Life in Adonara

A screaming monkey came berserking out of nowhere while I was having dinner outside with Lina’s extended family last night.

It jumped on top of one of her aunts who spun around madly trying to get it off without getting bitten.  Everyone else ran for their lives as the evil little bastard climbed up the support beams and scanned around for its next victim.  When it got within a few meters, I stood up where I was eating and picked up a big piece of nearby wood to club the damn thing but one of the men put his hand up to stop me.  I thought the monkey had come out of the forest, but it turns out the monster was the pet of a family member and had chewed its way through the safety rope, now it was out for revenge for having been tied up.

Welcome to my daily life.

Just for future reference, monkey bites are extremely dangerous and if one gets you, get to a town quick.

Adonara is sometimes called the “Island of murderers” (not exactly good for tourism) because of a huge feud between families that lasted for years. As late as the 1990’s people were still lopping off heads with machetes over a land dispute until the government came and gave them houses to live in.  They have had peace for years now and it really is sad to remember this caring place for something so negative.

Observing life on the inside of this traditional village as a friend rather than as a tourist is something that I will remember forever.  People have accepted my presence here but I still get a fair amount of attention everywhere that I go. I have yet to bring out my big camera, I think I will save that until the ceremony and I hate to take the chance of ruining the comfort level I am slowly building with people here. I do promise pictures later.

This afternoon I helped Lina carry water from the well for cooking and showers.  As we sat queued up to fill our buckets, the old women did more than their share of gossiping while the young girls shyly made eye contact with me and giggled. I constantly hear the word “lama” here which means “long” and people touch their noses.  It turns out that a big, bony nose is considered attractive and the women here all love my nose.  When I tried to explain that people in the West with my big nose would pay good money to have it broken and reshaped, no one believed me.  I got the same reaction when I explained that our women spend money to turn their skin brown rather than white!

Either way, its nice to finally find some corner of the planet where people appreciate a good nose when they see one. 🙂

The others scolded Lina for allowing me to help carry the large buckets which probably weighed in at 15KG each and the men gave me funny looks for doing women’s work rather than something manly like sitting and smoking.  Although the village is extremely Catholic, the treatment toward women reminded me a lot of Egypt.  The women work from 06:00am to midnight or later gathering firewood, carrying water, taking care of kids, cooking, and cleaning.  They are always the last to eat, the last to sleep, and I really feel for them.

Its no wonder they chew the betel nuts to get high, I would too!

The men do their daily chore of climbing high into the palm trees with no ropes or protection, making cuts on the tree, and attaching buckets to catch the draining juice which will be turned into Mokay later.  It is dangerous work, but only takes a few hours. In the meantime they sit, play cards, and smoke while waiting on the buckets to fill.

I drink the unfermented milky white mokay every day.  Its good for your health and there is more of it than water, which has to be boiled and cooled before you can enjoy a glass.  There are no shops, no bottled water, and only electricity for a few hours at night.  The cooking at Roy and Lina’s house is done on a wood fire which has hardwood embers that are kept glowing day and night. A few bricks piled around it offer a place to put pots or kettles.  There is no refrigerator so meat, vegetables, and leftover rice are all put inside a cabinet with a screen door to keep the flies out.  I still have no comprehension of how they can store meat and fish that way for up to a week in the equatorial heat here without getting sick, but they manage.

We have plenty to eat every day thanks to the ceremony and since coming here I have eaten vegetables cooked in the pig fat, lots of goat, fish (my favorite), fish head soup, and even some dog which tasted no better than it did the first time I tried it in China.  The food is simple but more importantly there is plenty and I am always expected to eat seconds and sometimes thirds!  Thank God I’m not on a diet or vegetarian, I would be in serious trouble.

Every night I shower before it gets too cold using a ladle to scoop water out of the buckets and pour over my body.  The floors are hard concrete and the walls are made from gray concrete blocks.  There is very little in the way of decoration other than some Catholic items and the only furniture is a few plastic chairs and tables.  I do have a very comfortable bed and room to myself for which I am very grateful. There aren’t even doors in the house, sheets separate the individual rooms from the kitchen.  Roy and Lina both constantly apologize for their house being so simple, but I love it.  They may not have a lot of things, but they do have one thing in their house that is missing from a lot of very nice Western homes – love and happiness.

