Cultural differences

There is a new assistant I am training, Usman. When you tell him something important, he adopts the following body posture: staring eyes fixed on you, raised eyebrows, sagging shoulders and wide-open hands. In Italy, that means “What now?”, in a rather condescending and rude way. But it is just his way of demonstrating attentiveness, and I have to make a conscious effort to block my instinctive reaction. Another fine exercise, you learn..

Mandi

At the end of day in the forest, tired and sweaty, you go take a bath (mandi) in the river. The water appears brown, but it is actually (almost) crystalline, you can see 2m deep. It is a great scenery, a funny contrast to a bar of soap, a colorful towel, conditioner..
And many things happen there. Monitor lizards swim away without moving the water, until they decide that you have seen them and will soon kill them, and transform the graceful flow into a boisterous scamper though water and land. Small needle-like fishes pretend they do not exist, even when you are holding them on your hand, frogs do the same, crabs decide that burying under your leg is the best strategy to elude you, small bloody larvae of some ephemeropteran attack me, black drongos show off their fishing ability.

And today, after I had been quiet for several minutes, with only my head out of the water, a bright red kingfisher flew at full speed along the surface, right toward me, uttering an excited shriek, and avoiding my face for a matter of centimeters.

Technology 1

To collect data, I am using for the first time PDAs, portable computers. You control them using a stylus, small and thin, the easiest thing to lose when running after gibbons in the forest. Not knowing much about these things, I got suddenly nervous, before leaving, for for I hadn’t thought of buying replacements. Then, here, I realized that any small wooden stick works perfectly. And actually now each observer fashion his own, with his favorite size, length, material and texture. You also learn about woods, in the process.

Manufacturing

I have a small backpack that was bought in the USA. Many of the conversations with the assistants concern the expensive equipment we brought and use. When I confirmed its provenance, the voice of innocence (Mislan) said “but it says ‘made in China’..”. To which I definitely did not give a good answer. I cursed once again my poor knowledge of the language, but at least it made me think.

Hold on to the rail

Fieldwork exposes you to unusual experiences and allows you to learn new things about life and the world – here is an example: you are going down with an escalator, facing down, feeling cool in your luxurious mall, riding this powerful piece of machinery, defying the sign asking you to hold on to the rail, you are not an old scary lady who waits and looks before climbing on it, after all. Well, if the engine stops, as it happened to me yesterday, you are suddenly projected forwards, in proportion to the speed of the escalator. If you are lost in your thoughts, it is an interesting, surprising and dangerous experience. You could fall headfirst down steep sharp metal steps, I never thought of it! Ah, the things you learn doing fieldwork..

Delicacy

There is a fruit in the forest, which you have to eat with your tongue. You cannot pull out the pulp with your teeth, and if you bite it, you dent the seed, which is extremely bitter. And you cannot suck out the pulp either. You just have to slowly work with your tongue. Again, a metaphor of different approaches to things, different, more delicate ways to experience things.

The way back

The memory of the rattan swamps is still fresh on our skins. We think of ways to avoid that area. Eddie, “not a strong swimmer”, opts for following the beach to a large road that cuts across it. I go for the obvious: I build a raft for my backpack and swim upriver. I think I found something important about rafts: layering. You have a lower layer that will sink, and an upper deck which will stay dry. It works perfectly. And rope, oh, how it is important in some circumstances..

All reports say that crocodiles no longer live on this river, and I guess I trust them when I start paddling with my skinny white legs in the brown calm waters. But as I hear a slow and heavy splash to my left, I wonder.. then it also dawns on me that nobody talked about the sharks that in some places go upriver.. I cannot turn easily, for fear of unbalancing the raft, but part of me wonders, again..

After a while I abandon the fears (it is sad how one can feel reckless and stupid, and not even brave..) and enjoy the trip. Silver langurs start, then stop and look, puzzled, wondering what is this strange creature. And they stay there, I can observe them at ease (as I am definitely not fast). Monitor lizards, basking on a trunk above the water, open one eye, and follow my progress, deciding not to flee. Birds fly across the open sky, when they see me it is too late to change course. Small electric blue dragonflies search the water surface and rest on dead leaves.

After a couple of hours I decide to go back ashore, I would need more time to be able to go all the five km to camp, though I would have loved to bring the raft home. Instead, I send it back down the river, wondering what other experiences she will go through. It takes me little time to find a comfortable natural trail running along ridges that soon takes me back to the trail system. It is funny how this periphery of the study area, usually felt as “wild”, seems now “home”..

