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.

300 steps

 

There is a tourist object on the south coast known as 300 steps. We have been aware of its existence for many years, however it was only this week that we finally made it over the potholes and dubious bridges to climb to the lookout and survey a new horizon. I didn't count the steps, so cannot confirm the accuracy of the title.

The idea of an afternoon outing sounds easy enough, but the reality is that our severe aversion to sitting in vehicles and travelling on headache inducing roads means we generally prefer to radiate out from home within a walk or bike ride distance; but after a while I grow restless. I have a very low tolerance for boredom and yearn for unfamiliar places and the thrill of experiencing the unknown. I long to indulge in the affair of travel and flex my shutter finger, and this desire outweighs the discomfort involved.  Plus there is the joy of sharing it with you my dear bloggies. Where have you been lately?

When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego,
and when we escape like squirrels turning in the
cages of our personality
and get into the forests again,
we shall shiver with cold and fright
but things will happen to us
so that we don't know ourselves.

Cool, unlying life will rush in,
and passion will make our bodies taut with power,
we shall stamp our feet with new power
and old things will fall down,
we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like
burnt paper.

D.H. Lawrence

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. 

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. 

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.

little tom turns one

Aquaman has more than one namesake in the village, and yesterday was the first birthday celebration  of the most recent Tom. We thought it was going to be a small family gathering, perhaps with a cup of sickly sweet tea and little else, so we took a pack of biscuits to contribute. How wrong we were. The birthday was secondary to the baptism, and half of the village had turned up to welcome little Tom into the flock. Kids and dogs were tumbling out of the doors, lining up for their free feed in a takeaway box. The fattened pig was chopped up and boiled, a flock of chickens deep fried and more rice boiled than we would consume in a year. What a shame we had just eaten...couldn't possibly, so full. I accepted a tiny square of cake presented on a fork, then almost gagged when Tom said the very same utensil had gone into every child's mouth as the plate went around. That's the community spirit. 

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. 

market report

Number of tomatoes per heap increases each week, price steady at 50c/pile

Leafy greens are plentiful, with lettuce a hot favourite among the expats, but too expensive for the locals at 50c a bundle. Early season watermelons are expensive, lack flavour and are seedier than the back streets of Bangkok. Pumpkins on their way out, carrots just arrived, coming in at a costly 

$1 per bunch.

Hand harvested sea salt virtually free. 

Beans in abundance, but how many beans can one eat per week? Only 50c/bucket.

Small red chilli only for those with tolerant, or dead, tastebuds.

Spices by the cup or in painfully small packages, shrivelled ginger and balls of fresh tamarind, 

20-50c each. Bugger it, just get the MSG it's cheaper. 

Cold donuts with rank margarine and sprinkles, or deep fried dough balls with fluorescent sugar frosting, all going out at a bargain 5c each. 

Triangles of tasteless glue and seaweed, useful for fixing surfboard dings or illuminating the dark, 

5c each.

Organic shallots for the patient cook who can be bothered skinning and chopping them, $1/tin.

Unidentified balls of boiled dead animal on a stick, price unknown. Limes steady at 4 for 50c, while bunches of kankung persist as the best value green, 50c/bunch.