
Then at close to midnight, though it seemed later, I was jerked to a stop by a child too close to my path. I saw him quite plainly, a smiling, ragged little vagabond thumbing a lift. He had long blue-black hair and a pixy face. He couldn’t have been more than nine. And he spoke amusing pidgin English.
This must be a trick, I couldn’t help thinking. He might be a decoy for robbers. Or, if I took him into my car I might be accused of kidnaping. For what would such a little fellow be doing alone so late and so far from any village?
‘Lady,’ he said, ‘you like me? I be your eyes. I be your tongue. I get you right change for your money, and I show you right road. I protect you from evil spirits at night. And I speak English good.’
When I could interrupt his flow of speech I asked him many questions. Unexplained, he was much too unbelievable. How, for instance, had he learned such fluency in pidgin English, which could not have been his native tongue?
‘I pick it up from tourists around the hotels since as long as I can remember.’
‘And your parents?’
‘My father, he taken by Dutch soldiers to the land beyond the moon to die. My mother she die of broken heart, and her jiwa [soul] carried off by leyaks.’
‘Leyaks?’
‘Evil spirits. I told you – they roam at night.’
Pito proved an expert navigator and an excellent teacher. He knew money values and taught me the Javanese equivalents of yes, no, want, how much, too much, and other simple and useful phrases. I was in luck to have found him.
These days were pleasant adventure, and this child – with no home, no family, and no future apparently – was an amusing companion, quite aside from his practical use. At night we stopped in villages at a series of resthouses maintained by the Dutch administration for the benefit of Dutch officials and commercial travelers. Despite the fact that these places were usually run by Eurasians, Pito was always refused admission. His colour was wrong. But unperturbed he slept in the car along with the dusty luggage.
Soon I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with Pito. He must come with me to Bali. His body, starvation thin, needed care and food. These he could have. I would see that he went to school – received an education. It would be a pleasant life.
‘No,’ he said, ‘a Java boy needs no schooling.’
It was this that had brought his father to ruin. The gods are angered by too much white man’s learning.
But I couldn’t desert Pito. I decided to cross Bali Strait at night with the boy asleep in the car, and afterward try to persuade him once more to remain with me in Bali.
The first part of my plan was successful. Pito slept soundly while the fishermen, signaled to be quiet, rolled the car into place on the light vessel, a craft so narrow it was impossible either to enter or leave the car while we were on the water. Sails were hoisted silently and the prau, heavy laden, bobbed slowly into the darkness.
All went well until we reached the uninhabited and deserted beach of the island of my dreams. As the car was being unloaded, Pito woke up. I had to tell him that we were in Bali and that Java was five miles across the strait.
For a moment he stood rigid. Then his eyes distended and he screamed.
‘Take me back – take me back!’ he shouted. ‘Bali full of leyaks – I die here –’ Then he collapsed into complete hysteria. He wept while the fishermen whispered among themselves.
So Bali was not yet attained. It was Pito who suggested that the car be left on the beach while we sailed back across the strait to Banjuwangi. I had desired freedom for myself. I could not take freedom from another.
It was an anticlimax, our arrival in Banjuwangi: the purchase of a train ticket to the village nearest where I had first seen Pito; the giving of a little money, food for the journey, some new clothing; and the writing down of my name should Pito ever wish to come to Bali, with the address of the American consul who might know where I could be found. At the end Pito was calm, silent and somewhat moody. His glances were sidelong and his underlip quivered a little. He removed the new and tightly rolled sarong from around his waist and drew forth an oddly shaped and hammered silver box. From this he took out a small carved wooden figure.
‘This is a good luck charm,’ he said. ‘Saved me many times from evil spirits. Very powerful. So you take this, kind American lady, and keep it with you always. The train comes now. I go. I thank you very much.’
‘Selamet tinggal!’ he shouted as the train moved away. That means, Live in peace.
‘Selamet djalan, Pito.’ Go in Peace.
It is difficult for me to describe how I felt as I stood there, once again alone. My adventure had now begun in earnest.
Grace stepped from the plane and took a deep breath, wishing she had her own Pito beside her, guiding her. Still, it was a good feeling to be familiar with the bustle of passengers on arrival at Denpasar and know her path would be smoothed as much as possible, thanks to the influence and connections of MGI.
Mr Angiman’s assistant, Sutini, met her at the airport this time, ‘In case there are any problems with your KITAS,’ she said with a smile. But all went smoothly, and they were soon driving towards Grace’s accommodation.
‘I think you’ll find Villa Ramadewa very comfortable,’ Sutini said. ‘The Carrefour supermarket has everything. And the local fresh market close by is excellent. Or you can use the Recreational Club.’ She smiled. ‘The expatriates seem to have everything they need.’
‘They certainly do,’ said Grace.
The villa was an enclosed world of its own, with a luxurious pool surrounded by open-sided pavilions for dining and relaxing. The indoor sitting, lounging and entertaining areas opened onto the pool and garden or could be closed off in the rainy season if needed; the bedrooms upstairs each had a verandah overlooking the grounds but were discreetly private. It was beautifully furnished in the up-market ‘modern Balinese’ style that Grace knew could be found in most tropical five-star-plus locations throughout Asia.
Sinking into a rattan chair and stretching out her legs, sipping an exotic drink with fruit and flowers in it that the chef had whipped up, and looking at a frangipani flower that had fallen onto the emerald grass, disturbing the perfection, Grace sighed. As over-the-top as this all was, she appreciated it.
But guilt struck within minutes. All this indulgence, all this space. She missed Daisy. What was all this for, if not for her? ‘Sheesh, I’m not on holidays,’ Grace said with a sigh, and picked up her phone and called Steve.
‘I’m here, you settled in okay?’ she asked.
