The Lucretius Plan

Reflection (part 1)

This is version of an article I was asked to write for the VSO Indonesia in-house newsletter about what we think we have learned from our experience here in the last two years.

Pembelajaran (lessons)

It would be all too easy to finish one’s placement and rush home to the bosom of one’s family, cheeks moist with tears, and in all the excitement forget to reflect on the lessons of the past two years. Thus I present my top FIVE pembelajaran (lessons) from my time in Flores:

1. Nothing is what it seems, and in any case it was not caused by what you supposed.

Getting to the bottom of any situation in Flores is like peeling away the layers of an onion, and just as likely to make you weep.  Just when you think you have established beyond any shadow of a doubt the real state of affairs, and when all your colleagues have finally confessed to their various transgressions, a new piece of data arrives that casts doubt on everything.  Furthermore, even when you get a clear grasp of the situation, your attempts at analysis will be in vain as you apply your western logical reasoning to the problem in hand.  We are brought up to believe in cause and effect - the scientific logic that describes a linear sequence of events - and we encourage our colleagues to deploy this logic in problem trees and so forth.  I can now reveal to you that sometimes things happen that are not part of this sequence. Flores has taught me that there is an alternate dimension that intrudes on our existence, and introduces the ‘random element’ that cannot be explained in a cause/effect flow chart. This is deeply unsettling, but is perhaps a phenomena confined to NTT.

2. The comparative advantage of Flores is mass catering

According to economists at the World Bank, the ‘comparative advantage’ of Indonesia is in furniture, natural gas and handicrafts.  Not so with Flores.  Experience at various acara (cultural events) has demonstrated to me that orang Flores can muster up a square meal (served with a plastic glass and a banana) for any number of people, irrespective of the number of people actually anticipated to arrive at the event.  After many years of bitter experience as a customer of hotel catering in the UK, where the arrival of just one extra person throws an entire banquet into disarray and recrimination, it is extraordinary to see how orang Flores cope with fluid and potentially chaotic situations.  Furthermore, the food is always much better than you get in any restaurant, and is served with a smile by one of the seemingly endless supply of young unmarried girls.   

3. There is always someone worse off that the person you are talking to

No matter how remote the village, infertile the land or unhelpful the topology, your belief that you have now discovered the most disadvantaged person on the island (and therefore, possibly in the whole of Indonesia) will be shaken by the knowledge that just round the corner is someone even worse off.  This is partly because your definitions of poverty are always changing, but also because people themselves have a certain amount of pride in their capacity for hospitality, and however humble the homestead, the welcome is as rich as you will receive anywhere on earth.  The people you need to worry about are those you cannot see, and only rarely hear about.

4. The Japanese were not all bad in WW2

It may be a bizarre piece of historical revisionism, but the Japanese themselves always maintained that their invasion spree was intended to liberate Asian nations from the yoke of European colonialism.  Clearly this did not make much sense in Manchuria, which was not a colony, but perhaps it did have some resonance in Flores, where the Japanese tend to be regarded with a certain amount of respect (in spite of their monopoly in the pearl trade).  As the Japanese mainly left Indonesia to its own devices during the war, this ironically led to a higher degree of empowerment for native Indonesians than they had ever enjoyed under Dutch rule.  Not surprising then that when the British came in 1945 to accept the Japanese surrender and to reclaim the archipelago on behalf of the Dutch, they were told to stuff it.  Quite right too.

