Family
A day spent adjusting between conflicted places and moods. Driving through Denpasar in Sweet Orange, windows down, concrete heat. Hair stuck to my cheeks, impossible to clear. Music from a younger country, (pie), dobro and whiskey, as the sun goes down and the city takes shape, interiors lit, full of smartphone advertisements, food stalls, diesel fumes, cartoon boba shops. A moment of lightness (under bright lights) in a foreign space. Dealing out as needed, the inside occupied by questions of boundaries and the effort it takes to let something go. Nothing quite settles until we get home, (it’s not home yet), wash feet, splash face, new toothpaste the scent of orange and cloves. Head on pillow. Ish, asleep. Lalah, playing, on top of the armoire. Waiting for E., and the closeness of warm skin, and for all of these things to slow to a stop.
To understand the meaning of rain here, it’s useful to know that we live half outside. This is typical in Balinese villages. When it rains, that means staying dry in the bedroom or going outside to living areas and getting a little wet. The kitchen and bale (our little “living room”) are covered, but walkways get slippery, stray drops are always blowing in, the more wind and rain, the less dry, the less safe for cats and electronic devices. Huddling in from the edges. It can be… inconvenient, but I mostly like living close to the weather. And the garden, and the bugs, snails, bats, frogs, geckos and tokays, occasional birds, snakes, monitor lizards, stranger cats, etc., that visit.
That little bale is also the place where we socialize at home, and it’s visited daily by members of our Balinese family. Writing and my yoga practice demand a sustained level of privacy that’s not typical of family life here. (And not good at all for social anxiety.) I’d always heard that “Asian culture” was “more family-centered, less individualistic” than Western, but I never understood it until I lived (sort of) immersed in it. (I say sort of, because we don’t live at the main family compound, but at a nearby offshoot. Even so,) it seems to me like a drastically different lifestyle that has profound effects on mental, emotional, social, psycho-spiritual development. Not least because families take care of their elderly. I think treatment of elders sets a strong foundation for how people think and feel about death and dying, what comes to be and passes away, and what, if anything, is deathless.
My younger sister’s birthday was several days ago (same day I got stitches). She and I are okay, we don’t fight, but we also don’t communicate much. (I went to her wedding, in Walt Disney World, she didn’t come to mine, in Bali.) I usually send a note for birthdays and holidays but I had sort of… let this one go by. I admitted that to E.
He asked when is my sister’s husband’s birthday, a random question, I said I have no clue, it was only Greta, (my grandmother), who kept track of those things. I could go search emails from Greta, and probably find one she had sent to the family list, for my sister’s husband’s birthday. She always included our significant others in her correspondence.
I opened my phone to find that my mom had sent a bunch of old photographs of my great-grandmother and great-grandfather, Greta’s mother and father. Beautiful old photographs. I showed them to E. We peered into those for a while, trying to see me in their faces, seeing Greta there, or my mom. They look handsome and serene in sepia tone. She has penetrating eyes and a subtly sculpted brow, square jawbone, soft and solid expression, with sloping shoulders and precise (pianist) hands. She wears an offwhite blouse with extra bibs of fabric down the front, (not fluffy, just draped), pinned with a brooch at the v-neck, under a boxy cardigan with matching skirt, a pearl necklace and an elegant, plain bonnet. He has blonde hair, blonde brows, and deepset, translucent eyes, a seafarer’s gaze, clean expression. He wears his uniform, undecorated. He sailed on a sloop in the navy, patrolling for underwater mines during World War I.
It’s disarmingly easy to see myself in my great-grandfather’s face. That’s me, as a brave young man, in the year 1930. E. goes silent when he sees it. Greta had those eyes too, although her hair was tawny brown, her face more square. She had her mother’s mouth and chin.
My grandmother was a prolific in-writing communicator. She sent emails often to the family list, (she practically was the family list), about backyard (or frontyard) animal sightings, health-related events, astronomical occasions, and light neighborhood gossip. In addition to emails, she sent paper greeting cards for every birthday and major holiday. (She also left voicemail messages long after everyone else stopped doing that. We all have archives of these, brief documentaries of her Durham, North Carolina life.)
I am different from my grandmother in this respect, I am terrible at keeping in touch. In my American family, (what’s left of it), holiday greetings feel artificial and pointless. A few words exchanged a few times a year. There’s not enough shared experience to give them life. Then I procrastinate writing replies, which makes me feel self-conscious, so I harbor secret resentments. (Ultimately, bad feelings toward my own self.)
I admire my grandmother for her ethic of communication. It took stubbornness, an iron will sometimes, to maintain family connections. She did it even through awkwardness, divorces, other circumstances of alienation. She crossed lines, crossed church aisles, defeated angry silences with routine but nonetheless heartfelt greetings. (This seems impossible?) I don’t know if she used etiquette as a weapon (good manners are a martial art in the American South), but she did use it as armor. In this respect, she was unimpeachable.
