Elephants amuck. (16 October)

This was just posted on the UN Wire…

Elephants text-cast their approach toward human settlements
An alert system by which rangers receive text messages from a phone card placed in an elephant's collar when the animal crosses over a GPS-enabled border into human territory is at once saving elephants' lives and human crops. The Toronto Star (10/14)

Bless the inventor of text messaging. Teenagers, Indonesians, and now elephants! Text messaging in Indonesia is an indispensable technology. They love it. They thrive on it. And expect responses immediately and frequently. I probably receive somewhere in the ballpark of 15 messages daily of “bu buat apa skrng?” (what are you doing now, Mrs.?). Plus numerous others with contents of more substance. They start rolling in about 6 am. Does it really matter what I’m doing at 6 in the morning? Locals have most likely been up for hours by that time, but, I however am sleeping! Ahhh… indeed, days I get to sleep until 6:30 are such a luxury! Admittedly, my shorthand text messaging language skills are much better than my ability to speak and write proper Indonesian. And probably more useful! Especially since elephants can now text message.

Text messaging… check.

But just in case I run into any elephant’s I needed a quickie on Geographic Positioning Systems (GPS). Thus, last week I completed a training on GIS, Geographic Information Systems, of which encompasses the technology of GPS. Handheld devices. Computers. Technology. Satellites. It all comes together to compromise a system that’s more than GoogleMaps and your car’s TomTom with an English accent. It’s an amazing 3D, inter-connected world. And obviously now we aren’t the only ones with instant communication.

GPS… check.

Elephants… ?

Dancefloor divas. (12 October)

It struck me last night at dinner that I’ve definitely have adopted to Indo. Why? Because the dog tasted delicious. Sucking the meat from the jagged bones and darkly curled fat, yet never really forgetting it’s origins. Knowing that it was (at one time) “man’s best friend”. And somehow that was ok with me.

***

They asked for a discothèque. A bar. Seriously?? This is Bajawa. We have neither… or so we thought.

The American film crew craved a night on the town. Drinks and dancing. How I hunger for such a night. Dreams of mouthwatering martini concoctions at Bristol, soaking in the sun with margaritas, sampling micro-brews, and dancing wherever seems fit. But alas Bajawa is void of all the above.

Perhaps because it was several of the crew’s last night on Flores, determination raged. There must be something! After their persistent questioning, a guide from one of the hotels said that indeed their was a ‘pub’. Tjeerd, Sanne, and I questioned him. Most certainly this was the ‘whore house’… not a classy establishment. No, he assured us it wasn’t. Whore house or not, an adventure awaited, so off we went… 7 Americans, 2 Dutch, and 2 Indonesians. Tucked off into a roadless corner of the town. A back entrance cluttered with rubbish. Windows covered with bamboo and sheets of dark fabric. Nothing screams shady activity (ie. prostitution) like blacked out windows… agree?

We stumbled through the dark. Turned left. Not a large space. No more than 10 big steps can get you from one end to the other. A small bar at one end and a “DJ” booth. Sandwiched by two mammoth speakers, a big screen television was mounted on the front wall, forehead level… perfect for hitting your head while dancing. Eight tables. Each respectively numbered with hand drawn signage… in case the place gets too busy? There were 4 other people. In case the waitress forgets where you are sitting? There is no waitress. Bintang beer or Bintang beer? Marlboro cigarettes or Marlboro cigarettes? Not exactly a large menu. Rp 25,000 (rupiah) for a cold. Rp 20,000 for room temp. Splurge.

Karaoke is typically code for prostitution. Found that out in Bali. However, unlike the bar we wondered into in Bali were a Rp. 400,000 drink price definitely included something more than the drink, this hole-in-the-wall was more subtle. Nevertheless, the 2 young scantily clad women looked mighty out place in conservative Bajawa were females don’t shows shoulders or knees. Moreover, their company of two older men, who not only were toothless but also less than desirable looking, was suspicious. Indifferent to our posse of fair skinned people (a serious rarity), the local men continued on singing the Indonesian love songs as the words colorfully flashed against the cheesy music videos of white women noticeably dressed in early 1990’s fashion.

Praise be. Eventually, one of our comrades seduced the DJ into ‘spinning’ something danceable. On to the dancefloor (er… empty space between tables) we crowded. Shaking it, as the prostitutes and their ‘friends’ looked on impassively, until the cold beer supply ran dry.

The people on the bus go... (1 October)

The experience of public transport never ceases to amaze. I love the adventure. The local emersion. The cultural exposure.

