explore
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Excuses.
I am a super-duper blogger slacker as of late. I'll attribute it to a mere 4 days at home in Bajawa over the past 2 months... excuses, excuses. Nevertheless, loads to share. A few post now, a few older ones later.
Shouldn't it be what I want? (19 Agustus 2008)
Off to Singapore for a new Indonesian visa. It’s been fun to catch-up with the VSO posse that arrived together back in February, at the beginning of this story. Dinner in Little India. Rightly satisfying. 24 hours is just too quick. How do we know when we will happen onto these walks again? I kick it solo for two more days. Two more days of everything Flores isn’t. Two more days of fulfilling the cravings. Internet. Lattes. Beers (no Bintang! IPA’s, wheats, stouts… Tiger and micro-brews). Ice cream. People. Buildings. Shopping Malls.
There was a time when I’d wonder why someone would travel alone. But that was then and this is now. In these days of maturity, I relish flying solo. It’s freedom. It’s adventure. It’s liberating. And it’s utterly whatever I want. Perhaps in ‘normal life’ I give into to the whims of others. I’ll take one for the team. Make the sacrifice for the sake of the ‘greater good’. But to travel independently, I get to decide. I get to decide to watch the world go by as I sip a coffee. I get to decide to eat cake and ice cream for breakfast. I get to decide where to go for dinner and what time to dine. Cake and ice cream again, no problem. I get to decide to visit just half of the museum. I get to decide to go back to the same shop 3 times before making a purchase. I get to decide to stay an extra day or leave a day early. Where to next? I decide. It’s also the augmented sense of adventure that sets in when lost or confused. Nevertheless, even us recluses need someone in which to confide. To share frustrations and trails. To share a beer or two. To share stories from the road. It can be a friendless road if one lets it. Thus, we turn to our fellow travelers. It’s a fraternity. Initiated by stepping on to the first flight, waving goodbye to safety and security.
I shack up in a hostel. Dorm room. Mixed gender. It’s the cheapest on the menu... and I am notoriously frugal. But honestly, I don’t plan to spend copious amounts of time here. Just a few hours to snooze. And when in a bunk bed it doesn’t really make a diff who’s below… or above.
Andrew, slept two bunks over, just qualified as a lawyer back in the UK and is exploring before settling into his new career. We meet up for a drink in the trendy Clarke Quay. Happy hour at a microbrewery. Indeed a very happy hour. Then onto Hooters. Yes, Hooters. A classy establishment for sure, but I want chicken wings! Strangely the freedom to show skin is a welcomed change up from Flores, nevertheless, it’s still a bit of moral dilemma to see the coin coming in from the objectification of women. Back at the hostel, Andrew’s bunk buddy, and I nip out to the balcony to escape the intense stares of my strange, middle-aged Pakistani bunk mate. And to let his daughter (maybe?) snooze in quite. Mark shares his relationship woes, career adventure, and perspective on politics at home. A white Zimbabwean with a Filipino girlfriend. Both recently relocating to work in Singapore and stay in the hostel while apartment hunting. With Andrew and Mark, we share the trails of culture. Of new places. Of the unexpected. Confiding in strangers is more economical than a counselor, shrink, or other professional.
Luggage and map in tow, I meet my final (and perhaps most interesting) character at the hostel. Michael, from Congo and accompanied by a heavy French accent. I merely ask how much to expect to pay for a taxi to the airport. A taxi! Darling you must take the train! He offers to guide me to the station since we share a name. Its close he assures me. Flamboyant in every sense of the word. We stroll hand in hand. 45 minutes. I didn’t know walking that slow was humanly possible. Kiss. Kiss. I praise the ease and efficiency of the Singapore airport. No where else on this vast planet would I have made my flight. Admittedly, I was panicked.
Europe, Canada, South America, Indonesia. Random and distant. Nevertheless, I’ve never felt lonely. There always seems to be someone to rescue me from myself. From my tendency to over analyze and rationalize. To be drawn inward. A self proclaimed hopeless realist, I need a save from a stranger. People generally seem more sympathetic to a solo girly. Never a lack of “why?” and “what?”. Invitations and temptations abound.
Without dependents, there’s an amplified tendency to give into whims. It’s fueled by the sense of empowerment, and backed by inspiration from a book given to me several years ago now, by a London flatmate, Yes Man. The embodiment of life leads to the most interesting of destinations. Simply by taking the risk. Taking a chance, an unexplored opportunity. So here I am. Back to the island paradise. A mere four days later. Blog even yet to be completed. I had told the hotel boys, I’d be back. Never thinking quite so soon. I followed the clues, the signs. An invitation. A botched airline ticket. The greater powers that be seemed to be giving me the ‘green-light’. Just 5 hours off the boat, I’d say it was a good decision. Will I feel the same tomorrow?
I do.
Flashback to round 1 of Island Life, Nusa Lembongan.
Shimmy up to the bar for a latte and cake. Indeed, most would order a drink or beer but I need chocolate and caffeine! Conversation turns into a motorcycled island tour (although not a continuous event… sleeping and morning work also took place.) It was fun. It was an ‘all-most’ local perspective on the rocky roads. It gave me the courage, the desire to make the trip back. I truly believe that every person we meet has come into our lives for a purpose. Whether we realize it now or it’s revealed later.
What started at a beach side restaurant ended today as the public boat fired up the engines. Destination, Bali. I can’t tell you much about him except he craves the surf, plays in a band, and comes from the Land Down Under. My host and guide. A local celebrity. Billy. He has the friendliest eyes that crinkle and crease. There’s life behind them. They speak louder than the words as he chats up the locals, the tourist, and just about everyone. He remembers names. And details. And follows up… hence the notoriety. People like to be remembered.
Why did we meet? It’s apparent. His band opened for The Waifs. I love The Waifs. Have you heard of them? Name a song? Exactly. That’s why we met.
Evident, indeed. Nevertheless, another reason happened upon me on the boat back (listening to The Waifs on my ipod). No, it’s not my wanting to be the next Blue Crush surfer super star chica (see blog posted March 3). That’s still true, it’s a dream just on hold until I live somewhere with waves. Learning makes me happy. New skills. New ideas. Ok, I’m learning a language. A culture. I’m learning the in’s and out’s of the world of cashews. I’m learning to drive a motorcycle and spice up my nasi ikan (literally rice fish) with a mean chili sambal. But these are necessities. Encountering Billy and friends, awoken my slumber. Thank you. I realize now a sense of having grown stagnate. Blinded by the explicit (and rightly mammoth) learning curve of life on Flores. I need something new. Something for me.
There was a time when I’d wonder why someone would travel alone. But that was then and this is now. In these days of maturity, I relish flying solo. It’s freedom. It’s adventure. It’s liberating. And it’s utterly whatever I want. Perhaps in ‘normal life’ I give into to the whims of others. I’ll take one for the team. Make the sacrifice for the sake of the ‘greater good’. But to travel independently, I get to decide. I get to decide to watch the world go by as I sip a coffee. I get to decide to eat cake and ice cream for breakfast. I get to decide where to go for dinner and what time to dine. Cake and ice cream again, no problem. I get to decide to visit just half of the museum. I get to decide to go back to the same shop 3 times before making a purchase. I get to decide to stay an extra day or leave a day early. Where to next? I decide. It’s also the augmented sense of adventure that sets in when lost or confused. Nevertheless, even us recluses need someone in which to confide. To share frustrations and trails. To share a beer or two. To share stories from the road. It can be a friendless road if one lets it. Thus, we turn to our fellow travelers. It’s a fraternity. Initiated by stepping on to the first flight, waving goodbye to safety and security.
I shack up in a hostel. Dorm room. Mixed gender. It’s the cheapest on the menu... and I am notoriously frugal. But honestly, I don’t plan to spend copious amounts of time here. Just a few hours to snooze. And when in a bunk bed it doesn’t really make a diff who’s below… or above.
Andrew, slept two bunks over, just qualified as a lawyer back in the UK and is exploring before settling into his new career. We meet up for a drink in the trendy Clarke Quay. Happy hour at a microbrewery. Indeed a very happy hour. Then onto Hooters. Yes, Hooters. A classy establishment for sure, but I want chicken wings! Strangely the freedom to show skin is a welcomed change up from Flores, nevertheless, it’s still a bit of moral dilemma to see the coin coming in from the objectification of women. Back at the hostel, Andrew’s bunk buddy, and I nip out to the balcony to escape the intense stares of my strange, middle-aged Pakistani bunk mate. And to let his daughter (maybe?) snooze in quite. Mark shares his relationship woes, career adventure, and perspective on politics at home. A white Zimbabwean with a Filipino girlfriend. Both recently relocating to work in Singapore and stay in the hostel while apartment hunting. With Andrew and Mark, we share the trails of culture. Of new places. Of the unexpected. Confiding in strangers is more economical than a counselor, shrink, or other professional.
Luggage and map in tow, I meet my final (and perhaps most interesting) character at the hostel. Michael, from Congo and accompanied by a heavy French accent. I merely ask how much to expect to pay for a taxi to the airport. A taxi! Darling you must take the train! He offers to guide me to the station since we share a name. Its close he assures me. Flamboyant in every sense of the word. We stroll hand in hand. 45 minutes. I didn’t know walking that slow was humanly possible. Kiss. Kiss. I praise the ease and efficiency of the Singapore airport. No where else on this vast planet would I have made my flight. Admittedly, I was panicked.
Europe, Canada, South America, Indonesia. Random and distant. Nevertheless, I’ve never felt lonely. There always seems to be someone to rescue me from myself. From my tendency to over analyze and rationalize. To be drawn inward. A self proclaimed hopeless realist, I need a save from a stranger. People generally seem more sympathetic to a solo girly. Never a lack of “why?” and “what?”. Invitations and temptations abound.
Without dependents, there’s an amplified tendency to give into whims. It’s fueled by the sense of empowerment, and backed by inspiration from a book given to me several years ago now, by a London flatmate, Yes Man. The embodiment of life leads to the most interesting of destinations. Simply by taking the risk. Taking a chance, an unexplored opportunity. So here I am. Back to the island paradise. A mere four days later. Blog even yet to be completed. I had told the hotel boys, I’d be back. Never thinking quite so soon. I followed the clues, the signs. An invitation. A botched airline ticket. The greater powers that be seemed to be giving me the ‘green-light’. Just 5 hours off the boat, I’d say it was a good decision. Will I feel the same tomorrow?
I do.
Flashback to round 1 of Island Life, Nusa Lembongan.
Shimmy up to the bar for a latte and cake. Indeed, most would order a drink or beer but I need chocolate and caffeine! Conversation turns into a motorcycled island tour (although not a continuous event… sleeping and morning work also took place.) It was fun. It was an ‘all-most’ local perspective on the rocky roads. It gave me the courage, the desire to make the trip back. I truly believe that every person we meet has come into our lives for a purpose. Whether we realize it now or it’s revealed later.
What started at a beach side restaurant ended today as the public boat fired up the engines. Destination, Bali. I can’t tell you much about him except he craves the surf, plays in a band, and comes from the Land Down Under. My host and guide. A local celebrity. Billy. He has the friendliest eyes that crinkle and crease. There’s life behind them. They speak louder than the words as he chats up the locals, the tourist, and just about everyone. He remembers names. And details. And follows up… hence the notoriety. People like to be remembered.
Why did we meet? It’s apparent. His band opened for The Waifs. I love The Waifs. Have you heard of them? Name a song? Exactly. That’s why we met.
Evident, indeed. Nevertheless, another reason happened upon me on the boat back (listening to The Waifs on my ipod). No, it’s not my wanting to be the next Blue Crush surfer super star chica (see blog posted March 3). That’s still true, it’s a dream just on hold until I live somewhere with waves. Learning makes me happy. New skills. New ideas. Ok, I’m learning a language. A culture. I’m learning the in’s and out’s of the world of cashews. I’m learning to drive a motorcycle and spice up my nasi ikan (literally rice fish) with a mean chili sambal. But these are necessities. Encountering Billy and friends, awoken my slumber. Thank you. I realize now a sense of having grown stagnate. Blinded by the explicit (and rightly mammoth) learning curve of life on Flores. I need something new. Something for me.
Adventure to Nusa Lembongan (9 Agustus 2008)
It’s the vacation get-away cover photo that entices the readers (and buyers) of magazines such as Leisure and Travel, Travel, Budget Travel. Here I am on the beach. Simply idyllic. A tropical paradise in every sense. The Bali escape. Escaping Bali? Perhaps the best of Bali is a bit more fair. The culture, the surfing, the beaches. The golden sunsets. The shade of palm trees. Minus the people. Minus the heightened commercialism. Minus the pushy sales. Minus the noise.
Nusa Lembongan. Paris Hilton stay home. Not a destination for the high maintained. Thus, perhaps encouraging the interesting (and so often unachievable) dichotomy of the tourist and the local.
