Cecer Village

Our guide for the the Komodo portion of the trip – I mean everything from Bali until we left – comes from the Manggarai tribe. He took us home to visit with his people. This was a day long excursion that involved a drive along the twisty roads of Flores.

Flores is only 220 miles long from tip to tip. Back home that would be about three and a half hours. We only went about ten miles along the spine of the island, and it took over an hour. It wasn’t unusual to hit a curve that felt fast at five miles an hour.

We were greeted by a dozen women playing gongs, drums, etc. It was such beautiful music. I really wish I could have bought a recording of it. The men shook hands with us and guided us into the town’s central hut. There we faced off – our group and the men of the village.

The first thing they did was announce their ages and professions. Then they expected us all to do the same. Here we had been traveling together for three weeks already, and everyone in our group learned something about the others right then and there.

After describing ourselves to one another, we went to a field with a shaded bench on one end and watched the main feature – the whip dance.

The whip dance is a ceremonial fight between sets of young men who have farms. If they can draw blood, they are guaranteed a plentiful crop. There is much posturing and cajoling. The old men stand at the far end and judge their efforts.

They may call it a dance, but it’s more of a contest. After each set had done their bit, they go to the elders and explain themselves – often with much boasting. If scores are kept, I have no idea what each received, but for sure there were compliments and lamentations.

Once the men have all had a go at it, the women take over. Their dance is much more dance like. They gestured the sowing of seeds and such. They invited us to join, Hawaiian style.

Then the poles came out.

I remember doing this kind of dance as a cultural exchange thing in grade school. I got fairly good at it back then, but couldn’t make it through a single round now. It’s amazing how much arthritis can slow you down.

Then we went back to the central hut where they showed us how they grind up coffee by hand – with the super long poles. They did something similar in other places in Indonesia, but not generally with such long poles. We each got a chance to try grinding coffee. I was tempted to buy some even though I can’t drink it myself.

The central hut is on a hill overlooking the rest of town. I was interested in the lawn of the next house over. It looked even worse than mine. Apparently the home owners burned it themselves, but I can’t remember why.

Then we wandered around town to see where they spread coffee beans out to dry, and where they gathered to crack nuts open with a whip-like tool. We even got a chance to try cracking nuts. It definitely takes the right touch. Get it wrong and nuts go flying everywhere.

It was in the room next to the nut cracking party that the woman I talked about last week was weaving their traditional skirt.

The people were curious and welcoming. They clearly intended to keep their traditions alive, but weren’t opposed to us technophiles. I’m glad I went.