patmos

We climb the hill, and pass a goat hanging in a tree.  My occipital lobe (somewhere in the back of my head) tells me goats shouldn’t be this acrobatic.  We greet the two butchers and their 5-year-old apprentices; this is home-schooling, rural Sumba style.  There’s a most handsome fellow tied to a nearby tree, a rooster I believe, and he’s making lunges at his rope.  He eyes me with a hopeful glance, but I apologetically shake my head.  Sorry pal.  No chance.

We march on up towards the spring.  There’s a clearing to the left where a temporary kitchen has been dug into the side of the hill.  A number of women stirring large blackened pots over open fire, gentle chatter and occasional laughter.  Some young girls disappear into the scrub and return later bearing yam-like goodies.  A little higher, to the right of the track we pass a large woven mat which is empty but commands a view of the valley below.

We keep climbing.  There’s a pile of sand that looks out of place on a clay mountain, a pile of rocks further up, then a pad where cement is being mixed by hand, just across the way from our quarry; the spring box header tank.  They’ll capture the spring further up, pipe it down to here, then send it onwards to the village below.

They’ve dug the header tank into the side of the hill, shovel free. Shovels just clag up with the clay.  It’s all sticks and bare hands here.  No other way really. Three cubic meters of tree roots and rocks glued together.  It seems it can’t be that hard; there’s too much laughter for this type of work.  But there’s plenty of sweat and grunting too, plenty of cigarettes and steaming coffee brought up from the camp kitchen below, plenty of guttural, soft-edged Bahasa Sumba, local dialect.   I squat and take it all in.

Later they invite us to share a sumptuous meal on the mat, the youngest 7 months old, the oldest doesn’t remember his age: atas lima puluh, somewhere upwards from fifty.  Between sips of goat soup, bites of roast chicken and their particular sambal – a green chilli and salt mix – I reflect on what’s taking place here.  Technically it’s an Amos Aid project.  But hardly.  We’d call it what – a community gathering?  A feast?  Hard labour? Family reunion?  I’m not sure. Perhaps all of them.

Later we leave, and I pass what remains of my arborist friend the goat. My occipital lobe has had a good workout today.  I’ve seen a few things I thought weren’t possible.  Acrobatic goats and a community that thrives, laughs and celebrates when they face a mountain of gelatinous roots and rocks.  How do they do that?

Teach me, dear friends.

It’s a well-entrenched tradition now.  There’s a small bottle of whiskey, a handshake, enquiries about one another’s family, and an agreement to share dinner together that night.  He’s Pak Rozali, Director of TLM, the micro-finance organisation I work with in Kupang, West Timor. 30,000 clients, 300 staff across five islands, a few adopted kids, known to take stragglers and strugglers under his wing, he wears thick-rimmed glasses, loves badminton and a good belly laugh.

He says he’ll pick me up at 6pm, jam karet, rubber time; we don’t take clocks too seriously here.  Pak asks what I’d like for dinner; where to go.  We both know the answer, but it’s a pleasantry we enjoy.  It’s always pasar malam; the night markets.  We start beer negotiations through the driver; Pak Rozali tells him to stop and grab four large Bintangs; I say I’m not up for beer tonight; he reduces the order to two; I offer one small can; Om Jano (‘Ya-no’) returns with four cans; two each.  Iya, saya bisa.  That I can do.

We drive past the bemo corner where the brightly coloured public transport vans are parked, music blaring, all mohawks, tattoos and cigarettes; these boys are a sub-culture in Kupang, have their own language, stuff like that.  We pass ‘lover’s corner’, where young couples purchase barbequed corn and say sweet things over the sound of waves lapping the shore.  The pasar malam is down a side road from here; we park and weave our way towards the lights, the smoke, the smells.  I’m smiling already.

