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Grand finale

I intended to shut down this rubbish in January 2009 having given my 2 fans the opportunity for a last gloat at my misfortunes but changed my mind as I decided to return in April to gain my MUS degree. Master of Unmitigated Suffering for those too stupid to guess. However, the final disaster struck just a week before I was due to fly back. Malaria caught up on me and I ended up in hospital for over a week. Now, I had religiously been taking Lariam every week for the last 2 years plus 2 weeks either side. How did the mossies get past the defences? After assembling my 3 brain cells (a recount says there are only 2) I remember that for the week I was in Flores Hospital with Amoebic dysentery I was to all intents and purposes ‘out of it’. That must explain it as I doubt the medics were that interested in such an unimportant thing as malaria prevention whilst dealing with the more important business of stopping me disappearing down the nearest toilet in one slushy mess. (see much earlier entry around March 2007). So there you have it folks, problem solved. For various reasons, no least of which is cowardice I have decided not to return as I ask myself, will a MUS get me a job anyway? I could apply for job as a politician but who would believe me. On the other hand who believes anything a politician says so perhaps I am the ideal candidate. I’m dishonest, two faced, sincerely insincere, in it for what I can get and have absolutely no integrity whatsoever. Vote for me and I will screw you all rotten. Vote for Mick is my rallying call. Not that I have no respect for politicians, heaven forbid. Back to reality, or my version of it. If you go to Flores, enjoy, take your Lariam and say hello for me. Drink loads of fluids (beer is best), get used to rice, watch the traffic (preferably from the roadside rather than as part of it), take time to listen to the local choirs, they really are beautiful to hear, take earplugs for rest of the racket, try not to fall over a cliff, down a ravine or get buried under a landslide and run if the earth shakes. You are safe from tsunamis in Ende although there is a danger an earthquake will roll you into the sea so no change there then. If we win the lottery we will return. Otherwise it was all worth it, an experience not to have missed and I recommend it to all those with as many brains cells as I. Each of my fans has a brain cell each so together that might share the experience. If you agree to this assignment press HERE otherwise this will self destruct in 3 months. Out forever, MIKET, OG1, MUS (failed)

Last things, maybe!

Last missive from the Island Paradise of Flores.

Second visit to see the Komodo dragons on Rinca Island with C and R. C because this is the last chance to see them before we leave for the UK, R as a scouting visit before his family visit him at Christmas. Food, as always at the Gardena Hotel in Labuan Bajo, excellent and in terms of Ende, dirt cheap. It is within 5 minutes of the harbours and hiring a boat to the Island is easy and cheap if you avoid the tourist shops.

Return trip to Ende an experience never to be repeated. OK until Ruteng where we were meant to swap buses. Something went wrong in the translation and we found ourselves on a travel bus (a USV) along with various locals. First up, the family behind us were not good travelers (given the zig zaggy roads throughout Flores it always surprises me that Indonesians are not good travelers) and were constantly throwing up into the travel sick bags provided as standard. Eventually their supply was used up so the rest of the group passed theirs back down the line. Mum, a loud mouthed know it all, issued orders, between vomiting, to her family and felt the need to spit out of the window at intervals between using the plastic bag and barking orders. More by luck than judgment no one in front was a recipient of stomach contents no longer required by its owner.

Second, the driver, possibly out of despair at the stench and noise of expelled food(!) decided to drown his sorrows by turning the music system on. I say music with some caution as it was essentially ear shattering bass that made our bodies vibrate in sympathy with the beat. If there was any music underneath this racket I failed to hear it but then I had been deafened anyway so am in no position to really comment.

