My headlamp is hands down the best investment ever. Battery operated ipod speakers and exercise ball (although the local high fat, sugary diet keeps my abs of steel hidden) tie for second.
Indeed, I get a chuckle from the neighbors when I sport the headlamp about the house on the now near nightly electric outages. Nevertheless, its convenience is unmatched. Candles are fine, but for mobility purposes inefficient.
The electric goes out. Life continues merely cloaked in darkness. Utter darkness by 6pm. The streets fill with the glare of motorcycle headlights. Burning barrels blaze as the daily accumulated rubbish is burned roadside. People congregating for both the warmth and the light. Wrapped in the traditional woven ikat fabrics. The streets prove a safer pathway for pedestrians than the sidewalks. The zipping motors give warning. Contrarily, the sinister holes in the sidewalk wait hungrily to gobble you up! The number of electric generators is growing. Rapidly. A chorus of hums, buzzes, and roars filtering through the darkness. Lights. Candles. Lights. Candles. Shops alternating.
Indeed, the blackouts can be an inconvenience. Nevertheless, I am not so sure my nightly activities would differ that much with the power. True, I am fortunate to have the ability to watch dvd’s on my laptop (yeah for a back-up battery!) and loose myself in the pages of People and Vanity Fair… although knowingly that my English language dvds and magazines will someday be in limited supply. So what else? My neighbors no doubt are curious about what goes on in the dark next door. Unashamedly, Spice Girls and Aqua ring from my ipod speakers. Dance party ‘08! By flickering candle light, I groove and boogie along with my shadow on the wall. We’re a pretty stellar duo… at least we think so.
explore
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Gunung Ebulobo (June 16, 2008)
No dreams of sugarplums. Rather visions of spewing lava. Fire spitting into the sky with fury. Teetering on the edge of a crater, gazing into the center of the Earth. Admittedly, Hollywood influenced (aren’t most things?). Like in the 90's movie, Volcano. Nevertheless, the mere essence of summiting, of conquering, an active volcano deserves a merit badge. Gunung Ebulobo (Ebulobo Mo.untain). Towering over the base village at over 6,000 feet. A full day climb… likely due more by my level of unfitness than difficulty. Each step seemingly fuelled by the thought of scorching lava traversing the veins beneath foot.
Led by two barefoot 9 year olds armed with a machete. As one may suspect, hiring 9 year old guides is indeed a flawed idea. First, their youthful endurance is breathlessly exhausting. Our incessant pleas for ‘istrihat’ (rest) seemingly an alien notion. Second, their machete cut path is slashed for a 9 year old... continuous ducking under the lingering vegetation required. I wear my sunglasses not for protection from the sun, but for protection from the intrusive branches and thorns at eye level. Half way to the summit, the trees disappear giving way to the rocky volcanic remains. Gazing out onto Flores. Gazing out onto the coast. Living in Bajawa, it is easy to forget about the sea. The rugged hills have such a strong presence, obscuring the aqua that defines the island country. Since arriving, my only encounter with the sea is the view offered by the dusty descent to Mbay. Nevertheless, there it was peaking through the cotton clouds. To the north. To the east. Two bodies of water. Small villages nestled in the valleys between.
I ask the boys how many times they have made the climb. This is the first? I hope something was lost in translation. However, they are barely out of the cradle! The crater more closely resembles Batman’s Batcave than a fiery pit. Sitting with legs dangling down, I fight the erg to take a closer look into its depths. Despite the inert appearance this hole in the ground does lead to the planet’s core.
The air overflowing with the unpleasantness of sulfur. The element prolific. Limey yellow pebbles abound throughout the rocky ash white landscape. Otherwise void of color. Desolate and forlorn. The afternoon clouds completely blanketing the endless view. As the bats begin to emerge, our small posse begins the pebbly tumble down.
As we reach the base village, the children scurry out of their homes to follow me as if I was the Piped Piper. Such a sense of exhilaration, the adrenaline rushing. No doubt the euphoric sensation will pass and my body will hate me in the morning... and probably the next. The next volcanic climbing adventure loams to the south of Bajawa. Its slopes engulfed entirely in rocky terrain presenting a slightly more hostile endeavor. Nevertheless, another volcano? Bring it on!
Led by two barefoot 9 year olds armed with a machete. As one may suspect, hiring 9 year old guides is indeed a flawed idea. First, their youthful endurance is breathlessly exhausting. Our incessant pleas for ‘istrihat’ (rest) seemingly an alien notion. Second, their machete cut path is slashed for a 9 year old... continuous ducking under the lingering vegetation required. I wear my sunglasses not for protection from the sun, but for protection from the intrusive branches and thorns at eye level. Half way to the summit, the trees disappear giving way to the rocky volcanic remains. Gazing out onto Flores. Gazing out onto the coast. Living in Bajawa, it is easy to forget about the sea. The rugged hills have such a strong presence, obscuring the aqua that defines the island country. Since arriving, my only encounter with the sea is the view offered by the dusty descent to Mbay. Nevertheless, there it was peaking through the cotton clouds. To the north. To the east. Two bodies of water. Small villages nestled in the valleys between.
