Local Cures of the Lamaholot

Anthropology, Indonesia, oral history, Religion, Travel, Uncategorized
  1. Severe Dental Pain 

Suggested by Pak Tokan (late fifties, retired politician and corner-shop manager in Larantuka, East Flores)

It’s not easy to find top dental care in East Flores, Indonesia. In fact, it’s not possible. Have a cavity in your teeth that brings you fits of pain? Your options are few. You might ask a friend to extract that rotten tooth with something sharp, or with the old tug-and-pull. Another option is to grow accustomed to the pain, or if you have the funds, hop on an overnight boat to the city of Kupang, where the few region’s dental specialists work at a snail’s pace. Alternatively, you can squelch the pain (but not the problem) with a quick, natural remedy that begins in your kitchen cabinet.

Not all families of East Indonesia host termite colonies in their homes, but those who find themselves looking up at tumor-like mounds on their wood-paneled ceilings should consider themselves blessed.

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If the problem is a simple cavity, the cure is simple. Take flakes from the termite nests inside your kitchen cabinet, crumble them, and put them in hot water. Gargle and spit like saltwater for a strep-throat. Afterwards the dental pain will subside, although the hole will remain.

2. Prostate Hyperplasia 

Told by Tekla (mid-forties, office assistant at the central clinic in Lewoleba, Lembata)

Tekla’s father suffered from prostate hyperplasia (enlargement of the prostate gland) when Tekla was still a girl. Healthcare in Lembata can’t boast much today, but was truly defective twenty years ago. The closest thing to a hospital was in the city miles away from Tekla’s mountain town of Lerek, and the road to get there was as broken as a dried-and-trodden bean pod.

Tekla’s father’s condition brought him pain and poor humor. He couldn’t take a whiz, and each day the discomfort grew worse. Tekla’s mother tried to persuade her husband to visit the city clinic, but the man wouldn’t make the trek. At last, when the pain grew unbearable, he went. At the clinic, Tekla’s father received the news everyone expected. He would have to travel to a far island to receive advanced inspection, and undoubtedly stay weeks for the care.

Tekla’s father refused to go abroad. Instead he lit candles for the ancestors in front of his  house, poured local liquor on the front stoop, and prayed to Father Sky, Mother Earth –Tanah Ekan and Lera Wulan – to lift his misery. He ate the roots of a medicinal tree, as a local shaman taught him its properties, and shortly thereafter found himself cured.

3. Broken Hip 

Tekla. She told me this story story about her father the second day I stayed in her home, when she learned that my passions lay in collecting personal narratives which tap at local wisdom, as opposed to mere/collective origin narratives. 

Tekla’s father was climbing a lontar tree when he fell and broke his hip. The break was so bad that the bone in his hip tore through the skin and the wound let out a pint of blood onto the forest floor. Tekla’s father, who was in his seventies at the time, couldn’t move anything below the pelvis. A family member called Tekla while she was working at the hospital and demanded she come home with medicine while the neighbors carried the bent body back to the house. She grabbed the pain medications and bandages the hospital had in stock and hurried home. Upon processing the news of her father’s fall, Tekla was convinced nothing could be done, and her father would surely be paralyzed for the rest of his life. 

Here, logical predictions fall short of ancestral magic. When Tekla came home, the shaman, Bapak Joni, already stood in her living room. Pak Joni was a trusted healer of the Atodai people, young and gifted. Pak Joni’s ancestors were also known for their knowledge of natural herbs and strength of communication with the invisible, and when Tekla found the renowned shaman in her home, she paused in her steps, letting her bag of provisions fall by her side.

“Leave the western medicine at the door”, said Pak Joni. Tekla did as she was told, as if Pak Joni, rather than she, were the owner of the home.