5. Not all ‘culture’ deserves respect

VSO do a good job of introducing the thorny issue of ‘culture’ to new recruits, and it is important to help us understand the meanings, context and importance of cultural diversity.  I cannot see how any volunteer could be effective (or happy) if they decided to challenge every unusual cultural practice they encountered.  That said, it can sometimes be tempting to blindly accept any cultural practice regardless of how it may sit with what can be termed ‘universal norms’ (such as human rights).  Passivity dressed up as cultural sensitivity can all too easily mean conniving with the status quo and not confronting or challenging certain power structures.  My frustration at certain attitudes or outcomes has often been met with a shrug, and the comment: ‘Begitulah budaya di sini’ ('that's just the culture here').  After a while, however, it occurred to me that I was here to share skills about professional business practices, and so I felt that this gave me the platform to start questioning certain practices and asking if we really mean ‘budaya’ (culture) or ‘kebiasaan’ (habit).  Often, my colleagues would agree that it is the latter, and can therefore be challenged.  Common (and rather unimportant) examples include: jam karet ('rubber time'), talking while someone is presenting, passive aggression, selfish driving etc., and I challenge such behaviour in Flores just as I would back in the UK.  However, there are also some larger cultural forces at work which are more ingrained and harder to challenge, e.g. hierarchy, gender. One needs to accept that these change over very long periods of time, and little progress can be made by pointing out how ‘backward’ these cultural viewpoints appear to western eyes. After all, the west is also plagued by unhelpful cultural practices and would find it hard to claim that the Enlightenment made us all rational.  A quick glance at the current USA regime will demonstrate that ignorance, arrogance  and love of patronage can still dominate apparently 'civilised' societies, with woeful implications for the less powerful in the world.

The sticking place

The VSO Indonesia Annual Volunteer Conference in April ended with a ‘cultural evening’.  Each country group was invited to perform something that reflects their home culture, which always puts the British group at a disadvantage.  The Dutch performed a raucous melody of crooning songs, and the Filipinos performed the famous bamboo dance (where the dancers have to skip between clashing bamboo poles, all in time to the music and avoid having their ankles crushed).  The Balinese contingent nominated one of their number to perform a traditional Balinese dance (which was cheating as she has been a professional temple dancer since the age of three).  Meanwhile, the Kenyans delighted us all with a medley of Kenyan tunes accompanied by dancing of the fluid hip rotating variety, which they have now given up trying to teach us. 

This left the British to wow the crowd with something special.  Last year we did Morris dancing, and at a recent workshop we sang Jerusalem, very loudly, which alarmed the very polite Javanese contingent who like their songs to be somewhat more subdued.  This time we decided to celebrate the RSC’s plan to perform all of Shakespeare’s plays this year.  As time was short we could not do a full-length play, so instead we put on a 4 minute version of Macbeth. 

Compressing the Scottish play into four minutes meant that much of the dialogue had to be ditched, which was just as well because no one could learn their lines in the 24 hours we had between having the idea and executing it.  As a result, the resulting performance was somewhat manic, and casting constraints meant that some liberties had to be taken with the script.  Banquo was re-cast as a very lithe (and female) dance therapist from Yogyakarta, while Beth ‘led on’ as MacDuff.  The only realistic aspect was the witches, and as the photo shows they also had our only prop: an enormous cauldron. 

The play was also notable for the fact that almost all the cast were wearing traditional Indonesian dress.  As you may see from the picture, I am attired in a traditional Sikkanese outfit, with sarong, slendang and topi.  Oddly enough, having the cast dashing about in sarongs gave the play an authentic feel that it probably did not warrant.  In fact, I think the RSC should do a version of Macbeth set in Flores, with everyone wearing ‘pakaian adat’ (traditional dress).  The bit about the forest being cut down is particularly topical at the moment…

It was Eve's fault, Sir.

On a recent trip to Yogyakarta I found myself contemplating the limpid pools of Taman Sari, the water palace where from his balcony the Sultan would watch his harem disporting themselves semi-naked in the pool. As the mood took him, he would toss a flower into  the throng, and the lucky girl who caught it would be invited to the Sultan's quarters.

