Watu Village

December 17, 2007

At home we have work, cars, supermarkets, bills, nail polish, department stores, packaged meat, appliances...stuff. We know about George Bush, Elvis Presley, Forrest Gump, bombings, births, what Britney Spears and the royals are up to.

Watu has gardens with taro and tamarind, bananas, corn, pineapple, cashews, cassava melons and more. They know of America, but not California. They want an access road for their village, cook over a fire, haul water up the hill on their heads and backs and have a local newspaper from March 17, 2007 to read on December 18th of the same year. Most importantly, however, they have community.

My guide William and I trekked a leisurely 6 hours along the base of a volcano and through a leech-infested jungle to Watu, a traditional Ngada village population 100-something. We first came across one of the village gardens where an old woman was cutting up fruit to feed to the pigs. She greeted us with smiles and pineapples and chatted about village news. She invited us to stay with her and her daughter for the evening. We graciously accepted and headed for the village.

Watu means stones in Ngada and is set in a hillside with many steps leading from house to house. The traditional houses and gravestones keep the ancestors' spirits close. The children play together in the dirt where buffaloes and pigs are sacrificed and come and go like every house is their own. The houses palm frawn rooves (for the most part); a single room for sleeping, cooking and storage; and a porch where people gather to eat and chat.

When we arrived, all of the neighbors came to say hello and stayed through dinner. We spent the evening talking and laughing. Of course, I don't speak Indonesian or the local Ngada dialect, but William would translate and I learned a bit - Ah-nak (children), A-nak (delicious), A-rak (local palm wine spirit) and other words that triggered smiles as I continuously mispronounced and/or confused them.

As the hour got late and the oil lamps burned low, we prepared ourselves for bed, falling asleep to the sound of pigs and chickens quarreling under the house. In the morning, more food, more conversation and an excursion in search of cell reception to arrange our ride home. We struggled arm extended on top of the one rock in the village that we were told we *might* get a signal. After about 25 minutes, we had success and headed down the mountain leaving behind a wonderful group of generous people and a life some beautiful in its simplicity.