Daily life in Saparua

It's suddenly raining buckets outside. I sit on the front porch, and my line of sight pushes far enough through the pulpy mass of falling water to make out the road in front of the house. The surface of the blacktop looks like oil boiling in a pan, only faster. I can't hear the person sitting next to me but if he yells.

Plastic tubs have already assumed their stations inside, collecting the leakage from various weak points in the roofing. Down the street I see a little old grandma wading toward us, umbrella obstinate over her head, protecting a wide basket of fresh fried banana balanced thereupon.

As the rain began to die down I stopped writing and walked to the back courtyard to find an impromptu rain-shower party. 

I've been meaning to write a little bit about daily life here, but I'm finding it difficult. How can I take the cumulative effect of thousands of details, and somehow distill them, without too much loss, into something readable? I remember the first thing to strike me when I arrived was the blistering contrast between the life lived here by my host family and the way I'd been living during orientation, pampered at a four-star hotel. No longer do uniformed attendants delicately fold the leading shit-ticket in my private bathroom into an origami triangle while I'm out crossing the language barrier in order to describe how much milk should accompany my espresso in the conference room. Here we do not use shit-tickets, or TP, or whatever else you care to call it. Here I have learned to rely on water, soap, and a far more complex relationship with my left hand than I had ever thought to expect.

Back at the hotel, any employee chosen at random will have as many teeth as my two host parents combined.

There is a pattern to my days here. I rise at 6, get dressed, drink tea prepared by my host mom before she leaves to teach at the elementary school. I walk down the hill to the high school, teach three 80 minute classes. At break time I sit alone in the air-conditioned break room. Two of the students, always girls, will shyly enter the room carrying tea and bread or cakes. They ask permission to approach, set down the refreshments, and make their exit as quickly as possible, often giggling. After school I walk home, usually surrounded by a troop of boys who ask me about my clothes or for my phone number, or invite me to play soccer later. At the top of the hill, just before I reach my house, I stop at Piet's store to sit on his homemade bench under a tree with him and answer his random questions about my country, my family, or my thoughts on this or that. Sometimes he'll grace me with a rant about what's wrong with Malukuan society. When it feels like the right time, I leave Piet to his barefoot migrations across the ten feet of rain-exposed roots between his bench and his store.

Pak Piet at the entrance of his store

The rest of the day involves eating, napping, showering, and eating again, in that order. It's considered rather rude here to sit down to dinner without having showered recently. Carmel, my 8-year old host sister, will ask me directly at the table, “sudah mandi, om Chris?” (have you showered yet, uncle Chris?). Once early on I admitted I hadn't, and the grimace on her face reacquainted me with shame.

The shower is an experience in itself. As in most Indonesian homes, you bathe by scooping water out of a large tub with a plastic ladle that usually holds about a quart, then pouring it over yourself. One day I was discouraged to discover many dozens of tiny worms swimming impressively well around the tub of shower water. Ever since then, I have made a habit of inspecting every scoop for worms before I let it shiver down my back. Sometimes I wonder what my host family would say if I told them that nearly every home in America features heated, drinkable, running water in nearly every other room.

These worm inspections lead me to another regular feature of life here: blackouts. On average, the electricity seems to go out about five times a day or so, for anywhere from 30 seconds to an hour at a time. This can make showers very dark. It has also taught me to check the flush bucket before I sit down on the seatless, tankless toilet, because when the electricity dies, the water pumps stop, and the taps go dry.

On a brighter note, dinner, without fail, is both delicious and built upon a foundation of rice and fish. The rice is steamed and white, and the fish is fresh and locally caught. Sometimes them fishies are small like a candy bar, sometimes they're about the length of my forearm, sometimes I get fat chunks of meat with no way of knowing how big the fish I'm eating was. The variation of sauces and spices that Mama Rik (my host mom) and Eka (Mama's daughter-in-law and mother of the two-year old twins pictured above) prepare easily make up for the uniformity of the food. My host mom fusses over making sure I get pieces of fish with as few bones as possible (this is because I proved myself hopelessly incompetent at removing them with fork and spoon the first few days). Carmel, by comparison, deftly pulls a complete skeleton from her fish with a few flicks of her flatware.