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.
explore
Friday, May 16, 2008
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.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Nyepi... the Balianese Day of Silence
I felt pains of social irresponsibility. The rising sun shimmied across the water, giving a golden depth. 6 am. Four of us sitting in a front-facing line. The boat narrow and lean. Cobra. Our Captain, Made, seemingly skipped over the safety instructions. Perhaps attributed to the lack of emergency plan. No place to stow life vest in the wooden planks. A motor propped up against one side. Runners at either side. The kind of boat that has been used for generations… with the addition of a motor. Lovina is famous for it’s dolphins. A tourist draw. Both domestic and foreign… tourist not dolphins. Nearly 20 boats swarmed upon a patch of sea. Outwardly nothing special, but beneath a morning playground for the notorious residence. They surface in two’s. The boats leaping to get their customers’ the best photo opts. Zipping across the water, literally on top of our aquatic friends. The dolphins disappear. Like a game of cat and mouse. Taunting and playing. The motors roar louder and faster as the dolphins jump higher.
We have come to the north coast of Bali, to Lovina, for the dolphins, for snorkeling, for the near by hot springs.
Three pools of various sizes and depths set in lush. green. tropical. Water flowing into the pools through stone carved faced-fountains. A river flowing a couple hundred feet below. The hot springs. Sounding lovely, relaxing, and wholesome in the Lonely Planet. Perhaps on another day. Another morning. But not this afternoon. We knew better. A public holiday for the Balinese. Nevertheless, we chanced it. As did several hundred Balinese. We stood out. The only white people. The only people in swim suits. The locals jumped and crowded in the shallows fully dressed. Shorts and t-shirts. My bikini and white skin stark. The water brown and cloudy. The temperature of urine. Sonia, a doctor, assured us that urine was at least sterile and likely better than what was really lurking in the murkiness. Girls giggled and chatted with us. Asking if we liked this and if we like that. Trying not to open our mouths too wide for fear of the slashing teens. We navigated to the less crowded deeper parts as few people seemingly knew how to swim.
While indeed the dolphins and hot springs were pivotal to the weekend, the main event was the Nyepi celebration. Nyepi is the Balianese Day of Silence / Lunar New Year. As Bali is laced with a strong presence of spirituality, the day (and activities leading up to it) pays respect to the Gods and harmonize with nature. Why not in line with our western new year’s celebration? Nyepi falls of on the day following the dark moon of the spring equinox.
Villages and neighborhoods labor night and day to produce elaborate ‘Ogoh-Ogoh’. These are gianormous representations of the evil spirits that live amongst us. Vivid colors, bulging eyes, wild hair, fangs, fierce claws, and corpulent figures. I think I much prefer to think that not-so vicious creatures roam about the spiritual realm!
Through out the day prior to Nyepi, the people take offerings to their local temples… fruit, nuts, rice. Strategically and beautifully arranged ridiculously high. On the eve of Nyepi, the Ogoh-Ogoh’s are parade through the community after prayer in the temple. Carried by groups of young boys dressed in sarongs and t-shirts, the effigies are twirled, shaken, and danced about in the streets. People congregate at the main intersection of the village for an ‘exorcism’ as this is the meeting place for the bad energy / evil spirits… of course I am sure you all knew that!
The noise literally deafening. Fireworks. Homemade cannon like fire blowers. Drums of pots and bottles. Cheers and screams. To the beach (at least in the coastal villages of Lovina). The Ogoh-Ogoh’s are doused in gasoline and blazed. The evil spirits vanquished.
Nyepi it’s self is celebrated in sharp contrasted. A day of silence, fasting, and meditation.
No lights.
No noise.
No traveling.
No cooking.
No entertainment.
No working.
No tourist exceptions (except for activities within a hotel complex… so I guess a bit of rule bending)
The airport even closes.
To leave the house in cases of emergency the special ‘cultural police’ must first be consulted.
Hence we lounge about the pool of the hotel studying our Bahasa Indonesia. The only occupants… except for the mosquitoes.
The next day, a fresh start.
We have come to the north coast of Bali, to Lovina, for the dolphins, for snorkeling, for the near by hot springs.
