DACMan

This spring, two of my house staff, Made and Putu entered a body builder’s contest. Made looks like a small-sized Mr. Universe. Six months ago, he enrolled Putu, the shy one, into a serious regimen of workouts. Made, the bold, pulled up his shirt to show off his abs. He’s been at this for years and it shows. Made, Made Curly, so named by the staff for his curly hair, just got a modified Mohawk this week. No more Made Curly. We also have a Made Security, a.k.a., Made Tinggi (or Made Tall) on staff. Made Mohawk proudly points to Putu and says, “Putu has abs now too, show them!” Putu looks uncomfortable, but pulls his shirt up halfway. Sure enough, to everyone’s surprise, there they are, real, live abs.

The competition apparently was a low budget local affair. Four local gyms were competing against each other, each presenting five of their best specimens. Somehow I couldn’t see a Speedo contest for local Balinese, so when Made showed me photos of the competition, I wasn’t surprised that the twenty guys competing were barefoot and bare-chested, wearing oil and blue jeans. They were lined up on the stage at once, striking poses from silly tough guy to smiling charmer, the effect being an overall kind of sweetness in its innocence.

Having finished an extraordinary final meal at my favorite restaurant in Bali, Lamak, I was looking forward to a quick ride home, an hour of rice field and lightning bug watching, and an early bedtime. We walked slowly down the half flight of steps onto Monkey Forest Road, the main shopping and eating street in Ubud. My driver of five years, Wayan, had dropped us off in front of Lamak and headed up the street to find parking. We walked uphill, window shopping and making final plans for completing the to-do list before I had to fly home the next day. The sidewalks in Ubud are difficult during daylight hours and treacherous after dark, so the stroll to find the car and driver was slow but enjoyable. After a few minutes, we spotted the car, but couldn’t find Wayan.  Usually, a musical call “Wa-yan” is enough to bring him to life, wherever he may be napping or chatting. Not tonight – “Wa-yan B-a-lik” we called again. The other drivers and taxi guys were all laughing knowing our driver was MIA. I joked with them, “No tip tonight for Wayan.” We all laughed again. Still no Wayan. I called his cell phone and no answer. “Uh oh. Now he is in trouble.” More laughter from all within hearing distance.

On my second try to call him, he picked up, but was fumbling with the phone before answering “Oh no, Pak David, I’ll be right there.” A minute later, we saw a figure in a long sleeve white shirt emerge from a side street, about 50 meters down hill, at a dead run, but still buttoning up his shirt. “Massage, Pak David, I was getting a massage. So sorry. Really bad idea.” “Maybe really long massage, I don’t remember.”

It looks to me like the world order is changing. The client now waits for the driver’s massage to be over, not the other way around….