This led me to ponder the furore here about a new law currently being discussed by the Indonesian parliament to curb pornography (RUU anti-pornografi dan pornoaksi). The law was originally proposed to tackle the perception that Indonesia's young folk are being swept along in a tide of western decadence and thus losing touch with the traditional Indonesian values of modesty and morality.  In fact, the central theme of the law is quite sensible, as it seeks to define what is acceptable in Indonesian society, particularly in the media.  However, as the law has progressed it has been hijacked by the conservative Muslim caucus, and in the process has churned up many of the bizarre contradictions that make this country so interesting.

The law, as currently proposed, would not only control media depictions of the human body, but would also punish what it considers to be 'pornographic acts'.  These 'acts' would include revealing certain parts of the body in public, including the navel or the shoulders, so bikinis are definitely out, and so are crop tops.  Kissing in public, even between married couples, will be banned (though frankly I have never seen any couples show mutual affection in public, so this may be unnecessary).  The punishment proposed for people moving their bodies 'erotically' in public is a jail term of between two and ten years and a hefty fine.  This is designed to stop the popular practice of dancing to 'dangdut' music in a way that in the west would be considered rather innocuous, but here the sheer brazenness of the hip rotation and the amplitude of the bottom shaking is enough to stir the passions of even the most devout.

This law has stirred up quite a lot of resistance.  The Balinese point out that the law will be the final nail in the coffin of the beleaguered tourism industry, as Australian tourists are unlikely to enjoy being arrested for cavorting on Kuta beach in bikinis.  There has been serious talk of Bali breaking away from the Indonesian Republic if the law is passed, which would be a cataclysmic blow to the concept of Indonesian unity.  However, this is not just about accommodating westerners.  Balinese national dress is sufficiently revealing to fall foul of the law, and the traditional practice in more remote areas of Bali for women to walk around topless (ironically a practice that started to fade away when buttoned-up westerners arrived on the island) would fall foul.  You can just imagine what the penis-gourd wearing Dani tribes of Papua are thinking...

Happily, this whole debate has forced the sometimes rather arrogant Jakarta politicians to acknowledge that Indonesia is more diverse than a small hard core group of Muslim clerics would perhaps wish.  Even most Muslims have no time for this law, seeing it as part of the malign neo-Wahhabist puritanical influence that may play well in the Arabian desert but is frankly potty when transplanted to the tropics.   For instance, the town of Tangerang has been criticised for a new by-law that bans prostitution by saying 'any person whose attitude or actions draw suspicion, giving rise to the opinion that are prostitutes, are not allowed on public streets'.  In effect, this means that single women waiting for a bus, eating alone at a foodstall or just staying alone in a hotel room can be arrested and charged purely on the basis that it is illegal to 'arouse suspicion' of being a prostitute, and you may be found guilty even if there is no actual evidence that you are a prostitute.   This is clearly just a wheeze by the clerics to prevent women from walking round without a chaperone. It is inimical to human rights and is in fact in breach of the Indonesian constitution.

A very good article by a woman journalist in Jakarta points out that these laws punish the tempter in order to help the tempted keep their thoughts pure.  She argues that the anti-pornography law assumes that all men are sex-crazed lunatics, and that all women are immoral wenches bent on the sole purpose of distracting good Muslim men from their proper devotions.  She also points out the disturbing fact that the law will put child abuse and rape on the same level as 'lewd dancing', as if the entirely subjective impact of the latter can in any way have equivalence with the universal unacceptability of the former.

It is interesting to speculate on what would happen in other predominately Muslim countries if a female journalist described the devout framers of a morality law as 'dirty-minded gusset sniffing lawmakers', as this lady does in her article.  This is a positive sign that contrary to its image, pluralism and diversity in Indonesia is alive and well and shaking its booty.

