HILE WALKING BESIDE THE BEACH IN KUTA, Bali, my last night in Indonesia, I was finding it hard to convince the street vendors selling their cheap ($1) watches or taxi services (or even suggesting that they might have a female friend I would find interesting) to leave me alone, so I decided to cross the street to get away from them. That's when I saw him.

My first reaction was that it was some kind of trick. This was Kuta Beach. Young men and women come from all over the world to surf and party. They wander the alleys and lanes wearing very little, putting their tanned, muscular, perfectly shaped bodies on display. While I was still in Java, two servants, who had given me a massage, told me that my body was not perfect, that my stomach reminded them of that of a toad. That was an unflattering first.

They also said they would like to visit Bali. Said one, "I would wear sunglasses and look like a tourist."

Having been to Bali, I knew there were no sunglasses in the world that would make this young servant from the countryside look like a tourist. My suggestion to this young Muslim was that he best leave the sunglasses alone, since they would give more the appearance of him being a terrorist than a tourist.

And now in Bali, with hundreds, even thousands, of these tourists walking around (who still had several years before their flat tummies would remind anyone of a toad's), I stood looking at one of the most imperfect bodies I had ever seen. Or was it just a gimmick, the likes of which I never imagined? I must stop and talk to him, I thought, possibly even sneak a look behind him and see how he does it.

But my presence drew the attention of passersby almost immediately, so I sat down on the street about four feet away from him. It was about 8:00 in the evening, and since it was dark, we were not as noticeable as before. But also being this close, I could see that this was obviously no trick; the man had no legs--none. He seemed to have very little body past his waist. He looked as if he were on the beach--half buried in the sand.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Fine."

"Do you come here often?"

"Every day."

"Where do you live?"

"In a mosque about a half mile away."

Finally I asked how he lost his legs. He had been born with no legs. He rested on a pair of flip-flops and just sat there in the dirt, hoping someone would give him money.

"Does someone bring you here?"

"No, I come alone." He used his hands as feet, and walked on them, suspending the full weight of his half body in the air on hands and arms. He said it took about 15 minutes to "walk" a half mile.

What Could I Do?
I began wondering how much money it would take to help the man. Obviously, no amount of money would give him legs. I just sat there dazed. I wondered about prosthetic legs and asked if he had any stumps. His shirt hung on his shoulders and gathered about him on the ground; he lifted it and showed me. He wore a simple pair of briefs; from either leg hole there protruded nothing save a round mound of flesh to which no prosthetics could be attached.

He told me he had attended school, but to what advantage, I wondered. He could read and write, but how could someone go into a professional setting so disfigured?

Thinking of persons in the United States who cannot walk, I realized he needed a wheelchair.

"Oh," he said, "that's a dream I will never realize. One day's begging gives me barely enough money to keep me from starving."

"Then," I said, without even thinking about how it could be accomplished, "we must go and buy you a wheelchair."

Where to Begin?
Adjis, the 37-year-old legless man, told me that we could catch a bus for only 40 cents each into the city of Denpasar. One person, a taxi driver, had stood nearby during the entire conversation. "I'll take you to find a wheelchair," he offered immediately.

Adjis whispered, "Make sure he uses the meter," which Wayan, the driver, agreed to do.

Before I had even gotten to my feet, Adjis was beside the back door of the taxi, and before I could walk around to the other side of the car, he was in the car with the door shut. His ability to transport and lift himself without any aid was a fascination.

The drive into Denpasar took about 20 minutes. When we were approaching the city, I realized that I didn't even know where to go at 9:15 at night to buy a wheelchair. When I mentioned this, Adjis said, "They sell them at the 24-hour pharmacy; I've seen them there."

Wayan knew the way, and we drove there. I had hoped that Adjis would just stay in the car while I went in, bought a wheelchair, brought it out, and put it in the trunk. But no, the taxi had hardly stopped when Adjis was out of the car, bounding across the parking lot.

