Wonder Woman, Lion King, and bit of Rupiah. (2 November 2009)

Wonder Woman, a Safari Guide, the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island, Charlie Chaplin, a random roll of toilet paper, circus performer, and of course the obligatory witch… all showed up to celebrate Halloween. Which is undeniably the greatest holiday of the year.

But here in Zambia, it’s never a party without the wildlife.

Elephant… check.

Lion (albeit vegetarian)… check.

Dragon (not of the Komodo variety)… check.

I’ve seen Walt Disney’s Lion King. Isn’t that what Africa is all about? A cleric monkey blessing the new born king high on a cliff while the animal masses sing and bow to his glory. Well Mr. Disney, I have news for you… warthogs and hyenas do not speak English. (Unless, that’s one stellar Halloween costume.)

I was brought to this devastating revaluation while getting up close (and luckily not so personal) while on safari at South Luangwa National Park. Jaimy, a fellow VSO volunteer from the Netherlands, and I had a fascinating excursion… A truly African Adventure. I wish I had the balls (or the ovaries) to request a refund from the lodge. Not because it wasn’t a well run and fascinating excursion but rather because I didn’t sleep a wink in my tent. Even with a spacious, comfy bed… shouldn’t all camping be so luxurious? However, seriously what would stop a lumbering elephant or a grazing hippo from trampling my tent? Or a prowling lion and scavenging hyena from pouncing as I sprint to the toilet in the dark night? I prayed that our distant relations in the Great Ape family didn’t sniff out the banana I had stashed in my bag. This is camping on a whole other level.

Up before the sun, we sleepily climbed aboard the open top jeep. Wrapping up in blankets to catch the wind that blew across the open fields of brown. (Breakfast would be served later as we hypnotically gazed at the hippos that would peak their heads above the river, let out a load laugh, and re-submerge their massive bodies… South Luangwa is home to something like 20,000 hippos!)

Warthogs… Impala… Elephants…

Giraffes… Buffalo… Kudu…

Water buck… Antelope… Crocodiles…

Hippopotamuses… Zebras… Leggy birds

We nibbled on lunch with vistas of free roaming wildlife. As if sitting in an IMAX theater watching an African feature film… only better.

Little white butterflies and emerald birds…

Baboon… Guinea fowl… Genets…

Civets… Honey Badgers… Leopards… Hyena

A pride of lions feasting on a newly killed buffalo, crunching on bones, licking their lips

The sun transformed into a fiery red ball as we watched it sink behind the river bed. We toasted our glasses of Amarula (made from the fruit of the Marula tree, it’s a sweet creamy alcohol much like Bailey’s).

But the thrill of the day, of the night, was on the prowl. Spying a massive herd of buffalos in the dark, moonless night, we stop to watch them. The baboons screech out a warning. And then as if oblivious to our presence, a lioness stalks from behind the jeep. Another one to the right. And on the left. One in front. Two in front. On the hunt… and we were between them and their buffalo meal. We sat in silence for 45 minutes. Waiting. Then the attack. The buffalo racing around our vehicle. The lions close enough to touch. Protectively the buffalo form a mob and drop their horns, tossing lions into the air. The lions lunging at the weak stragglers of the stampede, claws and teeth lashing at the gray leathery hides. The energy. The hunger. The primal instinct that laced the breezeless night air. I cannot grasp the proper vernacular… but it was way better than anything the Discovery channel or Animal Planet or National Geographic dishes out.

Later safe in my tent, I’m still reeling from the excursion. A hyena passes directly in front of the mesh tent door… what a fantastic world.

Mother Nature and Elton John rock on.

The next morning we were up again to catch the sun rise. This time breakfast was served at a nearby salt-flat. Complete English style. Toast, beans, eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, coffee, juice… all cooked on an open fire by our two local guides. If you ever find yourself in the wilds or on Survivor, elephant dung is apparently great for making cooking fires. Although, I tried not to notice the absence of handwashing facilities after the cooks collected the dried elephant dung. A whole new meaning to green eggs and ham… yum!

Does it get any better than that? Not really.

