Saturday, October 4, 2008
Like most people, I hate being accosted by vendors. An aggressive vendor has an ability to set your jaw wrong for a place, tainting what could have otherwise been a lovely experience. But the vendors on Bali are the most gracious I’ve met on this trip. In fact, you almost want to go out of your way to talk to them. In Lovina, the sleepy beach town we’ve visited the past three days, I’ve watched them study me from a distance as I linger at the water’s edge. It doesn’t take long before a woman in a faded T-shirt, steadying a plastic laundry bin of tropical fruits atop her head, approaches. But rather than running as fast as I can in the other direction, I wait patiently for her as she smiles and waves at me.
“Hello, you want fruit? Special price.”
Everything is always a special price.
“Special honeymoon price, special sunset price, special rainy day price.”
When I ask for a special end-of-Ramadan price, the vendor giggles; the Balinese love to laugh. Then the introductions begin.
“What’s your name? Where you from? You married? How many children you have? When you arrive? Where you going next?”
These questions aren’t intrusive but are born out of genuine curiosity. The Balinese locate themselves - and us — on social maps through this information.
We always politely turn down whatever the vendor is selling - usually fresh fruit, beachside massages, or sarongs.
“Maybe later?”
Maybe. In’shallah. God only knows.
“You Muslim?”
We laugh again.
“Next time, you remember me. Much competition.”
We went through this routine multiple times a day as we meandered on Lovina’s boardwalk; it’s low season, and there are three times more vendors than tourists on the secluded beachfront. Yesterday we went on a snorkeling tour, and as the small skiff was prepared for our outing, we were ensnared by a group of vendors. We passed through the familiar round of questions and introductions, but had nowhere to escape to when the script had ended. The boat captain was still making preparations. I shifted my weight a little uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say next. I was afraid we would start over from page one, and that I would have to go through another round of “no thank yous.” But instead we began to talk like everyday people, not vendor and customer.
Minnie, who sold massages, introduced me to her daughter, who tugged as the hem of her orange T-shirt that was patched at the chest with black thread. Her khaki baseball cap shielded her creased face from the sun; she still looked too young to have three children. We got to talking about politics - she didn’t know who the US president was, and had no awareness of the upcoming election, which was rather refreshing. I asked her if Bali had a president, and she talked about the same problems that everyone mentions when they talk about their politicians: some things are universal.
Education is too costly. There are problems with low employment. Bali is dependent upon tourism, but during low season work dries up. Bombings in recent years have also hit the tourist industry hard. “I want to work like you, in good job in office. But this is the best I know how to do. I don’t want to do this,” she says, cupping her palms together in a pantomime of begging. She would rather try to make an honest living, even if it is not entirely successful, than beg. I found the words, “I appreciate that,” caught in my throat, but it sounded patronizing as I heard the sentence float through my head. I simply nodded, recognizing the futility of this very difficult situation.
“Maybe when you return snorkeling, you get massage?”
“In’shallah,” I said.
“It’s not up to Him,” Minnie said, pointing skyward, smiling. “He make us born to decide yes or no. You want or you don’t want.”
It was so simple that I was caught speechless. I had been trying to pass the buck to a celestial being, but the decision rested solely with me. She wasn’t trying to persuade me to buy something, or make me feel guilty for not purchasing her massage. She was simply stating the facts, pure and honest, with a smile on her face.
I nodded again, feeling a catch in my throat; I swallowed hard. As we waded into the water towards our snorkeling tour, my eyes squeezed out hot tears, forming a shallow pool at the bottom of my midnight sunglasses that shaded me from the world.
I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve grown jaded to poverty on this trip. In India it was so pervasive that it lacked an identity, and was easy to turn one’s head to. One night in a train station a disheveled man begged at our feet and feigned a high-pitched sob, his lower lip protruding in a deep pout. It had no effect on me. And when it became obvious that we weren’t going to give him something, he immediately turned off the waterworks on command, like he had just given an Academy Award-winning performance, and quickly found another group of tourists. It wasn’t just me; we were all deadened to it.
This was the first time on the trip that poverty had been so personal. I choked back tears as the narrow little boat leaped over the waves, not quite sure what the answer was. Should I buy a massage from Minnie? Would that make it better? But what about the fruit lady? And the sarong seller? And every other vendor on that beach? Is it better to buy from one or none?
In the end I didn’t do a damned thing. When our boat returned from the snorkeling trip Minnie and her friends greeted us on the smoky sand, smiling and waving. I cast my eyes downward and fumbled through my bag as I was offered fruit at a special price. When I turned down Minnie’s massage for the last time I looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m so sorry,” really meaning it, for so many reasons.
