Sumba. A pictorial of the last day.

Greetings from Singapore. We arrived back here last night and are spending the day relaxing, since we already visited in January. Tomorrow we'll fly to Istanbul and we'll spend the day there as well. Hopefully we'll have the energy to see some sights.

I had left you last at Sumba, before the longest silence of the trip. You will have to wait until after we return to hear all about our first three days on this "forgotten island", but I will share with you some photos taken on the fourth, our last day, with the occasional comment.

Took a few more pictures of "our own private beach", this time at high tide.

Sumba is an island of traditions; dozens of traditional villages, where there isn't even the most basic utility, still dot the land. The warring between clans came to an end in 1997 with the intervention of the Indonesian government. Until ten years ago, owning a motorcycle was considered a luxury, you had to be rich. Nowadays there are quite a few, mostly shared by an entire family, and certainly nowhere near as many as elsewhere. Many village children still do not attend school, but some have, and a number of families have left village life and settled in the few small towns scattered here and there, primarily inhabited by people who came from other islands of the archipelago. It is one of the poorest outposts in all of Indonesia.

This man is wearing an A.C. Milan jersey, but has no idea what it represents. The shirt has most likely been donated.

Religion plays an important part. As I said before, everyone claims to be Christian, but their Animist beliefs prevail.

First, deal with the bare necessities. Let's feed the goats.

The back alleys of the market in Waimanguar

Children are everywhere, out by themselves from the time they are toddlers.

Playing a football game sans-shoes on a dirt makeshift field

Children are encouraged to attend school. Many do, but few go for more than a basic 4-5 years elementary education.

As on Sulawesi, the buffalo plays an enormous part in the traditional life. Here even more so. Farmed fields are tilled by them, and inevitably, they will be sacrificed to the spirit of the ancestors, the Marapu.

Fowl for sale at the local market

Sumba is absolutely gorgeous. It is a place untouched by tourism, though more is coming through, in small doses. The next two, are photos on an airport billboard, taken upon arrival. The only flights in and out are from Bali.

Families that leave the traditional village will build their houses based on the design of their village huts, but with stone and with tin roofs rather than bamboo and straw.

Spectacular rice fields. By the end of March all this vastness will be harvested, all by hand.

This waterfall comes from a river within the mountain. The water is used for irrigation

The river that comes from within the mountain, before tumbling out.

With our driver, John, as a guide, we visited the village of Manola. We brought gifts of Betel nuts, Piper Betel, and a pack of cigarettes, which were welcome. The men were out in the fields, or hunting wild boar and monkeys, save for a couple of very old village elders. This was an indelible humbling experience.

Betel nuts are the green ones at center. Piper Betels are the long, asparagus like items. This is where we bought our gifts.

A Betel nut tree

The narrow road to the village

The village of Manola, one of hundreds of Sumba

This elderly woman was the first person we met. She gifted me a gift of Betel nuts and Piper Betel as well

Nowadays villagers wear western clothing that is gifted from several organizations. They reserve their traditional clothing for the many festivals and celebrations.

This family invited us into their home. It reminded me of the interior of the Masai hut we had visited in Tanzania

She says she makes a bag or a basket in one day. All for personal use.

They are very humble and quiet, but most welcoming and generous.

Mandibles of pigs that were sacrificed to the Marapu.

Ditto for these buffalo horns.

At the top of these columns, in every house, food and other gifts are placed daily as an offering to the spirits of the ancestors, so they keep watch over them.

The only car is ours.

These stone constructions are ancestral tombs. The large rocks on top, weighing tons, are dragged by hundreds of men from the valley below. The very few cemeteries on the island are only used by people of other creeds, otherwise, all the dead, which eventually become Marapu are kept inside these stones outside of the family home. This is so even in the towns, not just in the traditional villages.

A mortar for grinding corn and other items

John the driver, offers some of our Betel nuts to a village woman. You will have noticed that many people have red mouths, lips, and teeth. This is because of their Betel nut chewing. Betel nut is a highly addictive stimulant, outlawed in many countries. It is chewed along with the Piper Betel and lime. Not the fruit, lime, but the lime that is obtained by burning a rock-like white coral, which disintegrates and becomes powdery. Chewing all these elements simultaneously creates the stimulating effect and causes the mouth to turn red, and the teeth and gums to suffer. I was advised against trying the Betel I was gifted because I was told my mouth would swell after the first use.

I hope you have enjoyed this post. Tomorrow we'll be heading to Turkey.