I haven’t forgotten to write. To update. I’ve simply been without internet connection.
Settling into my new home on Flores island. It’s vastly different than Bali. No escapes to westerner-ized life… it’s all Indonesian from here out. No little luxuries like lattes and sneaking into 5 star resorts to lounge by their pools. No surfing. The holiday is over. Thus, time for a new address.
Yayasan Mitra Tani Mandiri
Attn: Mikal Nolan, VSO Volunteer
Jl. DI Panjaitan RT III / RW Hobo II
Kelurahan Trikora, Bajawa 86414
Flores, NTT
Indonesia
One month on and I have yet to figure out how the mail works since the address system is seemingly absent. Luckily, I do, however, have a work address. So that’s best… unless you send post to the “Yang peremupan putih, tinggal di dekat rumah suster, Bajawa” (that white girl who lives near the nunnery, Bajawa). In which case it should also get to me.
329 new emails. I didn’t even really feel an drive to check my email, I felt more of an obligation to do so after a month. In America I barely go 20 minutes without making sure nothing new has popped in. Email, facebook, myspace, reading the latest cyber chatter. Perhaps it was the thought of dial-up… sloooooooooooooooow. In the Telkom phone booth I quickly sorted the junk from the good stuff and opened each in a new tab to read later in leisure. Time is money in a phone booth. Eight booths, but only one seems to have a line. Nevertheless, countless people are needed to sit behind the long desk spanning the room. This may be fine for the cyberspace patient, however, I think I may need to figure getting a phone line into my room. Sitting on my front patio, reading the emails and news from home has been a treat. New babies, warnings of elevated volcanic activity, pictures of bridesmaid dresses, ‘R’-rolling tips, blog updates from travelers, what’s growing in the garden, notes of encouragement, love confessionals, penis enlargements, and Viagra. There’s comfort in knowing that the world is still going round.
Life here is simplistic. It’s slow. News travels by word of mouth… and much more quickly than the dial-up internet connection provides.
explore
Friday, May 16, 2008
Is that really edible? (May 5, 2008)
My palate has become adventurous. It has to be. What’s this? What’s that? Food is foreign. It’s perhaps the scariest thing I face in day to day life, the greatest risk. I am acutely aware of its potential to inflict bodily harm.
My entire life I’ve choked down chalky white milk. As a kid (a kid on a dairy farm to boot), I was forced to sit at the dinning room table for hours until I finished my glass of milk. Unwilling and unrelenting. Persistent in my stand-off. As an adult, I’d sling back a glass or two a day as if it was a revolting shot of unpleasantness simply because it does a body good. Now I want it. Not because I’ve developed a taste for it. I still don’t like it. Simply because it’s unattainable. In Ecuador I could manage an ultra-pasteurized no-need for refrigeration version. That’s not even available in Bajawa. What is, however, is powdered. It provides the semblance of milk. It colors the water. I have only dared the chocolate. It’s a bit like a watery hot chocolate… my water dispenser only does very hot and hot.
I eat bananas. Daily. I don’t even like bananas. The vast varieties are intriguing. A must to try them all. Some long, sweet, and mushy like in America. Others stocky, firm, and like a starchy potato. I prefer the later. Buying a few is a no-no. Only sold by the comb, which is around 15-20. Perhaps that’s why I chow down breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And fish. Not just fish, but dried fish. Crispy and hard. Whole. Like a dead fish that had unfortunately landed on a rock when the tide went out and withered in the sun and wind. Minus the flies… mostly. I’ve learned to eat the skin. But still I can’t stomach the head with its dark eyes glazed over staring into the mound of rice. Rice, chili sauce, and fish are the staples. Bananas for dessert. All three meals. In my past life, I wouldn’t touch the slimy swimmers. And whole dried fish just seem that much more unappealing. Yet, strangely I kind of like it. Although not all three meals everyday, one will do me… 2 max.
Walking through the market, it’s as if the women have harvested a tree. They sell the wood, the leaves, and the fruit. Wood bound for cooking. Green leaves. Not like spinach. Like tree leaves. Chilies, garlic, and shallots are plentiful. Small mounds of insipid looking tomatoes and pale green squashes which curl together to remind me of the mouth of a gummy elder person. Dried aromatic fish. Tempe and tofu… both incredibly inexpensive. There could be a vegetarian fiesta for the entire town at the same cost Wholefoods and Wild Oats charges for one scanty block of the stuff.
