It Became a Procession

Indonesia.

Pulau Bawean, a small island between the Flores Sea and the Java Sea.

The anchorage is calm. Fishermen go in and out.

Time is marked by the sun and the call of prayer.

We pulled the dinghy onto a small beach between densely packed homes.

Still strewn with plastic, though less than usual.

We walk to a couple of women sitting on a bale-bale.

I ask permission to leave our inflatable in front of their home.

They cover their mouths and laugh, glancing at each other.

A westerner’s question.

I understand there is no need to ask.

We are looking for a laundromat. We heard there is one.

I try to explain myself.

Then I pull a well-worn tee shirt out of my backpack.

I gesture, feeding it into a tumbling machine and mimic the sound of whirling water.

She gets it immediately, smiles, and proceeds to do our laundry by hand.

I give her a few bucks.

She accepts with gratitude.

The same scene repeats when I ask her where to leave our garbage.

She will burn it for us.

That’s what happens here.

I feel bad adding to the pile.

I give her a bit more money.

We go for a walk.

We are surrounded by children.

They come from everywhere.

Many of them.

On foot, on electric scooters.

They know a few English words.

Maurane, one of the French crew, knows a few Indonesian words.

They call to us from their motorcycles, mister and misses.

That’s what we are to each other.

Strangers.

A new tribe.

On a road together.

They walk us to a hot spring with a dilapidated swimming pool on a hill overlooking rice fields.

Goats graze and don’t mind us.

From the minarets come chants.

The words have no meaning for us. Only voices. Tireless muezzins calling until there is no breath left in their lungs, until all that remains is an eerie vibration.

An odd contrast with the young voices of the children laughing.

When we return to our welcoming lady, the clothes are washed, dried, and lunch is ready.

I leave the crew on land to eat.

I imagine them eating as I row back to the boat alone.

All that beauty and laughter made me sad.

As evening comes, the adhan rises all at once from the minarets.

Then the bay fills with out-of-sync Qur’anic recitations that drift on for hours.

The sun set and the anguish stayed.