More Bali — A Bad Day in Bali!
February 3rd, 2008Finally I have time to go back and complete my narrative about my trip in Bali. If you haven’t read the first part, you can go to the Home Page, to the Archives on the right column, and click on April 07 to begin the whole trip, from Hawaii to Japan. Or you can go to May 07 and scroll down to May 11, 2007 (disregard the dates in gray) —Arriving in Bali— for the first entry of the Bali trip. Then of course scroll UP from there, for subsequent entries.
Lest you think that only good things happened to me when I was traveling, I will pause to tell you about a bad day in Bali. But first, because our present is inextricably built upon our past, I’ll begin by telling you about a Bad Day in Buenos Aires. Both bad days had to do with credit cards.
I won’t tell you about why I went to Buenos Aires, because it would take too long to explain the hairy relationship between my mother and her sister (who lived in Buenos Aires) and all nine of the other siblings and my grandparents (who during the pogrom in Poland were either wiped out or scattered to Israel, America, and South America) and the fact that my mother rarely talked to any of them (ostensibly because they were all so awful, but I could never tell whether it was them or her, since I didn’t know them) and why I grew up hardly knowing any of those relatives, nor hardly any of my father’s relatives (same ostensibles) including his nine siblings and my other grandparents.
But that might be enough background to explain why my aunt, who was practically on her deathbed, suddenly found me on the internet and wanted to meet me so badly that she sent me the money to come and visit her. That was about five years ago.
Nor will I go into the hairy relationship between my aunt and her two children, and how the main reason I wanted to go to Buenos Aires was to meet her daughter, my cousin, who was my age, who been alienated from her mother as I had been from mine, and how my aunt tried to prevent this from happening, and, once she realized I was determined to meet her daughter, tried to prevent me from coming to Buenos Aires.
So you can see that that whole trip was not exactly a holiday, which helps to explain why I did not have my head on straight that day.
The whole time I was in Buenos Aires, people kept warning me about how I should carry my backpack and my fanny pack in front of my body, and be very careful to protect myself against people who would try to steal from me.
I had only one credit card (a good thing under different circumstances) and I was feeling extremely concerned about how my whole life was tied up in that one tiny piece of plastic. What if I lost it, or it was stolen?
I’m sure you’ve heard about how negative thoughts, especially repetitious thoughts, tend to create the reality that we fear. They act like a mantra that feeds the subconscious, instructing it to produce precisely that which we fear. Especially when we construct complex images of the fear scenarios, and infuse them with powerful negative emotions, we are doing exactly what movies like “The Secret” teach us to do, in reverse.
In more recent times, I have learned to reprogram my subconscious, and whenever I notice a negative thought creep through my mind, I just say “cancel” and it goes away. It really works!
But I didn’t know about that five years ago, and there I was, busily creating that nasty reality for myself, just by obsessing about it.
It was a Sunday, and I was out walking alone. I was feeling rather clever because, just by looking at the map, I found this gorgeous park; very lush, with elegant fountains and sensual sculptures. Buenos Aires is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and this park was on an extremely wide street, across from the financial district, which may account for why the park was practically deserted on the weekend.
This was my second-to-last day in the city, and I was enjoying a nice leisurely walk through all the greenery when something went SPLAT on my head and back. I looked up into the tree just as two women came rushing up from behind me, and they pointed up into the tree, saying “Pajaro! Pajaro!” which means bird, and they were sympathetically pulling tissues out of their purses, kindly cleaning this awful smelly stuff off my hair and clothing.
This was awfully thoughtful of them, but after awhile I couldn’t help but notice (or was I just imagining?) that they were sort of backing me into a less visible part of the sidewalk, and as they were cleaning the bird poop off my clothing, my fannypack was getting twisted around to my back.
Well, maybe I was just being paranoid, but I wasn’t going to take any chances. I put my hand firmly on my fanny pack, thanked them for their help, and walked away. Somehow they didn’t seem terribly surprised or insulted.
I had just gone down the street a short distance when I heard a man shouting at them in Spanish. I couldn’t understand most of what he was saying, but he seemed to be scolding them.
I slipped into a little bakery to try to find a restroom, and a woman in the bakery told me that was a common pickpocket trick; they concocted something resembling pigeon poop, and squirted it on people, and then pretended to help them clean it off.
I was a bit shaken from that experience, and I smelled bad! With wet hair and wet clothing I left the bakery and went looking for a bank. After walking several blocks I found the bank, pulled open the heavy door, and staggered over to the ATM, miserably clutching my one tiny precious piece of plastic. Feeling intensely aware of the thin line of survival between myself and it, in this extremely foreign country, I inserted the card into the machine, took my money with gratitude, and moved out of there as quickly as possible.