The sea 2

Worn out by stress I decided to go and see the sea. This entails walking to the end of the trail system and then abandoning it to cut through the forest bearing southeast for about 2km. I am joined in the trip by Eddie, a British WCS officer visiting from Cambodia. Tall, slow, large heavy boots, GPS and camouflaged bandanna, saved by a dose of acceptable British humor. We cross the illegal road, and then up and down through hills and swamps filled with thorny bushes and noble nasty plants. We have to open our way along small rivers til we find fallen trees to cross them, and then elephant or wild pig trails to help us get through the worst thickets. It would be cool to imagine us with a well-honed machete, but as it happens we didn’t have one. It has some nobility, passing through the forest without leaving a trail of dead vegetation, but I confess that had I had machete when I was bleeding from rattan, I wouldn’t have hesitated to use it. After 2 hours of struggling (and weighing the feasibility of offering it to visiting friends, eheh), you hear the thunder closer and closer, you see a white cloud of sea spray, you smell it, you touch sand.. it is a powerful emotion. When you see it, the lungs open, maybe something happens to the heart too, and as ridiculous as it seems, you would want to scream (there is no witness to say if I did, as Eddie arrived some time later).

I am ready to pick up the duel with the waves I left at Krui, but here the sea is very different. It is powerful and dangerous. Even small waves are heavy and vicious, full of water, long; the undertow is mighty; there is no pattern to discern. I try to reach where the waves break, and still retain some control on the situation, but I am soon beaten up and dragged out until suddenly I cannot touch anymore. At which point, contrary to all the knowledge I accumulated, I waste 80% of my energy to regain that one meter, that one-second-ago, and luckily I manage to touch again. After that, I don’t risk anymore. No wonder you can hear the waves from so far away. We see where the mini-tsunami reached, all the way to the edge of the forest and inside it, leaving a trace of wooden debris..

An earthquake

Sumatra – and Indonesia in general – is an area of high volcanic and seismic activity. At least once or twice a week there are small earth movements. The low wooden buildings of the field station tolerate them well, there is only more or less shaking and creaking noises. One romantic touch: there is a bird, the Argus pheasant (remember Argus, the Greek guardian of a hundred eyes – this beautiful peacock-like bird has a gorgeous tail), which senses the earthquakes, and start calling – only few seconds before the shaking, so not too useful as a warning system.

So picture the scene: you are sipping your tea, perhaps playing the guitar, in the dimly lit common area, when a far away cry, a long and alarmed wail, “Kuau” (that is the local name of the Argus), breaks the darkness. It is followed by others, all around you, near and far. And then the building starts shaking, at times gently, other times more strongly. It is not alarming, not frightening, you can focus on the experience of feeling the earth below you moving, you think of how deep is the movement, how many layers of ancient rocks are shifting, and the very superficial one of trees, small wooden huts, rivers and animals that lays upon them. As many thoughts in the forest, profound, eheh.

A wedding

Wiyono, one of Alice’s assistants, got married. For a series of circumstances, that day we were coming back from TK, it was getting late, that hour when you won’t be able to walk to camp before dark, but we decided to look for the little kampung where Wiyono lives, to briefly pay our homage. We had stayed in TK for longer than expected, we had no clean clothes, we were dressed like dirty, trashy Americans, we didn’t have a wedding present. Quite embarrassing. But we were welcomed warmly, all of the innumerable family members smiled at us, they decided that it was too late to go back to the forest now, that they would feel worried on account of us, and that we should spend the night in their home. We accepted.

The only gift I could give Wiyono were photographs, since I had my camera (with dying battery). I told him to let me know what he wanted immortalized, and he accepted with a glimpse of a smile, and in his quiet and composed way took my arm and led me around the place, away from the “main hall” and where people were cooking, washing, preparing decorations, hanging out. He would softly point at a person or group of people, murmuring their identity, and proceed.

We were politely asked if we wanted to take a bath (a ritual before prayer, and in this case, the vain hope we could reappear wearing more appropriate clothes). One of Wiyono’s cousins took us “there”: a well, surrounded by a low mud wall and a loose wicker fence, and dozens tiny chicks and hens running excitedly around. I wore my forest pants (smelly and not completely clean) as they were the only long ones I have.

