Home, Near and Far

As I move the dirt around, trying to get it level, I hear the put-put of the sampon’s motor coming my way. He does his rounds about every hour or two. Because I live at the end of the road by the field, he turns around and gets two glances at the bule building his own porch before he moves on. Most bules would just hire someone to do it for next to nothing, but I enjoy it and don’t care. After a wave, I look back down to my project. I move the dirt around again, trying to get it level and ready for the next brick. Every action, whether it’s scooping dirt, leveling the sand or laying a brick, is accompanied by other thoughts. It could be a fragment of a song or a lingering memory of home both near and far. Or it could be a new thought about this place I’m in, my mind slowly making sense of this strange, different place. But...

...is it strange? Is it really that different? There are times when it’s perfectly familiar- when the smell of the soil, a person’s smile, the taste of some food seems like a nice memory from the past. Sometimes my mind stops reeling from the new and grasps onto something nice, timeless- maybe the view out onto the Puncak hills over iridescent green fields of rice and fruit; or the shifting gray and black clouds competing with the blazing sun to form another afternoon thunderstorm, thunder rumbling in the distance. Or it could just be that everyone you talked to on the way home from work understood what you were saying- in Bahasa- and you understood them. Sometimes things seem to be falling into place a little. Times when your mind can gain perspective, and you think maybe this is turning into a place you can call home, but that’s the second someone will see you and shout “Hey bule!” or “Hello mister!” as if they want to remind you how different you are, that you‘re not from here. Then that happens 5 times in the next 2 minutes and it seems everyone’s staring or laughing and your thoughts of home turn back to frantically dealing with the difference again.

But! You’ve learned to quickly shrug these thoughts off, because there are plenty of reasons why you should. There are reminders everywhere of the reality of the situation. Of how different you are, of how different this place is, and why that’s ok, be it good or bad. It could be any number of things, but it’s hard not to be touched by things here. The toothless grin of the bapau vendor as he wheels his cart into place, like he does every day. The warm smile from the lady working the counter at the store. Or the trash men grinding away down the road with their cart loads of scrap to sell. Or kids playing in the street, making funny, charismatic faces so knowing you thought only an adult could muster them. It’s endless really, these things, it’s all how you want to look at it. And most of the times the only way to look at it is: you’re not from here and you’re better off than most people here. Who gives a damn if you feel comfortable or at home, they have a life to live and it's not easy. There’s no doubt, sometimes you can’t help but look at things and say “whaaat the fuuuck!?” with a restrained exasperation, or maybe just… “why?”; but it has to be turned around. I’d be missing the point if I didn’t.

Warung Water

As the water slowly drips off the sagging tarp, a bucket waits for it below. This might be necessary if we were indoors, but we aren‘t. It doesn’t surprise me though- there's no wasting things here in Indonesia, and this warung is no exception.

I step under the tarp, say hi to the vendor and check out the food displayed. This guy’s selling Sundanese food, and the dishes are laid out on a makeshift table. 3 kinds of fish, 4 chicken dishes, 5 different vegetables- with eggplant, potatoes and local veggies made in creative and tasty ways. The man grabs a plate of rice from the steamer, I tell him what I want, then sit down on one of the wooden benches surrounding the table, followed shortly by my food. I grab some of the fresh herbs laid out to accompany the food, spoon some sambal (sweet spicy ketchup) onto my plate and dig in. As I eat, the man brings me some sweet black tea, an Indonesian staple which comes with almost every meal, and it does well to wash down the savory food.

I look out towards busy Pajajaran street during a break from eating. A constant string of motorbikes whizzes by, the riders paying us no attention. We are in just one of dozens of small warungs that pop up at night along this street- a tree in a forest of food. I glance over again at the bucket catching the water off the tarp and let out a little laugh. Now I’m pretty sure the tea I’m drinking is made from that water, and he surely uses it to wash the dishes. Why not!? It’s clean and free.