Leaving the credit card in the machine.
I didn’t miss the card until the next day, and by the time I reported it stolen it had already been charged up to the max. Thank goodness I had enough cash to get home and that was almost my last day.
Fortunately Visa covered the loss, but it took months before I got my money back.
The moral of this story is: always have three different credit cards or forms of support when you travel, and stash them in separate places. Be sure that someone other than yourself has the numbers of your cards, in case they are stolen.
Okay, so now I’m in Bali. This time I have brought three credit cards; one is in a little purse around my neck; another is in the pack on my back, and the third is hidden in my luggage, back in the room. I also have cash in three separate places. This time I am Prepared, and I am on top of it!
The only problem is that the bungalow where I am staying doesn’t take credit cards. So I need to go to the ATM. The main credit card I’m using is actually a debit card with the Bank of Hawaii, and that account has just the amount of money that I have budgeted for this part of the trip. But the last time I went to the ATM to get cash, it showed a lower balance than I anticipated. So I look for a pay phone to call my bank, to get a rundown of my recent expenses.
That’s when I discover that there are no pay phones in Ubud; there are only Internet stations that have phone booths, and the rate to call the U.S. is about $1.50 per minute. In a country where $1.50 is enough to buy a decent meal, this feels extremely expensive, especially when my bank account has suddenly taken a skydive.
Now I am aware that I can make free phone calls from my computer with Skype, but so far I’ve just signed on for calling other people who have Skype (and I’ve only done that with a couple people, so this is a new technology for me). I could go to the Internet café, which has free wireless (with strong encouragement to buy food), and set up an account that would allow me to make regular calls to almost anywhere, for about two dollars per month. BUT we’ve just had an unseasonable storm here in Ubud, and for some reason the wireless isn’t working.
It’s already 11 pm, but that seems to be a popular hour at the internet and telephone station. I make my Very Expensive phone call, and discover that I only have $80 left in my account!
This is when I congratulate myself for having the foresight to have two other bankcards (I rarely use credit cards, except to rent cars). I reassure myself that other money will come, as it always does, and I optimistically reach for the debit card for my savings account with the credit union,
But I haven’t used this card since I moved to Maui, almost two years ago, and for some reason the passcode for this card doesn’t work! I try every possible combination, and it still doesn’t work. Then I notice that it’s going to expire next month! (Mental note: Test all credit cards before leaving country of origin. Observe all expiry dates. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go.)
Now this is getting depressing. But have no fear! There is always credit card number three!
I go back to the bungalow to get my third card that is hidden in my luggage. This is the credit card that I use for car rentals, and in case of emergencies. This is, deliberately, a credit card with a small upper limit. And this IS an emergency.
I don’t do too well after 9 pm. Close to midnight I turn into a pumpkin. I probably should have waited until the next day, but I knew I needed cash the next morning to pay my rent. Truth is, I hadn’t used this card in a long time either. The good news—Very Good News—is that it worked. Big Relief.
I stagger back to the bungalow and hit the sack with gratitude.
Next day I go to look for the credit card for the credit union, which is actually a debit card into my savings account (not such a great idea, after all). And guess what?
I can’t find it!!!
I look everywhere; in all three of my stash places; in my pockets; everywhere I can think of. I go back to the stash places. I rack my brain, vaguely remembering (or am I imagining?) that I might have come up with some new place to hide things. Why didn’t I write it down? Next time I’ll write it down!
I can’t find it!!!
Visions of Buenos Aires dance in my head! Fear begins to swell in my brain. I begin to construct the Long Line of Possible Consequences . . .
Then I get smart. I resolutely say, “Cancel!” to all those nasty thoughts, and I affirm that it will all work out. It always does. I tell myself that I just need to go to sleep and come fresh to the problem in the morning. I remind myself of all the times I was able to solve terrible problems just by waiting until the next day. Maybe by tomorrow the astrological influences will have changed; this has been a rough day; I probably had some terrible aspects today. Finally I let go of it. It’s late. I go to bed.
I wake up at three in the morning. I’m used to getting up at three in the morning; no big deal.
I turn on the light, get dressed, and begin to methodically search for the card. I think of some pockets that I didn’t check.
And there, in the second pair of pants, I touch plastic.
“Thank-you, thank-you, thank-you!” I murmur to the Universe.
I sit down in meditation, clasping my plastic to my bosom, and I send out waves of Gratitude, Gratitude, Gratitude.