Pak Joni lit candles for both his and his patient’s ancestors and placed leaves on the open wound of the reclining man, so that it clung to the man’s broken body like plaster. The shaman bid the man’s family members to leave the patient alone as he slept. Visitors might entertain him while he was awake, but he must under no conditions be accompanied at night. In the man’s bedroom Pak Joni hung a carton of Tuak (local alcohol acknowledged as milk of the ancestors) on the wall, along with other sacred totems. Then Tekla’s father was left to heal.

Tekla’s father, by this time inculcated by Western projections, thought he would be crippled forever, and threatened to kill himself. The old man lamented that someone who couldn’t work the bush, climb a tree, and couldn’t drink wine of the lontar tree was as good as dead. But his family bid the man to stay patient, and kept all their kitchen knives far from the bed.

Gradually, miraculously, the old man healed. Soon after the incident his youngest child pledged to marry on a faraway island, and begged his father to come give his blessing. Afraid the journey might reverse the healing process, Tekla demanded that her younger brother pay for their father fly on a plane while the rest traveled by boat. Pak Joni would also get a free ride. The shaman would travel alongside the wounded man or the old man wouldn’t travel at all. So it was done, and Tekla’s father not only survived the injury, but recovered well enough to walk and work the fields. 

Now Tekla’s father, in his eighties, still works the bush. Every year the entire family attends an annual ceremony held by Pak Joni in which a chicken is slaughtered for each illness Pak Joni cures. All who are healed by Pak Joni must come with offerings to thank the local ancestors for their miracles. If they skip out on this ceremonial expression of gratitude, another accident might very well occur…

 

4. Fish Bite

Account by Ado Nunang (host, healer, spearfisher) and his wife, Regina 

If you’ve never heard of a “fish bite”, come to the island of Lembata, where ocean currents bring some of the world’s most diverse–and deadly–sealife. There’s an especially high prevalence of Stonefish (Synanceia) on the shores, where this little-bit over-a-foot long creature sits camouflaged among the mossy rocks on the shallow sea floor. The stonefish  attacks with poison so strong that it kills or cripples its victim within a matter of hours.

Ibu Regina had a cousin who, upon wading one day into shallow waters, found his fingers on the back of a stonefish. The stonefish bites with pressure equal to that put on it by its attacker, and so one prying finger prompted a narrow but deep bite in the hand. Knowing what had attacked him, the man ran out of the water. Blood drained from his finger as he ran to the home of Ado Nunang, neighbor and healer, and there he collapsed on the floor in agony. 

Ado Nunang brought the roots of a medicinal plant and bade the wounded man eat them. Then he juiced some of the roots into a serum which he placed over the wound to prevent infection. The man slept and woke up in good health.

“Why travel far for a remedy and die along the way,” asked Ado Nunang to me, “when the cure is right here?” 

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(Above: Ado Nunang and Ibu Regina at the breakfast table in the town of Loang, Lembata)

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(Typical Mountain view from a backyard of Loang, Lembata, after a funeral)

 

Curiosity #91: Negotiating Mother’s Milk

Anthropology, Indonesia, Religion, Travel, Uncategorized

“I could break you,” Pak Heli said, rising from his chair and pointing a finger at the man at the foot of the far table, quiet as a fish. The room lacked motion, apart from the groom’s uncles who stroked the old man’s thighs (to calm the man down, although such a breach of personal space would incentivize any Western man I know to bite a hand off). The groom’s family watched Pak Heli’s body pulse in fury. Despite the fact that he, as the advocate for the bride’s family bloodline, was outnumbered 20 to 1, his authority thundered into the senses of the bulky men and their mothers who crowded the living room.

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(Above: The start of the meeting, before tensions rose. Pak Heli sits in front of the red stripe on the wall.)

The bridal price was to be decided that day, or blood from both clans would be left to curdle, potentially splash, until an agreement was won.  

In the Eastern Indonesian region of Nusa Tenggara Timur, bridal price or “belis” remains a focal point of identity. The bridal price secures the departure of the bride, spiritually and physically, from her birth family. Her husband’s ancestors become her ancestors; his family becomes her burden. For such a transition, the bride’s family demands a price.