Here is how the wedding works: a large patio is built and decorated. Right outside the house, on a row of elegant chairs, sit the couple, the parents, and other notable members of the family or important persons. In front of them are placed seven or eight rows of plastic chairs. To their left, an imposing (and frail) entertainment system, including two TVs (facing opposite ways), DVD/VCD player and big speakers. To their right, a large box with a small opening on top, and a long table with refreshments and food, preceded by another small number of “welcoming personnel”. I am not sure about the time this starts, but people come, are welcomed by this avant-garde, are given a package with food (rice, vegetables, egg, a piece of chicken), sweets (a strange sort of merengue, one made from rice wrapped in banana leaves, another very heavy made from a local fruit), and drinks (water); then they place a folded envelop (with money) in the box, and ceremoniously shake hands with the family/important people. Then they sit down on the plastic chairs in front of them and eat. And then they leave. Sometimes, a member of the greeting committee stands up, to give orders or rest, and is replaced by another. My feeling was that it is important to leave a valuable representation there at all times. We arrived at 16.30 (when we were told that a lot of people had already showed up and left), and at midnight they were still coming. Music was played continuously, and then movies, narrating edifying tales of powerful and pure Muslim heroes. I was constantly offered food, every 15 minutes Wiyono would come and say “Luca, makan!” (Luca, eat!) and present me with some new treat. Then we had the proper dinner, inside the house, with the family. A great honor. Then we sat down on the greeting committee, an even greater honor, though I also hope we were being helpful, by replacing flagging members and giving an exotic touch. What you do is pay attention, and when the people come, you raise, shake their hand and take your hand to your heart, with a large smile (and possibly some nodding and a little bowing). One difficulty is calibrating the force of the handshake: what you receive goes from a manly clasp, to a firm grip, to a weak limp hand, to an even deader squid-like pulp. And you have to be good at guessing the kind of handshake you should deliver to each person, and extremely quick to adjust when you make a mistake. An additional honor was to be seated next to the chief of the village, beautifully dressed, a friendly and self-assured look, willing to talk about life, siamangs, the movie we were watching, the village and his experiences with the forest and WCS. I was kicking myself for the poor control I still have of the language (the million dialects don’t help..). At around 1 a.m. we retired, we slept in the common room, on the floor covered with colorful carpets and rugs, we couldn’t refuse pillows and sarongs, with the family. Music and movies played all night long, and then people started cleaning up, and when we woke up at 4.30 most of the work was already done. A trip to the bathroom (a hole on the ground, covered with cut palm trunks and protected by (low) palm leaves, some distance from the house), and then Wiyono and his cousin took us to the entrance of the forest by motorbike.

The sea

I love the forest. And I love the sea. And it is so beautiful that here I can sense the presence of the sea: a low, deep rumble which reaches us from five km away. So powerful. The attraction is strong. I will go and see it soon.

A lunch

Opo and I arrived at the entrance to the forest. There, there is a house, and a small shed where we usually leave the car. Then, usually, we put on our boots, contact porters to carry our supplies, and walk to the field station. Today there is something unusual happening. We are invited to join for lunch. I have never been inside that big house. Opo is unsure, they insist, we accept.
It is a lunch to celebrate the return from far away of the son of this important man. There are 16 men sitting with their legs crossed, along the walls of a large room. In the center, several bowl-shaped and conical piles of rice, a huge chicken, some smaller birds, bowls of soup, banana leaves as place mats. Then there is the prayer. I am very excited and proud of being allowed in there. And so glad that contrary to most other places in Indonesia, my presence is accepted and ignored, no special treatment, change in behavior, smiles, looks – all normal. The atmosphere and setting are solemn. The prayer is started by a middle-aged man, a sort of introduction, and then an older one takes over and performs an amazing litany, monotonic, long, interspersed with “amen-like” responses and unfamiliar gestures from the gathered men. Then the huge chicken (especially for this country, where poultry is usually quite scrawny) is passed to a young man who starts tearing it into pieces with his hands. The pieces are passed around, and we eat. Then coffee, from their plantation. I am not offered, I am given one, piping hot and with about 6 spoonfuls of sugar, as customary. And smoking, every single one of them. Homemade cigarettes, with tobacco taken from a pile that is drying outside.
We thank, and depart.

