Carissa Tandiono

I take a plunge into the blue waters stretching into the horizon.

The gentle waves hit my body as thoughts are running wild, bringing me to memories hidden in the deepest core of my mind. Those not wanting to be rediscovered. The warmth invites me to stay longer and travel deeper until the surface closes around my head, claiming my entire body. Plus, there’s this whole stigma about the salt substance that could paralyze all your senses, producing a numbing sensation.

In a moment, I feel at my most tranquil state, but at the same time, this is where my brain starts getting busy. Familiar places and faces flash in my head – those who have been part of my twenty-five year-old life. The Arctic, Guatemala, Cairo, Jaipur (where Papi spent his last days in), his good friend Sanjay, Tanya in Portugal, Jose in Chile, a dozen more faces I’ve bumped to and become friends with these past three years since I began to leave my humble hometown in France and move around, literally. The welcoming smile of Abel, Henri and Marie Janssen, Michel’s concerning look, Anais, Heidi, and…the auburn-haired.

I stay still in the water when her face materializes and holds me in place. I linger for as long as I could in the sight of her smile, before I feel the water filling in my nostrils. Her face crumbles as I’m gurgling my way through the surface.

The sun is still high up and I slump myself on the bright-colored sand. The beach is relatively quiet, with only a couple of people – foreigners – walking along the beach in the farther side. I purposely walked further than the touristy spot just to find a secluded place, which I find out to be harder than expected. I should’ve seen it coming seeing Bali is quite a small island, and Sanur – where I’m at – is considered a hotspot.

I lay still on the soft sand dunes covered by my towel, feeling the brisk wind from the ocean battering my face. I close my eyes to enjoy the sensation, and suddenly, I see her again. The flowing auburn-hair, the dimples that form as she smiles, the small gap between her teeth, her hazel eyes, and the shy giggles. It’s been almost a year, and as much as she has disappeared from my life, her memories still live on in my head. Everywhere I go, I feel her watching me at every corner I turn. She’s there, but she really isn’t there. The only way to connect with her is to reminisce my days with her–without the silly job that got in the way and eventually turned her away from me, and me from her. Just indulging in her imaginary presence is enough and suddenly, it becomes the kind of slow torture I enjoy.

The phone rings, jolting me from my short nap.

“Morning Putu.” I yawn.

“Hi Mister Claude, do I interrupt?” Putu’s bright voice greets me from across the phone I could picture him smiling.

“No, not at all.” I straighten up, running my fingers through my hair.

After almost two years of not touching home – which I begin to forget where it actually is (maybe Paris, if not Saulces-Monclin) – I note a slight twinge in my accent. The thick French accent is no more, replaced by a mixture of accents that is of nowhere. Sometimes, I sound American. Often times, I use British slangs (like is it a telly or a TV?). There are cases where I’d roll my tongue to pronounce hard “R”, something a French would find hard to do.

“It’s about your kos, um, studio apartment.” Putu says. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mister Claude. Your studio apartment is ready this afternoon.”

“Ah, perfect. It’s exactly what I need.” Ever since I touched down in Bali four days ago, I’ve been pretty much – if not couchsurfing – crashed into someone else’s housing.

I crashed into a party of Australian expats who pretty much ensured I stuck around with them all day. They’d dive in the morning, take a nap, party until they get wasted at 2 am, and have sex. In one of the nights as I saw them getting drunk, a tall, luscious girl with modelesque figure came to me and got my attention. She introduced herself as Natalie. I don’t recall if she’s part of the group but I don’t care. We hit it off that night after a few sweet talks and it didn’t take her a while until she took me to her room. I tried to go gentle on her but she demanded that I do the otherwise.

“Make me forget.” she murmured at my ear. “Make me forget, dammit.”

So I complied reluctantly, but I didn’t regret it. Because as we were going, hard grunts escaping our mouths, and feeling tears stream down our faces, the more I forgot about her. Make me forget. Now I understand.

