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?
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