Diplomatic Incident

Flores, being a Catholic Island, offers a number of opportunities to go to Mass outside the usual Sunday services and Holy days of Obligation and the two months of Mary, May and October, are no exception. These months involve each neighbourhood creating a timetable as the statue of Mary is passed from one house to the next with each respective house hosting a prayer service throughout the month. Last month these activities culminated in a four day celebration of Mary hosted at our next door neighbour's house ending with a Mass for the local community. The festivities seemed to include playing very loud, not always religious, music all night long and the the local youth getting drunk, but as it was all in honour of Mary no one seemed to mind not being able to get much sleep. As an aside, it was the first time I have heard hymn karaoke, an event that will hopefully forever remain localised to Flores. Having laid in bed listening to endless drunk people singing Ave Ave Ave Maria very badly, rather than never wanting to hear it again, I find it constantly in my mind and catch myself singing it throughout the day.

Attendance at this Mass was an important sign of commitment to the neighbourhood and so I was glad to see our new neighbours, the husband and wife from Cuso, were in attendance. (Cuso is a Canadian version of VSO, so they are volunteers as well) I was a little surprised, however, to see the wife joining the line for Communion as I was sure her husband had mentioned that she wasn't Catholic. Everyone was taking this opportunity to get a good look at her as she stood in line, which is quite normal here, but I was conscious that she was still a little uncomfortable with the sensation of being watched. I myself, having gone native, joined in with the crowd and watched her as neared the priest. She was handed the Host, but it would appear that instead of putting it in her mouth, she kept it in her hand. I was aware of the fact that as she made her way back to her seat the entire congregation were staring at her, and not just the normal staring at westerners but jaw dropping, mouths agape, eyes bulging out of their heads kind of staring. It was as if for a few minutes in that particular spot the world stood still as we watched, waited and stared. My heart went out to her and I couldn't imagine how she must be feeling with this kind of attention. But I also had to wonder along with other people, what on earth was she planing on doing with it, if not eat it. People were tapping me and pointing to her, all you could hear were whisperings of belum (not yet) throughout the rows as the tension mounted. I thought about how I could creep round four rows and help her without it being too obvious. And then as suddenly as it had started relief rippled through each row as word came in the form of sudah(already) meaning that she had just eaten it and the crisis was over. The staring faces were replaced by happy smiles and sighs of relief and the Mass continued as if nothing had happened.

It is some weeks later and she is still having flashbacks and is a little mortified by it all, although she has avoided attending Mass in that time. The urge to integrate is understandable but in some cases it is better to be satisfied with simply observing.

As an aside, the picture of the innovative flower vase, below, shows what happens after Dom has eaten his Spicy Curry flavour Pot Noodle (brought out by Kate and Richard, believe it or not). It was seen as an ideal alter decoration for the Mass!

Privates on Parade

The celebrations for Independence Day began at 07:30 am on the town's football pitch, which became the parade ground. Government employees, soldiers, policemen and selected schools turned out for a full military inspection and review in front of the Bupati (Regent).

After a lot of Sergeant Major type shouting (imagine an Indonesian equivalent of Windsor Davis from 'It Ain't 'alf Hot Mum'), the divisions present arms, dress right, and do a little marching. Beth was supposed to be out there marching with her division, but at the last moment (and much to my disappointment) the Assistant Bupati insisted that we be the VIP guests in the review stand. There was some concern that Beth's lack of a correct uniform would bring the whole parade into disrepute.

After the flag was raised and the national anthem sung, the VIP guests were treated to a display from the St Joseph's School Marching Band. This consisted of a troupe of secondary school kids dressed up in USA-style cheerleading outfits, playing a rendition of 'When the Saints go marching in'. The troupe was preceded by three very precocious ladies deporting themselves in a very un-Indonesian manner. The VIP guests (mostly men) thought this was terrific entertainment, and chuckled heartily. Beth and I suffered an existential crisis brought on by the cognitive dissonance between what we have been taught about Florenese morality, and the mini-skirted brazen hussies flaunting their goods in front of us.

The girls all come from Maumere's exclusive fee-paying Catholic school, which seems to prove everything I always suspected about Convent girls. Apparently this is a phenomena to be found the world over.