At least I thought so, and then l I met my newest acquaintance, El Presidente himself, Mr. Rupiah Banda. The Zambian President and I moments ago had a bit of a conversation out front of the local radio station, owned by my mango-stealing neighbor. I had skillfully stalked him (the President not the neighbor) for a good portion of the day. I regrettably had sought refuge from the torrential downpour under a mere sapling when a helpful stranger gave me a lift home. Racing up to the house, I grabbed my garden boy, Moses… and an umbrella. However, if I had known that we were going to actually have a face-to-face audience with the Zambian leader, I might have also have changed my wet and dirty clothes into something more appropriate for meeting Presidents! Or at least put on a clean shirt. Nevertheless, I’m feeling pretty cool…

Almost as cool as I felt (after we drained the 12 bottles of South African wine and copious bottles of Mosi and Castle… there may have also been a bottle or two of gin) dancing on stage at a Zambian pop concert in my Halloween costume to a crowded club of cheering fans. Surely they were cheering for my style-riffic dance moves and not the Zambian superstar… surely.

Lake of Stars. (26 October 2009)

Anna had been telling us about the festival during dinner at Lazeez’s (the best fish n’ chips in Chipata and a killer garlic sauce too!). Later in the night I was reading a-not-so recent issue of TIME magazine, when the festival reappeared in an article. Two independent sources. One night. I instantly felt the need to go. Plus, the notion of music, beach, exotic location in Africa, and the proceeds go to help development projects in Malawi. Fun, frolic, and a good cause.

Lake of Stars Music Festival here I come.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to convince anyone else to take up the adventure. Flying solo… no problemo. Despite only meeting her the previous weekend, I called Anna in route and arranged to meet her in Lilongwe.

Getting there was the first adventure.

Hitchhiking in Africa for some reason doesn’t have the same ominous overtones as you find in the rest of the world. Or perhaps I am just oblivious to them. Anyway, if the Lonely Planet Bible says it’s ok, I’ll believe it’s ok. The first hitch was easy. A friend of a friend of a friend who was going to the boarder for some dubious reason with a carcass of a goat in the back of the truck. Luckily, I got the front seat. As I passed through the boarder I eyed up the vehicle registration window. There was a man who I recognized from doing grocery shopping at Shoprite and had heard he was one of the long term Catholic Priest from Europe. He stopped to let several Africans climb into the bed of the pick-up truck and nodded when I asked for a lift too. The next phases wasn’t as smooth as I waited for sometime with a roadside plant seller for the next vehicle. Everything that passed was exploding with passengers or hitchers. Finally a lift.

After a bit of miscommunication, I met Anna and another former VSO volunteer, Nilesh. Nilesh would be my host for the evening and I’d meet Anna the next afternoon for a lift with yet another volunteer. The volunteering network is amazing. Not only had I managed to make it all the way to Mangochi on the south banks of Lake Malawi, I had done it cheaply, and happily discovered that one of the volunteers in Malawi works with a person who has a house DIRECTLY ON the site on the festival. We could cheaply camp here and the extra money would go to the orphanage. Win-win.

The next three days were sans shoes as we lazily made our way between the camp and the two stages. White sand and palm trees. Tempting waters (albeit infested with bilharzias) for mid-afternoon cool down swims. Although vigilant security made sure there was no swimming after dusk. Hippos and crocodiles… enough said.

The music was a mix of international and African artists. The Maccabees and SWAY. Local reggae set the atmosphere with the Black Missionaries and others performances. During the day, as people slept off hangovers beachside, theater troops and small musicians entertained the wary. A string of Deejays played dance music until well after the sun came up. It’s one of those things… you might as well be one of the ones enjoying it because you sure as hell can’t sleep through it.

Most mornings I’d seek a couple hour refuge in my hammock after watching the sun paint the sky pink and unveil the mountains of Mozambique across the lake. Except one morning. A rather gianormous baboon was investigating my sleeping spot… I might have been hallucinating from lack of sleep. But to be safe I decided to go for a nap on the beach. I really have no desire to get that close with the African wildlife.

Anna and Nilesh were skipping the last day and heading back to Lilongwe. I, however, wasn’t quite ready to leave, rationalizing that since I came all this way missing one day of work would be ok, so found an alternative ride. At every speedy bump, every hole in the road, we had to get out of the car so that it wouldn’t drag. I didn’t say I had a luxury ride.

Luke used to work in the north of Malawi and was extending his trip to go back to check out the projects. They were exciting sounding… to a farming nerd. And seriously what is another couple of days off work if I’m going to go see something that is somewhat-relevant to what I’m working on. So the next morning we set off for Usisya.

