tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67959564113202468992024-03-25T02:04:29.412-07:00Bedouin MamaKarienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-65804088986556465742024-03-24T23:04:00.000-07:002024-03-25T01:24:22.830-07:00The wild side of Mount Faber<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8k_wwylpADuT41ppwYz-WSxOnl54SNME2GnJjnfC0emgySLWcYo0-mQEyu8nwQmeNE_3RGk5_ANvkUtDCLicQICDaiAnzXjf_OewNgs9w8j9S1rnQJ8e69Ri5HDMcjSWPbKRf3xZV0X0rRm8nG3gHCmDMmWdVtn3hi5xW2TTcP7otrXiy0S-vingCNuc/s4032/IMG_8632.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8k_wwylpADuT41ppwYz-WSxOnl54SNME2GnJjnfC0emgySLWcYo0-mQEyu8nwQmeNE_3RGk5_ANvkUtDCLicQICDaiAnzXjf_OewNgs9w8j9S1rnQJ8e69Ri5HDMcjSWPbKRf3xZV0X0rRm8nG3gHCmDMmWdVtn3hi5xW2TTcP7otrXiy0S-vingCNuc/w300-h400/IMG_8632.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A magical place...</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The steps on this photo lead to one of my favourite places in Singapore, one I love to visit when I need some peace and quiet. Any idea where it can be? This rather wild place is very close to my own house. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Urban jungle, concrete jungle, these are terms often used for highly urbanised Singapore. Visitors are always surprised to see how we live here, and how green this city is. Not only is there a plethora of parks, but also roadsides are lushly planted. Singapore aims to be a ‘City in a Garden’ and is succeeding admirably. We are lucky to live on the foothills of Mount Faber, in a house is surrounded by nature. Every morning we get woken by a cacophony of birds, with junglefowl roosters and koels fighting for the honour of being the loudest. During the day we are treated to choruses of bul buls, laughing thrushes, the occasional honk of a sea eagle, and many other birds that I struggle to identify. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLq4WHh2BEQa14AIbZUeF_jdb-3BO3dyTAUrj1Q_y0nrP-NFL-7WZxiWUV-wzc5Fkqik3e9zGqWcSgz4wOEjCvOhF89ZqQv8zUHNf80UoPcSGjBR_5lwJlYtnP0R8NvqvFnbdYz43jf6L-tYiJpg6lixBZ2F1Ng2OydELop2jURXzdZVU_VzX88V5nvjE/s4032/IMG_7677.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLq4WHh2BEQa14AIbZUeF_jdb-3BO3dyTAUrj1Q_y0nrP-NFL-7WZxiWUV-wzc5Fkqik3e9zGqWcSgz4wOEjCvOhF89ZqQv8zUHNf80UoPcSGjBR_5lwJlYtnP0R8NvqvFnbdYz43jf6L-tYiJpg6lixBZ2F1Ng2OydELop2jURXzdZVU_VzX88V5nvjE/w300-h400/IMG_7677.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lure of the jungle...</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The other advantage of living in a nature park is the fabulous trails on our doorstep. For these I gladly tolerate the busloads of Chinese tourists that are ferried up the hill over the narrow road passing by our house, to the viewpoint at the top. Despite its formidable name, Mount Faber is ‘only’ a hill, stretching up all of 106 metres, but still the view from the top is magnificent, with central Singapore beside us, the suburbs behind and ahead Sentosa and the sea, with - on a clear day - glimpses of Indonesia’s Riau islands beyond. <br /><br />For years my doctors have been telling me I needed to walk more, that this will improve my joint pains. But for some reason, people tend not to do things simply because they are ‘good for them.’ I needed a better reason, so we got a dog. And with this dog, I now take long walks almost every day. Those who know me better, know that nothing makes me more happy than hiking the deep jungle. I don’t have to go far.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigchD9VFzJeLRhqBKDGkdVe0JGOr-oDWHQ12Y0w8qjyymVk6kGbbOKIVgChYLQxCt8ea5gfT4wef4quGMsYnwILOj1znRhptHIltAbExdDg05YD505hdbaTKjAnHbhADZZwRDERKLpAAE1ZuqH-cgbNR5OW7zfZ-nCKi4Rz-3NOOXf6gkXojaNjV5Vji4/s4032/IMG_6694.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigchD9VFzJeLRhqBKDGkdVe0JGOr-oDWHQ12Y0w8qjyymVk6kGbbOKIVgChYLQxCt8ea5gfT4wef4quGMsYnwILOj1znRhptHIltAbExdDg05YD505hdbaTKjAnHbhADZZwRDERKLpAAE1ZuqH-cgbNR5OW7zfZ-nCKi4Rz-3NOOXf6gkXojaNjV5Vji4/w400-h300/IMG_6694.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our 'hidden house' </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyXQhK7kft4CvAyUhoEPsrq7LkgH5qXkDePHCOiPCz3P5iZm6F2oldTUaGpYErh7_YsrhcSuXtZYr18CmxJVOQsyVfRKsDgjIdu4Ozq7kREBUGqLebJTGxD-nNZxrJVCL66nGKFsw373QzgJGr_fZHMqjpxbTlAv7GkFArROvdKwTD8c1n8tAjk8NgD4/s557/explore.