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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New home and fingerprints. (19 April 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Can't a girl get a break? (27 January 2009)

Can’t a girl get a break?

The pungent mildew and fuzzy mold has begun to succumb. I will conquer.

Nevertheless, there’s a new kid on the block. Another adversary trying to run me from my home. First it was the cockroaches and geckos and occasional slugs in the bathroom. Then the mold. And in between (according to third party sources) a ginormous tarantula-esque spider… I reluctantly saw the photos of my familiar home in it’s company. Now. A mouse. I’m hoping he’s merely a mouse and not one of the massive rats I see lurking around the villages and shops in town. I’m not alone in noting the size of the Flores’ rats, The Lonely Planet backs me up. Although I’ve admittedly never seen a harmless mouse on this expansive island, it is indeed. No doubt about it. Yes, a mouse.

A stranger, but I know he’s there. Somewhere.
He plays with my big swissball, knocking it around the room in the dark of night.
He leaves his excrement on my desk and in my cupboard… his droppings fall out. of my fold clothes, out of from under dvds and books.
He ate my brown t-shirt (not just wholes, but without exaggeration half the shirt!).
The hood strings on my sweatshirt are MIA.
He’s nibbled on numerous pairs of underwear.
He pulls out tea-bags from the rubbish.
He snacks on food that is in double plastic ziplocks.

What he doesn’t try is the poisoned food left conveniently around his favorite hangouts. I tried 8 different shops in the market before finding a mouse bait vendor. Forgetting my dictionary, and ‘mousetrap’ not in my list of useful vocabulary, I attempted to ask several of the women. Little animal. In my house. No, not ants. Not cockroaches, although I have those too! Even a mouse face and squeak was not conveying my wishes. Somewhere around mid-mission a woman suggested the sticky traps. It was a tube of glue. Finding a massive rat… mouse… stuck to my desk wasn’t exactly an exciting prospect. What do I do with it then? I’d rather he just leave on his own accord. Please…..

And while I’m on the subject of unwelcomed visitors, I think I have lice.

An Indonesian President (20 January 2009)

With Obama (mania indeed!) occupying some fragment of every conversation point, there’s no fighting the great sense of pleasure in being American. Is it pride?

It’s a near giddiness. Yes. I am from the USA.

Assuredly, that is something that I’ve rarely felt on my globe-trotting expeditions. Perhaps even polar opposite. It’s not uncommon to meet a traveler who hails from Minnesota or North Carolina or Texas or Oregon or some other alcove on American soil, passing as Canadian. Nor is it uncommon to be asked if I myself travel under the guise of our northern neighbors. But I don’t. It’s like the women travelers who sport fake wedding bands and talk of (fake) husbands or fiancés at home. It’s ridiculous.

January 20, 2009. A month. A number. A year. A date. Something so everyday. Yet this combination marks something that transcends ordinary. Something of which January 19 or January 21 are deprived. I don’t have a television. Internet is frustrating. Reading the newspapers takes a lot of effort. Thus, mostly I depend upon a weekly review of email and websites for updated information. And outdated People, Vanity Fair, and Harper’s Bazaar magazines for a dose of pop culture, fashion, and celebrity gossip. Nevertheless, 1 am (January 21 here… kindof funny how a date associated, now and forever (?), with CHANGE occurred on this side of the world on a completely different day) my phone is alive. My friends, my neighbors, my colleagues, my acquaintances. The guy who copied my number when I bought phone credit in the shop. The girl from the bank. And her brother whom I’ve never met. The police office whom monitors international visitors in Bajawa. The village head from a once-visited project area. The excitement reverberated. They all wished to share it with me via text messages within these newest minutes of the day.

Indonesians, also take pride. Obama is made from a part of their fabric. Anyone and everyone (even the most remote villagers) will tell you how he went to school in Jakarta and likes to eat nasi goreng (fried rice) and bakso meatballs. They saw January 20, through different eyes, in different shoes. Obama is the first Indonesian President of the United States of America.

Race is a social construct. Admittedly, when marking a census, I get nervous… what’s the right answer? You can’t tell me that there hasn’t been an occasion when you, yourself, had to ask am I this or am I that? Here it’s much simpler. You are black (Indonesian). You are white (westerners). You are Chinese (Asian). Purely based upon the visual differences. Thus, Obama is… “sama” (same). He is theirs. He is kin, they call him brother or uncle. He is Indonesian.

From the outside looking in, the days leading up to and including the big event were almost circus-esque… when do the ‘Last Living Unicorn’ and ‘Fire-breathing Dragons’ enter? However, I like unicorns and dragons. And why not? I’m envious of those who rose with the chickens and withstood the chill. So, I missed out on the live coverage of the 2009 ‘Presidential Inauguration Spectacular’ ring side. Nevertheless, to have the exposure to the elements of Indonesian pride in their man taking the reins was perhaps just as remarkable in its own right.

From here to there. (12 December)

Forgotten Posts... December 2008


From here to there. (12 December)


From here to there by…
Airplane
Bicycle
Bus
Bemo
Coach
Donkey cart
Ferry
Motorcycle
Small boat
Taxi
Van
… and foot.

I knew it was going to be a long trip. And we weren’t taking the easy route. Nevertheless, each leg was defined with unexpected turns and adventures. Luckily what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger... next feat, conquer the world.

Perhaps this was an omen of the events to come. Our bus trip to the village for an introduction to the world of cashews.


Now keep track, here commences the journey from Bajawa to Ohio. It all begins with a benevolent lift to the bus station (very inconveniently locate out of town) with Sanne on her motorcycle.