Third, the driver, probably by now completely demented by our lovely family decided to speed up to reduce the time of his torment. Flores roads are not straight. In fact one particular road is known as the road of the thousand bends (some dispute this as some say there are only 774 bends, but a thousand seems a reasonable figure to start negotiations). Whatever, we  SPEED UP. So now we are being thrown about the vehicle which of course is exactly what the family needed. You can guess the consequences of this so enough said. The three us decide a public prayer meeting would be a good idea to confess our sins as it seems unlikely we will survive. For those that like rally driving all I can say is, try it with 12 people crammed into a seven sweater mobile that has four bald tires, on a road surface wet and slimy from crushed banana leaves mixed with rain (the rainy season has started early) with vertical drops into oblivion on one side and towering volcanic walls on the other. Me, I will watch it on the telly and smile indulgently.

Four, a cockerel brought on board by a travelling priest has also decided enough is enough and starts to crow. Now Indonesian cockerels have absolutely no sense of time and start up for no apparent reason other than to join in with the normal mayhem that is all part of living here. But I decide it is not joining in but is chicken talk for LET ME OUT.

Thirteen hours after leaving Labuan Bajo we arrive back at Ende. But the fun (!) is not over. The driver believing   the in car entertainment to be extra tries and succeeds in charging us more than the going rate. We collectively agree discretion is the better part of valor and fork out the necessary. Not a great deal more than originally agreed and we are grateful to have survived so we part on let us just say, **** terms.

M, my Indonesian partner here (the guy I work for) and never one to miss a chance suggested we pay one more trip to Solor before leaving. We say it is too close to leaving, we know if the wind gets up (above force 3) the boat cannot get back to the mainland from the Island and we have no intention of not getting to Bali on time for our UK departure flight. Plus, my toe is still giving twitches’ and I would actually rather like to leave Indonesia without the aid of crutches or wheelchair assistance.  But not to be out maneuvered he has arranged one more week of full time I.T training to a group of 16 new kopdit employees. Oh joy, and to cap my happiness he has arranged a giant farewell do for me  on the 18^th when the board, managers, students and uncle tom cobly and all will speak to me in a language I still fail to understand after two years. People who know me will understand how much pleasure (not) that will give me. But they mean well, I’ve actually rather enjoyed my nightmare here and the return to sanity for both of us is going to be a shock. Can you imagine that traffic lights have a purpose beyond pretty patterns?  Shops that have real stuff you can buy, politicians that genuinely believe that they are doing a good job (OK, that may be a step to far so apologies to any that actually are doing a good job although if you know of one send me their name and I will send my condolences to them [the Politian dumbo, not to you])

For OG fans (come on own up, you know who you are) OG3 has departed these shores. He was headhunted by a giant drug company with an offer he couldn’t refuse so was demoted to XOG (work it out for your selves). We had identified a replacement but decided he was too young  (32 in fact) but are pondering whether to offer him an OG apprenticeship as he is definitely showing great promise. However, his wife R is such a lovely lady that she automatically disqualifies him on those grounds alone. Sorry A, find a partner more miserable and certainly one less enthusiastic about life.

I seem to remember that I ended a previous missive by saying I would not have missed it for all the tea in China.  Just to maintain my reputation as  OG1, I lied!

BOGS, WOGS and other silly stuff

Almost at the end now of my tour now. My wife has still to see the coloured lakes just an hour from here but as they are in the cloud layer it has been difficult to see them as the weather is anything but settled. Komodo dragons are also on her list but that we can do on the way back to Bali for our UK return flight.

 

At the first volunteer conference back in 2007 ‘P’ and I joined forces to take part in a quiz event. Needing a name we decided the ‘Old Gits’ would be an appropriate name for our team. If you are British the word git has its own meaning and this blog helps to perpetuate it and bring it some sort of respectability (long since abandoned). Thus, we formed an adhoc group of 2 and refer to each other in less than endearing terms when sms’ing or emailing each other as OG1 or OG2.

 

Yesterday I received an email from another volunteer entreating me to send him information I do not and have no intention of giving him due to pressure of work. One of the phrases he used was ‘utterly bone idle ones who can't be bothered’. Now I of course took great offence at this and fired of a snotty email to him (are you reading this ‘G’?). His reply amused me so much that after consulting with ‘P’ we decided to offer ‘G’ the exalted status of OG3. Now, to be an OG certain conditions have to be met and not all people are able to meet those very stringent requirements.

