Shaman of Bali Read online

  I spent the rest of the day trying to get our electronics to work. We were hove to and going nowhere. The boat lolled and bobbed, making even the smallest movement difficult. Every combination of wiring I tried was failing to work: the brown wire with the green, then the red with the black, but nothing, not even a spark. The same with the ship’s short-wave radio.

  Whatever I tried didn’t work. I gave up. Duncan came to a couple of times; he looked at me with a crazed glint in his eyes and then returned to his slumber. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I cursed my bad luck. By the end of the day, I’d had enough. I decided to get the boat moving. I could use my sextant and compass, and we had paper charts and a wristwatch on board. I could take a reading and plot a course for the ship while we still had sun. I wasn’t sure how we’d manage without a wind vane or self-steering gear, but I didn’t want to risk falling asleep, especially with Duncan acting so erratic. I pencilled in some waypoints on the chart and then set sail. I was beyond exhaustion, frazzled and running on coffee-fuelled energy as I tried to helm the boat to a compass course. I kept an eye on Duncan too. The last thing I wanted was for him to wake up and wreak more havoc.

  By grabbing myself whatever snatches of sleep and food I could, I managed to sail the Sea Rover through the night and into the next day. I took a sextant reading as soon as the sun allowed it and discovered that we’d made good time. According to my calculations we were about twenty-four hours away from Bali, where I intended to land. We would have to sail into Benoa Harbour without notifying customs or immigration, and we couldn’t start the boat’s engines as we had no ignition. Duncan slept on.

  The next day and night were a test of my physical and mental endurance. I spent all my waking hours helming the boat to a compass heading and manning the sails after sudden wind shifts, while snatching food whenever I could. Duncan kept waking up and wandering about in a delirious state. He refused food but I managed to make him drink some water. He sat with me in the cockpit for an hour or two, and after several attempts at conversation I realised how out of it he was. He muttered and rambled on incomprehensibly, then returned below and lay on his bunk, his eyes wide open and staring at the bulkhead. The next time I checked on him, he was asleep.

  When we reached the Strait of Lombok, a gale set in, right on the nose. It howled through the seaway that separated the islands of Bali and Lombok. Try as I might I couldn’t point the Sea Rover towards our destination, Benoa Harbour, which lay only an hour away. I was weak with exhaustion as I tacked the boat up into the wind. I could see land. Southern Bali lay to port, and the small island of Nusa Penida, which sheltered Benoa Harbour, lay ahead. After countless tacks, I took a bearing against a land point and knew we were losing ground. We were drifting backwards faster than we were moving forward. Duncan was awake and agitated, and I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to control him in these conditions. We would have to go about. I managed to bring in the sails while we were still pointing upwind, leaving only a scrap of head sail for steerage, and swung the helm. I had no way to gauge our boat speed but we were sailing fast downwind. I couldn’t leave the helm for a second. Duncan’s head would appear in the companionway and stare out to sea, then disappear. I’d locked the first-aid cabinet and couldn’t think of what further damage he might do.

  A short time later we sailed out of the Strait of Lombok, around the southern tip of Bali, and into the calm waters of the Bali Sea. I raised the mainsail, stabilised the boat then sat slumped over the helm. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. I was close to breaking point. On our starboard side I saw the giant wave breaks of Uluwatu, and the surrounding high barren cliffs and outcrops of land. In the distance, beyond the airport runway, lay the white sands of Kuta Beach. I looked at the chart and saw that our best chance to make landfall without a motor would be the ferry port of Gilimanuk, further north. With luck and wind, we might make it by nightfall. My body ached, and my focus was beginning to drift. I plotted a course that I hoped would be our last. An offshore breeze pushed us along at a good clip.

  ‘Get off!’ Duncan’s voice suddenly pulled me awake. I ran my hand over my face to make sure I wasn’t in the grip of a wild dream. Duncan stood in the cockpit stark naked, not a metre from me, pointing the ship’s shotgun at my face.

  ‘Leave this boat now!’ he bellowed. These were the first coherent words he’d spoken in days. I saw that both barrels were loaded and he’d released the safety catch. I cursed myself for not remembering to put the gun away.

