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One is very special and stars my child, who clutches a small piece of paper in one hand and looks even more nervous than before. The children begin to sing and dance carefully choreographed numbers. I actually understand what is being said. The spectators very happy, and smiles abound. Some things are universal!įinally, I emerge as the new me. In essence, we have just all gone to the ladies room together. I have felt this way many times in my own country. I feel totally comfortable with these women in this tiny, dirt-floored room. They take great care in brushing and retying my hair. Next the women practically herd me into the backroom of the hut, changing me into traditional clothing by fitting me with a sarong and blouse that I suspect was made especially for the occasion. But I think it’s good that I tried, because I see in some of their eyes a glimpse of respect. ”It’s ceremonial.” I take a big bite and immediately grimace at the taste.

#TRAVEL WRITER INDONESIA HOW TO#

I sip the chocolate and someone demonstrates how to eat the seedpod.

A completely serious, if not horrified, look is on her face. She also wears a small rhinestone heart necklace, a gift I sent on a previous Christmas. She is wearing her finest traditional garb, consisting of a colorful hand-woven sarong and pink blouse. Tiny in stature, she is very beautiful with giant brown eyes. My 10-year-old sponsored child stands at the front.

I am the first westerner they have ever seen! I try to smile, and they stare back in fascination. The entire population stands at the other side in expectation. Blue and white crepe paper twirls across the middle. Two huge palm fronds at either side of the entrance meet in the center. The village is nothing more than a group of 20 small huts scattered comfortably between trees as if they had always been there.

Now I hear the sounds of unfamiliar music and excited voices. This is meant as a ‘heads up’ to the villagers who know we are coming and have prepared something special. Except for the occasional call of a bird, there is no noise other than the motorbikes, but as we near the village Teddy and Tony begin to honk the horns. The air becomes crisp and smells of earth and green as we ascend the mountain for the next hour in our convoy of two bikes-ours and another carrying my translator, Tirza and her Plan associate, Tony. The other would be, this is not actually a path, but a rain indented crevice, naturally cut through the dense jungle and enhanced by the foot traffic of the occasional villager. This may be part of the reason I am falling off this motorcycle. My backpack is stuffed to its limit with cooking oil and school supplies. My other arm holds a large bag of rice I bring as a gift.

#TRAVEL WRITER INDONESIA DRIVER#

I have one arm firmly clutching the waist of my driver Teddy, this district’s Plan representative. I am on this motorcycle because, after driving 3 hours in an SUV from Maumere through magnificent lush landscape, the road ends. I am en route to a small village in the community of Nua Mbalu to visit a child I have been sponsoring for the last two years through the Plan USA Childreach program. The mountain is in a region called Sikka on the island of Flores, Indonesia. I thought for sure I would fall off the back of the motorcycle and tumble down the mountain.

Travel writer indonesia