The stall holders wheel their brightly coloured carts to this side road every evening, set up camp, and put their delicious wares on display.  Fluorescent lights are strung up, they dance and dip whenever their patron – the generator – coughs or decides to take a break.  There’s everything here: classic dishes – nasi goreng, mei goreng, gado-gado and some others that have taken my fancy: ikan bakar, udang asam, martabak – barbequed fish, sour prawns, and an omelette-pastry piece of mastery.  We wander up the hill, settle on ikan bakar.  There’s some discussion of price as we choose our fish from the numerous on display.  Agreement, a discreet nod of sorts, and we sit on chairs that complain about the weight of the bule, threaten to faint.

We chat for a while in the semi-darkness, maybe sip a freshly squeezed juice, while we wait for our street chef to work her genius.  Bowls of steaming rice, a small dish of water, a plate with a few vegies and some sambal. Cutlery banned, we dig in.  We’re halfway through the udang asam when a guy selling pirated cds puts his marketing foot forward and cranks a few tunes.  Perhaps sales have been down this month.  His competition over the way follows suit, so we laugh, sit in the cacophony and flick between ikan, udang and beer.  Just delicious.  Stunning.  I adjust my chair – he’s feigning illness in one leg – and reach for more ikan.

The generator splutters, our musical salesman’s show shuts down, and he gives it a rest for a while.  Bellies full, we push our plates away and chew toothpicks.  We chat, Bahasa, English.  We sit in silence.  It doesn’t matter.  It’s enak, delicious either way.  No need for dessert.  We soak it up; time kind of fades til my chair collapses (on cue, all part of the routine), and I’m brought back to reality.  We nod at each other, haggle over who’ll pay the bill, and wander back into the darkness home.

Standard fare in Kupang perhaps, the old pasar malam.  Maybe it’s the ordinariness that makes it so inviting.  I can’t put my finger on its secret ingredient.

I hope I never do.

I started some studies this year in community development, and am currently researching an assignment on ‘the potential contribution of lament in community development.’  It’s raining outside, perhaps a little inside too, and this emerged in the mix:

As I attempt a cheap plastic plaster

On the mountainous boil of the poor,

I cry out “How long O my God,

Will you lay there, asleep, silent, snore?”

Then I remember the ways

You’ve acted times past,

And I glance again in their eyes.

Seeing you, silently pleading with me,

My question’s U-turn realise.

Your arms still embracing,

Your hand on my shoulder,

We start on the boil once more.

I don’t know how we’ll do it,

Or how, when it’ll end,

But it’s a plaster I heard you ask for.

I cast a quick eye over her.  She’s heavily pregnant and deeply worried.  Her eldest, three days out from his fourth birthday, has a fever, and seems sullen, lethargic.  It’s a warm day, like any here; humid, 30-something.  I put my hand on his forehead and feel the heat radiating.  Fever, fever, fever.  I’m racking my brains trying to think what to do.  Fevers.  What do we do for fevers.  I catch the mother’s eye again, they tell me things her mouth won’t.  I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing.  Malaria.  Dengue.  Infection.  There’s mosquitos buzzing around, we swat them in the tropical heat.  This is no place for a fever.  I shrug my shoulders, feel the kid’s forehead again.  What do we do?  Bring him in, wait it out?  If it’s serious, malaria, dengue, you want to move on it fast.  I give another helpless shrug, and hope it helps.  It doesn’t.  She’s still worried for her child, and it’s infectious.  I’m getting worried too.  It’s different this time.  She’s my wife; it’s my boy.  Mereka ikut, they came with me this trip.

I often see the ravages of illness and disease here; cataracts, infections, twisted limbs, racking coughs, bloated bellies.  This is a place where disease spreads quickly, urged on by the humidity, stagnant water, and poor sanitation.  Barely a trip goes by without hearing of another death, seeing another grave beside a family home; too small and too clean, too new to be anything but the marker of yet another childhood tragedy.  Sometimes I try to help; bandage something up, share something from my first aid kit; but it’s band-aids on a mountainous boil.  And so something inside me hopes that somehow it’s different for them; that death and pain, that sickness and disease don’t hurt the poor as much; that somehow they can shrug it off; that they’re used to it, that they don’t feel the worry and grief.

