Perhaps we are all in the same country. Nevertheless, it’s goodbye to some. Bid farewell to the famous four before the fieldtrip to our placements. Rachel, Andy, and Sonia are short terms thus didn’t return. The rest of us ship out tomorrow. Indonesia is big and travel difficult. By air. By sea. Some will be separated by days. Others hours. Most, however, have someone, somekind of support network, within reach.
We wished each other safe travels over dinner. Our last dinner together. In Sanur in on of the beach restaurants. It will be exciting to hear of the other’s placements, work, and living. Each will find themselves in unique situations.
For the past two days I ‘borrowed’ a resort’s facilities. An escape. A holiday. I relish the opportunity to bear my legs and shoulders. I wear my shorts. I wear my strategically wrapped scarf-top. Away from the tourist, modesty is appreciated. I practiced my bahasa with the staff. Lounging in the sun, sandwiched between the pool and sea. My only cost the taxi ride and dinner. Which do indeed, however, add up quickly. My bank account will be happier when I leave Bali.
This could be my last ‘fast’ internet connection for sometime. I don’t know what awaits on the other side of the runway. I am paying for internet. And it’s expensive. For Indonesian standards. But I wanted to live the total lifestyle of the jet-set. I want to play the role. Beach umbrellas, coffee, bread, fresh veg salad, chocolate cake, and internet. I’m worth it.
I confess. It’s Italian espresso. Not Balinese Kopi. I know it’s hurting the local farmers and economy. I know it’s contributing to global warming (it’s presumably flown in not brought by boat). I know. This is the last for a while… promise.
A few last bits and bobs. How will it all fit into my backpack? I’m doubtful. But that’s not on the top of my to-do list. It will get done. Tomorrow I am on the plane, in route to a new home. Coming to Bali was a cultural adventure. Going to Flores, will be perhaps more so.
explore
Saturday, April 19, 2008
In search of gluttony
One last hurrah weekend on Bali
Two days of surfing
Three lip synching drag queens
Four sunset beers on the white sand beach
Five VSO volunteers
Six night clubs
Seven salsa dancing partners
Eight fashion show models
Nine hours of sleep over 2 days
Ten times too much Rupiah spent.
And the memories priceless, right? I should write commercials. My request simple. I wanted people. Lots of people. I wanted lattes. Lots of lattes. I wanted surfing, shopping, and dancing. I wanted to sleep in and then lounge on the beach. I wanted to end it with a bang.
A weekend of gluttony and everything not Flores.
There is Indonesia and then there is Bali. Or at least the quintessential tourist Bali… the Bali that has the reputation, the Bali that people flock to for holiday. It’s different. We sought out ‘Bali’… correction, we conquered ‘Bali’!
We rendezvous at ‘The Monument’ in Kuta. The monument being that in honor of those killed in the Bali/Kuta bombings. An eerie feeling to sit waiting, quietly, on the once premise of a booming club. Pictures of those lost stimulate a sense of realness. Just kids really. Perhaps on a gap year or holiday. Australia, UK, Netherlands, USA, South Africa, Korea, Indonesia. Several years on and tourist are just starting to come back in force. I read in the local news (an English version… it takes days for me to translate thus the news would be out-of-date) that tourism in Indonesia is up 27% from last year. Nevertheless, the further east one goes from the island of Bali, the further away one goes from western-ization and the pale faces of tourists.
Two days of surfing
Three lip synching drag queens
Four sunset beers on the white sand beach
Five VSO volunteers
Six night clubs
Seven salsa dancing partners
Eight fashion show models
Nine hours of sleep over 2 days
Ten times too much Rupiah spent.
And the memories priceless, right? I should write commercials. My request simple. I wanted people. Lots of people. I wanted lattes. Lots of lattes. I wanted surfing, shopping, and dancing. I wanted to sleep in and then lounge on the beach. I wanted to end it with a bang.
A weekend of gluttony and everything not Flores.
There is Indonesia and then there is Bali. Or at least the quintessential tourist Bali… the Bali that has the reputation, the Bali that people flock to for holiday. It’s different. We sought out ‘Bali’… correction, we conquered ‘Bali’!