  ‘Duncan, please …’ But my words fell on deaf ears. He was now releasing the boat’s tender from its davits with one hand, while pointing the shotgun at me with the other. I knew that I had to tread with extreme caution. In his delirious state, he would shoot me.

  ‘Get in,’ he commanded as he tied off a line to the dinghy, which ducked and dived in the Sea Rover’s wake.

  ‘Duncan, this is crazy! You can’t sail this boat alone. You haven’t eaten in days, for Christ’s sake, man. Wake up! You really want to put me in that …’ Duncan’s answer was to move the shotgun closer to my head. I had no choice. I had to go. My sea bag was in the cockpit with me. I stuffed my wallet and passport into my shorts pockets then clambered onto the transom, almost falling into the dinghy. Duncan released the line and cast me adrift. I watched helplessly from the dinghy as the Sea Rover sailed away, her stern rising and dipping on the swell. Duncan stood naked on the transom, the shotgun still trained on me.

  I took up the oars and began rowing. The currents were with me, and the dinghy drifted at a good speed towards the island. In the distance, the summit of Mt. Agung rose above a ring of clouds. An hour later, I could hear the traffic on the beach road, and the sound of pounding surf. I thought the best way would be to ditch the dinghy and body surf into the shore. But then the boat started to pull towards the airport runway, which jutted out to sea at the end of the beach. I heaved on the oars but couldn’t shift her; my strength had finally given up. I was caught in the grip of a powerful current, and there was nothing to do but to go with it. By taking up one oar and jamming a rowlock into the stern brace, I was able to guide the dinghy a little. I could see the beachfront hotels. They were only a few hundred metres away. As the runway approached, the wave-line curved inwards, forming a funnel that I was being sucked into. The rollers became so large that when I descended into their troughs, I saw only mountains of moving water on either side, and as I was propelled to the top, in quick glimpses, I saw the shoreline and the calm waters of a lagoon. The tide was high. Perhaps I still had a chance. I threw out the oars as the dinghy was sucked into a giant wave. The boat would be my shield. I would brace myself against the coral heads that I could see shining like knives beneath clear waters. The current propelled the boat to the top of the wave, and the dinghy fell forward, beyond the breaking crest. I looked down and saw the enormity of the wave, an almost perpendicular wall of water with a half-moon curve, which swept over black jagged coral heads at a tremendous speed. As I tumbled down the wave, I fell backwards. The dinghy raised its bow and then surfed with me hanging out of the stern. Spray flew out on either side as I sped down the face, clinging to the tiny boat like it were a lifeline, both hands glued to the seat. The shuddering impact when she hit the rocks should have torn her apart but she only capsized. I was trapped underwater, tossing and rolling. My lungs heaved, and sharp coral scraped against my back and legs. I was moving fast, and I was about to let go of the boat when she hit a rock and broke. I rose to the surface, clutching the seat as my lungs sucked in air. The next wall of foam hit me and took me with it. I held the seat under my chin, managing to keep my head out of water. More coral sliced against my legs, and a pain shot through my shoulder. I couldn’t use my left arm.

  When the foam released me, I stood on soft sand. With my right arm I reached down and touched my wounds; they were bad, and my shorts were gone, and my arm felt broken, and blood from the coral cuts coloured the water around me. Then a bolt of pain set in, and
I was sure it was over. I was going to drown. My legs refused to support me, and I was exhausted and nauseous. Another wave knocked me over. I came up sputtering, spitting seawater. I saw an outrigger canoe manned by four men paddling towards me. Wrapped in a blanket of darkness, my vision became a tunnel through which I kept the outrigger in view. I tried to fight the suffocating blankness but my body gave out, and my legs gave away, and I slipped underwater.

  The last thing I heard was the stroke of paddles, drawing nearer.

  I came to for an instant, and I saw that I’d been laid out on a restaurant table. Worried faces peered down at me, their eyes searching, their hands rubbing my shoulder. A cold cloth was pressed to my forehead. I felt a sharp pain stab at my shoulder. Then the faces changed, and as I slipped back into unconsciousness, I smelled garlic and heard the hiss of a frying pan. I was back in the Milano’s kitchen, and I could see it all again.

  Grace is at a table. She is rolling pizza dough, her blue school uniform stained white with flour. I am standing at the stove. I have more orders on the rack than I can cope with.