It was after when we were sitting next to each other naked in silence that I noted her body shrinking and her full lips quivering. Her voice shook when she murmured “You’re too kind.” when I came back with hot tea to treat us both with. I didn’t have to wait another minute until she bursted uncontrollably: she went through a horrible breakup with her fiancee, and her wedding was due in seven months when she found out he was cheating on her. Worse, with her best friend. Typical. When she asked if I had anyone to forget, I decided to spill everything out to her too.

Here we were, exposed in our purest forms as we were putting our feelings on raw display to the world, toasting to our tea like two sore losers did we shed our true-selves, unashamed. She clasped my hand and pushed her cold body against mine before we did it again that night, the next day, and the next day.

She said we could use each other, saying if we could give each other a chance, eventually the past would just be what it was truly meant to be. At first I complied, until I realize what I’ve been doing to myself would slowly be killing me and I couldn’t linger in this kind of torture.

Natalie wasn’t her. There was no spark no matter how hard I tried. She was just another escape – another stop. I clung to her like a worn-out safety net but when I held her body, it wasn’t the familiar body I longed.

After a shortwhile, I realized could no longer have this lifestyle and decided to leave the Australian bunch for good. That was when Putu offered me a shelter at his humble home. After all, it’s Putu who has been there since I landed in Bali and helped me settle with things. I always like his energy for such a guy in his early thirties.

“You know your apartment is far from where you are now, right, Mister?” Putu remarks. “It’s at Tulamben. About two hours drive. You go there and meet my friend, Bagus. He’ll lead you to your apartment.”

“Do I have to move in today?”

“You can do it anytime, Mister. I booked you the place. It’s your place now.” Putu pauses. “Mister, what is your plan?”

“My plan…” my mouth hangs open. No plans at all? It’s her voice this time. I close my eyes and suddenly I find myself sitting in that little cafe in Modave. “I’m not sure, I’ll find a way to get there.”

“I can pick you up and I will call my friend to drive you there.”

“There’s no need.” I cut him off. “You’ve done so much, Putu. More than enough. So, thank you. If you could, please say hi to Ayu and Wayan for me.”

Ayu is his wife and Wayan is their toddler son. Putu once said that the habit of helping with sincere hearts runs in his family. He never stops assuring if I’ve got what I need as newcomers in Bali often find trouble adjusting. Some European tourists, he recalls, take a while to handle the local waste system.

“Thank you. Oh and by the way, Mister Will asks about you.” Putu chirps. “He is going to Potato Head tonight for his birthday. He miss you, Mister. He hasn’t seen you long.”

“Ugh, I’ve had enough with them these past few days.” I massage my temples.

“It’s alright. I understand. You don’t choose to live in Tulamben for no reason, right, Mister?” he says. “Okay. Becareful going there. I texted you the address. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

I hang up, put on my shirt, and start gathering my things. The sun is getting higher. The trip to Tulamben would take two hours by car. For someone with no plans like me, I have a feeling it’ll only take longer.

* * *

After a couple of oplet exchanges, I make my way to Sukawati, a packed art marketplace. Oplet is a common public transport in this island, which takes form of a shared van.

The door, located on one side of the van, is left open, making it easy for people to get on and off given the tight space inside the vehicle. Fellow passengers doubted that finding transportation to Tulamben would be easy, since it’s very far off from other Balinese hotspots located at the southern part of the island (which is good and which is why I chose it). The worst scenarios is having to go through the mountains passing Ubud instead of trailing along the Eastern coastline of Bali, which would save me hours.

I took a little break by strolling through the busy art market, stroking one fabric after another and observing the handcrafted goods. I ended up buying a Barong T-shirt after striking up a conversation with the vendor like I always do. We talk about where I’m from, the weather in Bali, the traffic, the amount of tourists coming to Bali annually. He gave me a good deal on the shirt and so I did.

But I notice something odd since I arrived in this marketplace, and that is the amount of curious eyes peering at me. It’s girls who mostly throw the looks. As far as I remember, I’m not the only white guy in the place.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” I ask the clothing vendor. A young woman slips behind him, whispers something to him, and giggles.