We rendezvous at ‘The Monument’ in Kuta. The monument being that in honor of those killed in the Bali/Kuta bombings. An eerie feeling to sit waiting, quietly, on the once premise of a booming club. Pictures of those lost stimulate a sense of realness. Just kids really. Perhaps on a gap year or holiday. Australia, UK, Netherlands, USA, South Africa, Korea, Indonesia. Several years on and tourist are just starting to come back in force. I read in the local news (an English version… it takes days for me to translate thus the news would be out-of-date) that tourism in Indonesia is up 27% from last year. Nevertheless, the further east one goes from the island of Bali, the further away one goes from western-ization and the pale faces of tourists.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Mikal goes to work… sort of… for a week… and a few ‘bonus’ days
Like I said, I am hoarding blogs… so it’s long. Waiting for the opportunity for internet access. Somehow satisfying and disconnecting. A sense of freedom and constraint. It’s been a long wait. Nevertheless, it may perhaps have only been a brief stint of disengagement when put into the scope of the next couple of years.
Day 1
Ah! Where are the words? How do I tell them? I need my dictionary. What’s the Bahasa Indonesia equivalent for “pull over now, I am going to spew”?
The road snakes through the unfamiliar darkness of Flores island. Arrived into Ende, one of the ‘largest’ towns on Flores and the nearest airport. The plane small. We flew low, so low you could count the buildings on each island. Island after island, each boasting a definitive white ring separating the blue waters and green topography. Volcanic craters and mountains evident. It seemed as if we were landing in the sea. Fuzzy green mountains rise surprisingly straight out of the water. We hit the runway, hard and fast. The single runway of the single room airport, the only flight of the day.
I wasn’t alone. And neither did it seem like anyone was on the flight… all seemed to now one another. My placement supervisor… the ‘YMTM boss’… and two others from the organization (YMTM) were on the flight. Pak Yosuf, the boss, had come to our pre-departure employeer workshop on Bali. The others returning from an organic rice training. They snapped photos with me as we deboarded the craft. In true movie star fashion.
To my delight, the organization has a pick-up and driver. A luxury. We pile our (ok, mainly my ginormous bag) into the bed of the truck and set off for Bajawa. Three and half hour trip. As we head along the road out of Ende an off-road motor cross event finishes with the release of hordes of people. A motor bike traffic jam commences. And we are stuck in it’s midst. To the left an immediate drop into the sea. To the right landslides cover the opposing lane of traffic… left side driving in Indonesia. Although, lane directions are seemingly merely a suggestion here. Motor bikes speed in and around.
Deadlock. People keep motioning to the tree above us. I think they may be scared it might topple down the eroded cliff onto the traffic. Admittedly it doesn’t appear to be out the realm of possibility.
Bemos, vans used for local transport, are bursting with people… inside and out. People cling to the outside and sit on the roof. Dump trucks are filled with people. People. People. People!
It’s like being royalty in a parade. They slow down and stare. The white girl. Shouts of “Hello Mister” and “ How are you”.
Slowly, we move forward with the help of the arriving police. Although, it seems a bit like social hour for them as they chat with the motorists.
Drop.
Thud.
Our front tire completely disappears into a massive hole leading to the sea below. Several men jump to help. 1, 2, 3, lift. Back on track.
The sky turns dark and ominous. The luggage is squeezed into the cab (thankfully extended). We squish.
Three stops along the way to let off several passengers we have acquired in route. Two stops on curvy road for Telly, one of my local colleagues, to hang her head out the window. I get a gold star. I held it in.
Day 2
Bread, chocolate sprinkles, and coffee. The breakfast of champions. Seems to be what Indonesia thinks westerners like to eat first thing in the morning.
I was warned that Bajawa was “dingin sekali” (very cold). Perhaps very cold is a bit of exaggeration but nonetheless, it is a much cooler morning than those in Bali. I stare down the chilly water. Finally talking myself into a compromise of washing merely my hair and slathering on extra deodorant.
First office meeting and introductions:
* Most times include minutes allotted from translations
People shuffle into work around 9ish.
30 minutes trying to get LCD projector working. The problem. The cable is plugged in backwards… must be utilized frequently.
20 minute overview of cashew nut projects, vision, and mission
5 minute translation of the term ‘bokashi’… organic fertilizer, aka cow poo.
Break for coffee and donuts.