 

1 – you have to be miserable most of the time

2 – you need to be unsociable

3 - you need to moan a lot

4 – a sense of humour is not appreciated

Plus other senseless stuff.

 

An unwritten rule is that beer is always your first priority (s**t, to late I’ve written it down.

 

To cut a boring story short ‘G’ ungracefully accepted and we are now a group of 3. We are now urgently reviewing entry requirements as the drink bill is mounting. However, all applications are immediately rejected as they obviously transgress rule 2. But following a meeting of the BOG (Board of Old Gits) it has been determined that as we are very open to bribery any offer of large amounts of free beer may well lead to honorary membership. The WOG amongst us (Wife of Old Git) promised to be as difficult as possible about cooking and was immediately offered a quiet night in away from friends.

 

Naturally, anyone under the age of 45 is likely to be too young as they will not have gained sufficient experience in the hardships of life and will be still hoping for better things(what fools).

 

Applications accompanied by offers of free beer for life to the writer are invited (do not tell OG2 or OG3 as they will get jealous). No guarantees of acceptance as I am still learning how to drink out of wet glasses so need a lot of practice before deciding the free beer is OK.

Four days in reality

The wedding of the year took place on Solor on the 11^th July 2008, also our 44^th anniversary, and P M invited us to witness the event. His sister was getting married and this is my account of the whole adventure.

We set off on our journey on Tuesday morning by bus. Yes I know some of you know how I feel about buses, but hey we all have to do it at least once so bus it was. We were meant to leave at 7 a.m. and we are outside Puskopditben’s gate waiting for it to arrive. It came on time but went sailing past! Ombie and Yohanes our local helpers went charging off down the hill to call it back. Much amusement by all concerned, including the bus driver, who reversed back up the hill to collect us. Off we go, stopping at various places on the way to collect other passengers. We reach the terminal outside Ende and stop. No idea why as no one else boarded but at 8 we finally(?) set off to Maumere. But wait, 20 minutes up the road the driver gets a call on his mobile and back we go to the terminal to collect a straggler, a young girl of around 18 or 19. At 8:30 we start our journey, one and half hour late.

An hour out of Maumere we stop at some road works to allow a truck coming from the opposite direction to pass. He can’t as our side is blocked by a giant tarmac machine and a pile of boulders on his side prevents him from moving out onto the edge of the road. Much discussion later the road workers decide the only option is to move the tarmac machine. But wait, the starter battery is being used by the air compressor. Someone goes off to find a spanner to remove the battery cables. He returns and does the business but now the battery won’t come out the hole in the compressor. It went in so it must come out. After struggling for some minutes he removes the battery and carts it off to the tarmac layer. But then someone remembers the cables have to be moved as well so more shuffling about as they are removed and reconnected. The moment of truth. The driver attempts to fire up his engine but not a peep from the starter motor. More head shaking and probably sucking of the teeth as they discuss how to solve this one. Heads peer into the battery compartment, arms wave about and eventually there is a giant puff of dirty black smoke and yippee, we have lift off. The machine, tortoise like, moves a massive 5 feet, the truck eases by and we are off at last.

We arrive in Larantuka at 18:30 hours or 6:30 p.m. for the uninitiated. The driver, Alfred, who speaks rather more English than I speak Bahasa Indonesian delivers us to Hotel Tresna where he finds us a room. We establish where to eat and go to Nirwana (the only place in town apart from warungs which I refuse to use - I do have some standards). The roads and paths are somewhat better and cleaner than in Ende and bliss, no blaring Bemos. On the pitch black way back to the Tresna I am careful that Christine doesn’t fall down a hole so take the inside whilst she braves the traffic. We are talking and suddenly my world disappears and I find myself speaking to her navel. I have fallen (stepped into?) a hole, a meter square and just as deep. I am now standing in something wet and slippery and I remember the open sewers I was familiar with in Saudi Arabia. I think ‘ Oh s**t’ (or words to that effect), as I haul myself out of the hole. 5 days later I am still hobbling about with a swollen big toe to the amusement of everyone I recount my story to. AND YOU CAN STOP LAUGHING AS WELL, IT’S NOT FUNNY.

