Indonesia is one of the world's largest and most populous countries, and in many ways each of its myriad islands is a nation unto itself. From strictly islamic fishermen to blowgun-toting tribemen clad in penis gourds and a smile, this country has it all. With only a 30-day visa and with travel between islands famously plodding and chaotic, choosing our destinations proved to be tough.
Until, that is, we came across a description of Sumba, and its incredible Pasola. Every February after the full moon, the ancestor-worshiping animists of western Sumba eagerly await the return of a particular sea worm, which washes up on the beaches in droves. Once their arrival has been verified by each village's holy man, hundreds of men grab their spears and mount their horses for a day of ritualized combat. Hurling insults and spears at one another, they display their courage to their forebearers and provide the blood the earth needs to ensure a good harvest. I mean, this we HAD to see!!
Our plan, if we can dignify it thus, was to fly to the island of Flores, spend a day or two in Komodo National Park, not be eaten by giant lizards, and then hop a ferry to Sumba in time for Pasola. Everyone we talked to in Bali told us this would work out just fine (at least the logistical part - not being eaten was on us). We reached Flores, avoided predation on Komodo (see entry below), and even found a vessel headed to Sumba after a prolonged struggle and an overland trip across most of Flores. The highlight of our sea journey was boarding the ship itself, which lay at anchor in the harbor. We headed out to sea on a packed wooden boat, feeling a little like we were fleeing Castro, and finally managed to lash our tiny craft to the ship's towering hull and clamber aboard.
As soon as we reached Sumba, the depth of our folly fully revealed itself. The trouble with sea worms, it seems, is that they don't have calendars and adhere to a strict policy of doing whatever they damn well please. Every single person we asked about Pasola, anywhere in Indonesia, had given us a different date. The consensus had seemed to be March 7th or so, but when we finally lugged our packs down the Sumba gangway on the evening of March 1st, we discovered the worms had hit the beach early. Pasola was over.
Needless to say, we were unhappy about this. The worms had let us down!! Damn the sea worms!!! Still, after we'd finished cursing invertebrates everywhere and their shoddy attention to scheduling, we decided to make the most of our time on the island. We headed west. Our bus blew past amazing panoramas of mountains, ocean and tropical forest, dotted with tall thatched houses and enormous, elaborate tombs. Intrigued, we checked into a guest house in western Sumba's largest market town, Waikabubak.
It was a good call, on all counts. The guest house's owner, Jack, turned out to be one of the singular characters of our entire journey to date. His hair alone merits paragraphs, but his sense of humor, encyclopedic local knowledge and unflagging commitment to his guests were a great bonus.
As we traveled through remote villages and bustling markets in Jack's immaculate jeep, we quickly realized that the guy knows every single human being on the island. Along with his unflappable sidekick Daisy, an aspiring guide and former student, he managed to introduce us to everyone. He's even a teacher at Waikabubak's tourism-focused high school, where he managed to maneuver Mike into a cameo as a guest lecturer.
Pasola or no Pasola, Sumba turned out to be one of the most intriguing places on the planet. Many Sumbanese continue to live in traditional bamboo and grass hut villages, and survive through subsistance agriculture and fishing.
Old women walk around without tops, and in some places blacked teeth are still considered fashionable. Although the practice was finally abolished 25 years ago, the centerpeice of a Sumbanese village used to be a tree where the heads of fallen enemies were displayed. According to locals we met, old habits die hard. They told us that five years ago an inter-tribal dispute led to a full-scale battle involving about 3,000 warriors on horseback, fighting with spears and swords. Daisy informed us that the leader of her tribe gained great stature that day, apparently because he took a spear to the chest without falling off his horse. Needless to say, nobody was even arrested.
