Hello Mister - August Edition.

For each month of exile from Indonesia, I’ve agreed to write a contributing article for the monthly volunteer newsletter, Hello Mister. Thought I would also share on the blog…

Zambian Ramblings.
August Edition.

Remember the campaign by the beef industry that popularized the slogan… “where’s the beef?” Since arriving in Zambia, I have found my self asking a similar question… “where’s the rice?”

Now, don’t get me wrong. This girl loves her chips… nearly as much as tahu isi! But seriously, nobody warned me that I would indeed miss my rice. In absolute honesty I do, upon occasion, have cravings for what had become a near routine of rice for breakfast. Just so easy to put on the rice cooker and crawl back in bed for an extra 30 minutes. I can only imagine the look of pure perplexity if tomorrow morning I declare “please hold the sausage and eggs, I’ll have rice for breakfast.” Each morning my cholesterol-laden breakfast arrives on a silver platter; served by the hotel staff, where I live. Simply, I am a very spoiled guest. Perhaps, because I am the only guest. Embarking on the second month of African life and the novelty of being treated like a princess has yet to wear off. But then again, does it ever?

My fairy-godfather, waved his magic wand and rescued me on my second day in Zambia. How people make it through this critical lesson without a fairy-godfather is unfathomable. Maurice, a friend from when we did our Master's studies together at University of Reading, a local Zambian, my fairy-godfather, unfortunately could not magically make my missing-in-action luggage appear (these bags took the longer scenic route to Africa), however, he and his family did share a life skill pivot to survival for which I will be eternally grateful. I was guided through the art of eating nshima… with much laughter at my expense, I assure you. This is the staple food made of maize mealie meal. Think nasi equivalent. And as one would not eat nasi with a fork (*gasp*), there is no understating the importance of mastering the proper hand-rolling method of consumption. Thus immense thanks to Maurice for sharing skills… and changing lives.

I totally believe in karma. But what have I done to deserve such opulence? The luxury I write of is none other than Shoprite, the South African supermarket chain import, which is a mere 10 minute walk from my majestic dwellings. After ready this story of edible delight, you will all no doubt hold me to be in utter lunacy. And rightly so! Nevertheless, let me just add fuel to the fire… I have a quirky fondness for grocery shopping. This eccentric past-time has been squelched for the past year and a half. Now I can truly savor each excuse to escape into the fashionista House of Scrumptiousness. I glide dream-esquely through the aisles, lingering to ogle the fresh produce, inhaling the scent of yeast and fresh bakery goods, scrutinizing the nutritional content and ingredients of every item that slips into my crimson shopping basket. And at the end of this food safari… I buy a single bag of nutritiously dubious marshmallows.

These oddly pink marshmallows gave me the stamina to rock-the-socks-off my opponent in a weekly game of pool. During our last bout, I received disturbing news. As I am a woman, I apparently am not aloud to partake in the consumption of ground nuts. No peanuts? No kacang tanah? Simply because of my biological make-up? Preposterous. Nevertheless, I am admittedly intrigued… why the gender divide? Thus, if any of you can enlighten me on this feel free to email, text, phone, send smoke signals, etc.

Now, hold on as this story gets even nuttier (pun unashamedly intended). I was told the same gender bias holds true for cashew nuts. Blasphemy!!!! My new acquaintances had crossed the line. They obviously did not recognize my profound devotion to the glories of cashew nuts. Every man, woman, and child should indeed consume copious amounts of cashews… especially the epic taste sensations found on the island of Flores, Indonesia. Notably, the best kacang mete are packaged and distributed by Nature’s Delight. I can get you the hook-up… just ask.

With a bit of patriotism, I shall conclude these food-inundated ramblings. President Obama is periodically quoted in the Indonesian press of his nostalgic cravings for nasi goreng. Thus, in closing, I echo this hunger from an agreeable exile in Zambia… Indeed, Mr. President, where is the rice?

