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Indonesia (Again): Beyond Bali (page 2)

A towering Indonesian rice terrace, resting on the side of a volcano. You can't do much better than that.
A very tall, very old traditional Indonesian house sits as the center of this small community, housing two families and hosting festivals and celebrations throughout the year. It is a breathtaking 673 years old, and all original save for the elegant roof, which is replaced every decade on average
The giant traditional house would get quite smokey during mealtime, but the tall, partially open room provided necessary venting. Years ago, meals for the entire small community would be cooked in the largest home, with the best kitchen.
Some local beach bums on holiday, full of energy and exhibiting the skills of Flipper. Koka Beach.
Pleasing waves at Koka Beach make for the best swimming this side of the Philippines! Warm, clean waters and white sandy beaches are the perfect way to spend a day near the equator, albeit nearly 10,000 miles from Ohio.
The eternal cure for what ails ya, a tranquil walk along the boards toward snorkeling in the bay or reclining on the beach.
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 setting up the candles on her grandmother's grave, located in the front yard of their home. She doesn't make it back to her childhood home often, so when she does, she stops and takes time to say hello. Many Indonesians have even more elaborate, colorful and--dare I say-- garish tombs in their yards. I liked this one. It was appropriately understated.
Thanks for the lift home, Magic Bus Matriarch! She was one of those women who was completely in charge yet executed her many duties so effortlessly. You know, kind of like our Moms growing up. Small world huh?
"Do you have Instagram?" the smiling daughter asked me during our Magic Bus ride across the island of Flores. When you're in good hands, traveling is a breeze. Those Indonesians do foreign relations better than most. And no, I don't have Instagram.
There's a large market, steps from where I’m staying, in Moni, and locals from kilometers away arrive to hawk their fruits, veggies, nuts, fish, chilis, beets, roots potato things; you get the idea. It is a hardscrabble life for many who live in the mountains of Flores, and their determination is seen in many forms.
I love local village markets like this, because they are the antithesis of the sterile, American grocery store. These have the sounds, smells and colors you find when you leave the hermetically sealed world of sanitation and food safety paranoia behind. They’re also fun because they have everything from batteries to goat milk cheese for sale. Crates of live chickens. Dried fish. Fresh fish. Salted fish. Kinda pungent fish.
A woman utilizing her territory to maximum effect as all her wares are within easy reach at the local market.
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