Postcard from Majene

After Polewali, Majene is a pleasant surprise. This part of the country is home to the ethnic Mandar people and, without wanting to start a race riot, they are getting my vote so far for the friendliest Sulawesians we've yet met, which is saying something.

We arrived by chartered car on a Wednesday afternoon and went straight to the hotel that had been recommended to us: Villa Bogor Leppe. The hotel stands on a promontory at one end of a long crescent-shaped bay and has fantastic views across the town and waterfront. At least, there are fantastic views from the car park and open air terrace where breakfast is served. For some reason that initially made me incredulous, the rooms in this hotel are a bit cell-like and have only small windows facing the sea — across the carpark. 

A "sea view" room

After a few days I rationalised this as being a way of reducing heat load, which made me feel a bit less grumpy about forking out more than usual — $50 a night. Still, we spent quite a bit of time in the mornings and evenings on the terrace enjoying the view of the fishing boats and the life of the waterfront community below us.

The real sea view, from the terrace

And what a cheerfully rowdy community it seemed to be.

Our first afternoon we headed into town and were surprised to see a little restaurant offering pizzas. Having had many meals of ikan bakar (barbecued fish) and mie goreng, we decided to give it a shot, in retrospect possibly not a good idea for people who come from Brunswick, Australia's pizza capital. What we had at Radja Pizza was some tinned vegetables in a spicy sauce drizzled with mayonnaise on top of a big flat fluffy scone. But it was certainly a change from ikan bakar. We also chatted to a few locals including a young woman wearing a jilbab, called  Citra*, who offered to show us around, and we made a date to catch up a few days later.

Pizza, Majene style

We then headed for the beach, as all good Aussies would do, getting to the waterfront in the late afternoon as the day was cooling down, and walked along the road, with fishermen's houses on one side and their boats moored behind a breakwater on the other. The boats themselves are handsome — narrow wooden craft with outriggers on either side, all painted white, some with small sails, others with motors. 

Majene waterfront

It was the time of day when most of the community were outdoors, the kids playing soccer, volleyball, battling tops, or just cruising around on bikes, and the older generation sitting out in small groups chatting and, in the case of the men, having a cigarette. There was a lovely sense of both the children's freedom to roam and play along the front road and the smaller streets leading off it, and of them being casually supervised by the groups of adults sitting around — a perfect example of the village raising the children.

As in many places we were a novelty, and as we walked continually attracted clumps of children for a bit of English practice, a joke or to pose for a photo. We were struck by the fact that there were plenty of young girls out playing too, which hadn't been the case in other places. 

I tell them "Saya bukan bintang film" ("I'm not a film star"), but it doesn't put them off.

Other pleasant interruptions included a conversation with an older woman and her friends who told us that a group of local sailors were planning to sail one of the traditional boats to France later in the year. At least I'm pretty sure that's what she said! It would be an extraordinary feat.

As we neared the end of the road, we asked one young woman how to get back to the hotel, up on the hill. She assigned a young boy as a guide and we quickly attracted a party of about 25 kids, ranging from 4 or 5 to 8 or 9, leading us through the narrow back streets and up a  steeply sloping path, delighted at their role. As we climbed, the younger ones turned back until we reached the top with the posse of half a dozen of the older boys.

The whole walk, from beginning to end, was just a wonderful experience in being being human. 

The climber and the guides

Going up

Looking back

The next day we met Rini, the daughter of the hotel owner, who offered to take us to Dato Beach, the beach I'd seen on the internet with white sand and clear water. After more than 8 weeks in Sulawesi I was keen to have my first swim in the ocean, like any good Aussie. But we had also promised to meet up with Citra, so headed over to her place in town. The young woman who met us looked totally different to the one we'd met in the pizza place. Her hair was out and she was wearing casual western style clothes (pyjamas?) and, inside her home, bare feet.

Over a late (for her) and second (for us) breakfast, we got chatting and learned that Citra was from Jakarta and was in Majene for a holiday to visit her boyfriend, Agus, who was currently out of town for a few days. We were really surprised when she also said "Oh, I know Rini. Isn't she that short girl from the hotel?", but didn't go on to elaborate. 

After a walk around the city park we said goodbye to Citra and headed back to the hotel. In the late afternoon Rini took us out in her car to Dato Beach. We mentioned Citra.