You can only get to Usisya two ways. The treacherous road or the weekly ferry. Time was not on our side so we were left to travel via the former. Through the hilly mountainous landscape. The way car ‘road’ gave way to a menacingly steep slope. What would happen if two cars tried to pass??? Usisya is a village of brick houses with thatched roofs. ‘Streets’ of white sand. Mammoth balboa trees. Brahma cattle that the walking ‘cowboys’ would wrangle into stick enclosures at the water’s edge. Fisherman’s nets lay on the sand or strewn across the handmade canoes that appear ready to tip at the slightest fraction of movement.

I check out the clinic with the local Peacecorps volunteer, a school, and community gardens. But mostly I just soak in the atmosphere. After all, I am on vacation.

The after-festival party was happening all week in Nkhata Bay. Crystal blue waters that could easily be mistaken for the sea. Not only was there a reunion of festival co-conspirators but I happen into a troop of VSO vols from Zambia. Crazy world… how does it all seem to come together???

Nevertheless, all good things must come to an end.

I opt for public transport for the return trip to Chipata. As it would be dark soon this seemed the safest option. Seemed. The taxi loaded 7 people into the car… plus the driver… and 4 people in the trunk. Good thing I only packed a bag big enough for a 3 days. Night had set and there was no electricity along the road. The car stopped. But this was not the boarder. Where were we? The driver said I’d have to walk the last kilometer as we was out of gas. However, he wasn’t so happy when I refused to way the full fare. This was not the boarder. Two tomato sellers escorted me safely to immigration. I was the only person attempting the border crossing. 30-day tourist visas to Malawi are free. However, the immigration fellows where seeking a ‘rich’ tourist to give them a bit of extra cash. I was not going to fall victim to corruption. They said I had overstayed my visa… I was not in Malawi for 30 days. I’d have to return to Lilongwe to immigration… impossible at this time of night. But they could help me for a mere $50 US. No thank you, I’ll sit here until morning. After nearly 30 minutes the border guards realized I was A. not going back to Lilongwe and B. not going to pay them. Passport stamped.

Seems my luck had run out. The shared taxi waiting on the other side in Zambia wasn’t so willing to take a single passenger for the same cost as a car full. As we wait I try not to notice the numerous cracks in the front window and the lack of one headlight. Again, not a luxury ride. After 30 minutes of waiting I venture to suggest that it would be better to make some money than nothing at all. Anyway I’m 100% certain he’d squeezed in a few extra passengers over the course of the day. I bargain hard, the speedometer sores, and we’re off to Chipata. I’m looking forward to home…

***

A couple weeks later…

Spontaneously I decided to meet John and Betty in Lilongwe (they are proud owners of a 4-wheel drive vehicle) and then travel with them (and John’s brother and an America guy) to Nkhata Bay for a long weekend. I was feeling a bit under-appreciated at work as the boss seems not to understand why his cross-boarder trading idea is not good for the economy or the farmers in the long run (besides slightly illegal… as if anything completely legal goes down on the ‘Dark Continent’). So off to Malawi for the weekend… again.

Less stress… equally enjoyable.

Opting to go back to Lundazi (north of Chipata) with John and Betty to try my luck at meeting a local marketing effort called “It’s Wild”. I had heard that it was a similar business modal as the one I was trying to set up with CDFA. Interesting project to say the least. I spent the day with a personal guide seeing the processing of rice, peanut butter, honey, and high-energy-protein-supplements.

Met a group of VSO’s for pre-dinner drinks at the Lundazi ‘Castle’. Really a mini-castle from colonial times (not-so-long-ago) on a mini lake home to two random and famously out of place hippos.

3 am bus back to Chipata… just in time to head straight to the office. Yeah.

People on the bus. (23 September 2009)

For one quarter during undergrad, I would jump on the number 2 bus to downtown Columbus. Sometimes, I’d wait for the next bus transfer to Columbus State but most times, I’d walk from High Street because this seemed like A.) a long wait B.) a long ride. However, in retrospect, I now can say that was one of the speediest buses I’ve ever taken.

Last Sunday morning I tiptoed around the cabin, collecting my few belongings by light of my headlamp. Stopping by the camp kitchen for my food stash. A loaf of bread, guava juice, and a drinkable butterscotch flavored yoghurt. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I’d been advised the day before to be at the station at 4:30 am… uh, no thank you. I wasn’t that eager to make the trip home to Chipata. Thus, I made the mile plus walk from the hostel at a lazy 6:15 am.

