Bena Village - June 27th

Bena Village - June 27th

Banana pancake mornings are a distant memory and this mornings breakfast consists of white toast, margarine, and a artificial colored magenta jelly. The coffee is grainy and when I ask for milk, a can of chocolate condensed milk is brought to our table along with three hard boiled eggs. I am grateful for what is provided now that I have grasped that the tourism infrastructure is virtually non existent and that we are being provided the best that is available.

We begin our drive towards Ruing passing through an impressive forest of giant bamboo. We stop to walk along the narrow road, the grove towering above and morning sunlight streaming through the immense stalks. The stalks of bamboo are so thick that one can't wrap ones hands around them, many with a circumference larger than a basketball.The bamboo forest is on the way to Bena, which according to our itinerary is a traditional village located below an active volcano. I have no great expectations but my breath catches when we round a final curve and see the village in the distance. The unusual steep roofs of the houses are all thatched and surround a central terraced common space. The village is built on a hillside and large blocks of volcanic rock have been quarried to terrace the village and build the formidable rock stairs leading from one level to the next. Megalithic stones point upward at the entrance to the village and it is an effort to ascend the steep uneven stairs. We are the only visitors to the village and our guide explains the meaning of Ngadhu and Bhaga, the male and female symbol erected atop each thatched roof delineating whether a marriageable man or a woman resides within. Two rows of thatched wooden structures, erected on stilts, line both sides of the common space and sets of eyes follow us. The single doorway to each house opens onto a railed bamboo deck and elderly women sit outside, their mouths red with beetle nut juice, their teeth decayed and rotton. I smile and they readily smile in return, their mouths gaping slashes of red, their faces weathered from the elements. The surrounding stones are splashed red with the spittle from the beetle juice. Racks of buffalo horns, displayed after the feast, are hung on the outside walls of the buildings and pigs and chickens take shelter in the shade underneath the houses. A scattering of trinkets are tied to some of the railings and the old women offer me tiny bundles of vanilla for sale. I buy 4 coconut shell dishes and spoons from one old woman and ask if I may take her photo. She seems pleased with my request and when I show her her images in the back of my camera and she is delighted. Other family members seem to want their photo taken also, and I am only too happy to comply, each time showing them the captured image and sharing in their amazement, amusement and delight. I gain confidence as I climb my way further into the village taking photos in all directions. Mansor tells us that this village is 500 years old and has looked very much the same throughout it's existence. At the far end of the village are stairs leading up to a shrine and a dramatic vista overlooking the valley below and we are surprised to see a 4 foot plaster statue of the Virgin Mary in a sheltered alcove. He tells us the village is Catholic, but still practices it's traditional beliefs and rituals. Returning down to the village we watch women heating immense vats of water in a common cooking area. They are boiling water for drinking and preparing for todays festival. In the cloistered darkness inside one of the common buildings, I can see the villagers dressing for a ritual dance. Our guide tells us that we are lucky, that this is not a dance for the tourists, but the beginning of a two day celebration. I ask if I may take photos and Mansor tells me to wait and he will ask.

John and Art have vanished and I go to look for them and find them sitting with an elder on his front porch. Art motions me to join them and I climb the wooden stairs to the porch and am offered a block of wood to sit on. Joseph is 81 years old, the oldest member of the village, and he mixes hot water from a thermos with ground coffee into three glasses and pushes them across the bamboo plank floor. He tells us that he is so old because he drinks a mixture of arak, a distilled palm alcohol, special waters and herbs. He speaks little English, but smiles readily and is sharp and wiry. We gather that the few tour groups that come through, must pay the village a small fee which is used to support the village and make it possible to keep their culture. They further supplement the village income with sales from their handicrafts, vanilla and beetle nut. We sit for some time and I listen to Art and Joseph talk all the time watching his family watch us from the far side of the front porch. His family consists of 10 people who all sleep in this 10 x 30 foot, single story house. When it is time to go, I ask if I may take a photo and am again obliged and take photos of his family as well. I finger three unusual pendants hanging from the railing and ask how much one in particular is. It is expensive and he makes no indication of wishing to bargain so I turn my attention to the pretty coconut shell dishes and buy another four, each costing approximately .60 cents each.