Luckily there are these alternative protein sources. Don’t expect to have a steak or hamburger here. No meat really unless it’s a party. And then keep an open mind… a strong stomach.
Last Thursday was a holiday. What holiday I am not sure. However, I did understand that it had to do with Jesus. Some Catholic holiday that American Catholics fail to reap the benefits of a day off work. I spent the day at my supervisors home. Helping his wife, her friends and ‘pembantu’ (girl helpers) prepare for an ‘eating party’. We spent hours cutting, chopping, and pealing copious garlic cloves. Squatting outside the kitchen door on a cement slab. 30 kilos of rice hand picked through, sifted in flat baskets, and prepared over an open fire in a metallic rice cooker taller than any Indonesian woman in the house. The men disappeared… except for two who hacked away at slabs of meat. Skin, fat, bone, and meat. Chopped into bite size pieces. All that seemed to matter was size.
The turquoise plastic chairs were set up in two long straight lines facing each other. Waiting for the festivities to commence. The food paraded out in large bowls long before the first of the guests filtered in. Stomachs of steal must keep the active bacteria and food borne pathogens at bay. Maybe it’s the function of ample chilies to stimulate a hostile environment in the belly. A whole hog was sacrificed for the occasion. There was fish, chicken, and goat. But the favorite of the locals was a treat reserved for special parties… dog. Boiled and fried with chilies in a brown sweet sauce. It was culturally unavoidable. All eyes turned to the Westerner. Initially, I deemed it just another protein source. Nevertheless, I swallowed hard. Not that it tasted bad; if ignorant I would probably have enjoyed it. Rather, I could not stop envisioning the fear in the dog’s eyes. An emotion much too similar to ours. I humanized.
** Since writing this blog I’ve eaten dog (swallowing hard) 3 times. Surely, a gold star for cultural effort.
My entire life I’ve choked down chalky white milk. As a kid (a kid on a dairy farm to boot), I was forced to sit at the dinning room table for hours until I finished my glass of milk. Unwilling and unrelenting. Persistent in my stand-off. As an adult, I’d sling back a glass or two a day as if it was a revolting shot of unpleasantness simply because it does a body good. Now I want it. Not because I’ve developed a taste for it. I still don’t like it. Simply because it’s unattainable. In Ecuador I could manage an ultra-pasteurized no-need for refrigeration version. That’s not even available in Bajawa. What is, however, is powdered. It provides the semblance of milk. It colors the water. I have only dared the chocolate. It’s a bit like a watery hot chocolate… my water dispenser only does very hot and hot.
I eat bananas. Daily. I don’t even like bananas. The vast varieties are intriguing. A must to try them all. Some long, sweet, and mushy like in America. Others stocky, firm, and like a starchy potato. I prefer the later. Buying a few is a no-no. Only sold by the comb, which is around 15-20. Perhaps that’s why I chow down breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And fish. Not just fish, but dried fish. Crispy and hard. Whole. Like a dead fish that had unfortunately landed on a rock when the tide went out and withered in the sun and wind. Minus the flies… mostly. I’ve learned to eat the skin. But still I can’t stomach the head with its dark eyes glazed over staring into the mound of rice. Rice, chili sauce, and fish are the staples. Bananas for dessert. All three meals. In my past life, I wouldn’t touch the slimy swimmers. And whole dried fish just seem that much more unappealing. Yet, strangely I kind of like it. Although not all three meals everyday, one will do me… 2 max.
Walking through the market, it’s as if the women have harvested a tree. They sell the wood, the leaves, and the fruit. Wood bound for cooking. Green leaves. Not like spinach. Like tree leaves. Chilies, garlic, and shallots are plentiful. Small mounds of insipid looking tomatoes and pale green squashes which curl together to remind me of the mouth of a gummy elder person. Dried aromatic fish. Tempe and tofu… both incredibly inexpensive. There could be a vegetarian fiesta for the entire town at the same cost Wholefoods and Wild Oats charges for one scanty block of the stuff.
Luckily there are these alternative protein sources. Don’t expect to have a steak or hamburger here. No meat really unless it’s a party. And then keep an open mind… a strong stomach.