I ask the boys how many times they have made the climb. This is the first? I hope something was lost in translation. However, they are barely out of the cradle! The crater more closely resembles Batman’s Batcave than a fiery pit. Sitting with legs dangling down, I fight the erg to take a closer look into its depths. Despite the inert appearance this hole in the ground does lead to the planet’s core.
The air overflowing with the unpleasantness of sulfur. The element prolific. Limey yellow pebbles abound throughout the rocky ash white landscape. Otherwise void of color. Desolate and forlorn. The afternoon clouds completely blanketing the endless view. As the bats begin to emerge, our small posse begins the pebbly tumble down.
As we reach the base village, the children scurry out of their homes to follow me as if I was the Piped Piper. Such a sense of exhilaration, the adrenaline rushing. No doubt the euphoric sensation will pass and my body will hate me in the morning... and probably the next. The next volcanic climbing adventure loams to the south of Bajawa. Its slopes engulfed entirely in rocky terrain presenting a slightly more hostile endeavor. Nevertheless, another volcano? Bring it on!
The making of hot chocolate (June 9, 2008)
Under the impression that Indonesia was a tropical paradise, I left my wooly socks and cozy sweaters where they belong in Ohio, right? Mistake.
Indeed I was warned. Nevertheless, I carelessly brushed off the warnings. Sure Bajawa is very cold… in comparison to sweltering Bali. Mistake.
And it gets colder? Brrrrr!
I’d compare Bajawa temperatures to a Maine summer (does that exist?)… without the hot shower to warm up the mornings. So I don’t have to break the ice on my ‘bak mandi’ (large basin for water supply). But I did have to invest in another blanket. And I relish a nightly cup of hot chocolate. Although I question if the enjoyment is derived from the comfort, the warmth, or the effort.
Step one.
Boil the bastards out of the water (15 minutes)… Only because I haven’t quite worked out how to get the gianormous water jug across town. I’m doing push-ups in preparation.
Step two.
Make milk… three table spoons of white powder. Saving up to buy a cow… or maybe I’ll just kidnap (haha) a goat.
Step three.
Stir. Mash the sticky clumpiness.
Step four.
A cruel land void of delish chocolately goodness… I add whatever I can scrounge up, stretching the remaining of my hot chocolate investment (a small fortune on my budget) from the Bali expat community. Cocoa or cacao trees, the source of raw chocolate, abound but where is Hersheys? Where is Nestle? Where is Cadbury? Where is Swiss Miss? Where are you!?!?!
Step five.
Stir.
Step six.
Daydream of adding a dollop of whip cream and a sprinkling of marshmallows. But alas, skipped as to the lack of supply. Like a mirage of water to the thirsty lost in the desert, I hallucinate dairy.
The comfort of a mug is lost as I sip from a colorfully stenciled glass, something that renders visions of 70’s motif. Nevertheless, I snuggle under the semi-warm blankets and enjoy… forgetting for the moment the numerous dishes that are now waiting to be cleaned.
Indeed I was warned. Nevertheless, I carelessly brushed off the warnings. Sure Bajawa is very cold… in comparison to sweltering Bali. Mistake.
And it gets colder? Brrrrr!
I’d compare Bajawa temperatures to a Maine summer (does that exist?)… without the hot shower to warm up the mornings. So I don’t have to break the ice on my ‘bak mandi’ (large basin for water supply). But I did have to invest in another blanket. And I relish a nightly cup of hot chocolate. Although I question if the enjoyment is derived from the comfort, the warmth, or the effort.
Step one.
Boil the bastards out of the water (15 minutes)… Only because I haven’t quite worked out how to get the gianormous water jug across town. I’m doing push-ups in preparation.
Step two.
Make milk… three table spoons of white powder. Saving up to buy a cow… or maybe I’ll just kidnap (haha) a goat.
Step three.
Stir. Mash the sticky clumpiness.
Step four.
A cruel land void of delish chocolately goodness… I add whatever I can scrounge up, stretching the remaining of my hot chocolate investment (a small fortune on my budget) from the Bali expat community. Cocoa or cacao trees, the source of raw chocolate, abound but where is Hersheys? Where is Nestle? Where is Cadbury? Where is Swiss Miss? Where are you!?!?!
Step five.
Stir.
Step six.
