Insights in Indonesia

My dirty white linen pants spiraled water to my ankles, stepping off the boat at Banksal Harbor in Lombok. I composed myself, slightly terrified but excited, trusting two hotel boys to lead me into the jungle for a local wedding. I sat on a plastic chair next to Parlan and Alex in a tiny warung, drinking sweet Nescafe from a chipped shot glass and smoking to calm my nerves, absorbing the morning as I ate a pyramid of spicy rice. Dishes teetered in stacks on rusty shelves, skinny cats circled piles of garbage meowing for breakfast, motorbikes revved and cimodo carts jingled by laden with backpackers and mounds of pineapples. As the sun filled the afternoon, we moved to the shade where boys squeezed shots of pink tuac from plastic bags, the slightly fermented palm wine like sour watery milk. We took shots from a single glass, cigarette in one hand, tuac in the other, around and around until my bladder nearly burst. Beyond the cool dim forest, the village excitedly prepared for the wedding, welcoming me to join the festivities. Aunts stirred syrupy liquid in big kettles as grandmas twisted banana leaves into little cones, girls spooned white paste and banana slices into leaves before folding them into packets. They squawked and laughed as I helped, an old lady taking my hand to show me the process.
In the light of the next morning roosters crowed, babies sung in high-pitched cries and howling dogs barked in circles, the thump of a motorbike starting in slow rhythm built to steady quick beats like a drum line in perfect synchronicity. A cow bellowed a slow mooo, reminding me of the one the men butchered at 4am. I stared at a big gecko scurry across the water stained wall, trying to picture my life here, married with a baby, working monotonously in a rice field, sorting beans, making endless pots of ramen, constantly re-wrapping my sari and never seeing life outside my village; surrounded by the smiles of family and constant support, vegetables in the backyard and fish from the stream, simple happiness.
Villagers lined the streets, drums beat and cymbals clanged as the procession moved in rhythm down the road. Excitement and nervousness filled my head as I walked beside the bride, scorching hot in my tight sari. Alex and Parlan waved, calling my name as girls gasped, whispering chantic with starstruck eyes. I tried to memorize each surreal moment, humbled by the hospitality of an entire village and thankful for an unforgettable glimpse of their life.