30 minute discussion about my schedule this week. No translation provided.
I try to ask who the other people are, we are 7. The answer is a detailed description of the organizational structure. Pak Yosef must think I am the world’s worst listeners since he has explained this twice before. I still don’t know who these people.
Announced that the meeting is over. No one leave the ‘conference table’… which distinctively resembles a ping pong table. Green and complete with holding pockets for a net, but no net.
Tjeered arrives. Another VSO volunteer in Bajawa working on GIS / land mapping with the local government. Our placements are collaborating. He doesn’t go into work today since it seems someone has misplaced the office key.
Several read the newspaper. Others send numerous text messages. All chat casually.
Lunch arrives.
12 noon, everyone leaves. I sense the workday has finished.
Day 3
Rain
Fog
Mountains
Curves
Steep cliffs
Left sided driving
One lane road, two way traffic
Children plan on the brim
Livestock meander
Manual
Would you give me the keys to the company truck? Correction… would you insist I drive the company truck? In America, a high liability. In Flores, no problem.
How can I explain more clearly why this is all a bad idea?
Spent the day in one of the local villages. Like being on a television special on the National Geographic or Travel Channels. Fantastic.
I was introduced with “from America”, “knowledge”, “help us”, “expert”… whoa. Unemployed to expert overnight. I think we may need to clarify my credentials.
Next stop… the cashew processing facility. We pull up and honk, as you do in Indonesia until someone comes outside. Five children race to the truck. It morphs into a jungle gym… a new toy. Their parents shuffle down. The nuts are first dried. Their shell identical to the cashews we see in the shops. A single woman sits down at a small apparatus mounted to a table. It’s engulfed by the large empty room. Just one room. Just one woman. She slips on rubber gloves. Pluss down the lever onto the hard exterior of the cashew. It cracks. She pries out the nut with a flat screwdriver. Carefully. The interior of a cashew shell is toxic. Thus the gloves and a quick removal. The nuts are dried in the sun… length depends on just how sunny. The packaging room. Common. Nothing industrial or commercial about it. A vacuum sealer sits on the floor… resembles the once on the home shopping channel.
Just something to think about the next time you crunch down onto a cashew. Or wonder why they are so much more expensive than peanuts.
Day 4
When it rain it pours. Not good for the main mode of transport… motorbike. Luckily there is Indonesian hospitality. The sky darkened. Then let loose. We pull the motor over to the side of the road and scamper to the nearest house. Apparently, it’s the norm to provide shelter. Two boys bring us (and the 3 others seeking refugee) chairs. The rain thundered loud on the tin roof. In the outside kitchen, chickens roosted on the pots where they undoubtedly will one day be their final resting place. Ducks waddled gleefully in the wet grasses. Bird flu may be unavoidable.
Day 6
Knee deep in bokasi (see day 2). Literally. Checking out the new organic rice patties on the north coast. More bird flu… and perhaps malaria, too.
Day 7
The hotel guy was just speaking to me in English. No idea what he is asking. My brain is still trying to sift through a mess of Bahasa Indonesia. Please in Indonesian.
An office outing today to the nearby hot springs. A quick detour to meet on e of the community organizational people. 20 minutes to track him down. 10 minute chat. In total a 30 minute workday.
Not at all like the hot spring excursion in Lovina (see previous post). Thankfully! Tranquil and natural. The pool shallow and rocky. The warm water bubbling up near the center of the circular pool. This time I’m wiser. I left the bikini in Bali, opting to wear the local attire of shorts and t-shirt. For the locals this is a bath. Hence they lounge about and wash as such. A bit awkward, at best, with co-workers. My colleagues sit, splash, and rub themselves with rocks. I timidly try to imitate. It feels a little bit like how I envision a monkey feels at the zoo.
Day 8
As if sitting in the theater of a planetarium. Flashbacks of visits to COSI and elementary field trips. The sky dark and the stars distinct.
Still on Flores. In Ende. I think it’s a conspiracy between the hotels and airlines. Flight cancelled. Admittedly, I was warned. It’s normal during rainy season.
A beautiful morning. Sitting in the airport waiting for the one flight of the day. The clouds turn gray and rain comes down. The runway morphed into a chocolaty brown river. We wait. The airport smoky. It’s like going to a bar before they became smoke-free… without the alcohol, without the fun. The men puff away.