No Greyhounds. No double deckers. Rather extended vans or maybe a mini bus. Anything larger finds the curvaceous roads a slow challenge. No on board toilets, but will stop for passengers to sneak off into the roadside bushes for a bladder release.

They come and go at will. No schedule. No plan. Operating on Indonesian Time.

They’re colorful. Eclectic. In every sense…

Chickens hang bundled by their feet, strapped to the sides of the bus.
Feathers blow in through the open windows.
Smoke curls through the sunlight and is visually carried out the windows.
Bus or deathtrap? Bird flu and lung cancer.
Goats hoisted and tied to the roof.
Boxes, vegetables, sacks, and living animals are stuffed under every inch of foot space.
The passengers shout instructions to the driver as if he’s their personal chauffer.
Women spit vibrant red (from chewing betel nut).
Plastic bags thumb tacked to the roof… accessible for those (they will surely be numerous) that will shortly succumb to the motion-sickness induced by the combination of weaving road and swerving vehicle.
Squeezed three or four person to a seat intended for two… when the bus is full it’s open seating on the roof.
Music deafening, the same mixed tape repeated over and over and over.
The driver keeps a cigarette in one hand and cell phone in the other… The later on speaker as he vainly attempts to shout above the on-board ruckus.
A rosary dangles from the rearview mirror.
A cross decorates the dash.
Teddy bears and stuffed bundles of fluff strung across the windows.... Suction cupped in place.
“Jesus My Love” “No Woman No Cry” “Britnay Speres” “Jonh Trovolta” (actual spellings) painted on the windows, leaving little room for viewing the road.
The ‘bus boys’ hang out the door shouting the destination.
They scamper to help load the next rider… likely a local wrapped up a sarong standing along the side of the road holding his (or her) goat and a handful of chickens.

Wanting to get somewhere fast? Best call in your personal helicopter. Fast travel just doesn’t happen. A two hour bus journey… that’s dreaming. Stretch it into 4.5 hours. Don’t breath in too deep and best to avoid large meals prior.

Buffalo, water, punk-rockers, and helicopters. (26 September)

UN DISPATCH: “The global water crisis may be the most underreported major global crises. Nearly 900 million people lack access to safe drinking water, and 2.5 billion lack access to safe sanitation. A lack of access to safe sanitation is what caused the Black Death...in the 14th century. In addition to the day-to-day suffering of nearly a billion people, access to water has and will continue to be casus belli.” (29 September 2008)


I was without running water. I still am. But have discovered why… the whole of Bajawa has apparently run dry. The surrounding hills are flushed with natural springs that burst and bubble from below. Giving life to the green hued landscape. Nevertheless, it seems that around this time of year, the end fringes of dry season, the water ceases to flow down to us city folk. Which seems to run a bit contrast to the laws of nature as I’ve never seen a river flow up a mountain... but I’ll take the locals’ word.

I’m learning to watch the clouds to know when to leave out a bucket to collect the random rain… and when not to leave my clothes out to dry. However, as the rain has yet to become a regular occurrence, I depend on water from three metal barrel-drums (lined with an oh-so healthy looking tar) outside my house that are magically filled as I sleep. As I carried in several buckets tonight I presented the reasonable question to the father of the house as to where the water comes from if the town is dry. He’s an ingenious man who has rigged up a pump and hose to fill the drums. But still where does this water come from? He motions to what I assumed was a very very deep ditch for collecting rubbish and the like. Hmmm… I think I’ll just keep on believing that the water comes from the water fairies.

In other water news…
The American guy’s film / water project.

The water is running. A ‘pesta’. A party. A celebration and local animist ritual for prosperity. A fascinating collision of culture. The traditional Indonesian and hyped-up American modern. East meets West. The day commenced with a buffalo sacrifice and concluded with an ultra-energized punk-rock concert. The smell of delusions and misinterpretations saturated the once-upon-a-time pure air above the village, a setting both for a development project and a film. Neither the Americans nor the Indonesians can fully perceive the other’s perspective. Dissimilar culture and different experiences have fostered an inability to see through each other’s eyes. What is real? What is make-believe? The whole scenario surreal.

Nevertheless, admittedly, the night was great fun.

A buffalo killed as the villagers danced and sang. The blood smeared about as a blessing. On houses. On the new solar equipment. On the water pipe and pumps. On the stage. On the drums. Women and men dressed in the local traditional ikat sarongs. White horses handwoven into the black background. Orange tassels and pom-poms. Hair decorations tall, natural, and brings Natural Geographic to mind. How did I get here? Is this the Discovery channel or life? Or a dream.