Lina’s father insists that I call him “Bapak” and has become my father in Indonesia.  He hugs me every day and does his best to communicate with me.  He even let me tag along one morning to watch the Mokay process.  I couldn’t believe how nimbly he can scramble up a 40 foot tall Palm tree – he could out climb me any day.  He seems absolutely delighted to have me here and has told me to stay as long as I want and return as often as I want.

Today I sat outside for a few moments with the village elder who turned out to be a very nice and intelligent gray haired man dressed in slacks and a Hawaiian shirt.  He basically gave the thumbs up for me to shoot photos at the big gathering tomorrow and I promised to stay as low key as possible (not that its possible at all for me here!).  Rather than approach me with any caution or suspicion as some leaders would, he told me that I was now part of the village and that for the next week my new name would be “Gregory Bala Makin”. “Bala Makin” is the family name here and it was an incredible honor having him tell me that.  I thanked him (translated via Lina) and he picked up his sharp Peda to go oversee the multitude of preparations for the festival. The Peda looks like a small Chinese Kung Fu Kwan Dao, a long blade on the end of a staff, and can be used for “many purposes” as he told me.

I looked on in envy at the sight of him walking off with it on his shoulder – I really have to get myself one of those things!

Today was a local market day, there are two a week, so I walked down the mountain to try to buy something to offer Lina’s family in return for giving me a place to live.  Every stall carried the exact same assortment of cigarettes, candy, and packaged noodles – making it impossible to find a suitable gift.  Unlike Lina’s village and family, many of these people stared rudely and the overwhelming attention made it tough to shop around.  I bought myself some Ramen noodles in case something appeared on the table one night that I absolutely could not eat and then bought some vegetables for the family.  Along the way I bought 6 huge oranges, thinking it would help keep everyone healthy with so many people coming in for the ceremony and bringing germs from different villages.

It turned out what I bought were gigantic orange-colored lemons.

Everyone that has traveled Indonesia knows that Indonesian people eat more candy than anyone in the world – a sour lemon is just about their worst nightmare.  Candy is even used as currency in cash registers here and given to you as change when stores have no coins!  Lina’s “Mama” accepted them with a slight grimace but appreciated the gesture that I tried to make.  Later, I ended up eating all 6 lemons myself because no one else would.  Oops.

There is a gorgeous beach here made up of smooth volcanic stones and at the far end, extremely fine black sand that has big smooth boulders scattered around.  I could have spent days on the beach, and like many times on this trip, my footprints were the first to cross the untouched sand that afternoon.  I wondered if there would ever be bungalows here or even later, resorts.  I hope they never find it.

The big celebration starts tomorrow with over a thousand people expected to be in attendance.  The tension is building, the women are cooking non-stop, the kids are excited, and the men are busy smoking double-time. I am also excited and apprehensive at the same time – but at least this time around I’ve had a little training from a few days ago.  Either way, I’m ready to get it on.

Tonight I looked up at the stars poking down through holes in the clouds and wondered if anyone in the world truly knew where I was.

Probably not.  🙂

Find all related to:
Greg Rodgers

About Greg Rodgers

Enjoyed this post? Consider throwing a dollar into my Paypal account: https://paypal.me/VagabondingLife (I can eat for $2 on the road!) Check out my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/vagabonding.travel.

2 Responses to “Life in Adonara”



  1. Thanks for the great update bro! I’d say you’ve graduated from the basic hostel bouncing into authentic learning and culturization. What an honor to be told you get to carry the family name while you remain a visitor there.

    I was wondering about the currency, candy eh? That’s awesome.

    Sounds like you have had an awesome mix of culture and excitement so far. Keep up the great journey and stay safe!

  2. fucking monkeys….. dude greg, ive been looking through some of your travel pics, show some teeth man! Why so serious? (Joker reference)

Leave a Reply