The beaches of Sanur faintly visible in the distance. A glow in the dark night. The nooks and crannies of mountainous north Bali appear softly painted, framed by still waters and candy clouds. A handful of yachts and speed boats drop tourist off shore on day trips. To play on the coupled, man made playgrounds floating hideously off shore. Thankfully avoidable. I came by public transport. A considerable savings on a local salary… but more importantly a heightened adventure. Wake up early or you’ll miss the chance to jump across the waves with a boat full of chickens. You come, you stay until tomorrow or better, extending the stay indefinitely. The liveliness of Indonesia bus travel, simply more damp. Wading thigh high out into the water, first I heave my backpack and then my body onto the wooden boat. Leave your roller suitcase at home, if making this trek. Crowing cocks and surfboards are tied to the white planked roof. Where are the lifejackets? Where?
Déjà vu. I think I’ve done this ride at Cedar Point or Disney land. All sitting forward, sandwiched on wooden planked seats. A two hour, nauseating trip, bouncing across the waves. My light grey t-shirt now dark and heavy. Not a dry seat aboard. No one immune to the soaking. A young girl in front of me vomits… twice. Washed below the floor boards by the salty seawater coming in from all sides. A powerful spray from the sea sweeps my flipflop to the same fate below in a stream. (Luckily the boat boy obliged when I asked him to pull up the floor boards upon arrival to the island, the sandal was rescued, and cleaned of all vomit. Footwear, however, is not a necessity on this sandy isle. Proudly, shoe free for 3 days.) ** In disclosure, the next three boat trips to and from prove remarkably calmer. Guess just lucky with this adventure… the blogging gods were looking down on me.
The tourist on Nusa Lembongan are surfers. They’re scuba divers and snorkelers. They’re in search of tranquility and sun on the hidden beaches. The locals are seaweed farmers. Their cockfighters and morning fishermen. Their children fly their homemade kites in the sea air.
The water crystal. Incapable of concealing a secret. The waves breaking offshore. Softly audible. The seaweed farmers at work. They cultivate the sea covered land. A patchwork quilt of various shades of blue, green, and turquoise. Punting, the men push the rainbow hued dinghies back to shore, brimming with their crop. Sea life in dark moist reds and greens and browns. Met on the powdery white sand beach by their feminine counterparts. The team hulls the seaweed into traditional Balinese baskets. The women heave the dripping bundle onto their heads. The men balance two baskets across their shoulders like an oxen. Their small people. Not muscle-y. Not overtly strong. The brimming baskets carried behind the tourist façades of small bungalows and beach front umbrellas, to thatch roof huts. The seaweed dries atop royal blue camping tarps in the intense afternoon sun. The pungent fishy odors only dissipate with distance.
Nusa Lembongan. Paris Hilton stay home. Not a destination for the high maintained. Thus, perhaps encouraging the interesting (and so often unachievable) dichotomy of the tourist and the local.
The beaches of Sanur faintly visible in the distance. A glow in the dark night. The nooks and crannies of mountainous north Bali appear softly painted, framed by still waters and candy clouds. A handful of yachts and speed boats drop tourist off shore on day trips. To play on the coupled, man made playgrounds floating hideously off shore. Thankfully avoidable. I came by public transport. A considerable savings on a local salary… but more importantly a heightened adventure. Wake up early or you’ll miss the chance to jump across the waves with a boat full of chickens. You come, you stay until tomorrow or better, extending the stay indefinitely. The liveliness of Indonesia bus travel, simply more damp. Wading thigh high out into the water, first I heave my backpack and then my body onto the wooden boat. Leave your roller suitcase at home, if making this trek. Crowing cocks and surfboards are tied to the white planked roof. Where are the lifejackets? Where?
Déjà vu. I think I’ve done this ride at Cedar Point or Disney land. All sitting forward, sandwiched on wooden planked seats. A two hour, nauseating trip, bouncing across the waves. My light grey t-shirt now dark and heavy. Not a dry seat aboard. No one immune to the soaking. A young girl in front of me vomits… twice. Washed below the floor boards by the salty seawater coming in from all sides. A powerful spray from the sea sweeps my flipflop to the same fate below in a stream. (Luckily the boat boy obliged when I asked him to pull up the floor boards upon arrival to the island, the sandal was rescued, and cleaned of all vomit. Footwear, however, is not a necessity on this sandy isle. Proudly, shoe free for 3 days.) ** In disclosure, the next three boat trips to and from prove remarkably calmer. Guess just lucky with this adventure… the blogging gods were looking down on me.
The tourist on Nusa Lembongan are surfers. They’re scuba divers and snorkelers. They’re in search of tranquility and sun on the hidden beaches. The locals are seaweed farmers. Their cockfighters and morning fishermen. Their children fly their homemade kites in the sea air.
The water crystal. Incapable of concealing a secret. The waves breaking offshore. Softly audible. The seaweed farmers at work. They cultivate the sea covered land. A patchwork quilt of various shades of blue, green, and turquoise. Punting, the men push the rainbow hued dinghies back to shore, brimming with their crop. Sea life in dark moist reds and greens and browns. Met on the powdery white sand beach by their feminine counterparts. The team hulls the seaweed into traditional Balinese baskets. The women heave the dripping bundle onto their heads. The men balance two baskets across their shoulders like an oxen. Their small people. Not muscle-y. Not overtly strong. The brimming baskets carried behind the tourist façades of small bungalows and beach front umbrellas, to thatch roof huts. The seaweed dries atop royal blue camping tarps in the intense afternoon sun. The pungent fishy odors only dissipate with distance.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Dancing the night away (June 23, 2008)
My headlamp is hands down the best investment ever. Battery operated ipod speakers and exercise ball (although the local high fat, sugary diet keeps my abs of steel hidden) tie for second.
Indeed, I get a chuckle from the neighbors when I sport the headlamp about the house on the now near nightly electric outages. Nevertheless, its convenience is unmatched. Candles are fine, but for mobility purposes inefficient.
The electric goes out. Life continues merely cloaked in darkness. Utter darkness by 6pm. The streets fill with the glare of motorcycle headlights. Burning barrels blaze as the daily accumulated rubbish is burned roadside. People congregating for both the warmth and the light. Wrapped in the traditional woven ikat fabrics. The streets prove a safer pathway for pedestrians than the sidewalks. The zipping motors give warning. Contrarily, the sinister holes in the sidewalk wait hungrily to gobble you up! The number of electric generators is growing. Rapidly. A chorus of hums, buzzes, and roars filtering through the darkness. Lights. Candles. Lights. Candles. Shops alternating.
Indeed, the blackouts can be an inconvenience. Nevertheless, I am not so sure my nightly activities would differ that much with the power. True, I am fortunate to have the ability to watch dvd’s on my laptop (yeah for a back-up battery!) and loose myself in the pages of People and Vanity Fair… although knowingly that my English language dvds and magazines will someday be in limited supply. So what else? My neighbors no doubt are curious about what goes on in the dark next door. Unashamedly, Spice Girls and Aqua ring from my ipod speakers. Dance party ‘08! By flickering candle light, I groove and boogie along with my shadow on the wall. We’re a pretty stellar duo… at least we think so.
Indeed, I get a chuckle from the neighbors when I sport the headlamp about the house on the now near nightly electric outages. Nevertheless, its convenience is unmatched. Candles are fine, but for mobility purposes inefficient.
The electric goes out. Life continues merely cloaked in darkness. Utter darkness by 6pm. The streets fill with the glare of motorcycle headlights. Burning barrels blaze as the daily accumulated rubbish is burned roadside. People congregating for both the warmth and the light. Wrapped in the traditional woven ikat fabrics. The streets prove a safer pathway for pedestrians than the sidewalks. The zipping motors give warning. Contrarily, the sinister holes in the sidewalk wait hungrily to gobble you up! The number of electric generators is growing. Rapidly. A chorus of hums, buzzes, and roars filtering through the darkness. Lights. Candles. Lights. Candles. Shops alternating.
Indeed, the blackouts can be an inconvenience. Nevertheless, I am not so sure my nightly activities would differ that much with the power. True, I am fortunate to have the ability to watch dvd’s on my laptop (yeah for a back-up battery!) and loose myself in the pages of People and Vanity Fair… although knowingly that my English language dvds and magazines will someday be in limited supply. So what else? My neighbors no doubt are curious about what goes on in the dark next door. Unashamedly, Spice Girls and Aqua ring from my ipod speakers. Dance party ‘08! By flickering candle light, I groove and boogie along with my shadow on the wall. We’re a pretty stellar duo… at least we think so.
Gunung Ebulobo (June 16, 2008)
No dreams of sugarplums. Rather visions of spewing lava. Fire spitting into the sky with fury. Teetering on the edge of a crater, gazing into the center of the Earth. Admittedly, Hollywood influenced (aren’t most things?). Like in the 90's movie, Volcano. Nevertheless, the mere essence of summiting, of conquering, an active volcano deserves a merit badge. Gunung Ebulobo (Ebulobo Mo.untain). Towering over the base village at over 6,000 feet. A full day climb… likely due more by my level of unfitness than difficulty. Each step seemingly fuelled by the thought of scorching lava traversing the veins beneath foot.
Led by two barefoot 9 year olds armed with a machete. As one may suspect, hiring 9 year old guides is indeed a flawed idea. First, their youthful endurance is breathlessly exhausting. Our incessant pleas for ‘istrihat’ (rest) seemingly an alien notion. Second, their machete cut path is slashed for a 9 year old... continuous ducking under the lingering vegetation required. I wear my sunglasses not for protection from the sun, but for protection from the intrusive branches and thorns at eye level. Half way to the summit, the trees disappear giving way to the rocky volcanic remains. Gazing out onto Flores. Gazing out onto the coast. Living in Bajawa, it is easy to forget about the sea. The rugged hills have such a strong presence, obscuring the aqua that defines the island country. Since arriving, my only encounter with the sea is the view offered by the dusty descent to Mbay. Nevertheless, there it was peaking through the cotton clouds. To the north. To the east. Two bodies of water. Small villages nestled in the valleys between.
I ask the boys how many times they have made the climb. This is the first? I hope something was lost in translation. However, they are barely out of the cradle! The crater more closely resembles Batman’s Batcave than a fiery pit. Sitting with legs dangling down, I fight the erg to take a closer look into its depths. Despite the inert appearance this hole in the ground does lead to the planet’s core.
The air overflowing with the unpleasantness of sulfur. The element prolific. Limey yellow pebbles abound throughout the rocky ash white landscape. Otherwise void of color. Desolate and forlorn. The afternoon clouds completely blanketing the endless view. As the bats begin to emerge, our small posse begins the pebbly tumble down.
As we reach the base village, the children scurry out of their homes to follow me as if I was the Piped Piper. Such a sense of exhilaration, the adrenaline rushing. No doubt the euphoric sensation will pass and my body will hate me in the morning... and probably the next. The next volcanic climbing adventure loams to the south of Bajawa. Its slopes engulfed entirely in rocky terrain presenting a slightly more hostile endeavor. Nevertheless, another volcano? Bring it on!
Led by two barefoot 9 year olds armed with a machete. As one may suspect, hiring 9 year old guides is indeed a flawed idea. First, their youthful endurance is breathlessly exhausting. Our incessant pleas for ‘istrihat’ (rest) seemingly an alien notion. Second, their machete cut path is slashed for a 9 year old... continuous ducking under the lingering vegetation required. I wear my sunglasses not for protection from the sun, but for protection from the intrusive branches and thorns at eye level. Half way to the summit, the trees disappear giving way to the rocky volcanic remains. Gazing out onto Flores. Gazing out onto the coast. Living in Bajawa, it is easy to forget about the sea. The rugged hills have such a strong presence, obscuring the aqua that defines the island country. Since arriving, my only encounter with the sea is the view offered by the dusty descent to Mbay. Nevertheless, there it was peaking through the cotton clouds. To the north. To the east. Two bodies of water. Small villages nestled in the valleys between.
I ask the boys how many times they have made the climb. This is the first? I hope something was lost in translation. However, they are barely out of the cradle! The crater more closely resembles Batman’s Batcave than a fiery pit. Sitting with legs dangling down, I fight the erg to take a closer look into its depths. Despite the inert appearance this hole in the ground does lead to the planet’s core.
The air overflowing with the unpleasantness of sulfur. The element prolific. Limey yellow pebbles abound throughout the rocky ash white landscape. Otherwise void of color. Desolate and forlorn. The afternoon clouds completely blanketing the endless view. As the bats begin to emerge, our small posse begins the pebbly tumble down.
As we reach the base village, the children scurry out of their homes to follow me as if I was the Piped Piper. Such a sense of exhilaration, the adrenaline rushing. No doubt the euphoric sensation will pass and my body will hate me in the morning... and probably the next. The next volcanic climbing adventure loams to the south of Bajawa. Its slopes engulfed entirely in rocky terrain presenting a slightly more hostile endeavor. Nevertheless, another volcano? Bring it on!
The making of hot chocolate (June 9, 2008)
Under the impression that Indonesia was a tropical paradise, I left my wooly socks and cozy sweaters where they belong in Ohio, right? Mistake.
Indeed I was warned. Nevertheless, I carelessly brushed off the warnings. Sure Bajawa is very cold… in comparison to sweltering Bali. Mistake.
And it gets colder? Brrrrr!
