Indonesia (Again): Beyond Bali (page 2)
After two delicious days at a tranquil beach, I was hoping to make the return trip to my lodgings via the same free-wheeling mini-bus that had taken me there. But as I was walking up to the main road, I heard a beep and a "Hey, Michael!" A small bus pulled alongside me in the middle of the jungle road and I was invited inside. It seems one of the gang of 10 inside knew I was staying in Moni, and the family matriarch offered to drop me at my homestay as they crossed the island enroute to their home 3 hours away. I settled in with the Indonesian Partridge Family, a happy gaggle of aunts, uncles, and smiling kids. I gushed thanks for making my life easier. Telling them I was from America elicited an enthusiastic show of "America!" I can't say I've ever had a warmer welcome.
The matriarch told me we must make a quick stop, and I offered the universal "fine by me" signal. We stopped in a small mountain village and one of the girls skipped into the roadside store to buy candles--for when the power shuts off, I thought, as it frequently does in the hills. We drove to a home and disembarked whereupon the matriarch and her sister approached an above-ground ceramic-tiled tomb, a common burial practice in the villages of Flores Island. It's a way of keeping departed loved ones literally close, and many homes have elaborate and beautiful tombs in their front yards. The candles were ignited and carefully placed on the points of the cross inlaid on the tile, and the sisters each had a few moments of silent thought. "I grew up here," the matriarch said, gesturing towards the house. "My grandmother, Maria, she's in there." She gestured again, toward the elegant illuminated shrine. Following a short but poignant remembrance, the soaking rains poured down and I and the entire family, giggling, dashed our way through the downpour to the safety of the magic bus.
The matriarch told me we must make a quick stop, and I offered the universal "fine by me" signal. We stopped in a small mountain village and one of the girls skipped into the roadside store to buy candles--for when the power shuts off, I thought, as it frequently does in the hills. We drove to a home and disembarked whereupon the matriarch and her sister approached an above-ground ceramic-tiled tomb, a common burial practice in the villages of Flores Island. It's a way of keeping departed loved ones literally close, and many homes have elaborate and beautiful tombs in their front yards. The candles were ignited and carefully placed on the points of the cross inlaid on the tile, and the sisters each had a few moments of silent thought. "I grew up here," the matriarch said, gesturing towards the house. "My grandmother, Maria, she's in there." She gestured again, toward the elegant illuminated shrine. Following a short but poignant remembrance, the soaking rains poured down and I and the entire family, giggling, dashed our way through the downpour to the safety of the magic bus.