The spirit world holds sway here, deeply affecting every aspect of life. Sumbanese believe that their ancestors have great power over their lives, bestowing protection and blessings when happy and inflicting bad fortune, injury and even death when disappointed. Death is considered a singularly important event, when a member of the family ascends to the spirit world (and gains power over the living), and funerals are elaborate affairs requiring the sacrifice of numerous valuable animals and the erection of a massive limestone tomb for the deceased. Without the proper send-off, ancestral wrath can be serious, so families often mummify the recently deceased and store them in the attic for up to a decade while they save up for a proper burial.
A sacrficial procession en route to a funeral
In many ways, it sounds like an intimidating and alien place. But thanks to Jack and Daisy, we had the chance to meet people in their homes and villages, and were able to navigate the many customs and points of etiquette involved. The warmth we received was humbling. So were some of the local traditions we joined in on, betel nut chewing in particular. The nut and lime mixture is a mild stimulant, but turns your mouth and lips brilliant red as a side effect. Since the stuff also makes your mouth water, the results can be dramatic:
As a long-term habit, it can be even rougher on your sex appeal:
On one of our last nights on the island, we accepted an invitation to stay in a traditional village near the ocean. To make it a party, we brought a pig. In a place with no refrigeration meat is a huge luxury that doesn't keep, so when an animal is killed everyone for miles around gathers to enjoy the feast. Things got off to an interesting start when the head of the household handed Mike his machete, and gestured to the trussed-up hog. As the guest of honor and provider of the feast, it was his job to do the honors.
With the messy work out of the way, we got down to the serious business of feasting. Fueled by betel nuts and a local brew called arak, the gathering continued into the wee hours of the morning. We ate fish and pork (both delicious), played the local card game (the loser wears a pig skull on his head), traded songs and stories, and laughed ourselves silly. As the evening wore down, our hosts presented us with hand-woven blankets to ward off the chill, and solemnly pronounced us their adopted children. We spent a surprisingly comfortable night on the bamboo, bathed in the warm ocean in the morning, and got ready to return to the world of packaged foods and airplanes. Just before leaving, Susannah snapped a family portrait of our hosts.
Sunset near the home of our hosts
Until, that is, we came across a description of Sumba, and its incredible Pasola. Every February after the full moon, the ancestor-worshiping animists of western Sumba eagerly await the return of a particular sea worm, which washes up on the beaches in droves. Once their arrival has been verified by each village's holy man, hundreds of men grab their spears and mount their horses for a day of ritualized combat. Hurling insults and spears at one another, they display their courage to their forebearers and provide the blood the earth needs to ensure a good harvest. I mean, this we HAD to see!!
Our plan, if we can dignify it thus, was to fly to the island of Flores, spend a day or two in Komodo National Park, not be eaten by giant lizards, and then hop a ferry to Sumba in time for Pasola. Everyone we talked to in Bali told us this would work out just fine (at least the logistical part - not being eaten was on us). We reached Flores, avoided predation on Komodo (see entry below), and even found a vessel headed to Sumba after a prolonged struggle and an overland trip across most of Flores. The highlight of our sea journey was boarding the ship itself, which lay at anchor in the harbor. We headed out to sea on a packed wooden boat, feeling a little like we were fleeing Castro, and finally managed to lash our tiny craft to the ship's towering hull and clamber aboard.
As soon as we reached Sumba, the depth of our folly fully revealed itself. The trouble with sea worms, it seems, is that they don't have calendars and adhere to a strict policy of doing whatever they damn well please. Every single person we asked about Pasola, anywhere in Indonesia, had given us a different date. The consensus had seemed to be March 7th or so, but when we finally lugged our packs down the Sumba gangway on the evening of March 1st, we discovered the worms had hit the beach early. Pasola was over.
Needless to say, we were unhappy about this. The worms had let us down!! Damn the sea worms!!! Still, after we'd finished cursing invertebrates everywhere and their shoddy attention to scheduling, we decided to make the most of our time on the island. We headed west. Our bus blew past amazing panoramas of mountains, ocean and tropical forest, dotted with tall thatched houses and enormous, elaborate tombs. Intrigued, we checked into a guest house in western Sumba's largest market town, Waikabubak.
