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.
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.
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