Playing a little catch-up…

I arrived in Zambia July 8th. After an arduous whaling trip; a week split between Bali and Nusa Lembongan; a two week vacation with my parents in Thailand, Malaysia, and Singapore; back to Bali for several days; home to Flores to pack up all my possessions; a farewell in Mbay and Maumere; and finally rounding out with a couple of days for sunning beachside Bali.

Exhausting.

In lieu of a return ticket back to the states (as any good daughter/sister/relation/friend would do when offered a free trip home) I’ve negotiated a short term placement with VSO in Zambia. Waiting for more news on the visa situation… another postponement has pushed back the decision until (perhaps) sometime in August. Perhaps November. Perhaps February… this is a country notorious for it’s concept of ‘jam karat’ (rubber time). I’m staying open to opportunities. Here. There. Where ever… as long as there is a plane ticket and job waiting for me. And preferably a white sand beach… but that’s negotiable.

At least for the next couple of months, I am the Agri-business Advisor for the Chipata District Farmers Association (CDFA). Funny thing is, they don’t have any agri-business. It seems to be a bit of wishful thinking. Nevertheless, I am charged with developing some new spangled idea for increasing the incomes of the local farmers. The ideas and expectations are nothing less than grandiose. Being waltzed around town, introduced as an agribusiness expert is the epitome of embarrassment. More like a semi-unemployable bum who regularly attended classes on the topic (ie. geek) and can more or less feign comprehension. A total sham indeed I assure you.

A whale of a story. (3 June 2009)

My rational self says that I should not be on this bus going 10 hours away from my home. But there is an adventure to be had! There are whalers to be discovered! Do I sit and wait for the latest visa info from VSO to be delivered… which will inevitably be another email of uncertainty. Or… carpe diem? Due to impending visa changes, VSO maybe sending us home. Perhaps temporarily. Perhaps indefinitely, sans return tickets… so why not squeeze the life out what could be my last days of Indonesia life? Why accept the laissez-faire ‘waiting game’ that Indonesians seem to play so well? I’ve nearly forgotten the sense of empowerment derived from being proactive!

So let me tell you a whale of a story. At least that is what we set out in search of. Lembata is an island, a couple of hours by boat, off the very eastern tip of Flores. It also is home to a village what happens to be the only place on the planet where fisherman still go hunting for the big catch with spares. The really big catch. Whales.

By bus. By boat. By motorcycle. By truck. Nearly 20 hours divvied up over three days… each begun before dawn. I swung my legs out of the back of our ride, a truck lined with benches and crowded with fruits, vegetables, chickens, goats, people, plants, trees, and everything else stitched in sacks. With an aching bum and ringing ears from the deafening music (Seriously, I wear earplugs on all forms of public transportation!), I had arrived.

Paying the boys at the base of the steps seemed like a better idea than heaving my pack on to my back all the way up to the homestay. And believe me, it was money well spent. 32 steps later, I was sitting in a family’s house overlooking the beach. The town. The green mountains that seemed to continue straight into the depths of the cobalt blue sea. Starkly simple accommodation with a stellar view. The town doesn’t get loads of tourists… I was number 52 of the year to stay with this family. I know from the log book. And my guess is the only other place in town doesn’t have too many more… especially since it doesn’t have the view. Or the 32 gigantic steps.

The morning sun stretched shadows across the beach. The night shift rolled in with the waves, leaving their triumphant catch to be covered in sand. Butchered on the spot. Dolphins, sharks, and manta ray. Big indeed. And prize worthy. However, it’s with the sun overhead that the really big guys are caught.

The men worked in unison. Serious and steadfast. Each with a function. The captain. The rowers. The lookouts. Those that put up the sail. Those that guide the direction. And of course the man who stands at the front, ready to leap, to thrust himself, spear in hand, upon the would be catch of the day. Their livelihoods at stake. The wooden boat looks neither big enough nor strong enough to carry these men (and me!) to meet the powerful sea… let alone if it should meet a whale! The wind catching the handmade sail woven intricately from sundried palms. A few dolphins playfully leaping in and out of the water. Eight hours of maritime adventure… and a bottle of sunscreen to shield the burning reflection of the sun. But no whale. No catch. I am both happy and regretful. A curious dichotomy of emotion.