When I return to the common area the dancing has already started. The men and women are colorfully dressed in tribal attire. The lead male dancer, is middle aged, tall, weathered with chiseled features and he and proudly wears a massive strand of cowrie shells around his neck, a striking headdress and a sarong. He holds a machete sword and the other male dancers follows him in an undulating line. The women follow in the dance, dressed in yellow sarongs, yellow head dresses and with their hair beautifully tied up. Children, fully attired, the boys carrying bamboo swords, dance along in the line and the villagers laugh in delight.
After more than two hours it is regretfully time to leave and we climb back into our waiting car, just as a mini bus with several blond passengers pulls up to the base of the village.

We drive for an hour and come to the Soa hot springs where we are to swim and have a picnic lunch. The grounds are in disrepair, the walkways cracked and crumbling, the grass dry and brown and the hedges unkempt. Litter is strewn on the ground and the vacant hospitality pavilion tilts, seemingly sagging from lack of care and the afternoon heat. We are the only visitors and we make our way towards the hot springs. The hot spring surges up forming a deep clear pool that empties into a rapidly flowing river beyond. Shade trees hang over the pool and Art and John immerse themselves in the hot sulfur water while I watch our belongings having no desire to partake on this sweltering afternoon. We sit on cracked cement stairs to eat our boxed picnic lunch of cold fried rice mixed with vegetables and squid tentacles. Art and John take a quick after lunch dip before returning to the car to drive three more hours to Ruing.

The afternoon drive is an easy one with many photo stops. At one point our guide stops at a simple hut along side of the road so that we can see how arak is distilled. Arak is a liquor made from a palm fruit and this family has it's own still and sells small recycled plastic bottles filled with the 40 proof liquor for $1.50 each. A small fire heats a large terra-cotta jug filled with arak juice and a long bamboo pipe connected to the steam vent slowly drips the distilled liquor into water bottles. We are offered tastes of the liquor and they set some of the liquor on fire to prove its alcohol strength. To be supportive, we buy one of the small bottles, and I joke with Art and Mansor that we will have to have a party tonight, but notice a disapproving look Mansor's face and quickly ask if women drink alcohol? He curtly responds that of course, women do not drink, and I retort that that it isn't fair, immediately regretting my lack of respect for his culture.

We arrive in Ruing about 4:00 P.M. and are pleased with our accommodations. The room is simple and clean and the bathroom has three towels, toilet paper and even soap. Surprisingly, here is air conditioning but no hot water, which I have come not to expect. We navigate our way down to the waterfront. It is low tide and the houses in the fishing village, all built on tall stilts have pigs, chickens and mangy dogs scavenging under their shade. Kids play volley ball with their feet and a group of teen age boys play and sing to a guitar. The afternoon light sets the scene aglow and a distant row of stilt houses is reflected in a shallow inlet of water. We walk out onto the small pier and I am awed by the clear beauty of this afternoon, the ocean, this simple harbor and village. I wish that I could carry the perfection of this moment home with me.

With minimal expectations, we walk a dirt road to an open air restaurant for yet another dinner of fried noodles, gristly chicken pieces and mixed vegetables. The cuisine in Flores is all the same, unimaginative, greasy and bland. Hot sauce does very little to perk up the meal, but John and I have found our entertainment on the ceiling above us. John refers to it as "The Gecko Channel," and the two of us watch a dozen geckos congregated around the bare light bulbs. The light attracts insects and when a moth flits near a bulb, the geckos tense and stealthily move an inch or two closer. Smaller bugs creep on the ceiling and the geckos freeze and then dart and make snacks of them. The Gecko Channel is a life and death suspense program that throughly entertains us. We've been watching this "channel" most nights since arriving on Flores Island, but I neglected to write about it earlier on. I will be sad to return to a world of mainstream television, this is far superior.