Bus #1 – 10 hours cross Flores… Bajawa to Labuanbajo
Norah Jones got the soundtrack started right with, The Long Way Home

Charlye (my travel companion in this tale and fellow VSO volunteer from the States assigned in neighboring Papua New Guinea) had gone a day ahead to Labuanbajo after several days exploring with wonders of Bajawa complete with cashew processing lessons.

Ferry #1 – 10 hours Labuanbajo, Flores to Sape, Sumbawa (island)

Motivated by the sense of adventure. The want to be environmental conscience, keeping our potential ecological footprint to a minimum. The budget of volunteer life. We go by bus. We go by boat.


Our seafaring seats… crowded with chickens, goats, and smoking men.


Bemo #1 – 2 hours Sape port to Bima, Sumbawa
Met at the port by a guy with picture of the bus on our tickets… “SAMA!” (same) He shouted grabbing my hand. We pile in with the chickens.

Coach Bus – 13 hours to Lombok
Coach buses in Indonesia… who knew!?

1:00 AM stop for… Dinner? Breakfast?

Ferry #2 – (not sure how long… slept through it) Poto Tano, Sumbawa to Labuhan, Lombok
Snooze.

Continue on bus Labuhan to Mataram, Lombok

Bemo #2 – 30 minutes Bus station Mataram to Bangsal, Lombok
Our first steps on Lombok, and in agreement, we were ready to get back on the bus to avoid the hawkers. Swarmed by drivers and their helpers trying to get us to our destination (our their destination) with tremendous inflation. Finally. We figure out a Bemo, bursting at the seams with locals. Seems to be a pretty big deal that I refuse to pay until we get to our stop… but after much negotiation, we’re off. I in the front with 4 chain-smoking men. Charlye on a stool clinging to the open door. Goats on the roof.

Donkey cart – 10 minutes Bangsal, Lombok to harbor for Gili Islands
A donkey cart conveniently awaits to take us from the main road to the harbor. Wanting to get there. It’s hot. The backpacks heavy, causing the cart to tip and drag and the donkey look near death. A driver and his… I think ‘pimp’ best describes it. The cost of 3,000 rupiah per head as listed in our LonelyPlanet seems to have jumped to 40,000! Inflation they say. I don’t think so, buddy. We offer 5,000 taking into account ‘inflation’. They refuse it.

Banter, banter.

Still refused. The pimp says to get back in the cart and he’s taking us back. Whatever. We’re leaving. The driver looks fearful and takes the money.

Small Boat #1 – 30 minutes Bangsal harbor to Gili Meno
We wait. For the boats to fill. Two hours, later and still not full. Nevertheless, we’re headed to the sandy islands.

Not our boat.

5 minute walk on foot (with backpacks)

Bicycle
Tandem? Perhaps, we’ve over estimated our abilities.

Small Boat #2 – 30 minutes Gili Meno bacl to Bangsal harbor

Donkey cart – 10 minutes Bangsal harbor to Bus stop
This donkey cart duo, has no problem with accepting our 5,000 rupiah.

Bus #2 – 2 hours Bangsal to Senggigi, Lombok
A tourist shuttle. Have we sold out? It’s quicker, and the awaiting luxury of Bali calls.
Walk – 5 minutes Bus stop Senggigi to Beach

Small boat transfer to Boat – destination Padangbai, Bali
First boat and second boat in distance

Bus #3… almost – Padangbai harbor, Bali
It’s a package deal from Gili Meno to our destination in Bali. We confirmed when we bought the tickets that they’d drop us. Handing our backpacks to the bus driver, I tell him “Denpasar”.

“Ok, airport”

“No, Denpasar” (the airport is technically in Denpasar but a long ways from the city… and our destination, VSO offfice)

“Ya, ya. Airport.”

“No, kota (city)”

“We don’t go to Denpasar.”

“What?” We’d definitely checked on this and the ticket office even called… somewhere. Frustrated and wet from rain, we try to work it out with a guy (not the driver)… then the bus is leaving. Leaving us. Leaving us.

No taxis. No public transport.

Van – 1 hour Padangbai to Sanur, Bali
We managed to persuade the guy to give us partial refund (a small partial) but still not really enough to get to the city. A lot of unsuccessful haggling takes place. Finally, we find a taker. To the VSO office in Denpasar and on to our hotel in Sanur… it’s even a better deal than with the tour company.

Walk – 5 minutes to hotel
The driver decides to go for more money once he heard the name of our hotel… so we walked the last several meters.

Taxi – 45 minutes Sanur to airport
Thank God for metered taxis at our beckon call.

Airplane – 2 days… destination ‘home’
Bali, Singapore, Hong Kong, Chicago, Cleveland

Can’t wait to do it all over again… Mother Earth, you’re welcome.

Obama in the news (1 December)

Obama: Mr. Presiden, apa khabar?

SBY (Indonesian President): Alhamdullilah, baik (selanjutnya terjadi perbincangan resmi dalam bahasa Ingrris selama sekitar lima menit. Menjelang berakhir, keduanya kembali berbicara dalam bahasa Indonesia).

SBY: Dalam kesempatan hadir di APEC tahun depan di Singapura, kami mengundang mr. presiden terpilih ke Indonesia.

Obama: Datang ke Indonesia itu penting. Saya sudah lama dan ingin sekali lagi merasakan bakso, rambutan, dan nasi goreng.


This conversation between leaders of two of the largest countries in the world, boils down to this:

Obama says it’s very important for him to come to Indonesia because it’s been a long time since he’s eaten bakso (Indonesia’s answer to the American hotdog in the form of boiled meatballs), rambutan (fruit like lycee), and nasi goreng (fried rice).

