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.
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