Depending on the man’s ethnic lineage, “payment” varies. In Ende, central Flores, the demand can be a fleet of horses. In Sumba, a water buffalo. In East Flores and Lembata, brides’ families demand ivory tusks, multiple for women who are highly-educated.

What happens if there are no horses or elephants left in this region of Indonesia, and the region’s economy already rubs the mass-majority of faces in poverty? Do old requirements still stand?

Tough: there’s no disappointing the ancestors in a place where departed spirits package the prayers of the living; and ancestors, like most old folks, tend to like the same old thing.

Now younger generations work to negotiate bridal prices to align with existing resources (ex. families discuss ivory as a symbol, while the fruit of the exchange comes in the form of a pig or sheep, or even cash). This works in response to global demands to educate children rather than thrust them into debt. In most urban parts of NTT, locals trust that ancestors—sympathetic to their own blood—will warm up to the times. Hell, the youth still have to get married, and there’s enough trouble already with younger generations pumping out babies out of wedlock.

But some bridal reps refuse to budge from dated demands. The island of Adonara is famous for its exacting requests; women from Adonara commonly ask for 3 tusks of ivory, with negotiations only flexible regarding time-until-delivery. A woman’s bridal price might be fulfilled 30 years after vows are stated. So much for saving for post-retirement by the pool. 

Pak Heli, back in the living room in Adonara, identified proudly among the intractable reps. “This isn’t the price of an item we’re negotiating in a market,” Pak Heli stated. “This is our mother’s milk.”

The “mother’s milk” in his family, of the Kedang region (Eastern region of the island of Lembata), demanded a gong. A gong, a simple metal ritual instrument, might require a year of the groom’s savings. But Pak Heli wasn’t satisfied with his own milk; he wanted the groom’s, passed down among the Atodai people of West Lembata.

Ivory. To acquire a meter of ivory (which must be imported from outside Indonesia), pocket-fishing could reach $10,000 deep, which—we’re talking Indonesian salaries, here—would shove the groom’s entire family of drivers and laborers into decades of I-owe-yous.

The first response had come from the groom’s youngest uncle, guardian of the “traditional house” who spearheaded the negotiations before the wedding. “Where were you before the wedding?” he had asked Pak Heli after initial demands were made. “If you intended to make demands outside your own tradition, we should have known about it before the vows.”

First mistake: Never directly challenge an elder, especially during deliberations perceived as sacred.

Second mistake: Never argue from an emotional state, especially if the family we aim to represent hasn’t had the chance to regroup.

The manifestation of these two mistakes by the groom’s youngest uncle sent Pak Heli flying, and not in a charming way.

Pak Heli’s skeletal face, his cheeks that caved in like eye-hollows, captured shadow as he pointed his chin at the uncle who false-spoke.

The anger, rolled and powdered, was almost impressive with the poetry it unleashed.

“I have been trusted for decades because I have CHARISMA! It has been passed down for generations from fathers to fathers. You, listen! I am not a young dud, like you! I am not drunk, like you! I am smart and you are stupid! I am an old man, wise! I’m generous and give with class, unlike you who only think of yourself!”

The groom’s other uncles, who sat on either side of Pak Heli, continued to pet the old man’s limbs. “I have the charisma, I say!” he barked. “I could ruin you!”

The groom’s grandmother, a sharp woman with a lazy eye, sat with her sons and leaned also towards Pak Heli. She mumbled apologies under Pak Heli’s tirade, saying “my youngest son was drunk when he spoke. He should have talked with the family first, our apologies.” She repeated this like a mantra. 

The bride, too, sat there, facing the representative of her bloodline while surrounded by her husband’s family, voiceless.

