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Within minutes of arriving, an old man was leading me by the hand up the steep mountain path.

I walked out of the dark into the large, open air communal area lit by a generator and a few swinging lights. Inside, the mother of all vagabonding challenges was awaiting me.  Three years of travel have prepared me for this moment – this final exam of which I knew would be stressful but I was determined to pass……

I pretty much walked into an ambush.

Probably 500+ people turned to look in my direction and all the busy activity slammed to a halt.  Had there been a jukebox, it would have stopped automatically too.  My mouth hung open just as wide as the villagers’ did – the surprise was mutual!

While in Alor, my new friends Roy and Lina told me about a traditional ceremony taking place in their small village on Adonara, an island right at the end of Flores well off the normal tourist path.  They invited me to come stay with their family and witness the ceremony to christen a new house, something not very many Western travelers ever get to see.  The last ceremony of this sort was over 3 years ago.

A Pelni Ship

I would have been insane not to accept, so before long I was sitting on a giant Pelni ship loaded down with people, animals, and vehicles steaming West toward one of the most unique and unusual experiences in all my travels. The ride took around 8 hours and I stood on the starboard bow watching off to our right as a very ominous volcano dominated the horizon and blew huge puffs of ash and smoke thousands of meters into the air.  I think it may have been Gunung Ile Api (Fire Mountain) but am not sure – whatever its name, it was the most active volcano I’ve ever seen and it was obviously pissed off. Lina, having taken the ride many times, said that she had never witnessed that before either, so I was happy as we put a little distance between ourselves and its potential to do God knows what.

Pelni is a huge shipping company in Indonesia and their boats which make two week circuits all over offer a cheap option to get someplace if you happen to be in the right place at the right time to catch one.  They are like miniature cruise ships minus the casinos and any other signs of luxury.  Over the last three months, I have taken many boat rides and watched as locals always throw their rubbish into the sea, its a regular thing here. However, I was horrified to watch the actual Pelni staff carefully collect rubbish in large black plastic garbage bags and rather than keep them until the next port, nonchalantly toss them into the ocean.  The staff of a major company that sails 365 days a year putting bagged trash into the sea…..unbelievable.  Seeing that I was the only backpacker on board among the thousands of passengers, a boycott wouldn’t make a bit of difference.  Very sad indeed.

It took 2 days of boats, buses, and motorcycles to get to the small village of LamaHelan which is sprawled up a steep, narrow path on the mountain Ile Boleng.  Only a tiny trickle of travelers come to Waiwerang, the closest thing to a town on the island, and none have a reason to go up Ile Boleng.  Needless to say, I received quite a lot of attention when I came strolling into the village wearing a backpack and a smile.  The people here, unlike Java, have very dark skin so my white skin was glowing like a beacon.  Lucky for me, I had Roy and Lina on each flank so I was in good company.

I dropped my rucksack and apparently was just in time for the festivities as Lina’s warm-hearted Bapak (father) was leading me up the path with a beaming smile on his face.  It still amazes me at how quickly the family here accepted me.  There were no questions, no formalities, and in only a few minutes I had a room and was being treated as one of their own.

But first, to become one of their own, I had to pass my test.

At the ceremony I was led to a long table of old men (the women and men sit separately) and introduced to everyone. “Ceremony” is a stretch, as there was no dancing, traditional music, speeches, etc…it was pretty much just a family reunion. There were literally 300+ eyes watching me as I took a seat and did my best to keep my cool and hide the bulging vein on my forehead.  I gave my best efforts to make smalltalk in Bhasa Indonesian, but only a few people had any clue as to what I was talking about – they don’t speak it here, they speak Bhasa Adonara, their own completely different dialect.

Sucker punch.  So much for my attempts at communication over the next few days beyond pointing and grunting like a caveman.

Something that you won’t learn about world culture from books is that there are two things in the world which bring men together of every race no matter what the language or other barriers are – drinking and smoking.

A toothless man across the table took a handful of loose tobacco set out in communal bowls and stuffed it into a woody, dried out palm leaf. He rolled it into what looked like a big, very crude blunt.  He lit it and passed it around the table.  I knew I had little choice (the equivalent would be like sitting in a circle of old native Americans and refusing to take the peace pipe) so I took a deep drag and let the hot, unfiltered smoke fill my throat.

When I blew it out, I could here chatter and laughter up and down the rows of tables, and even out of the kitchen where women had heads hanging out of every opening to watch me – their mouths and teeth stained blood red from betel nut.  Despite my lungs being in a state of emergency, the first test was passed without even a single cough.

Later, a young boy came around with a bottle of Mokay, the local Palm wine which every man in the village makes and sells – it is pretty much the only method of producing income here.  Not to be confused with Arak, the stuff made from rice which has killed nearly 30 travelers here in the last 2 months, this stuff is made by fermenting the sap from a type of palm tree and burns with a blue flame when you light it on fire.

In short, its moonshine.

There was only one communal glass to go around, so I watched as man after man downed the fiery stuff without even a blink and then suddenly it was my turn.  I wondered if I was still being observed by everyone present but didn’t dare glance around to check.  When I shifted to take the glass, my plastic chair buckled a little and threatened to turn over.  There were 300 audible gasps….

Yep, they were still watching.

Every man who finds himself in a sticky social situation like this one should just remember this mantra….
WWJWD or What would John Wayne do?

