| 27 February 2005 - Eric Majuki stopped by the office today and told me the great news that wood had arrived at the jobsite. I was very pleased and told him I’d be out to Krueng Raya in the morning to deliver tools which were delivered here today as well. Looks like we’re building some boats. The moments to sit and relish are getting more common in such a strange place so far from home. The street is noisy. From my apartment/office I hear a hundred beeping motorcycles, always a siren, people talking and a man’s voice broadcast from a mosque three blocks away. I think it is the same man I heard at five this morning. The view from the deck looking west is something quite indescribable. Stars through a slight haze backlight silhouettes of endless palms and bananas. There is a black horizon created by the not too distant mountains. Several unrecognizable tsunami-wrecked cars sit belly up in the gravelly yard out front. Their remnants have finally quit smoldering. Some man on the street is cooking up in a pot and selling whatever his family couldn’t eat. Within 100 feet of him are two dozen carts and cafés selling fried rice. Fifteen, make that thirty motorcycles are parked out front as only Indonesians could, haphazardly but efficiently. Several chairs with folks sitting on them have gathered around a guitar on the store patio next door. Some huge insect just flew threw the open door and disappeared behind the bookshelf before I could get a fix on him. People are walking up and down silty Lueng Bata buying smokes, fruit, coffee and dinner. They crisscross the dimly lit median dodging cycles and cars going both directions on both sides of the street. It is amazing how many people move through the place without incident. Drivers, many with their lights off, save lives with every tap of the horn while hauling ass to shave a few seconds off their trip. They are very trusting and very attentive. Going sixty, they'll pass within inches a mom and two kids on a Honda 90 then pull into traffic knowing that if another driver fails to slow down they’re toast. And whose checking those brakes? They ‘re a friendly sort. Sometimes they pull up beside my motorcycle and start talking while we’re cruising along. A few dudes have stopped by to chat tonight. Rizal, who takes care of the place, is a good kid from Sabang on the little island to the north. He is always well dressed and now off to fetch his lady. I’m here talking to Yoss, a volunteer from Java. I’m asking him what that guy is saying over the loud speaker at the mosque. Yoss is saying something like, how should I know I’m catholic. He must be the only one in Aceh. Below and right is a rusty tin roof over a greasy mechanic’s pit I cross every morning to get coffee. Using coffee grown down the road a ways, they take two pans and pour boiling water over the grounds through a cloth strainer several times quickly. It is the perfect Sumatran copi pet; thick, black and smooth. Across the street past a dozen Turkish flags is a building currently occupied by the Istanbul Metropolitan Municipality. Of many agencies trying to help here, theirs seems sensible and direct. They hand out fifteen thousand loaves of bread per day and provide lots of on-site housing. They loan vehicles, track hoes, tools and machinery of all sorts. They hire locals to bake bread and man their street sweeper and garbage truck. The Mayor of Istanbul resides in the building and runs the operation and I’ll bet his city is something to see. He might be waving at me right now. Well he might be. There are many things familiar about learning a language in a new place and feeling that vulnerability of not really knowing entirely what the hell is going on. Here, I am just now being able to get around, count change and speak enough to realize if I stick with it the rest will come. The guitar crowd has dissipated. It is a bit hot and muggy. I think I’ll take a nice luke mandi. |
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