"Oh, yeah, Citra. I know her."

[Here we are both thinking 'Wow, what a coincidence — the two people we meet in Majene know each other].

"Does she have a boyfriend called Agus?"

"Yes, she does!"

"He used to be my boyfriend."

[Aha, pieces of the jigsaw fit into place!]

"Was she wearing the jilbab?" Rini asked casually. Rini herself dressed in a casual western style.

By now we were at the beach and headed down the track for our first ocean swim in Sulawesi. It's hard to impress Australians when it comes to beaches, but the sand was indeed white and the water was clear and I came away feeling truly refreshed.

Aussies at Dato Beach

That night we headed into town again. After dinner we walked through the night market and ended up near the waterfront again, this time in the city park, or alun alun. Food and drink carts lined the roadway and the vendors had laid out blankets and small tarps on the grass for their customers. Clumps of families, young men and women were scattered around the park, enjoying each other's company and the (non-alcoholic) fruit smoothies, and it all looked so nice we joined them.

On the way back to the hotel, we passed Citra's place and bumped into her sitting outside her house, covered head to foot, including a head scarf, and we said our goodbyes.

The next day were heading for the provincial capital Mamuju so we could save ourselves the long drive back to Makassar by getting a 1-hour flight. We were leaving with a warm inner glow about Majene, its simple pleasures (maybe not the pizza) and the people we'd met, but with a few lingering questions too.

Had Citra always worn a jilbab? Was wearing the jilbab Agus's idea? Was that why Rini and Agus had split up? Are these even appropriate questions to ask?

We'll have to go back to Majene to find out, I guess, and hang out in Radja Pizza.

[*Names have been changed, but not the facts!]

© 2014 Steve Dobney

Postcard from Polewali 2

The title of my earlier post, "Postcard from Polewali" turns out to be ironic. I spent some time today walking the streets trying various shops and the post office, but it turns out that the town of Polewali does not consider itself worthy of producing such a thing as a simple postcard. People were familiar with the concept – kartu pos –– but couldn't recall actually seeing them for sale anywhere. The guy in the post office was willing to estimate the postage, should I be able to find one, and sell me the necessary stamps, but I have a feeling those stamps will remain unused. It shouldn't come as a surprise, I guess. As you can see from my snaps below, Polewali is not a pretty town and it doesn't attract the kind of people who might want to send postcards, i.e. tourists. 

The mean streets of Polewali

The Hotel Ratih and its less salubrious neighbour

In our week staying here, we haven't seen any other Westerners, and we invariably create a minor commotion walking down the street, just by being different (even when I'm wearing my batik shirt).

Usually it's just the standard "Hello mister, hello missus", but variants include horn honking, dangerous turning of heads while riding of motor scooters, occasional pointing (as if to say "Hey white people, look at the funny white people"), and clustering of amazed, hysterically laughing schoolkids. It is always good-natured, often involves a photograph, and sometimes develops into an actual conversation if either party has the time and language.

The other thing that makes us oddities is possibly that we are walking. You certainly don't catch many locals doing it, and we are constantly being offered more acceptable options, such as becaks and pete-pete (micro vans with bench seats, standard fare 0.30 cents). It's not hard to see why. There are no footpaths, just a choice between the general roadside rubble and the drainage ditch, which is sometimes covered but mostly open. Cars park wherever they want on the road edge, which means you often have to dodge out into the traffic lane where becaks and scooters weave between trucks and the occasional car, all with plenty of horn honking but precious few actual collisions [touches wooden object, makes sign of cross].

The streetscape along the main street consists mainly of dark, dingy, broken facades hosting every kind of business from restaurants and warkops (warung kopi = coffeeshops) to motorbike repair shops and a surprising number of photocopy services. Interspersed are precincts for schools and the library, which are a little grander, and the stark contrast of a spotless and brightly lit Alfamart store.

Oddly, the town is spread over a few kilometres, with a stretch of rice paddies in the middle, maybe on lower lying land, which provides some visual relief but adds to the travelling. We are staying the newly completed and certainly grand (but unfortunately named) Hotel Ratih, but the block next door looks like a bomb zone in Baghdad. In short, Polewali is a hard town. 