I love how quick I can get and eat the food at these places. It’s no bullshit, no frills eating, my favorite. I can be out and on my way in 10 minutes if I want. Sometimes a friendly local might talk to me, trying out their English or to see how much Bahasa Indonesia I know, but most times Indonesians will leave the bule to his own devices. However, as with all the other times I stop at these roadside warungs to grab a bite to eat, I am the main attraction. People will steal a glance at me whenever possible, their curiosity getting the better of them. It feels like they’re analyzing me, waiting for me to give them a sign of how crazy I am, but of course it’s more innocent than that. The truth is I’m probably one of only a few bules that’s ever bothered to stop and eat there. For that I don’t know why, because the food is beautiful and cheap, and the experience makes me glad I came here to Indonesia.

A New Thread

It’s to where I’m starting to get used to things here… and maybe taking the difference of it for granted. Talking to Mom was a nice and solid reminder of home. It was familiar. So the moment I hung up, I was reminded how different things are here…

On my way out of the house, heading to work, I turn off the lights. I flip the switch up; that still seems weird to me. Hopping on my bike and starting down the road, I glance back at the Puncak mountains, shrouded by clouds today and setting the backdrop for green fields of rice and fruit. As I glide into town, the stares start. A bule on a bike!? Wha? I turn down the road that heads through the tightly woven kampung. Street bumps- or sleeping policeman- slow me down every 50 feet or so, they’re everywhere. An effective but annoying way to slow cars and mopeds down and protect the dozens of kids and hundreds of people walking on and across the winding road.

Along the road is a house, followed by a tiny Sunda restaurant, followed by a house, then a warung- a tiny shop selling the daily necessities. Then I get whiff of livestock somewhere and to my left I see a chicken coop and a goat stall tucked in between the houses. A quick searching peak down the alley in between houses reveals a labyrinth of sidewalks laced through the kampung. I see a simple but elegant mosque set back from the street, calling no attention to itself. And after I pass, there’s a break in the houses momentarily revealing Mt. Salak, the impressive, sleeping volcano looming over the rolling valley outside town.

“Hey mister bule!”(hey foreigner!) I look around- it’s a kid yelling from the local school as I pass. Everybody watches for my reply…by now I know, it’s best just to smile and keep going. Rolling on, another sleeping policeman and more stares as I approach an intersection. But it‘s a frickin goat looking at me! What the hell!? Him and a dozen others are tied to street signs along the crowded intersection and will be bought and sacrificed for Id Adha, the Muslim holiday coming up.

As I cross the intersection to a quieter road with no bumps, I start a nice glide down towards town. I spot a construction site off to the left, the men working busily. But none of their tools are recognizable. Their shovel is inverted compared to an American one, they use a basket type scoop instead of wheelbarrows, and a man pats down a fresh concrete mix with a board tied to a string, pulling up and releasing, pulling up and releasing. And even though the street is quieter, it isn’t long until there are tiny carts lining the road, selling buber ayam(chicken porridge) or bakso(meatball soup), fruit stands selling mangos, papayas and bananas, and other warungs selling drinks, cigarettes, coffee, medicine, snacks, whatever...

Before I hit the true chaos of the main road, I take the chance to think back to my talk with Mom. I realize then what a regular and ordinary thing that was. That’s what was nice about it. It seems though, the regular and ordinary is becoming less regular and ordinary now. I wish I could explain this place to people, and I guess I’ve just tried, but it will fall short of the feeling. That only comes from being here... in...

