white roads to nowhere

Since gaining autonomy, our local island government receives an annual budget from Uncle Jakarta that they can play with however they see fit. In a country rife with corruption, transparency is murky at best, and coupled with our minimal understanding of the political wormholes, it is impossible to know how funding is channelled.  What is evident are new white gravel roads through uninhabited and rugged inland areas, that end in a swamp or at the foot of a cliff.  Many are built along former goat tracks, and do little but provide easier access for trucks to infiltrate the interior and pillage free rocks. No doubt the mayor's brother owns a truck or two and our local member happens to be in possession of earth moving equipment that can be contracted out at a handsome daily fee. 

Many of these roads are built in the wet season while we are away, so upon our return I am met with many exploring opportunities. We are fortunate to be babysitting a Yamaha trail bike that skips along the back tracks. Fuel has been scarce, as high winds have prevented the ferry crossing from the mainland, so long distance outings have to be timed with a full tank. 

Our village is relatively affluent since the introduction of seaweed farming as a profitable cash crop, and as a result almost all of the traditional houses have been replaced with brick hot boxes of mosquito infestation. For people in the interior, life is very basic and subsistent, and houses are still made from materials gathered in nearby bushland. Thanks to juice from the lontar palm, caloric intake is sufficient and stable, without an annual period of famine that effects other regions.

race round

The hus is a pre-Christian ritual tradition, formerly held to ask the deities for rain, a good harvest or other bounty. Horseman sport the distinctive tilangga hats and ikat cloth, and the horse’s mane, tail and head are decorated; these days with crepe paper and strips of plastic. A woven pandan mat is used in place of a saddle and there are no stirrups. Originally the riders would circle a large tree that was believed to hold secret powers, while today they circle a dusty oval with a few sticks and string to mark the track. Horsemen representing different clans would approach the arena from each cardinal point (representing specific powers) and circle the tree at a fast pace. While riding they whipped their horses and themselves with the thorny young shoots of the lontar palm until blood was drawn.  Drawing first blood was considered highly auspicious. Each clan would present a young coconut to be split by the priest, with the coconut water hitting the earth representing coming rains. 

With the domination of Christianity on the island, the hus has become a spectacle rather than spiritual tradition, held at any time and place. The breaking of the coconut tradition is forbidden as “black magic”and the flagellation has been replaced by a less bloody test of speed and form. The rules appear very loose, and the winners of each round are difficult for the uninitiated to distinguish. Races are based on maintaining a specific gait or outright speed, with prizes awarded for best decorated horse and rider. Lively gong music is played to arouse greater speed and bravery, and the crowd cheers with high pitched yips and yodels that western men find impossible to replicate.  Tourists are encouraged to have a ride, with inevitable spills into the dust as six foot Aussies drag their feet beside the squat Timor ponies. As far as I am aware, there has never been a female rider, and with my complete lack of horsewomanship, I won’t be the first. 

Thanks for Libby House of the Lualemba Indigo Foundation for organizing this year’s local hus and providing information about the tradition. 

a moveable feast

   

After the indulgences of Bali, I was happy to return to the raw vegan sensibility - fresh, ripe, organic fruit and vegies, sprouts, seeds and occasional nuts. Simple, grain free, unprocessed, with nil by mouth other than herbal tea after sunset (which is 5.45pm here at 11 degrees south). The exceptions to our raw diet are a small amount of tempeh (an Indonesian delicacy made by fermenting soya beans), steamed sweet potato and dry grilled eggplant. 

Aquaman strung together an impressive 25 days caffeine free, whereas I crumbled after nine - my longest stint totally caffeine free (with not even green tea) for at least ten years. I was shocked by the mental space hijacked with thoughts of coffee, the internal struggle to stay away from the bean and leaf, and the feelings of deprivation as I drank another rooibos. Giving up yoghurt and cheese was much easier. It was pathetic, annoying and I was napping like a wombat. Behold the power of a single shot.  Lord knows how I’d react to anything stronger, or if I had a three-cups-a-day habit. 

We are fortunate to have some foodie friends that aren’t afraid to have vegans at the table, and this week has been a culinary sensation of epic proportions.  Firstly, a lunch next door with our newest neighbours, a Moroccan/Israeli living in Bali and his Italian friend. Cue falafel with tahini dressing, the most hummus ever to be served on the island, mixed salads, toasted rye bread, grilled eggplant with chilli, and floods of olive oil.  All served beneath a shady coconut leaf cabana with a white sand floor. 

  

After 24 hours to recover from the surfeit of garlic, we attended the annual Lodge afternoon tea, with its much anticipated menu of Balinese black rice pudding with coconut milk and banana, hot donuts and tea. Yes I said donuts. As in “I want to wash myself with a sponge on a stick” kind of calories. It is my one deliberate fried food item of the year, and I ate it with as much mindfulness as I could muster among the animated conversation. 

We had a 48 hour sabbatical after the donuts and before the third invitation; a glorious raw meal with our friends Colin and Linda. Despite an unexpected break in power supply, Linda came through with her promise of banana and pistachio “semi-freddo”; the exclamation mark to a poetic stanza of ingredients.

Back in the days of no refrigeration and smoky pots of rice cooked over an open fire, I couldn’t imagine ever seeing a pinenut or mizuna leaf in this environment. A splash of balsamic vinegar at someone’s house was a luxury to be savored for weeks. Now we have rocket and fancy lettuce, miso, walnuts, dates and Lindt chocolate. They are all still carefully rationed, but I am grateful for their mere existence and the generosity of friends who share their supplies.

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. 

captain's breakfast

Each year when the Sama Sama sails into its channel anchorage, a flutter of excitement rises with the anticipation of our annual breakfast outing. The graceful teak boat is owned by an Austrian couple, and in between charters they slot in a ten day holiday, before the boat heads to the Mentawai for the remainder of the surf season. 

With their Balinese cook they laid on a buffet breakfast that lasted all morning. Two loaves of bread -warm from the oven - fruit platter, toasted muesli, eggs, salami, banana and chocolate cake, a selection of jams and spreads, juice, tea and a bottomless plunger of coffee. Oh how variety can cause one to overeat. Sweet to savoury, back to sweet...another coffee? more bread? 

In between courses we dived off the deck, did laps around the boat, the girls played cards while the boys battled it out in chess. Tom found a spot on the daybed with 360 degree ocean views, and slowly slipped from the position you see above to a more horizontal one. 

Thank you Susannah and Gerfried for generously sharing your supplies and space. Your visit is always a highlight of the year. Until next time, may the wind fill your sails. 

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.

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.