Last Thursday was a holiday. What holiday I am not sure. However, I did understand that it had to do with Jesus. Some Catholic holiday that American Catholics fail to reap the benefits of a day off work. I spent the day at my supervisors home. Helping his wife, her friends and ‘pembantu’ (girl helpers) prepare for an ‘eating party’. We spent hours cutting, chopping, and pealing copious garlic cloves. Squatting outside the kitchen door on a cement slab. 30 kilos of rice hand picked through, sifted in flat baskets, and prepared over an open fire in a metallic rice cooker taller than any Indonesian woman in the house. The men disappeared… except for two who hacked away at slabs of meat. Skin, fat, bone, and meat. Chopped into bite size pieces. All that seemed to matter was size.
The turquoise plastic chairs were set up in two long straight lines facing each other. Waiting for the festivities to commence. The food paraded out in large bowls long before the first of the guests filtered in. Stomachs of steal must keep the active bacteria and food borne pathogens at bay. Maybe it’s the function of ample chilies to stimulate a hostile environment in the belly. A whole hog was sacrificed for the occasion. There was fish, chicken, and goat. But the favorite of the locals was a treat reserved for special parties… dog. Boiled and fried with chilies in a brown sweet sauce. It was culturally unavoidable. All eyes turned to the Westerner. Initially, I deemed it just another protein source. Nevertheless, I swallowed hard. Not that it tasted bad; if ignorant I would probably have enjoyed it. Rather, I could not stop envisioning the fear in the dog’s eyes. An emotion much too similar to ours. I humanized.
** Since writing this blog I’ve eaten dog (swallowing hard) 3 times. Surely, a gold star for cultural effort.
Co-habitation. (April 23, 2008)
26 years. Nevertheless, as the pictures flutter across my computer screensaver, I feel like they were different lifetimes. Unique and diverse. The continuity difficult to identify externally. I, however, see the line, the connections. High school, Ohio State, ‘The Summer of 2005’, Reading, London, Maine, the brief South American adventure… and this life in Indonesia.
I’ve discovered the freedom from having liberated hair… a hairbrush is dispensable. A toothbrush is not. Of this I am reminded daily from the prolific toothless, brown, and crimson grins. Stained brown from a diet of coffee and cigarettes (especially men). Stained crimson from the betel nut chewed diligently in the villages (especially women).
The electricity has just awakened. Off for nearly 4½ hours. The brown outs are frequent and sporadic. When one will occur there is no certainty. I am learning to have a steady supply of candles and matches handy.
I came to Flores eager and ready to move into a bamboo hut. Surely, camping in Maine and Ecuador had prepared me for the challenge. However, I find myself in ‘luxury’ accommodation. I have electricity… sometimes. I have running water… sometimes and only in the bathroom. I have real walls and a floor… sometimes they leak and pool with water. VSO even provides money to purchase a refrigerator, however, with the unpredictable brown outs of several hours, I think it’s best to keep its contents to a minimum. Unfortunately no ice cream in Bajawa L
I even have a family. Indeed it’s actually their house, I merely rent a part of it. Their inquisitive, as is the Indonesian nature. They peer over our partitions from their perch on the steps or magically appear outside when I open the door… seriously it’s as if they’ve been teleported from the Starship Enterprise.
In the morning they ask if I have already showered… even when I am dripping wet.
In the afternoon they ask if I am back from work… even when I am sitting outside my room reading.
In the evening they ask if I am cooking dinner… even when my rice cooker has sprung into action and I’m eyeing a bunch of leafy greens that appear to have direct from a tree. I explain all my ingredients to practice my language and set to work attempting to prepare something with the exotic veg. Then they bring me food… obviously unimpressed by my recipe ideas. One by one, they call out their edible offerings. A sweet. A fruit. A veg. A soup. A saucy something. As if each member has had the same enlightened idea… to feed the strange white girl. This evening the healthy gifts of fried bananas and fried rice with pork. I eat the pork gingerly… it’s my preference for hairless meat that looks less like a pig and more like a pork-chop. Crazy. I save my already prepared leafy greens with chilies and rice for breakfast. No Wheaties for this champ.
