Self-reflection is one of those tools that lies somewhere in the murky waters between the oceans of good and evil.  Too much concern about self feeds ego, not enough can let arrogance grow fat.  In my wanderings through Indonesia, I sometimes find myself reflecting on the quiet (and not so quiet) messages that I’m sending at a village level whether I intend them or not; the way that I dress, the places I stay, who I smile at, the use of wrong words, the frequency and purpose of my visits. While there is no particular Mrs. Maria living lewat Waimarang, she typifies your average village mother;  hard-working, tenacious, quietly concerned for her children.  A beautiful lady with a beautiful soul.

Location: Lewat Waimarang, Eastern Sumba

The only thing for certain is that I’m not sure about Pak Bule.  When he arrives, it’s unannounced, arms and legs perched spider-like on the motorbike.  Gangly, a bit awkward, is Pak.  We’re never quite sure what he’s come for, but he gives the usual greetings in Bahasa and drinks the coffee, eats the corn that we offer.  I know he’s here for something; orang mancung, the long-nosed people never come just to visit.  Only friends do that.  Sometimes the mancung come to purchase things we shouldn’t sell; our land and our weavings, our coffee at prices we know we’ll lose money on.  But how can we to say no when the bellies of our children beg yes?  Dance Maria, dance.

He wanders around the village, looking, pointing, writing things in a little black book, pasty, red-faced and sweating.  Is help or trouble around the corner?  Only time will tell.  He smiles at the children, nods at our questions, attempts an incoherent reply, and smiles again.  He pulls out two small instruments and asks for help.  He explains my task: write the number on the screen every five minutes.  Don’t miss a five minute marker and don’t move til I come back, he says.  I write the numbers down as they change.  What will bring good to our village – high numbers or low numbers?  If only I knew; then perhaps I could change them.  But I don’t, so I write the numbers as they rise and fall, just as Pak Bule said.  Dance Maria, dance.

Pak Bule comes back, all sweat and aviation glasses, sipping bottled water, chewing biscuits our children only taste at weddings.  He’s smiling,  says it might work.  What exactly will work, I’m not sure, but there’s a rumour going around already, talk of a kabun produktif, an income-generating garden for the village. Perhaps there is hope this time.  But many mancungs come with their special instruments and little black books; many mancungs make many promises, but it’s a rare promise and an uncommon mancung that ever returns.  And always the photos, always the photos, though we’re dressed in our worst and haven’t yet washed today. By that chilli plant Maria, pretend you’re tending it, yes, no, no, not there, crouch a little lower, yes, that’s it, and smiling, not looking at the camera, pretend I’m not here Maria, and smiling, ah, yes.  Perfect.  That’s good. One more. The donors will like this.  Dance Maria, dance.

But perhaps this mancung is different.  A facilitator comes a few months later and works with us to set up the kabun productif.  We build fences, pull rocks, trees and roots, plant seeds, fetch water, learn new farming methods, rising well before the sun to complete the extra work.  The garden slowly grows and begins to bear fruit, we harvest it and share the small income between us; the children might wear shoes this year.

Pak Bule returns.  The kabun is nearly empty at present.  He wanders up and down the empty beds, stops often and wipes the sweat from his sun-burned forehead.  He repeatedly says ‘this is good’, he nods, he smiles, he shakes everyone’s hand.  He treats us with respect, but yet he asks us to have the garden full by April. How can he do this?  Does he not know that between here and April stands acres of corn that want tending and harvesting?  Does he not know that the plants he suggests will rot in the ground?  His heart is good, but his mind is sometimes lacking.  We nod, yes, Pak Bule, we will do this.  Dance Maria, dance.

Oh Pak Bule, you’re a good-hearted man, but would you listen before you speak; would you ask before you direct; would you be shaped by us as we are shaped by you, will you sit at our feet as we sit at yours?  Must this be a one way street, another railroad to mancung goals, and the horrid depot of ego? Are we just another of your dancing bears?

I dream of a day when my feet will move without obligation, without weight or fear or hesitation.  A day when they can dance with joy unshackled, when they are lifted by the knowledge of enough food should crops fail, when they tap to the rhythm of my children playing full-bellied and schooled, when my feet cannot help but lift the dust with the skip of an inward smile, as they twirl and dance and sing with the fluidity that only freedom permits.

Which dance lesson will this garden be Pak Bule?

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Maria, your paintbrush follows only the truest of lines.  Forgive those patches of black and the grey; help me bring life and colour to those darker sections of my life’s canvas.  And may you dance Maria, may you soon dance to the tune of your own joyful making, for this too is the desire of my heart and the colour beneath my skin.  In this we are brother and sister.  Look closely, Maria, for though that pigment may be hard to see at times, it lies there deep beneath the camouflage of aviators and those spider-like arrivals.

May you dance one day soon Maria, may you dance as you do in your dreams.

Dance Maria, dance.

Maranatha.