Eat, Pray, Love

“Don’t get angry about it, whatever happens. If you get angry, you’ll lose her, and that
would be a pity because she’s a marvelous person and she loves you. This is her survival tac-
tic, just accept that. You must not think that she’s not a good person, or that she and the kids
don’t honestly need your help. But you cannot let her take advantage of you. Darling, I’ve
seen it repeated so many times. What happens with Westerners who live here for a long time
is that they usually end up falling into one of two camps. Half of them keep playing the tourist,
saying, ‘Oh, those lovely Balinese, so sweet, so gracious... ,” and getting ripped off like
crazy. The other half get so frustrated with being ripped off all the time, they start to hate the
Balinese. And that’s a shame, because then you’ve lost all these wonderful friends.”
“But what should I do?”
“You need to get back some control of the situation. Play some kind of game with her, like
the games she’s playing with you. Threaten her with something that motivates her to act.
You’ll be doing her a favor; she needs a home.”
“I don’t want to play games, Felipe.”
He kisses my head. “Then you can’t live in Bali, darling.”
The next morning, I hatch my plan. I can’t believe it—here I am, after a year of studying
virtues and struggling to find an honest life for myself, about to spin a big fat lie. I’m about to
lie to my favorite person in Bali, to someone who is like a sister to me, someone who has
cleaned my kidneys. For heaven’s sake, I’m going to lie to Tutti’s mommy!
I walk into town, into Wayan’s shop. Wayan goes to hug me. I pull away, pretending to be
upset.
“Wayan,” I say. “We need to talk. I have a serious problem.”
“With Felipe?”
“No. With you.”
She looks like she’s going to faint.
“Wayan,” I say. “My friends in America are very angry with you.”
“With me? Why, honey?”
“Because four months ago, they gave you a lot of money to buy a home, and you did not
buy a home yet. Every day, they send me e-mails, asking me, ‘Where is Wayan’s house?
Where is my money?’ Now they think you are stealing their money, using it for something
else.”
“I’m not stealing!”
“Wayan,” I say. “My friends in America think you are... a bullshit.”
She gasps as if she’s been punched in the windpipe. She looks so wounded, I waver for a
moment and almost grab her in a reassuring hug and say, “No, no, it’s not true! I’m making
this up!” But, no, I have to finish this. But, Lord, she is clearly staggered now. Bullshit is a