In the pharmacy about 15 people were watching television in a waiting area while their prescriptions were being filled. When Adjis came through the door, the TV lost all its appeal. Together we went up to the counter. Adjis was just over knee-high, and I had to do the talking. It hadn't occurred to me how difficult this would be. I found myself hardly able to speak as I told the gawking woman that I wanted to buy a wheelchair.

"There are none in stock," she explained. "But you can order one tonight and pick it up tomorrow."

And I could have done exactly that--in another place; but not Indonesia. Adjis would never see his wheelchair if we didn't get it together, now, tonight. I explained that at 7:30 the next morning I would be leaving for Hong Kong, so we needed it tonight.

"You'll have to wait," she stated.

I looked at Adjis. His face said that he had already waited 37 years, and that he knew it was foolish to have hoped for such a simple and sensible solution to his problem.

As we left the pharmacy everyone behind us began to jabber. Back in the taxi I thought of the scores of wheelchairs in the Adventist hospital that I had brought in a shipping container from the United States with other hospital equipment. If we were there, I reasoned, they'd just give us one.

"Are you going back to Kuta Beach?" Wayan asked.

"No," I told him. "Take us to the nearest hospital."

Men on a Mission
The gawking crowd was larger at the hospital. The clerk in the reception area listened to my request to purchase a wheelchair, but assured me that it was impossible to do so on such short notice. He called the emergency room doctor to come to speak with us.

Questions for Reflection 1. When do you know an object is worth pursuing in spite of the obstacles encountered in its pursuit? 2. When trying to help someone, have you ever become more deeply involved than you intended? Was it ultimately a positive or a negative experience? 3. What lessons could be learned from the fact that a Muslim, a Hindu, and a Christian were joined in a common purpose? 4. Use your imagination to chart the long-term effects of these seemingly spontaneous acts of generosity.

Dr. Wartawan was Hindu (the name actually means "reporter"; I suggested that had his parents known his future, they could have simply named him "doctor"). Over each ear he sported a flower petal, making him look like some young optimistic creature from a perfect and happy forest. But he too said there was nothing that could be done before the morrow.

"I'm going into the waiting room to watch TV," Adjis said as he disappeared down the hall. After he left, I turned to Dr. Wartawan, who watched with me as Adjis propelled himself out of the room and onto one of the benches where about 30 others were waiting and watching.

"I can't imagine sitting in the dirt in only my shirt and underwear for even a day, walking on my hands, going around the city, through the traffic," I told Wartawan.

He went to a telephone and made a call. His mother, he told me, had recently died. They had a brand-new wheelchair at home that she had used. But Wartawan's sister refused to part with the wheelchair for sentimental reasons.

Then he told the receptionist, "Find out where the hospital gets its wheelchairs." Within minutes the receptionist called the number. Yes, a wheelchair could be purchased tonight. The vendor would bring it to the hospital. When I explained that I had only a credit card, and not the $200 cash the wheelchair cost, he said it could not be purchased that night. He would take it to the pharmacy in the morning.

After trying to work out something with the hospital cashier to no avail (she needed permission, it was already after 10:00, and those she needed to ask were already at home in bed), I called the man who sold wheelchairs. "Can you deliver it to Kuta Beach?" I asked, thinking I could get money from an automated teller machine there.

"No."

I ended up having to go to Kuta, make a transaction at the ATM, come back to the hospital, and get the chair.

Time to Celebrate
In the taxi, on the way back to Kuta Beach with a wheelchair in the trunk of the car, and Adjis, beaming from ear to ear and talking nonstop without pausing for breath, I decided that we must find a restaurant and celebrate. I knew just the place: The Kori. At The Kori everyone eats comfortably, sitting on grass mats on the floor.

And so it came to pass that the three of us: a Muslim beggar, a Hindu taxi driver, and an Adventist minister, completely unaware of jihads and differences of doctrine, all united and rejoiced over a wheelchair, impossible to obtain (so we had been told), and sat on the floor waiting for a meal to be served.

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Doug Martin serves the church at the Hongkong Adventist Hospital as a pastor. He and his wife, Jeri, lived and worked in Indonesia for seven years.