Three potential journal entries from this past week in Eastern Sumba:

Monday 24^th Feb. 2014

Its 4pm; coffee time.  The rain has been and gone, washed everything clean.  We sit and talk about all sorts: raising kids, hydrams, favourite foods, organisational structures, we crunch numbers on fattening pigs.  The coffee’s good, strong, black, sweet.  Gotta watch out for the sludge at the bottom though; they don’t filter it here.  I’ve been caught out a few times. Some relatives roll up, Ferdinand explains the family structure, but gives up, shrugs and says: “Ah.  They’re family.”  They chat for a while, helmets on, flick between Indonesian and Sumbanese.  Eventually Joy peeks around the corner; she’s two, Ferdy’s first, cute and cheeky.  The attention centres on her and we all laugh at her every move, every word.  The relatives with the helmets pick her up; they’re taking her somewhere – I don’t know – but no-one seems worried.  They hop on the bike, she stands up, pink pig-tails between bowling ball helmets.  We encourage her to wave, but she refuses; we laugh anyway.  Her mother gives an instruction: kalu kuda di jalan, palan palan ya? “If there’s a horse on the road, drive slowly ok?”  I nod in agreement.  Slight pause.  Mengapa? Comes the reply – “Why?”  I look bewildered; why wouldn’t you drive slowly if there’s a horse on the road?  She’s two, Ferdy’s first, cute and cheeky and not wearing a helmet!  We look back at her mother, wait for the reply.  She smiles and says: Dia suka kuda-kuda. My daughter likes horses.  I shake my head, take a gulp of coffee, and am immediately reminded that they don’t filter it here…

Tuesday, 25^th Feb. 2014

We’re visiting Kota Kawau, half hour south east of the city.  We head out past the airport where the rice fields start.  Everything’s lush and green.  The rains have been good this year.  The corn’s two, three metres tall, the grass, a foot and a half.  We bounce past folks tilling the ground, planting crops, driving cattle, sheep, goats, horses that look plump and proud.  There’s an optimism in the air.  The rains have been good this year.  We sit on a timber porch, shaded by some big ol’ tree, facing houses coloured yellow, green and blue.  An old lady is weaving ikat across the way.  Kids run past and shout selamat siang while we wait for the men to arrive.  They roll up with a sledgehammer and crowbar, and we set off, down into the valley, through the bushes, into the jungle, down the riverbed, across a fallen tree, to the hydram below.  There’s a dozen lazy dragonflies, the sound of water trickling, the heavy jungle scent.  The men slowly break the supports holding the pump while I share lollies, photos and film with the kids.  Job done, we head back through the greenery to the village above.  Later that day we climb a hill above the city, 360 degree views.  It’s incredible.  Absolutely incredible.  Mountains painted green washing their toes in the ocean; small clusters of homes among checker-pattern rice fields below, the mountain peaks of Flores a smoky mirage across the sea to the north.  We stayed there in silence for I don’t know how long, drinking in the beauty like some half-parched men.  The rains have been good this year. Musim hujan, the rainy season, everything’s green, plentiful and good.  I reflect on the fact that I’ve only ever known musin banyak, the season of plenty, and I wonder how I would respond to the season of nothing, the dry season, musim kering.  Would I have the strength to come home to a family I can’t feed? Would I have the tenacity to head out for a day’s labour that will give me less than it takes?  How long would I last if it were taken away? Could I survive on one bowl of rice and spinach a day?  How well would I love?

Thursday 27^th of Feb. 2014

I see her almost every time I come here.  You may have met her before.  She’s the old lady selling peanuts outside the hotel gates, near the warungs, the food carts.  I call her Mrs. Lazarus.  I’ve never seen her arrive, and she’s only ever there after dark.  She sets out her empty rice sacks on the footpath, close to the motorbikes, the cars and the trucks racing by.  She’s old, so very old.  Hunched over, she builds a pyramid of peanuts, and then sets out smaller quantities, perfectly equal and perfectly aligned around the base of the pyramid.  Then she sits in the flickering light of her oil lantern and waits.  It’s like they’re old friends, the lantern and her; it belches more smoke than light, but kindly softens the deep creases and dirt on her face while she sits patiently and keeps it from loneliness.  She was there again last night; it was almost 11.  I was on the other side of the road, heading back to the hotel when I saw her.  And so I stopped, awkwardly, and pretended I was waiting for the traffic that had left a few hours ago.  I felt compelled to sit with her, take her photo, hear her story and share it with you, but that somehow all felt wrong; like I’d be exploiting her, just using her as something to write about, to be discarded once the writing was done. So I waved an awkward wave.  She returned the gesture; I crossed the road and slept an awkward sleep.  Tonight I will buy peanuts from her, maybe try sit on the kerbside.  Maybe next trip I’ll befriend the lantern and linger for a while, play some cards.  Perhaps in six months we’ll be friends enough for me to hear her story because I’m her friend, rather than because I’m chasing an interesting narrative. Maybe by then my heart will be ready.  And maybe in a year I’ll be allowed to call her nenek, grandmother.  I’d like that.