The Governor and government heads give windy remarks. The length of such formalities, I assure you, are un-human, completely alien. Well beyond the attention span of any foreigner. Seriously hours.

The villagers gather curious and hungry. Swatting or propped-up on stone walls embedded in the slopes of the mountain. The children wide-eyed. Holding bowls as if eagerly waiting for the popcorn to accompany a hot-movie. The white faces, the stars, the bizarre that captivate audiences. Bowls, woven from the plentiful palms of the copious coconut trees, distributed as the sun set. Dishwasher safe? How does one clean a woven bowl? Worries of cross contamination and food borne illnesses a very Western notion. Several men lug plastic buckets up the unrelenting hillside. One filled with the obligatory white rice. One filled with boiled buffalo… not just meat but innards, bone, fat, skin, and hair. As if accepting holy communion, one after another extend their bowls for the sacred food. The men reaching deep into the buckets with their bare hands, distribute the rice and buffalo.

Not only is cross-contamination an unheard of concept so is handwashing… the right hand is ‘clean’, the left is used for other things (no toilet paper = use your imagination), however, I am sure that the right must come in contact with the left on numerous occasions. Yesterday, I ran across some interesting info on the topic…

“Eighty percent of the world's illness is caused by fecal matter. A gram of feces can contain 10 million viruses, 1 million bacteria, 1,000 parasite cysts, and 100 worm eggs. Bacteria can be beneficial: the human body needs bacteria to function, and only 10 percent of cells in our body are actually human. Plenty are not. Small fecal particles can then contaminate water, food, cutlery, and shoes—and be ingested, drunk, or unwittingly eaten. One sanitation specialist has estimated that people who live in areas with inadequate sanitation ingest 10 grams of fecal matter every day.” (http://www.slate.com/id/2201466/entry/2201467/)

Yum.

The dogs seemed to linger around the westerners… no doubt their bellies filling. Quiet certainly, I was not the only one with the notion to let the dogs nibble from my ‘dinner plate’.

The opening act commences. Karaoke. Indonesians love it. LOVE IT.

The main event. The concert. The band looking very punk, tatted and chained, in sharp contrast to the sarong clad villagers. The music, American favorites and Indonesian specialties, pumped through the black towering speaker system that wouldn’t be out of place at a Rolling Stones Concert. The band is entertaining and energetic. The American drummer hammers hard. The Indonesian base player climbing the speakers and shouting to the crowd. Everyone dances. Everyone watches.

The arak (locally made alcohol… think moonshine) flows. Halved coconut shells filled and passed. Eyes glazing.

The party leapt through the night. A rain wet the dust beneath the dancing feet. It watered and infused the outdoor fun. Electrified with each drop. Dancers bounded with augmented energy. The musicians cranked out loader tunes. The arak sloshed. Nevertheless, as morning emerged the happy drops turned to a soaking menace forcing all to seek refuge on the leaking bamboo stage. At a low point we rushed for the film crew bungalow… down a steep mud path. Slipping and sliding. Dark. The moon obscured by clouds and palm trees.

The film crew drunk and dramatic. The closure of a month spent together in the village. The bungalow was filled with screams. There were tears. There was cursing. There was laughter. My favorite was “Fuck Indonesia. Fuck this movie. I’m calling a helicopter. I’m going to Hawaii.” From a guy who had been on Flores for less than 24 hours. Definitely not one for the local. For the challenge. A helicopter in the traditional village… that would be cool. But where exactly would he land this helicopter?

This little piggy went to Rote (24 September)

What fun is being an expat if you don’t take advantage of the opportunities to explore as much as possible? Indonesia makes it a bit tricky… it’s either an issue of time or money given the island state. Boats vs. Planes.

Thus, since VSO was footing the transport bill to Kupang, I made it a long weekend.

Burying my anti-social tendencies, I found myself engulfed by a gaggle of Filipinos and a duo of Ugandans. Our travel plans coinciding. Rationalizing that getting from point A to point B in Indonesia is easier done with a posse than solo, I crashed their holiday. Admittedly, prior to this Asian adventure, I had minimal exposure to the Filipino culture. My Ag Comm TA at OSU was Filipino… we were all fairly convinced that she was certifiable (crazy). However, now, in all my wisdom, it was most likely just a cultural disparity. A Filipino thing… or is that an American thing? The boundless energy. The constant need for group activities. Kindof like traveling with a group of excitable, sugar-high teenagers. Exhausting. Nevertheless fun… for a short few days.

