Rocket Flores

A little bit of sickness is tolerable. At this point, after 7 weeks in developing Asia, it is standard. Feeling moderately sick is not. Yesterday was tolerable. Today, I think all the nice bacteria in my gut are working overtime to keep their host alive, and just to make sure I get the message they are telling me loud and clear to stop eating anything at all.

They told me last night to skip dinner and go to bed early. Did I listen? We went to the home of our guide Marino who had gathered his family in his late mother’s house for a backyard celebration. We had already been to the stilted fishing village, an unusual neighborhood of former Sulawesi immigrants who craft their homes and walkways out of bamboo piles buried in the tidal mud. “I would trust any boat captain from Sulawesi. They are very good,” Marino told us. They are Muslims, and evening prayers droned from the mosques, a man’s voice overpowering a more melodic woman’s. Families and children lined the streets and we met dozens of happy and smiling locals, delighted with a mud puddle for entertainment. At the market we picked up a fish and struggled not to buy the local toy from the happy vendor who peddled brightly colored baby chicks. The size of our fish should have told me that it would be a big party.

So we traveled through the hills into the suburb of nori to Marino’s home town. In Flores they bury their parents in their front yard, a way to keep the family together. Marino’s mom had passed only 3 weeks ago, and the soil and cross over her were still fresh. We were welcomed into a humble living room and sat for a few minutes while Marino went in back. “Where is everyone,” I eventually asked, and we were cautiously invited to the back yard.

That’s where the party was. About nine people sat around a couple ground fires, warming to cook our dinner. Families live close by here and people gather daily to enjoy each other’s company. We were accompanied by five dogs, two pigs, three goats, and a tiny, mangy cat who ruled the roost. Overhead a steel roof kept us safe from storms, and in the near distance stood a forest of towering banana trees.

Once the fires were hot Paloma volunteered to help cook. She deep-fried some chicken in a work over one fire, firmly supported by 3 tinder blocks, while Marino put our big fish on the other grill. Coconut husks burn hot, it turns out.

We learned some local tips. If you are ever thirsty, cut down a banana tree and hollow out the trunk. In the morning you will have a big puddle of water waiting for you. For locals who do not have access to fresh water, this is their survival mechanism in the dry season.

If you need to buy some pants and want to know if they fit, but there is no changing room, you can button them and see how the halved waist fits wrapped around your neck. It works! Now I know that my neck’s circumference is half of my waist’s. And I am told it works even if you are heavy.

If you want the best coconut rice in Asia, have some of Valentina’s turmeric coconut rice, which she makes in an enormous pot, and only for special occasions. Valentina is a great cook.

We learned how to fry green bananas. There is a variety the locals in Flores enjoy green. It is peeled with a knife and sappy fingers, kept fresh in a bowl of water, and sliced thinly on a mandoline straight into a wok of hot oil. They bubble and curl until they are desiccated, and come out ready for adornment with flaky salt, a bright reminder to your tongue of the sea. They are neither sweet nor starchy, a sort of neutral crunch that makes you wonder why we don’t eat them at home.

We headed back to the Sea World Resort and Spa for a night’s sleep, although our hosts would have been happiest had we stayed all night. Paloma noted that any old place sounds fancy when you call it a resort and spa, and we considered renaming our house to the Van Auken Resort and Spa when we get home. Today we travel to Bali, and t ought to Sydney, one day closer to being home and only one day away from Western Civilization.