nothing but flaunting memories

Seven conical shapes look at each other. Surrounded and protected by scenic hills of Flores, they seem to play hide and seek, or more likely lazy sunbath on sunny day in Flores. Almost unbelievable to know that five families lives under each one of them. They are homes. The architecture reach almost five stories-height, covered by black dried grass. Children plays under the shady roof, restlessly run and laugh. Their voices pierces hot-humid air of August, slightly inviting the breeze to pass by. Some grandmas hits a wooden box full with coffee bean with a long wood stick in steady rhythm. Girls chatter fill the veranda.

Wae rebo is no ordinary village. What is with the existence of native tribe and wonderful indigenous architecture? It is almost unreal yet intriguing to be real. It takes a sip to be capture the reality. Wae kolang, the black coffee as daily afternoon tea for Wae rebo people, bites my consciousness and drop my doubts. Two eldest grandpas in the village pray and smile for me, but my attention come to a boy with shy eyes. A transparent yet enigmatic eyes which hold a warmth and dignity. Ogi, the name of the boy, secretly glances while lovingly scopes his sisters in a piece of white cloth tied to his shoulder.

We smoothly are friends, me and Ogi, after exchanged radiant smiles. His sister, Ecen, join us for harvesting coffee beans at the back of conical houses. The baskets are not only full of ripe coffee fruits, but also Ogi's and Ecen's angelic voices. When their parents work at home, they give a hand in taking care of coffee farm. Very rare kids indeed. These little magic embrace the sunny day and deliver the sun to set at the curve of the hills. Time for the angels to go home and rest. The night comes and scatters the stars at the veranda. Laid back inside one of the conical home, I could not help but contemplating of what happened before and after. How fast the scenery changes. How whimsical. Yet the hard wood-plate floor against my back is utterly real. So is the drowsiness.

The first time I open my eyes, I know there is something calls me in deep. Some kind of energy which leads me to get up and hastily run outside. It is them; thousands of stars fills the broad dawn sky, pounding with limitless wonder. Between seven sleeping conical houses of Wae rebo, I lay down on freshly-dew grass. Unconditional cave in. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you, as Whitman said. So I surrender myself as I live. To the surreal.