Hey World!! We mean business!

An unhealthy invasion. (6 January 2009)

How is it that my home is dirtier when I am not here, than when I am? After nearly a month excursion that included a bit of island hoping and trip home to Ohio for the holiday, I returned not to an inanimate house but rather a living breathing creature. Swallowed into its belly as I unlocked the front door.

The walls and ceiling moist. Dripping. Drooling. Bodies of cockroaches, moth wings, and gecko poop littered the white floor like the aftermath of a war zone. Spiders sewn into the wall-meets-ceiling crevasses. A colony of ants invaded and set up shop. Considerate enough to bring in their own dirt to build the tidy hills. Nevertheless, this all pales in comparison to the true beast. Sly and calculative. Truly devious. My home had turned into a host. A feeding ground for a fuzzy, swirled blue-green-white mold. Nobody warns of this beast. This monster that overtakes everything during damp rainy season.
My desk and chairs.
My bedding.
My jackets and sarongs.
The laundry bag.
My plastic swiss-ball.
The binding of books and cd cases.
The inside of purses and bags.
My suitcase… both inside and out.
The cardboard boxes that keep my cleaning supplies.
Doors and walls.

The distinctive mildew smell breathtaking as I opened the cupboard where I keep my clothes. It was selective, some clothes untouched others inconceivably covered in mold. Belts and shoes attacked.
Everything.

It’s the unhealthy environment that you’d rather shut the door on and forget. To abandon all possessions and put-up a for sale sign. Nevertheless, these are non-options. Thus, set to cleaning armed with a bottle of bleach. The clothing strewn about to breath, awaiting a time when the sun conquers the rainy days and will rise high to dry the laundry. In the meantime, I burn a lot of incense. Undeniably the war is still on. The mold, lurking and waiting for the next opportunity to overtake. A surprise attack.

Superstar. (4 January 2009)

The hot heavy air immediately slams into the body as we disembarked the airplane via Bali. It’s ‘Hollywood Style’. Think Beetles arrive stateside… minus the screaming, fainting masses. Ducking through the door, I fight the urge to wave… although I do have a bit of celebrity status. They know me. Even here, in Labuanbajo. 10 hours from Bajawa. I’m kind of a big deal. The white girl, who lives in Bajawa. Creepily, most seem to know my exact residence and what I’m doing here. Is that on the ‘Tour of the Stars’ ride? Admittedly, walking around Ohio without renown had been bliss. No autographs required.

The tourguides press their small brown bodies against the ‘airport doors’ of the one room structure. Waiting to pounce on the tourist. A handful on the plane… they’ve come for the renowned scuba dives and legendary komodo dragons. Then they’ll leave. Never exploring the interior of the lush island. Flying in was admittedly breathtaking. Peering through the port widows to the still, turquoise water suddenly rippled with the green hues of jungle mountains. Flores. The descent induced a Jurassic Park vibe.

The rainy season seems to have ignited the jungle. The ordinary. The innocent. Transformed into thick, dense walls of varying green vegetation. On the bus ride, I wait for T-Rex to attack. With the sticky palm of my hand I slide the small rectangular window open. The young woman sitting next to me, vomits into a transparent yellow plastic bag, tosses it out the open window as she nonchalantly drops her child onto my lap. Putting her head on my shoulder, my new friend firmly grasps another plastic bag in preparation for the next round of vomit and closes her eyes.

Feeding the garden. (7 January 2009)

Today proved to be a very exciting day. It was the day that my compost was ready to apply to the garden. Wahoo!!!! Oh, the simplest of things.

Good stuff. Dark and heavy rich. Like giving a multi-vitamin, a little extra oomph, to my seedlings. To my extremely prolific parsley and cilantro. Mixed into the wet soil of the tiny (although perfect for one) garden. Indeed it may be a mere 4x4 space, which I converted from a cement wash area with the help of my neighbors left-over bamboo and plastic bags to keep the dirt from escaping, nevertheless, it has proven a fabulous after work activity. These plants are spoiled with plenty of TLC. Moreover, it’s just impossible to find beets, spinach, and fresh herbs in markets… staples! If only brusslespouts didn’t demand such space…

Try to explain the concept of compost to friends and neighbors was complex. A bucket of scrapes? Why not feed it to the pigs? I don’t have a pig, but I do indeed have a hungry garden. Nevertheless, I most likely won’t be able to reap, to eat, the benefits of a veggie bounty, as I’m anticipating a re-location as soon as accommodation is secured to the sweaty, goat inhabited, almost town of Mbay. But the next tenet will be very lucky!

Bikinis, bunnies, and rabbits... bye bye. (8 November)

JAKARTA, Oct. 17 (UPI) -- Indonesian lawmakers debating the country's controversial pornography bill said the legislation will not bar tourists from wearing bikinis at popular resorts.

Is a beach still a beach with out bikinis? I think not! Planning a trip to Indonesia? Leave the bunnies and rabbits at home… thankfully the bikinis still get the green light. Catch up on a bit of Indo news...

Indonesia's parliament has passed an anti-pornography law despite furious opposition to it.
Islamic parties said the law was needed to protect women and children against exploitation and to curb increasing immorality in Indonesian society.

The law would ban images, gestures or talk deemed to be pornographic.

Artists, women's groups and non-Muslim minorities said they could be victimised under the law and that traditional practices could be banned.

The law has prompted protests across Indonesia, but particularly on the predominantly Hindu island of Bali - a favourite destination for tourists.

But there have also been demonstrations in favour of the bill by people alarmed at what they see as moral degeneration in Indonesia.

