It is Sunday. Slow and hot and the grass is overgrown just days after being cut. The roof of the big house is a red oil slick. Every window is closed, and every curtain drawn. Security guards pass by on the half-hour.
Joseph from Kenya is, I'd say, 50 years old or so. He says "very good" like it is going out of style. Every evening, he gets absolutely hosed and instructs us on the finer points of pool while we grit our teeth and smile and obey. He misses most of his shots.
Anyway. On Sundays, he walks maybe 20km around the city and into the hills. He says that he's only been joined once or twice, but no one seems able to stand the heat. Of course, because I am insane and think that I can keep up with a Kenyan, I said, I THINK I SHOULD COME WITH YOU!
We started out at 7am, and it took about 45 minutes to reach the edge of town from the compound. The road where we live is well-paved and lined with opulent homes. It dead ends onto what closely resembles a gravel pit - I cannot understand how people are able to ride their motorbikes and rickshaws without toppling over into one of dozens of potholes that are here and there. We passed by the little market where I buy my bread and peanut butter (breakfast everyday). The air was still and phosphorescent, but we exchanged a glance as clouds rolled in, hanging low over the hills ahead.
I should mention that these hills veil a history of grief and separation, loneliness, grotesque violence and anger. They keep memories that a tsunami's destruction cannot wash away. During thirty years of conflict, many villages lost most of their young men and some women to a separatist movement that would keep them away from their families for years at a time. They lived in the hills and fought a war that was largely ignored by the rest of the world.
We took a step and rain began to fall - slowly at first, and then it covered us. I said, let's keep going. Joseph said, so long as you can. So, we walked out past the last house and began our ascent into a tangle of vines on a dirt road that led to the base of a radio tower. The view was spectacular - framed with bearded trees and the disciplined moaning of minerets penetrating a light fog.
We walked down and could barely see through the rain, and so we stopped at a little shop for a glass of coke. Aceh is positively crawling with military personnel. A group marched past us, singing loudly with guns held to their shoulders. I imagine their lives have been similarly spoiled by so much strife.
Since the rain wasn't giving up, we walked on and found a local swimming hole, quite literally.
People generously waved for us to come in out of the rain as we passed, but each time we'd smile, shout thanks and continue walking. It was 10am when we finally made it back. Being kind of a rustic girl, I came to Indonesia wearing the only pair of shoes that I brought with me. After a 3 hour hike in the rain, you could see right through them.
This all happened exactly a week ago, and since then I have bought two new pairs of flip flops and have been nursing a pulled muscle in my right foot that is causing me to limp and, more importantly, preventing me from playing Rugby.
So it costs me about $1/min to call out of here, and my connection is crap so Skype is out. If anyone wants to call me, my cell is
(+62) 813 6055 1035
I'm 11 hours ahead of anyone on the East Coast. You can call using Skype for like 15 cents a minute.
Over the course of writing this entry, I've discovered that last.fm has a radio plugin. Smiles.
