Maria taps her bottom lip with her index finger. Then she puts her hand down and asks, ‘Do you have a husband at home, a boyfriend, that type thing?’
‘Not for a long time, no.’
‘Okay, this evening, you join your new friend Maria. We’ll go and watch the sunset and get some beers. It’s really fun. Loosen up. All this,’ she says and sweeps the view, ‘is yours.’
The old woman is confused at my request. She smiles though, showing her missing teeth.
‘For the door,’ I say. ‘The door.’
She continues smiling but shows no sign of understanding.
‘No English at all?’
I wonder what I’d do. Sit outside forever? I had enough food inside me to do me this evening, maybe enough reserves to last a few days, a month maybe. Then seasons, years would pass, me leathering and fading in the sun, skeletonizing and eventually dying there, a long hot drawn-out starvation. Vultures would swoop in and peck at my crispy skin.
I take a deep breath and mime putting an imaginary key into an imaginary door, unlocking it and stepping over the imaginary threshold.
The old woman mirrors my hand and wrist movement.
‘Yes. A key. I need a key.’
‘Ah,’ the grandmother says and speaks in Indonesian before laughing. She gestures for me to follow her down a path, past wind chimes, past lush orchids and hanging baskets of pink and white hibiscus, past banana trees with limegreen stalks.
In their small thatched hut at the back of the compound, the guesthouse owner’s wife is plaiting palm leaves and breastfeeding her baby. A loud chat show with people arguing plays on the TV in front of her. The grandmother disappears into a room further on. The woman mechanically trims a piece of leaf, braids it and pins it together to make a tiny tray. She hoists the baby back to her breast and begins again.
I am mesmerized as her hands deftly move – she’s already made four of them while I stand there, neatly stacking them on top of each other. The woman keeps doing a flickering rotational glance, an owl-eye on her baby, the TV, her stitching and the big white tourist not sure of how to hold herself while waiting.
The grandmother returns. I try to display my admiration for the work of the woman by opening my eyes wider and smiling, putting my thumbs up. The grandmother picks a bit of the leaf and shows me, in slow motion, how to pin it. I attempt it but my fingers fumble. She is patient. I try again, pinning it. It is oversized but comes out okay.
She holds the key in the air with one hand and with the other she makes a gesture with her fingers splayed.
‘Yes, yes, I know. Of course. Five dollars. Here,’ I say, before returning into the vivid light of the day.
In my room, I switch on both fans and aim them at myself. I sit on the single bed I’ve been sleeping in across from the double bed that I’ve been using as a wardrobe. My rucksack is unpacked onto it. I look into the plastic bag with the takeaway food, the duty-free size dark chocolate bar and the garlic bread roll, but shut it again. Tonight there’s something to do.
In the freestanding full length mirror, I inspect my reflection. The bites are like pox. My sunburn is a deep pink and patchy. The rest of my skin that hasn’t seen the sun is bluey-white.
I shower under the tap on the wall in the bathroom. The water is cold and refreshing. I stay under it for a long time, but within moments of stepping out of it, my skin is damp with sweat again in the humid air.
The black tiled bathroom floor is flooded; the drain gasps as it chokes with the onslaught of water.
I try on different clothes and finally concede to a pastel blue sun dress. Using my tiny hand mirror, I pencil my eyes black and lips coral, evaluate myself in the big mirror. For a second, I think I might look good, then remember it doesn’t even matter, the sun will melt it off within minutes. If anyone could even see me, they’d find it hard to see past the bites and fat.
I spray a cloud of peach perfume overhead and wait for it to settle.
After I lock the door, I deliberately place the key in the front pouch of my handbag. I zip it up and immediately unzip to check if it is still there. My stomach drums slightly as I cross the courtyard to Maria’s.
Music leaks from her room. Joni Mitchell. I knock and wait. I knock again and wait. Maybe I should turn around. The sun is lying low in the sky, tempting sunset.
The music is switched off inside and Maria comes out, looking surprised. Her room is a tip with clothes strewn everywhere and a drink-stale tang.
‘I totally forgot about you,’ she says and leans over to grab a beach bag. She’s wearing a long black dress; her bright hair is startling against it. ‘You’re joining me?’
I nod weakly. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
‘Ready to get lucky lucky?’
‘What?’
Maria laughs and links my arm, she smells like vinegar. ‘No two sunsets are the same here. Such a magical place. I live in a concrete jungle in middle England, you see a tree and you’re elated. What’s your home like?’
‘I don’t really have a home.’
‘You don’t strike me as homeless. Homeless people are street smart.’
I upturn my palms and explain. ‘I lived in Dublin this past while but I’m from the countryside. I gave up my house and job to travel. My housemate Kim and her boyfriend moved into an apartment together, so it all worked out in the end. For them anyway. I don’t know where I’d call home.’
‘What was the job?’
‘I was a teacher but then did some other stuff.’
Maria raises her hand to her forehead. ‘I can’t bloody stand kids. They’re so needy and annoying. Wet all the time too. Snot or piss or spit or spillage. How do they always get themselves into those states? They’re always leaking. Ugh.’
‘The children were fine. I quit because…’ I pause and release a long sigh. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing. What I was supposed to do. Got good exam results, went to uni, got qualified, got a job, did the job for six years and then, I dunno, I felt like an alien. Like I was living an out of body experience daily. Did you ever feel disconnected?’
‘Teachers aren’t much better than kids either,’ Maria says, looking into the distance. ‘Power tripping bastards.’
She leaves the gate at the front of the guesthouse open behind her. I hesitate but jog back to shut it properly.
A merchant sells street food at a table as we walk towards the main strip. Deep fried battered something. Maria waves at him, gives him a warm smile. He offers a skewer with some peppers and white meat. I consider it. She’d be well able to do the bartering for me.
‘No, no,’ Maria says, ‘we go party. Eating is cheating.’
He laughs and shakes his head.
I continue, ‘I packed it in and moved to the city and did these silly jobs to have some money. Temping and events. Tried to figure out my goal in life. Couldn’t. I seemed to be alone in this too.’
The words stream out of my mouth; it’s the first time since I landed that I’ve spoken more than two or three polite sentences to someone. I can’t seem to stem myself, even though I know I’m talking too much.
‘Everyone has their shit together. Well, except those who visibly don’t but at least those guys, they have something to aim for, to get clean or get off the streets or get work or whatever. I haven’t a clue. Everyone started getting married and having kids. I felt no pressure to do that.’
Maria sniffs. ‘I don’t care about those things.’
As we walk the high street, Maria effortlessly rejects the salespeople’s offers with a flick of her wrist or a look.
‘Do you think it means I don’t want to be a mum? A wife? I’ve been told it does. I could have done the whole get a house thing, have a lovely big wedding, live in the suburbs, get a new car every year. A B C D. I started feeling trapped, suffocating. My old housemate Kim, the one with the boyfriend, she said travelling had cleared her head. Made her see life differently. That’s what I decided to do. That’s why I’m here. I don’t even want to be here. I’m so uncomfortable all the time.’