Daydream of adding a dollop of whip cream and a sprinkling of marshmallows. But alas, skipped as to the lack of supply. Like a mirage of water to the thirsty lost in the desert, I hallucinate dairy.
The comfort of a mug is lost as I sip from a colorfully stenciled glass, something that renders visions of 70’s motif. Nevertheless, I snuggle under the semi-warm blankets and enjoy… forgetting for the moment the numerous dishes that are now waiting to be cleaned.
Kidnapped (June 7, 2008)
I was kidnapped this week. No means of getaway transportation. A staff meeting at the Mbay office (a three-ish hour trip from home in Bajawa) turned into a staff week. Each evening, failing to realize the vast agenda of the day the meeting was adjourned until morning. Never knowing if tomorrow would be the day to return. It has been a long week. A week spent away from home. Away from privacy. Away from diet control and cooking. Away from escape. And me without clean undies. Exhausting. Sitting. Concentrating on every word, attempting to form complete thoughts.
I have learned that these staff meetings are every month. So that’s one week (give or take) of staff planning and 3 weeks of implementation. Not merely planning but also staff evaluation… a three day activity and one hell of an evaluation process. Split into small groups of 4 or 5, to reflect on the activities of the members of another group. The good. The bad. The ugly. And suggestions. All written onto flip chart paper and plastered on the walls.
A representative shared the discussion, eyes falling upon the person being discussed.
The floor opens to further comments.
The boss speaks.
More discussion.
Someone’s cellphone rings… they answer and chat away.
An opportunity for ‘clarification’ and defense.
Finally, a few more words from the boss man.
25 times. Three days. And this happens every month?
An invitation to a party. Tired, all I really wanted to do was to snuggle under a blanket and pop on an English language dvd. Nevertheless, how could I pass up a party? But what to wear? Not just am I with out clean undies for this unexpected weeklong excursion but also without party attire. No flash. No bling. No sparkle. After two years of flip flops, will I forget how to walk in stilettos? After two years of carelessly put together outfits of t-shirts worn for numerous days in a row, will I loose touch with the lively world of fashion? I hope not. (As I write this post, I am sporting lime green pants, kelly green t-shirt, purple fleece, a jacket in two shades of blue, and an orange floral headband… however, I assure you that I have no intention of actually leaving the house dressed like this.) Is it possible to both recognize poverty and appreciate Dolce? Indeed, Gucci and Versace are common names plastered on countless counterfeit knock-offs, however, the true value of the luxury brands are lost. Yesterdays of Kappa closets and trendy London, are distant. I am not championing superfluous spending. Nor am I complaining. Simply identifying the dichotomy. I know the larger issues at hand are indeed of far greater importance. The fashion of Flores is analogous to the Wal-mart pre-teen section. Colorful. Stripy. Polka-dot. Ruffles abound. It is second hands shipped in and sold on the black market. A detriment to the Indonesian garment industry. Still have clothes from the 90’s? Check the labels. Made in Indonesia. However, today the manufacturing has shifted elsewhere. So have the jobs. The ‘wealth’.
First in line for the keg… afraid not. ‘Party’ is evidently used quite loosely. Or perhaps my perspective tainted by sinful gluttony. The large gathering space was filled with rows of plastic chairs facing forward… facing the altar. Indeed, an altar is not a common party accessory in the western sense. The only alcohol in sight was the wine for communion. The main attraction of this party was not a rowdy game of flip cup or beer pong, but praising Jesus. In America this is called Church, not a party. Trickery or God working in mysterious ways?
I was engulfed by new friends. They draped themselves across my lap. They held my hands. They wrapped their arms about my shoulder’s and waist. The notion of personal space, gone. One fella, seemed quiet keen to practice his English as he settled into the chair in front of me. “Do you like me down there?” As he pointed toward his crotch, I was certain that I had not misinterpreted the query. Perhaps a question expected from a frat boy (sorry Patrick) who has been the flip cup champ of the night, but this guy hasn’t even yet had the communion wine touch his lips.
The language is not understandable. However, the pattern of the mass is familiar. I turn from receiving communion to a sea of cell phone cameras and flashes. Sorry, I am no Brittany Spears, just your average white girl. Literally, a line forms to take photos with me. Like kids at the mall waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. They tell me that they have never met a ‘bule’, the equivalent of gringo. That’s fine. We’ll chat about our differences later, but first let’s finish the mass!
After a lengthy praise of the Lord on the mic from what seemed like everyone and their brother, dinner and dancing commence. Rice and dried fish. The norm, but different. The rice is colored yellow for this special occasion. Like green eggs and ham, the taste remained the same, nevertheless, the brain registers a strange distinction. The chairs push back to the perimeter of the room to form a circle so all can focus on the dancing. Traditional Ja’i. Two stepping with local flavor. The several hundred people howl with laughter at my attempts to learn the steps. Watching me is evidently more entertaining than joining in. ‘Disco’ and ‘Cha-cha’… similar only in name, a distant variation of the dances. Always with a partner, in two facing lines. Perhaps more comparable to the line dancing at the county fair.
