From the moment we arrived in Indonesia, our interactions with people have been overwhelmingly positive. Smiles, waves, curious glances, and a general sense that we are welcome and yet unusual. We are not common objects here. This is especially true of Bob, whose height appears to exist outside the local range of expectations. There have been comments. There has been pointing and furtive glances. We are definitely noticed.
After checking in at Tual, we headed north, hoping to keep our sailing days short and safe. The plan was island-to-island hops, minimizing overnight passages and maximizing daylight, sanity, and sleep. We did our usual research, cross-checking notes, cruising guides, and the informal but deeply influential “what other cruisers say.”
One nearby island initially looked perfect. Easy distance, straightforward sail. Then we read the reports. Let’s just say the reviews were… energetic. We quietly decided that while we enjoy cultural exchange, we prefer the kind that does not involve uninvited boarding and aggressive fundraising. So we kept looking.
That’s how Gorong Island entered the picture.
It was a little farther than planned, but still manageable. The reviews were good, ironically written by friends of ours on the boat Second Set, which felt reassuring. We didn’t know much about what to expect, but we liked the idea of finding out.
We arrived in the morning and anchored off the village of Dai. We never went ashore, which is why my description of the village will remain deliberately vague. It existed as a shoreline, a collection of buildings, a place where canoes emerged and returned, and a backdrop of daily life we observed from the water, adding the sounds of the Muslim call to prayer several times a day.
Not long after anchoring, a dugout canoe appeared. In it were four girls, paddling enthusiastically while the boat was leaking steadily. This did not deter them in the slightest. They came alongside Rhapsody, smiling, curious, and entirely unbothered by the laws of buoyancy. We invited them aboard.
 |
There was very little shared language. English was minimal. Our Indonesian was nonexistent. Google Translate did the heavy lifting. We were bravely attempting to bridge cultural nuance through unreliable cell signal. Despite this, conversation happened. Laughter happened. Comfort happened remarkably quickly.
I enjoyed their company so much that I invited them back the next day to make art on the boat. This invitation was received with enthusiasm and possibly shared with others. We would later understand just how widely.
Later that day, another boat came by. This time it held three women, one of whom spoke English quite well. She introduced herself as a mathematics teacher at a high school in a neighboring village. We had some shared mathematics teaching experiences.
The next day arrived.
The original four girls did not.
Instead, many more did.
By “many,” I mean a steady stream of children and teenagers arriving by canoe, climbing aboard, taking photos, posing for photos, asking for photos, and then reviewing the photos. Literally hundreds of pictures were taken. Poses were attempted. Filters were applied. We spent roughly seven hours interacting with a rotating cast of young visitors, all of whom were unfailingly polite, curious, and delighted to be there.
At some point, photography became a full-fledged activity with its own rules and traditions. A pink hat appeared and was immediately promoted to Official Photo Prop, passed from head to head with great seriousness. Sunglasses were added, removed, and added again, sometimes worn correctly, sometimes not, sometimes by multiple people at once. Certain poses became standard and were carefully repeated so no one missed out. Every variation was documented. Consistency mattered.
At some point, I realized what had happened to the original group. There are a limited number of canoes available to the children, and they appear to be communal. On this particular day, another group had access to them, leaving our first four without transportation. No canoe, no Rhapsody.
Finally, in the early afternoon, they arrived. Four girls, plus one more, bearing supplies. They had come not to visit, but to teach. Specifically, they were there to teach me how to make decorative flowers out of plastic straws. I was delighted.
One canoe promptly left to go get snacks. They refused to take any money for this errand, despite our attempts to contribute. They returned with an impressive spread, which we supplemented with items from our own stores. Then came the best part: trading experiences.
I tried snacks I had never seen before. They tried pretzels. Not just the eating of pretzels, but the learning of the word itself. “Pretzel,” it turns out, is a challenging concept if you’ve never encountered one. There were several practice attempts. Everyone took this very seriously.
The mathematics teacher returned later with a young child and joined the crafting. I brought out origami paper and taught them how to make paper cranes. This was received with focus, care, and lots of laughter.
Throughout the day, canoes continued to stop by. With them came gifts: a hand of bananas from one boat, four green coconuts from another. No expectations. No requests. Just generosity, quietly offered.
By late afternoon, the energy finally began to taper off. Canoes departed. Waves were exchanged. Rhapsody slowly returned to its normal state, though evidence of the day lingered in the form of stray paper, half-finished crafts, and an absurd number of photos on our phones.
We love to hear your comments.
Post a Comment