The ceremony was then interrupted by one of the local 'orang gila' (mentally disturbed individuals), a strapping lady dressed in a traditional ikat sarong but otherwise bare, who ran onto the parade ground yelping, her breasts swinging to the beat of the marching band. No one seemed to regard this as particularly strange, which shows how disability (an important cross-cutting theme for VSO Indonesia) as well as gender issues (which we are currently mainstreaming in our development projects) are already taken seriously by our Maumere colleagues.

Persatuan Indonesia

17th August is Indonesia's Independence Day, and this year is the 60th anniversary of the declaration to chuck the unworthy Dutch oppressors out of the country and form a new state. The guiding principles of the state are known as the 'Pancasila', and are as follows:

1. Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa (Belief in one God)
2. Kemanusiaan yang adil dan beradab (Just and civilized humanitarianism)
3. Persatuan Indonesia (Indonesian unity)
4. Kerakyatan yang dipimpin oleh hikmat kebijaksanaan dalam permusyaratan (Democracy led by wisdom born of consultation)
5. Keadilan sosial bagi seluruh rakyat Indonesia (Social justice for the entire Indonesian population)

These are equivalent to the US 'pledge of allegiance', and are used in much the same way. For instance, Beth has already memorised the Pancasila because she has to recite it every Monday morning while saluting the flag. We are not clear if this act of fealty to the Indonesian Republic will result in the withdrawal of her UK citizenship under one of Mr Blair's new anti-terrorism laws, so if there are any human rights lawyers reading this feel free to drop us a line.

Of course, one could have a long debate over Indonesia's success in living up to these worthy principles, as 'social justice' and 'wisdom' are not commonly associated with the actions of the Indonesian army in Timor Leste, Papua Barat or Nanggroe Aceh Darusallam. However, the first principle is quite clever as it allows all five recognised religions in Indonesia (Islam, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Protestantism) to coexist in relative harmony without suggesting that the republic favours one over the other. This seems a better settlement that the absurdity and contradictions inherent in the so-called established Church of England. It also helps to explain why a country with the largest Muslim population in the world is surprisingly free of religious strife (The Marriott and Bali bombings notwithstanding).

Apparently, the agreement was not without some negotiation 60 years ago. The Buddhists needed to agree that Buddha could be regarded as their God (though in fact he is more of a plump guide than a deity), and the Balinese Hindus needed to re-cast their multi-theism as multiple dimensions of one God. The Catholics had to explain the Holy Trinity (not that anyone understands that paradox) and the Protestants had to promise to pretend there was a God. The ethnic Chinese community have been lobbying for years to have Confucianism recognised as a sixth religion, without success, but Confucius say: 'easy come, easy go, grasshopper'.

It is this spirit of religious harmony that came to my mind when I was woken at 4.30 in the morning by the amplified call to prayer from the Masjid (mosque) while staying in a Muslim village this past week. I listened to the Imam chanting (this guy could really hold a note), pondered the greatness of Allah, and then rolled over and went back to sleep. This is a country where everyone believes in one God in one language (even the Christians refer to Him as Allah), and yet worship Him in at least five completely different ways with a fair degree of tolerance to the idiosyncrasies of others. That seems to reflect at least some of the essence of the Pancasila.

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.

Beyond the grave

The attitude to death here is informed by the belief that ancestors will continue to play a part in your life. This is one of the areas where traditional animist beliefs have continued to thrive next to catholicism, and to some extent the local Catholic church has co-opted some of the ceremonies associated with ancestor-worship.

For instance, after the death of a parent the offspring will hold a series of ceremonies ('sembahyang') to mark various anniversaries of the person's passing. Usually these are a short mass held at the home, 100 days after death, one year after, and almost every year after that. For instance, tonight we are attending the sembahyang for the mother of a local dignitary, yet she died fifteen years ago.

(In most cases people are buried in their gardens, and when I told my colleagues that in the UK we tend to dispose of remains in a more industrial manner they were horrified, not because they thought it disrespectful but because they did not understand how we could continue to receive help and guidance from our ancestors if they were buried so far away from the family home.)