Convoy

Prologue: sometimes we saw loud motorcades, starting with big police trucks with bellowing sirens, and followed by 10-14 fast running cars. We wondered who those important people could be.
A big thing, the visit of “the governor of Afghanistan”. Here to learn conservation strategies from WCS. And they are worth a motorcade! And Opo and I are forced to join them, because they forgot some water supply, apparently. We are 12 cars, preceded by three big police trucks with loud sirens on. We were waiting for a meeting to end, eating fruits, and then the rumor spread that “we were on the move”: now imagine those action movies where the two cops are spying on the bad guy, and then he “is on the move”, and they, before starting the chase, dump their big coffee cups out of the car windows.. This is how it felt, eheh (ridiculous). Along the way, a lot of police, waving us to keep going freely (there is hardly anybody in the park road). Then we stop for lunch, in the middle of the forest, food is taken out, people sit on the ground, smiles. Then, the big caravan go with the Rhino Protection Unit, who will show them some footprints and dung, and we head home (the forest, the station).

On the rhythm of things

I am usually not in a hurry, and I don’t like to push things. I was done working in TK and I decided to get back to the forest. I left at 11 a.m., I had 7 hrs before darkness, for a trip that technically should take about 5. Bus is late, too late to make it into the forest before darkness. I spend the night in KA. Then I could go alone early in the morning, or with Opo. I join him, as he says he will leave early. But he has unexpected delays, then we join a majestic convoy, then we have a random snack, then an even randomer lunch, and finally I get to the forest, exactly 29 hrs after departure (but also after many unexpected experiences).

Fixing a car (2)

On leaving again, on the same glorious car, Opo stops and yells with casual tone: “where is the honk?”. Why would he do that, he knows that car well, after all.. Well, after the latest set of repairs, the honk is now a small lever on a new small electrical terminal taped to the top of the steering column..

On driving and social relationships

Traffic in Indonesia can safely be described as chaotic and dangerous. In the cities, it is a mess of all sorts of motorbikes (ojeks – unofficial moto taxis), vespas, buses, taxis, bull-carts, people crossing (it’s an art). Out of town, the same actors, but there is more space and speed is higher. Here is my profound comparison to North American driving: in the US (as, to a lesser extent, in Europe), drivers drive carefully, without doing reckless moves, relying on others to do the same. In Indonesia the opposite is true: one goes into dangerous overtakings, trusting others not to kill them. This, in absolute, is a more communal, almost fraternal attitude: there, you just think of driving, go on your way, and if something unusual happens, you are upset, outraged and not prepared. Here, you place your life in the hands of others, establish a bond, there is gratitude involved, and you can expect anything, so you are much more alert. If you turn a curve and there is a truck slowly overtaking a small slow bike, you just slow down and get off the road, as needed, and the next time you overtake, a bike coming the other way will go in the dirt to make room for you. Similarly, the average distance from the car ahead is 30cm. In USA this would be unacceptable, clear indication of road rage. Here (and to a lesser extent in Italy) it is not so, there is no hint of irritation or frustration or aggression, it is healthy, in this respect.
Having said that, many accidents occur, and some things are objectively not ideal, e.g. trucks with front and rear wheels not in line, or bent on a side, bikes with no lights on, bikes with insanely heavy or cumbersome loads (like wardrobes complete with full-length mirror, 100kg rice bags)..

Masakan Padang

Indonesia is made of innumerable islands, languages, peoples, and of course, cuisines. “Today, we will talk about the Padang cuisine” (with the tone of the lame conductor of a lame food TV show”).. It is one of the most famous and popular, there are talks of making it the “official” Indonesian cuisine. Padang restaurants are easily recognizable, from the array of plates, like a castle of cards. Then, you sit down, they bring a little bowl of water to wash your hands, then your rice, and then the array: two pieces of each dish. You pick and eat as much as you want. Then, when you ask for the check, a person comes, and stands by the table, staring and counting, you feel like a young student being evaluated (or a voracious white person being judged), and then the verdict is pronounced (when you eat a large grilled fish, some spicy meat, a vegetable soup, fresh vegetables, three small bananas and iced tea to drink, you can expect to pay almost 1.5$..)

