Rambutan Lady (Bali)

I didn't realize how dificult it was to surreptitiously follow a person when they are walking extremely slow. You actually have to engage in all manner of invented excuse to way-lay yourself so as not to overtake the subject or draw attention to yourself, and as I was walking down a long gang that had little in the way of diversion I was reduced to continually attending to an imagined problem with my sandals, first my right then my left.. Any CIA operatives on the road at that time of the morning would have surely called my bluff, but fortunately there didn't seem to be any dark suited men about at this early hour and the focus of my inquiry ahead appeared far too determined on her destination to look behind her, so I felt safe.

Every morning for a week I had seen her shuffle past the gates of my accommodation as I enjoyed the post dawn hue with my first coffee and cigarette of the day. Our lives were linked, admittedly unbeknownst to her, for a very brief time during the morning and it surprised me how much I looked forward to seeing her struggle down the small lane with her bag of rambutans. Perhaps it brought a little routine or reliability to my otherwise reckless life, or maybe I gained some voyeuristic thrill knowing she had no knowing of my interest. The more I thought about it the simpler it got. No, it was none of these self indulgent things, it was a simple desire of hope for her. You see, she had what appeared to be a severe back disorder which was painfully obvious to all that saw her struggle and so when she did finally appear each morning I enjoyed a little personal celebration for her. As much as I wanted to I didn't yell out "Well done, you made it again old lady"

To coin a phrase from a popular American movie her back was "bent like a question mark" but unlike Forrest Gump this old lady's question mark had fallen forward so that when she walked, her face always ran parallel to the ground, her nose tracking her feet from the height of her mid thigh. Right hand firmly grasped around the knob of a robust walking stick, which rose allmost above her bowed head she lifted and moved it forward perhaps half a foot, then shuffled her little feet to catch up. I never saw one of her feet break contact with the ground. Her left hand was always weighed down with what appeared to be about ten pounds of rambutans in a plastic bag.

So this morning I am following her, painfully slowly, and eventually we turn the end of the gang to be presented with a group of equally elderly women preparing the footpath with fish, fruit and vegetables. At the sight of Rambutan Lady one younger woman, maybe seventy years of age, assists her to her position in this makeshift market, with all and a sundry involved in greetings, chatting, laughing, swapping goods and stories, and essentially living life with their greatest resource, friendship.

I wondered how long these resilient old ladies had been coming to this part of the street in Kuta every morning to sell their wares. What, ten, twenty, thirty years? No, I had a feeling they had been doing it a lot longer than that, maybe as long as their mothers mother could remember. Only then there were no concrete footpaths, or roads, or polluting cars, or lots of noisy white people like me. No, there was none of that. However, although so much had changed and continues to change they will all, just like the Rambutan Lady, carry on being involved in, and loving their life no matter how dificult it sometimes is. I hope in old age I have the courage to do the same.