Morning arrives and we are met by P M who escorts us to the ferry. He refuses to allow me to carry any bags so I trail along, being brave about my swollen toe, trying to look as if I am not part of his party. We board the ferry. But wait, we are hemmed in by another ferry at the sharp end and by a ramp at the blunt end. The Captain, and I use that term somewhat loosely, now engages some of the passengers down in the steerage cabin hold to give the boat a shove off the jetty. A few arms are broken, heads crushed between the ferry hull and the concrete jetty and eventually, after numerous oohs and ahhs by the more fortunate of us to be witness to the circus, we sail out into the wide blue sea. At this point I think, do I really want to be here? I look for the life jackets of which there are none, heave an old lady from her place by an open port hole so that in the event of the inevitable disaster I can escape (sod the woman and children first) and settle down to die, either by drowning or by gangrene of the big toe.

An hour later we arrive at Solor jetty. Everyone piles off, occasionally being stopped as a goat (later to be part of our wedding feast) is cajoled off and the crew wrestle a motorbike onto the landing. We are instantly surrounded by ‘you want ojek mister?’ entreaties but we wave them aside and stand on a concrete platform waiting for our next move. A few minutes pass and a beaten up village truck rumbles and clatters into sight and jolts to halt. Turning to C I joke, ‘our transport has arrived’. She looks at me as if I have finally lost my senses, not that I had many to start with. But lo and behold  P M ushers us over and says ‘my brother has come to pick us up’. Another ambition is about to be achieved. We are offered the posh seats, next to the driver, everyone else clambers in the back, including the old lady I shoved aside on the ferry, a few sacks of rice are loaded, some goats, including the unfortunate soon to be makan creature and other miscellaneous odds and end and we move noisily off. The road is crushed stone, of which the entire Island is comprised and we arrive at the village some 10 bone crushing minutes later. My toe has resigned itself to everlasting agony but I cannot decide whether that hurts more than my rear end which has been under constant attack by the steel seat chassis which years ago ceased pretending to be a seat and metamorphosed into a  cruel and vindictive instrument of torture. Plus, I am now deaf from the unsilenced engine that is no longer an engine, rather a bag of bits roughly resembling one.

We disembark from our limousine and P M escorts us to our accommodation for the next few days. It is constructed of bamboo and timber and the first house he built. His brother now lives in it along with various other souls that might be visiting. We share it with at least six others but never really sure how many as people arrive, sleep and depart at odd times in the day. In preparation of our visit and out of sympathy with our western sensibilities he has installed 2 western toilets and fixed a mossie net over our bed. However, C attracts mossies wherever we go and her arms are soon covered in bites. They avoid me either because they don’t like my smell or the fear of instant death is greater than their love for blood.

We take a walk around the village which stands next to the beach. Within minutes we are accompanied by many children so I oblige and take the expected photos.

Now Ende is not exactly Singapore but until we arrived in Solor we considered Ende a place of poverty. But on Solor poverty takes on a different meaning entirely. Given the difficult terrain, its dryness, the rock strewn landscape, the trees and shrubs struggling to survive in this hostile environment why, one asks, do people choose to live here. Water is a constant problem and the ground is more rock than soil. P M explains as he points to a place barely discernable across the bay that as a young child he and his father would walk four hours to go there every morning simply to scratch for food and tend whatever few crops would grow there. At 2 they had to leave to get back before dark otherwise they would have to camp out for the night. He also recounted the 3 year famine his family survived when no rain fell at all and they survived by chewing tree bark and literally scratching in the ground for anything vaguely edible. On one occasion he remembers being beaten for taking some food meant for his sister but said he was so hungry it didn’t seem fair to him at the time for being beaten when he was so hungry. This from a man so generous that it is truly humbling to know him. Today, the Islanders still live essentially from hand to mouth and somehow retain both their dignity and their friendliness’ to relatively rich, white Europeans.  The answer to ‘why live here?’ is very simple, to those that are born here it is home.