The check-in process lacks order. People pounce on the guy behind the desk as he flips the sign to ‘open’. They toss their paper tickets across. No swift electronic check-in. It’s a strange feeling to relinquish the only proof of being on the flight. The tickets stacked together, names noted, and dates scribbled… by hand, individually. One by one the desk man reads the names for people to reclaim their tickets. Is this what life was like before terrorist attacks?
The sky cleared, the sun bursting through. The river miraculously ceased and the runway reemerged. Then the flight announcement. Cancelled. Due to weather.
Again, without order, we write our names and phone number on the back of a scrap paper. The deskman can’t tell me when we will leave. Tomorrow he thinks. But assures me he will send a text message with the details. Call me crazy but I see several flaws in this process.
My text message never arrives.
Day 10
Two days later. Still in Ende. Back in the airport. Hoping. I continuously visualize boarding the plane in the hopes of positively manifesting the future through optimistic thought.
It works.
Day 1
Ah! Where are the words? How do I tell them? I need my dictionary. What’s the Bahasa Indonesia equivalent for “pull over now, I am going to spew”?
The road snakes through the unfamiliar darkness of Flores island. Arrived into Ende, one of the ‘largest’ towns on Flores and the nearest airport. The plane small. We flew low, so low you could count the buildings on each island. Island after island, each boasting a definitive white ring separating the blue waters and green topography. Volcanic craters and mountains evident. It seemed as if we were landing in the sea. Fuzzy green mountains rise surprisingly straight out of the water. We hit the runway, hard and fast. The single runway of the single room airport, the only flight of the day.
I wasn’t alone. And neither did it seem like anyone was on the flight… all seemed to now one another. My placement supervisor… the ‘YMTM boss’… and two others from the organization (YMTM) were on the flight. Pak Yosuf, the boss, had come to our pre-departure employeer workshop on Bali. The others returning from an organic rice training. They snapped photos with me as we deboarded the craft. In true movie star fashion.
To my delight, the organization has a pick-up and driver. A luxury. We pile our (ok, mainly my ginormous bag) into the bed of the truck and set off for Bajawa. Three and half hour trip. As we head along the road out of Ende an off-road motor cross event finishes with the release of hordes of people. A motor bike traffic jam commences. And we are stuck in it’s midst. To the left an immediate drop into the sea. To the right landslides cover the opposing lane of traffic… left side driving in Indonesia. Although, lane directions are seemingly merely a suggestion here. Motor bikes speed in and around.
Deadlock. People keep motioning to the tree above us. I think they may be scared it might topple down the eroded cliff onto the traffic. Admittedly it doesn’t appear to be out the realm of possibility.
Bemos, vans used for local transport, are bursting with people… inside and out. People cling to the outside and sit on the roof. Dump trucks are filled with people. People. People. People!
It’s like being royalty in a parade. They slow down and stare. The white girl. Shouts of “Hello Mister” and “ How are you”.
Slowly, we move forward with the help of the arriving police. Although, it seems a bit like social hour for them as they chat with the motorists.
Drop.
Thud.
Our front tire completely disappears into a massive hole leading to the sea below. Several men jump to help. 1, 2, 3, lift. Back on track.
The sky turns dark and ominous. The luggage is squeezed into the cab (thankfully extended). We squish.
Three stops along the way to let off several passengers we have acquired in route. Two stops on curvy road for Telly, one of my local colleagues, to hang her head out the window. I get a gold star. I held it in.
Day 2
Bread, chocolate sprinkles, and coffee. The breakfast of champions. Seems to be what Indonesia thinks westerners like to eat first thing in the morning.
I was warned that Bajawa was “dingin sekali” (very cold). Perhaps very cold is a bit of exaggeration but nonetheless, it is a much cooler morning than those in Bali. I stare down the chilly water. Finally talking myself into a compromise of washing merely my hair and slathering on extra deodorant.
First office meeting and introductions:
* Most times include minutes allotted from translations
People shuffle into work around 9ish.
30 minutes trying to get LCD projector working. The problem. The cable is plugged in backwards… must be utilized frequently.
20 minute overview of cashew nut projects, vision, and mission
5 minute translation of the term ‘bokashi’… organic fertilizer, aka cow poo.