Having said that, we have eaten well here. The regional specialty is ikan bakar (barbecued fish), cooked on an open grill out the front of the shop. Before you enter you choose your fish from the selection on ice in a polystyrene esky, It's basted in some kind of delicious garlicky spicy paste and goes down well with some cap cai (mixed vegetables, but the local variant must include some prawns), nasi putih and an es jeruk or jus melon (iced orange juice or melon juice). The heat conjures up dreams of ice cold beer, but that is only available in the swankier hotels (like the Ratih) and even then you need to give the staff notice to put it in the fridge.

Ikan bakar

The ubiquitous kecap manis: "NEW: Blacker, more deliciously salty and oily, thicker".  

Polewali improves, though, as soon as you get a block or two from the main street, where the newer houses and ruko are going up amid the rice fields, and within a kilometre or two you are in another world of the desa (village) and dusun (whatever is smaller than a village!). This is where Sue and I have been spending most of our mornings up until 1 or 2 pm, primarily examining the cocoa trees belonging to a couple of local farmers, but also getting a little glimpse of village life. 

Sue relaxing on the balai balai with tools of the trade

Each morning at 8 we are called for by a couple of guys on motor scooters who dink us (a mode of transport called ojek) the 5 or 6 kilometres through the rice paddies to the village of Beluak. It's an absolute mood-changer, a great way to start the day, despite the occasional white man's worries about accidents, travel insurance and whether the rate of $2 one way that we are paying them will distort the local economy, since the recommended rate was only $1.

Pak Syukur's house with the balai balai and table tennis table in the "carport".

The village of Beluak, Anreapi

Pak Arafin and family, and a crop of coconuts

Our first day on our own in the cocoa field looked like being a fizzer when the reality of the trees didn't match Sue's plans, but our host Pak Arafin was more concerned that we should attend the ceremony taking place in the village's open air mosque (no domes, no minarets). We were ushered in, shoeless, and with a bit of shuffling seated on the floor in the loosely segregated groups, me with the men, Sue with the women and children. There was a sermon from a young and friendly looking vicar (imam?) that I didn't understand, but which got a few laughs, and a central arrangement of a banana tree hung with little baskets containing boiled eggs. It all reminded me of Easter. 

It turns out that it was Maulid,the celebration of Muhammad's birth, celebrated in some Muslim countries but frowned upon in others; hence my sense of it being about new life was not far off. After the formal part of the service the women whipped out plates food they had prepared and after a lot of deferring to each other we all tucked in. It was all incredibly friendly and relaxed. Yes, there were some jilbab (headscarves), but there were bareheaded women as well and none of that seemed to matter. Despite our obvious status as non-believers, we were given the gifts of the small egg trees to take away at the end of the ceremony. 

Pak Arafin and family with the egg trees

Another day, after 4 hours work in the increasing heat, we are walking back to Pak Arafin's place and notice a couple of houses with goods for sale in the front window, which is common in the villages. "Ada minuman es?" (Do you have ice drinks?) I ask hopefully. "Ada", is the correct reply. We happily sit on the plastic chairs while the ibu of the house/warung mixes ice from an esky, a bit of water and our choice of flavour sachet in a blender and a minute later we are revelling in a couple of slurpies as feeling the core temperature drop back to normal. To the point where we follow up with a bowl of instant noodles; a simple but incredibly reviving snack. As we pay and leave, ibu is serving her next customer who is buying one of the bottles of petrol she has lined up on a rack, to top up his van. 

The ice and petrol lady

On Saturday as we had finished up our work in Pak Syukur's plantation, it seemed the  whole village was kicking back. The young boys were playing table tennis under a kind of carport strung with election banners to stop the ball going too far. The older boys were dozing on the raised balai balai (deckhouse) with their music player pumping out "Hotel California" and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" at a not unneighbourly volume, while somewhere across the fields some other 80s rock was answering the call. The girls, however, may well have been doing some housework inside.

Village life seems to occur in a loose kind of privacy; washing, snoozing, coming and going all go on in the public space and there is a lot of what seems like just sitting around. The schoolgirls wear headscarves, but outside of school they seem much less common, here at least. Slowly we have forged some relationships here in Beluak and I'm hoping that when we return in April we will take up Pak Arafin's offer of accommodation at his house. If we can turn our backs on air-con, beer and a swimming pool for a week or two.

