Unlocked and Disrobed

After an unspectacular end to the case of the locked-in tourist when the door was shoulder-nudged from the outside side by a knight on a shiny scooter, I emerged into the sunshine to discover the fabric emporiums in Denpasar’s Jalan Sulawesi and a woman with a sewing machine just a few houses down this raggedy little street. 

In between mouthfuls of coconut bickies, three dots took turns hiding behind their mother’s bare legs and giggling loudly. Could she make two tops and a dress just like these old things? Yes she could, just as soon as she’d measured the long, spaghetti arms of the imp in pyjamas next to her, whose mum and dad waited nearby on red plastic stools, watching and talking quietly. I waited until the family sped off, three of them perched helmet-less on a bright yellow scooter, and handed over to Mrs Husqvarna the samples and the material. See you in three days, for a try on? No, for finish, she said.

Back in Sulawesi, the fabric purveyor, an Indian grandmother, told me she had been resident in Bali for forty-four years. Why had she come? Her husband’s work. Was she happy here? Of course! We shared much: a love of gold rings with garnet birthstones for our shared January birthdays (and let me tell you, rings on her fingers, rings on her toes… she had a few stunners on those caramel fingers with well attended nails), three children each, a dislike of sweaty 40 degree days that give us fat ankles, and a penchant for happy chatting during a business day where there was absolutely no business, except for me. Unsurprisingly, Denpasar has had its GFC concerns too, or maybe it was the smelly, tarry road works nearby that scared away the customers. She recommended fabrics; I bought them. Even if the prices were ‘tourist doubled’, they seemed reasonable. Did she have a tailor? Yes, Mrs Fabric certainly did; a very good one. But she’d died.

Luckily I found Mrs Husqvarna, behind large glass windows under a leaky tin roof that transformed her work space into a sweatbox.

And the dress (see previous post): well, I managed to get it off finally, with the help of Juni, the fabulous masseuse, a death-defying half kilometre walk from the now unlocked villa. After four visits to this wonderful place, I understand why everyone has a scooter, if not a car. I, a walker, am an oddity around here. No one else tolerates the non-existent pedestrian facilities. 

But how to appreciate the sheer beauty of the flooded rice fields if one doesn't walk. How to give serious thought to the wiry souls under wide hats with mud up to their thighs. How do they survive this tough, back-bending labour? More to the point, how much do they get paid? No industrial relations here. No workers comp should a piece of rickety machinery fall on top of them. Life is precarious here.

Juni sniffled a little bit during the hour-long massage. She took an occasional call on her mobile as she smoothed coconut oil with one hand over my shoulder blades. But for the $6 rub down and the offer of a scooter ride home before the looming downpour, she truly delivered and I truly forgave.