Back on land. A late lunch in the homestay. Rice accompanied with dried, tough, fried… dolphin. It was the same as breakfast. It was the same as dinner last night. And I have a feeling it will make another appearance for dinner this evening. Book this accommodation for the view… not the food.

The bus picks me up on it’s way by at 3 am. Sleeping on the trek back? Not a chance.

***

I lay on the bamboo platform out front of my bamboo bungalow. Roof woven from the copious palm leaves. The water sparkles in the mid day sun. Lapping softly onto the dark sand and rocky beach. Nearly reaching the curved trunks of the shady coconut trees under which recline. I spy 5 islands at various distances off the north coast of Flores. Sprouting volcanic peaks from the mysterious and endless sea. Me, the sea, and the sand crabs that dance across the beach. It is peace. Before flying to Bali to face my ‘deportation’, I spend an evening in a set of secluded beachfront bungalows just outside of Maumere. I make a mental note to shave my legs in preparation for re-entry into modern western society, as I walk back to my bungalow to retrieve my snorkel and mask for a mid-morning peak beneath the peaceful surface of the sea. On these island adventures, I never leave home with out my snorkeling gear. Terribly practical, indeed! Unwinding from what could quite possibly be my last Flores adventure. Time for blogging. Time for snorkeling.

Banishment from Indonesia sucks.

That's not a burrito the size of your head. (26 May 2009)

Foolish in retrospect. We should have known something was suspicious as we asked around town about the waterfall. In true Indonesian fashion, no one would admit that they had no idea… each answer differing greatly. We decided to chance it and take a drive on Ravi’s motorbike the couple of kilometers out of Bajawa to see if we could do a bit of exploring around Lekelado for ourselves. Where was this rumored waterfall??

A compounded set of circumstances… a long holiday weekend, cancelled village visits, and a text message from VSO that said to check email immediately. The halfway point, Ravi and I decided to rendezvous in Bajawa as a rescue from boredom and internet access. Ravi made the trip in 3 hours. Mine 5 on the bus due to unnecessary stops… washing the bus in the river by hand seemed like something the crew could do when there weren’t passengers. After a recovery Bintang, we headed to the natural hot springs. As the hot water bubbled from the ground, only slightly cooling as it gushed over the rocks and pounded on our backs for a natural massage… there was no doubt that the trip was worth it.

After breakfast the next morning, we met up to go in search of internet. What’s this immediate news from VSO? Logged in and scanned for the email. To summarize the contents… deportation!! Perhaps within the week. Be on call. More news to follow by telephone. What!

Deportation perhaps is an over-emotional word. But what’s a better choice for having to leave the country? Exile. Banishment. Transitioning to a new visa met a suspension in the VSO program. When our current visas expire we’d have to leave the country… and for longer than the typical overnighter in Singapore. There’s no use dwelling on something with out having all the details… so more on this situation later. Back to the Lekelado and waterfall.

Quite sensibly neither of us decided to go home at the news of imminent packing. In fact, we extended the holiday in Bajawa.

The trekking was a bit more arduous than we had imagined. Ask Ravi and he would even categorize it as treacherous. Ancient volcanic ripples and crevasses. A mere reminder of the origins that shaped the island, now deep forests and rice paddies. A steady drizzle formed droplets on the prolific vegetation. We had employed two local men to guide us the couple of kilometer climb down into the valley. Good thing we had two… one to hold each of Ravi’s hands. Literally. Only after we had made the return trip did we dare laugh… and laugh hard we did! Sorry, Ravi.