The law has been backed by hardline Islamic groups, says the BBC's Lucy Williamson in Jakarta, but many moderate Muslims also back greater controls on pornographic materials.
About 90% of Indonesia's 235 million people are Muslim, but there are Christian, Hindu, Buddhist and other minorities.

Extensive rewrites

An original version of the bill would have banned skimpy clothing at tourist resorts.

Despite a lengthy and exhaustive revision process which watered down the bill, more than 100 legislators walked out of parliament before the vote.

They said the bill's definition of pornography was too broad and that it went against Indonesia's tradition of diversity.

Critics also do not like a provision in the bill that would allow members of the public to participate in preventing the spread of obscenity.

"We're worried it will be used by hard-liners who say they want to control morality," Baby Jim Aditya, a women's rights activist, told Associated Press news agency.
"It could be used to divide communities."

Supporters of the bill said it still leaves room for legitimate artistic expression and that it does not target non-Muslims.

"This law will ensure that Islam is preserved and guaranteed," said Hakim Sori Muda Borhan, a member of parliament from President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono's Democratic Party.

"It is also not in the interest of any specific religion. The law is also meant to preserve arts and culture and not destroy them."

The bill must be signed by the president before it comes into effect.

Violators face up to 12 years in prison and hefty fines.

The plague. (6 November 2008)

It all started with a brief bout with meningitis. Then morphed into undoubtedly a case of dengue fever. No. Definitely an attack of bird flu. Definitely.
Nurse, I’d like to be tested for the plague.

The hospital in Bajawa, a direct opposite from the sterile institutions of the west. The corridors open to the elements. The corners where the white tile floor meets the concrete wall, shadowed with dirt somehow trekked in on the slick soles of flip flops. Laboratory doors open. Testing in progress with out supervision. Beakers filled with clear liquid and test tubes boiling fervently on burners. Doctors and nurses dressed in street clothes and track suits, indistinguishable from the patients. Our fingers pricked with a small disposable point that I ensured was opened within view. The vibrant red drop of blood (undoubtedly laden with microscopic ‘bugs’) smudged onto a slide. One person on top, one person on bottom… each slide shared. Two or three people. Undeniably only in the ‘South’.

One hour later.
Strange. Foreign. The words printed on half a sheet of baby blue paper.

Eritrosit.
Lekosit.
Trombosit.
Microfilaria.

‘Neg’ was scribbled next to the only word I could define… malaria. Perhaps indeed the symptoms of malaria have manifested themselves upon my body. A mere disguise. It has come as no surprise that the test results were negative, as I have the plague (although still maintaining a slight possibility of Bird Flu). Nevertheless, it is admittedly good to rule out all possibilities.

My Western companions, all fit and seemingly healthy. No symptoms of malaria. No symptoms of meningitis, dengue fever, bird flu, or the plague. Merely a precautionary measure before rolling onto their next adventure. All positive. All malaria infected. Suspect indeed.

‘Falling ill’
It sounds so dramatic. ‘Falling ill’. I imagine old Hollywood. Greta Garbo-esque. The classic back-of-the-hand to the forehead, head tilted, with a slight sway backwards. Audible breath out. Imagine if you will in black and white.

I feel ill in the village, Desa Wolowea. A handful of staff and villagers converging for a processing quality control training from Swiss Contact (an international development NGO).

Melki and I leisurely drove up the path on his motorbike. Two hours late but still well ahead of the other participants. I stayed strong through the instruction… sorting through the recognizable words in my head. Promising to translate the rest later.
Stricken.
The bout of meningitis struck. A stiff neck.
Then the dengue fever. Fever and chills.
Attack of bird flu. Cough, sore throat, and nausea.

Called it an early night ducking behind a curtain and crawling into the far corner of the bed, leaving plenty of room for one or two or more people. Tossing and turning and sweating. The bamboo house erupted with commotion just before 5 am. 5 am! I managed an extra hour of sleep before being called to join the party walking down to the river for a morning bath. Dragging I followed. Brushing my teeth and splashing a few handfuls of water on my face. Not daring to submerge under the flowing (from where?) bamboo water spout.

The morning was busy with practical exercises in cashew processing. Cracking the shells and plying the nut from the dark interior. Coffee break. I slipped off back to bed. Melki and the ‘Mammas’ keeping tabs. Melki sitting at the front door to inform all passerby that I was sick. I heard them chatting about my condition… a doctor is needed. Each time I shout out that it’s just the flu! The Mamma’s popping in and out. Eat this. Drink this. Sleep. Suffering through 2 quite painful messages.

Ok. I need to go home… I want to sink into my own bed and sleep. The Mamma’s protest as there will be no one to take care of me. No one to check in.
Precisely.

It's no trick. (30 October 2008)

It’s hard to imagine not text messaging… and why wouldn’t you? It’s fast and to the point. No obligatory nice-ities. No fluff. Sure “Crackberry’s” have paved the road to instantaneous gratification. But unlike email, with text messaging no full words required, let alone full sentences. Soooo, in addition to the elephants, just another reason why it’s so cool (although admittedly the elephants are indeed a tough act to follow)…

South Africa using cell texts to combat HIV

Project Masiluleke of South Africa is taking advantage of cellular technology to disseminate information about HIV. Trial runs of the free text-message service showed that calls to care centers rose 200%. (BBC, 24 October 2008)

Text messaging, saving the world one text at a time.