It was a good call, on all counts. The guest house's owner, Jack, turned out to be one of the singular characters of our entire journey to date. His hair alone merits paragraphs, but his sense of humor, encyclopedic local knowledge and unflagging commitment to his guests were a great bonus.
As we traveled through remote villages and bustling markets in Jack's immaculate jeep, we quickly realized that the guy knows every single human being on the island. Along with his unflappable sidekick Daisy, an aspiring guide and former student, he managed to introduce us to everyone. He's even a teacher at Waikabubak's tourism-focused high school, where he managed to maneuver Mike into a cameo as a guest lecturer.
Pasola or no Pasola, Sumba turned out to be one of the most intriguing places on the planet. Many Sumbanese continue to live in traditional bamboo and grass hut villages, and survive through subsistance agriculture and fishing.
Old women walk around without tops, and in some places blacked teeth are still considered fashionable. Although the practice was finally abolished 25 years ago, the centerpeice of a Sumbanese village used to be a tree where the heads of fallen enemies were displayed. According to locals we met, old habits die hard. They told us that five years ago an inter-tribal dispute led to a full-scale battle involving about 3,000 warriors on horseback, fighting with spears and swords. Daisy informed us that the leader of her tribe gained great stature that day, apparently because he took a spear to the chest without falling off his horse. Needless to say, nobody was even arrested.
The spirit world holds sway here, deeply affecting every aspect of life. Sumbanese believe that their ancestors have great power over their lives, bestowing protection and blessings when happy and inflicting bad fortune, injury and even death when disappointed. Death is considered a singularly important event, when a member of the family ascends to the spirit world (and gains power over the living), and funerals are elaborate affairs requiring the sacrifice of numerous valuable animals and the erection of a massive limestone tomb for the deceased. Without the proper send-off, ancestral wrath can be serious, so families often mummify the recently deceased and store them in the attic for up to a decade while they save up for a proper burial.
A sacrficial procession en route to a funeral
In many ways, it sounds like an intimidating and alien place. But thanks to Jack and Daisy, we had the chance to meet people in their homes and villages, and were able to navigate the many customs and points of etiquette involved. The warmth we received was humbling. So were some of the local traditions we joined in on, betel nut chewing in particular. The nut and lime mixture is a mild stimulant, but turns your mouth and lips brilliant red as a side effect. Since the stuff also makes your mouth water, the results can be dramatic:
As a long-term habit, it can be even rougher on your sex appeal:
On one of our last nights on the island, we accepted an invitation to stay in a traditional village near the ocean. To make it a party, we brought a pig. In a place with no refrigeration meat is a huge luxury that doesn't keep, so when an animal is killed everyone for miles around gathers to enjoy the feast. Things got off to an interesting start when the head of the household handed Mike his machete, and gestured to the trussed-up hog. As the guest of honor and provider of the feast, it was his job to do the honors.
With the messy work out of the way, we got down to the serious business of feasting. Fueled by betel nuts and a local brew called arak, the gathering continued into the wee hours of the morning. We ate fish and pork (both delicious), played the local card game (the loser wears a pig skull on his head), traded songs and stories, and laughed ourselves silly. As the evening wore down, our hosts presented us with hand-woven blankets to ward off the chill, and solemnly pronounced us their adopted children. We spent a surprisingly comfortable night on the bamboo, bathed in the warm ocean in the morning, and got ready to return to the world of packaged foods and airplanes. Just before leaving, Susannah snapped a family portrait of our hosts.
Sunset near the home of our hosts
1 comment:
Given the crazed expression that followed mike's ingestion of betel nut juice, I can't believe that they actually handed him a machete. Somehow, I suspect he may have lost a corner or two off of his toe-n-chip that night!
Great story!
Love, Dad B.
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