  Elisabeth walks in. ‘Look at your uniform, Grace. How am I going to get that flour off? Adam!’ I keep my eyes on the stove. ‘Adam would you look at me?’ I don’t move. ‘I am sick and tired of talking to your back.’ I hear her anger, then Grace’s voice.

  ‘Mum, please … Not now,’ Grace pleads. ‘He’s got to get through those orders. Antonio is sick, and he’s on his own.’

  ‘She spends too much time here, Adam. It’s not healthy for a girl her age. She should be at home, doing homework, or playing with other kids.’

  ‘I’ve done my homework.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to your father!’

  ‘Adam!’ Elisabeth shouts. The skillet flares orange then blue. Her words drown in the hiss of the flames.

  ‘Mum, I’m ready. Let’s go.’ I turn and see Grace pulling her through the door. Elisabeth’s eyes are violent points of blue, her lips tight.

  I hear the screech of tyres as she races out of the carpark.

  2

  Consciousness returned to me slowly. One minute I was floating, and in the next I was pulled back by a violent pain in my shoulder. The buzzing in my head cleared, and I became aware of the tangy smell of papaya. Footsteps and voices sounded near. I opened my eyes and saw I was lying on a bed. I was in a hotel room. Palm leaves and twine were wrapped around my chest and legs to hold pieces of papaya against my skin. A Balinese man wearing a white sarong entered the room. He was bare-chested and with a lean muscular frame, his oiled black hair tied in a ponytail. He had an air of authority and was clearly in charge. A man and a woman stood behind him.

  ‘Anak,’ said the man, standing by the bed and placing a hand on his chest. ‘Thankfully you are now awake and we can reset your shoulder; it’s dislocated. You’ve been unconscious for some time.’

  I made an attempt to speak but couldn’t. Anak held a glass filled with a liquid the colour of blood. He raised it to the light and chanted something. Then he fished a small stone out of the glass, folding it into a cloth and tucking it into the sash of his sarong. The woman raised my head while Anak put the glass to my mouth. I sipped the red water. He mounted the bed and motioned for me to remain silent, then took my arm and pulled, putting all his weight on my body. I heard an audible scrape, the sound of bone against bone, followed by a click. I knew he had reset my shoulder, which should have caused excruciating pain, yet I felt only movement, no pain. Instead, I was overcome by a deep peacefulness, a feeling of detachment, as if all of this was happening around me and not to me. Anak rubbed his hand over my shoulder, then stood with his arms folded. The woman stood beside him, occasionally catching my eye and smiling. She had a sturdy squat frame and warm eyes, a small nose and a full mouth, and thick glossy hair tied into a bun.

  ‘By tomorrow we can remove the papaya,’ said Anak. ‘But your coral cuts will not infect because you are under the protection of the bloodstone.’

  ‘Where am I?’ I asked.

  ‘You are at my hotel, the Sandika. Ketut here, and his wife, Wayan, run it. You are in good hands. We saw you come over the reef in that strange boat and we were quite sure you’d drowned. We paddled out to retrieve your body but you popped up in front of us, very alive. You were clutching a piece of wood and raving, waving it about.’ He paused and his dark brown eyes met mine. A smile flickered on his lips, and his voice changed to a mocking tone. ‘We nearly left, thinking you were a sea demon. But then you passed out, so we knew you were only human. Now rest. Your shoulder will be stiff for some time,’ Anak continued. ‘I’ll come back when you’re ready to tell me how and why you washed up on our shores.’

  ‘Did you find my shorts?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but you no worry. Ketut will give you some shorts,’ said Wayan.

  * * *

  As my head cleared, I began to notice my surroundings. I was in an upstairs room with batik wall hangings, rattan furniture and a large plate-glass window with a view that reached as far as the reef. The room had no ceiling. I was looking up at the underside of a grass roof with its intricate thatched patterns and tight stitching woven around carved wooden battens that held dried grass in place. Through the window I saw the trimmed eves of the grass roof, which were at least a metre thick. Further out, as I raised my head, I could see an unruly garden of palms and vines. At the end of a sandy pathway stood a giant banyan tree, and underneath it was a coffee shop. Across the calm waters of the lagoon, glassy waves peeled away. Surfers dived in and out of the pipeline, weaving and riding them with ease. I’d survived that reef. I thought of Grace, and I quietly thanked Anak for rescuing me. I looked down at my legs and remembered the bad coral cuts I’d seen before I lost consciousness; I pushed the papaya aside and saw only faint lines of scar tissue where they should have been. Wayan returned with food. She fussed about, cleaning the room, and when I’d finished eating, she removed some papaya from one leg and took a long look.