I locked my eyes with the man across the table with me, said “Salamat Minum, Bapak”, gave a nod, and put the sticky glass to my lips (hoping the alcohol was strong enough to kill the germs and my anxiety). I drank in two big gulps and handed it back to the boy, never breaking eye contact.  I maintained my best whiskey face as the heat errupted through my chest.  I said a silent promise to my liver that if it would process well and keep me from going blind tonight, I would behave myself for the rest of my life.  Test number two, passed.

I learned that we were not allowed to eat until all the meat which had been butchered earlier and was lying in huge pits behind me was passed out.  This meant sitting there smoking and not eating until 02:00am.  When I learned that I would be in this exact situation for the next 8 hours, I nearly broke and went running off into the dark jungle screaming like a madman, but Roy’s comforting attempts at speaking English brought me back to my senses.

Because we would not be eating for so long, we were brought plain rice and a bowl of small, silvery dried fish about the size of minnows. I had no idea what the protocols were here, so I played it safe and conservatively took a little rice.  Just like with Grandmothers in the West, eating only a little wasn’t going to fly here so I was given a double portion and a heaping dirty handful of the dried fish on top my rice.

After waiting for the eldest at the table to fill his bowl and begin eating and saying “Salamat Makan” all around, I took a big mouthful.  The fish are heavily salted with sea salt made in the village and are completely intact. You barely notice the small bones and eyes as you eat, but it does taste extremely fishy. I did my best to clean my plate, and to my horror an old man filled it right back up again with a dirty left hand (I guess the normal protocol of “don’t use your left hand for anything but the toilet” rule doesn’t apply here). Again I downed the last of the crunchy fish heads and this time wisely sat my bowl out of reach so it couldn’t be refilled!  Eating test, passed.

By the end of the night, I had become pretty well become accepted and chatted with the few men that could understand my limited Bhasa Indonesian.  Every now and then Lina came through to make sure I was still doing OK and hadn’t crawled under the table to lie in fetal position yet.  Maybe it was hysteria, but the stress of being watched so closely by so many people actually became fun at some point and as long as I didn’t make any sudden movements or shift in my chair, I never heard a peep out of the rest of the crowd.

I told the men that I was a “penulis” (writer) and that I was going to share their story with the world. Considering the fact that a lot of them don’t read, and writing isn’t exactly a manly man’s occupation, I threw in the tidbit that I was once “sentara” (army) hoping it would earn their respect.  This brought some gasps and chatter, which I hoped were out of respect…but I learned later that the army in Indonesia is just as corrupt as the police, you have to buy your way in and bribe your way through the ranks. The army that they know doesn’t exactly attract the best kind of people.  Oops.

I sat for hours and watched as the women milled around pretty much doing all the work while the men did what they do best – sit on their asses and smoke themselves to oblivion.  The village is very poor so above the traditional sarongs, people were wearing whatever they could get their hands on.  Toothless old grandmothers walked around in circa 1980’s Metallica shirts and muscled old men carried around their fearsome looking Pedas (traditional machete weapon on the end of a wooden handle)  while wearing Mickey Mouse T-shirts.

Next, a bowl was placed in front of me and I learned that everyone present gets an equal portion of the meat from the multitude of pigs and goats killed earlier.  That says a lot about the village and the people.  Here I was a complete stranger, extremely rich by their standards, and I was to receive the same portion as every person there regardless of age and ranking.

Sweating and grease covered men walked around meticulously passing out equal sized pieces of babi (pig) and kamping (goat meat).  Pretty soon, I had amassed a small mountain of the stuff in my bowl.  There were at least three or four fist-sized pieces of gelatinous pig fat quivering at me every time someone bumped the table. The meat had been chopped up on the ground where dogs scavenged around looking for scraps and had been boiled a little in giant iron vats.  As far as I could tell, it was cold and pretty much raw. The men chatted and smoked excitedly, this really was a big deal and they were genuinely looking forward to the giant feast to come.

I on the other hand stared at the quivering white hunks of glistening fat and knew that I was a dead man.  No way would I pass this test and I regretted not having executed “plan B” earlier and ran off screaming into the woods.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of the bowl when the go-ahead to eat was given….my mind raced through options as extreme as stuffing the meat into my pockets and throwing out my shorts later.

When Lina came around and told me in English that I did not have to eat them here, I was allowed to take them home, I cried inward tears of relief.  Being the nice guy I am, I donated the entire lot to her family which happily accepted.

Many men ate their portions there – with a diet that doesn’t see much fat, they were delighted to eat it.  I ate plain rice again and a traditional food of smashed and dried corn, which looks exactly like Corn Flakes minus the sugar.  I learned later that the women smash the corn kernels individually one at a time by using rocks.

Roy and I left the party and staggered home wearily after having sat for nearly 8 hours.  Lina and the women were left behind as usual to clean up the mess and collect the meat.  Albeit a little clumsy, the toughest cultural challenge of my vagabonding so far was passed.  I was told that there is another, larger two day celebration here in two days with family coming in from all over Indonesia to take part, so I unpacked, settled in physically and mentally for the long haul, and decided to stick it out and try to learn a little something about these caring people that no one visits.

Tomorrow, I am to approach the village elder and ask permission to take photos during the ceremony.  If he accepts, I will be able to share images with you that very few get to see. (Once I get back to some place with electricity that is!)

There are photos from my experience in Adonara here!