Three pools of various sizes and depths set in lush. green. tropical. Water flowing into the pools through stone carved faced-fountains. A river flowing a couple hundred feet below. The hot springs. Sounding lovely, relaxing, and wholesome in the Lonely Planet. Perhaps on another day. Another morning. But not this afternoon. We knew better. A public holiday for the Balinese. Nevertheless, we chanced it. As did several hundred Balinese. We stood out. The only white people. The only people in swim suits. The locals jumped and crowded in the shallows fully dressed. Shorts and t-shirts. My bikini and white skin stark. The water brown and cloudy. The temperature of urine. Sonia, a doctor, assured us that urine was at least sterile and likely better than what was really lurking in the murkiness. Girls giggled and chatted with us. Asking if we liked this and if we like that. Trying not to open our mouths too wide for fear of the slashing teens. We navigated to the less crowded deeper parts as few people seemingly knew how to swim.
While indeed the dolphins and hot springs were pivotal to the weekend, the main event was the Nyepi celebration. Nyepi is the Balianese Day of Silence / Lunar New Year. As Bali is laced with a strong presence of spirituality, the day (and activities leading up to it) pays respect to the Gods and harmonize with nature. Why not in line with our western new year’s celebration? Nyepi falls of on the day following the dark moon of the spring equinox.
Villages and neighborhoods labor night and day to produce elaborate ‘Ogoh-Ogoh’. These are gianormous representations of the evil spirits that live amongst us. Vivid colors, bulging eyes, wild hair, fangs, fierce claws, and corpulent figures. I think I much prefer to think that not-so vicious creatures roam about the spiritual realm!
Through out the day prior to Nyepi, the people take offerings to their local temples… fruit, nuts, rice. Strategically and beautifully arranged ridiculously high. On the eve of Nyepi, the Ogoh-Ogoh’s are parade through the community after prayer in the temple. Carried by groups of young boys dressed in sarongs and t-shirts, the effigies are twirled, shaken, and danced about in the streets. People congregate at the main intersection of the village for an ‘exorcism’ as this is the meeting place for the bad energy / evil spirits… of course I am sure you all knew that!
The noise literally deafening. Fireworks. Homemade cannon like fire blowers. Drums of pots and bottles. Cheers and screams. To the beach (at least in the coastal villages of Lovina). The Ogoh-Ogoh’s are doused in gasoline and blazed. The evil spirits vanquished.
Nyepi it’s self is celebrated in sharp contrasted. A day of silence, fasting, and meditation.
No lights.
No noise.
No traveling.
No cooking.
No entertainment.
No working.
No tourist exceptions (except for activities within a hotel complex… so I guess a bit of rule bending)
The airport even closes.
To leave the house in cases of emergency the special ‘cultural police’ must first be consulted.
Hence we lounge about the pool of the hotel studying our Bahasa Indonesia. The only occupants… except for the mosquitoes.
The next day, a fresh start.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Hanging Ten
I am keeping the phone line open. Expecting a call to be in the sequel to the movie ‘Blue Crush’. Haven’t seen it? A surfer chick movie that is admittedly much better than anticipated… not quite Oscar worthy but close.
Exchanged the nearly un-crossable streets of Denpasar for the sands of Kuta. Kuta is Bali. At least in tourist terms. It’s the beach. It’s the surfing. It’s the shopping. It’s the Australians. Like the Bahamas is to Americans, Kuta is to Aussies.
About 15 minutes away but a world different. The atmosphere less traditional. The locals heavily ‘Australian-ized’ … from boardshorts to expressions to food. Even most things stocked on the shelves of the Circle K convenience stores are imported to cater to the southern neighbors. This is where the 2002 Bali bombings occurred. The site of a hopping club, now a memorial.
My travel companions, the typical bunch.
Rachel and Andy, early 30’s married couple from England, spending the next year on West Timor working as hospital management advisors. Amiable and excited to explore.
Sonia, also 30-something English, an ob-gyn. West Timor bound. Although just for a brief 6 month stint as this is a re-placement location after being evacuated from Kenya earlier in the year. Candid and adventurous.
We all seemingly share the notion of making the most out of this Indonesian experience.
While Rachel and Andy sought out a lush hotel with pool, Sonia and I took off for an ally. True, we live just minutes away, but the transport costs add up quickly. So a cheapy dive it was. The price drops quickly without modern amenities. No need for a pool with the sea at the door. No need for topsheet and blanket. No need for hot water… only when we went to shower, we realize no hot water translated into no any water.