Break for coffee and donuts.
30 minute discussion about my schedule this week. No translation provided.
I try to ask who the other people are, we are 7. The answer is a detailed description of the organizational structure. Pak Yosef must think I am the world’s worst listeners since he has explained this twice before. I still don’t know who these people.
Announced that the meeting is over. No one leave the ‘conference table’… which distinctively resembles a ping pong table. Green and complete with holding pockets for a net, but no net.
Tjeered arrives. Another VSO volunteer in Bajawa working on GIS / land mapping with the local government. Our placements are collaborating. He doesn’t go into work today since it seems someone has misplaced the office key.
Several read the newspaper. Others send numerous text messages. All chat casually.
Lunch arrives.
12 noon, everyone leaves. I sense the workday has finished.
Day 3
Rain
Fog
Mountains
Curves
Steep cliffs
Left sided driving
One lane road, two way traffic
Children plan on the brim
Livestock meander
Manual
Would you give me the keys to the company truck? Correction… would you insist I drive the company truck? In America, a high liability. In Flores, no problem.
How can I explain more clearly why this is all a bad idea?
Spent the day in one of the local villages. Like being on a television special on the National Geographic or Travel Channels. Fantastic.
I was introduced with “from America”, “knowledge”, “help us”, “expert”… whoa. Unemployed to expert overnight. I think we may need to clarify my credentials.
Next stop… the cashew processing facility. We pull up and honk, as you do in Indonesia until someone comes outside. Five children race to the truck. It morphs into a jungle gym… a new toy. Their parents shuffle down. The nuts are first dried. Their shell identical to the cashews we see in the shops. A single woman sits down at a small apparatus mounted to a table. It’s engulfed by the large empty room. Just one room. Just one woman. She slips on rubber gloves. Pluss down the lever onto the hard exterior of the cashew. It cracks. She pries out the nut with a flat screwdriver. Carefully. The interior of a cashew shell is toxic. Thus the gloves and a quick removal. The nuts are dried in the sun… length depends on just how sunny. The packaging room. Common. Nothing industrial or commercial about it. A vacuum sealer sits on the floor… resembles the once on the home shopping channel.
Just something to think about the next time you crunch down onto a cashew. Or wonder why they are so much more expensive than peanuts.
Day 4
When it rain it pours. Not good for the main mode of transport… motorbike. Luckily there is Indonesian hospitality. The sky darkened. Then let loose. We pull the motor over to the side of the road and scamper to the nearest house. Apparently, it’s the norm to provide shelter. Two boys bring us (and the 3 others seeking refugee) chairs. The rain thundered loud on the tin roof. In the outside kitchen, chickens roosted on the pots where they undoubtedly will one day be their final resting place. Ducks waddled gleefully in the wet grasses. Bird flu may be unavoidable.
Day 6
Knee deep in bokasi (see day 2). Literally. Checking out the new organic rice patties on the north coast. More bird flu… and perhaps malaria, too.
Day 7
The hotel guy was just speaking to me in English. No idea what he is asking. My brain is still trying to sift through a mess of Bahasa Indonesia. Please in Indonesian.
An office outing today to the nearby hot springs. A quick detour to meet on e of the community organizational people. 20 minutes to track him down. 10 minute chat. In total a 30 minute workday.
Not at all like the hot spring excursion in Lovina (see previous post). Thankfully! Tranquil and natural. The pool shallow and rocky. The warm water bubbling up near the center of the circular pool. This time I’m wiser. I left the bikini in Bali, opting to wear the local attire of shorts and t-shirt. For the locals this is a bath. Hence they lounge about and wash as such. A bit awkward, at best, with co-workers. My colleagues sit, splash, and rub themselves with rocks. I timidly try to imitate. It feels a little bit like how I envision a monkey feels at the zoo.
Day 8
As if sitting in the theater of a planetarium. Flashbacks of visits to COSI and elementary field trips. The sky dark and the stars distinct.
Still on Flores. In Ende. I think it’s a conspiracy between the hotels and airlines. Flight cancelled. Admittedly, I was warned. It’s normal during rainy season.
