So this is how it comes to pass thatโthe very afternoon I have arrived in BaliโIโm suddenly on the back of a motorbike, clutching my new friend Mario the Italian-Indonesian, who is speeding me through the rice terraces toward Ketut Liyerโs home. For all that Iโve thought about this reunion with the medicine man over the last two years, I actually have no idea what Iโm going to say to him when I arrive. And of course we donโt have an appointment. So we show up unannounced. I recognize the sign outside his door, same as last time, saying: โKetut Liyerโpainter.โ Itโs a typical, traditional Balinese family compound. A high stone wall surrounds the entire property, thereโs a courtyard in the middle and a temple in the back. Several generations live out their lives together in the various interconnected small homes within these walls. We enter without knocking (no door, anyway) to the riotous dismay of a some typical Balinese watchdogs (skinny, angry) and there in the courtyard is Ketut Liyer the elderly medicine man, wearing his sarong and his golf shirt, looking precisely the same as he did two years ago when I first met him. Mario says something to Ketut, and Iโm not exactly fluent in Balinese, but it sounds like a general introduction, something along the lines of, โHereโs a girl from Americaโgo for it.โ
Ketut turns his mostly toothless smile upon me with the force of a compassionate fire hose, and this is so reassuring: I had remembered correctly, heย isย extraordinary. His face is a comprehensive encyclopedia of kindness. He shakes my hand with an excited and powerful grip.
โI am very happy to meet you,โ he says. He has no idea who I am.
โCome, come,โ he says, and Iโm ushered to the porch of his little house, where woven bamboo mats serve as furniture. It looks exactly as it did two years ago. We both sit down. With no hesitation, he takes my palm in his handโassuming that, like most of his Western visitors, a palm-reading is what Iโve come for. He gives me a quick reading, which
I am reassured to see is an abridged version of exactly what he said to me last time. (He may not remember my face, but my destiny, to his practiced eye, is unchanged.) His English is better than I remembered, and also better than Marioโs. Ketut speaks like the wise old Chinamen in classic kung fu movies, a form of English you could call โGrasshopperese,โ because you could insert the endearment โGrasshopperโ into the middle of any sentence and it sounds very wise. โAhโyou have very lucky good fortune,ย Grasshopper . . .โ
I wait for a pause in Ketutโs predictions, then interrupt to remind him that I had been here to see him already, two years ago.
He looks puzzled. โNot first time in Bali?โ โNo, sir.โ
He thinks hard. โYou girl from California?โ
โNo,โ I say, my spirits tumbling deeper. โIโm the girl from New York.โ Ketut says to me (and Iโm not sure what this has to do with anything),
โI am not so handsome anymore, lost many teeth. Maybe I will go to dentist someday, get new teeth. But too afraid of dentist.โ
He opens his deforested mouth and shows me the damage. Indeed, he has lost most of his teeth on the left side of his mouth and on the right side itโs all broken, hurtful-looking yellow stubs. He fell down, he tells me. Thatโs how his teeth got knocked out.
I tell him Iโm sorry to hear it, then try again, speaking slowly. โI donโt think you remember me, Ketut. I was here two years ago with an American Yoga teacher, a woman who lived in Bali for many years.โ
He smiles, elated. โI know Ann Barros!โ
โThatโs right. Ann Barros is the Yoga teacherโs name. But Iโm Liz. I came here asking for your help once because I wanted to get closer to God. You drew me a magic picture.โ
He shrugs amiably, couldnโt be less concerned. โDonโt remember,โ he says.
This is such bad news itโs almost funny. What am I going to do in Bali now? I donโt know exactly what Iโd imagined it would be like to meet Ketut again, but I did hope weโd have some sort of super-karmic tearful
reunion. And while itโs true I had feared he might be dead, it hadnโt occurred to me thatโif he were still aliveโhe wouldnโt remember me at all. Although now it seems the height of dumbness to have ever imagined that our first meeting would have been as memorable for him as it was for me. Maybe I should have planned this better, for real.
So I describe the picture he had made for me, the figure with the four legs (โso grounded on earthโ) and the missing head (โnot looking at the world through the intellectโ) and the face in the heart (โlooking at the world through the heartโ) and he listens to me politely, with modest interest, like weโre discussing somebody elseโs life entirely.
I hate to do this because I donโt want to put him on the spot, but itโs got to be said, so I just lay it out there. I say, โYou told me I should come back here to Bali. You told me to stay here for three or four months. You said I could help you learn English and you would teach me the things that you know.โ I donโt like the way my voice soundsโjust the teensiest bit desperate. I donโt mention anything about the invitation heโd once floated for me to live with his family. That seems way out of line, given the circumstances.
He listens to me politely, smiling and shaking his head, like,ย Isnโt it so funny the things people say?