My goal of the first weekend was to get settled. After work on SATURDAY, I had intended a leisure unpacking. Milkey, a work colleague, was amusing my indecisiveness on cabinet locations. In a cloud of smoke. ‘My family’ was in the room. They just appear. Like rubbing Aladdin’s magic genie lamp. They sprung into action. My thoughts didn’t seem to matter much… perhaps because they were in English. The girls were cleaning. The mother giving orders. The father taping cords to the wall and moving furniture.
Co-habitating . Living together. Living in harmony.
I have my cockroaches. I have my family. And now 2 geckos have moved in to taunt a tranquil 2 inch black month that clings in the crevice between ceiling and wall.
Sometimes I see them, sometimes I don’t. The cockroaches will play dead for days on end. Nevertheless, I am not fooled. They are alive. They lie there and lie there. Then one day they’ve disappeared. I let them play… spray doesn’t work and ‘popping’ them is beyond me.
The geckos dissipate with the flick of a light switch. Where to, I don’t know? Attempts to find them in the lit room are futile. I hear them re-emerge as I drift to sleep. Their “gecko-gecko-gecko” chirps.
I’ve discovered the freedom from having liberated hair… a hairbrush is dispensable. A toothbrush is not. Of this I am reminded daily from the prolific toothless, brown, and crimson grins. Stained brown from a diet of coffee and cigarettes (especially men). Stained crimson from the betel nut chewed diligently in the villages (especially women).
The electricity has just awakened. Off for nearly 4½ hours. The brown outs are frequent and sporadic. When one will occur there is no certainty. I am learning to have a steady supply of candles and matches handy.
I came to Flores eager and ready to move into a bamboo hut. Surely, camping in Maine and Ecuador had prepared me for the challenge. However, I find myself in ‘luxury’ accommodation. I have electricity… sometimes. I have running water… sometimes and only in the bathroom. I have real walls and a floor… sometimes they leak and pool with water. VSO even provides money to purchase a refrigerator, however, with the unpredictable brown outs of several hours, I think it’s best to keep its contents to a minimum. Unfortunately no ice cream in Bajawa L
I even have a family. Indeed it’s actually their house, I merely rent a part of it. Their inquisitive, as is the Indonesian nature. They peer over our partitions from their perch on the steps or magically appear outside when I open the door… seriously it’s as if they’ve been teleported from the Starship Enterprise.
In the morning they ask if I have already showered… even when I am dripping wet.
In the afternoon they ask if I am back from work… even when I am sitting outside my room reading.
In the evening they ask if I am cooking dinner… even when my rice cooker has sprung into action and I’m eyeing a bunch of leafy greens that appear to have direct from a tree. I explain all my ingredients to practice my language and set to work attempting to prepare something with the exotic veg. Then they bring me food… obviously unimpressed by my recipe ideas. One by one, they call out their edible offerings. A sweet. A fruit. A veg. A soup. A saucy something. As if each member has had the same enlightened idea… to feed the strange white girl. This evening the healthy gifts of fried bananas and fried rice with pork. I eat the pork gingerly… it’s my preference for hairless meat that looks less like a pig and more like a pork-chop. Crazy. I save my already prepared leafy greens with chilies and rice for breakfast. No Wheaties for this champ.
My goal of the first weekend was to get settled. After work on SATURDAY, I had intended a leisure unpacking. Milkey, a work colleague, was amusing my indecisiveness on cabinet locations. In a cloud of smoke. ‘My family’ was in the room. They just appear. Like rubbing Aladdin’s magic genie lamp. They sprung into action. My thoughts didn’t seem to matter much… perhaps because they were in English. The girls were cleaning. The mother giving orders. The father taping cords to the wall and moving furniture.
Co-habitating . Living together. Living in harmony.
I have my cockroaches. I have my family. And now 2 geckos have moved in to taunt a tranquil 2 inch black month that clings in the crevice between ceiling and wall.
Sometimes I see them, sometimes I don’t. The cockroaches will play dead for days on end. Nevertheless, I am not fooled. They are alive. They lie there and lie there. Then one day they’ve disappeared. I let them play… spray doesn’t work and ‘popping’ them is beyond me.
The geckos dissipate with the flick of a light switch. Where to, I don’t know? Attempts to find them in the lit room are futile. I hear them re-emerge as I drift to sleep. Their “gecko-gecko-gecko” chirps.