I’d compare Bajawa temperatures to a Maine summer (does that exist?)… without the hot shower to warm up the mornings. So I don’t have to break the ice on my ‘bak mandi’ (large basin for water supply). But I did have to invest in another blanket. And I relish a nightly cup of hot chocolate. Although I question if the enjoyment is derived from the comfort, the warmth, or the effort.
Step one.
Boil the bastards out of the water (15 minutes)… Only because I haven’t quite worked out how to get the gianormous water jug across town. I’m doing push-ups in preparation.
Step two.
Make milk… three table spoons of white powder. Saving up to buy a cow… or maybe I’ll just kidnap (haha) a goat.
Step three.
Stir. Mash the sticky clumpiness.
Step four.
A cruel land void of delish chocolately goodness… I add whatever I can scrounge up, stretching the remaining of my hot chocolate investment (a small fortune on my budget) from the Bali expat community. Cocoa or cacao trees, the source of raw chocolate, abound but where is Hersheys? Where is Nestle? Where is Cadbury? Where is Swiss Miss? Where are you!?!?!
Step five.
Stir.
Step six.
Daydream of adding a dollop of whip cream and a sprinkling of marshmallows. But alas, skipped as to the lack of supply. Like a mirage of water to the thirsty lost in the desert, I hallucinate dairy.
The comfort of a mug is lost as I sip from a colorfully stenciled glass, something that renders visions of 70’s motif. Nevertheless, I snuggle under the semi-warm blankets and enjoy… forgetting for the moment the numerous dishes that are now waiting to be cleaned.
Indeed I was warned. Nevertheless, I carelessly brushed off the warnings. Sure Bajawa is very cold… in comparison to sweltering Bali. Mistake.
And it gets colder? Brrrrr!
I’d compare Bajawa temperatures to a Maine summer (does that exist?)… without the hot shower to warm up the mornings. So I don’t have to break the ice on my ‘bak mandi’ (large basin for water supply). But I did have to invest in another blanket. And I relish a nightly cup of hot chocolate. Although I question if the enjoyment is derived from the comfort, the warmth, or the effort.
Step one.
Boil the bastards out of the water (15 minutes)… Only because I haven’t quite worked out how to get the gianormous water jug across town. I’m doing push-ups in preparation.
Step two.
Make milk… three table spoons of white powder. Saving up to buy a cow… or maybe I’ll just kidnap (haha) a goat.
Step three.
Stir. Mash the sticky clumpiness.
Step four.
A cruel land void of delish chocolately goodness… I add whatever I can scrounge up, stretching the remaining of my hot chocolate investment (a small fortune on my budget) from the Bali expat community. Cocoa or cacao trees, the source of raw chocolate, abound but where is Hersheys? Where is Nestle? Where is Cadbury? Where is Swiss Miss? Where are you!?!?!
Step five.
Stir.
Step six.
Daydream of adding a dollop of whip cream and a sprinkling of marshmallows. But alas, skipped as to the lack of supply. Like a mirage of water to the thirsty lost in the desert, I hallucinate dairy.
The comfort of a mug is lost as I sip from a colorfully stenciled glass, something that renders visions of 70’s motif. Nevertheless, I snuggle under the semi-warm blankets and enjoy… forgetting for the moment the numerous dishes that are now waiting to be cleaned.
Kidnapped (June 7, 2008)
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.
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.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Channel Surfing (May 30, 2008)
Not that I am keeping score. But I think someone was pretty lucky this week in Bajawa.
I was under the impression that the electric brown outs are rotational. Nevertheless, I am not sure who was charged with the calendar this past week. My ‘hood’ was without electric at least for a period of time every day. 7 days. My math skills may be rusty but statistically I would venture that the ration perhaps was a bit skewed. I went to sleep last night without and woke up this morning without (indeed it may have sprung into action sometime during my slumber but am doubtful). And it’s still out as I ponder dinner. Luckily my refrigerator is empty… although my rumbling stomach says that’s unlucky.
A bamboo hut with poured cement floors. No sofa, no chairs, just handmade woven straw mats for sitting. The walls ‘wallpapered’ with old Flores Pos newspapers. Rooms divided by soft curtains strung along string, flapping as the breeze flows effortlessly through the open doors and glassless windows. Roofs open and walls never meeting the ceiling. An ineffective attempt at privacy. In actuality it’s all just one big room, noise and mosquitoes travel without hindrance from room to room. No running water. Plastic containers are filled for the week from the community tank, natural springs, or during rainy seasons, the sky. Typical. Basic. Nevertheless, satellite dishes to tune into the families favorite Indonesian Karaoke television shows, are not unheard of. Taking a break from office work, I was called into the neighbors hut to catch a few songs and happened upon two noteworthy events.
The first notable thing on television...
Before flipping the channel, I caught a glimpse of a program. Bottlenecked LA. American cars. Lots of cars. Juxtaposition with an Indonesian gas station. The sign read, as is common: “Bensin Habis” (gas finished). The motorcycles and cargo trucks brimming of people lined up for probably a good mile or two. I read about the ‘energy crisis’ sweeping across the States and Europe. Someone is getting the last laugh at the SUV boom of yesterday. Indeed I empathize with the $3 plus gallon of gas. While still in the US, I terrifyingly watch the dollars escalate at the pump each time I filled my jeep… $60 is a small fortune for an unemployed bum. Three days ago, I filled up my motorcycle for 37,000 Rupiah (about the whopping equivalent of $4). Nevertheless, to put it into perspective I spent less than 35,000 Rupiah on food for the past two weeks. Not is fuel simply a strain on the pocketbook, sometimes it’s gone. “Habis.” Indonesia does not rely on imports of fuel to keep moving. It’s in the production game. By 2010 it is expected that the country will be producing over a million barrels of oil a day, with reliable speculation of new reserves being discovered on the remote islands or under expansive sea.
Seemingly the west is getting savvy on social responsibility. Or is that simply Hollywood? Who needs the Kyoto Treaty. Millennium Development Goal 7… what? Still a lingering question on the validity of climate change? Saving the environment and reducing our global footprint with our hybrid cars and commitment to alternative energy sources in bio-fuels. A good thing, right? Indeed, it seemed like only a step in the right direction. But as with many of the noblest intentions come unintended consequences. The new buzz on the headlines… Food Crises. The once superfluous crops were exported to the hungry of the global south. Now their going to feed our energy hunger at home. Where’s the next magic bullet?
No transport. Sitting by candle light. Cooking rice over a fire. That’s an energy crisis. That’s a food crisis. Living and working with a population stricken by poverty, by hunger, by a lack of energy and resources gives a new perspective. Instead of being angry with high prices and no fuel, they seem to accept it and move on. Life isn’t over. And perhaps tomorrow will be better.
And the second notable thing on television…
A DVD of “The Best Pop of Papua”… a classic no doubt. Music videos shot with home camcorders. The music not quite in sync. The delight of my day happened on track 4. A traditional dance and attired women of Papua. The music upbeat with Portuguese lyrics. Cut to a shot of the Eiffel Tower. The women now rapping in Indonesian. Their traditional colorful sarongs, beaded jewelry, and topless bodies replace by… OHIO STATE FOOTBALL JERSEYS! Go Bucks! Breaking into a cultural mishmash of a music video surely is no small feat. Nevertheless, my attempt to share my surprise, my excitement was seemingly lost in translation.
I was under the impression that the electric brown outs are rotational. Nevertheless, I am not sure who was charged with the calendar this past week. My ‘hood’ was without electric at least for a period of time every day. 7 days. My math skills may be rusty but statistically I would venture that the ration perhaps was a bit skewed. I went to sleep last night without and woke up this morning without (indeed it may have sprung into action sometime during my slumber but am doubtful). And it’s still out as I ponder dinner. Luckily my refrigerator is empty… although my rumbling stomach says that’s unlucky.
A bamboo hut with poured cement floors. No sofa, no chairs, just handmade woven straw mats for sitting. The walls ‘wallpapered’ with old Flores Pos newspapers. Rooms divided by soft curtains strung along string, flapping as the breeze flows effortlessly through the open doors and glassless windows. Roofs open and walls never meeting the ceiling. An ineffective attempt at privacy. In actuality it’s all just one big room, noise and mosquitoes travel without hindrance from room to room. No running water. Plastic containers are filled for the week from the community tank, natural springs, or during rainy seasons, the sky. Typical. Basic. Nevertheless, satellite dishes to tune into the families favorite Indonesian Karaoke television shows, are not unheard of. Taking a break from office work, I was called into the neighbors hut to catch a few songs and happened upon two noteworthy events.
The first notable thing on television...
Before flipping the channel, I caught a glimpse of a program. Bottlenecked LA. American cars. Lots of cars. Juxtaposition with an Indonesian gas station. The sign read, as is common: “Bensin Habis” (gas finished). The motorcycles and cargo trucks brimming of people lined up for probably a good mile or two. I read about the ‘energy crisis’ sweeping across the States and Europe. Someone is getting the last laugh at the SUV boom of yesterday. Indeed I empathize with the $3 plus gallon of gas. While still in the US, I terrifyingly watch the dollars escalate at the pump each time I filled my jeep… $60 is a small fortune for an unemployed bum. Three days ago, I filled up my motorcycle for 37,000 Rupiah (about the whopping equivalent of $4). Nevertheless, to put it into perspective I spent less than 35,000 Rupiah on food for the past two weeks. Not is fuel simply a strain on the pocketbook, sometimes it’s gone. “Habis.” Indonesia does not rely on imports of fuel to keep moving. It’s in the production game. By 2010 it is expected that the country will be producing over a million barrels of oil a day, with reliable speculation of new reserves being discovered on the remote islands or under expansive sea.
Seemingly the west is getting savvy on social responsibility. Or is that simply Hollywood? Who needs the Kyoto Treaty. Millennium Development Goal 7… what? Still a lingering question on the validity of climate change? Saving the environment and reducing our global footprint with our hybrid cars and commitment to alternative energy sources in bio-fuels. A good thing, right? Indeed, it seemed like only a step in the right direction. But as with many of the noblest intentions come unintended consequences. The new buzz on the headlines… Food Crises. The once superfluous crops were exported to the hungry of the global south. Now their going to feed our energy hunger at home. Where’s the next magic bullet?
No transport. Sitting by candle light. Cooking rice over a fire. That’s an energy crisis. That’s a food crisis. Living and working with a population stricken by poverty, by hunger, by a lack of energy and resources gives a new perspective. Instead of being angry with high prices and no fuel, they seem to accept it and move on. Life isn’t over. And perhaps tomorrow will be better.
And the second notable thing on television…
A DVD of “The Best Pop of Papua”… a classic no doubt. Music videos shot with home camcorders. The music not quite in sync. The delight of my day happened on track 4. A traditional dance and attired women of Papua. The music upbeat with Portuguese lyrics. Cut to a shot of the Eiffel Tower. The women now rapping in Indonesian. Their traditional colorful sarongs, beaded jewelry, and topless bodies replace by… OHIO STATE FOOTBALL JERSEYS! Go Bucks! Breaking into a cultural mishmash of a music video surely is no small feat. Nevertheless, my attempt to share my surprise, my excitement was seemingly lost in translation.
Hanging with Jesus (May 28, 2008)
More than 90% of the people in this region are Catholic. And it’s kindof a big deal. One of the first questions asked… just after if you are married and before your name. I spent Saturday night in one of the villages I work with to support organic cashew production. A 4pm meeting for work (with the community based Internal Control Supervisors who help certify the organic-ness of the cashews) morphed into a pajama party. Not because of a mass amount of content. The actual discussion boiled down to maybe 10 minutes. Rather for 2 factors:
1. The idea of ‘rubber time’, the notion of punctuality unimportant (the first person arrived at 5 and the last near 8)
2. Dinner is obligatory and prior preparation is out of the question (Just after the meeting starts people disappear to the kitchen… the chicken had to be killed, vegetables harvested, and water boiled).
So we camped out in the kampung.
I am not sure what time Indonesians wake. It’s ridiculously early. Someone had gone to buy bread in the form of little round sweet rolls filled with a sugary coconut mixture. Bread for the white girl. Served with a sugar fix… coffee.
Recipe: Equal parts water and sugar. Add a teaspoon of brown powder (coffee?) for color. Let settle. Drink until you reach the grounds in the bottom of your cup.
Isn’t this the land of Java? Such high hopes of incredible cups-of-joe. Nevertheless, I am distracted by mere daydreams of being able to savor a cup of fresh black coffee… sugar free.
We prepared for church. The slumber party was a bit of a surprise. Luckily I had my trusty, always packed, toothbrush. However, nothing else. Stricken with the burden of white girl hair… greasy, dull, and flat. Oily skin. Rumpled slept-in clothes. Fortunately, I had earrings. Their like magic. As long as I wear earrings, people shower compliments. Thank you earring inventor.