Elephants amuck. (16 October)

This was just posted on the UN Wire…

Elephants text-cast their approach toward human settlements
An alert system by which rangers receive text messages from a phone card placed in an elephant's collar when the animal crosses over a GPS-enabled border into human territory is at once saving elephants' lives and human crops. The Toronto Star (10/14)

Bless the inventor of text messaging. Teenagers, Indonesians, and now elephants! Text messaging in Indonesia is an indispensable technology. They love it. They thrive on it. And expect responses immediately and frequently. I probably receive somewhere in the ballpark of 15 messages daily of “bu buat apa skrng?” (what are you doing now, Mrs.?). Plus numerous others with contents of more substance. They start rolling in about 6 am. Does it really matter what I’m doing at 6 in the morning? Locals have most likely been up for hours by that time, but, I however am sleeping! Ahhh… indeed, days I get to sleep until 6:30 are such a luxury! Admittedly, my shorthand text messaging language skills are much better than my ability to speak and write proper Indonesian. And probably more useful! Especially since elephants can now text message.

Text messaging… check.

But just in case I run into any elephant’s I needed a quickie on Geographic Positioning Systems (GPS). Thus, last week I completed a training on GIS, Geographic Information Systems, of which encompasses the technology of GPS. Handheld devices. Computers. Technology. Satellites. It all comes together to compromise a system that’s more than GoogleMaps and your car’s TomTom with an English accent. It’s an amazing 3D, inter-connected world. And obviously now we aren’t the only ones with instant communication.

GPS… check.

Elephants… ?

Dancefloor divas. (12 October)

It struck me last night at dinner that I’ve definitely have adopted to Indo. Why? Because the dog tasted delicious. Sucking the meat from the jagged bones and darkly curled fat, yet never really forgetting it’s origins. Knowing that it was (at one time) “man’s best friend”. And somehow that was ok with me.

***

They asked for a discothèque. A bar. Seriously?? This is Bajawa. We have neither… or so we thought.

The American film crew craved a night on the town. Drinks and dancing. How I hunger for such a night. Dreams of mouthwatering martini concoctions at Bristol, soaking in the sun with margaritas, sampling micro-brews, and dancing wherever seems fit. But alas Bajawa is void of all the above.

Perhaps because it was several of the crew’s last night on Flores, determination raged. There must be something! After their persistent questioning, a guide from one of the hotels said that indeed their was a ‘pub’. Tjeerd, Sanne, and I questioned him. Most certainly this was the ‘whore house’… not a classy establishment. No, he assured us it wasn’t. Whore house or not, an adventure awaited, so off we went… 7 Americans, 2 Dutch, and 2 Indonesians. Tucked off into a roadless corner of the town. A back entrance cluttered with rubbish. Windows covered with bamboo and sheets of dark fabric. Nothing screams shady activity (ie. prostitution) like blacked out windows… agree?

We stumbled through the dark. Turned left. Not a large space. No more than 10 big steps can get you from one end to the other. A small bar at one end and a “DJ” booth. Sandwiched by two mammoth speakers, a big screen television was mounted on the front wall, forehead level… perfect for hitting your head while dancing. Eight tables. Each respectively numbered with hand drawn signage… in case the place gets too busy? There were 4 other people. In case the waitress forgets where you are sitting? There is no waitress. Bintang beer or Bintang beer? Marlboro cigarettes or Marlboro cigarettes? Not exactly a large menu. Rp 25,000 (rupiah) for a cold. Rp 20,000 for room temp. Splurge.

Karaoke is typically code for prostitution. Found that out in Bali. However, unlike the bar we wondered into in Bali were a Rp. 400,000 drink price definitely included something more than the drink, this hole-in-the-wall was more subtle. Nevertheless, the 2 young scantily clad women looked mighty out place in conservative Bajawa were females don’t shows shoulders or knees. Moreover, their company of two older men, who not only were toothless but also less than desirable looking, was suspicious. Indifferent to our posse of fair skinned people (a serious rarity), the local men continued on singing the Indonesian love songs as the words colorfully flashed against the cheesy music videos of white women noticeably dressed in early 1990’s fashion.

Praise be. Eventually, one of our comrades seduced the DJ into ‘spinning’ something danceable. On to the dancefloor (er… empty space between tables) we crowded. Shaking it, as the prostitutes and their ‘friends’ looked on impassively, until the cold beer supply ran dry.

The people on the bus go... (1 October)

The experience of public transport never ceases to amaze. I love the adventure. The local emersion. The cultural exposure.

No Greyhounds. No double deckers. Rather extended vans or maybe a mini bus. Anything larger finds the curvaceous roads a slow challenge. No on board toilets, but will stop for passengers to sneak off into the roadside bushes for a bladder release.

They come and go at will. No schedule. No plan. Operating on Indonesian Time.

They’re colorful. Eclectic. In every sense…

Chickens hang bundled by their feet, strapped to the sides of the bus.
Feathers blow in through the open windows.
Smoke curls through the sunlight and is visually carried out the windows.
Bus or deathtrap? Bird flu and lung cancer.
Goats hoisted and tied to the roof.
Boxes, vegetables, sacks, and living animals are stuffed under every inch of foot space.
The passengers shout instructions to the driver as if he’s their personal chauffer.
Women spit vibrant red (from chewing betel nut).
Plastic bags thumb tacked to the roof… accessible for those (they will surely be numerous) that will shortly succumb to the motion-sickness induced by the combination of weaving road and swerving vehicle.
Squeezed three or four person to a seat intended for two… when the bus is full it’s open seating on the roof.
Music deafening, the same mixed tape repeated over and over and over.
The driver keeps a cigarette in one hand and cell phone in the other… The later on speaker as he vainly attempts to shout above the on-board ruckus.
A rosary dangles from the rearview mirror.
A cross decorates the dash.
Teddy bears and stuffed bundles of fluff strung across the windows.... Suction cupped in place.
“Jesus My Love” “No Woman No Cry” “Britnay Speres” “Jonh Trovolta” (actual spellings) painted on the windows, leaving little room for viewing the road.
The ‘bus boys’ hang out the door shouting the destination.
They scamper to help load the next rider… likely a local wrapped up a sarong standing along the side of the road holding his (or her) goat and a handful of chickens.

