up the back

This post has been steeping in the mystifying pot of the internet for a week, where I have been unable to access it. After many long frustrating hours it has finally loaded and I am pleased to send it on its way with images from an early morning walk; the old architecture and the new, locals doing their thing, and a couple of four legged friends. 

The season is changing - as southern Australia heads into spring our winds shift onshore and the humidity heralds the beginning of the build up. After 45 days straight with waves Aquaman has been spending a bit more time at the desk this week, where he is dedicated to learning Revit  (computer aided design) and moving out of the dark ages of a pencil and drawing board. No more crinkled drafting paper on humid days or scratching off pen lines with a scalpel. 

mr whippy

Ironmen have aid stations to help them get through the heinous event, so it is only fitting that we stop on our afternoon walk to fuel up on coconut "ice-cream" from the not-so-whippy-nor-frosty boy. This is my first sighting of Coneman the Icetarian, but Tom admitted that he has had close encounters with him down in the past when I was away. I thought the bike vendors only offered stinky fish, which I am in no hurry to run after.  The theme music comes by way of his mobile phone wired to a speaker, and the ice-cream is kept firm with the help of crushed ice and a high concentration of seaweed powder. 

With energy restored, the walk continued to aid station number two which offered a mouthful of fresh lontar juice. Immanuel is our contracted climber, and he provides us with one litre, three times a week for use in our green smoothies. This is a small portion of his weekly collection, especially in the peak flow months of July and August. 

Being that the walk was a gruelling 30 minutes long and the sun was low in the sky, we had to finish the day with a few beers.

Just kidding. Here is photographic evidence of the first recycling programme in our village. The locals don't drink beer, but they are happy to collect the empties from the expats and trade them for half a cent each. Collect enough and you can buy yourself a new plastic bucket. 

emergency harvest

A significant low pressure system in Western Australia pushed a solid swell northward, inciting  much rapture from the watermen, and stress for the seaweed farmers. Combined with high spring tides, the surges of water over the reef broke many ropes and stakes, threatening the security of the agar agar plots. As soon as the tide dropped, there was a frantic race to remove as much mature seaweed as possible before the high water returned and swept away their cash crop. The rubbery weed is sun dried on crude racks, then bagged up for sale and shipped to Surabaya for processing. From here, the white, odourless powder finds its way into cosmetics, food and petri dishes worldwide.  

Meanwhile, Aquaman was pulling into freight trains on his 7"6 gun with one unfortunate flight over the falls and into the rumbling darkness of the depths.  This was followed in rapid succession by two more set waves on the head. His lungs wanted to breathe, but he gently coaxed them to hold on a little longer. I'm relieved they did. 

palm sugar

Lontar palms provide a staple fuel for the villager,s and August is peak flow of the sweet sap.  It is drunk fresh by humans and pigs every morning and afternoon, and the remainder is boiled down to a thick syrup for storage over the wet season. The gula air is the consistency of honey and is mixed with water to make a natural cordial, free from artificial colourings and flavourings. We recommend it drizzled over vegan pancakes or spooned into ginger and lemongrass tea.  If the syrup is boiled for a further hour it hardens to toffee, and the molten goodness is poured into circular moulds made from strips of lontar leaf.  The cooled "biscuits" are called gula lemping and can be crushed to a delicious dark palm sugar, far superior to processed white death. I have an intimate knowledge of the tapping process - as good as one can while remaining safely on the ground - but had not seen a gula lemping pour until our recent outing to the interior.  Simple, sustainable & organic. Long may it last. 

waiting for rain

seaweed strung out to dry ; descending the last tree for the day ; leaves prevent the juice from boiling over

Rivulets of sweat dribble down my chest even when motionless.  Multiple showers and swims provide respite, and we gravitate to doorways to catch the breeze.  The wind is still offshore, the ocean is flat and the sky is a veil of blue.  The wet season is yet to arrive; humidity is building, but the appearance of clouds is only a tease. We are placed better than most to feel the relief of a momentary onshore, but we all slow down when stillness prevails. The ground is thirsty and dusty, and the goats are hungry. Mangoes have finished for another year, but sweet juice still flows from the lontar. We were away for a while, then struck down with internet complications, so it's is time for another village walk to reaquaint with the back tracks.

family graves ; nana nella babysitting ; place of rest ; watering the spring onion crop

lontar leaf gateway ; afternoon water haul ; shallot harvest ; capok pods

harvest of the palms

The dry season is the peak time for harvesting sap from the lontar palm.

Every second day we receive a home delivery of fresh sweet juice; a boost to our morning green smoothie.  At peak flow times, the majority of the fresh liquid is simmered over an open fire for two hours and reduced to a thick syrup. A bundle of lontar leaves placed across the wok prevents the liquid boiling over. The gula syrup keeps through the wet season when fresh juice isn't available, and provides an important energy source for the villagers. We like to drizzle it over fruit and add it to the Sunday choc banana blitz.

 

To see more photos and info about the process visit this post.

grow little garden

I'm really not much of a gardener.  I love the idea of gardening, I know a lot about the theory of gardening, but the actual practice of growing a flourishing vegetable patch is lost somewhere in the imagining.  I'm good at planting seeds, watering and growing things in miniature. Unfortunately I spend more time than I would like fighting couch grass and rampant vines.   The back yard is a great improvement on the jungle that greeted us in May, and I have managed to encourage a few rocket seeds and flowers to inhabit the keyhole gardens.  The bougainvillea is enjoying the rough life and lack of water (it hasn't rained for over nine weeks) and feels stressed enough to flower, and the lemongrass continues to power unaided. 

morning has broken

There may not be any blackbirds or dewfall, but there is a unique symphony of sounds that announce the rising of each day.

3.00 am    first round of distant roosters
3.30 am    pig crunches on hermit crabs under the water tap 
4.30 am    percussion of leg rope against board as Aquaman exits the pod
4.45 am    dawn patrol paddle into the first wave of the day
5.00 am    second round of roosters
5.15 am    small birds in the coconuts chirp to a crescendo
5.40 am    bemo thumps base music on its southward search for passengers
6.00 am    bemo passes north with musical horn movement
6.05 am    whizz of the blender as we rush to make a green smoothie before the power goes off
6.15 am    single stationary motorbike revs with unnecessary fever
6.30 pm    second round of irritating motorbike revs (still stationary)

Having the koala as my totem enables me to sleep through some of the noise.  Although I aspire to get up with the chirping birds, if I have got a good sleep on and my nine hours aren’t accounted for, I can put in a gold medal effort until the provocation of the motorbike wakes me and I practise a moment of acceptance for my fellow man.

Less common alarm bells include being pissed on by the resident barking gecko, an early banana delivery, or the throaty call of the vegetable lady who left home at 5.00am and thinks 5.45am is a perfectly reasonable time to sell leafy greens.  Locals have a different concern for privacy or peace, and on low tide mornings, the gibbon-like vowels of their dialect call through our open bedroom walls before dawn. 

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning. Praise with elation.