Elijah’s fever passed with little ado on Wednesday morning.  We had a few options if his fever had gotten worse: a quick flight home, access to the best medical care, all covered by travel insurance.  But what happens to those other mothers whose hands are on their sick children’s foreheads?  What do they do when the fever gets worse, and doesn’t pass on Wednesday morning?  What do they do when they have no money, no transport, no access to good medical care, no health insurance?

They bury their children in another grave beside the family home, too small and too clean, too new for the ragged, tired surrounds.  And they weep.  They weep bitter, painful, heart-wrenching tears; for a mother’s love is not affected by her skin colour or her bank account.

He rambles.  Be warned.

It’s like they’ve joined forces against us; the sun searching out any uncovered skin so it might leave it’s searing mark; the road attempting to untie ligaments through bone jarring and rattling whatever it can; the dust by slowly filling lungs, throats and eyes; that tree root out the back of Pedarro stopping our bike well before we’d planned, throwing me forward into the broad back of Gamma, agricultural expert and TLM village facilitator.  We laugh, two oversize blokes on an undersized bike.  The road turns into a goat track, we press on til the bike does a Balaam’s donkey and refuses to go any further.  We park up and walk.  It’s so dry this time of year; so dry.  The eroded mountains, bald, with shoulders sagging, seem to be giving up on life. Their tree friends were either kidnapped and murdered some time ago, the grass died, and so the mountains stand alone, tired, worn out from the periodic beatings dished out by sun, rain, wind, wind, rain, sun.  Will it ever stop?  Why keep going?  I salute their courage as we bumble past and vicariously melt with them to the valley below.

Dry leaves crunch underfoot, sweat drips, dust clings.  We clamber over rocky outcrops, push through a patch of pohon hitman, blackwood, to a small clearing on the side of a hill.  In stark contrast to the tired, thirsty landscape, we finally find our prey: a rehabilitated well: concrete, sullen and grey; ugly til you peer over the bunding to its gift below:  Water.  Clean.  Cool.  Fresh. Beautiful.  We haul a bucket up and drink deeply.  There’s no houses in sight, but an older woman appears, two empty buckets over her shoulder, one more in each hand.  We ask how far she’s come barefoot across the prickly, rocky landscape.  Tidak jauh, not far.  A 20 minute walk, just over that significant hill in the distance.  She dismisses the hill, flattens it with a sweep of her dry, bony hand and fills her buckets while we chat.  There’s 15 families that collect water from this well; some, usually women and children, walking over a kilometre to get here; before the rehab, they’d walk even further when this one dried up.

As we slowly walk back to the bike I realise just how far the community had to carry, push, pull and cajole the 20 odd well liners required for the rehabilitation.  I stop often.  My bag feels heavy.  I scull warm water, swipe sweat and complain about the heat.  Then I remember the 20 minute, 40 kg walk of silent determination that our light-framed friend at the well will make three more times today.  She is nothing short of incredible.

We visit five other wells.  At number three, Ronnie, bare chested, bare foot, barely 12, is sent scampering up a nearby palm so that we might drink the refreshing coconut water and eat the soft white flesh. Six coconuts plummet to their death before he expertly slides back to earth.  He doesn’t partake; he’s happy to see his visitors restored, the maturity and selflessness of an old man in the body of a boy.  At well number five: Martinus, not yet 10, deftly makes his way up a lontar palm, tools and baskets swinging from his narrow waist.  He expertly empties the liquid collected at the top of the palm, washes the palm-leaf basket, sets it back in its place.  He repeats the operation four times at baskets stationed throughout the treetop, then balances his way across a narrow timber a good four metres up, tools and baskets dancing behind, to another lontar.  He empties the tree of its milky contents, climbs down, and the liquid is poured into mugs for our refreshment.  It’s a little like lemonade; slightly tangy, slightly sweet, lightly carbonated.  Together with his dad, Martinus will climb 20 trees twice per day in the dry season, spend a few hours each day boiling it down to a syrup, earning the family $4.  We sit on the grave of two of his siblings who didn’t make it to five while we chat and are refreshed.  Someone’s playing music on their phone; I recognise the tune; it’s an old hymn: up from the grave he arose, with a mighty triumph o’er his foes.  I wonder how this all fits together and how old man Martinus still manages to press on, smile so easy, be so generous.  I’d have given up long ago.