Like Cinderella. The clock strikes midnight. The music stops. The party-goers pour out the doors. Home to bed. No glass slippers left behind.
I have learned that these staff meetings are every month. So that’s one week (give or take) of staff planning and 3 weeks of implementation. Not merely planning but also staff evaluation… a three day activity and one hell of an evaluation process. Split into small groups of 4 or 5, to reflect on the activities of the members of another group. The good. The bad. The ugly. And suggestions. All written onto flip chart paper and plastered on the walls.
A representative shared the discussion, eyes falling upon the person being discussed.
The floor opens to further comments.
The boss speaks.
More discussion.
Someone’s cellphone rings… they answer and chat away.
An opportunity for ‘clarification’ and defense.
Finally, a few more words from the boss man.
25 times. Three days. And this happens every month?
An invitation to a party. Tired, all I really wanted to do was to snuggle under a blanket and pop on an English language dvd. Nevertheless, how could I pass up a party? But what to wear? Not just am I with out clean undies for this unexpected weeklong excursion but also without party attire. No flash. No bling. No sparkle. After two years of flip flops, will I forget how to walk in stilettos? After two years of carelessly put together outfits of t-shirts worn for numerous days in a row, will I loose touch with the lively world of fashion? I hope not. (As I write this post, I am sporting lime green pants, kelly green t-shirt, purple fleece, a jacket in two shades of blue, and an orange floral headband… however, I assure you that I have no intention of actually leaving the house dressed like this.) Is it possible to both recognize poverty and appreciate Dolce? Indeed, Gucci and Versace are common names plastered on countless counterfeit knock-offs, however, the true value of the luxury brands are lost. Yesterdays of Kappa closets and trendy London, are distant. I am not championing superfluous spending. Nor am I complaining. Simply identifying the dichotomy. I know the larger issues at hand are indeed of far greater importance. The fashion of Flores is analogous to the Wal-mart pre-teen section. Colorful. Stripy. Polka-dot. Ruffles abound. It is second hands shipped in and sold on the black market. A detriment to the Indonesian garment industry. Still have clothes from the 90’s? Check the labels. Made in Indonesia. However, today the manufacturing has shifted elsewhere. So have the jobs. The ‘wealth’.
First in line for the keg… afraid not. ‘Party’ is evidently used quite loosely. Or perhaps my perspective tainted by sinful gluttony. The large gathering space was filled with rows of plastic chairs facing forward… facing the altar. Indeed, an altar is not a common party accessory in the western sense. The only alcohol in sight was the wine for communion. The main attraction of this party was not a rowdy game of flip cup or beer pong, but praising Jesus. In America this is called Church, not a party. Trickery or God working in mysterious ways?
I was engulfed by new friends. They draped themselves across my lap. They held my hands. They wrapped their arms about my shoulder’s and waist. The notion of personal space, gone. One fella, seemed quiet keen to practice his English as he settled into the chair in front of me. “Do you like me down there?” As he pointed toward his crotch, I was certain that I had not misinterpreted the query. Perhaps a question expected from a frat boy (sorry Patrick) who has been the flip cup champ of the night, but this guy hasn’t even yet had the communion wine touch his lips.
The language is not understandable. However, the pattern of the mass is familiar. I turn from receiving communion to a sea of cell phone cameras and flashes. Sorry, I am no Brittany Spears, just your average white girl. Literally, a line forms to take photos with me. Like kids at the mall waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. They tell me that they have never met a ‘bule’, the equivalent of gringo. That’s fine. We’ll chat about our differences later, but first let’s finish the mass!
After a lengthy praise of the Lord on the mic from what seemed like everyone and their brother, dinner and dancing commence. Rice and dried fish. The norm, but different. The rice is colored yellow for this special occasion. Like green eggs and ham, the taste remained the same, nevertheless, the brain registers a strange distinction. The chairs push back to the perimeter of the room to form a circle so all can focus on the dancing. Traditional Ja’i. Two stepping with local flavor. The several hundred people howl with laughter at my attempts to learn the steps. Watching me is evidently more entertaining than joining in. ‘Disco’ and ‘Cha-cha’… similar only in name, a distant variation of the dances. Always with a partner, in two facing lines. Perhaps more comparable to the line dancing at the county fair.
Like Cinderella. The clock strikes midnight. The music stops. The party-goers pour out the doors. Home to bed. No glass slippers left behind.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Channel Surfing (May 30, 2008)
Not that I am keeping score. But I think someone was pretty lucky this week in Bajawa.