Church was savory. Days later, I still close my eyes to recall the flavors. Admittedly, I understood not a word. The presence of Mary and Jesus (in statue form, not flesh) reassured me that we weren’t worshipping satin or aliens or the like. It was infused with incredible cultural zest. Large, the centerpiece of the community perched upon a hill. Dirt footpaths lead the way through the brush. A cement floor lined with wooden benches. The children sat in the front section dressed in what I can best describe as ‘Easter dress’… girls in frilly pastel dresses and boys in short sleeve plaid button-up shirts. The women and men sat separate and arrived separate, with friends not family. Three women squeeze in front of us. Do they plan to sit on our laps? The women beside me hiss and push the interlopers out to find an unoccupied bench space to pray. Four streamers of brightly hued green, blue, and yellow join together above the alter. A single halogen light bulb dangling on a long cord from their junction. The Stations of the Cross framed snapshots, as if memorable family moments, hung haphazardly. Priest-less, the mass was conducted by a young woman community member (we had met the previous night, as she happens to be one of the cashew inspectors) from a pulpit that could have been constructed by a first year woodshop student. Leaning and scrappy. The songs simplistically accompanied by the melodic pounding of rain upon the metal roof. Thunderous and vibrant. A combination of physical structure and chesty voices, the music reached the heavens. Despite the drumming rain, the sun shone bright outside the open doors. The broad banana leaves and coconut palms dancing.
1. The idea of ‘rubber time’, the notion of punctuality unimportant (the first person arrived at 5 and the last near 8)
2. Dinner is obligatory and prior preparation is out of the question (Just after the meeting starts people disappear to the kitchen… the chicken had to be killed, vegetables harvested, and water boiled).
So we camped out in the kampung.
I am not sure what time Indonesians wake. It’s ridiculously early. Someone had gone to buy bread in the form of little round sweet rolls filled with a sugary coconut mixture. Bread for the white girl. Served with a sugar fix… coffee.
Recipe: Equal parts water and sugar. Add a teaspoon of brown powder (coffee?) for color. Let settle. Drink until you reach the grounds in the bottom of your cup.
Isn’t this the land of Java? Such high hopes of incredible cups-of-joe. Nevertheless, I am distracted by mere daydreams of being able to savor a cup of fresh black coffee… sugar free.
We prepared for church. The slumber party was a bit of a surprise. Luckily I had my trusty, always packed, toothbrush. However, nothing else. Stricken with the burden of white girl hair… greasy, dull, and flat. Oily skin. Rumpled slept-in clothes. Fortunately, I had earrings. Their like magic. As long as I wear earrings, people shower compliments. Thank you earring inventor.
Church was savory. Days later, I still close my eyes to recall the flavors. Admittedly, I understood not a word. The presence of Mary and Jesus (in statue form, not flesh) reassured me that we weren’t worshipping satin or aliens or the like. It was infused with incredible cultural zest. Large, the centerpiece of the community perched upon a hill. Dirt footpaths lead the way through the brush. A cement floor lined with wooden benches. The children sat in the front section dressed in what I can best describe as ‘Easter dress’… girls in frilly pastel dresses and boys in short sleeve plaid button-up shirts. The women and men sat separate and arrived separate, with friends not family. Three women squeeze in front of us. Do they plan to sit on our laps? The women beside me hiss and push the interlopers out to find an unoccupied bench space to pray. Four streamers of brightly hued green, blue, and yellow join together above the alter. A single halogen light bulb dangling on a long cord from their junction. The Stations of the Cross framed snapshots, as if memorable family moments, hung haphazardly. Priest-less, the mass was conducted by a young woman community member (we had met the previous night, as she happens to be one of the cashew inspectors) from a pulpit that could have been constructed by a first year woodshop student. Leaning and scrappy. The songs simplistically accompanied by the melodic pounding of rain upon the metal roof. Thunderous and vibrant. A combination of physical structure and chesty voices, the music reached the heavens. Despite the drumming rain, the sun shone bright outside the open doors. The broad banana leaves and coconut palms dancing.
Rubber Time (May 25, 2008)
Like posters in a college dorm room, homes are decorated with calendars backdating sometimes to 2004. Mainly political in nature. Not especially aesthetically pleasing. The other common fixture is a clock. But not a working clock. Stuck in time. Perhaps serving as a visual metaphor for Indonesia.
Sometimes it’s as if I’ve stepped into a dusty magazine. A collection of the best of the past 5 decades. Plastic furniture. Mustaches. Mismatched second hand clothes. Jumbo t-shirts. Cigarette advertisement prolific. Abundant smokers in buildings and public places. Wide flared jeans. No littering fines and is perfectly acceptable. Glass coca-cola bottles. Sweet tea. Children play with the neighbors, often pantless, unsupervised... What’s a stranger? Flowery painted dishes that evoke imagines of a Grandmother’s china cabinet. Wireless internet doesn’t exist. People use the telephone not email or their blackberry. Remember hand-written reports?
The Earth still travels around the sun as is evident by the bright days and star studded nights. Time hasn’t stopped. It is merely flexible. Appropriately it’s been nicknamed ‘rubber time’. I understand that punctuality is my western value not Indonesia’s. There isn’t much use trying to move mountains. I am merely trying to adapt. I’ve learned not to plan more than one activity a day. And to a lot the entire day… even if for merely a 10 minute meeting. Time is not important.
Sometimes I have to wait several hours for activities to start or for friends to arrive. Plans are not made for an exact hour, but for the morning, the afternoon, or the evening. With a deep breath… it’s ok. Nevertheless, when I have to make the extra effort to wake up before dawn expecting to be picked-up at 4 am and they are 4 hours late… that’s not ok.
Currently, my life is not my own. I am reliant upon others. For transportation. For communication. For discovering this new environment. I keep a toothbrush in my pencil case, always packed just in case. And just in case seems to happen several times a week. Plans change, meetings last long, or people just want to have a slumber party. All equally feasible. I’ve been gone all week, staying over in various villages. All unplanned. I like the change, nevertheless, I also like clean clothes and the comforts of my own space. I like being able to escape the dizziness of being engulfed by a new language.
Sometimes it’s as if I’ve stepped into a dusty magazine. A collection of the best of the past 5 decades. Plastic furniture. Mustaches. Mismatched second hand clothes. Jumbo t-shirts. Cigarette advertisement prolific. Abundant smokers in buildings and public places. Wide flared jeans. No littering fines and is perfectly acceptable. Glass coca-cola bottles. Sweet tea. Children play with the neighbors, often pantless, unsupervised... What’s a stranger? Flowery painted dishes that evoke imagines of a Grandmother’s china cabinet. Wireless internet doesn’t exist. People use the telephone not email or their blackberry. Remember hand-written reports?
The Earth still travels around the sun as is evident by the bright days and star studded nights. Time hasn’t stopped. It is merely flexible. Appropriately it’s been nicknamed ‘rubber time’. I understand that punctuality is my western value not Indonesia’s. There isn’t much use trying to move mountains. I am merely trying to adapt. I’ve learned not to plan more than one activity a day. And to a lot the entire day… even if for merely a 10 minute meeting. Time is not important.
Sometimes I have to wait several hours for activities to start or for friends to arrive. Plans are not made for an exact hour, but for the morning, the afternoon, or the evening. With a deep breath… it’s ok. Nevertheless, when I have to make the extra effort to wake up before dawn expecting to be picked-up at 4 am and they are 4 hours late… that’s not ok.
Currently, my life is not my own. I am reliant upon others. For transportation. For communication. For discovering this new environment. I keep a toothbrush in my pencil case, always packed just in case. And just in case seems to happen several times a week. Plans change, meetings last long, or people just want to have a slumber party. All equally feasible. I’ve been gone all week, staying over in various villages. All unplanned. I like the change, nevertheless, I also like clean clothes and the comforts of my own space. I like being able to escape the dizziness of being engulfed by a new language.
Pickling (May 20, 2008)
I made pickles today. So proud of myself. A tasty treat. No recipe, simply an idea. A morning saunter through the market stalls. Ducking under the low hanging plastics throws strung across for shade. The crimson smiles flashed, signing out a chores. “Mau beli?” (What buy?) and “Ke mana?” (To where?) Children stare. Young and old call “Hello Mister”. Gender unimportant. Never had I made pickles. Never had the thought crossed my mind. But today the pale pudgy cucumbers called out to me. Although not quite as loud as the seller. Really how difficult could pickles be?
Cookies also whispered. Tim Tams… the most delish Australian export. On the walk home, a mob of pre-adolescents wanted to know what I had bought. A chance to practice my language. Cucumbers, bananas, tofu, and cookies. They howled with laughter then told me I was fat. Jerks. I took the long walk back.
Cookies also whispered. Tim Tams… the most delish Australian export. On the walk home, a mob of pre-adolescents wanted to know what I had bought. A chance to practice my language. Cucumbers, bananas, tofu, and cookies. They howled with laughter then told me I was fat. Jerks. I took the long walk back.
Friday, May 16, 2008
New Address
I haven’t forgotten to write. To update. I’ve simply been without internet connection.
Settling into my new home on Flores island. It’s vastly different than Bali. No escapes to westerner-ized life… it’s all Indonesian from here out. No little luxuries like lattes and sneaking into 5 star resorts to lounge by their pools. No surfing. The holiday is over. Thus, time for a new address.
Yayasan Mitra Tani Mandiri
Attn: Mikal Nolan, VSO Volunteer
Jl. DI Panjaitan RT III / RW Hobo II
Kelurahan Trikora, Bajawa 86414
Flores, NTT
Indonesia
One month on and I have yet to figure out how the mail works since the address system is seemingly absent. Luckily, I do, however, have a work address. So that’s best… unless you send post to the “Yang peremupan putih, tinggal di dekat rumah suster, Bajawa” (that white girl who lives near the nunnery, Bajawa). In which case it should also get to me.
329 new emails. I didn’t even really feel an drive to check my email, I felt more of an obligation to do so after a month. In America I barely go 20 minutes without making sure nothing new has popped in. Email, facebook, myspace, reading the latest cyber chatter. Perhaps it was the thought of dial-up… sloooooooooooooooow. In the Telkom phone booth I quickly sorted the junk from the good stuff and opened each in a new tab to read later in leisure. Time is money in a phone booth. Eight booths, but only one seems to have a line. Nevertheless, countless people are needed to sit behind the long desk spanning the room. This may be fine for the cyberspace patient, however, I think I may need to figure getting a phone line into my room. Sitting on my front patio, reading the emails and news from home has been a treat. New babies, warnings of elevated volcanic activity, pictures of bridesmaid dresses, ‘R’-rolling tips, blog updates from travelers, what’s growing in the garden, notes of encouragement, love confessionals, penis enlargements, and Viagra. There’s comfort in knowing that the world is still going round.
Life here is simplistic. It’s slow. News travels by word of mouth… and much more quickly than the dial-up internet connection provides.
Settling into my new home on Flores island. It’s vastly different than Bali. No escapes to westerner-ized life… it’s all Indonesian from here out. No little luxuries like lattes and sneaking into 5 star resorts to lounge by their pools. No surfing. The holiday is over. Thus, time for a new address.
Yayasan Mitra Tani Mandiri
Attn: Mikal Nolan, VSO Volunteer
Jl. DI Panjaitan RT III / RW Hobo II
Kelurahan Trikora, Bajawa 86414
Flores, NTT
Indonesia
One month on and I have yet to figure out how the mail works since the address system is seemingly absent. Luckily, I do, however, have a work address. So that’s best… unless you send post to the “Yang peremupan putih, tinggal di dekat rumah suster, Bajawa” (that white girl who lives near the nunnery, Bajawa). In which case it should also get to me.
329 new emails. I didn’t even really feel an drive to check my email, I felt more of an obligation to do so after a month. In America I barely go 20 minutes without making sure nothing new has popped in. Email, facebook, myspace, reading the latest cyber chatter. Perhaps it was the thought of dial-up… sloooooooooooooooow. In the Telkom phone booth I quickly sorted the junk from the good stuff and opened each in a new tab to read later in leisure. Time is money in a phone booth. Eight booths, but only one seems to have a line. Nevertheless, countless people are needed to sit behind the long desk spanning the room. This may be fine for the cyberspace patient, however, I think I may need to figure getting a phone line into my room. Sitting on my front patio, reading the emails and news from home has been a treat. New babies, warnings of elevated volcanic activity, pictures of bridesmaid dresses, ‘R’-rolling tips, blog updates from travelers, what’s growing in the garden, notes of encouragement, love confessionals, penis enlargements, and Viagra. There’s comfort in knowing that the world is still going round.
Life here is simplistic. It’s slow. News travels by word of mouth… and much more quickly than the dial-up internet connection provides.
Is that really edible? (May 5, 2008)
My palate has become adventurous. It has to be. What’s this? What’s that? Food is foreign. It’s perhaps the scariest thing I face in day to day life, the greatest risk. I am acutely aware of its potential to inflict bodily harm.
My entire life I’ve choked down chalky white milk. As a kid (a kid on a dairy farm to boot), I was forced to sit at the dinning room table for hours until I finished my glass of milk. Unwilling and unrelenting. Persistent in my stand-off. As an adult, I’d sling back a glass or two a day as if it was a revolting shot of unpleasantness simply because it does a body good. Now I want it. Not because I’ve developed a taste for it. I still don’t like it. Simply because it’s unattainable. In Ecuador I could manage an ultra-pasteurized no-need for refrigeration version. That’s not even available in Bajawa. What is, however, is powdered. It provides the semblance of milk. It colors the water. I have only dared the chocolate. It’s a bit like a watery hot chocolate… my water dispenser only does very hot and hot.