A beautiful morning. Sitting in the airport waiting for the one flight of the day. The clouds turn gray and rain comes down. The runway morphed into a chocolaty brown river. We wait. The airport smoky. It’s like going to a bar before they became smoke-free… without the alcohol, without the fun. The men puff away.
The check-in process lacks order. People pounce on the guy behind the desk as he flips the sign to ‘open’. They toss their paper tickets across. No swift electronic check-in. It’s a strange feeling to relinquish the only proof of being on the flight. The tickets stacked together, names noted, and dates scribbled… by hand, individually. One by one the desk man reads the names for people to reclaim their tickets. Is this what life was like before terrorist attacks?
The sky cleared, the sun bursting through. The river miraculously ceased and the runway reemerged. Then the flight announcement. Cancelled. Due to weather.
Again, without order, we write our names and phone number on the back of a scrap paper. The deskman can’t tell me when we will leave. Tomorrow he thinks. But assures me he will send a text message with the details. Call me crazy but I see several flaws in this process.
My text message never arrives.
Day 10
Two days later. Still in Ende. Back in the airport. Hoping. I continuously visualize boarding the plane in the hopes of positively manifesting the future through optimistic thought.
It works.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
A Cup of Java
Backdate to April 23... I am hoarding blogs.
How quick a move from necessity to luxury. Running water and reliable transport. Funny... not funny haha, but rather funny huh.
I don’t dare to look under the bed. Whatever noise a cockroach makes, I think I hear it... times 20. The walls a dingy stained yellow. ‘Love’ scribbled and smeared in black pen. A baron (but large!) bed. A bottom sheet and pillow. Just. A few stray long hairs remain from the previous guest. The street life of the Sosrowijayan area of Yogyakarta bustles with street vendors selling their infamous batik wears. Andongs (horse and cart) and becaks (guy on bike with cart) the local transports of choice. As night sets in so do an abundant of warungs (street food sellers). Their straw mats cover the sidewalks for people to sit.
Arrived on Java a week ago. The 12 VSO ‘newbies’ hand-in-hand. Each spring all the VSO volunteers across Indonesia congregate for an annual conference. A time to share, learn, network, speak in English, and generally relish in a bit of western debauchery. For many the opportunity to socialize with co-patriots and fellow volunteers, as well as the general escape to civilization, is rare. Some volunteer as a career move. Some volunteer for adventure. Some volunteer on mission of personal discovery. Some volunteer in an effort to make a difference in our ever-fluid global community. Some are simply a motley… me. Doctors and social workers. Management consultants and teachers. Computer wizards and engineers. Nutritionists and family planners. Foresters and agriculturalists. Retired, mid-career, and new entries.
Saturday was a day to ‘give back’… a visible contribution. Is being here as a volunteer insufficient? We split. Part to an orphanage to paint. Part to plant trees in an effort to ‘off-set our global footprint’ and reduce erosion on Gunung Merapi (Mountain of Fire). I was excited for something physical after several weeks of being quite sedentary in classes, trapped by the Bali heat. The sun bright as we arrived. Before we spring into action, the Indonesian formalities. The important village leaders file onto stage and sit cross legged. Each given an opportunity for a windy address. Summary: Welcome. Sweet tea and snacks are passed around. Individually wrapped and packaged. What happened to environmentalism? The notions of reduce, reuse, and recycle completely foreign.
2 hours later.
We climb up the hillside through vegetable patches. Cabbage. Cauliflower. Carrots. Onions. A mist conceals the blue sky. Just in time. We arrive at our tree planting destination each with 10 seedlings in tow. The rain cuts loose. Our matching 4-H green VSO t-shirts darkening with moisture. The locals linger under umbrellas. They try to coax us into smiling photo poses. As the rain streams down my face, I could care less about looking into the camera.
The water cascades down the path. Rapids. We throw it in and slowly make our way down. Soaking. A mere handful of trees planted. I am skeptical that our carbon footprints have been reduced.
Not all work and rain. Took the opportunity to fill my tourist role.
Borobudur
A once long forgotten Buddhist powerhouse on the now Muslim island.
The base level a representation of the everyday world. Images of Buddha progress to Nirvana as we climb to the top of the man-made, spiritual, mountain-esque temple.
Prambanan
A massive complex of Hindu temples from the 8th – 10th centuries. Dark spires shooting out of the earth.