I felt sad for a minute that I would never be like Greta in this way. I am not a connector of people. I didn’t have the heart to send my sister a message for her birthday. Why not? I just couldn’t do it. It wasn’t in my character. (She never sends me messages…) Then I asked myself why I couldn’t just do it. Then I decided to send my sister a birthday message, and then I just did. Like swallowing medicine. Really not that bad. Fine!
Then I sent a message to brag to my mom that I did it. (And I wrote this…) It made my mom happy, for a minute.
I have a small amount of ashes from Greta’s cremation. My mom brought them when she visited Bali last year, whispering, “I have her.” Me, mystefied. Who? “Greta.” I told her, “That’s not Greta, Mom. That’s just ashes.” They made it all the way to Indonesia, from a woman who never left the east coast of the United States. We still don’t know where we’ll put them. We’ve considered a few places, scattering them at Bedugul, or in the garden at our house that we’re building, or in Tengger caldera. “If it’s Greta’s destiny,” said E. Still watching and waiting for that decision to come down, from the sky plan. (Greta herself had called them, her future ashes, “my leftovers.” Impishly, defiantly morbid. Her favorite section of the newspaper to read was obituaries. Then, the sports pages.)
After we got married, E. gave Greta’s name and birthplace to the little mosque in his neighborhood. Every year now, her name is called out for community prayers in Galgahdowo, in East Java, with the rest of his family ancestors.
I visited her before I left for Indonesia, in 2019, when it was probably the last time. I helped her clean out a few kitchen cabinets, old boxes. She didn’t like to let go of things, we bickered, she was mischievous. She gave me a silver spoon with her mother’s first name etched in it, (the lady from the photo, in delicate cursive). Which was also her first name, and my mom’s first name, and my first name. Later, after she gave me the spoon, she tried to take it back. She didn’t like the idea of it “lost at some cafe.” (You know, because I’m flaneur-esque.) I scolded her, told her she can’t do that, give something and then take it back. It’s rude. Besides, I had already packed it. (E. overheard the conversation, from the phone in my pocket. He reminds me how I made her laugh.) She said, I suppose you’re right, let it go.
I still have the spoon, of course. I call it the Margaret spoon.
On the road, memories of Java. Baluran a looming shadow on the left, Ijen somewhere to the right, cloaked in a grey day that fades to black, as grimy trucks metamorphose to arrays of rippling lights, inscrutable expressions ever gnawing at the pass.
And Ibuk, the eroding centerpiece of every Java trip. No longer as individuals but as genres of people, we enter her life. E. as son, husband, father. I as myself or Other Elizabeth, both of whom Ibuk trusts and likes, to whom she whispers untranslated secrets. An intimate unknown. Until she loses the thread. Then she trusts nobody, wants nothing but to grab a nearby bag (of what?) and flee on foot. She fights to do it, tooth and nail and shouts and cries. The family contains her as best they can. I try to comfort my husband. Alzheimer’s may be the cruelest disease.
(Other Elizabeth is, in a twist of circumstance strange even for here, an American woman who came to the village some twenty-five years before me, also blonde, rumor suggests an intelligence agent? She married a local artist and studied dance and voice with Ibuk. Then left Indonesia, taking with her a large collection of E.’s fathers masks. Present status unknown.)
My feelings for Java remain so ambivalent, it demands so much, of both of us. Nothing here is convenient or comfortable or predictable. I can’t say if I could ever live here. After Ibuk passes, I’m not sure how alive that question will be anymore.
The possibility of our entry depends on a community coherence that remains presently intact, but seems unsustainable. How the younger generation is being sucked into the same smartphone world as everywhere else. They abandon village life in pursuit of urban status, commodfied glamour, the parasitic myth. They will go back to the village someday, look for it again, find it has disappeared. The same story, so many times over. At what point does one give up the ghost?
Presently, in Bali. Jeki on my lap, sulit girl, karmic helper, I am home. Angry-happy to see us, now cuddly and precocious, soon she will be off again. I must reweave loose threads so things don’t fall apart. Memories of last night (this morning) are a dark dream.
Over water, from the ferry. The waves were too big and E. was afraid. (I was afraid to squeeze between trucks. We contain complimentary visions of annihilation.) We went to the upper deck, at the muster point, near the lifeboats, and distracted ourselves deciphering deployment instructions. Heaving swells of black ocean tossed us and all that heavy machinery, sometimes in circles, it seemed. The force of water crashing against steel, the thunk- and vibration of the rudder, resisting, the engine pushing to maintain a direction. (Water does weird things as it switches between seas.)