I eat bananas. Daily. I don’t even like bananas. The vast varieties are intriguing. A must to try them all. Some long, sweet, and mushy like in America. Others stocky, firm, and like a starchy potato. I prefer the later. Buying a few is a no-no. Only sold by the comb, which is around 15-20. Perhaps that’s why I chow down breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And fish. Not just fish, but dried fish. Crispy and hard. Whole. Like a dead fish that had unfortunately landed on a rock when the tide went out and withered in the sun and wind. Minus the flies… mostly. I’ve learned to eat the skin. But still I can’t stomach the head with its dark eyes glazed over staring into the mound of rice. Rice, chili sauce, and fish are the staples. Bananas for dessert. All three meals. In my past life, I wouldn’t touch the slimy swimmers. And whole dried fish just seem that much more unappealing. Yet, strangely I kind of like it. Although not all three meals everyday, one will do me… 2 max.
Walking through the market, it’s as if the women have harvested a tree. They sell the wood, the leaves, and the fruit. Wood bound for cooking. Green leaves. Not like spinach. Like tree leaves. Chilies, garlic, and shallots are plentiful. Small mounds of insipid looking tomatoes and pale green squashes which curl together to remind me of the mouth of a gummy elder person. Dried aromatic fish. Tempe and tofu… both incredibly inexpensive. There could be a vegetarian fiesta for the entire town at the same cost Wholefoods and Wild Oats charges for one scanty block of the stuff.
Luckily there are these alternative protein sources. Don’t expect to have a steak or hamburger here. No meat really unless it’s a party. And then keep an open mind… a strong stomach.
Last Thursday was a holiday. What holiday I am not sure. However, I did understand that it had to do with Jesus. Some Catholic holiday that American Catholics fail to reap the benefits of a day off work. I spent the day at my supervisors home. Helping his wife, her friends and ‘pembantu’ (girl helpers) prepare for an ‘eating party’. We spent hours cutting, chopping, and pealing copious garlic cloves. Squatting outside the kitchen door on a cement slab. 30 kilos of rice hand picked through, sifted in flat baskets, and prepared over an open fire in a metallic rice cooker taller than any Indonesian woman in the house. The men disappeared… except for two who hacked away at slabs of meat. Skin, fat, bone, and meat. Chopped into bite size pieces. All that seemed to matter was size.
The turquoise plastic chairs were set up in two long straight lines facing each other. Waiting for the festivities to commence. The food paraded out in large bowls long before the first of the guests filtered in. Stomachs of steal must keep the active bacteria and food borne pathogens at bay. Maybe it’s the function of ample chilies to stimulate a hostile environment in the belly. A whole hog was sacrificed for the occasion. There was fish, chicken, and goat. But the favorite of the locals was a treat reserved for special parties… dog. Boiled and fried with chilies in a brown sweet sauce. It was culturally unavoidable. All eyes turned to the Westerner. Initially, I deemed it just another protein source. Nevertheless, I swallowed hard. Not that it tasted bad; if ignorant I would probably have enjoyed it. Rather, I could not stop envisioning the fear in the dog’s eyes. An emotion much too similar to ours. I humanized.
** Since writing this blog I’ve eaten dog (swallowing hard) 3 times. Surely, a gold star for cultural effort.
My entire life I’ve choked down chalky white milk. As a kid (a kid on a dairy farm to boot), I was forced to sit at the dinning room table for hours until I finished my glass of milk. Unwilling and unrelenting. Persistent in my stand-off. As an adult, I’d sling back a glass or two a day as if it was a revolting shot of unpleasantness simply because it does a body good. Now I want it. Not because I’ve developed a taste for it. I still don’t like it. Simply because it’s unattainable. In Ecuador I could manage an ultra-pasteurized no-need for refrigeration version. That’s not even available in Bajawa. What is, however, is powdered. It provides the semblance of milk. It colors the water. I have only dared the chocolate. It’s a bit like a watery hot chocolate… my water dispenser only does very hot and hot.
I eat bananas. Daily. I don’t even like bananas. The vast varieties are intriguing. A must to try them all. Some long, sweet, and mushy like in America. Others stocky, firm, and like a starchy potato. I prefer the later. Buying a few is a no-no. Only sold by the comb, which is around 15-20. Perhaps that’s why I chow down breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And fish. Not just fish, but dried fish. Crispy and hard. Whole. Like a dead fish that had unfortunately landed on a rock when the tide went out and withered in the sun and wind. Minus the flies… mostly. I’ve learned to eat the skin. But still I can’t stomach the head with its dark eyes glazed over staring into the mound of rice. Rice, chili sauce, and fish are the staples. Bananas for dessert. All three meals. In my past life, I wouldn’t touch the slimy swimmers. And whole dried fish just seem that much more unappealing. Yet, strangely I kind of like it. Although not all three meals everyday, one will do me… 2 max.
Walking through the market, it’s as if the women have harvested a tree. They sell the wood, the leaves, and the fruit. Wood bound for cooking. Green leaves. Not like spinach. Like tree leaves. Chilies, garlic, and shallots are plentiful. Small mounds of insipid looking tomatoes and pale green squashes which curl together to remind me of the mouth of a gummy elder person. Dried aromatic fish. Tempe and tofu… both incredibly inexpensive. There could be a vegetarian fiesta for the entire town at the same cost Wholefoods and Wild Oats charges for one scanty block of the stuff.
Luckily there are these alternative protein sources. Don’t expect to have a steak or hamburger here. No meat really unless it’s a party. And then keep an open mind… a strong stomach.
Last Thursday was a holiday. What holiday I am not sure. However, I did understand that it had to do with Jesus. Some Catholic holiday that American Catholics fail to reap the benefits of a day off work. I spent the day at my supervisors home. Helping his wife, her friends and ‘pembantu’ (girl helpers) prepare for an ‘eating party’. We spent hours cutting, chopping, and pealing copious garlic cloves. Squatting outside the kitchen door on a cement slab. 30 kilos of rice hand picked through, sifted in flat baskets, and prepared over an open fire in a metallic rice cooker taller than any Indonesian woman in the house. The men disappeared… except for two who hacked away at slabs of meat. Skin, fat, bone, and meat. Chopped into bite size pieces. All that seemed to matter was size.
The turquoise plastic chairs were set up in two long straight lines facing each other. Waiting for the festivities to commence. The food paraded out in large bowls long before the first of the guests filtered in. Stomachs of steal must keep the active bacteria and food borne pathogens at bay. Maybe it’s the function of ample chilies to stimulate a hostile environment in the belly. A whole hog was sacrificed for the occasion. There was fish, chicken, and goat. But the favorite of the locals was a treat reserved for special parties… dog. Boiled and fried with chilies in a brown sweet sauce. It was culturally unavoidable. All eyes turned to the Westerner. Initially, I deemed it just another protein source. Nevertheless, I swallowed hard. Not that it tasted bad; if ignorant I would probably have enjoyed it. Rather, I could not stop envisioning the fear in the dog’s eyes. An emotion much too similar to ours. I humanized.
** Since writing this blog I’ve eaten dog (swallowing hard) 3 times. Surely, a gold star for cultural effort.
Co-habitation. (April 23, 2008)
26 years. Nevertheless, as the pictures flutter across my computer screensaver, I feel like they were different lifetimes. Unique and diverse. The continuity difficult to identify externally. I, however, see the line, the connections. High school, Ohio State, ‘The Summer of 2005’, Reading, London, Maine, the brief South American adventure… and this life in Indonesia.
I’ve discovered the freedom from having liberated hair… a hairbrush is dispensable. A toothbrush is not. Of this I am reminded daily from the prolific toothless, brown, and crimson grins. Stained brown from a diet of coffee and cigarettes (especially men). Stained crimson from the betel nut chewed diligently in the villages (especially women).
The electricity has just awakened. Off for nearly 4½ hours. The brown outs are frequent and sporadic. When one will occur there is no certainty. I am learning to have a steady supply of candles and matches handy.
I came to Flores eager and ready to move into a bamboo hut. Surely, camping in Maine and Ecuador had prepared me for the challenge. However, I find myself in ‘luxury’ accommodation. I have electricity… sometimes. I have running water… sometimes and only in the bathroom. I have real walls and a floor… sometimes they leak and pool with water. VSO even provides money to purchase a refrigerator, however, with the unpredictable brown outs of several hours, I think it’s best to keep its contents to a minimum. Unfortunately no ice cream in Bajawa L
I even have a family. Indeed it’s actually their house, I merely rent a part of it. Their inquisitive, as is the Indonesian nature. They peer over our partitions from their perch on the steps or magically appear outside when I open the door… seriously it’s as if they’ve been teleported from the Starship Enterprise.
In the morning they ask if I have already showered… even when I am dripping wet.
In the afternoon they ask if I am back from work… even when I am sitting outside my room reading.
In the evening they ask if I am cooking dinner… even when my rice cooker has sprung into action and I’m eyeing a bunch of leafy greens that appear to have direct from a tree. I explain all my ingredients to practice my language and set to work attempting to prepare something with the exotic veg. Then they bring me food… obviously unimpressed by my recipe ideas. One by one, they call out their edible offerings. A sweet. A fruit. A veg. A soup. A saucy something. As if each member has had the same enlightened idea… to feed the strange white girl. This evening the healthy gifts of fried bananas and fried rice with pork. I eat the pork gingerly… it’s my preference for hairless meat that looks less like a pig and more like a pork-chop. Crazy. I save my already prepared leafy greens with chilies and rice for breakfast. No Wheaties for this champ.
My goal of the first weekend was to get settled. After work on SATURDAY, I had intended a leisure unpacking. Milkey, a work colleague, was amusing my indecisiveness on cabinet locations. In a cloud of smoke. ‘My family’ was in the room. They just appear. Like rubbing Aladdin’s magic genie lamp. They sprung into action. My thoughts didn’t seem to matter much… perhaps because they were in English. The girls were cleaning. The mother giving orders. The father taping cords to the wall and moving furniture.
Co-habitating . Living together. Living in harmony.
I have my cockroaches. I have my family. And now 2 geckos have moved in to taunt a tranquil 2 inch black month that clings in the crevice between ceiling and wall.
Sometimes I see them, sometimes I don’t. The cockroaches will play dead for days on end. Nevertheless, I am not fooled. They are alive. They lie there and lie there. Then one day they’ve disappeared. I let them play… spray doesn’t work and ‘popping’ them is beyond me.
The geckos dissipate with the flick of a light switch. Where to, I don’t know? Attempts to find them in the lit room are futile. I hear them re-emerge as I drift to sleep. Their “gecko-gecko-gecko” chirps.
I’ve discovered the freedom from having liberated hair… a hairbrush is dispensable. A toothbrush is not. Of this I am reminded daily from the prolific toothless, brown, and crimson grins. Stained brown from a diet of coffee and cigarettes (especially men). Stained crimson from the betel nut chewed diligently in the villages (especially women).
The electricity has just awakened. Off for nearly 4½ hours. The brown outs are frequent and sporadic. When one will occur there is no certainty. I am learning to have a steady supply of candles and matches handy.
I came to Flores eager and ready to move into a bamboo hut. Surely, camping in Maine and Ecuador had prepared me for the challenge. However, I find myself in ‘luxury’ accommodation. I have electricity… sometimes. I have running water… sometimes and only in the bathroom. I have real walls and a floor… sometimes they leak and pool with water. VSO even provides money to purchase a refrigerator, however, with the unpredictable brown outs of several hours, I think it’s best to keep its contents to a minimum. Unfortunately no ice cream in Bajawa L
I even have a family. Indeed it’s actually their house, I merely rent a part of it. Their inquisitive, as is the Indonesian nature. They peer over our partitions from their perch on the steps or magically appear outside when I open the door… seriously it’s as if they’ve been teleported from the Starship Enterprise.
In the morning they ask if I have already showered… even when I am dripping wet.
In the afternoon they ask if I am back from work… even when I am sitting outside my room reading.
In the evening they ask if I am cooking dinner… even when my rice cooker has sprung into action and I’m eyeing a bunch of leafy greens that appear to have direct from a tree. I explain all my ingredients to practice my language and set to work attempting to prepare something with the exotic veg. Then they bring me food… obviously unimpressed by my recipe ideas. One by one, they call out their edible offerings. A sweet. A fruit. A veg. A soup. A saucy something. As if each member has had the same enlightened idea… to feed the strange white girl. This evening the healthy gifts of fried bananas and fried rice with pork. I eat the pork gingerly… it’s my preference for hairless meat that looks less like a pig and more like a pork-chop. Crazy. I save my already prepared leafy greens with chilies and rice for breakfast. No Wheaties for this champ.
My goal of the first weekend was to get settled. After work on SATURDAY, I had intended a leisure unpacking. Milkey, a work colleague, was amusing my indecisiveness on cabinet locations. In a cloud of smoke. ‘My family’ was in the room. They just appear. Like rubbing Aladdin’s magic genie lamp. They sprung into action. My thoughts didn’t seem to matter much… perhaps because they were in English. The girls were cleaning. The mother giving orders. The father taping cords to the wall and moving furniture.
Co-habitating . Living together. Living in harmony.