Wanting to get somewhere fast? Best call in your personal helicopter. Fast travel just doesn’t happen. A two hour bus journey… that’s dreaming. Stretch it into 4.5 hours. Don’t breath in too deep and best to avoid large meals prior.

Buffalo, water, punk-rockers, and helicopters. (26 September)

UN DISPATCH: “The global water crisis may be the most underreported major global crises. Nearly 900 million people lack access to safe drinking water, and 2.5 billion lack access to safe sanitation. A lack of access to safe sanitation is what caused the Black Death...in the 14th century. In addition to the day-to-day suffering of nearly a billion people, access to water has and will continue to be casus belli.” (29 September 2008)


I was without running water. I still am. But have discovered why… the whole of Bajawa has apparently run dry. The surrounding hills are flushed with natural springs that burst and bubble from below. Giving life to the green hued landscape. Nevertheless, it seems that around this time of year, the end fringes of dry season, the water ceases to flow down to us city folk. Which seems to run a bit contrast to the laws of nature as I’ve never seen a river flow up a mountain... but I’ll take the locals’ word.

I’m learning to watch the clouds to know when to leave out a bucket to collect the random rain… and when not to leave my clothes out to dry. However, as the rain has yet to become a regular occurrence, I depend on water from three metal barrel-drums (lined with an oh-so healthy looking tar) outside my house that are magically filled as I sleep. As I carried in several buckets tonight I presented the reasonable question to the father of the house as to where the water comes from if the town is dry. He’s an ingenious man who has rigged up a pump and hose to fill the drums. But still where does this water come from? He motions to what I assumed was a very very deep ditch for collecting rubbish and the like. Hmmm… I think I’ll just keep on believing that the water comes from the water fairies.

In other water news…
The American guy’s film / water project.

The water is running. A ‘pesta’. A party. A celebration and local animist ritual for prosperity. A fascinating collision of culture. The traditional Indonesian and hyped-up American modern. East meets West. The day commenced with a buffalo sacrifice and concluded with an ultra-energized punk-rock concert. The smell of delusions and misinterpretations saturated the once-upon-a-time pure air above the village, a setting both for a development project and a film. Neither the Americans nor the Indonesians can fully perceive the other’s perspective. Dissimilar culture and different experiences have fostered an inability to see through each other’s eyes. What is real? What is make-believe? The whole scenario surreal.

Nevertheless, admittedly, the night was great fun.

A buffalo killed as the villagers danced and sang. The blood smeared about as a blessing. On houses. On the new solar equipment. On the water pipe and pumps. On the stage. On the drums. Women and men dressed in the local traditional ikat sarongs. White horses handwoven into the black background. Orange tassels and pom-poms. Hair decorations tall, natural, and brings Natural Geographic to mind. How did I get here? Is this the Discovery channel or life? Or a dream.

The Governor and government heads give windy remarks. The length of such formalities, I assure you, are un-human, completely alien. Well beyond the attention span of any foreigner. Seriously hours.

The villagers gather curious and hungry. Swatting or propped-up on stone walls embedded in the slopes of the mountain. The children wide-eyed. Holding bowls as if eagerly waiting for the popcorn to accompany a hot-movie. The white faces, the stars, the bizarre that captivate audiences. Bowls, woven from the plentiful palms of the copious coconut trees, distributed as the sun set. Dishwasher safe? How does one clean a woven bowl? Worries of cross contamination and food borne illnesses a very Western notion. Several men lug plastic buckets up the unrelenting hillside. One filled with the obligatory white rice. One filled with boiled buffalo… not just meat but innards, bone, fat, skin, and hair. As if accepting holy communion, one after another extend their bowls for the sacred food. The men reaching deep into the buckets with their bare hands, distribute the rice and buffalo.

Not only is cross-contamination an unheard of concept so is handwashing… the right hand is ‘clean’, the left is used for other things (no toilet paper = use your imagination), however, I am sure that the right must come in contact with the left on numerous occasions. Yesterday, I ran across some interesting info on the topic…

“Eighty percent of the world's illness is caused by fecal matter. A gram of feces can contain 10 million viruses, 1 million bacteria, 1,000 parasite cysts, and 100 worm eggs. Bacteria can be beneficial: the human body needs bacteria to function, and only 10 percent of cells in our body are actually human. Plenty are not. Small fecal particles can then contaminate water, food, cutlery, and shoes—and be ingested, drunk, or unwittingly eaten. One sanitation specialist has estimated that people who live in areas with inadequate sanitation ingest 10 grams of fecal matter every day.” (http://www.slate.com/id/2201466/entry/2201467/)

Yum.

The dogs seemed to linger around the westerners… no doubt their bellies filling. Quiet certainly, I was not the only one with the notion to let the dogs nibble from my ‘dinner plate’.

The opening act commences. Karaoke. Indonesians love it. LOVE IT.

The main event. The concert. The band looking very punk, tatted and chained, in sharp contrast to the sarong clad villagers. The music, American favorites and Indonesian specialties, pumped through the black towering speaker system that wouldn’t be out of place at a Rolling Stones Concert. The band is entertaining and energetic. The American drummer hammers hard. The Indonesian base player climbing the speakers and shouting to the crowd. Everyone dances. Everyone watches.