  ‘More time,’ she said. ‘I put some new papaya now, then one more day, and you can leave the bed.’ I asked her about the blood-coloured water, but as soon as I mentioned it she put a hand over my mouth. Her eyes darted from side to side and she whispered, ‘Shhh, no speak. Leyak maybe hear you, many bata and kula around here.’ When she saw my uncomprehending look, she cupped her hand around my ear and hissed, ‘Devils listening’.

  That evening I propped my head on a pillow and watched the sunset. It began in turquoise, streaked with magenta, then the sun became a glowing orange orb as it balanced on the horizon. How Grace would love to see this. She was fascinated by sunsets. I remembered her asking me as soon as she could speak, about where the colours come from. I listened to the hum of the surf. A dog barked and silenced the crickets. I had to find a way to call her. I wondered how she was making out living with her Mum. Were Tula’s boys still hassling them? Regardless of what had happened between us, Elisabeth didn’t deserve to get harassed for my debts.

  I remembered the night he had visited my restaurant. Although in his seventies, Tula was still a powerful-looking man. He had eaten alone while two of his boys stood outside. He was dressed in black, his long silver hair done in a plait, and with a large spiral of jade hanging from his black collar, denoting him as a Matua, a Tongan tribal leader. He was more than that. In his youth he’d founded a gang called the Kingsnakes. They’d started out as a biker gang, but with Tula’s business acumen, not only did they take control of the drug and prostitution trade, but also established a legitimate security business, a chain of strip clubs and more. Tula had a taste for Italian food and was a regular customer at Milano’s. I recalled the fear he’d inspired in me as a child, but my father had said, ‘Our customers’ business has nothing to do with us. As long as they behave and pay for our food, we will treat them with courtesy and respect.’

  That night, with my father’s words in mind, I dismissed the waiter and took his food to him myself.

  ‘How are you
doing, Adam?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘No, I mean the restaurant. You going to be able to hold out in these hard times?’

  ‘If I had a couple of hundred grand, yes,’ I said flippantly as I laid down a plate of seafood pasta before him. Tula then spoke of my father with fondness, enquired after my family, and I left him to dine alone.

  The following night one of his boys had shown up in my kitchen. We went into my office, and he opened a case containing two hundred thousand in cash, plus a contract: it stated that if I was unable to repay the money, Tula would take ownership of the restaurant. I didn’t hesitate. It sounded too good to be true. Of course I could pay him back. This economic downturn had to bottom out. Hadn’t it always? Tula had come to my rescue even though the banks had given up on me. This money would see me through the tough times. I could finally pay my staff and suppliers. I didn’t stop to think that Elisabeth still owned a forty-five percent share of the business and that I should ask for her consent. I signed the contract on behalf of the both of us and began paying our creditors. However, Tula’s money was too little too late. Only three weeks later, and without warning, the tax department put me into receivership. Tula lost his money. I lost everything.

  * * *

  In the morning, a cool breeze rustled the curtains. Wayan bustled in with a smile. She untied the bindings on my legs and wiped away the fruit. I rolled onto my side as she inspected my back and grunted with satisfaction.

  ‘You get up now, shower and put clothes. Here,’ she said, pointing to a faded brown batik shirt and a pair of shorts she had put on the bed. ‘Ketut give you. I come back soon.’

  I found my balance, and moved to the bathroom. I washed away the papaya and looked into the mirror. I was in good shape, considering that I had dislocated my shoulder. I realised that with each movement the stiffness eased. Wayan returned. She took me by the arm and led me down a flight of stairs and along a sandy pathway to the coffee shop. The Sandika Hotel was smaller than I’d imagined, with six rooms upstairs and six more downstairs. The grass roof sat on top of the building like a giant oblong mushroom, and the wild and colourful vegetation that surrounded it created an Alice-in-Wonderland effect. It seemed as if the building had sprouted rather than been built. Wayan told me it was one of the last hotels to have such a roof.