Rote.
Renowned for it’s surf and beaches. Rightly so.

Hoping off the boat (we made it! I was holding my breath as this crossing hasn’t always been successful, 2006 the ferry sank) we made a beeline for the white beach village of Nemberala… almost. First lunch. Then snacks. Then shopping in the market. Where is so-and-so? And so-and-so? All collected and fed, we bounded south.

The road barely a rocky dirt path. The landscape thirsty. Peppered with towering lontar palm trees. The source of sweet liquid that is fermented into a juicy, white palm wine that is both tasty and strangely reminiscent of vinegar. The hovering green palm canopy in sharp contrast to the ridged grey trunks planted in the spongy sand. Seemingly another level of the world somewhere between the dull colors of the earth and vivid blues of the sky. On Flores the cattle and buffalo are singularly tethered roadside. On Rote they wander the dusty savannahs in small herds. The pristine beaches, as if cut from calendar pages, entirely vacant except for my playful comrades… and numerous families of rooting pigs. They (both the Filipinos and the pigs) leave furrows in the white powdered sand that seems to stretch endlessly around every bend. A peculiar picture of carefree pigs and scampering foreigners. Boats anchored just a few feet off shore. Locals searching the coast for every strand of marooned seaweed that is their livelihood. Val and I borrow a canoe to paddle out to swim among the floating ropes of the seaweed plots. A paddle that was easier said than done! Round and round and round we go…

We spend our couple of days exploring the beaches of Bo’a and Oeseli. Nothing but sand, pigs, and the rare surfer. This is where the waters of Indonesia and Australia merge. The later having islands close enough that crossing wouldn’t prove difficult for a strong swimmer. As the tide goes out the beach morphs into a vision of another planet. Perhaps a moonscape. Cratered. Massive freestanding rocks that could only have come from the depths of the universe or an act of God.

We spend our nights in the company of the echoing pounding waves and the three men staying in our homestay. Surfers. But far from the hordes that bound to Kuta. These surfers are 40-50ish. Their hair grey and faces weathered from years of waves and sun. Meals part of the hotel deal since there aren’t any other choices in ‘town’. Family style, beachside. We chat and share personal philosophies. Roll out maps and linger over where we are, where we’ve been, and where we want to be. The orange glow of a bonfire constructed from the hulls of coconuts. The ceaseless dark night sky painted with the ribbons of the Milky way Galaxy. Streaked by shooting stars. Fingers and toes digging into the sand. The waves thundering through the night.

Back tomorrow. To reality?

Beer, Gossip, and volunteers... aka NTT weeken (24 September 2008)

Survivor reality tv in real life. The cameras lacking, but the scheme the same. Toss together a random mix of people in the wilds of Indonesia. Foster a stimulus and the viewers are hooked.

An odd blend of nationalities and cultures. Ages and interests vast. We meet for 2 days in Kupang (on the island of West Timor), the largest and capital city of the region NTT (includes my island of Flores). The geographic make-up and challenging transportation of Indonesia cuts us off from the ‘west’, from other volunteers. Thus VSO provides an outlet for ‘discussion’ and ‘sharing’ in the form of a regional volunteer weekend. One for us in NTT province. One for the hard-core vols suffering (tongue in check) on Bali and Java. The later most likely sharing horrific war stories about clubbing in Kuta or meeting up for coffee and movies in Yogakarta. Our tales weak in comparison, thus resorting to rumored chit-chat about those not lucky to be in attendance. Who really wants to sit around talking about malaria and sporadic electricity? The beer and gossip flows (like the running water I wish I had). We weave a soap opera that would make one question if the networks really cancelled Melrose Place all those years ago or just moved the cast to Indonesia. It’s juicy. It’s scandalous. It’s implausible. Nevertheless, we all want to believe. Fact or fiction. It doesn’t matter. Momentarily it’s fantastic to escape reality.

A story worth sharing…
I’ve stayed in many a dodgy place, but this was a first…

To ensure not to be late for our morning flight to Kupang for the weekend, Tjeerd and I traveled to Ende the prior night to stay with another volunteer, Mike, and his wife. Mike works in a residential computer learning center of sorts thus we can stay for free in one of the rooms. They make a big deal that I get the ‘luxury’ room where the director stays when there are late nights. Admittedly, I’ve stayed in some of the most sketch of places. My standards low. Very low if the price is right. The accommodation here is simple but fine. Two or three steps above my normal. Settling into bed. That time between relaxation and slumber. I suddenly have a strange sensation that I hear something odd below the bed, and sit up. Sitting up just in time to see a long tail race across the bed where my head had been moments before. I don’t want to make exaggerated statements, but I feel fairly confident that it was a rat. I jump to my feet. Stomping about the bed. Heart pounding. Wahhhhhh!