I was under the impression that the electric brown outs are rotational. Nevertheless, I am not sure who was charged with the calendar this past week. My ‘hood’ was without electric at least for a period of time every day. 7 days. My math skills may be rusty but statistically I would venture that the ration perhaps was a bit skewed. I went to sleep last night without and woke up this morning without (indeed it may have sprung into action sometime during my slumber but am doubtful). And it’s still out as I ponder dinner. Luckily my refrigerator is empty… although my rumbling stomach says that’s unlucky.
A bamboo hut with poured cement floors. No sofa, no chairs, just handmade woven straw mats for sitting. The walls ‘wallpapered’ with old Flores Pos newspapers. Rooms divided by soft curtains strung along string, flapping as the breeze flows effortlessly through the open doors and glassless windows. Roofs open and walls never meeting the ceiling. An ineffective attempt at privacy. In actuality it’s all just one big room, noise and mosquitoes travel without hindrance from room to room. No running water. Plastic containers are filled for the week from the community tank, natural springs, or during rainy seasons, the sky. Typical. Basic. Nevertheless, satellite dishes to tune into the families favorite Indonesian Karaoke television shows, are not unheard of. Taking a break from office work, I was called into the neighbors hut to catch a few songs and happened upon two noteworthy events.
The first notable thing on television...
Before flipping the channel, I caught a glimpse of a program. Bottlenecked LA. American cars. Lots of cars. Juxtaposition with an Indonesian gas station. The sign read, as is common: “Bensin Habis” (gas finished). The motorcycles and cargo trucks brimming of people lined up for probably a good mile or two. I read about the ‘energy crisis’ sweeping across the States and Europe. Someone is getting the last laugh at the SUV boom of yesterday. Indeed I empathize with the $3 plus gallon of gas. While still in the US, I terrifyingly watch the dollars escalate at the pump each time I filled my jeep… $60 is a small fortune for an unemployed bum. Three days ago, I filled up my motorcycle for 37,000 Rupiah (about the whopping equivalent of $4). Nevertheless, to put it into perspective I spent less than 35,000 Rupiah on food for the past two weeks. Not is fuel simply a strain on the pocketbook, sometimes it’s gone. “Habis.” Indonesia does not rely on imports of fuel to keep moving. It’s in the production game. By 2010 it is expected that the country will be producing over a million barrels of oil a day, with reliable speculation of new reserves being discovered on the remote islands or under expansive sea.
Seemingly the west is getting savvy on social responsibility. Or is that simply Hollywood? Who needs the Kyoto Treaty. Millennium Development Goal 7… what? Still a lingering question on the validity of climate change? Saving the environment and reducing our global footprint with our hybrid cars and commitment to alternative energy sources in bio-fuels. A good thing, right? Indeed, it seemed like only a step in the right direction. But as with many of the noblest intentions come unintended consequences. The new buzz on the headlines… Food Crises. The once superfluous crops were exported to the hungry of the global south. Now their going to feed our energy hunger at home. Where’s the next magic bullet?
No transport. Sitting by candle light. Cooking rice over a fire. That’s an energy crisis. That’s a food crisis. Living and working with a population stricken by poverty, by hunger, by a lack of energy and resources gives a new perspective. Instead of being angry with high prices and no fuel, they seem to accept it and move on. Life isn’t over. And perhaps tomorrow will be better.
And the second notable thing on television…
A DVD of “The Best Pop of Papua”… a classic no doubt. Music videos shot with home camcorders. The music not quite in sync. The delight of my day happened on track 4. A traditional dance and attired women of Papua. The music upbeat with Portuguese lyrics. Cut to a shot of the Eiffel Tower. The women now rapping in Indonesian. Their traditional colorful sarongs, beaded jewelry, and topless bodies replace by… OHIO STATE FOOTBALL JERSEYS! Go Bucks! Breaking into a cultural mishmash of a music video surely is no small feat. Nevertheless, my attempt to share my surprise, my excitement was seemingly lost in translation.
I was under the impression that the electric brown outs are rotational. Nevertheless, I am not sure who was charged with the calendar this past week. My ‘hood’ was without electric at least for a period of time every day. 7 days. My math skills may be rusty but statistically I would venture that the ration perhaps was a bit skewed. I went to sleep last night without and woke up this morning without (indeed it may have sprung into action sometime during my slumber but am doubtful). And it’s still out as I ponder dinner. Luckily my refrigerator is empty… although my rumbling stomach says that’s unlucky.