I have my cockroaches. I have my family. And now 2 geckos have moved in to taunt a tranquil 2 inch black month that clings in the crevice between ceiling and wall.
Sometimes I see them, sometimes I don’t. The cockroaches will play dead for days on end. Nevertheless, I am not fooled. They are alive. They lie there and lie there. Then one day they’ve disappeared. I let them play… spray doesn’t work and ‘popping’ them is beyond me.
The geckos dissipate with the flick of a light switch. Where to, I don’t know? Attempts to find them in the lit room are futile. I hear them re-emerge as I drift to sleep. Their “gecko-gecko-gecko” chirps.
Arriving. (April 21, 2008)
9:00 pm. The house is still and sleepy. I hear the chirping of the gianormous grasshoppers outside. I hear my new electric stabilizer jumping into action every so often. My typing echoes. A cockroach just attempted a flying assault upon me in the bathroom. I left him there. Crunching their bodies under foot is more than I can bear. They pop, splatter, and ooze. Thus I prefer to let them co-habitat with me… or perhaps it’s me with them.
Details, details, and settling in.
Apprehensive
Excited
Unsure
Eager
I asked during my visit about the workweek. The staff work 7-2 Monday-Saturday. But I can come in at 8. I want to be a team player… shouldn’t I start at 7 as well? Reported to the office a bit after 8 am for the first day of work. First one to the office. I loiter around a bit. Should I stay? Or go browse about the town? I don’t want it to appear that I was late. The finance girls arrive and hop to work… sweeping and cleaning. Apparently their not just good at numbers but also at cleaning… or is that just because their women? We try to communicate but it’s not happening. I manage to understand ‘please sit’. So I do for a bit. Then browse the posters and pictures on the office’s cement walls. Feigning comprehension. My supervisor arrives at 9.
We sit down to discuss my first month. He speaks no English. I speak less than basic Indonesian. I could have told him (in perfect Indonesian) that he had on a green t-shirt and black shoes. That today was Monday. That I am 26 years old and from America. Unfortunately he knew all of that info. He texts another VSO volunteer to come help interpret. It’s slightly helpful, as the volunteer is neither a native speaker of Indonesian nor of English. No doubt a true ‘lost in translation’. My supervisor ask what my plan is for the next 2 years. What are my ideas for projects. My plan? My ideas? Indeed, a sense of empowerment and individual direction is good, nevertheless, perhaps the organization should provide a bit of a guideline. We agree that for the first month I observe, learn more Indonesian than green shirts and black shoes, and develop my job description.
Police reporting.
It reminds me a bit of high school ag or shop class. Boys. Boys with guns. Simply lounging about. No real purpose evident. Reading the newspaper. Chatting up girls. Smoking.
These boys (and I do indeed mean boys… young faces, immaturity gleaming in their eyes) have a sense of power. They are the police. They pass me around to several offices. They crowd around to carefully scrutinizing my documents, as if my passport photo is clipped from the pages of the latest playboy magazine. They want to know why I’m here, where I live, how old I am, am I married, what’s my religion… the normal. The first attempt was a failure. I am sent away to obtain a fax of my passport from VSO for verification. My notarized copy seems inefficient… I am suspect. But of course obey. These are the law boys. Day 2. Again, passed around to be scrutinized and questioned. I am thankful for the company of two colleagues. We wait for an hour for the person with power. Who he is I not sure. Dressed in a camouflaged t-shirt and combat boots (not the official dress of the police). His hair long and pulled into a pony. He lights a cigarette and bounds to sit by my side. Jovial, yet somehow unsettling. First impressions maybe wrong, but I wouldn’t classify him in the trustworthy category.
He tells me I am beautiful.
He tells me he should be my boyfriend.
He sings me a love song.
Is this part of the official questioning?
Before I go, he insists I smoke a cigarette with him. No thank you. No forms unless I smoke. ‘They’ preach not to give into peer pressure… but what about police pressure? A giggle and an “I don’t understand” seems to get me off the hook. Already I have self-diagnosed lung cancer from the wreath of smoke engulfing this country. I don’t much care to willing aid in the blackening of my lungs.
Thanks to Jess, a Filipino volunteer whose real name is Jesus as he was born of Christmas, I have managed to secure furniture and kitchen equipment. He’s been a tremendous help. Even if I could have negotiated the purchases and loans, I wouldn’t have been able to direct them to my new home.
A table and 2 chairs from the office
A cabinet from Jess’s shopkeeper friend
A rice cooker and few odd dishes from a previous volunteer
A thorough shopping trip about town to pick up a refrigerator, electricity stabilizer, a water dispenser and jug, a burner, an oven… or the Indonesian equivalent of an oven in the form of a tin box that sit atop my burner. The shop keepers and Jess chat about Americans need for bread. Can’t an oven be used for more than baking bread? Admittedly I do miss bread… especially the bread from the Saturday evening bread pick-ups in Maine for the farm. Delicious bakery breads of all sorts sent to feed the livestock… and human staff. The mere thought stimulates salivation. Bread in Indonesia is rare. The staple is rice. And it is a widely known fact that Americans only eat rice in California. Home of Arnold, The Terminator.
Details, details, and settling in.
Apprehensive
Excited
Unsure
Eager
I asked during my visit about the workweek. The staff work 7-2 Monday-Saturday. But I can come in at 8. I want to be a team player… shouldn’t I start at 7 as well? Reported to the office a bit after 8 am for the first day of work. First one to the office. I loiter around a bit. Should I stay? Or go browse about the town? I don’t want it to appear that I was late. The finance girls arrive and hop to work… sweeping and cleaning. Apparently their not just good at numbers but also at cleaning… or is that just because their women? We try to communicate but it’s not happening. I manage to understand ‘please sit’. So I do for a bit. Then browse the posters and pictures on the office’s cement walls. Feigning comprehension. My supervisor arrives at 9.
We sit down to discuss my first month. He speaks no English. I speak less than basic Indonesian. I could have told him (in perfect Indonesian) that he had on a green t-shirt and black shoes. That today was Monday. That I am 26 years old and from America. Unfortunately he knew all of that info. He texts another VSO volunteer to come help interpret. It’s slightly helpful, as the volunteer is neither a native speaker of Indonesian nor of English. No doubt a true ‘lost in translation’. My supervisor ask what my plan is for the next 2 years. What are my ideas for projects. My plan? My ideas? Indeed, a sense of empowerment and individual direction is good, nevertheless, perhaps the organization should provide a bit of a guideline. We agree that for the first month I observe, learn more Indonesian than green shirts and black shoes, and develop my job description.
Police reporting.
It reminds me a bit of high school ag or shop class. Boys. Boys with guns. Simply lounging about. No real purpose evident. Reading the newspaper. Chatting up girls. Smoking.
These boys (and I do indeed mean boys… young faces, immaturity gleaming in their eyes) have a sense of power. They are the police. They pass me around to several offices. They crowd around to carefully scrutinizing my documents, as if my passport photo is clipped from the pages of the latest playboy magazine. They want to know why I’m here, where I live, how old I am, am I married, what’s my religion… the normal. The first attempt was a failure. I am sent away to obtain a fax of my passport from VSO for verification. My notarized copy seems inefficient… I am suspect. But of course obey. These are the law boys. Day 2. Again, passed around to be scrutinized and questioned. I am thankful for the company of two colleagues. We wait for an hour for the person with power. Who he is I not sure. Dressed in a camouflaged t-shirt and combat boots (not the official dress of the police). His hair long and pulled into a pony. He lights a cigarette and bounds to sit by my side. Jovial, yet somehow unsettling. First impressions maybe wrong, but I wouldn’t classify him in the trustworthy category.
He tells me I am beautiful.
He tells me he should be my boyfriend.
He sings me a love song.
Is this part of the official questioning?
Before I go, he insists I smoke a cigarette with him. No thank you. No forms unless I smoke. ‘They’ preach not to give into peer pressure… but what about police pressure? A giggle and an “I don’t understand” seems to get me off the hook. Already I have self-diagnosed lung cancer from the wreath of smoke engulfing this country. I don’t much care to willing aid in the blackening of my lungs.
Thanks to Jess, a Filipino volunteer whose real name is Jesus as he was born of Christmas, I have managed to secure furniture and kitchen equipment. He’s been a tremendous help. Even if I could have negotiated the purchases and loans, I wouldn’t have been able to direct them to my new home.
A table and 2 chairs from the office
A cabinet from Jess’s shopkeeper friend
A rice cooker and few odd dishes from a previous volunteer
A thorough shopping trip about town to pick up a refrigerator, electricity stabilizer, a water dispenser and jug, a burner, an oven… or the Indonesian equivalent of an oven in the form of a tin box that sit atop my burner. The shop keepers and Jess chat about Americans need for bread. Can’t an oven be used for more than baking bread? Admittedly I do miss bread… especially the bread from the Saturday evening bread pick-ups in Maine for the farm. Delicious bakery breads of all sorts sent to feed the livestock… and human staff. The mere thought stimulates salivation. Bread in Indonesia is rare. The staple is rice. And it is a widely known fact that Americans only eat rice in California. Home of Arnold, The Terminator.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Saying goodbye.
Perhaps we are all in the same country. Nevertheless, it’s goodbye to some. Bid farewell to the famous four before the fieldtrip to our placements. Rachel, Andy, and Sonia are short terms thus didn’t return. The rest of us ship out tomorrow. Indonesia is big and travel difficult. By air. By sea. Some will be separated by days. Others hours. Most, however, have someone, somekind of support network, within reach.
We wished each other safe travels over dinner. Our last dinner together. In Sanur in on of the beach restaurants. It will be exciting to hear of the other’s placements, work, and living. Each will find themselves in unique situations.
For the past two days I ‘borrowed’ a resort’s facilities. An escape. A holiday. I relish the opportunity to bear my legs and shoulders. I wear my shorts. I wear my strategically wrapped scarf-top. Away from the tourist, modesty is appreciated. I practiced my bahasa with the staff. Lounging in the sun, sandwiched between the pool and sea. My only cost the taxi ride and dinner. Which do indeed, however, add up quickly. My bank account will be happier when I leave Bali.
This could be my last ‘fast’ internet connection for sometime. I don’t know what awaits on the other side of the runway. I am paying for internet. And it’s expensive. For Indonesian standards. But I wanted to live the total lifestyle of the jet-set. I want to play the role. Beach umbrellas, coffee, bread, fresh veg salad, chocolate cake, and internet. I’m worth it.
I confess. It’s Italian espresso. Not Balinese Kopi. I know it’s hurting the local farmers and economy. I know it’s contributing to global warming (it’s presumably flown in not brought by boat). I know. This is the last for a while… promise.
A few last bits and bobs. How will it all fit into my backpack? I’m doubtful. But that’s not on the top of my to-do list. It will get done. Tomorrow I am on the plane, in route to a new home. Coming to Bali was a cultural adventure. Going to Flores, will be perhaps more so.
We wished each other safe travels over dinner. Our last dinner together. In Sanur in on of the beach restaurants. It will be exciting to hear of the other’s placements, work, and living. Each will find themselves in unique situations.
For the past two days I ‘borrowed’ a resort’s facilities. An escape. A holiday. I relish the opportunity to bear my legs and shoulders. I wear my shorts. I wear my strategically wrapped scarf-top. Away from the tourist, modesty is appreciated. I practiced my bahasa with the staff. Lounging in the sun, sandwiched between the pool and sea. My only cost the taxi ride and dinner. Which do indeed, however, add up quickly. My bank account will be happier when I leave Bali.
This could be my last ‘fast’ internet connection for sometime. I don’t know what awaits on the other side of the runway. I am paying for internet. And it’s expensive. For Indonesian standards. But I wanted to live the total lifestyle of the jet-set. I want to play the role. Beach umbrellas, coffee, bread, fresh veg salad, chocolate cake, and internet. I’m worth it.
I confess. It’s Italian espresso. Not Balinese Kopi. I know it’s hurting the local farmers and economy. I know it’s contributing to global warming (it’s presumably flown in not brought by boat). I know. This is the last for a while… promise.
A few last bits and bobs. How will it all fit into my backpack? I’m doubtful. But that’s not on the top of my to-do list. It will get done. Tomorrow I am on the plane, in route to a new home. Coming to Bali was a cultural adventure. Going to Flores, will be perhaps more so.
In search of gluttony
One last hurrah weekend on Bali
Two days of surfing
Three lip synching drag queens
Four sunset beers on the white sand beach
Five VSO volunteers
Six night clubs
Seven salsa dancing partners
Eight fashion show models
Nine hours of sleep over 2 days
Ten times too much Rupiah spent.
And the memories priceless, right? I should write commercials. My request simple. I wanted people. Lots of people. I wanted lattes. Lots of lattes. I wanted surfing, shopping, and dancing. I wanted to sleep in and then lounge on the beach. I wanted to end it with a bang.
A weekend of gluttony and everything not Flores.
There is Indonesia and then there is Bali. Or at least the quintessential tourist Bali… the Bali that has the reputation, the Bali that people flock to for holiday. It’s different. We sought out ‘Bali’… correction, we conquered ‘Bali’!