While Rachel and Andy frolicked in their crystal blue pool, Sonia and I took to find a surf school. Tumbling into the waves, the surf board tugged on the ankle strap. The sun hot and water warm. Salt on my skin. Salt in my mouth and nose. I seemingly gulp in the entire sea. Learning to surf was top of my ‘to do in indonesia’ list before even arriving. Check…….. still working on perfecting the standing part.
Exchanged the nearly un-crossable streets of Denpasar for the sands of Kuta. Kuta is Bali. At least in tourist terms. It’s the beach. It’s the surfing. It’s the shopping. It’s the Australians. Like the Bahamas is to Americans, Kuta is to Aussies.
About 15 minutes away but a world different. The atmosphere less traditional. The locals heavily ‘Australian-ized’ … from boardshorts to expressions to food. Even most things stocked on the shelves of the Circle K convenience stores are imported to cater to the southern neighbors. This is where the 2002 Bali bombings occurred. The site of a hopping club, now a memorial.
My travel companions, the typical bunch.
Rachel and Andy, early 30’s married couple from England, spending the next year on West Timor working as hospital management advisors. Amiable and excited to explore.
Sonia, also 30-something English, an ob-gyn. West Timor bound. Although just for a brief 6 month stint as this is a re-placement location after being evacuated from Kenya earlier in the year. Candid and adventurous.
We all seemingly share the notion of making the most out of this Indonesian experience.
While Rachel and Andy sought out a lush hotel with pool, Sonia and I took off for an ally. True, we live just minutes away, but the transport costs add up quickly. So a cheapy dive it was. The price drops quickly without modern amenities. No need for a pool with the sea at the door. No need for topsheet and blanket. No need for hot water… only when we went to shower, we realize no hot water translated into no any water.
While Rachel and Andy frolicked in their crystal blue pool, Sonia and I took to find a surf school. Tumbling into the waves, the surf board tugged on the ankle strap. The sun hot and water warm. Salt on my skin. Salt in my mouth and nose. I seemingly gulp in the entire sea. Learning to surf was top of my ‘to do in indonesia’ list before even arriving. Check…….. still working on perfecting the standing part.
Lost in Translation
Our words are in Bahasa Indonesia yet the response time after time is a look of horror followed with a murmured “I don’t speak English”. Though the pronunciation and word choice may seemingly be corrected it is indistinguishably similar to my ears. Yet, the Balinese people are warm and helpful. They shout greetings of “hello, how are you” and “good morning”… the later even in the dark of night. I have even had people start counting in English when I pass by their curbside perch.
After dinner a couple of nights ago, several of us went to track down a local bar for a study-break drink. Away from the copious tourist hotspots of Kuta, Legion, Ubud, Sanur, and Nusa Dua, the watering hole options are sparse. The supermarket seems to be the chief purveyor of beer. Nevertheless, we were triumphant!
After dinner a couple of nights ago, several of us went to track down a local bar for a study-break drink. Away from the copious tourist hotspots of Kuta, Legion, Ubud, Sanur, and Nusa Dua, the watering hole options are sparse. The supermarket seems to be the chief purveyor of beer. Nevertheless, we were triumphant!
*******************
Bir Bintang
Karaoke
*****************************
Bir Bintang
Karaoke
*****************************
Admittedly not so interested in Karaoke but beggars can’t be choosers… right. The dim of the street and glowing sign above light the façade. The shadowy exterior gives way to a deep night darkness. No illumination. One by one, we stumble down the three steps. Searching for a sign of life. A female voice and another. They grab our hands and lead us to a lounge table. The music deafening. Seriously deafening. Scantily clad girls, a contrast to the conservative traditional, come over to shake our hands and sit around our table. We laugh and exchange looks. This place definitely offers more than beer and karaoke! One of the girls gives our sole male companion, Andy, a menu and holds a flashlight so he can read. Rp. 30,000 ($3.50) for a bottle of beer. Nearly twice what one may expect to pay elsewhere. It’s a treat.
On the back of the menu are ‘packages’. Four beers and 2 private ‘waitress’ for 500,000. The eyes adjust. Just the four of us. One older man. And perhaps 10 girls, who may or may not be in the sex trade industry.