Arriving. (April 21, 2008)
9:00 pm. The house is still and sleepy. I hear the chirping of the gianormous grasshoppers outside. I hear my new electric stabilizer jumping into action every so often. My typing echoes. A cockroach just attempted a flying assault upon me in the bathroom. I left him there. Crunching their bodies under foot is more than I can bear. They pop, splatter, and ooze. Thus I prefer to let them co-habitat with me… or perhaps it’s me with them.
Details, details, and settling in.
Apprehensive
Excited
Unsure
Eager
I asked during my visit about the workweek. The staff work 7-2 Monday-Saturday. But I can come in at 8. I want to be a team player… shouldn’t I start at 7 as well? Reported to the office a bit after 8 am for the first day of work. First one to the office. I loiter around a bit. Should I stay? Or go browse about the town? I don’t want it to appear that I was late. The finance girls arrive and hop to work… sweeping and cleaning. Apparently their not just good at numbers but also at cleaning… or is that just because their women? We try to communicate but it’s not happening. I manage to understand ‘please sit’. So I do for a bit. Then browse the posters and pictures on the office’s cement walls. Feigning comprehension. My supervisor arrives at 9.
We sit down to discuss my first month. He speaks no English. I speak less than basic Indonesian. I could have told him (in perfect Indonesian) that he had on a green t-shirt and black shoes. That today was Monday. That I am 26 years old and from America. Unfortunately he knew all of that info. He texts another VSO volunteer to come help interpret. It’s slightly helpful, as the volunteer is neither a native speaker of Indonesian nor of English. No doubt a true ‘lost in translation’. My supervisor ask what my plan is for the next 2 years. What are my ideas for projects. My plan? My ideas? Indeed, a sense of empowerment and individual direction is good, nevertheless, perhaps the organization should provide a bit of a guideline. We agree that for the first month I observe, learn more Indonesian than green shirts and black shoes, and develop my job description.
Police reporting.
It reminds me a bit of high school ag or shop class. Boys. Boys with guns. Simply lounging about. No real purpose evident. Reading the newspaper. Chatting up girls. Smoking.
These boys (and I do indeed mean boys… young faces, immaturity gleaming in their eyes) have a sense of power. They are the police. They pass me around to several offices. They crowd around to carefully scrutinizing my documents, as if my passport photo is clipped from the pages of the latest playboy magazine. They want to know why I’m here, where I live, how old I am, am I married, what’s my religion… the normal. The first attempt was a failure. I am sent away to obtain a fax of my passport from VSO for verification. My notarized copy seems inefficient… I am suspect. But of course obey. These are the law boys. Day 2. Again, passed around to be scrutinized and questioned. I am thankful for the company of two colleagues. We wait for an hour for the person with power. Who he is I not sure. Dressed in a camouflaged t-shirt and combat boots (not the official dress of the police). His hair long and pulled into a pony. He lights a cigarette and bounds to sit by my side. Jovial, yet somehow unsettling. First impressions maybe wrong, but I wouldn’t classify him in the trustworthy category.
He tells me I am beautiful.
He tells me he should be my boyfriend.
He sings me a love song.
Is this part of the official questioning?
Before I go, he insists I smoke a cigarette with him. No thank you. No forms unless I smoke. ‘They’ preach not to give into peer pressure… but what about police pressure? A giggle and an “I don’t understand” seems to get me off the hook. Already I have self-diagnosed lung cancer from the wreath of smoke engulfing this country. I don’t much care to willing aid in the blackening of my lungs.
Thanks to Jess, a Filipino volunteer whose real name is Jesus as he was born of Christmas, I have managed to secure furniture and kitchen equipment. He’s been a tremendous help. Even if I could have negotiated the purchases and loans, I wouldn’t have been able to direct them to my new home.
A table and 2 chairs from the office
A cabinet from Jess’s shopkeeper friend
A rice cooker and few odd dishes from a previous volunteer
A thorough shopping trip about town to pick up a refrigerator, electricity stabilizer, a water dispenser and jug, a burner, an oven… or the Indonesian equivalent of an oven in the form of a tin box that sit atop my burner. The shop keepers and Jess chat about Americans need for bread. Can’t an oven be used for more than baking bread? Admittedly I do miss bread… especially the bread from the Saturday evening bread pick-ups in Maine for the farm. Delicious bakery breads of all sorts sent to feed the livestock… and human staff. The mere thought stimulates salivation. Bread in Indonesia is rare. The staple is rice. And it is a widely known fact that Americans only eat rice in California. Home of Arnold, The Terminator.
