word that has been more emotionally incorporated into Balinese than almost any other in the
English language. It’s one of the very worst things you can call someone in Bali—“a bullshit.”
In this culture, where people bullshit each other a dozen times before breakfast, where bull-
shitting is a sport, an art, a habit, and a desperate survival tactic, to actually call someone out
on their bullshit is an appalling statement. It’s something that would have, in old Europe, guar-
anteed you a duel.
“Honey,” she said, eyes tearing. “I am not a bullshit!”
“I know that, Wayan. This is why I’m so upset. I try to tell my friends in America that Way-
an is not a bullshit, but they don’t believe me.”
She lays her hand on mine. “I’m sorry to put you in a pickle, honey.”
“Wayan, this is a very big pickle. My friends are angry. They say that you must buy some
land before I come back to America. They told me that if you don’t buy some land in the next
week, then I must... take the money back.”
Now she doesn’t look like she’s going to faint; she looks like she’s going to die. I feel like
one-half of the biggest prick in history, spinning this tale to this poor woman, who—among
other things—obviously doesn’t realize that I no more have the power to take that money out
of her bank account than I have to revoke her Indonesian citizenship. But how could she
know that? I made the money magically appear in her bankbook, didn’t I? Couldn’t I just as
easily take it away?
“Honey,” she says, “believe me, I find land now, don’t worry, very fast I find land. Please
don’t worry... maybe in next three days this is finish, I promise.”
“You must, Wayan,” I say, with a gravity that is not entirely acting. The fact is, she must.
Her kids need a home. She’s about to get evicted. This is no time to be a bullshit.
I say, “I’m going back to Felipe’s house now. Call me when you’ve bought something.”
Then I walk away from my friend, aware that she is watching me but refusing to turn
around and look back at her. All the way home, I’m offering up to God the weirdest prayer:
“Please, let it be true that she’s been bullshitting me.” Because if she wasn’t bullshitting, if
she’s genuinely incapable of finding herself a place to live despite an $18,000 cash infusion,
then we’re in really big trouble here and I don’t know how this woman is ever going to pull her-
self out of poverty. But if she was bullshitting me, then in a way it’s a ray of hope. It shows
she’s got some wiles, and she might be OK in this shifty world, after all.
I go home to Felipe, feeling awful. I say, “If only Wayan knew how deviously I was plotting
behind her back.. .”
“... plotting for her happiness and success,” he finishes the sentence for me.
Four hours later—four measly hours!—the phone rings in Felipe’s house. It’s Wayan.
She’s breathless. She wants me to know the job is finished. She has just purchased the two
nora
(Nora)
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