The following morning, Thursday, we are up at 5 to the sound of music announcing the wedding day has begun. Someone has also located a tannoy system and is acting as master of ceremonies. At 6 we breakfast and at 8 we walk to the community  hall for the wedding Mass. The happy couple walk from P M’s new house (2 years in the building with 3 to go) accompanied by local musicians, dancers, singers and villagers leading them on there way.

The Mass and wedding service is some two and a half hours long followed by a vote of thanks by P M for all the help by the villagers in the wedding preparations. But P M is P M and I know what is coming next. He launches into a marketing speech about the importance of Ko-operasi Kredit and how learning to save can and does lead to a better economic society. Given he started a Ko-op group on Solor some seven years ago which has grown to a membership of 200 with other villages clamouring to join his group I think he is entitled to his speech. We depart at eleven for another breakfast, the now wedded couple accompanied back to the house by the same group that lead them to the community hall. There I meet his father and we have a very interesting conversation about what I’m not sure as I speak three words of Bahasa Indonesian and his English extends to ‘where you from’. A case of equal linguistic abilities so we get on like a house on fire. (my Bahasa Indonesian is ‘where’s the beer?’ (Ok four words for the pedantic)

At five we now move down to the meeting hall which all the villagers, some 600, have dressed and decorated and the reception begins. This will go on till 5.00am the next morning. We leave at around 11:00pm with P M as the festivities start to begin in earnest. He has no wish to jig around anymore than we do (remember the toe) so we say our goodbyes and return to our room. We are tired so thankfully flop into bed. But, others are now leaving, some of whom are staying where we are and when they come in they start a small private party of their own. The walls are paper thin and lined with pages from the Pos Kupang so every word and comment is very clear. Not the Pos Kupang dumbo, the party goers. We abandon sleep and resign ourselves to a disturbed night. At 2 a.m. the limousine (AKA Mitsubishi COLT diesel farm truck) parked outside our wall starts up and takes others back, I assume, to their homes – we are laughing now albeit somewhat hysterically.

At 5.00am  the survivors, musicians, dancers and any hardy souls with life remaining accompany the married couple back to P M’s house where the formality of him handing over his sister to her new husband is made; they are led to the marriage chamber (decorated throughout in white satin and flowers) and the day has ended.

At 6.00am we are up and breakfasting. Our ferry back to the mainland is at 7:30 and the limo returns from wherever to take us to the port or should I say collection of ramshackle buildings. Wedding guests are also with us but where is the goat? Of course, in my stomach, or some of it anyway.

At Larantuka we are met by our mobile driver, Frans. The plan is to make it to Maumere, stay overnight , stop at Kelimutu in the morning and reach Ende by Saturday afternoon. But, we are both dog tired, my gangrenous toe will not suffer a walk up a b mountain to see a patch of funny coloured water so we catch a quick lunch with Peter, Geoff and JPA staff in Maumere (many thanks for their hospitality) and move straight on to Ende. Ha, that’s the plan anyway. As with all things Indonesian planning is at the bottom of the heap and out of sight. We reach Moni on schedule and expect to reach Ende in just over an hour. The rain starts as night falls. Drizzle at first then rain. The road from Moni to Ende is under constant construction, four bridges have collapsed since I arrived almost two years ago and the road is slippy but we have a careful driver.