Bombarded by a flood of bus boys wanting me to board their coaches, I waved my pre-purchased ticket. And was, literally, shoved on to the furthest bus labeled ‘Malawi’. Fact is, when a bus is tagged for another country, it does nothing to wane the anticipation of a freaking long trip ahead. The bus was half full. The empty seats filled with random hand luggage to give the appearance of a full bus, thus nearly ready to depart as buses only do when FULLY loaded. I squeezed to the back past the merchants selling cooking pots, colorful fabrics, flashing hologram Barak Obama belt buckles, pastel suckers, Coca-cola and Fanta, fake Gucci purple crocodile wallets, sporting shoes and loafers.

Now start the math.

6:30 am

I plopped into a seat, rolling up a sarong against the dirt streaked window for a pillow. Sleep.

7:00

I woke up from pressure against my knees as someone pressed into the seat in front of me. What do tall people do, if my knees knock the seat? Still no movement. More sleep.

9:00

A woman asks if anyone is sitting beside me. No. She leaves her bag.

9:30

Woman returns, retrieves the bag and selects another seat

9:40

A man sits beside me. Sleep is still a good idea.

10:30

I’m sweating profusely. Still at the bus station. I spy two empty seats… remaining pessimistic I sleep.

11:10

We make movement.

Brushing up on my arithmetic, that’s just over 4 hours on the bus and the journey has yet to begin. Thankfully, I made two trips to the toilet at the hostel in the morning, squeezing every drop out of the bladder. Trust me, no one wants to be the one who makes the bus stop along the side of the road. Squatting in snake invested brush with no real cover for privacy while the other riders peep at your awkwardness. Or wait for the next toilet stop… which is 12 hours away.

8:30 pm

Arrive home in Chipata.

What had I done to deserve this trip? I was summonsed to Immigration in Lusaka to retrieve my work permit. That took 2 hours. I compensated myself with 4 days of laying poolside (albeit at a cheap-o hostel where I shared a cabin with 7 other poverty stricken travelers), drinking cold beer, eating ice cream, and going dancing. Life was good… then I boarded the bus back to reality.

****

I’m typing up flip charts this evening. Products of group work activities from a workshop I helped to facilitate earlier today… thought I’d share a bit of the farmers’ thoughts written in the local language, Nanja.

- Maindedwe opita kumsika akhala obvuta

- Kubyala mbeu zosayenelelana ndi nyengo

- Misika lzi khala pafupi ndi alimi

- Miseu ikhale yokonzedwa bwino

I have absolutely noooooo idea what that says. I’ve become accustomed to thunderous laughter at my meager attempts at pronunciation of foreign languages. Some people are linguistically gift. I am not. Indeed, life would be so much easier in English… but would it be as interesting?

La-la-la… Kulamba! (14 September 2009)

Sitting out in the garden earlier today soaking in the warm sunshine over lunch, our garden boy, Moses and I chatted about the previous volunteers that he has ‘gardened’ for. (Notably Moses knows quite little about actual gardening… and working. But he at least makes an attempt to pretend to be working hard when we come home for lunch. And I find him humorous… so we continue to gently remind him each day what to do.)

“She was mean.”

“She had a lot of boyfriends.”

“She was a drunkard.”

So, Moses, what will you say about me when I leave!

Only good things he replied… surely like the flowery remembrances of my predecessors. He adds, “You are my sunshine.” Picking up a carrot stick from the veggie plate with a wrinkle of his nose and click of his tongue, I think he will probably complain about of how I feed him ‘rabbit food’.

Moses has also told me on numerous occasions that he will give me his last name and build me house if I stay in Chipata… this may or may not be some kind of marriage proposal.

********

Engulfed in a constant haze of dust. So much Maria and Malombo wore face masks and my photos are blurred in a sea of floating debris. Kulamba is the thanksgiving ceremony for the Chewa people. It pays tribute (“giving gifts” ie. $$$$) to Paramount Chief Kalonga Gawa Undi by his subordinate chiefs and subjects of the Chewa kingdom. “Kalonga is a Chewa word meaning ‘the one who enthrones or installs subordinate chiefs’ while Gawa means ‘the one who gives out land. Undi means the one who protects his subjects.” The Paramount Chief is head of something like over 11 million Chewa people, encompassing parts of Zambia, Malawi and Mozambique. The Presidents of each of these countries also swoops in by helicopter for the big event. As do numerous ‘subordinate’ chiefs. And royalty of the Ngoni tribe.