We rendezvous at ‘The Monument’ in Kuta. The monument being that in honor of those killed in the Bali/Kuta bombings. An eerie feeling to sit waiting, quietly, on the once premise of a booming club. Pictures of those lost stimulate a sense of realness. Just kids really. Perhaps on a gap year or holiday. Australia, UK, Netherlands, USA, South Africa, Korea, Indonesia. Several years on and tourist are just starting to come back in force. I read in the local news (an English version… it takes days for me to translate thus the news would be out-of-date) that tourism in Indonesia is up 27% from last year. Nevertheless, the further east one goes from the island of Bali, the further away one goes from western-ization and the pale faces of tourists.
Two days of surfing
Three lip synching drag queens
Four sunset beers on the white sand beach
Five VSO volunteers
Six night clubs
Seven salsa dancing partners
Eight fashion show models
Nine hours of sleep over 2 days
Ten times too much Rupiah spent.
And the memories priceless, right? I should write commercials. My request simple. I wanted people. Lots of people. I wanted lattes. Lots of lattes. I wanted surfing, shopping, and dancing. I wanted to sleep in and then lounge on the beach. I wanted to end it with a bang.
A weekend of gluttony and everything not Flores.
There is Indonesia and then there is Bali. Or at least the quintessential tourist Bali… the Bali that has the reputation, the Bali that people flock to for holiday. It’s different. We sought out ‘Bali’… correction, we conquered ‘Bali’!
We rendezvous at ‘The Monument’ in Kuta. The monument being that in honor of those killed in the Bali/Kuta bombings. An eerie feeling to sit waiting, quietly, on the once premise of a booming club. Pictures of those lost stimulate a sense of realness. Just kids really. Perhaps on a gap year or holiday. Australia, UK, Netherlands, USA, South Africa, Korea, Indonesia. Several years on and tourist are just starting to come back in force. I read in the local news (an English version… it takes days for me to translate thus the news would be out-of-date) that tourism in Indonesia is up 27% from last year. Nevertheless, the further east one goes from the island of Bali, the further away one goes from western-ization and the pale faces of tourists.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Mikal goes to work… sort of… for a week… and a few ‘bonus’ days
Like I said, I am hoarding blogs… so it’s long. Waiting for the opportunity for internet access. Somehow satisfying and disconnecting. A sense of freedom and constraint. It’s been a long wait. Nevertheless, it may perhaps have only been a brief stint of disengagement when put into the scope of the next couple of years.
Day 1
Ah! Where are the words? How do I tell them? I need my dictionary. What’s the Bahasa Indonesia equivalent for “pull over now, I am going to spew”?
The road snakes through the unfamiliar darkness of Flores island. Arrived into Ende, one of the ‘largest’ towns on Flores and the nearest airport. The plane small. We flew low, so low you could count the buildings on each island. Island after island, each boasting a definitive white ring separating the blue waters and green topography. Volcanic craters and mountains evident. It seemed as if we were landing in the sea. Fuzzy green mountains rise surprisingly straight out of the water. We hit the runway, hard and fast. The single runway of the single room airport, the only flight of the day.
I wasn’t alone. And neither did it seem like anyone was on the flight… all seemed to now one another. My placement supervisor… the ‘YMTM boss’… and two others from the organization (YMTM) were on the flight. Pak Yosuf, the boss, had come to our pre-departure employeer workshop on Bali. The others returning from an organic rice training. They snapped photos with me as we deboarded the craft. In true movie star fashion.
To my delight, the organization has a pick-up and driver. A luxury. We pile our (ok, mainly my ginormous bag) into the bed of the truck and set off for Bajawa. Three and half hour trip. As we head along the road out of Ende an off-road motor cross event finishes with the release of hordes of people. A motor bike traffic jam commences. And we are stuck in it’s midst. To the left an immediate drop into the sea. To the right landslides cover the opposing lane of traffic… left side driving in Indonesia. Although, lane directions are seemingly merely a suggestion here. Motor bikes speed in and around.
Deadlock. People keep motioning to the tree above us. I think they may be scared it might topple down the eroded cliff onto the traffic. Admittedly it doesn’t appear to be out the realm of possibility.
Bemos, vans used for local transport, are bursting with people… inside and out. People cling to the outside and sit on the roof. Dump trucks are filled with people. People. People. People!
It’s like being royalty in a parade. They slow down and stare. The white girl. Shouts of “Hello Mister” and “ How are you”.
Slowly, we move forward with the help of the arriving police. Although, it seems a bit like social hour for them as they chat with the motorists.
Drop.
Thud.
Our front tire completely disappears into a massive hole leading to the sea below. Several men jump to help. 1, 2, 3, lift. Back on track.
The sky turns dark and ominous. The luggage is squeezed into the cab (thankfully extended). We squish.
Three stops along the way to let off several passengers we have acquired in route. Two stops on curvy road for Telly, one of my local colleagues, to hang her head out the window. I get a gold star. I held it in.
Day 2
Bread, chocolate sprinkles, and coffee. The breakfast of champions. Seems to be what Indonesia thinks westerners like to eat first thing in the morning.
I was warned that Bajawa was “dingin sekali” (very cold). Perhaps very cold is a bit of exaggeration but nonetheless, it is a much cooler morning than those in Bali. I stare down the chilly water. Finally talking myself into a compromise of washing merely my hair and slathering on extra deodorant.
First office meeting and introductions:
* Most times include minutes allotted from translations
People shuffle into work around 9ish.
30 minutes trying to get LCD projector working. The problem. The cable is plugged in backwards… must be utilized frequently.
20 minute overview of cashew nut projects, vision, and mission
5 minute translation of the term ‘bokashi’… organic fertilizer, aka cow poo.
Break for coffee and donuts.
30 minute discussion about my schedule this week. No translation provided.
I try to ask who the other people are, we are 7. The answer is a detailed description of the organizational structure. Pak Yosef must think I am the world’s worst listeners since he has explained this twice before. I still don’t know who these people.
Announced that the meeting is over. No one leave the ‘conference table’… which distinctively resembles a ping pong table. Green and complete with holding pockets for a net, but no net.
Tjeered arrives. Another VSO volunteer in Bajawa working on GIS / land mapping with the local government. Our placements are collaborating. He doesn’t go into work today since it seems someone has misplaced the office key.
Several read the newspaper. Others send numerous text messages. All chat casually.
Lunch arrives.
12 noon, everyone leaves. I sense the workday has finished.
Day 3
Rain
Fog
Mountains
Curves
Steep cliffs
Left sided driving
One lane road, two way traffic
Children plan on the brim
Livestock meander
Manual
Would you give me the keys to the company truck? Correction… would you insist I drive the company truck? In America, a high liability. In Flores, no problem.
How can I explain more clearly why this is all a bad idea?
Spent the day in one of the local villages. Like being on a television special on the National Geographic or Travel Channels. Fantastic.
I was introduced with “from America”, “knowledge”, “help us”, “expert”… whoa. Unemployed to expert overnight. I think we may need to clarify my credentials.
Next stop… the cashew processing facility. We pull up and honk, as you do in Indonesia until someone comes outside. Five children race to the truck. It morphs into a jungle gym… a new toy. Their parents shuffle down. The nuts are first dried. Their shell identical to the cashews we see in the shops. A single woman sits down at a small apparatus mounted to a table. It’s engulfed by the large empty room. Just one room. Just one woman. She slips on rubber gloves. Pluss down the lever onto the hard exterior of the cashew. It cracks. She pries out the nut with a flat screwdriver. Carefully. The interior of a cashew shell is toxic. Thus the gloves and a quick removal. The nuts are dried in the sun… length depends on just how sunny. The packaging room. Common. Nothing industrial or commercial about it. A vacuum sealer sits on the floor… resembles the once on the home shopping channel.
Just something to think about the next time you crunch down onto a cashew. Or wonder why they are so much more expensive than peanuts.
Day 4
When it rain it pours. Not good for the main mode of transport… motorbike. Luckily there is Indonesian hospitality. The sky darkened. Then let loose. We pull the motor over to the side of the road and scamper to the nearest house. Apparently, it’s the norm to provide shelter. Two boys bring us (and the 3 others seeking refugee) chairs. The rain thundered loud on the tin roof. In the outside kitchen, chickens roosted on the pots where they undoubtedly will one day be their final resting place. Ducks waddled gleefully in the wet grasses. Bird flu may be unavoidable.
Day 6
Knee deep in bokasi (see day 2). Literally. Checking out the new organic rice patties on the north coast. More bird flu… and perhaps malaria, too.
Day 7
The hotel guy was just speaking to me in English. No idea what he is asking. My brain is still trying to sift through a mess of Bahasa Indonesia. Please in Indonesian.
An office outing today to the nearby hot springs. A quick detour to meet on e of the community organizational people. 20 minutes to track him down. 10 minute chat. In total a 30 minute workday.
Not at all like the hot spring excursion in Lovina (see previous post). Thankfully! Tranquil and natural. The pool shallow and rocky. The warm water bubbling up near the center of the circular pool. This time I’m wiser. I left the bikini in Bali, opting to wear the local attire of shorts and t-shirt. For the locals this is a bath. Hence they lounge about and wash as such. A bit awkward, at best, with co-workers. My colleagues sit, splash, and rub themselves with rocks. I timidly try to imitate. It feels a little bit like how I envision a monkey feels at the zoo.
Day 8
As if sitting in the theater of a planetarium. Flashbacks of visits to COSI and elementary field trips. The sky dark and the stars distinct.
Still on Flores. In Ende. I think it’s a conspiracy between the hotels and airlines. Flight cancelled. Admittedly, I was warned. It’s normal during rainy season.
A beautiful morning. Sitting in the airport waiting for the one flight of the day. The clouds turn gray and rain comes down. The runway morphed into a chocolaty brown river. We wait. The airport smoky. It’s like going to a bar before they became smoke-free… without the alcohol, without the fun. The men puff away.
The check-in process lacks order. People pounce on the guy behind the desk as he flips the sign to ‘open’. They toss their paper tickets across. No swift electronic check-in. It’s a strange feeling to relinquish the only proof of being on the flight. The tickets stacked together, names noted, and dates scribbled… by hand, individually. One by one the desk man reads the names for people to reclaim their tickets. Is this what life was like before terrorist attacks?
The sky cleared, the sun bursting through. The river miraculously ceased and the runway reemerged. Then the flight announcement. Cancelled. Due to weather.
Again, without order, we write our names and phone number on the back of a scrap paper. The deskman can’t tell me when we will leave. Tomorrow he thinks. But assures me he will send a text message with the details. Call me crazy but I see several flaws in this process.
My text message never arrives.
Day 10
Two days later. Still in Ende. Back in the airport. Hoping. I continuously visualize boarding the plane in the hopes of positively manifesting the future through optimistic thought.
It works.
Day 1
Ah! Where are the words? How do I tell them? I need my dictionary. What’s the Bahasa Indonesia equivalent for “pull over now, I am going to spew”?
The road snakes through the unfamiliar darkness of Flores island. Arrived into Ende, one of the ‘largest’ towns on Flores and the nearest airport. The plane small. We flew low, so low you could count the buildings on each island. Island after island, each boasting a definitive white ring separating the blue waters and green topography. Volcanic craters and mountains evident. It seemed as if we were landing in the sea. Fuzzy green mountains rise surprisingly straight out of the water. We hit the runway, hard and fast. The single runway of the single room airport, the only flight of the day.
I wasn’t alone. And neither did it seem like anyone was on the flight… all seemed to now one another. My placement supervisor… the ‘YMTM boss’… and two others from the organization (YMTM) were on the flight. Pak Yosuf, the boss, had come to our pre-departure employeer workshop on Bali. The others returning from an organic rice training. They snapped photos with me as we deboarded the craft. In true movie star fashion.
To my delight, the organization has a pick-up and driver. A luxury. We pile our (ok, mainly my ginormous bag) into the bed of the truck and set off for Bajawa. Three and half hour trip. As we head along the road out of Ende an off-road motor cross event finishes with the release of hordes of people. A motor bike traffic jam commences. And we are stuck in it’s midst. To the left an immediate drop into the sea. To the right landslides cover the opposing lane of traffic… left side driving in Indonesia. Although, lane directions are seemingly merely a suggestion here. Motor bikes speed in and around.
Deadlock. People keep motioning to the tree above us. I think they may be scared it might topple down the eroded cliff onto the traffic. Admittedly it doesn’t appear to be out the realm of possibility.
Bemos, vans used for local transport, are bursting with people… inside and out. People cling to the outside and sit on the roof. Dump trucks are filled with people. People. People. People!
It’s like being royalty in a parade. They slow down and stare. The white girl. Shouts of “Hello Mister” and “ How are you”.
Slowly, we move forward with the help of the arriving police. Although, it seems a bit like social hour for them as they chat with the motorists.
Drop.
Thud.
Our front tire completely disappears into a massive hole leading to the sea below. Several men jump to help. 1, 2, 3, lift. Back on track.
The sky turns dark and ominous. The luggage is squeezed into the cab (thankfully extended). We squish.
Three stops along the way to let off several passengers we have acquired in route. Two stops on curvy road for Telly, one of my local colleagues, to hang her head out the window. I get a gold star. I held it in.