A bamboo hut with poured cement floors. No sofa, no chairs, just handmade woven straw mats for sitting. The walls ‘wallpapered’ with old Flores Pos newspapers. Rooms divided by soft curtains strung along string, flapping as the breeze flows effortlessly through the open doors and glassless windows. Roofs open and walls never meeting the ceiling. An ineffective attempt at privacy. In actuality it’s all just one big room, noise and mosquitoes travel without hindrance from room to room. No running water. Plastic containers are filled for the week from the community tank, natural springs, or during rainy seasons, the sky. Typical. Basic. Nevertheless, satellite dishes to tune into the families favorite Indonesian Karaoke television shows, are not unheard of. Taking a break from office work, I was called into the neighbors hut to catch a few songs and happened upon two noteworthy events.
The first notable thing on television...
Before flipping the channel, I caught a glimpse of a program. Bottlenecked LA. American cars. Lots of cars. Juxtaposition with an Indonesian gas station. The sign read, as is common: “Bensin Habis” (gas finished). The motorcycles and cargo trucks brimming of people lined up for probably a good mile or two. I read about the ‘energy crisis’ sweeping across the States and Europe. Someone is getting the last laugh at the SUV boom of yesterday. Indeed I empathize with the $3 plus gallon of gas. While still in the US, I terrifyingly watch the dollars escalate at the pump each time I filled my jeep… $60 is a small fortune for an unemployed bum. Three days ago, I filled up my motorcycle for 37,000 Rupiah (about the whopping equivalent of $4). Nevertheless, to put it into perspective I spent less than 35,000 Rupiah on food for the past two weeks. Not is fuel simply a strain on the pocketbook, sometimes it’s gone. “Habis.” Indonesia does not rely on imports of fuel to keep moving. It’s in the production game. By 2010 it is expected that the country will be producing over a million barrels of oil a day, with reliable speculation of new reserves being discovered on the remote islands or under expansive sea.
Seemingly the west is getting savvy on social responsibility. Or is that simply Hollywood? Who needs the Kyoto Treaty. Millennium Development Goal 7… what? Still a lingering question on the validity of climate change? Saving the environment and reducing our global footprint with our hybrid cars and commitment to alternative energy sources in bio-fuels. A good thing, right? Indeed, it seemed like only a step in the right direction. But as with many of the noblest intentions come unintended consequences. The new buzz on the headlines… Food Crises. The once superfluous crops were exported to the hungry of the global south. Now their going to feed our energy hunger at home. Where’s the next magic bullet?
No transport. Sitting by candle light. Cooking rice over a fire. That’s an energy crisis. That’s a food crisis. Living and working with a population stricken by poverty, by hunger, by a lack of energy and resources gives a new perspective. Instead of being angry with high prices and no fuel, they seem to accept it and move on. Life isn’t over. And perhaps tomorrow will be better.
And the second notable thing on television…
A DVD of “The Best Pop of Papua”… a classic no doubt. Music videos shot with home camcorders. The music not quite in sync. The delight of my day happened on track 4. A traditional dance and attired women of Papua. The music upbeat with Portuguese lyrics. Cut to a shot of the Eiffel Tower. The women now rapping in Indonesian. Their traditional colorful sarongs, beaded jewelry, and topless bodies replace by… OHIO STATE FOOTBALL JERSEYS! Go Bucks! Breaking into a cultural mishmash of a music video surely is no small feat. Nevertheless, my attempt to share my surprise, my excitement was seemingly lost in translation.
Hanging with Jesus (May 28, 2008)
More than 90% of the people in this region are Catholic. And it’s kindof a big deal. One of the first questions asked… just after if you are married and before your name. I spent Saturday night in one of the villages I work with to support organic cashew production. A 4pm meeting for work (with the community based Internal Control Supervisors who help certify the organic-ness of the cashews) morphed into a pajama party. Not because of a mass amount of content. The actual discussion boiled down to maybe 10 minutes. Rather for 2 factors:
1. The idea of ‘rubber time’, the notion of punctuality unimportant (the first person arrived at 5 and the last near 8)
2. Dinner is obligatory and prior preparation is out of the question (Just after the meeting starts people disappear to the kitchen… the chicken had to be killed, vegetables harvested, and water boiled).
So we camped out in the kampung.
I am not sure what time Indonesians wake. It’s ridiculously early. Someone had gone to buy bread in the form of little round sweet rolls filled with a sugary coconut mixture. Bread for the white girl. Served with a sugar fix… coffee.
Recipe: Equal parts water and sugar. Add a teaspoon of brown powder (coffee?) for color. Let settle. Drink until you reach the grounds in the bottom of your cup.
Isn’t this the land of Java? Such high hopes of incredible cups-of-joe. Nevertheless, I am distracted by mere daydreams of being able to savor a cup of fresh black coffee… sugar free.
