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.
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