Still, Wayan needs to buy a house, and I'm getting worried that it's not happening. I don't understand why it's not happening, but it absolutely needs to happen. Felipe and I have stepped in now. We found a realtor who could take us around and show us properties, but Wayan hasn't liked anything we've shown her. I keep telling her, "Wayan, it's important that we buy something. I'm leaving here in September, and I need to let my friends know before I leave that their money actually went into a home for you. And you need to get a roof over your head before you get evicted."

"Not so simple to buy land in Bali," she keeps telling me. "Not like to walk into a bar and buy a beer. Can take long time."

"We don't have a long time, Wayan."

She just shrugs, and I remember again about the Balinese concept of "rubber time," meaning that time is a very relative and bouncy idea. "Four weeks" doesn't really mean to Wayan what it means to me. One day to Wayan isn't necessarily composed of twenty-four hours, either; sometimes it's longer, sometimes it's shorter, depending upon the spiritual and emotional nature of that day. As with my medicine man and his mysterious age, sometimes you count the days, sometimes you weigh them.

Meanwhile, it also turns out that I have completely underestimated how expensive it is to buy property in Bali. Because everything is so cheap here, you would assume that land is also undervalued, but that's a mistaken assumption. To buy land in Bali—especially in Ubud—can get almost as expensive as buying land in Westchester County, in Tokyo, or on Rodeo Drive. Which is completely illogical because once you own the property you can't make back your money on it in any traditionally logical way. You may pay approximately $25,000 for an aro of land (an aro is a land measurement roughly translating into English as: "Slightly bigger than the parking spot for an SUV"), and then you can build a little shop there where you will sell one batik sarong a day to one tourist a day for the rest of your life, for a profit of about seventy-five cents a hit. It's senseless.

But the Balinese value their land with a passion that extends beyond the reaches of eco-nomic sense. Since land ownership is traditionally the only wealth that Balinese recognize as legitimate, property is valued in the same way as the Masai value cattle or as my five-year-old niece values lip gloss: namely, that you cannot have enough of it, that once you have claimed it you must never let it go, and that all of it in the world should rightfully belong to you.

Moreover—as I discover throughout the month of August, during my Narnia-like voyage into the intricacies of Indonesian real estate—it's almost impossible to find out when land is actually for sale around here. Balinese who are selling land typically don't like other people to know that their land is up for sale. Now, you would think it might be advantageous to advertise this fact, but the Balinese don't see it that way. If you're a Balinese farmer and you're selling your land, it means you are desperate for cash, and this is humiliating. Also, if your neighbors and family find out that you actually sold some land, then they'll assume you came into some money, and everyone will be asking if they can borrow that money. So land becomes avail-able for sale only by . . . rumor. And all these land deals are executed under strange veils of secrecy and deception.

The Western expatriates around here—hearing that I'm trying to buy land for Wayan—start gathering around me, offering cautionary tales based on their own nightmarish experiences. They warn me that you can never really be certain what's going on when it comes to real estate around here. The land you are "buying" may not actually "belong" to the person who is "selling" it. The guy who showed you the property might not even be the owner, but only the disgruntled nephew of the owner, trying to get one over on his uncle because of some old family dispute. Don't expect that the boundaries of your property will ever be clear. The land you buy for your dream house may later be declared "too close to a temple" to allow a building permit (and it's difficult, in this small country with an estimated 20,000 temples, to find any land that is not too close to a temple).

可是大姐还是必须买房子，而我开始担心这不会发生。我不清楚为何未发生，但是非发生不可。斐利贝和我如今已插手干预。我们找到一名房地产经纪人，带我们四处看地产，但大姐都不喜欢。我不断告诉她："大姐，你非买不可。我九月离开这里。在我离开前，必须让我的朋友们知道他们的钱确实为你买了家。而你也必须在店面被收回之前，有个栖身之地。"

"在巴厘岛买地不太简单，"她不断告诉我，"可不像走进酒吧买杯啤酒。这有可能花上很长一段时间。"

"我们没有很长一段时间，大姐。"

她只是耸耸肩，我再次想起巴厘人的"弹性时间"观，亦即时间是相对性且弹性化的概念。"四个礼拜"对大姐的意义不见得和我相同。一天对大姐来说也不见得由二十四小时所组成；有时较长，有时较短，视当天的心情与情绪特性而定。就像我的药师和他谜样的年纪，有时计算日子，有时秤日子的重量。

同时，我也终于完全了解在巴厘岛买地产相当花钱。由于这儿所有的东西都很便宜，使你以为地价也很低，然而这却是个错误的假设。在巴厘岛——尤其在乌布镇——买地几乎可能像在威斯特郡、在东京，或在比佛利山庄名店街（RodeoDrive）买地一样贵。这完全不合逻辑，因为一旦拥有一块地，你却无法以任何传统逻辑可想象的方式回收你的钱。你可能花了两万五千块钱左右买一"阿罗"（aro）的地（"阿罗"是一种土地度量衡，大略"比休旅车停车位稍大一点"），而后你在那儿盖一家小店面，每天卖一条蜡染纱龙裙给一位游客，如此持续一生，每次获利七角五分不到，毫无道理可言。

可是巴厘岛人对其土地的热爱，远远超越经济逻辑可以理解的范围。由于土地拥有权在传统上是巴厘岛人唯一认可的合法财富，如同马塞族人对牛的看重或我的五岁外甥女对唇蜜的重视：也就是说，怎么样都不嫌多，一旦拥有，必然永远不会放手，一切都名正言顺归你所有。

此外——我在八月期间深入研究错综复杂的印尼房地产后才发现——想搞清楚土地究竟何时出售，几乎不可能。巴厘人出售土地通常不喜欢别人知道他们有地要卖。你认为发布这项消息不无好处，但巴厘人不做如是想。假如一位巴厘农民想卖地，意谓他急需现金，这是件羞耻的事。而且如果邻居和家人发现你卖了地，他们会以为你手头宽裕，于是人人都想问你借钱。因此出售土地仅靠……口耳相传。这些土地交易都秘密进行。

此地的西方海外人士听说我想为大姐买地，开始围在我身边告诫我，提供他们本身的不愉快经验。他们警告我，关于此地的房地产事务，你永远无法真实确知怎么回事。你购买的土地可能不是卖方拥有的地。带你看地的人甚至可能不是地主，而是地主愤愤不平的侄儿，只因为昔日某件家庭纠纷而想报复伯父。不要期待你的地产界线一清二楚。你为自己梦想中的家园所买来的土地，可能后来被宣布为"太接近寺庙"，因而无法取得建筑许可（在这个寺庙估计多达两万间的小国家中，想找到一块不太靠近寺庙的土地可不容易）。