I had two photos ready for “community”. One, of a tiny mosque we passed the other day, it’s carved decorations painted turquoise blue, golden ochre, like icing on a sweet dessert, neat little gate, (doors closed), blue sky with white clouds, a happy, trim little image. The laws, rituals, and words that bind people together, a place with a pretty shape, clearly defined.
The other, of a graveyard we visited before leaving. The quiet of their interwoven voices, the sound of ghosts in ancient communion. Holding back judgment, as a drawn breath in unison, noticing my presence. Countless gravestones in an old jepun forest.
They keep jepun (frangipani) in the graveyards, in Java. I think I understand why, (a little), the trees leafing out, flowering, or bare, in their staggered cycles. Always saying everything at once, these trees. And in silence. Just like the dead. The image was wild, gnarled, messy edges, poorly captured. Hard to tell what it was, if it was anything, an undergrowth concealing the broken stone markers, grass untended. Disorderly. I waited for fear, but instead it felt calm, soothing. Everyone here has seen too much. They don’t shout. They are not afraid.
I felt expected there, to be honest. It was some kind of welcome. Difficult to admit, but I am difficult to admit. A slow, almost flat exhalation. Without pain. Savasana.
It was on the ferry, waves heaving underneath us, (another graveyard below, don’t forget the ferry that was sucked down, in this very crossing, just a few years past), that I, fingers stumbling to touch the right buttons, posted that photo. Unsure of everything, in that moment. The meaning, the memory, what it would be. Probably we would be fine, I said to E., and we were. Someone threw up their dinner over the side, was all that was lost. Everything else, aman.
Now, Jeki stretches out on my lap. Special when she shows this much affection, comfort, trust, her paws and whiskers twitch, she is in her own dream. I think about why it is, that I love best the most difficult things, and I get back to life here, in Bali. Where I sweep my own floors, we brew our own coffee, and make the day as familiar as the medium allows.
Leftover notes from yesterday, recorded with morning coffee today. //
We met a guardian of the path at Ranu Pane, sitting on his sleeping mat, with a fire to keep his toes warm. And his bag of snacks, a jolly fellow. Stopped for a chat about mutual friends, traditional farming methods, and the corrosive effects of tourism. Always, what a small world it is, around here. //
The scent of woodsmoke in the mountains, memories of that. //
E. and I got a lot of weird looks from local tourists yesterday, this isn’t typical. Not sure why. People see me, assume E. is foreign too. Stare, heckle us, snap pictures with their phones. //
We saw at least two motorbike accidents on the mountain roads yesterday. Both women, one looked like she was fine, the other one looked very bad, she had blood running down her face, appeared pale and grey. Many had already stopped to help, so we drove on… //
A transport truck couldn’t make it up one of the inclines, it was overloaded with potatoes. “Boss goblok,” said E., who jumped out and helped push it to the next pull-over point. //
The high-altitude villages around Lumajang, which primarily grow green onions, smell like green onions. You catch whiffs of it as you drive through. //
I have clearer photos of the lutung but those feel private. //
I also have pictures of Gunung Batok, will probably share later. //
I have to relearn how to use “the good camera”, another reason it’s ok we didn’t see Bromo yesterday, my camera skills are not (yet?) worthy. //
I forgot my carnelian stone at home, I realized. //
Always, a beginner, again. //

Orang gunung/mountain person.
We wake up at 3 to reach Tengger before sunrise. G. drives me and E. in his truck, called “Sweet Orange”. E. (my husband) is a former ranger and guide in the park. G. is from a nearby village and has experience driving the roads.
I hope to see Bromo. (This hope will not be fulfilled.)
Sunrise comes, and I take pictures of Gunung Batok and the surrounding walls of the caldera. Batok is beautiful, swathed in green velvet, as a dream or a fantasy.
I still hope to see Bromo.
We’re not in a hardtop jeep, so entry into the caldera is prohibited. We decide to drive down from Tengger, to the east, and back up again, possibly to see Bromo from another place on the rim.
As we climb again in elevation, the drive gets scary, or at least I am scared. I can’t describe how terrifying it is. Hairpin turns, steep drops, no shoulder, broken asphalt. Clouds begin to obscure the surroundings. At some point, with steep drops on both sides, suspended in clouds, the road is broken enough that the truck loses purchase. G. is a good driver and gets us past, but I begin crying from fear.
Crying, then sobbing, I just break open.
G. parks the truck. E. holds me. We decide we have to go back down. But I am afraid to go down in the truck. Two local people come and offer E. and me an ojek, a ride down on their motorbikes. We accept.
The locals are understanding. I know they have driven this road a thousand times, at crazy fast speeds. E. has explained the situation, they won’t go fast with me. I feel safe. We get down past the scariest parts. (G. follows in his truck.)
