Sumba Solace...

Music: Say Hi To Your Mom, "Ferocious Mopes"

Definitions: Bemo A small van that is almost always overcrowded--3 people hanging out the entrance door at all times, more than 4 people on top of the van, the actual coach completely stuffed with people, bags, boxes, and often times animals--that is the cheap, local form of transport to/from cities or towns in between that may or may not have attractions.

Selendang: A cloth that Sumbian men wear as a bandana or head piece; it has the shape and size of a priest's garb that drapes over his gown, like a scarf without the frayed ends.

Sorong: In Sumba the men where a woven cloth much heavier than the sorongs most people see; they fold them in a manner that allows them to use it as a large belt, for warmth, or for the lower garment (pants/shorts). Often times, they have a sheathed machete stuffed into it at the side, like a samurai.

Sirih Pinang: 3 pieces that make up a cultural/social daily habit similar to coca leaf chewing of peru/bolivia. The Sirih (stalk, man) with the Pinang (seed, woman's ovaries) and finally Kapor (white powder, semen) that when chewed together in the mouth provoke a dark red saliva that you spit out. It simbolizes the blood of their ancestors and it every time it is spit out, it's like blood returning to the earth where children will be born from it. The most noticeable affect is that it turns your gums, lips, teeth extremely red.

What can I say about Sumba??? Well, bounce along in a bemo with me in a typical day.

I throw my arms up to catch the colorful bemo that is already shouting for my fare with music blaring. I put one foot up on the step and ask how much in indonesian. I step back down with a look of disturbance and shout to him my non-negotiable price then I start to negotiate. I walk in the shape of < to where 2 people are pushing themselves apart enough for me to sit. It's dark and I'm happy just to have a seat. I glance out the door and window to the daily life that occupies streets in the tiny, lesser known island of Sumba.

With my head held down by the low roof, I crink my neck out to see 2 boys, head-to-head like playful goats as they both try to use their teeth to scrape out any or some coconut of the shell that sits on the ground. 3 ladies walk in line with an all too common package above their heads; the first has a bucket full of vegetables, the second a sack full of rice that must way 30lbs., and the last a gas canister full of water, all of them are also carrying children or another bag. A family rides by on their motorbike; mother in back holding onto a sack of rice with one hand and her daughter with the other who is sandwhiched between the mother and father, finally the baby boy is barely on the front with his hands on the bars as if to say, "my turn will come." The music, the awful music (like cumbia of S.America and Reggae mixed, the worst of two gerat genres) is rattling the windows and my skull. A group of school children see me in the bemo and start running after it; the music mutes the sound that I can only see them mouthing, "Hey Mister, Hey Mister!!!" A coconut tree next to a house dons a 12 year old girl who is climbing up to retrieve one of the immature husks of nourishment, she must be hungry. A 5 year old boy rides on top of a 1500lb water buffalo with complete freedom, the buffalo takes a liking to the child's ambition and is kind in response. I look down as if I can see the pain that is screaming from my knees being flexed for so long ("damn I'm old" I think to myself), I take a breath and sigh to release the pressure that has mounted. I look to my left and see a machete jutting out of a man's sorong, to my right is another man with machete at the ready. In fact, there are 6 men in the coach with me, all with machetes at their side, bare, dirty feet and the typical selendang...they look like guerilla fighters; I smile in solace...where else could an American be in a tiny van surrounded by men with machetes and completely free from harm? There's also a woman sitting by the door with her goods below her feet, she smiles with one tooth, bloody red. I also notice one of her toe nails has been torn away from her left foot...she's off to work and chat with her girlfriends. In her basket on her lap is a hen; next to the animal asleep is a bag full of eggs...it begs the question, which came first? The smell of chicken-shit doesn't fill the cabin, but it makes me thing of the avian flu that seemed so far removed from me as I watched and read the news from the other side of the world.

I man tries to spark up a conversation, but the flint is wet. The typical questions leave his mouth, but he's smiling (as they so often do, all their muscles straining in joy to be so lucky to see and talk to a foreigner...this makes me less petulant). Then he asks if I speak Indonesian. I think to myself, "should I open the door to another three questions, for that is all it will be or leave it be..."I lock and swallow the key and shrug with a smile, "minta ma'af saya."...sorry.

Glancing again outside is a legion of motorbikes all making their way; some with solo drivers, still others with families of 4, couples also ride their fears away. A group of men stand with boxes of crops waiting for the proper bemo to take them, each with machete, each with sirih pinang all over their lips and teeth. It reminds me of when I visited the village and how impressed the villagers were that I would chew it with them...even more impressed that I actually liked it.

I hear Kiri (pull-over) several times and people shuffle in and out, each with a newborn curiosity when the see me inside, and each with the same questions, if they can ask even those. I smile. Sumbians are much less aggressive with "Hey Mr." and are very pleasant in simple offering hello. Not nearly as many say it and when they do, I feel as if it's geniune...unlike Sumbawa.

Finally, I shout Kiri to the driver, reach over the front seat to hand him our 'negotiated' price--he smiles and says thank you mister--I hop out to a street of a market where the bargaining will begin. I'm lucky enough that I can speak enough of the language to be classified into a separate group...not quite a "tourist" and not quite a local; though when I don my selendang and smile a bloody red smile, the people smile and say to one another, "look, mister is chewing sirih pinang...he has selendang on." "Hello Mister, enak?" I wave to them and say "yes, it is tasty, thank you. Selamat Tinggal."