“You are handsome, Mister. A handsome bule.” The clothing vendor translates the girl.

Putu once told me the word. It refers to foreigners, and mostly, white foreigners. I remember each country has their own ethnic terms for foreigners.

That’s when I realize, I have to get to Tulamben as soon as possible. Attention is the last thing I need right now.

* * *

After a short break at the marketplace and a brief lunch at a nearby restaurant, I begin searching for any rides or possible transportation on the way to Tulamben, or the Marine Park, another checkpoint before I meet the coastline road that leads all the way up to Tulamben. But my luck on rides doesn’t fall today, and that’s when I decide to head to north on foot. I spread the huge map of the island before my nose and begin calculating my direction. The best way is to head East to the Marine Park and see if I could catch a ride to Tulamben from there. It will still be a long way and if I don’t find a direct ride, I’m prepared to stop at some random spots and stay overnight.

Qui cherche-je? 

What am I after anyway?

It isn’t like there’s an event to catch at my destination. Planning has never been my forte anyway. Last time, I did it and I was fucked, real hard. It costs a girl’s feelings and the worse news is, my feelings were at stake too. It took me years to move on, really, and I couldn’t let planning ruin another phase in my life.

I shake my head, fold my map, and shove it into my rucksack. I begin trailing the narrow road that only fits two lanes. The scenery shifts from houses to endless paddy fields on both sides with tall coconut trees. As the sun is inching towards the horizon, I catch a scent of bezoin and burning incense. In Bali such senses are no foreign. When I first arrived at Bali, such sense brought discomfort but as time passes, the fragrance marks a sign of life, a civilization, and that you are not lost.

That’s when the village comes into a view. Single-storey houses, a pura (a local term for a Hindu temple), little stores adjacent to each other come into view. A man emerges from his house to replace the small offering right at the entrance, toddlers in little tricycles swerving at the side of the street. Their mom yells from behind me. A group of local teenagers perch in front of a courtyard, engaged in a warm chatter. They stop and peer of me. I have no choice but throw them a smile back, as I would to another locals who gaze at me like I’m some sort of an important sight to behold.

But when I look at the other side of the street, that’s when I see it.

When I think she leaves my headspace, she comes back rushing in.

Dokter Gigi.

I freeze. The words are plastered on the wooden sign were big enough I feel they were mocking me. See? She’s still in there. You can’t get rid of her. The sign stood a little taller than what seems to be another house with the blue paint chipping off from the walls–or some running business judging from the glaring sign of “Open” at the door.

It wouldn’t hurt to find out, right? Except it was my nonsense in the works this time.

Behind the door as I walk in, I encounter two rows of chairs lining up against the wall, two of which are occupied, and a white counter right across it. At the end of the room, two identical doors with name plates stand next to each other. But before I scour the room, a petite woman with her hair tied in a bun appear next to me that I jolt.

“Good evening, mister, you have appointment?” she chirps, showing her teeth that stretch from ear to ear.

“Appointment?” I frown. “Err…what’s this place?”

The woman’s eyes slightly widen but her gaze warms. I’m just a foreigner, she might have thought.

“It’s a…teeth doctor, mister. Dokter Gigi.” The last word sends me a shudder, except she pronounces her name with a hard ‘G’.

“Dentist.” another woman’s voice momentarily shouts from behind the tall counter that reads ‘Kasir‘–as in, cashier I presume. Her head dips back in. Everyone’s apparently listening.

“Ah, yes, dentist.” the first woman responds. “So? You want to…eh…check teeth? Teeth hurt?”

I glance at my watch. The sun should be down in a moment. I’ll probably need to look for a place to stay in for the night here. A teeth check wouldn’t hurt. I shrug before the lady walks me to the counter. The woman who added in earlier has me fill out a form and she checks my passport. It doesn’t take me more than five minutes before one of the identical doors open and reveal a plump man with a soft, withered face with silver hair.

“Mister Doo-pon.” he calls me out and I sigh in relief he doesn’t butcher my name like any other people would.

