Where've You Been? 8: Bahowo Village, North Sulawesi, Indonesia
With these 'where've you been posts' (and sorry about the number, but all blogspot sites are banned in this fine communist country of Viet Nam, so I can't check and see where I'm up to), I try to restrict myself to just one moment out of all my time in each country, something I fear I might otherwise forget.
Only, I spent just one week in Indonesia. I'm at serious risk of forgetting ALL of it. What moment do I choose?
There's Bahowo village, (the main street is there in the photograph) a place you won't find on maps or in guidebooks. A place that's pretty wealthy by Indonesian standards, yet still one of the poorest places I've ever seen. AS my camera died in Indonesia, losing all my photos, I can't show you the families of piglets that used to run up and down this road. The bullocks pulling carts. The one hundred year old palm trees in the jungle that separate this mangrove swamp bay from the rest of north Sulawesi. The wooden huts and tin shacks, the school without paper, the washing in the creek, or the children on automatic 'hellohellohello' shouting duty who would do a double take when they'd gotten confused and yelled it at a local, not me.
I could write moments where I witnessed what I'd term serious trauma in expats who've been too far away, and too stressed, for too long, and how they themselves perceive that.
I could write about the local families, about the misreadings and cross purposes at which we communicated.
About a day out at the volcano with Aimond, and the sulphurous stink of hot lava springs.
About the Wild Dog, the rottweiler that liked to grab my arm in its jaws and knock me over, but was such a puppy underneath.
I could write about the legend of the songkok. Boy, could I tell you more than I need to have in my head about the songkok.
I could write about the foods: a serious culture shock (I rejected bat on a stick and dog, but ate a goldfish, and was in culturally induced shock for three weeks afterwards; culture defines taste A LOT - I couldn't tell you what a goldfish tastes like, I couldn't concentrate enough to know).
I could write about diving there; the action man dives whose scars are only just now, a month later, healing. The arseholes I dived with, the fear on two occasions that this was the end.
Or about Tomohon, the village in the mountains where it's not possible to buy a souvenir or a postcard. They just don't have any call to make that sort of stuff.
All sorts of things.
But I was only there one week, I can't choose. There's no one memory that's more or less 'real' than the others.
It was just good. Another place where I felt part of things, felt somehow like I had a surrogate family somewhere. And they invited me back for Christmas, though I'll be in northern Thailand. Tempting, though. Tempting.
Only, I spent just one week in Indonesia. I'm at serious risk of forgetting ALL of it. What moment do I choose?
There's Bahowo village, (the main street is there in the photograph) a place you won't find on maps or in guidebooks. A place that's pretty wealthy by Indonesian standards, yet still one of the poorest places I've ever seen. AS my camera died in Indonesia, losing all my photos, I can't show you the families of piglets that used to run up and down this road. The bullocks pulling carts. The one hundred year old palm trees in the jungle that separate this mangrove swamp bay from the rest of north Sulawesi. The wooden huts and tin shacks, the school without paper, the washing in the creek, or the children on automatic 'hellohellohello' shouting duty who would do a double take when they'd gotten confused and yelled it at a local, not me.
I could write moments where I witnessed what I'd term serious trauma in expats who've been too far away, and too stressed, for too long, and how they themselves perceive that.
I could write about the local families, about the misreadings and cross purposes at which we communicated.
About a day out at the volcano with Aimond, and the sulphurous stink of hot lava springs.
About the Wild Dog, the rottweiler that liked to grab my arm in its jaws and knock me over, but was such a puppy underneath.
I could write about the legend of the songkok. Boy, could I tell you more than I need to have in my head about the songkok.
I could write about the foods: a serious culture shock (I rejected bat on a stick and dog, but ate a goldfish, and was in culturally induced shock for three weeks afterwards; culture defines taste A LOT - I couldn't tell you what a goldfish tastes like, I couldn't concentrate enough to know).
I could write about diving there; the action man dives whose scars are only just now, a month later, healing. The arseholes I dived with, the fear on two occasions that this was the end.
Or about Tomohon, the village in the mountains where it's not possible to buy a souvenir or a postcard. They just don't have any call to make that sort of stuff.
All sorts of things.
But I was only there one week, I can't choose. There's no one memory that's more or less 'real' than the others.
It was just good. Another place where I felt part of things, felt somehow like I had a surrogate family somewhere. And they invited me back for Christmas, though I'll be in northern Thailand. Tempting, though. Tempting.
posted by Lectrice at viernes, noviembre 18, 2005
0 Advice:
Publicar un comentario
<< Home