As the Kijang rolled to a stop and the dust settled on the dry gravel road, I opened my eyes and looked around. And as they adjusted to the harsh sunlight, I felt an immense rush of relief. Finally. After fourteen long hours of bouncing along the “roads” leading from Palangka Raya to the remote village we were visiting; trying to doze, failing mostly and trying to stay relatively sane while being bombarded by the constant repetition of the same cassette of mostly cheesy American love songs, we were there. And as I looked around excitement pushed away the drowsiness, followed by something between nervousness and fear. This was a new world. Unfamiliar. The dirt and gravel continued before me up a long hill and out of sight, and behind me I could see the last long hill we had descended before stopping. Here in this valley lay the village where we would live for the next ten days. On both sides of the road were small houses, built on stilts about three feet high, with few windows and wood shingle roofs. Down the hill a bit, along a well worn path was a house more familiar, still on stilts, but with windows and a broad porch. Chicken coops sat to the left and a small garden was tucked between them and the house. I didn’t know it yet, but this would be home. Walking up the path was a lady with graying hair, perhaps in her forties, with a welcoming smile. Our host. Surprised for we were early, but glad to see us. She greets the driver in Bahasa, then us, in English. More relief. As we walk into the house we see that the many windows have no glass just chicken wire and the plank walls and floor are in need of painting. We see light fixtures and outlets, but soon learn they are all dead, as there is no power service in this village. And while some families have generators, our host uses a solar panel to charge a 12volt battery, which in turn operates a small light for a few hours each evening and charges her laptop. The house is simple but nice. Warm in more ways than one. And if it rains there is running water. Otherwise, we must carry it up from the river at the bottom of the valley. The river is where we bathe. And wash our clothes and our dishes. And where we get water to drink. Unless it rains. But this is dry season. So several days pass before it does. As we settle into the house, we set up mosquito nets and roll out old single mattresses and try to take in our new home. Its morning still, a full day awaits us. A friend of our host has had a death in the family (one of 4 in two weeks) and the funeral is today. And we need food and kerosene for cooking. And we need to register with the polisi, before our presence here arouses more curiosity than it already has. Our host cooks us a light lunch. We make introductions, and try to get a sense of how things are here. Almost time to go. We shed our traveling clothes, wash off and dress up a bit. Motorcycles have been hired to take two off us to the nearby town, while one of us rides with our host on her scooter. We head out. In an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar customs. Hearing an unfamiliar tongue. And not really knowing where or when to do what we don’t know what to do. But God is good and wise and we can depend on Him. So we go.
Village Update #3