Then the fog, as thick as I have seen smog in the UK, but not since the sixties when smoke control was introduced, comes down and replaces the rain. Things are now serious. There are quite big drops on one side of the road or other and there are no road markings. Not that you could see them even if there were any. We slow to half a klik an hour. The driver tails another car, we sigh with relief. If his lights suddenly disappear we will know he has gone over the cliff and we can stop in time (remember the old lady, I’m the original coward). The fog dissipates and we proceed apace. Not before C and I clap and cheer Frans for a job well done through the fog.  He acknowledges our applause with a grateful sigh.  At Ende money changes hands and we are home at last.

I am on the last few months of my time here, I had no plans to visit Larantuka, travel by bus or by village truck, visit Solor  and being an ex-marine engineer who once worked on North Sea oil rig boats ferries are the least of my must dos. In four days we did all that and this missive has been a thank you to P M for his kindness, consideration and being given the privilege of being able to visit his home, meet his family and being welcomed into his life. Thank you P M, we would not have missed it for all the tea in China.

Trip out?

Almost since the day I arrived the guy I work with here has said I must visit his home Island. A place called Solor to the East of Flores. However, communications are difficult and everything is expensive. He is building a house there for his family and some of the materials he transports there from Ende, not the cheapest place but cheaper than Solor. This includes carrying doors made by the famous carpenter to the rear of my original room. Some of you may remember the noise I commented on early in this blog. The doors are carried on a public bus along with various livestock and other odds and ends. To get to Solor from here means a bus to Larantuka, then a ferry(?), then more public transport.

 

This week he announced he had made arrangements for us to visit his home there. No problem as you learn to roll with it. However, we were in some confusion as to when. Was it Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday? We received various  answers so were no nearer understanding when. This morning, at breakfast, he turns up clutching a bus ticket and a note, barely readable with  the name of a hotel(?) written on it. We leave Tuesday morning at 6’ish and arrive Larantuka around the evening time, time indeterminate as the bus will stop for passengers to throw up as they are not good travellers, diversions to pickup or deliver livestock, building materials, foodstuffs, the odd stop for people to do a bit of shopping in any of the roadside markets we pass on the way and anything else that either the driver or a passenger wants to do. We are looking forward to the whole event as an adventure, probably never to be repeated. The ? hotel may be a bivouac or actually contain what looks like a bed and perhaps water. We shall see. More next week after our return.

 

In the meantime word is out that I am leaving Paradise (as our new Gyny volunteer fondly refers to Ende) and SMS’s are arriving from all over Indonesia asking for I.T. advice before I depart these shores. This includes Indonesia people I have never met as well as other volunteers. A colleague in Sumatra is working on her employer to employ me and suddenly I am receiving invitations to visit places I have to look up on the map. However, in October I leave for pastures anew. Where, remains to be seen. Some dirty, stinking rat hole no one has heard of I have no doubt but as a way of spending early retirement it can not be beaten. The one advantage of being vaguely knowledgeable about I.T. is that electricity is, almost guaranteed, so a mud hut in the middle of desert, forest, or some other wonderful location is essentially ruled out. Six or so months back in the UK catching up with the latest developments, boring friends (they won’t be afterwards) and relatives (they have to be polite) with all the horror stories I can manufacture, showing endless photos only really interesting to me and mine, getting as much free beer as I can persuade others to buy me and I will want to return to reality.  Reality is where you find it and where you hang your hat at night. Yeh, I know, only baldy bonces need hats. Or so I’m told.

Short intermission

Small advert.

I interrupt this service for a short announcement. I will be leaving in October for pastures new (he said, hopefully) and VSO is looking to replace me (some chance of that, I am irreplaceable) but nevertheless...

If you are interested in taking over from me, but have a mix of finance, banking, customer service, plus a strong interest in I.T. and are daft enough to want to see for yourself what all this rubbish is really about go to http://www.vso.org.uk/volunteering/ and apply. Only the best get through so if are rubbish (be honest now, the truth will out) stop reading now. Good luck.

Normal service, if you can call it that will now be resumed.

Use of mobiles