We all sit and have coffee together. I am still shaking, most of what I remember from the conversation is that one of the men asks me to help him with English, which I do. (This was very kind of him.) They realize we have common friends, in our village on the other side of Tengger. These men trade in green onions and potatoes, while our friends trade in flowers. (Crops that grow in the tropical highland climate.)
We part ways with the Tengger people. We’ll drive the rest of the way back down in the truck.
Shortly after, my eyes still hot from tears, I have an encounter with a lutung (an East Javan langur). I spot him in a tree as we drive. G. stops the truck, I get out. I have my camera.
He is a black shape against the cloud. At first I think he’s a macaque, but he isn’t. E. says, from the truck, “lutung.” They are shy, they have been hunted by humans. This one at first jumps down from his lookout. I think he will run away. But he doesn’t, he keeps looking at me from behind ferns and shrubs. He starts climbing back into the tree. He comes out, looks at me. Then, like he knows better, he hides. He does it repeatedly, where he hides for a minute, then climbs up or comes out, looks at me. Slowly, with intent. I speak to him. I say I don’t want to hurt him. I make a hand gesture like a little wave. He lets me take a few pictures. I say goodbye, then go back to the truck.
G. starts up “Sweet Orange” and we continue home.
I feel this was Tengger, telling me that I’m not ready for Bromo. (I’m not sure where these big feelings come from, it’s a turbulent time of the month, I’m tired, more sensitive than usual, the terror, I’ve only felt fear like that one time before, hey, also on a mountain, and the breaking.) Then, the lutung. It felt like a gift, or a secret, or a word. Or something, I don’t know.
We will try again. (I will keep practicing and trying again.) I know we can just take a jeep. (Mas B. wants to drive us.) … But I will keep working through what happened today, because I pay attention when a mountain speaks.
Saturday morning “rest day” but what is the right music for filing taxes, not-quite-numbness to abuse with aftertaste of anxiety? Does the completion even register as accomplishment? Worse than the dentist!
Next. Lucky I washed my hair last night because coffee and croissants (vegan) come with a video call from Java. Everyone’s faces look so good and smiling and W. with sleepy teenager hair a-fluff. Ibuk takes a moment to connect but, smile of recognition on her face and I feel a warm glow, like sunshine from inside. All conversation hints at family melodrama but those topics remain background for now.
Next. Again by motorbike to Carangsari, we pick up yesterday’s coffee order, change into “casual traditional” (pakai sarung. I wear lipstick now, and face powder) to visit a bereaved family in the village. A man who was part of the rafting community, a nephew of Pak S., we sit, drink coffee, E. chats with a cousin smoking clove cigarettes. I smile and nod along.
A certain barrier. With local people (mostly men) who have worked in the tourism trade, spent time with foreigners, they are bold with me and expect me to be bold back. Interested in business. I don’t like to disappoint but I’m not that kind of bule. It takes time to build back trust. To demonstrate I’m neither opportunity nor opportunist. My quiet works well enough for that. Maybe they think I’m simple minded, it’s ok to be benignly misunderstood.
This also is my work. Mothers and grandmothers hug me, pat my butt, tell me I’m cantik. I tell them back, of course. Bu S., always making offerings, doesn’t stop smiling. She holds my hands as if my very presence is a blessing. They make me eat and drink, I don’t resist. My body belongs to them for a while.
At last. A quiet moment in the loteng. Warm woodlight. Leafing through inherited notebooks.
On the way back, day fades. Piles of burnt chaff smoulder in the fields, plumes disperse as a pink haze. In the east, Gunung Agung appears in lavender-grey silhouette, silent and immense. Inhalation, exhalation. Then slips back under covers as waxing crescent follows crimson sun, sinking in the west.
We stopped to pick flowers from neighbors’ bushes along the way. She pressed the pink and white blossoms into my hands for safe-keeping, a handful of jumbled petals still damp from the rain. “Does she remember the way?” E said. But Ibuk took firm hold of my arm and brought me to her husband’s grave.
We’re losing Ibuk (my mother-in-law) to Alzheimer’s disease. Sometimes she whispers to me in basa Jawa and I just can’t understand. Sometimes the memories come skipping, tripping, flooding out of her, and my husband translates. Sometimes she wants to cry and be held, so I hold her, which doesn’t require words.
A spell of rain before sunrise, just enough for the orchids. Last quiet day before E returns with Ibuk. Happy to see them but I savor today’s solitude, the no need to speak, how the words that come out are just for me. Or the cats. Or the fish in the pond, or Blih or Father, or Mbok A., or etc.
Batik with burung merak (peacock) and wijaya kusuma flower, a gift from Ibuk.
