The flowers of Flores

It’s not often that the casual tourist is allowed a glimpse of authentic local culture, but recently I was actually part of it. On the bus from Labuanbajo on the island of Flores, I met Florenzo and Linda. Lorenzo was returning to his village after being away for over eight years, and he was introducing his wife to his family for the first time. There would be a big party and he invited me to come join the celebration the next day.

He showed me the houses and traditional items around and included me in the day’s activities. I met his family and we sat of the floor drinking tea, coffee and eating cookes while the men smoked clove cigarettes. I found myself quite intrigued with village life. The people make a living through agriculture, growing coffee, peanuts, corn and beans. There seemed to be a lot of young children and a lot of very old people in the village. I suppose those in the middle were out in the fields or perhaps did what Lorenzo did and found another home in the city.

We sat there in the house, on bamboo mats eating rice and pork with our hands. Smoke rose in the air and filled the room from the cigarettes and every empty glass was quicly filled with arak, palm wine, and given back to its owner. I took a little time out in the middle of the day to play with the kids. We began playing soccer, and then I challenged them to a contest to see how many times you could kick the ball in the air without it touching the ground. The highest anyone got was 27, I got 65 and 67 the times I tried. There were around thirty kids between 6 and 13 years old. We had a brief Indonesian and English lesson before they asked me to take a photo. I got a couple good ones before they started fighting for position so I ended it all and went back inside.

I would say there were around fifty people at the party. It’s hard to be a fly on the wall sometimes, especially with such bright skin. Each time I went to check on the pig I would be given something to eat. Whenever I sat down they would bring me a chair or offer me tea. I suppose it’s better to be too involved than not at all.

I think a lot of how different my life is and has been compared to others here. Seeing the old men and women in the village made me curious as to what they’ve seen and gone through in their lives. Children are delivered in homes, food is rather bland and the work must be difficult. A friend told me Indonesians earn about one million rupiah a month, about one hundred US dollars. I asked Lorenzo if he could come back here, to live in the village again. He grimaced and said he doesn’t think he could. Life sure would be different wouldn’t it?

The island of Flores was given its name by the Portuguese many years ago. It means “flowers” but you won’t find many on the island. A friend explained it to me on the way to Kupang; the people of Flores are the flowers. I’d have to agree, and on my visit they were in full bloom