Strung Outbound

Instead of concentrate on where I am right now, I’d rather concentrate on where my backpack’s been.
This bag has had quite a run. It was given to me by a friend who got it for free at work- luckily she worked at North Face. I started using it on a day to day basis because I had no other decent bag to go to and from work with- that was in San Francisco about 4 years ago. Since then I’ve used it practically every day… and in the meantime it’s been around the world. Like a close friend, I’ve trusted it with my most important possessions, and it‘s helped me carry the load hundreds of times.
It’s been throughout California and Oregon with me and my bike, trekked through Yosemite, flew to New York, Chicago, traveled to Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Singapore, and now to Indonesia.
It was the sole bag I used on a 3 month trip through the Middle East, barely fitting all my clothes, a laptop plus all the random things you need and pick up on a trip like that. And it’s carried loads of groceries, laundry, tools, and many other things way too big and heavy for it, but it always fits in there somehow.
And this whole time, with all the abuse it has taken, it has held up, albeit with a few minor repairs and stitches. So I thought I should write about it, because nothing, and no one else has accompanied me as often for the last few years, weird as that may seem. It has helped me, and I’m grateful.

Native String

A string tied to home has been let out. As if tied to a kite, it becomes taut or slack in the wind. A small tug here or more string let out. Perceptions change, and the string fluctuates from old fishing line to sturdy cable- but for sure, that string is tied to home, held there by people, places and feelings; and memories of people and places, feelings.
...the kite stays aloft because of that string, tied to home.

Gravity

Cold... colder than you last remembered.
Your frigid mood betrays even your most guarded fear.
You might as well befriend it, cause it has already done much worse, and can hold you at it's mercy.

No logic guides it, and it is as much caused by the warmth and comfort you reveled in yesterday.

The string is held from above and is pulled down, but everything has it's opposite. For some it seems unbearable, and inconceivably long. For others, laughable.

Hawk Medicine

A spiritual motivation. Words fail, left behind to do their damage.

To cry out, only one can hear.

For no reason a joy surfaces, the sounds that spurred it take on new meaning. The ability to reach beyond presents itself. But the choice is always there.

Let all pervade and I lose myself. Let the past present and future pull with their temporal powers, I am here no more.

To have tasted it after so long fills the void that was there. It seemed unending, now it is vanished. I will know myself when I am there.

Every time it washes clean, it grinds down the filth I put there. Every time I renew and see the lies and the truth, the possibilities, the endless choices. The only solace lies in that moment.

Born in the U.S.A.

Strung Out

San Francisco

It's the street after street filled with damp cars parked outside all night -- streaming ships of the city unable to find a harbor . . . It's the dreamy silence of Pier 44 on a sunny mid-afternoon -- where customs officers, white-capped longshoremen and shipping officials quietly play cards over a counter to prove that men can get along with each other . . . It's the endless rows of cabs lined alongside the places where people gather -- Yellow feet for the ones tired out in the work of having fun . . . It's the 7:30 p.m. flurry of humanity around the tiny neighborhood movie houses -- tinsel palaces of escape for those who slave by day in the temples of Big Business.

It's the smoky, all-night pool parlors of North Beach -- fraternity houses for the lonely brothers who've been black-balled by life . . . It's the Saturday tea dansant at the Palace -- where the most beautiful girls in the world gather under one roof not to be admired, but to admire Artie Shaw, who only looks the other way . . . It's the Old San Francisco restaurants -- with their ancient waiters serving the same old food in the same old way because tradition is their master and an increasingly cruel one, too.

It's the cold, refined handsomeness of outer Pacific Avenue, which picks up its skirts daintily and stares haughtily in another direction as the street swings into a less correct district . . . It's the frenzied burst of activity on the city's playgrounds each Sunday morning -- the people joyously breaking their backs on the Day of Rest, losing their heads in an escape from six days of headaches.

It's the parade of Willkie buttons in the noontime eating places -- men wearing their political hearts on their sleeves . . . It's the blind, hatless banjo player feeling his way smilingly along Post in the afternoon sun -- making tinny music for the ears in the midst of women making silky music for the eyes . . . It's the indescribable conglomeration of beauty and ugliness that makes San Francisco a poem without meter, a symphony without harmony, a painting without reason -- a city without an equal.

-Herb Caen

Petit Savanne

There’s something universal about how people take information in. And even more universal is the language of music. I was reminded of this again while visiting Dominica, when my Mom and I had the chance to visit the Petit Savanne elementary school in Delices. I only hope that the joy and inspiration we got from sharing in their lives for a day was equal to what they felt.