At the weekend we attended a traditional ceremony ('acara adat'), in which to mark the two year anniversary of Pak Minggus' mother's death the family returned to the village to gather at the the family home where she is buried. The house is a traditional dwelling set in a valley next to a river, in an idyllic spot. To get there one has to walk along a narrow track a kilometre or so from the local village, and as you descend into the valley the air is damper and cooler. Beth and I felt that this would be a fantastic place to live if one could cope with the absence of electricity. This was also a good chance to catch up with our favourite piglet, which is currently taking a holiday from Pak Minggus' house in Maumere and is being looked after by his two elderly maiden aunts.

The ceremony was to mark the ritual ending of mourning, whereby black clothes are cast off to reveal white clothes beneath. Also, a cross can now be added to the gravestone, whereas that is impossible before this particular ceremony. In practice, this took the form of a trainee priest from the local seminary saying a few prayers, while candles were lit and a collection of black garments on the grave were tossed aside.

After this Beth was invited to sit with the old women of the village (in recognition of Beth's status) and invited to share their 'sirih' (a quid of betel nut, areca nut and lime). This is the mildly narcotic stuff that turns your teeth and gums bright red, and eventually destroys your teeth entirely. This was followed by eating pig in various forms, my favourite dish being the congealed pig's blood that is given to the old ladies (whose teeth have fallen out due to excessive betel nut chewing). It tasted like mashed up black pudding, and washed down with the usual copious amounts of arrak was quite delicious.

Before leaving the house we were all blessed by Pak Frans, the headman, who doused everyone with a mixture of coconut oil and palm oil, before throwing the bowl at the ceiling in the traditional gesture of bestowing fortune on the place.

Built on rock

Our neighbour, the infamous Pak Minggus, has decided to restore his depleted resources by renting out his house. To make this possible, he is building a new house on some spare land, and by way of making a virtue out of necessity, he is building a 'rumah adat', a traditional dwelling. This consists of a stone foundation, upon which one builds a wooden superstructure. The wood is from just eight coconut trees, which is an efficient use of a strong an versatile material. It is also fairly environmentally sustainable as coconut grows quite quickly.

Pak Minggus reports that this sort of house is a much better bet in the event of a Tsunami, not because it is any stronger that a concrete house, but because as it is so much cheaper you are less destitute when you become a victim, which I suppose has a kind of weird logic. Furthermore, in the event of an earthquake concrete houses collapse, whereas the inherent pliability of a coconut house enables it to roll with the punches, as it were.

Read on, and see the pictures...

Tomb Raiders

Last weekend Beth and I decided to seek out some culture, so we got on our bikes and drove up into some remote hills in search of a village called Dobo.

The rains, while patchy here in Maumere, have been more consistent in the hills, and the rainforest is exploding with life. You can see jackfruit the size of small family cars, plump cocoa pods and in the lowlands corn as high as the proverbial elephant's eye. Whereas a couple of months ago much of Flores was brown and parched, it is now lush and green.

At a fork in the road we decided the higher track to Dobo was too marginal for motorbikes, and seduced by the cooler air in the highlands, we felt we could leave the bikes and walk the rest of the way. At length we came to a village, and we fell in step with a farmer who was walking up the hill, smoking his kretek cigarette and swinging his pedang (machete). Beth spoke to him in Bahasa Sikka, the local language that I have so far failed to master, and we learned that this was not Dobo, and that we had a much further walk up hill. He described Dobo as being 'jauh sekali', in the same way that Tolkien characters talk of Buckland being 'oh, well let me see, that's a tidy way, master hobbit...' We have already learned that around these parts a couple of kilometres is regarded as a significant trek.