‘You might say that.’ He chuckled. ‘Not bad digs. So when are we meeting?’
‘How about this afternoon? I’d like to bounce some ideas off you. Shall we meet at the Kamasan by the front entrance?’
*
Steve strolled towards her looking relaxed in board shorts, a T-shirt and yellow tennis shoes, his sunglasses pushed up on his head. He carried a camera and gave her a grin. ‘Do I look like a tourist?’
‘Are you going undercover or something?’ she said with a laugh.
‘Taking stills is easier than making notes, and a better reference. Besides, I enjoy using a proper camera. Good to see you. Thanks for including me in this adventure.’
‘What can I say? You’re the best for the job. Have you met Johnny or any of the others yet? We’ve been invited for drinks at one of the beach bars for the sunset ritual.’
‘Johnny introduced himself when we arrived. Haven’t had the pleasure of dealing with the management fellas; I’d prefer to leave that to you. But I caught up with Andy. Who else is going to be talent?’
‘The star chef, apparently. And other staff as we identify their jobs and their appeal plus camera likeability.’
‘I heard the old retired head gardener is a character, very traditional Balinese gentleman. But I guess it’s food, drinks, playtime, relaxation and indulgences that people come here for.’
‘There are the earnest travellers who want to experience the real Bali, too,’ said Grace.
‘That’s getting harder. Though sometimes you stumble over a local ceremony on a street corner, stuff like that, but most tourists still like to come back to comfort and cocktails after a day of experiencing rural life and culture,’ Steve said. ‘Let’s go for a walk. Soak up the atmosphere. Like you said, this hotel is a one-off. The trick is going to be how we pitch its uniqueness.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Grace.
They talked easily as they walked through the gentle garden jungle then, as they approached the beach and the grove of coconuts, Steve touched her arm.
‘Listen . . .’
She paused then smiled at him. ‘The sound of the sea . . .’
He nodded. ‘Magic, isn’t it? Imagine sleeping on the beach here.’
‘Mosquitoes.’ Grace laughed. ‘But yes, essentially, the magic of this place is the reason I wanted us to meet here. There’s something I want to show you.’ She stopped and looked around. ‘Now where was it? Andy showed me . . . we have to go onto the beach and walk further down, I think.’
Steve paused as they reached the beach, which was deserted save for a small fishing boat pulled up on the sand.
‘Not much surf. Gentle enough for tourists, which is good. The serious surfers will have to find the best breaks.’
‘You a serious surfer?’ she asked.
‘When the mood and opportunity strike. And the water is clear. Good that this strip of beach is clean and empty. Guess they’ve put that breakwall there deliberately for privacy, even if it does look natural.’ He grinned. ‘Okay, where now?’
‘Down this way.’
They walked in silence as Grace studied the tree line along the beach. Steve stopped and bent down, picking up a small shell. He handed it to Grace. ‘Don’t see too many of these anymore. There used to be beautiful big shells by the truckload on these islands. All picked over now, to sell.’
Grace studied the shell and put it in her pocket. ‘How delicate. Well, at least it’s not a bit of plastic.’
Steve nodded. ‘Sadly, it’s out there. They say the government is working on it, but a lot of locals just want the convenience of plastic. I hope the international hotels are more conscious of it because of their guests.’
‘I’m pretty sure Andy is on top of it in the bars – paper straws instead of plastic, things like that – but I’ll check it out,’ said Grace. ‘Ah, here we go. I recognise it now.’ She turned and headed up the sand into the pandanus, date palms and coconut grove.
‘Where’re we going?’
‘It’s the old section of the Kamasan land that they’re not developing for the hotel just yet. But look, over there . . .’
Steve slowed to a stop and whistled. ‘What is this place . . . or was . . .?’ He began taking the lens cap off his camera. ‘How amazing . . .’
She smiled at him. ‘This is it! K’tut’s hotel!’
Steve gazed around him in silence for a moment. ‘No way . . . this is incredible. I had no idea it would be like this.’ Moving forward, he stepped carefully among the few remains of the old stone walls and what might have been a carved gate, almost lost in the tangle of growth, taking photos from all angles.
Grace sat down, hugging her knees as she stared at the strip of beach and sea between the old trees.
Steve finally returned to her and sat down beside her, swiping through the photos he’d taken. ‘How bizarre. Almost sad, isn’t it?’
She smiled. ‘I wanted to show you this because I think it’s the key to the promotion of the Kamasan. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes . . . paradise is restored . . .’ Grace looked at him, her face alight. ‘Here are the ruins of the original hotel on Kuta Beach – The Sound of the Sea. There’s our story! I just have to find out more about the extraordinary woman who did this.’
Steve looked at Grace, nodding slowly. ‘It would be fantastic if we could use this somehow. How are you going with K’tut’s book?’
‘I’m not far in – she’s in Indonesia and about to arrive in Bali, I think. I can’t wait to read about Sound of the Sea. She was such an adventurous woman – so brave, really, so intrepid. Her journey across Indonesia sounded hair-raising, but also fun. I wish I could have met her.’
Steve nodded. ‘Me too. Not many people take real risks anymore . . .’ He looked around again. ‘Why was the land abandoned? I wonder why they aren’t developing here.’
‘All I know is that it’s family land.’
‘Maybe they think it’s haunted. The Balinese – and the Chinese – are very superstitious.’
Clambering to their feet, they walked back along the beach, and when they reached the spot where Steve had picked up the shell, Grace paused, pulling it from her pocket and putting it to her ear.
As if from some far-away place she heard the gentle breath; the sound of the sea, like a soft sigh. All of her troubles – Lawrence, finances, doing the best for her dear, dear daughter – seemed to blow away.
Gently she put the shell back on the sand to be touched by the incoming tide.