A minefield of leeches. Their parasitic black bodies climbing up our legs and arms. Growing large with blood we plucked them off. At the bottom of the cascade of rocks we crossed a suspension bridge that led to a… a cabin. Available for camping if you plan ahead… not sure if that is so they can bring food or get of the wildlife out from inside. Scenic. The waterfall just steps away. Climbing the ladder to the second floor balcony offered grand views. But I had come prepared for a closer view. Pealing off my already wet clothes, I changed into my swimsuit. It was cold. And the water colder. But how often do get a chance to swim out to a waterfall?? Despite the chill, I was totally psyched for the dip, until I found out about the eels… eels longer than your arm. Eels freak me out. Especially ones longer than any body part.

Maybe if I didn’t touch the bottom, I’d be ok? Maybe. No talking Ravi into it. I took the plunge. God damn cold! Swam over to see what one of our guides was so occupied with. It was a ginormous spider… which he broken open with his hands and offered me a bite. Uh, no thank you. And before I encountered any eels longer than my arm and another spider the size of my head, I decided that I had had sufficient swimming. Waterfall swimming… check.

At the end of this mini- adventure, the sky treated us with a rainbow arching its colorful stripes above the volcano.

New home and fingerprints. (19 April 2009)

Where to begin! It’s been a life time since writing my last blog. I could point a finger at numerous excuses. But it’s the culmination… and a hefty share of sheer laziness. I’d forgotten how good it feels to write these blogs… my level of happiness has simply been augmented within these brief few lines.

I lay lazily in my hammock strung across my mini-veranda. 8 am and all ready the sweat beads for on my nose. The sun feels more like 12 noon in the endless blue sky. It’s Sunday. Everyone is at church. It’s quiet (relatively), except for the hungry piglets noisily rooting around. Chickens and ducks investigate the grassless, dusty brown yard. It’s good to be home. It’s a luxury. A rarity these days.

It’s not Bajawa. A polar opposite. I’ve stored my blankets. Traded in my fleece for gauzy shirts that still seem heavy in heat. Umbrellas once used for the daily rain now block out the rays of the burning rays of sun. This is Mbay, my new home.

Over the course of the past two months, I’ve probably haven’t stayed in my own room more than 10 nights. And even in these fleeting evenings, I wasn’t alone. House guests abound. Ibu Siska, a work colleague, left earlier this morning after a three night stay. Ibu Emi, a friend and work colleague, and her 4 month old baby are monthly visitors. I can hardly turn someone away from sharing my small one room for a day or several, when they so excitedly offer me accommodations when I’m in the villages.

My plants barely survive in Mbay. The landlord’s daughters make sure that they are watered while I am away, nevertheless, they sit meekly in their potted homes. The tomato plants are skeletal. The pepper and pea plants sprout and die. Raddishes grown never producing the edible bulb. The spinach, kale, and swiss chard haven’t grown past three inches in the past 3 months. Probably not hot weather plants. However, the parsley flourishes. And the basil plants are rockstars… basil bushes!

Church has concluded, and my neighbors have begun to trickle home. The white girl is still a novelty to the kids. The kids sit, stare, giggle and run. My new home is a lot like summer camp. The rooms are very cabin-esque. A bamboo structure painted sky blue. Seven rooms in a long row. Each with it’s own 4-H green door opening onto a small porch, think roadside motel. Windows that prop open. Before the silver tin roof the house stops. A two foot space above to let in the sill hot air, the chirping geckos, buzzing mosquitoes and mischievous rodents. If I was taller I’d probably could glimpse over the slatted walls into the next room. One lacking height can peer through the cracks in the bamboo. The light from the neighboring rooms escaping to dance on my floor, the cement concealed with pale blue and silver plastic floor sheeting. It’s not just the lights that drift from room to room, it’s the noise, it’s the smells.

Two concrete outhouses for sharing. Each with water basins for bathing, cooking, cleaning, and all the like. Water brought in by buckets… or if electricity is working pumped in from a nearby well. The mama pigs root around in their adjoining pens. ‘Toilets’ and pig pens always seem to come in pairs. Logically.