We prepared for church. The slumber party was a bit of a surprise. Luckily I had my trusty, always packed, toothbrush. However, nothing else. Stricken with the burden of white girl hair… greasy, dull, and flat. Oily skin. Rumpled slept-in clothes. Fortunately, I had earrings. Their like magic. As long as I wear earrings, people shower compliments. Thank you earring inventor.
Church was savory. Days later, I still close my eyes to recall the flavors. Admittedly, I understood not a word. The presence of Mary and Jesus (in statue form, not flesh) reassured me that we weren’t worshipping satin or aliens or the like. It was infused with incredible cultural zest. Large, the centerpiece of the community perched upon a hill. Dirt footpaths lead the way through the brush. A cement floor lined with wooden benches. The children sat in the front section dressed in what I can best describe as ‘Easter dress’… girls in frilly pastel dresses and boys in short sleeve plaid button-up shirts. The women and men sat separate and arrived separate, with friends not family. Three women squeeze in front of us. Do they plan to sit on our laps? The women beside me hiss and push the interlopers out to find an unoccupied bench space to pray. Four streamers of brightly hued green, blue, and yellow join together above the alter. A single halogen light bulb dangling on a long cord from their junction. The Stations of the Cross framed snapshots, as if memorable family moments, hung haphazardly. Priest-less, the mass was conducted by a young woman community member (we had met the previous night, as she happens to be one of the cashew inspectors) from a pulpit that could have been constructed by a first year woodshop student. Leaning and scrappy. The songs simplistically accompanied by the melodic pounding of rain upon the metal roof. Thunderous and vibrant. A combination of physical structure and chesty voices, the music reached the heavens. Despite the drumming rain, the sun shone bright outside the open doors. The broad banana leaves and coconut palms dancing.
1. The idea of ‘rubber time’, the notion of punctuality unimportant (the first person arrived at 5 and the last near 8)
2. Dinner is obligatory and prior preparation is out of the question (Just after the meeting starts people disappear to the kitchen… the chicken had to be killed, vegetables harvested, and water boiled).
So we camped out in the kampung.
I am not sure what time Indonesians wake. It’s ridiculously early. Someone had gone to buy bread in the form of little round sweet rolls filled with a sugary coconut mixture. Bread for the white girl. Served with a sugar fix… coffee.
Recipe: Equal parts water and sugar. Add a teaspoon of brown powder (coffee?) for color. Let settle. Drink until you reach the grounds in the bottom of your cup.
Isn’t this the land of Java? Such high hopes of incredible cups-of-joe. Nevertheless, I am distracted by mere daydreams of being able to savor a cup of fresh black coffee… sugar free.
We prepared for church. The slumber party was a bit of a surprise. Luckily I had my trusty, always packed, toothbrush. However, nothing else. Stricken with the burden of white girl hair… greasy, dull, and flat. Oily skin. Rumpled slept-in clothes. Fortunately, I had earrings. Their like magic. As long as I wear earrings, people shower compliments. Thank you earring inventor.
Church was savory. Days later, I still close my eyes to recall the flavors. Admittedly, I understood not a word. The presence of Mary and Jesus (in statue form, not flesh) reassured me that we weren’t worshipping satin or aliens or the like. It was infused with incredible cultural zest. Large, the centerpiece of the community perched upon a hill. Dirt footpaths lead the way through the brush. A cement floor lined with wooden benches. The children sat in the front section dressed in what I can best describe as ‘Easter dress’… girls in frilly pastel dresses and boys in short sleeve plaid button-up shirts. The women and men sat separate and arrived separate, with friends not family. Three women squeeze in front of us. Do they plan to sit on our laps? The women beside me hiss and push the interlopers out to find an unoccupied bench space to pray. Four streamers of brightly hued green, blue, and yellow join together above the alter. A single halogen light bulb dangling on a long cord from their junction. The Stations of the Cross framed snapshots, as if memorable family moments, hung haphazardly. Priest-less, the mass was conducted by a young woman community member (we had met the previous night, as she happens to be one of the cashew inspectors) from a pulpit that could have been constructed by a first year woodshop student. Leaning and scrappy. The songs simplistically accompanied by the melodic pounding of rain upon the metal roof. Thunderous and vibrant. A combination of physical structure and chesty voices, the music reached the heavens. Despite the drumming rain, the sun shone bright outside the open doors. The broad banana leaves and coconut palms dancing.
Rubber Time (May 25, 2008)
Like posters in a college dorm room, homes are decorated with calendars backdating sometimes to 2004. Mainly political in nature. Not especially aesthetically pleasing. The other common fixture is a clock. But not a working clock. Stuck in time. Perhaps serving as a visual metaphor for Indonesia.
