Good and Evil in Indonesia

I’d be telling a lie if I said that it didn’t rattle my cage a bit. We were, after all, in the Indonesian capital city of Jakarta just three weeks ago. Sure, we’ve contemplated the dangerous reality of our presence in this part of the world—we’ve spent several nights in the last month with a Marriott roof over our heads. But before we jump to fretting over our personal safety, Jeannie and I have both noted that the recent hotel bombings prompt us to think about our friends in Bali. Throughout our travels across the island, we had many opportunities to mingle with the Balinese people. We found them to be open and generous, qualities that enabled us to engage in many conversations beyond simple salutations.

The nature of our journey allows us to form meaningful, though short, relationships with the service people that intersect our course. Flight attendants, taxi drivers, waiters and waitresses, hotel receptionists—all have a story that can provide invaluable insight to the culture, practices, beliefs, and history of a place. It was a taxi driver in Bali, named Mr. Mara, who left a lasting impression on us both.

It was our last night in Indonesia, and we had been celebrating (as is usually the case). Mr. Mara picked us up outside the restaurant we had selected for the night. I assumed my standard position in the front seat (not sure if it’s the length of my legs or my affinity for chatting with strangers that usually lands me that spot in cabs). We saw immediately that Mr. Mara was amenable (jovial is a better word) so we jumped straight into name-trading and discussions of the King of Pop. I had spent part of the afternoon visiting the Kuta Beach Memorial at the site of the 2002 terror bombing—an act that took the lives of over 200 innocent people, and utterly crippled the tourism industry across the resort island. I was curious about Mara’s whereabouts the day of the explosion, and how the attack had impacted his business.

In the same way we can all recall in an instant where we were, what we were doing, even what the weather was like on September 11th, Mara flew into a vivid retelling of the night seven years ago that changed his life. He was working as a host in a seafood restaurant in the cultural center of Bali, a town called Ubud. This part of the island, known for its local art and traditional dance performances, probably falls last on the typical tourist’s list of Bali Must-Do’s (it’s a long way from the pool bar). When people stopped visiting the beaches altogether, you can imagine what that did to the landlocked, artistic town of Ubud. Mara and his coworkers were laid off in just a matter of weeks.

To compound the loss of his job, Mara’s family life quickly spiraled into a series of tragic events. His hunt for a new source of income was intensified by the anticipation of the birth of his second son. His wife was seven months into her pregnancy when sudden complications arose, requiring an immediate cesarean section. The doctor informed Mara the procedure would cost the equivalent of $750—a sum of money that the unemployed Mara could only dream of acquiring. Seizing his only option, he wrote a letter to the Indonesian government, petitioning for help with the hospital fees and the surgical procedure. By the time he received a negative response from his local officials, it was already too late. Mara was in the hospital room when the fetus was removed from his wife’s womb. As a devout Hindu, it was now Mara’s responsibility to complete the burial ceremony, an act that required him to take the body of his unborn son to his childhood village on the northern coast of Bali. He wrapped him in sheets and rode three hours through the middle of the night—holding his son in one hand and the throttle of his motor scooter in the other.

The cab had fallen completely silent, but for the sobs of Jeannie in the backseat. This story, and the way he told it, was almost too much to bear. Just before we all coiled into despair, Mara tempered his tale with the sensational news that another son had been born, six months ago. His beaming smile returned, and he relieved us with the laugh we had come to enjoy so much in the first half of the ride. Right up until we arrived at the hotel, he entertained us with stories of his newborn and of his seven year-old, a young upstart who has found a passion for Balinese dance and speaking English.

Captured by his laugh and his ability for storytelling, we hadn’t even noticed he had circled his taxi around the front loop of the hotel. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the rupiah I needed to pay the fare. At the same time, Jeannie reached into her bag and produced a twenty dollar note, the kind with Andrew Jackson on it. When she presented it to Mr. Mara, his head nearly hit the ceiling of the cab. The prolific storyteller started to stutter. And then he fell speechless. I still think I saw a tear form in the corner of his eye.

We got his business card. Jeannie, in her purest form, decided immediately upon our return home we will put together a package of sorts for Mara and his family. I have a feeling, given the recent headlines, he will be needing that package more than ever.