A weekend of R&R after a whirlwind trip.
While time consuming and unexpected, the quick trip to the department of immigration – in Jakarta – for mere fingerprinting in accordance with a new government mandate, provided an excuse to escape into Western life. Morning fly in. Afternoon fly out. As there are no direct flights to Jakarta from Flores, I took a few days in Bali (and a quick trip to my favorite island get-away on Lembongan) after the immigration excursion for ‘business’ with a woman interested in buying cashews and supporting the farmers on Flores. An organic restaurant-er. We’d meet randomly in Bajawa and thought I’d take the opportunity to catch up with her… and provide a snazzy excuse for a few days of beach time. But that’s all business.

Due to technical problems with the plane, I had to delay my flight back to Flores a couple more days (shame indeed!). Thus, arriving into the eastern city of Maumere for Easter. Bamboo bungalows on the sand and several fellow VSO volunteers, turned the Resurrection of Christ into a true get-away. Two days of snorkeling and leisure reading in the warmth of the sun; locally brewed cocktails and beachfront dancing under the stars. We were the guests, the only guests. Easter dinner magnificently prepared just for us. Grilled fish and lobster. Rice and all the fixings. Thick mango juice a sweet finish. Truly amazing what $10 dollars will buy… a whole weekend.

Frodo, Sam, and the Flores Hobbit. (15 May 2009)

An 8 hour bus trip and no second thoughts. That’s like traveling across several (smallish) states to spend a night with friends. In my socially deprived Flores existence, it’s time well spent.

One year. The clichéd question… where does time go? April concluded my first year of working (excluding time for language training) in Indonesia… and commenced my second. To mark the anniversary, my VSO supervisor came for a visit and evaluation. My local counterpart, after arriving late, announced that I should stay for 5 more years… then read the local newspapers for the remainder of the evaluation process. At this point, I confirmed the product of my time here is more important than the process… even if it takes 5 years. So I disappear from work for 2 days and hit the road to Ruteng.

Ravi and Festus are the chums of Ruteng. A duo. And perfectly hospitable. VSO volunteers, the former from India working on fruit and vegetable marketing. The later from Kenya charged with securing water sources and sanitation. Both in the same local NGO. Ravi had promised Bintang, dancing, and karaoke. All of which he delivered in abundance. A bit of ‘chicken and the egg’… which came first? Beer or karaoke?



Ravi had also promised no rain. He lied. Torrents from the sky. Fyi, motorbike driving is no good in rainy season. Dripping from the 5 minute drive from the bus station to Ravi’s house. Bones chilled. Coffee and a snuggly sweater don’t even warm. A stark contrast to the sunny beach tourist brochures of Bali highlights.

Ruteng is similar to Bajawa. Nestled into the mountains, chilly, and rainy. A stronghold of coffee producers that export around the globe. Raise your Starbucks mugs... cheers. Community rice paddies that are curiously designed like spider webs for consistent and equitable distributions shared amongst the members of the collective farmers’ groups. Monasteries abound. Catholic nuns walk arm in arm through the paved streets. The wealth of the region thanks to the coffee production is apparent. The streets even have stoplights to accommodate the increasing number of automobiles!

But the claim to fame for Ruteng is the Flores Hobbit. A discovery that has perplexed. A discovery that the scientist cannot agree on its authenticity. A new species of human? Perhaps. Tiny adult human remains were unearthed in a cave dripping with stony stalagmites; concealed away in the green hills just outside of the city limits. Frodo’s hobbit relation may not have movie credits but nevertheless does receive periodic mention in the popular press. Receiving no fan fare, a brief mention in the Lonely Planet may be your only clue to this hobbit’s final resting place. A small wooden stake in the damp earth of an archeological excavation site. Enclosed by barbwire fencing. A local man keeps the sole key for curious visitors to have a closer inspection… of an empty shallow hole. Visitors can even have lunch at the random picnic table that sits a mere two feet away from the grave. Only slightly morbid. But you won’t find locals here… it’s haunted. Obviously they’ve never heard… When there’s something strange in your neighborhood, who you going to call? Ghostbusters!