The arak (locally made alcohol… think moonshine) flows. Halved coconut shells filled and passed. Eyes glazing.

The party leapt through the night. A rain wet the dust beneath the dancing feet. It watered and infused the outdoor fun. Electrified with each drop. Dancers bounded with augmented energy. The musicians cranked out loader tunes. The arak sloshed. Nevertheless, as morning emerged the happy drops turned to a soaking menace forcing all to seek refuge on the leaking bamboo stage. At a low point we rushed for the film crew bungalow… down a steep mud path. Slipping and sliding. Dark. The moon obscured by clouds and palm trees.

The film crew drunk and dramatic. The closure of a month spent together in the village. The bungalow was filled with screams. There were tears. There was cursing. There was laughter. My favorite was “Fuck Indonesia. Fuck this movie. I’m calling a helicopter. I’m going to Hawaii.” From a guy who had been on Flores for less than 24 hours. Definitely not one for the local. For the challenge. A helicopter in the traditional village… that would be cool. But where exactly would he land this helicopter?

This little piggy went to Rote (24 September)

What fun is being an expat if you don’t take advantage of the opportunities to explore as much as possible? Indonesia makes it a bit tricky… it’s either an issue of time or money given the island state. Boats vs. Planes.

Thus, since VSO was footing the transport bill to Kupang, I made it a long weekend.

Burying my anti-social tendencies, I found myself engulfed by a gaggle of Filipinos and a duo of Ugandans. Our travel plans coinciding. Rationalizing that getting from point A to point B in Indonesia is easier done with a posse than solo, I crashed their holiday. Admittedly, prior to this Asian adventure, I had minimal exposure to the Filipino culture. My Ag Comm TA at OSU was Filipino… we were all fairly convinced that she was certifiable (crazy). However, now, in all my wisdom, it was most likely just a cultural disparity. A Filipino thing… or is that an American thing? The boundless energy. The constant need for group activities. Kindof like traveling with a group of excitable, sugar-high teenagers. Exhausting. Nevertheless fun… for a short few days.

Rote.
Renowned for it’s surf and beaches. Rightly so.

Hoping off the boat (we made it! I was holding my breath as this crossing hasn’t always been successful, 2006 the ferry sank) we made a beeline for the white beach village of Nemberala… almost. First lunch. Then snacks. Then shopping in the market. Where is so-and-so? And so-and-so? All collected and fed, we bounded south.

The road barely a rocky dirt path. The landscape thirsty. Peppered with towering lontar palm trees. The source of sweet liquid that is fermented into a juicy, white palm wine that is both tasty and strangely reminiscent of vinegar. The hovering green palm canopy in sharp contrast to the ridged grey trunks planted in the spongy sand. Seemingly another level of the world somewhere between the dull colors of the earth and vivid blues of the sky. On Flores the cattle and buffalo are singularly tethered roadside. On Rote they wander the dusty savannahs in small herds. The pristine beaches, as if cut from calendar pages, entirely vacant except for my playful comrades… and numerous families of rooting pigs. They (both the Filipinos and the pigs) leave furrows in the white powdered sand that seems to stretch endlessly around every bend. A peculiar picture of carefree pigs and scampering foreigners. Boats anchored just a few feet off shore. Locals searching the coast for every strand of marooned seaweed that is their livelihood. Val and I borrow a canoe to paddle out to swim among the floating ropes of the seaweed plots. A paddle that was easier said than done! Round and round and round we go…

We spend our couple of days exploring the beaches of Bo’a and Oeseli. Nothing but sand, pigs, and the rare surfer. This is where the waters of Indonesia and Australia merge. The later having islands close enough that crossing wouldn’t prove difficult for a strong swimmer. As the tide goes out the beach morphs into a vision of another planet. Perhaps a moonscape. Cratered. Massive freestanding rocks that could only have come from the depths of the universe or an act of God.

We spend our nights in the company of the echoing pounding waves and the three men staying in our homestay. Surfers. But far from the hordes that bound to Kuta. These surfers are 40-50ish. Their hair grey and faces weathered from years of waves and sun. Meals part of the hotel deal since there aren’t any other choices in ‘town’. Family style, beachside. We chat and share personal philosophies. Roll out maps and linger over where we are, where we’ve been, and where we want to be. The orange glow of a bonfire constructed from the hulls of coconuts. The ceaseless dark night sky painted with the ribbons of the Milky way Galaxy. Streaked by shooting stars. Fingers and toes digging into the sand. The waves thundering through the night.

Back tomorrow. To reality?

Beer, Gossip, and volunteers... aka NTT weeken (24 September 2008)

Survivor reality tv in real life. The cameras lacking, but the scheme the same. Toss together a random mix of people in the wilds of Indonesia. Foster a stimulus and the viewers are hooked.

An odd blend of nationalities and cultures. Ages and interests vast. We meet for 2 days in Kupang (on the island of West Timor), the largest and capital city of the region NTT (includes my island of Flores). The geographic make-up and challenging transportation of Indonesia cuts us off from the ‘west’, from other volunteers. Thus VSO provides an outlet for ‘discussion’ and ‘sharing’ in the form of a regional volunteer weekend. One for us in NTT province. One for the hard-core vols suffering (tongue in check) on Bali and Java. The later most likely sharing horrific war stories about clubbing in Kuta or meeting up for coffee and movies in Yogakarta. Our tales weak in comparison, thus resorting to rumored chit-chat about those not lucky to be in attendance. Who really wants to sit around talking about malaria and sporadic electricity? The beer and gossip flows (like the running water I wish I had). We weave a soap opera that would make one question if the networks really cancelled Melrose Place all those years ago or just moved the cast to Indonesia. It’s juicy. It’s scandalous. It’s implausible. Nevertheless, we all want to believe. Fact or fiction. It doesn’t matter. Momentarily it’s fantastic to escape reality.