So, on we walked up the hill, admired some most excellent goats (we have been here long enough to recognise a good goat), and waved at the children that we always seem to collect wherever we walk. Eventually the road gave way to a track, and that in turn petered out to nothing, leaving us lost in a rainforest. The children had given up following us some way back, and we were on our own.

Looking around, we saw that a new path started a little way over a mound, and this was a straight, steep path up to the summit of the hill. Climbing this, we finally discovered that we had found the mysterious village of Dobo, though we needed to walk through an old man's house to get to the main clearing in the centre of the village. He didn't seem to be too concerned by two white folk wandering through his property, and barely looked up from his whittling.

As we walked through the small village, people started to appear in doorways, and the inevitable children pointed at us, laughed, and then ran away. We needed to find the village headman, which we would have done as a courtesy in any case upon entering a village, but in this instance we needed to persuade him to let us see the village's most valuable artefact: 'Jong Dobo' - the bronze boat.

What on earth is a bronze boat doing at the top of a mountain I hear you ask? We first heard the story of the boat from our ever-reliable source of local wisdom, our neighbour Pak Minggus. He explained that no one knows where the boat came from, but that everyone knew it was in the forest. Legend has it that the boat can never leave the environs of the village, and if it does then disaster will result. One day, some men from Ende (a town some six hours away) came and stole the boat. Even though this was in the dry season, there was constant rain for some days, unheard of outside the rainy season in Eastern Flores, and eventually the culprits were tracked down and the boat returned. It was because of this story that we found ourselves in Dobo.

The headman was sitting on the pondok at the end of the village to see us, but his manner was reserved. Usually, villages are incredibly hospitable when we arrive, almost embarrassingly so, but here there was an air of superior detachment, as they knew they had something we wanted, which is a reversal of the usual situation here. We spoke to the headman, engaging in small talk until we felt we could pop the question: can we see the boat?

The headman shrugged, stood up and walked away. Not sure what to do, we followed him, but when he walked into a house we hesitated. He gestured us into the house and asked us to take a seat. We sat there in silence for a while, until Beth decided to start asking him all about his family. We learned that his Father used to be the headman, and guarded the boat, and then the task fell to his elder brother, but now his elder brother has moved to Kupang, so these duties fell to him. He explained that usually people write a letter beforehand if they want to see the boat, and that it was unusual for people just to turn up out of the blue. The way he was talking, we were getting the impression that we had failed in some important test, and would not be seeing the boat today.

We pulled out all the stops. We are not tourists, we explained, we are development workers. We flaunted our credentials as fully integrated members of Indonesian society, I even found myself taking an interest in this year's cocoa crop, and implied that I can influence the trading co-operative to come and buy the whole lot. By now, a few more men had come into the house and sat down, all looking slightly amused at what was unfolding.

The headman shrugged, and explained: 'traditionally, before we allow anyone to see the boat, the men of the village gather here and have a smoke, while we decide what to do'.

OK, I said, so let's all talk then. Nobody said anything, and Beth and I thought we were now going to spend the rest of the day in this hut, staring at the empty table.

We then noticed something highly unusual in any gathering of Indonesian males: no one was smoking. Then the penny dropped. "Where can I buy cigarettes?" I asked. A man was dispatched to the village kiosk with my money, and returned with a packet of Gudang. The smokes were passed round and everyone relaxed, and the headman showed us a small exercise book that recorded all visitors to Dobo. The last entry was three years ago, and it occurred to me that we were the first people to arrive since our man became the new headman, so in a way we were all novices.

He left the room, and we heard him rummaging around next door, eventually emerging with the Jong Dobo - a bronze boat approximately 75cm long. He told us that it is about 300 years old, and we have later learned that it may have been made be Portuguese sailors. It is quite an intricate piece, and an astonishing thing to find in a remote Sikkanese village at the top of a hill.

As we admired the boat, it started to rain.

Later, after we had said goodbye to everyone in the village, and promised to return, we were walking back down the hill when Beth said: 'It was a lot smaller than I thought it was going to be!'