Dancing Queen. (7 September)

Indonesia officially has two seasons, rainy and dry. But in the market it’s more evident as mango and avocado season. Delightfully, we are in the midst of mango season. In the states we’re deprived. I’ve lived nearly 27 years without knowing that there exist numerous mango varieties. Different shapes. Different smells. Different colors. Subtly different flavors.

However, I propose that there is indeed a third season. Wedding season. It’s arrived. On the fringe between soaking rains and the chilly nights of dry season. The avocados are sparse and the mangos teasingly still dangle from trees… almost ripe. The locals live for Wedding Season. But as a foreigner I can assure you that weddings are incredibly awkward events. People come from all over the island on short notice. The event is ‘planned’ a day or two in advance. The invites hand delivered and word is passed around.

The plentiful massive bamboo is cut and plastic blue tarps strung overhead to create a pavilion of sorts. Multi-colored plastic chairs are set in perfectly straight lines facing forward. Leaving a middle aisle for the guest to make their way to the front to congratulate the ‘new’ bride and groom. From my understanding, the couple has two types of marriages. The traditional. And the formal, legal, religious. The later takes place when the family has secured enough funds for the event. Or rather enough to buy the buffalo. It may be years. Recently I attended a wedding where the bride breast fed her 3 year old child on stage in front of the wedding guest. It was the only time she removed her white gloves.

People arrive by motor cycle. They arrive by foot. They arrive by the truck load. There’s no time set. It begins when people arrive. Someone may know of someone who has yet to appear and thus the party must wait. The bride and groom sit at the front of the pavilion. Slightly elevated on a platform. A colored cloth draped behind with their names displayed in cut-outs. Reminiscent of a high school graduation party. Sometimes there are plants and flowers. Sometimes there are pictures. But these are extravagant. As one greets the couple there is a box. A box for collecting gifts of money. It’s done discreetly. Even if one leaves nothing, everyone pretends to put something into the box. Young children and babies included. I left 10,000 rupiah for a couple I didn’t know. Later asked how much is appropriate. 5,000 rupiah for friends. That’s 50 cents… for friends!

Sugar-fied coffee and tea is served. Later tables are filled with stacks of glass plates, rice (in a container large enough that I could easily crawl inside), and plates of various meat. One table may have pork and dog. The other chicken and goat. Religious tolerance.

A set of speakers that would likely look more at home at a rock concert. Towering. Intimidating. An emcee calls out the couple. Then a list of people are summoned forward into two lines. The wedding dance. Jahi. A traditional line dance complemented with strategic hand waving. No one smiles. It’s serious. Almost scowling.

The party begins.
There’s jahi. It’s traditional. Loved by all.

There’s waltzing. Lot’s of waltzing. It’s readily assumed we also do a lot of waltzing in the west… their shocked when I divulge otherwise. A reaction equivalent to revealing in one clean sweep that there is no Santa Clause, Tooth Fairy, or Easter Bunny.

There’s cha-cha. But it’s not cha-cha at all, rather somekind of line dance with just two steps.

There’s ‘disco’. Really not disco. No flash. No fros. A bit more modern but with sexual undertones that one finds on the dancefloors at home. It’s all innocent and almost childish.

After each song everyone returns to their chairs only to rush the dirt dance floor at the next song. Water is splashed on the ground sporadically between songs to cut the dust. There’s one mixed tape… repeated all night. It’s the same tape heard everywhere. A random arrangement of traditional and English songs I’ve never heard.

I’m known as the ‘Queen of the Party’. They laugh at me. They point. They shriek. It’s ok. I didn’t come all the way across the globe to fit in. I’m a good sport. Waltzing with the Kepala Desa (Chief of the village). Cha-cha with work collegues. Jahi with the old men and women. Disco with my mass of new friends. Everyone wants a picture with the white girl… as if I’ve stepped into the shoes of Britney Spears. Paparazzi at every turn.

A bit like a junior high dance. The men and women separate. The women pass around sleeping children. The men pass around cups of the local ‘arak’ or ‘moke’, alcohol made from the plentiful palms and coconuts.

The repetition continues until morning. The same music. The same dance. The same the same the same. But they’re smart. The parties are weekdays. And since all are invited, work the next morning is optional. Although that isn’t completely different from any other morning...