A story worth sharing…
I’ve stayed in many a dodgy place, but this was a first…

To ensure not to be late for our morning flight to Kupang for the weekend, Tjeerd and I traveled to Ende the prior night to stay with another volunteer, Mike, and his wife. Mike works in a residential computer learning center of sorts thus we can stay for free in one of the rooms. They make a big deal that I get the ‘luxury’ room where the director stays when there are late nights. Admittedly, I’ve stayed in some of the most sketch of places. My standards low. Very low if the price is right. The accommodation here is simple but fine. Two or three steps above my normal. Settling into bed. That time between relaxation and slumber. I suddenly have a strange sensation that I hear something odd below the bed, and sit up. Sitting up just in time to see a long tail race across the bed where my head had been moments before. I don’t want to make exaggerated statements, but I feel fairly confident that it was a rat. I jump to my feet. Stomping about the bed. Heart pounding. Wahhhhhh!

Dancing Queen. (7 September)

Indonesia officially has two seasons, rainy and dry. But in the market it’s more evident as mango and avocado season. Delightfully, we are in the midst of mango season. In the states we’re deprived. I’ve lived nearly 27 years without knowing that there exist numerous mango varieties. Different shapes. Different smells. Different colors. Subtly different flavors.

However, I propose that there is indeed a third season. Wedding season. It’s arrived. On the fringe between soaking rains and the chilly nights of dry season. The avocados are sparse and the mangos teasingly still dangle from trees… almost ripe. The locals live for Wedding Season. But as a foreigner I can assure you that weddings are incredibly awkward events. People come from all over the island on short notice. The event is ‘planned’ a day or two in advance. The invites hand delivered and word is passed around.

The plentiful massive bamboo is cut and plastic blue tarps strung overhead to create a pavilion of sorts. Multi-colored plastic chairs are set in perfectly straight lines facing forward. Leaving a middle aisle for the guest to make their way to the front to congratulate the ‘new’ bride and groom. From my understanding, the couple has two types of marriages. The traditional. And the formal, legal, religious. The later takes place when the family has secured enough funds for the event. Or rather enough to buy the buffalo. It may be years. Recently I attended a wedding where the bride breast fed her 3 year old child on stage in front of the wedding guest. It was the only time she removed her white gloves.

People arrive by motor cycle. They arrive by foot. They arrive by the truck load. There’s no time set. It begins when people arrive. Someone may know of someone who has yet to appear and thus the party must wait. The bride and groom sit at the front of the pavilion. Slightly elevated on a platform. A colored cloth draped behind with their names displayed in cut-outs. Reminiscent of a high school graduation party. Sometimes there are plants and flowers. Sometimes there are pictures. But these are extravagant. As one greets the couple there is a box. A box for collecting gifts of money. It’s done discreetly. Even if one leaves nothing, everyone pretends to put something into the box. Young children and babies included. I left 10,000 rupiah for a couple I didn’t know. Later asked how much is appropriate. 5,000 rupiah for friends. That’s 50 cents… for friends!

Sugar-fied coffee and tea is served. Later tables are filled with stacks of glass plates, rice (in a container large enough that I could easily crawl inside), and plates of various meat. One table may have pork and dog. The other chicken and goat. Religious tolerance.

A set of speakers that would likely look more at home at a rock concert. Towering. Intimidating. An emcee calls out the couple. Then a list of people are summoned forward into two lines. The wedding dance. Jahi. A traditional line dance complemented with strategic hand waving. No one smiles. It’s serious. Almost scowling.

The party begins.
There’s jahi. It’s traditional. Loved by all.

There’s waltzing. Lot’s of waltzing. It’s readily assumed we also do a lot of waltzing in the west… their shocked when I divulge otherwise. A reaction equivalent to revealing in one clean sweep that there is no Santa Clause, Tooth Fairy, or Easter Bunny.

There’s cha-cha. But it’s not cha-cha at all, rather somekind of line dance with just two steps.

There’s ‘disco’. Really not disco. No flash. No fros. A bit more modern but with sexual undertones that one finds on the dancefloors at home. It’s all innocent and almost childish.

After each song everyone returns to their chairs only to rush the dirt dance floor at the next song. Water is splashed on the ground sporadically between songs to cut the dust. There’s one mixed tape… repeated all night. It’s the same tape heard everywhere. A random arrangement of traditional and English songs I’ve never heard.

I’m known as the ‘Queen of the Party’. They laugh at me. They point. They shriek. It’s ok. I didn’t come all the way across the globe to fit in. I’m a good sport. Waltzing with the Kepala Desa (Chief of the village). Cha-cha with work collegues. Jahi with the old men and women. Disco with my mass of new friends. Everyone wants a picture with the white girl… as if I’ve stepped into the shoes of Britney Spears. Paparazzi at every turn.

A bit like a junior high dance. The men and women separate. The women pass around sleeping children. The men pass around cups of the local ‘arak’ or ‘moke’, alcohol made from the plentiful palms and coconuts.

The repetition continues until morning. The same music. The same dance. The same the same the same. But they’re smart. The parties are weekdays. And since all are invited, work the next morning is optional. Although that isn’t completely different from any other morning...