I almost drop it then. But Iโve come so far, I have to put forth one last effort. I say, โIโm the book writer, Ketut. Iโm the book writer from New York.โ
And for some reason that does it. Suddenly his face goes translucent with joy, turns bright and pure and transparent. A Roman candle of recognition sparks to life in his mind. โYOU!โ he says. โYOU! I remember YOU!โ He leans forward, takes my shoulders in his hands and starts to shake me happily, the way a child shakes an unopened Christmas present to try to guess whatโs inside. โYou came back! You came BACK!โ
โI came back! I came back!โ I say. โYou, you, you!โ
โMe, me, me!โ
Iโm all tearful now, but trying not to show it. The depth of my reliefโ itโs hard to explain. It takes even me by surprise. Itโs like thisโitโs like I
was in a car accident, and my car went over a bridge and sank to the bottom of a river and Iโd somehow managed to free myself from the sunken car by swimming through an open window and then Iโd been frog-kicking and struggling to swim all the way up to the daylight through the cold, green water and I was almost out of oxygen and the arteries were bursting out of my neck and my cheeks were puffed with my last breath and thenโGASP!โI broke through to the surface and took in huge gulps of air. And I survived. That gasp, that breaking throughโthis is what it feels like when I hear the Indonesian medicine man say, โYou came back!โ My relief is exactly that big.
I canโt believe it worked.
โYes, I came back,โ I say. โOf course I came back.โ
โI so happy!โ he says. Weโre holding hands and heโs wildly excited now. โI do not remember you at first! So long ago we meet! You look different now! So different from two years! Last time, you very sad- looking woman. Nowโso happy! Like different person!โ
The idea of thisโthe idea of a person looking so different after a mere two years have passedโseems to incite in him a shiver of giggles.
I give up trying to hide my tearfulness and just let it all spill over. โYes, Ketut. I was very sad before. But life is better now.โ
โLast time you in bad divorce. No good.โ โNo good,โ I confirm.
โLast time you have too much worry, too much sorrow. Last time, you look like sad old woman. Now you look like young girl. Last time you ugly! Now you pretty!โ
Mario bursts into ecstatic applause and pronounces victoriously: โSee?
Paintingย working!โ
I say, โDo you still want me to help you with your English, Ketut?โ He tells me I can start helping him right now and hops up nimbly,
gnome-like. He bounds into his little house and comes back with a pile of letters heโs received from abroad over the last few years (so heย doesย have an address!). He asks me to read the letters aloud to him; he can understand English well, but canโt read much. Iโm his secretary already. Iโm a medicine manโs secretary. This is fabulous. The letters are from art
collectors overseas, from people who have somehow managed to acquire his famous magic drawings and magic paintings. One letter is from a collector in Australia, praising Ketut for his painting skills, saying, โHow can you be so clever to paint with such detail?โ Ketut answers to me, like giving dictation: โBecause I practice many, many years.โ
When the letters are finished, he updates me on his life over the last few years. Some changes have occurred. Now he has a wife, for instance. He points across the courtyard at a heavyset woman whoโs been standing in the shadow of her kitchen door, glaring at me like sheโs not sure if she should shoot me, or poison me first and then shoot me. Last time I was here, Ketut had sadly shown me photographs of his wife who had recently diedโa beautiful old Balinese woman who seemed bright and childlike even at her advanced age. I wave across the courtyard to the new wife, who backs away into her kitchen.
โGood woman,โ Ketut proclaims toward the kitchen shadows. โVery good woman.โ
He goes on to say that heโs been very busy with his Balinese patients, always a lot to do, has to give much magic for new babies, ceremonies for dead people, healing for sick people, ceremonies for marriage. Next time he goes to Balinese wedding, he says, โWe can go together! I take you!โ The only thing is, he doesnโt have very many Westerners visiting him anymore. Nobody comes to visit Bali since the terrorist bombing.
This makes him โfeel very confusing in my head.โ This also makes him feel โvery empty in my bank.โ He says, โYou come to my house every day to practice English with me now?โ I nod happily and he says, โI will teach you Balinese meditation, OK?โ
โOK,โ I say.
โI think three months enough time to teach you Balinese meditation, find God for you this way,โ he says. โMaybe four months. You like Bali?โ
โI love Bali.โ
โYou get married in Bali?โ โNot yet.โ
โI think maybe soon. You come back tomorrow?โ
I promise to. He doesnโt say anything about my moving in with his family, so I donโt bring it up, stealing one last glance at the scary wife in the kitchen. Maybe Iโll just stay in my sweet hotel the whole time, instead. Itโs more comfortable, anyway. Plumbing, and all that. Iโll need a bicycle, though, to come see him every day . . .
So now itโs time to go.
โI am very happy to meet you,โ he says, shaking my hand.
I offer up my first English lesson. I teach him the difference between โhappy to meet you,โ and โhappy to see you.โ I explain that we only say โNice to meet youโ the first time we meet somebody. After that, we say โNice to see you,โ every time. Because you only meet someone once.
But now we will see each other repeatedly, day after day.
He likes this. He gives it a practice round: โNice to see you! I am happy to see you! I can see you! I am not deaf!โ
This makes us all laugh, even Mario. We shake hands, and agree that I will come by again tomorrow afternoon. Until then, he says, โSee you later, alligator.โ
โIn a while, crocodile,โ I say.
โLet your conscience be your guide. If you have any Western friend come to Bali, send them to me for palm-readingโI am very empty now in my bank since the bomb. I am an autodidact. I am very happy to see you, Liss!โ
โI am very happy to see you, too, Ketut.โ