On the way home I’m reflecting on how exhausted I am, and how Ricky manages to do this job day in day out, earning as much per month as I’ve spent on dinner at restaurants that make duck confit with beetroot jus.  Then we stop past a friend of Ricky’s, sit under his massive tree and try to put a dent in the sackful of mangos he’s placed before us.  One eye glazed white by a cataract, having buried his wife last year, with 7 children that want loving, feeding and schooling, I wonder why he’s giving a sackful of his crop away.  We escape into the diminishing light, darkness having extinguished the sun’s branding iron for a few humid hours, and I’m not at all convinced that I live anything close to a generous life.  A few folks who do?  A hundred-and-twelve year old Ronnie, Old man Martinus, his pint-sized sidekick and the wonderful Mr. Mango.  I can’t help but love them.

A few days in the life of a wannabe community development practitioner…

Day 1:

There’s an excitement in the air as the community huddles around the pump, newly made by a local welder in the city. A few of the older men inspect it closely, mutter a few words, nod their approval. A command is given, and the pile of pipe disappears quickly to the valley below. Two young boys sharing a load; everyone’s in. An older man experienced in pipework begins threading the larger pipes, orange ratchet against brown weathered skin. The machine chatters happily through the valley as I smile at Phil; the project is finally underway. This is exciting. We learn the vocab as the pump supply line is slowly repaired: insulasi – thread tape; soc – coupling; nee – elbow. The work goes quicker than we expect; supply line complete, the pump is assembled and installed. It’s late, so we call it a day. We’re tired, haven’t eaten since breakfast, but we’re happy. If we keep up this pace tomorrow, we’ll have water to the blue tank on the hill by lunchtime. We head home as the sun sets, dip into a valley, where a young man sits wearing a santa hat. I chuckle to myself. Merry Christmas everyone. Yes sir. A beautiful sun sets over Sumba, and I reflect on the creation narrative as we bump our way over broken roads. And God saw what he had made, and indeed, it was very good.

Day 2:

The community is already working by the time we arrive. I tell Ferdy how impressed I am by the community spirit and work ethic. 5 lengths of pipe to go before testing, and it’s only 10am. Then a snag: the orange ratchet is playing up, not threading properly. We offer to assist, work out what’s wrong. The pipe’s thin; we need to go slow and gentle. Three hours later, marginal progress, and I look around. Almost everyone’s disappeared, and somehow I’m on the tools. This is not good practice at all. Not good practice at all.. I’m frustrated, tired, hungry, disappointed with myself. I retreat, sit under a tree, smash a muesli bar, and wonder how it went wrong. I’m doubting my ability to empower, I’m doubting the community’s commitment, and I doubt we’ll get the pump running today. Then a turn: sweet black coffee arrives; the community rallies, the pump is ready. Barely an hour has elapsed. The old man is given the honour of starting the pump. He pushes the waste valve with his foot. Once, twice, fourteen times, he tells us. It’s like he’s doing CPR on the pump, but I’m sceptical this thing has a heart. Things like this rarely work the first time. He slowly opens the delivery line and stops pumping with his foot. The hydram continues cycling. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I let out a WHOOP! and high-five Phil. It’s 5 o’clock, the sun is beginning to set, but there’s a renewed energy. A few small sections of pipe to go, and the thing is complete. Ten, fifteen hands work together. A few words are yelled: insulasi, snee, tarik! The pipe is joined, by morning we should see water in the blue tank up top. I feel the pipe before we enter the darkness home. It has a heart-beat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The life of a community.

