winter walk

Today was the coolest morning of the year, down to 20 degrees at dawn.  Just the right level of winter nip for this tropical koala.  An extra sarong on the bed at night, beautiful conditions for a sunrise walk, then by 9am it is back up to 30 and the endless summer continues. My admiration and commiseration for those of you wrapping up against the wild storms currently lashing the south west of WA. Wrap up, put the kettle on, and join me on a stroll up behind the village.

pig for the priest

The staccato rhythm of the gongs usually indicates a funeral in the village, and being so near to our house we thought we better wander up for a look.  The din was coming from the church, and we soon established that the jovial celebration wasn't for death, but for marriage. Our priest had gone off to the mainland city to wed his sweetheart and a feast was in preparation for their return. Though shall not kill obviously doesn't extend to our four legged free range friends. We politely declined lunch, and the kind offer of take-away.

wedding feast

Preparing a wedding feast is a mammoth task, involving women from all branches of the extended family. As with an Aussie event, the men tend to do the heavy lifting; erecting tarps, unloading plastic chairs and building a temporary fence around the venue with coconut leaves and sticks. Then they squat under the shade for the rest of the day while the women chop and stir and stoke and wash.  The average wedding has around 300 plus guests - that is, most of the village - and the food preparation begins at dawn on the big day.  Rice, pig, goat and noodles are standard, with additional dishes added relative to the wealth of the family.  I have a morbid fascination with the massive vestibules of boiled meat, and emit involuntary shrieks of horror when my lens hovers too close. 

The groom's parents foot the bill for all food and water (the reception is alcohol free aside from the odd nip of sopi out the back), and family members are asked to make a donation toward the catering and "hire" of equipment.  The pots, woks, plates and serving bowls are community owned and are stored at the chief's house in between events. 

Hanging out the back with the ladies around an oversized pot of boiling rice is always a valued experience. I feel a sense of kinship that is absent in my Australian life where I don't even know the name of my neighbours.  Over the years I have learned more insider snippets of custom, gossip and tradition, and my roving camera and meat avoidance is always welcome entertainment.

village walk

Kick off your shoes; it's time to get some dust and goat shit between your toes on a village walk. 

We have had a couple of rain squals off the ocean, but the locals are still definite in their call that the wet season is yet to officially arrive.  The farmers are holding off planting their corn, pumpkin and soya bean crops until the red earth is saturated. It is a quiet, restful time in the village without a lick of Christmas hoo-hah.

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.

into the interior

I gave myself the choice between weeding the back yard and going for a bike ride to search for the mystery garden.  Needless to say, the weeds live on.

The local government has a habit of building roads to nowhere; white crushed limestone statements of progress that seem to end at an arbitrary point when the money runs out.  I followed the road until it narrowed to a vehicle track, then a rocky goat path.  My mountain biking skills are limited, and I was wary of getting a puncture miles from home, so called a halt to my exploration without sighting a single vegetable. 

 I did however get a good dose of fresh air and nature.  Any well worn track into the scrub was fair game for discovery, and I thread carefully through a thicket of spiky pandan while doing a crude interpretation of the Highland fling, as evil horse flies celebrated on my bare skin. I quenched my thirst with fresh tuak, presented to me in a vessel made from the leaf of the lontar, while the pigs eagerly drank the sweet juice from their trough.  I arrived home after sunset, dusty, sweaty and enlivened.

Note : I used the mild super powers of Google earth to locate the veggie plot, and have it fixed on my radar for the next expedition. 

wheel your barrow

Do you remember our market trolley, fashioned from an old golf buggy?  It was retired to the pile of useful crap around the side of the house when the road proved too rough for the sand tires and the bananas bounced out of the box.

Then a free range pig decided the cool shade under our floor would be the spot to snuffle and grunt and store his rotten tit bits for later. Aquaman took off his superhero suit for a stint as a rock monkey, and relocated a pile of rocks from our old fence, with the aid of our trusty wheelbarrow buggy.  No more pigs and a cleaner yard.

coconut fed pork

Dinner time for the free range pigs.  Coconut water and cubed coconut meat. 

This little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

black & white walk

Late in the afternoon, when the sun loses its sting and the shadows are longer, we love to stroll through the back tracks of the village, veering off in new directions, coming out in unexpected back yards.  Oh, so this is where this track goes.  After ten years, I am still discovering new pockets behind the village, and building new connections in the map of my mind. 

 

Traditional huts are being replaced by the brick and tin hot-boxes of "development", however the dirt floor kitchen in the back yard is resolute. All of the cooking is done on an open fire with crude clay hobs, so if the whole kitchen goes up in smoke it doesn't threaten the house. They like to keep the animals close at hand to clean up the scraps, and utilise the flat gravestones as preparation areas. No stainless steel bench tops or glass splash backs here, just a bucket or two, and a rickety wooden bench.