Hard to resist: Hotel Ratih

Did I mention that we also went in search of a waterfall advertised on the internet, but deceptively difficult to find. To make things more interesting, we (OK, I) had chartered this most inappropriate vehicle for mountain climbing on rough roads: the urban pete-pete. But our fearless driver Hendra persevered and joined us on the 1 hour climb. More pics to come.

© 2014 Steve Dobney

Postcard from Polewali

It is only a week since we left Melbourne, but by jingoes it seems a lot longer than that. We hit the ground running and haven’t stopped yet, currently in our third location since leaving Makassar on Thursday morning, less than 24 hours after we’d arrived. Basically we haven’t had time to wipe our arses (so quite handy that I had a bout of constipation. Looks like “Sulawesi stomach” is a different beast to “Bali belly”. To get daily updates on my digestive status, see my other blog, Sulawesi_bound.bogspot.com.) 

Since leaving Makasssar we have been part of a travelling “cocoa caravan” that has ranged in size from 1 to 4 vehicles, driving from hotel to cocoa farm to trial site to farmer’s field day, stopping at the municipal offices to shake hands with the wakil bupati  (deputy mayor – the actual mayor is something like the Phantom apparently; few have actually seen him), then heading on to the next town. The group has included university academics from Melbourne, Sydney and Makassar, people involved with various cocoa research projects in Indonesia, and the head of research at Mars (the chocolate company, not the planet; a company, by the way, that is still fully owned by the Mars family!). Everywhere we receive wonderful hospitality in the form of food (perhaps the cause of my “Sulawesi stomach”). 

 

The team assembles on day 1 in Makassar

The caravan on tour. We kind of parked out the village.

A typical South Sulawesi house. They aren't all as nice as this, obviously.

Selfie with the team, with the head of Agriculture in Polewali on the right.

The itinerary is usually breakfast at 7, then out by 8.30 to the first site, before it gets too hot and humid. Then keep going once it is too hot and humid, trying to drink more than we sweat! Then back to the hotel by 6 for a cold shower (hot water doesn’t seem to be widely available, but it’s only Sulawesi cold) before going out to dinner somewhere then collapsing into bed. I have never felt more a part of the water cycle! 

As you can imagine, there hasn’t been too much time for sightseeing, but that will come once the caravan disbands, people head home, and we are left to our own devices. In Polewali (the fabled city we stared at for months as a dot on a map) I managed to sneak away from the cocoa discussions for a walk along the seafront esplanade. Oddly, it is totally undeveloped, lined with simple houses on one side, all the hotels being located a block away on the fairly grimy main road. Sue’s academic supervisor, who has been coming here for years, admitted to me that he’d never seen the waterfront, which was only about 300 metres from our hotel. This is one focused group of people!

Welcome to Polewali (for those of you arriving by boat).

Pedal-powered fun ride, Saturday evening on the Polewali waterfront

What I have seen in the last 6 days are a hell of a lot of cocoa trees! I have walked around “clone trials” and attempted to tell one variety from another by the shape of the pods. I have peered at leaves to see the traces of the dreaded vascular streak dieback (VSD). I have attended farmer training sessions on the benefits of pemangkasan (pruning), pemupukan (fertilising), kompos (I think you can guess that one), pembersihkan gulma (weeding), naungan (shade) and standing next to the tree with an axe to increase production. (Actually, that is a old Kevin Heinze technique they don’t yet know about. I’ll mention it next time.) 

A pruning lesson from the master, Arif

Ode, Sue, Steve and Arif with the cocoa tree we just planted, cocoa farmers field day

Where it all begins: pods on the tree

It’s no holiday, and that’s not what we signed up for anyway. But in the bustle of activity, I am managing to chat to farmers, swap cultural observations with my car companion Ayu, from Makassar, eat coconuts and rambutan freshly cut from the tree, and soak up the classic Indonesian vista of fluorescent green rice paddies fringed with coconut palms, with hazy mountain ranges in the far distance. As we Aussies would say would say by way of great praise, “Not bad”. 

Classic Sulawesi landscape: rice, coconuts, mountains

Words of the day 

pupuk: fertiliser 
ruko: house (rumah) with a shop (toko) at the front

Still to come

Finding Sugar Man in Anreapi