Day 3:

Phil’s left. We arrive in the village, no-ones around. We’re told they’re up at the spring, where the pump is fed from.  A pipe has long needed repairing, and they’re keen to fix it while they have the tools. I’m impressed by their ownership; their desire to look after it, make it right. It seems a simple task, but four hours later I’m standing with them, knee-deep in water, mud to the shins, trying to re-thread a pipe. We repair it, it breaks a length further down. More mud, more grunting, cussing, frustration. It’s finally repaired, but no water flow. An airlock somewhere. We try to siphon it. Try again. Again. It’s three o’clock, still no water. The community decides to remove a section of pipe and divert water from a nearby channel. We fire up the pump again and wait. One hour. Two hours. My wife tries to call. Haven’t spoken with her in days. I miss her. I need her encouragement. The line crackles and spits. I can’t hear her. We hang up. We wait another hour. Still no water at the blue tank on the hill, so we head home in the dark. I’m wondering how we went from everything working to nothing working in 24 hours. I reflect on my reaction. I have no patience, little tenacity. The community didn’t seem fazed. I wonder if poverty makes you get used to setbacks. I have a restless sleep.

Day 4.

We arrive and check the tank. No water. This doesn’t make sense. It should have got here by now. We open the pipe near the top of the hill; perhaps the pipe’s blocked. I get stung by a wasp. Arg. There’s water dribbling out; we measure it. 1.5 litres per minute. 11 o’clock. We tweak the pump. 2.5 litres per minute. Time check: 12.30. Make a few more adjustments, fix a leak. 5 litres per minute. Well beyond what we need. It’s 3 o’clock. We reconnect the pipe and wait. 1 hour. A young boy rolls up, terrible ulcers on his legs. I offer to take a look at it while we wait. We ask what happened: he’s allergic to dog meat. I’m not at all convinced. We head up the hill to talk with his parents. His friends run up the hill, Dexy walks slowly. Painfully. We ask how long it’s been like this: 2 years. Dexy’s 5, maybe 6. Almost half his life he’s had this. I gently wash his legs, and take a closer look. There’s greyish skin, it’s bubbling. Open red patches, knee to ankle. The skin is hot and any pressure shoots pain up his legs. I ask why he’s not been taken to a doctor yet. Can’t afford it. It’s a week’s wages for transport and the consultation fee; that’s not including meds. A week’s wages for people who don’t earn money. Subsistence farmers. I feel something of the mother’s hopelessness; my heart is filled with love for this kid, and I’m holding back tears as I empty my first aid kit on his legs. I give instructions on basic wound cleansing, tell them to take him to a doctor if nothing changes in a week, leave the $50 it’d probably take to heal this boy. We head back, check the tank. No water. We decide to take the valve back for adjustments, remove the pump. The drive line breaks as we do; there’s water everywhere. It’s 5 o’clock. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m wet. I’m discouraged. Everything’s breaking around me, and Dexy. Little Dexy. How many other kids are out there? There’s pleading, and praying, arguing, angry and sad chats with God on the road home. Then it’s dinner, a long, difficult meeting, a quick chat with my wife. 10.30. Tomorrow we’re up at five: a 3 hour motorbike trip across the island to another airport; my ticket was cancelled yesterday.

Day 5:

I read the story about Jesus feeding 5,000 people with a few loaves and fish. Loaves and fishes. Loaves and fishes. That’s all I’ve got.  A few loaves and fishes. I give them to Jesus again, ask him to do a miracle, and re-commit to the task at hand. Tomorrow it’s Kupang, Sabu, wells, home gardens, KPM model, partnership meetings. Loaves and fishes Clint. Loaves and fishes…

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.