The kids were forthcoming and had very generous personalities, and we all learned from each other. They had plenty to tell us, but that day, sounds and smiles were enough for a thousand words. Now it's a picture's turn.

Musica Puertorriqueno!

I've been listening to Puerto Rican music for years, and I finally got to see some up close, live. The rhythm of the clave and drums in the tropical air made a little more sense. The bassist danced and smiled as he kept melodic time. Horns harmonized, the singer improvised, the dancers floated on feet tied to the elastic, ecstatic sounds of Puerto Rican salsa. Si!

New Music From My Turkish Friends

This is a recent concert including Filiz Kaya Bodur, a Klasic Kemence player whom I met while in Canakkale, Turkey. She played a few songs for me then, an outstanding, rare experience. The Klasic Kemence is an Ottoman era instrument, played by stopping the strings with the nails instead of the fingertips. I am drawn by it's vocal, singing quality, and it's nice to hear her beautiful playing again. The gentleman is playing the baglama, a lute derived instrument in wide use throughout Turkey and the Middle East.

Grup Fuzuli - Zeybekler from Onur Türkyılmaz on Vimeo.

The Sounds of Dominica

I’m back from an island that captivates, so green and mountainous, it truly evokes the idea of paradise. Volcanoes seethe underground, sending boiling water and steam into the tropical air. Bubbles escape into the turquoise waters around impossibly colorful fish. Dozens of birds talk in the canopy of the forest. It’s par for the course on Dominica, and the locals have found ways of living that fits with the natural idea of the island and it’s bounties. For the most part agriculturally self-sustainable, growing everything imaginable under the sun, farming plots cascade down the hills- the pineapple, banana, noni, grapefruit, nutmeg and cinnamon plants hardly noticeable to an outsider compared to the gigantic green ferns and palms growing alongside.

My sister and her husband decided to have their wedding in this setting, lucky for the families. We hiked through the volcanic remains and lush rain forest, snorkeled through reefs and ate the best locally grown food. The ceremony was on the beach and the reception on a cabana overlooking the ocean. That night, we listened and danced to great local music. The jing ping and bele concert, with the French derived accordion melodic influence mixed with African and Caribbean drumming and harmonies, was fascinating and reminded me a little of cajun and zydeco music from the southern U.S..

After talking to one of the musicians, I learned there was a man in the band that played the banjo. This was extraordinary, since the banjo would have appeared here at about the same time it did in the states. I was introduced to Hans, and he said he learned to play the banjo from his father, who was gone now. As far as he knew, he was one of the last players on the island, he hadn’t seen another. He couldn’t even find banjo strings and used mandolin strings instead.

As it was, he was a policeman, and could hardly find time to play shows at night, but he still played the banjo by himself once in a while. I promised to send him some strings and peppered him with questions. It turns out he plays a modern style instrument with 4 strings, but that his father played a handmade instrument. It sounded as if he used a stroking style, like the clawhammer style in the states, but I can’t be sure- I only got to talk to him for a few minutes, his kids were calling for him and he had to leave.

The link between the evolution of the banjo and the way it was played in Dominica and in the states was evident to me as I talked to him, but it wasn’t until later that I grasped the amazing relevance of that link. In the states, the banjo was often synonymous with the best and worst historical developments. It transcended mere musical influence and came to represent different ethnic groups at different times for wildly different reasons. Of all American instruments, it is the one most weighed down by history, and at the same time, made more rich by it. For some of the story, check this out:
http://nativestring.blogspot.com/2009/03/banjo-american-instrument-part-1.html

To get the chance to see how it progressed in Dominica and the surrounding islands would be amazing… maybe one day. In the meantime, I found a picture of another man still playing banjo on the island as well. A Mr. Pascal in Grand Fond.

Metis- Native Fiddle

Video Proof of De-Evolution

Cajun Stories