The dentist doesn’t say much and proceeds to have me lie down on the chair so he can probe into the insides of my mouth. The metal sticks, or whatever they are, trace each and between my teeth. I throw a blank, awkward look into the ceiling to avoid eye contact. It is no surprise that the session doesn’t last long. After a couple of tool exchanges, earsplitting metal tip whirring around the tooth surfaces, and having his rubber-covered finger applying a sweet-flavored paste on my gum, the dentist lets me go. I really do have nothing to inspect out of my teeth.

I walk out and pay for the checkup.

“As indicated here, we just had your teeth clean.” the cashier at the counter hands the paperwork. I’m surprised at her more articulate English.

“I see, nothing wrong with my…Gigi, eh?” I crack a smile, despite the chill that run through my spine at the name that slips out of my mouth or more like a common word here, except it comes with the hard ‘G’ as the locals have put it.

My Gigi. I say that like a possession I don’t have,  but it makes it feel good.

The cashier tilts her head as I’m putting the paperwork into my bag.

“Oooh, you’re good, Mister.” she lights up, flicking her shoulder-length black hair behind her back, and for the first time ever, I spot a shiny name tag slipped on her breast pocket. Ida. “You say it like it’s important, or maybe it is important, in your language? Where you from again, mister? France?”

Quite a chatter, I see.

“It means nothing in French.” I shrug. “But you’re right, it’s important.”

I catch a glint in her eyes, like she sees through me, like her curiosity is kicking but she holds herself. I hear it’s something the locals here do–not spitting what’s inside your head, but rather let the expression speak for itself.

“I see. You visit, yes?” Ida asks.

“Yeah. Is it obvious?”

“People like you always do. They come and go.” she replies. “You have place to stay tonight?”

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“Oh, okay, my family own this place so my cousin has room open and it’s just behind this.” she points her finger at the room. “I mean the building.”

“Okay. Close to the Dokter Gigi.” More shudder, but the word really longs to be spoken.

“You really like that word, Mister Claude, or maybe, name?”

I stop myself and her smile fades at the realization of her mistake–breaking her boundary. Ida walks out of the counter from the side. “I take you my cousin’s place. Almost dark.”

I barely notice that the sun is down now.

“Of course.” I shift the rucksack on my shoulder. “Terima kasih.”

“So what is your plan in Bali?”

I wish people can stop asking me that question.

But then I have no choice but disclose that I’m headed for Tulamben. She goes on explaining about her recommendation in Tulamben. No surprises there as I’ve done my research. Even Putu has said pretty much the same thing. After Ida hands me over to the cousin who lives with her family, I’m settled quickly inside the simple, private room, and walk out for a short chat with the family before I’m headed off to the backyard, which apparently leads straight off to the ocean.

Despite the darkness, white waves crash and crumble into the shore. I glance at the sky. Traces of thick clouds hang low. My thoughts wander off to her, where she might be, what time it is over at San Francisco. It is daytime. As cliched as it sounds, I wonder if the clouds over there look exactly like this. If these chunks of cloud are somehow connected or even part of this Karl the Fog as she mentioned. It eases me just to think about that.

Tu me manques. Tu ne sais pas que tu me manques beaucoup.

I light up my cigarette and stare at the building where I stay, just behind the dentist that bears her name. Maybe I don’t have to look at the sky to feel her close to me. Maybe she’s closer to me than I think. If this isn’t pure coincidence, I don’t know what is. The thought brings me peace for the first time–that maybe the universe has spoken to me in some inexplicable way, that I’m here for a purpose, whatever it is.

An odd connection at an unexpected place. The same exact one that stirred me when I caught her emerging from the elevator in the hostel at Berlin that night.

Teeth doctor. Dentist. Le Dentiste. Dokter Gigi. It’s just a common word here, another word that leads me to having my mouth probed and teeth cleaned at a random sunny evening. It even means nothing in French. But it’s something I have to tell her when I meet her, if I meet her.

Ce n’est pas juste un mot.

After all it’s not just a word.