How quick a move from necessity to luxury. Running water and reliable transport. Funny... not funny haha, but rather funny huh.
I don’t dare to look under the bed. Whatever noise a cockroach makes, I think I hear it... times 20. The walls a dingy stained yellow. ‘Love’ scribbled and smeared in black pen. A baron (but large!) bed. A bottom sheet and pillow. Just. A few stray long hairs remain from the previous guest. The street life of the Sosrowijayan area of Yogyakarta bustles with street vendors selling their infamous batik wears. Andongs (horse and cart) and becaks (guy on bike with cart) the local transports of choice. As night sets in so do an abundant of warungs (street food sellers). Their straw mats cover the sidewalks for people to sit.
Arrived on Java a week ago. The 12 VSO ‘newbies’ hand-in-hand. Each spring all the VSO volunteers across Indonesia congregate for an annual conference. A time to share, learn, network, speak in English, and generally relish in a bit of western debauchery. For many the opportunity to socialize with co-patriots and fellow volunteers, as well as the general escape to civilization, is rare. Some volunteer as a career move. Some volunteer for adventure. Some volunteer on mission of personal discovery. Some volunteer in an effort to make a difference in our ever-fluid global community. Some are simply a motley… me. Doctors and social workers. Management consultants and teachers. Computer wizards and engineers. Nutritionists and family planners. Foresters and agriculturalists. Retired, mid-career, and new entries.
Saturday was a day to ‘give back’… a visible contribution. Is being here as a volunteer insufficient? We split. Part to an orphanage to paint. Part to plant trees in an effort to ‘off-set our global footprint’ and reduce erosion on Gunung Merapi (Mountain of Fire). I was excited for something physical after several weeks of being quite sedentary in classes, trapped by the Bali heat. The sun bright as we arrived. Before we spring into action, the Indonesian formalities. The important village leaders file onto stage and sit cross legged. Each given an opportunity for a windy address. Summary: Welcome. Sweet tea and snacks are passed around. Individually wrapped and packaged. What happened to environmentalism? The notions of reduce, reuse, and recycle completely foreign.
2 hours later.
We climb up the hillside through vegetable patches. Cabbage. Cauliflower. Carrots. Onions. A mist conceals the blue sky. Just in time. We arrive at our tree planting destination each with 10 seedlings in tow. The rain cuts loose. Our matching 4-H green VSO t-shirts darkening with moisture. The locals linger under umbrellas. They try to coax us into smiling photo poses. As the rain streams down my face, I could care less about looking into the camera.
The water cascades down the path. Rapids. We throw it in and slowly make our way down. Soaking. A mere handful of trees planted. I am skeptical that our carbon footprints have been reduced.
Not all work and rain. Took the opportunity to fill my tourist role.
Borobudur
A once long forgotten Buddhist powerhouse on the now Muslim island.
The base level a representation of the everyday world. Images of Buddha progress to Nirvana as we climb to the top of the man-made, spiritual, mountain-esque temple.
Prambanan
A massive complex of Hindu temples from the 8th – 10th centuries. Dark spires shooting out of the earth.
Candi Cete and Candi Sukuh
The erotic temples. The former masculine. The later feminine. Some representations require much imagination while others are vivid and straight up.
Dieng Plateau
‘Abode of the Gods’… Oldest Hindu temples on Java.
Bubbling sulphur lakes… some simmer, some boil. Steam rises and engulfs.
Agriculturally rich.
Bird Market
I feel the bird flu coming on. Good sense told me to avoid it but curiosity made me go. Well worth the risk… cough cough. Like a kid in a cultural candy store. A vast range of birds fill every crevasse of the gang (alley). The copious cages block out the mid-day sunlight.
The erotic temples. The former masculine. The later feminine. Some representations require much imagination while others are vivid and straight up.
Dieng Plateau
‘Abode of the Gods’… Oldest Hindu temples on Java.
Bubbling sulphur lakes… some simmer, some boil. Steam rises and engulfs.
Agriculturally rich.
Bird Market
I feel the bird flu coming on. Good sense told me to avoid it but curiosity made me go. Well worth the risk… cough cough. Like a kid in a cultural candy store. A vast range of birds fill every crevasse of the gang (alley). The copious cages block out the mid-day sunlight.
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