Kulamba is held annually in late August (although this year was the beginning of September to accommodate the Presidents and special guests) just west of Chipata outside the town of Katete at the ‘Mkaika Palace’ (although it notably has more in common with a barren drought-ridden corn field than it does with Buckingham Palace).

Was it from the dancers? The rhythmic drummers? Or the throngs of people who came from Zambia, Malawi, and Mozambique by the truck load? What makes this so special? Undeniably it’s the combination and a traditional culture that has remained unchanged for centuries (except perhaps for the means of transportation).

“The ceremony exhibits a variety of more than 30 different types of ‘Nyau’ dances with different masks, each being performed at specific occasions.” Young teen and pre-teen girls on the banks of the River of Womanhood are paraded in under cloth. They kneel topless and shake as if consumed. An interpretation of adulthood and marriage are taught and expressed via dance. But it is ‘Gule Wamkulu’ that steals the spot light. A highly celebrated event performed by men. Said to involve witchcraft, the dance is only open to members of a secret society. Men disguise their identities by donning masks of feathers, long noses, werewolf-esque features, and various other forbidding sorts are led into the circles of people by shakers to announce their arrival. Men in funky attire and masks walk on stilts through the crowds of people. Dancers contort their bodies and confront possible death atop high wooden poles that are haphazardly placed into dug out holes in the red dirt. The climax of the event takes place as one of the Nyau dancers shimmies across a sort of wire ‘tightrope’. It’s like a super cool circus minus the lion tamer… hopefully.

During a practice session at the Chipata Arts Center I was tipped to go the night prior to the big event. This proved a wise move. While we missed the main celebration, the presentation of the Royal/Presidential, guests and the endless speeches, we were rewarded by actually being able to see the dancing. Not only see… but Rosie and I found ourselves pushed dangerously close to the kicking dancers and entranced drummers. Scary, mesmerizing, thrilling… spectacular.

A trip to the clinic. (16 August 2009)

3 days straight. I’ve done nothing but sleep. Thus, I heeded Rosie’s (my housemates) instruction and went to the clinic. The ‘medical advisor’ (what exactly does qualify one to be a medical advisor??) put down his newspaper as he invited me to sit… he was obviously oblivious to the long line of patients seeking his advice as he skims through The Post.

How are you feeling today? He asked with a smile. Well, sir that’s why I have come to see you…

He read down a list of symptoms. No. No. No. No. No. Just tired. He looks at the palms of my hands and proclaims that I have ‘enough blood’. Ok, at this point I’m fairly confident that a medical advisor and doctor are not one in the same.

He appeases me by issuing several blood tests and sends me down the hall to sit on the wooden bench outside of the ‘lab’. The lab technician has dreadlocks swept under a Rastafarian-style hat. He pricks my finger and squeezes the tip with one hand as he rummages around the cluttered countertop for a clean slide. Yes, it does seem like a blood lab should have those in readily available supply. One hand is not enough for the search so he collects the deep red drop of blood on a piece of scrap paper and continues with a two-handed search. Success. He scraps the blood drop from the paper onto the slide. Totally contaminate free no-doubt.

Blood test results in hand, I’m sent back to the medical advisor to decipher the scribbles. Negative.

Mr. Medical Advisor asks “when was the last time you were de-wormed?” Hmmmm… never.

As I walk home, I vividly recall the results of de-worming a puppy we once had when I was a kid. It wasn’t pretty. And we didn’t eat spaghetti for quite some time after that. I really hope that my de-worming process won’t be quite as memorable…

Globalization (8 August 2009).

12 people. 7 nationalities. Indian. Spanish. Kenyan. American. British. German. Dutch. All sitting down together in Zambia for a dinner of Mexican food and South African wine. Conversation in 5 languages. Swahili. Spanish. English. German. Dutch.

A picture of globalization? Perhaps. Freaking cool? Definitely.

Hello Mister - August Edition.

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

Zambian Ramblings.
August Edition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Playing a little catch-up…

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

Exhausting.

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

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

A whale of a story. (3 June 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Banishment from Indonesia sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New home and fingerprints. (19 April 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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.