Details, details, and settling in.
Apprehensive
Excited
Unsure
Eager
I asked during my visit about the workweek. The staff work 7-2 Monday-Saturday. But I can come in at 8. I want to be a team player… shouldn’t I start at 7 as well? Reported to the office a bit after 8 am for the first day of work. First one to the office. I loiter around a bit. Should I stay? Or go browse about the town? I don’t want it to appear that I was late. The finance girls arrive and hop to work… sweeping and cleaning. Apparently their not just good at numbers but also at cleaning… or is that just because their women? We try to communicate but it’s not happening. I manage to understand ‘please sit’. So I do for a bit. Then browse the posters and pictures on the office’s cement walls. Feigning comprehension. My supervisor arrives at 9.
We sit down to discuss my first month. He speaks no English. I speak less than basic Indonesian. I could have told him (in perfect Indonesian) that he had on a green t-shirt and black shoes. That today was Monday. That I am 26 years old and from America. Unfortunately he knew all of that info. He texts another VSO volunteer to come help interpret. It’s slightly helpful, as the volunteer is neither a native speaker of Indonesian nor of English. No doubt a true ‘lost in translation’. My supervisor ask what my plan is for the next 2 years. What are my ideas for projects. My plan? My ideas? Indeed, a sense of empowerment and individual direction is good, nevertheless, perhaps the organization should provide a bit of a guideline. We agree that for the first month I observe, learn more Indonesian than green shirts and black shoes, and develop my job description.
Police reporting.
It reminds me a bit of high school ag or shop class. Boys. Boys with guns. Simply lounging about. No real purpose evident. Reading the newspaper. Chatting up girls. Smoking.
These boys (and I do indeed mean boys… young faces, immaturity gleaming in their eyes) have a sense of power. They are the police. They pass me around to several offices. They crowd around to carefully scrutinizing my documents, as if my passport photo is clipped from the pages of the latest playboy magazine. They want to know why I’m here, where I live, how old I am, am I married, what’s my religion… the normal. The first attempt was a failure. I am sent away to obtain a fax of my passport from VSO for verification. My notarized copy seems inefficient… I am suspect. But of course obey. These are the law boys. Day 2. Again, passed around to be scrutinized and questioned. I am thankful for the company of two colleagues. We wait for an hour for the person with power. Who he is I not sure. Dressed in a camouflaged t-shirt and combat boots (not the official dress of the police). His hair long and pulled into a pony. He lights a cigarette and bounds to sit by my side. Jovial, yet somehow unsettling. First impressions maybe wrong, but I wouldn’t classify him in the trustworthy category.
He tells me I am beautiful.
He tells me he should be my boyfriend.
He sings me a love song.
Is this part of the official questioning?
Before I go, he insists I smoke a cigarette with him. No thank you. No forms unless I smoke. ‘They’ preach not to give into peer pressure… but what about police pressure? A giggle and an “I don’t understand” seems to get me off the hook. Already I have self-diagnosed lung cancer from the wreath of smoke engulfing this country. I don’t much care to willing aid in the blackening of my lungs.
Thanks to Jess, a Filipino volunteer whose real name is Jesus as he was born of Christmas, I have managed to secure furniture and kitchen equipment. He’s been a tremendous help. Even if I could have negotiated the purchases and loans, I wouldn’t have been able to direct them to my new home.
A table and 2 chairs from the office
A cabinet from Jess’s shopkeeper friend
A rice cooker and few odd dishes from a previous volunteer
A thorough shopping trip about town to pick up a refrigerator, electricity stabilizer, a water dispenser and jug, a burner, an oven… or the Indonesian equivalent of an oven in the form of a tin box that sit atop my burner. The shop keepers and Jess chat about Americans need for bread. Can’t an oven be used for more than baking bread? Admittedly I do miss bread… especially the bread from the Saturday evening bread pick-ups in Maine for the farm. Delicious bakery breads of all sorts sent to feed the livestock… and human staff. The mere thought stimulates salivation. Bread in Indonesia is rare. The staple is rice. And it is a widely known fact that Americans only eat rice in California. Home of Arnold, The Terminator.
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