We can’t talk because of the loudness. We can’t see because of the darkness. So we sing. Beatles. Oasis. Frank Sinatra. Whatever English cheese pops up onto the wall projection.
All this fun and home before 10:00.
On the back of the menu are ‘packages’. Four beers and 2 private ‘waitress’ for 500,000. The eyes adjust. Just the four of us. One older man. And perhaps 10 girls, who may or may not be in the sex trade industry.
We can’t talk because of the loudness. We can’t see because of the darkness. So we sing. Beatles. Oasis. Frank Sinatra. Whatever English cheese pops up onto the wall projection.
All this fun and home before 10:00.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Escaping the city
Friday evening I bought a ‘hand phone’ aka. cell phone. Not an easy task for a non-Indonesian speaker. Thought it best to have one for communicating prior to the weekend thus decided to do a bit of shopping on the walk home. Cell phone shops are plentiful. Luckily.
Shop one.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English.
Shop two.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
Shop three.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
I sat on the stool along the glass case displaying the phones. Contemplating how to communicate my needs. No doubt looking completely lost as I just stared at the sales guy (who was no older than 15). A group of guys happened by who I recognized from the language school. Did they speak English? No, but were learning and I wanted to help! From Papua on scholarships to study in Bali before heading to Australia, they proved great liaisons! A phone and study help… bonus!
Thus, if you get the urge to make a call I have digits. +62 81 353 189 559
And FYI… My address for the next couple of months:
Jl Tukad Ayung No. 36
Renon-Denpasar 80226
Bali
Indonesia
Four of us escaped north from Denpasar to Ubud for the weekend. A tourist hotspot. Nevertheless, a bit of ‘western’ food and ‘luxuries’ where indeed welcomed! A hot shower. Western ** flush ** toilets. Toilet paper… most places.
Saturday we wondered along one of the Lonely Planet’s suggested walks. It led us through local villages and green rice fields. Children and adults alike wanted to chat. To try out their English. A portion of the walk looped though the Sacred Monkey Sanctuary. I was expecting a few monkeys in the trees… but these were copious and aggressive! Happy for my rabies vaccination! People brought bananas and fruits for the monkeys… which the monkeys seemingly have learned to anticipate as they would prey at pockets, bags, and purses if your hand went in the general area. Some even leapt onto people’s shoulders. Seemingly playful and family centered. They lied about like lazy dogs or pampered cats.
A lotus pond behind us. A temple in front. The dancers and musicians close enough to touch. The Balinese dance is lavish. Expressing a story through music, dance, and costumes. No talking. Beautiful and colorful. Shimmering. Slightly creepy. The performers eyes bulge and roll. Their fingers quiver and shake.
Shop one.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English.
Shop two.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
Shop three.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
I sat on the stool along the glass case displaying the phones. Contemplating how to communicate my needs. No doubt looking completely lost as I just stared at the sales guy (who was no older than 15). A group of guys happened by who I recognized from the language school. Did they speak English? No, but were learning and I wanted to help! From Papua on scholarships to study in Bali before heading to Australia, they proved great liaisons! A phone and study help… bonus!
Thus, if you get the urge to make a call I have digits. +62 81 353 189 559
And FYI… My address for the next couple of months:
Jl Tukad Ayung No. 36
Renon-Denpasar 80226
Bali
Indonesia
Four of us escaped north from Denpasar to Ubud for the weekend. A tourist hotspot. Nevertheless, a bit of ‘western’ food and ‘luxuries’ where indeed welcomed! A hot shower. Western ** flush ** toilets. Toilet paper… most places.
Saturday we wondered along one of the Lonely Planet’s suggested walks. It led us through local villages and green rice fields. Children and adults alike wanted to chat. To try out their English. A portion of the walk looped though the Sacred Monkey Sanctuary. I was expecting a few monkeys in the trees… but these were copious and aggressive! Happy for my rabies vaccination! People brought bananas and fruits for the monkeys… which the monkeys seemingly have learned to anticipate as they would prey at pockets, bags, and purses if your hand went in the general area. Some even leapt onto people’s shoulders. Seemingly playful and family centered. They lied about like lazy dogs or pampered cats.