A conversation

Ismail is the housekeeper of WCS office in Kota Agung. He is always smiling, finding something to do, offering you coffee or tea. He doesn’t speak much English, but would like to learn. We strike a deal, to teach each other. Today I have another, rainy afternoon to spend, we start chatting. The problem is that even the few English words that he knows, or the Indonesian ones I know, are incomprehensible in the dialect he speaks (very quickly). And he doesn’t help us with hand gestures (another talent I am grateful to my country for!). In any case, I believe we talked about all the different plants and fruits that grow in our respective countries (some of which have no translation, at least in my small dictionary, so I just accepted the existence of a winka fruit (or something like that), as he did for the olive.. the olive, the sacred olive! It is so fascinating to change perspectives. Then politics, how Bush was wrong in invading Iraq, how bringing freedom and democracy should not involve the killing of a million people, how England supported him, how the bad Berlusconi did the same, but now Italy brought back our soldiers. Then whether we have a king, I have the valiant (and hopeless) idea of explaining how our king escaped during the war, and how we kept him out of Italy, he tells me of the many kingdoms that once were, the communist coup d’etait, the republic. Distribution of different religious groups in Italy and Indonesia, the relationships.
And up to here, they are general arguments, if I miss something, it won’t be too damaging. But then he gets personal, he tells me about his newlywed wife, five months, when there is nobody in the office he has to sleep there, otherwise he can sleep at home, and after six years of this job he is bored, he would like to do something else, would love to do research with me. I am uncomfortable, I wish I could understand perfectly, also the tones, if he hopes I can talk to somebody about it. But he has good energy, the smile is clear. We move on to the dangers of climbing coconut trees (but another seed of uneasiness and inadequacy is planted..)

Writings on a shirt

On the Starbuck’s logo: Starfucks
On another one: Starbuds (modified with Marijuana leaves)
Brigade rosse?? Brigate rosse is an Italian extreme left terrorist group.. I wonder..

Writings on a wall

Along a road in Bogor, in sequence: “Klass war”, then “Anarchy”, and finally, getting to the real point of the matter: “My wife must die”..

Fixing a car

A car can have different problems. A punctured tire, a break in the electrical circuit, a dead fuse.. or, as was the case for our old bright green jeep, part of the engine would like to split from the other. As a consequence, also the type of repair, and the tools you use, differ: in this case, it is important to have a strong rope (to tie the rebel part to the car body), a big screwdriver (to tighten the rope) and a powerful crowbar (to force the part in place). Two strong friends are helpful too. Pouring rain isn’t. It is miraculous how two pulleys become perfectly aligned again, the belt that had leapt out runs smoothly, in spite of two hours on one of the worst roads I have seen. (Also the chain that holds the back of the car together did its job dutifully).

Hello mister!

In every city you go, being a westerner, you are saluted at every step by hello Misters. People from all ages, gender and business. Those having some additional knowledge of English will invariably try it on you. Once obtained your nationality, they will list the football players they know from your country. Being Italian is a clear advantage. If you have a doubt or question, you will be helped to the best of their capacity.

Encounters and images

“Waktre” takes me into a crowded bus terminal on a motorbike, we find the bus we want, he then softly asks for the conductor, to a 17-year-old kid with the face of a rock star, sitting gracefully on a motorbike, handling a microphone. He fulfils the request, smoothly integrating into some sort of a song the call for the driver. Not sure what his official role is..

In one of my many afternoons in Kota Agung, we are heading to the beach. To get there you have to cross rice fields, and then a marshy patch of palm trees. A dozen men are harvesting the rice. They raise their heads to our approaching (as usual preceded by plenty of cheering kids). An old man, without a word, hands me the scythe. I, without a word, take it and cut some handfuls of grass. It is very sharp. The trick is to let the curved ending of the blade do the cut. The effort is appreciated, though not enough, for this large field. I would like to share stories of olive tree harvesting in Italy, and the very different difficulties of a graduate student life. Instead, I leave with a healthy shame and the superficial feeling that I have learned the rudiments of a new activity.

The Way Canguk assistants are deadly serious, and extremely professional. Their eyes are stone, they don’t smile except during breaks, when sharing dinner, making silly jokes, playing guitar and singing Indonesian folk songs. In the forest they know animals and plants, scientific names before English ones. When Rahman leaves the camp with the task of obtaining filmed evidence of the involvement of the Army in the building of the illegal road, he could well be the hero of a romance.
At 6.20, before dinner, they gather on the “office”, the tallest building. They have bathed, they are well dressed, their gaze elsewhere. They lay down carpets, and pray and chant. Then they come back, it feels as if from a long distance, and invite me, “makan!”, “let’s eat”.. I wonder how much of this romantic image is due to the place, the atmosphere, my state of mind.. we’ll see how it changes over time.