Sambut Baru

The ceremony of first holy communion (I am told by my local Catholic advisor) is one of the seven sacraments of the Holy Roman Church, and is the first step to becoming Pope. Or something like that. Here in Maumere all the eligible kids (usually aged about ten or eleven) get inducted on the same day of the year, in a lace-trimmed, white-gloved, scrubbed-face fanfaronade of transubstantiation.

This celebration of a child's first opportunity to 'take the biscuit', as it were, is regarded as the most important day in the calendar, and every family spends a lot of time (and money) ensuring that their children are turned out looking as if they are about to perform conjuring tricks (the boys) or marry a ruritanian prince (the girls). The dissonance between the traditional local 'adat' culture and this imported European influence is quite striking, and the sight of ten year old boys dressing up in bow ties like underage busboys in a Lisbon hotel is slightly disturbing.

That said, no good ever came of reminding people that some of their customs arrived with the yoke of colonial oppression, so I promised Beth that I would stay silent on the subject.

This being Flores, the actual ceremony, called 'Sambut Baru' or 'Komuni Suci Pertama', is merely a precursor to a massive party. For days before, tarpaulins are erected, plastic chairs hired, goats killed, arrak fermented and PA systems wheeled into place. This is a time for the women to busy themselves with mass catering, and the men to get as drunk as possible.

In the run up to the Sambut Baru, invitations are distributed to friends and family, and as there are a lot of children all being 'communed' on the same day, this leads to some interesting diary planning. We received seven invitations (strictly speaking Beth received six, and I got just one, and that was a duplicate), including one from our neighbour, Pak Minggus. On the day itself, there was a four hour Mass at the St Tomas Morus church (a man for all seasons, indeed) followed by food. And more food. In fact, the day consists of just limping from party to party, failing to turn down more food.

At one party we bumped into Beth's chum Dr Henyo, who as a local dignitary had already attended 14 parties that day (it was still only 3:30pm) and was looking slightly wan. He then revealed that he had received 39 invitations, and was compelled by custom and duty to attend every one, even if it took him until the small hours of the following day (which it did).

At length, we wound up back at Pak Minggus' place, full of goat kebabs and home-distilled arrak. We then danced the night away to Flores folk music, played at ear-bleed volume, and learned some new steps in the endless variations of line dancing that they love here.

On Monday morning, though not officially a bank holiday, the town slept, while discarded plastic chairs melted in the heat and the town's few surviving goats pondered their good fortune.