A lotus pond behind us. A temple in front. The dancers and musicians close enough to touch. The Balinese dance is lavish. Expressing a story through music, dance, and costumes. No talking. Beautiful and colorful. Shimmering. Slightly creepy. The performers eyes bulge and roll. Their fingers quiver and shake.
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Art of Questioning
Nama saya Mikal. Saya berasal dari Amerika. Saya tinggal di Denpasar, Bali. Umur saya dua puluh enam tahun. Saya Belum Menikah.
A bombardment of questions. Walk alone. Forget it. The Balinese seemingly have an art of rapid fire questions.
What’s your name?
Where are you from?
How long are you in Bali?
Where do you stay?
Are you on honeymoon?
Are you married?
Would you like to see my shop?
Would you like a message, manicure?
I have a motorbike/taxi, can I take you somewhere?
They survive on us. Tourist. A tourist industry that has only been on the decline since the Bali bombs and ‘Boxing Day’ Tsunami. We have only just arrived thus have yet to properly begin to explore the Bali, one of 17,508 islands (although a mere 6,000 are inhabited). Nevertheless, do indeed plan to traverse the sprawling country in the ‘ring of fire’. To intake the lush greenery, hidden underwater world, smoking volcanoes, and glimpse the unrivalled Komodo dragon. Thus a tourist.
Yet, not forgetting my purpose.
Much like the Peace Corps, VSO is dedicated to strengthening development initiatives. However, they work with local partners to build (in my opinion) more sustainable projects. Rather than being part of a government, the volunteers are employed by the local organizations with VSO providing support and training. It’s funny to think that I work in the hopes of not being need in the future. That the local people will be able to fulfill my place.
This is rainy season. The tourist crowds are not plentiful here, now. Just a handful of expats lie glutinously on the pale sandy beaches. They wear their tiny swimsuits. Indonesians wear their clothes into the turquoise tie-dye of the Indian Ocean. By contrast the locals are copious. Indonesia has a mounting population of over 234,000,000. The islands range from overpopulated to not. Bali is booming. The streets are a constant traffic jam of motorbikes and ‘Bemos’ (the local public transport vans). The motorbikes zip in. zip out. no cares. Children and babies ride along. Sometimes two. Sometimes the whole family. The roads are a bit of a free for all. The whistles and horns endless. Traffic patterns seemingly sporadic. Median and edge lines erratic.
Perhaps just as treacherous are the sidewalks. Rumpled like the clothes pulled from my overstuffed suitcase, lost in transit for two days. The brick walks uneven and jagged. Missing. Holes that look as if they would swallow me. Seemingly bottomless. On my walk home today I saw a rat dart into one of the holes. Moments later another. No, my mistake. A monkey tethered to a posted plays in. out. in. out.
The street is perfumed with the exotic mix of exhaust fumes and incense. My lungs strain to find the oxygen amongst the overabundant carbon monoxide. High heat and humidity adds weight to the air. North. South. East. West. In each direction my eyes rest upon a temple or shrine. A plethora of spiritual symbols. Each home, each place of business, pays homage. Offerings are placed outside of homes and at shrines. Mini woven baskets of leaves filled with various gifts of flowers and food. They are underfoot before you even have time to dodge them in the path. This is the ‘Island of Gods’. The people in Bali are predominately Hindu. Unlike the islands to the west, Muslim, and the islands to the east, Christian. The religious mix translates into loads of public holidays!
The toilets and shower situation will take a bit of getting used to. No doubt after 2 years, I will welcome flush western style commodes and a shower. Most toilets are squats. A bucket and water source near by to ‘flush’… the same to bath. I carry my supply of toilet paper and hand sanitizer without shame!
These past few days have been spent mainly in the VSO office with yesterday and today at the language school. Difficult to grasp the newness of the language. Nothing familiar. Still find myself wanting to toss out Spanish words from my last trip to Ecuador and Peru! Nevertheless, VSO keeps emphasizing the importance, as I will be working with many farmers who don’t speak English. The pressure is on!
A bombardment of questions. Walk alone. Forget it. The Balinese seemingly have an art of rapid fire questions.
What’s your name?
Where are you from?
How long are you in Bali?
Where do you stay?
Are you on honeymoon?
Are you married?
Would you like to see my shop?
Would you like a message, manicure?
I have a motorbike/taxi, can I take you somewhere?
