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.
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