Day 2
Bread, chocolate sprinkles, and coffee. The breakfast of champions. Seems to be what Indonesia thinks westerners like to eat first thing in the morning.
I was warned that Bajawa was “dingin sekali” (very cold). Perhaps very cold is a bit of exaggeration but nonetheless, it is a much cooler morning than those in Bali. I stare down the chilly water. Finally talking myself into a compromise of washing merely my hair and slathering on extra deodorant.
First office meeting and introductions:
* Most times include minutes allotted from translations
People shuffle into work around 9ish.
30 minutes trying to get LCD projector working. The problem. The cable is plugged in backwards… must be utilized frequently.
20 minute overview of cashew nut projects, vision, and mission
5 minute translation of the term ‘bokashi’… organic fertilizer, aka cow poo.
Break for coffee and donuts.
30 minute discussion about my schedule this week. No translation provided.
I try to ask who the other people are, we are 7. The answer is a detailed description of the organizational structure. Pak Yosef must think I am the world’s worst listeners since he has explained this twice before. I still don’t know who these people.
Announced that the meeting is over. No one leave the ‘conference table’… which distinctively resembles a ping pong table. Green and complete with holding pockets for a net, but no net.
Tjeered arrives. Another VSO volunteer in Bajawa working on GIS / land mapping with the local government. Our placements are collaborating. He doesn’t go into work today since it seems someone has misplaced the office key.
Several read the newspaper. Others send numerous text messages. All chat casually.
Lunch arrives.
12 noon, everyone leaves. I sense the workday has finished.
Day 3
Rain
Fog
Mountains
Curves
Steep cliffs
Left sided driving
One lane road, two way traffic
Children plan on the brim
Livestock meander
Manual
Would you give me the keys to the company truck? Correction… would you insist I drive the company truck? In America, a high liability. In Flores, no problem.
How can I explain more clearly why this is all a bad idea?
Spent the day in one of the local villages. Like being on a television special on the National Geographic or Travel Channels. Fantastic.
I was introduced with “from America”, “knowledge”, “help us”, “expert”… whoa. Unemployed to expert overnight. I think we may need to clarify my credentials.
Next stop… the cashew processing facility. We pull up and honk, as you do in Indonesia until someone comes outside. Five children race to the truck. It morphs into a jungle gym… a new toy. Their parents shuffle down. The nuts are first dried. Their shell identical to the cashews we see in the shops. A single woman sits down at a small apparatus mounted to a table. It’s engulfed by the large empty room. Just one room. Just one woman. She slips on rubber gloves. Pluss down the lever onto the hard exterior of the cashew. It cracks. She pries out the nut with a flat screwdriver. Carefully. The interior of a cashew shell is toxic. Thus the gloves and a quick removal. The nuts are dried in the sun… length depends on just how sunny. The packaging room. Common. Nothing industrial or commercial about it. A vacuum sealer sits on the floor… resembles the once on the home shopping channel.
Just something to think about the next time you crunch down onto a cashew. Or wonder why they are so much more expensive than peanuts.
Day 4
When it rain it pours. Not good for the main mode of transport… motorbike. Luckily there is Indonesian hospitality. The sky darkened. Then let loose. We pull the motor over to the side of the road and scamper to the nearest house. Apparently, it’s the norm to provide shelter. Two boys bring us (and the 3 others seeking refugee) chairs. The rain thundered loud on the tin roof. In the outside kitchen, chickens roosted on the pots where they undoubtedly will one day be their final resting place. Ducks waddled gleefully in the wet grasses. Bird flu may be unavoidable.
Day 6
Knee deep in bokasi (see day 2). Literally. Checking out the new organic rice patties on the north coast. More bird flu… and perhaps malaria, too.
Day 7
The hotel guy was just speaking to me in English. No idea what he is asking. My brain is still trying to sift through a mess of Bahasa Indonesia. Please in Indonesian.
An office outing today to the nearby hot springs. A quick detour to meet on e of the community organizational people. 20 minutes to track him down. 10 minute chat. In total a 30 minute workday.
Not at all like the hot spring excursion in Lovina (see previous post). Thankfully! Tranquil and natural. The pool shallow and rocky. The warm water bubbling up near the center of the circular pool. This time I’m wiser. I left the bikini in Bali, opting to wear the local attire of shorts and t-shirt. For the locals this is a bath. Hence they lounge about and wash as such. A bit awkward, at best, with co-workers. My colleagues sit, splash, and rub themselves with rocks. I timidly try to imitate. It feels a little bit like how I envision a monkey feels at the zoo.
Day 8
As if sitting in the theater of a planetarium. Flashbacks of visits to COSI and elementary field trips. The sky dark and the stars distinct.
Still on Flores. In Ende. I think it’s a conspiracy between the hotels and airlines. Flight cancelled. Admittedly, I was warned. It’s normal during rainy season.
A beautiful morning. Sitting in the airport waiting for the one flight of the day. The clouds turn gray and rain comes down. The runway morphed into a chocolaty brown river. We wait. The airport smoky. It’s like going to a bar before they became smoke-free… without the alcohol, without the fun. The men puff away.
The check-in process lacks order. People pounce on the guy behind the desk as he flips the sign to ‘open’. They toss their paper tickets across. No swift electronic check-in. It’s a strange feeling to relinquish the only proof of being on the flight. The tickets stacked together, names noted, and dates scribbled… by hand, individually. One by one the desk man reads the names for people to reclaim their tickets. Is this what life was like before terrorist attacks?
The sky cleared, the sun bursting through. The river miraculously ceased and the runway reemerged. Then the flight announcement. Cancelled. Due to weather.
Again, without order, we write our names and phone number on the back of a scrap paper. The deskman can’t tell me when we will leave. Tomorrow he thinks. But assures me he will send a text message with the details. Call me crazy but I see several flaws in this process.
My text message never arrives.
Day 10
Two days later. Still in Ende. Back in the airport. Hoping. I continuously visualize boarding the plane in the hopes of positively manifesting the future through optimistic thought.
It works.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
A Cup of Java
Backdate to April 23... I am hoarding blogs.
How quick a move from necessity to luxury. Running water and reliable transport. Funny... not funny haha, but rather funny huh.
I don’t dare to look under the bed. Whatever noise a cockroach makes, I think I hear it... times 20. The walls a dingy stained yellow. ‘Love’ scribbled and smeared in black pen. A baron (but large!) bed. A bottom sheet and pillow. Just. A few stray long hairs remain from the previous guest. The street life of the Sosrowijayan area of Yogyakarta bustles with street vendors selling their infamous batik wears. Andongs (horse and cart) and becaks (guy on bike with cart) the local transports of choice. As night sets in so do an abundant of warungs (street food sellers). Their straw mats cover the sidewalks for people to sit.
Arrived on Java a week ago. The 12 VSO ‘newbies’ hand-in-hand. Each spring all the VSO volunteers across Indonesia congregate for an annual conference. A time to share, learn, network, speak in English, and generally relish in a bit of western debauchery. For many the opportunity to socialize with co-patriots and fellow volunteers, as well as the general escape to civilization, is rare. Some volunteer as a career move. Some volunteer for adventure. Some volunteer on mission of personal discovery. Some volunteer in an effort to make a difference in our ever-fluid global community. Some are simply a motley… me. Doctors and social workers. Management consultants and teachers. Computer wizards and engineers. Nutritionists and family planners. Foresters and agriculturalists. Retired, mid-career, and new entries.
Saturday was a day to ‘give back’… a visible contribution. Is being here as a volunteer insufficient? We split. Part to an orphanage to paint. Part to plant trees in an effort to ‘off-set our global footprint’ and reduce erosion on Gunung Merapi (Mountain of Fire). I was excited for something physical after several weeks of being quite sedentary in classes, trapped by the Bali heat. The sun bright as we arrived. Before we spring into action, the Indonesian formalities. The important village leaders file onto stage and sit cross legged. Each given an opportunity for a windy address. Summary: Welcome. Sweet tea and snacks are passed around. Individually wrapped and packaged. What happened to environmentalism? The notions of reduce, reuse, and recycle completely foreign.
2 hours later.
We climb up the hillside through vegetable patches. Cabbage. Cauliflower. Carrots. Onions. A mist conceals the blue sky. Just in time. We arrive at our tree planting destination each with 10 seedlings in tow. The rain cuts loose. Our matching 4-H green VSO t-shirts darkening with moisture. The locals linger under umbrellas. They try to coax us into smiling photo poses. As the rain streams down my face, I could care less about looking into the camera.
The water cascades down the path. Rapids. We throw it in and slowly make our way down. Soaking. A mere handful of trees planted. I am skeptical that our carbon footprints have been reduced.
Not all work and rain. Took the opportunity to fill my tourist role.
Borobudur
A once long forgotten Buddhist powerhouse on the now Muslim island.
The base level a representation of the everyday world. Images of Buddha progress to Nirvana as we climb to the top of the man-made, spiritual, mountain-esque temple.
Prambanan
A massive complex of Hindu temples from the 8th – 10th centuries. Dark spires shooting out of the earth.
How quick a move from necessity to luxury. Running water and reliable transport. Funny... not funny haha, but rather funny huh.
I don’t dare to look under the bed. Whatever noise a cockroach makes, I think I hear it... times 20. The walls a dingy stained yellow. ‘Love’ scribbled and smeared in black pen. A baron (but large!) bed. A bottom sheet and pillow. Just. A few stray long hairs remain from the previous guest. The street life of the Sosrowijayan area of Yogyakarta bustles with street vendors selling their infamous batik wears. Andongs (horse and cart) and becaks (guy on bike with cart) the local transports of choice. As night sets in so do an abundant of warungs (street food sellers). Their straw mats cover the sidewalks for people to sit.
Arrived on Java a week ago. The 12 VSO ‘newbies’ hand-in-hand. Each spring all the VSO volunteers across Indonesia congregate for an annual conference. A time to share, learn, network, speak in English, and generally relish in a bit of western debauchery. For many the opportunity to socialize with co-patriots and fellow volunteers, as well as the general escape to civilization, is rare. Some volunteer as a career move. Some volunteer for adventure. Some volunteer on mission of personal discovery. Some volunteer in an effort to make a difference in our ever-fluid global community. Some are simply a motley… me. Doctors and social workers. Management consultants and teachers. Computer wizards and engineers. Nutritionists and family planners. Foresters and agriculturalists. Retired, mid-career, and new entries.
Saturday was a day to ‘give back’… a visible contribution. Is being here as a volunteer insufficient? We split. Part to an orphanage to paint. Part to plant trees in an effort to ‘off-set our global footprint’ and reduce erosion on Gunung Merapi (Mountain of Fire). I was excited for something physical after several weeks of being quite sedentary in classes, trapped by the Bali heat. The sun bright as we arrived. Before we spring into action, the Indonesian formalities. The important village leaders file onto stage and sit cross legged. Each given an opportunity for a windy address. Summary: Welcome. Sweet tea and snacks are passed around. Individually wrapped and packaged. What happened to environmentalism? The notions of reduce, reuse, and recycle completely foreign.
2 hours later.
We climb up the hillside through vegetable patches. Cabbage. Cauliflower. Carrots. Onions. A mist conceals the blue sky. Just in time. We arrive at our tree planting destination each with 10 seedlings in tow. The rain cuts loose. Our matching 4-H green VSO t-shirts darkening with moisture. The locals linger under umbrellas. They try to coax us into smiling photo poses. As the rain streams down my face, I could care less about looking into the camera.
The water cascades down the path. Rapids. We throw it in and slowly make our way down. Soaking. A mere handful of trees planted. I am skeptical that our carbon footprints have been reduced.
Not all work and rain. Took the opportunity to fill my tourist role.
Borobudur
A once long forgotten Buddhist powerhouse on the now Muslim island.
The base level a representation of the everyday world. Images of Buddha progress to Nirvana as we climb to the top of the man-made, spiritual, mountain-esque temple.
Prambanan
A massive complex of Hindu temples from the 8th – 10th centuries. Dark spires shooting out of the earth.
Candi Cete and Candi Sukuh
The erotic temples. The former masculine. The later feminine. Some representations require much imagination while others are vivid and straight up.
Dieng Plateau
‘Abode of the Gods’… Oldest Hindu temples on Java.
Bubbling sulphur lakes… some simmer, some boil. Steam rises and engulfs.
Agriculturally rich.
Bird Market
I feel the bird flu coming on. Good sense told me to avoid it but curiosity made me go. Well worth the risk… cough cough. Like a kid in a cultural candy store. A vast range of birds fill every crevasse of the gang (alley). The copious cages block out the mid-day sunlight.
The erotic temples. The former masculine. The later feminine. Some representations require much imagination while others are vivid and straight up.
Dieng Plateau
‘Abode of the Gods’… Oldest Hindu temples on Java.
Bubbling sulphur lakes… some simmer, some boil. Steam rises and engulfs.
Agriculturally rich.
Bird Market
I feel the bird flu coming on. Good sense told me to avoid it but curiosity made me go. Well worth the risk… cough cough. Like a kid in a cultural candy store. A vast range of birds fill every crevasse of the gang (alley). The copious cages block out the mid-day sunlight.
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