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(Above: The bride (in white) rising from her chair after sitting silently for hours to the discussion of her “worth”)

“Don’t you dare think you’re greater than other people!” Pak Heli barked,  still glaring at the groom’s youngest uncle. “I have been trusted by the people of Kedang to officiate bridal negotiations all over Nusa Tenggara Timur! Kupang, Manggarai, East Flores, Timor, you name it! I’ve seen it all, and never have I been so humiliated as I am today!”

He slapped a hand on the table. The whole house reverberated.

“Words are sharper than a blade,” he said.

Those of us listening were silent. The women in the room slipped out and reappeared with coffee and siri pinang (areca nut functioning as a sedative).

At last the groom’s youngest uncle placed his head in his hands and wept. Pak Heli’s jaw cracked down on an areca nut. “The wound has been made,” Pak Heli said. “Jesus could place a hand on a wound and recovery would happen in an instant. I’m not Jesus; I’m hurt, and I’m embarrassed. I leave tonight.”

At this point, the afternoon had carried us into the evening, and the number of people listening grew less and less as family members catered to reception guests who danced and fed on pork beneath the front-yard tent.

If we left the discussion at this point of tension, the future might look downright unsafe for the newly-minted couple, who had already borne a child. Everyone waited for a miracle, and for Pak Heli to suffer a change of heart.

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(One of the uncles steps outside the living room to breathe)

The groom’s distant relative, Pak Bol, a public education monitor in Lembata and a man closer to Pak Heli’s age, seized the opportunity for diversion. “This lady here is interested in our culture,” he said, nodding his head in my direction and smiling. She must think this is all pretty interesting, eh?”

I swallowed. For the first time, Pak Heli looked directly at me. It was like watching a T-Rex turn its head.

“Do you have this kind of talk where you’re from?” Pak Bol egged on. Without an explicit cue I knew it was my turn to play along.

“It’s different,” I put in, trying to find the right words. “Traditionally in many parts of Europe and the United States it’s the woman’s family who pays a dowry, but times have changed.” I hesitated, but no one interrupted. “Both women and men have freedom to work and demand equal wages, so dowry is less important than investment in the future: towards educating children and self-sustainability in retirement.”

Pak Heli spat. “Women pay the men, ha!” He looked to the men around him as if, for the first time, they were all in on something. “Future!” His teeth clacked again on a nut, and I saw that the sedative had turned his dentures red. “Well we’re the opposite,” said Pak Heli, narrowing in. “While the West thinks about the future, we survive on our past.”

The groom’s father came to the rescue. Dinnertime had come and I was invited to bathe and enjoy the rest of the wedding reception, which already neared its end.

When I came back from a late meal and line dancing, I found Pak Heli on the living room floor, fast asleep next to one of the uncles. The younger man’s bear snores shook the room. Ivory or no ivory, they slept like empty pots. The groom’s grandmother came up behind me and ushered me to sleep.

“I’m glad he stayed,” I told the grandmother, looking over my shoulder and nodding towards Pak Heli.

“It will all be well” she said, letting her good eye settle on her temperamental guest. We have 100 days to deliver the ivory, and if we don’t…If we don’t, the negotiations will continue next year, when we can hope for more input and better favor. Although the hurt might always be there.”

I wondered how much wounded pride could be slept off, and—if it managed to contaminate “mother’s milk”—that milk could be spoiled for good.

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(Above: the newlyweds after the church ceremony. Their four-year-old daughter is in pink.)

Curiosity #89: A Nun Tells of Adultery

Uncategorized

This is based on a true account from a Catholic Sister in Larantuka. The nun ran the local orphanage, and invited me and my host, the priest Romo Alfons, in for coffee. She told me that the following story is none too unusual in these parts, since both ethnic rites and Catholic law make divorce near impossible. So when extramarital affairs happen—as they inevitably do—adulterers run for their lives from their in-laws.

Gossip at the Orphanage about an Anonymous Local Woman

East Flores was a land of no secrets, but she managed to keep just one. This saved her from being murdered, and from becoming a murderer herself.