They survive on us. Tourist. A tourist industry that has only been on the decline since the Bali bombs and ‘Boxing Day’ Tsunami. We have only just arrived thus have yet to properly begin to explore the Bali, one of 17,508 islands (although a mere 6,000 are inhabited). Nevertheless, do indeed plan to traverse the sprawling country in the ‘ring of fire’. To intake the lush greenery, hidden underwater world, smoking volcanoes, and glimpse the unrivalled Komodo dragon. Thus a tourist.
Yet, not forgetting my purpose.
Much like the Peace Corps, VSO is dedicated to strengthening development initiatives. However, they work with local partners to build (in my opinion) more sustainable projects. Rather than being part of a government, the volunteers are employed by the local organizations with VSO providing support and training. It’s funny to think that I work in the hopes of not being need in the future. That the local people will be able to fulfill my place.
This is rainy season. The tourist crowds are not plentiful here, now. Just a handful of expats lie glutinously on the pale sandy beaches. They wear their tiny swimsuits. Indonesians wear their clothes into the turquoise tie-dye of the Indian Ocean. By contrast the locals are copious. Indonesia has a mounting population of over 234,000,000. The islands range from overpopulated to not. Bali is booming. The streets are a constant traffic jam of motorbikes and ‘Bemos’ (the local public transport vans). The motorbikes zip in. zip out. no cares. Children and babies ride along. Sometimes two. Sometimes the whole family. The roads are a bit of a free for all. The whistles and horns endless. Traffic patterns seemingly sporadic. Median and edge lines erratic.
Perhaps just as treacherous are the sidewalks. Rumpled like the clothes pulled from my overstuffed suitcase, lost in transit for two days. The brick walks uneven and jagged. Missing. Holes that look as if they would swallow me. Seemingly bottomless. On my walk home today I saw a rat dart into one of the holes. Moments later another. No, my mistake. A monkey tethered to a posted plays in. out. in. out.
The street is perfumed with the exotic mix of exhaust fumes and incense. My lungs strain to find the oxygen amongst the overabundant carbon monoxide. High heat and humidity adds weight to the air. North. South. East. West. In each direction my eyes rest upon a temple or shrine. A plethora of spiritual symbols. Each home, each place of business, pays homage. Offerings are placed outside of homes and at shrines. Mini woven baskets of leaves filled with various gifts of flowers and food. They are underfoot before you even have time to dodge them in the path. This is the ‘Island of Gods’. The people in Bali are predominately Hindu. Unlike the islands to the west, Muslim, and the islands to the east, Christian. The religious mix translates into loads of public holidays!
The toilets and shower situation will take a bit of getting used to. No doubt after 2 years, I will welcome flush western style commodes and a shower. Most toilets are squats. A bucket and water source near by to ‘flush’… the same to bath. I carry my supply of toilet paper and hand sanitizer without shame!
These past few days have been spent mainly in the VSO office with yesterday and today at the language school. Difficult to grasp the newness of the language. Nothing familiar. Still find myself wanting to toss out Spanish words from my last trip to Ecuador and Peru! Nevertheless, VSO keeps emphasizing the importance, as I will be working with many farmers who don’t speak English. The pressure is on!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Check
Snow, ice, and the winter wind. When will be the next time I experience an Ohio winter? To admire and loathe the frostiness. Soak it in.
Indonesia is imminent. Yet still a mere apparition.
Am I ready for the jet plane? Physically or mentally? Neither.
Passport and visa... check
VSO training completed in Canada... check
Watching superfluous TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood... check
Family festivities... check
Catching up with friends, in person as well as via phone and email... check
Goodbyes... difficult and never complete
Logistics worked out for 2 years abroad... no
Bags packed... of course not
Details.
February 14, Valentine’s Day, Take off. Ready or not.
Indonesia is imminent. Yet still a mere apparition.
Am I ready for the jet plane? Physically or mentally? Neither.
Passport and visa... check
VSO training completed in Canada... check
Watching superfluous TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood... check
Family festivities... check
Catching up with friends, in person as well as via phone and email... check
Goodbyes... difficult and never complete
Logistics worked out for 2 years abroad... no
Bags packed... of course not
Details.
February 14, Valentine’s Day, Take off. Ready or not.
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