Sometimes it’s as if I’ve stepped into a dusty magazine. A collection of the best of the past 5 decades. Plastic furniture. Mustaches. Mismatched second hand clothes. Jumbo t-shirts. Cigarette advertisement prolific. Abundant smokers in buildings and public places. Wide flared jeans. No littering fines and is perfectly acceptable. Glass coca-cola bottles. Sweet tea. Children play with the neighbors, often pantless, unsupervised... What’s a stranger? Flowery painted dishes that evoke imagines of a Grandmother’s china cabinet. Wireless internet doesn’t exist. People use the telephone not email or their blackberry. Remember hand-written reports?
The Earth still travels around the sun as is evident by the bright days and star studded nights. Time hasn’t stopped. It is merely flexible. Appropriately it’s been nicknamed ‘rubber time’. I understand that punctuality is my western value not Indonesia’s. There isn’t much use trying to move mountains. I am merely trying to adapt. I’ve learned not to plan more than one activity a day. And to a lot the entire day… even if for merely a 10 minute meeting. Time is not important.
Sometimes I have to wait several hours for activities to start or for friends to arrive. Plans are not made for an exact hour, but for the morning, the afternoon, or the evening. With a deep breath… it’s ok. Nevertheless, when I have to make the extra effort to wake up before dawn expecting to be picked-up at 4 am and they are 4 hours late… that’s not ok.
Currently, my life is not my own. I am reliant upon others. For transportation. For communication. For discovering this new environment. I keep a toothbrush in my pencil case, always packed just in case. And just in case seems to happen several times a week. Plans change, meetings last long, or people just want to have a slumber party. All equally feasible. I’ve been gone all week, staying over in various villages. All unplanned. I like the change, nevertheless, I also like clean clothes and the comforts of my own space. I like being able to escape the dizziness of being engulfed by a new language.
Sometimes it’s as if I’ve stepped into a dusty magazine. A collection of the best of the past 5 decades. Plastic furniture. Mustaches. Mismatched second hand clothes. Jumbo t-shirts. Cigarette advertisement prolific. Abundant smokers in buildings and public places. Wide flared jeans. No littering fines and is perfectly acceptable. Glass coca-cola bottles. Sweet tea. Children play with the neighbors, often pantless, unsupervised... What’s a stranger? Flowery painted dishes that evoke imagines of a Grandmother’s china cabinet. Wireless internet doesn’t exist. People use the telephone not email or their blackberry. Remember hand-written reports?
The Earth still travels around the sun as is evident by the bright days and star studded nights. Time hasn’t stopped. It is merely flexible. Appropriately it’s been nicknamed ‘rubber time’. I understand that punctuality is my western value not Indonesia’s. There isn’t much use trying to move mountains. I am merely trying to adapt. I’ve learned not to plan more than one activity a day. And to a lot the entire day… even if for merely a 10 minute meeting. Time is not important.
Sometimes I have to wait several hours for activities to start or for friends to arrive. Plans are not made for an exact hour, but for the morning, the afternoon, or the evening. With a deep breath… it’s ok. Nevertheless, when I have to make the extra effort to wake up before dawn expecting to be picked-up at 4 am and they are 4 hours late… that’s not ok.
Currently, my life is not my own. I am reliant upon others. For transportation. For communication. For discovering this new environment. I keep a toothbrush in my pencil case, always packed just in case. And just in case seems to happen several times a week. Plans change, meetings last long, or people just want to have a slumber party. All equally feasible. I’ve been gone all week, staying over in various villages. All unplanned. I like the change, nevertheless, I also like clean clothes and the comforts of my own space. I like being able to escape the dizziness of being engulfed by a new language.
Pickling (May 20, 2008)
I made pickles today. So proud of myself. A tasty treat. No recipe, simply an idea. A morning saunter through the market stalls. Ducking under the low hanging plastics throws strung across for shade. The crimson smiles flashed, signing out a chores. “Mau beli?” (What buy?) and “Ke mana?” (To where?) Children stare. Young and old call “Hello Mister”. Gender unimportant. Never had I made pickles. Never had the thought crossed my mind. But today the pale pudgy cucumbers called out to me. Although not quite as loud as the seller. Really how difficult could pickles be?
Cookies also whispered. Tim Tams… the most delish Australian export. On the walk home, a mob of pre-adolescents wanted to know what I had bought. A chance to practice my language. Cucumbers, bananas, tofu, and cookies. They howled with laughter then told me I was fat. Jerks. I took the long walk back.
Cookies also whispered. Tim Tams… the most delish Australian export. On the walk home, a mob of pre-adolescents wanted to know what I had bought. A chance to practice my language. Cucumbers, bananas, tofu, and cookies. They howled with laughter then told me I was fat. Jerks. I took the long walk back.
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