She never told her four legitimate children, or her legitimate husband, what it meant to be a breadwinner whose vitality drove her to seek satisfaction beyond a distant partner. She only confided this to her illegitimate husband (if we can call him that), whose own wife ceased to satisfy, and whose praises in the prayer park inspired visions for a new future.

Her husband had left ten years ago for oil drilling on the far-off island of Kalimantan. There he killed a man and had himself condemned to prison, leaving his wife and children to scraps of inheritance and minimal communication. She never told her husband’s family, who bound her to her marriage vows, that she never intended to stay faithful. They would have killed her, of course, if they knew.

The right people never found out, thank Tanah Eka. She stayed cooped up in her remote garden in the hills as her belly grew with her mistake. Her stand-in-husband hated condoms. As the mistake grew a head and legs, she sold coconut oil and fried yams with the help of a hired boy who went to market. When she scooped out the insides of the sunned coconuts, she imagined running a spoon along the interior of her uterus, scraping out the babe which sought her ruin, then her ties with her husband who swatted away the days behind bars. The meat came off in clean shavings. The plan was to birth the baby in a squat in the garden, take a knife to the throat before the tick could scream, and bury it in a fury.

She had managed to send her children off to boarding school with no homecoming funds for the remainder of the year. Her kids missed mommy, but might not if they knew. Her belly grew to the size of a squash, then jackfruit, so that sometimes when she worked in the garden she squatted in an “M” so her her seeds would soak up her piss. Her illegitimate husband never came to visit her in the hills. His wife, he said, questioned the country women most of all.

She ran one day to a nun at an orphanage, who she heard was more sympathetic than most. It was a day when she woke up from one of many tormenting nightmares; this one in which she dug through the foam of her uterus and, in the watery parts, saw a fetus floating in pitch black. She swam to the body of the fetus and strained to see its face, which was hidden by an arm. As she swam closer she saw that the face was not that of an infant but of her lover. She brushed her palm across the familiar forehead. The eyes opened and the jaws cracked to a “V” to reveal the dentures of a whale. It swallowed her whole.

The orphanage was run by the sisterhood, which also functioned as a school for special needs. It was a Sunday when she sped to the place, and contented families in the surrounding area sat outside drinking tea. When she entered the orphanage, she was introduced to some of the live-ins. Several children couldn’t speak, some were short like forest fairies but with the jaws of fishermen, and there were some children you could tell whose brains melted like chocolate when they drew outside the lines.

She was welcomed by the convent sister, who served her coffee with milk and crushed corn. When she told the sister her story, the holy woman stroked her mole and placed her fingertips on the rim of her coffee glass, but did not drink. The sister said she had heard tales of the man who we call the illegitimate husband. He had a habit of slipping his tool between married women, but we don’t have to relay the numbers: only he didn’t have the balls or or financial security to commit to any one.

The likelihood of killing her child played over and over in her head as she sat before the nun. At last, when she felt she might fly out of herself, she confessed her plans for murder. The details were tugged out of her like weed after weed. When she finished speaking, the water machine in the cafeteria kept humming, the Jesus in the pegged paintings looked down and behind him and everywhere but at her. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner of the room, and she could feel Her throbbing, waiting to hold a man who was too ashamed of his humanness to hold eye contact. Maybe under different circumstances, when a dangerous thing landed in Mother Mary’s palms, she, too, would slaughter it and throw it away.

The nun convinced her to spare the child, and before the coffee was cold she was off again.

When the time came, she brought the baby to the nun. The last sounds she heard from the orphanage were her own child’s murmuring among the blubbering of the dumb children. The baby was adopted by the brother of a priest, and the woman’s secret was unleashed to the holy family, then to me. 

No one, not the newborn, not the nun, ever the learned name of the sinful mother who perhaps went back to her normal life, or who perhaps was haunted by the throbbing of The Virgin, who — let’s admit it — was likely a sinner herself.

 

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(Below: Nun and storyteller)

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