The Balinese Gardener

I developed a relationship with Wayan (pronounced Why-Ann), the gardener.

Like Made, my housekeeper, Wayan is a common Balinese name. Called Anak Agung the name indicated the lower Balinese Hindu caste.

Wayan was 38 years old at the time; small in stature and handsome. Etty was his Javanese, Muslim wife. And Dewa his12-year-old son.

Contrary to tradition, Wayan had adopted his wife's Islamic religion.

Etty worked from sunrise to sunset seven days a week making hand-beaded bracelets. Earning two cents per bracelet, to help make ends meet.

I came to look forward to Wayan's daily visits.

Wayan kept the bushes trimmed, leaves raked, and the outdoor area of the villa tidy.

He was an exceptional handyman and competent mechanic. It seemed there was nothing he couldn't do.

Because Wayan was fluent in English, communication between us owed. He often served as my interpreter with non-English speakers.

He could repair my scooter, extract a wasp nest from my bedroom, pluck a snake from the cupboard, and shimmy barefooted up a 30-foot coconut tree-with the ease of a monkey-to fetch me a coconut.

What Wayan lacked in stature he more than made up for with his vibrant personality. He was hard working and fearless, with a warm, genuine smile that could light up a room.

He possessed many attributes that would be the envy of most Western men.

What blew my mind most of all about Wayan was his shyness about asking for money, even when it was well earned.

When it came time for payment, I would ask what I owed, he would look down at the ground; shuffle his foot, and say, "Whatever you want to pay."

Sometimes he wanted nothing.

Only when I would shove money into his pocket would he accept it.

I found Wayan's unpretentious demeanor so endearing it rearmed my belief in humanity. Unlike other Balinese I had paid for various services rendered, Wayan didn't call me "Boss," but "Bro."

Other than an ant, I had a friend. In some ways, I felt more of a connection with him than with anyone else I'd ever met.

Wayan became an indispensable guide and source of strength.

I came to think of him as my guardian angel. I was certain that without him. I would have abandoned my expat quest altogether and returned to America more defeated.

Wayan shared his story.

By allowing me to see the world through his eyes, I gained new insight and perspective into the world of the Balinese.

Wayan was born in the spring of 1975 to a family of rice farmers. He grew up sharing a traditional family compound with his parents. 50 relatives living together may seem like a staggering number by American standards. But some family compounds are even larger and might house 100 family members.

Their village of Kutuh Kaja had a population of approximately 300 families.

I listened as Wayan recalled stories of his youth and told of the Bali of not so long ago.

Wayan is in the same age group as most children born to American baby boomers. Foreign to him were such contrivances as mechanized toys and electronic gadgets.

Electricity hadn't made its way to Bali's remote villages yet.

So, Wayan did school work with an oil lamp.

When not occupied with schoolwork or daily chores, he would swim in the river that once ran behind the village.

Wayan recalled the construction of the first paved road in his village in 1995. Only the wealthiest of villagers had a motor scooter for transportation.

Wayan was in his late teens when television made its debut. TV was a community event in which one day of each week a nearby soccer field served as a public theater.

It wasn't until the age of 25 that Wayan had the opportunity to attend a rock concert. There were no malls and muscle cars. No telephones in the village and no air conditioning to counter the brutal tropical heat.

Compared to my life growing up in suburban America I could not imagine such a primitive lifestyle.

I learned that neither history nor English is taught in most Indonesian schools. Wayan learned English from an Indian man. I inquired about his knowledge of his country’s history.

He said the past had never been of much interest to him.

The reason was his life had always required staying focused on the present.

Wayan listened as I gave him an overview of what I had learned about Bali's history of genocide.

He lit a cigarette and sat for a few moments before commenting, "Thanks, Bro. Good to know." I felt he was humoring me and cared little one way or the other.

It is the Balinese Hindu way to live in the moment.

The river that had once been a valuable resource and hub of activity and recreation was now gone. Most villagers now own motor scooters and even smartphones.

The fortunate ones have laptops and a few even own a car.

By 2009, basic internet was almost commonplace and the island was teeming with tourists and expats. In less than two decades, Bali and the surrounding area had traveled from the 19th to the 21st century.

For many villagers like Wayan, progress meant new jobs that had not existed before.

Landowners could now get a significant sum of money for their land. That had, in many instances, failed to make a profit for many years.

Wayan had difficulty pronouncing my name.

The sound of the letter "r" is absent in the Balinese language. Even though he would practice saying it, it usually came out as "Aldo."

Our relationship grew.

I helped Wayan with organizing and promoting his local accommodation business. I printed business cards. I promoted him on social media.

I added a new dress shirt bearing his business logo, Ubud Royal Properties. It wasn't long until his cell was ringing. The business was thriving and his income had increased.

I learned from Wayan that local schools did not offer a music program. So it was difficult for his son, Dewa, to pursue his musical interests.

I found it odd since Indonesians love music.

I wasn't in any position to change the Indonesian school system. But I could try and make a difference in the life of one child. Wayan's son taught himself how to play guitar.

He followed along with music clips played back on his cell phone. He was an eager and diligent student and learned my lessons faster than I could give them.

Wayan devised a crude, but effective plan to break the social ice with other local Balinese men.

The answer was a gentleman’s game of poker.

I bought the beer and spotted them with a little cash from which to bet. The language of the cards was universal and they took it with great seriousness and relish.

Drinking beer and lighting cigarette after cigarette. We played well into the night and, whether winning or losing, everyone was having fun.

Thanks to Wayan, I gained new companions.

On the sacred Balinese day of silence "Nyepi", I woke up in a hospital with no memory of my name. I don't know how I got there and if it wasn't for Wayan who found me passed out on the floor of my villa I could have died.

I did not know the hoops he jumped through to find a driver on Nyepi. And willing to defy the Gods by penetrating the dark and guarded roads of Bali to bring me to a doctor?

He saved my life.

For the next few years, Wayan helped me with everything.

He often complained of stomach pain and I gave it no second thought. He said it was gas and not to worry. His wife said it was from drinking beer and smoking.

Wayan's stomach problems grew worse.

His wife took him to a local hospital where he was misdiagnosed. Armed with vitamins, he reached out for the healer. I watched a dear friend slowly fade away.

By the time an Australian friend donated over AUS 20,000 to save him, it was too late.

He died from Hepatitis B.

I wait for you on Galungan

Every seed contains everything required to become whatever is to be,

Watered by the rain, warmed by the sun, nourished by the earth, and transformed into something more without ever losing its seedness,

Something so tiny and insignificant as a fragile drop of water changes the very structure and design of the Earth, likewise, something so insignificant as a seed contains all the knowledge to become a rose, an oak, a worm, a cat, a man, like the seed that seems so insignificant,

Incapable of anything of consequence until exposed to water, sunlight, and nourishment,

In those moments of being, the eternal now- profound clarity, wherein the boundaries of consciousness stretched, that we may continue becoming something more, and grow into the potential of our design,

Owing your life to someone is the most humble and rewarding experience I can think of.

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