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="557" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyXQhK7kft4CvAyUhoEPsrq7LkgH5qXkDePHCOiPCz3P5iZm6F2oldTUaGpYErh7_YsrhcSuXtZYr18CmxJVOQsyVfRKsDgjIdu4Ozq7kREBUGqLebJTGxD-nNZxrJVCL66nGKFsw373QzgJGr_fZHMqjpxbTlAv7GkFArROvdKwTD8c1n8tAjk8NgD4/w400-h266/explore.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exploring the back garden ...</td></tr></tbody></table><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">Our house is built against the slope of Mount Faber, and the back of the garden is steep. Very steep, but not steep enough to stop me, and to discover the fence separating our garden from the nature park has collapsed years ago. Beyond, the forest lures me in. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">The south slopes of Mount Faber are overgrown with quite dense jungle. Interestingly, old photos show that this growth is quite recent. In the 19th century there were rubber and pineapple plantations on these foothills, a fact bought home to me by the loudly exploding seedpods of the rubber trees still surrounding the house – the first time I thought we were under siege. Later, the slopes were cleared for habitation. By the time our house was built in 1919, to house the staff of the Telegraph company, the view to the sea and Keppel Harbour was apparently unobstructed by either forest or the imposing Reflections condo. It must have been magnificent. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3JDRRiSfr4kFO7DLVRhzlSNNWTFpg_mzegMBF6O60UFy-V1r5fHnV7nw9KbhNGiHwaZFu5N3-t0FivjLwWXAtCizBVDuytwGiUU6SsQ0gOMgxozPrYFr9wSz72Bbym-8Q-M-IC3d7FAvTAzGVslL6XaLWBay1snpdM4J2orsKXJChkwrj6N_Rls526o/s579/MtFaberpath.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="579" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX3JDRRiSfr4kFO7DLVRhzlSNNWTFpg_mzegMBF6O60UFy-V1r5fHnV7nw9KbhNGiHwaZFu5N3-t0FivjLwWXAtCizBVDuytwGiUU6SsQ0gOMgxozPrYFr9wSz72Bbym-8Q-M-IC3d7FAvTAzGVslL6XaLWBay1snpdM4J2orsKXJChkwrj6N_Rls526o/w400-h265/MtFaberpath.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pathways at the bottom of Mt Faber, leading to... ?</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I am not the only jungle enthusiast in Singapore, and this stretch of forest surrounding our house contains a plethora of informal pathways. Muddy, steep, full of rocks, overgrown with plants and unmaintained, on these trails it doesn’t take much to imagine oneself in deep dark Borneo or Sumatra. Despite the whole area only being several square miles, it is easy to get lost here. Trust me, I have done it. But if you keep going up, all paths will eventually lead you to Mount Faber Loop, the road circling the top of the hill. So unlike deep Borneo or Sumatra, getting lost here is a fun game. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWo6J_dI0o0zsi23mpu6Z7tky5TVF3jVWSVxqY5ul3AP_DOOJgRH-ugQnh73l_7gskWq3fFy9PdA0cW9Oq6YMcowSf2R2yTjNZcfSZycBfrssAD9CRnTg-Mzd6FSoJVIcHxSQRtISYwjzFASuJ83vE9_7qIRvxXDHnwxAEgZ2a-iuFm42XPGcdyQdGIA/s447/stairs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="214" data-original-width="447" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWo6J_dI0o0zsi23mpu6Z7tky5TVF3jVWSVxqY5ul3AP_DOOJgRH-ugQnh73l_7gskWq3fFy9PdA0cW9Oq6YMcowSf2R2yTjNZcfSZycBfrssAD9CRnTg-Mzd6FSoJVIcHxSQRtISYwjzFASuJ83vE9_7qIRvxXDHnwxAEgZ2a-iuFm42XPGcdyQdGIA/w400-h191/stairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Stairs to nowhere' with Alexandra bricks</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />There is another fun aspect to walking here: a hike on Mount Faber’s slopes feels like an exploration of the history of Singapore. In several places you will stumble over deserted stairways, overgrown with weeds and tree roots and leading nowhere, in red bricks with the name ‘Alexandra’ stamped on them. These were made by the Alexandra brickworks and likely date from the 1940s, showing that once this area was much more built up. There is a mysterious tomb, dedicated to a Japanese shipyard worker who died here in the war, and of whom little is known, let alone why he was buried here. There is an old concrete water tank, overgrow with fig stranglers, on which someone placed two plastic chairs, making it a nice platform for a rest mid-walk. There are old wartime bunkers you can sneak into. Every walk there feel like an adventure, an exploration. The most impressive spot? That is, no doubt, the old reservoir. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSN0SdsxfpOxQGhCri65_sg3xP0bfVXm2xiYJ2pljO5GXw8Yj3czF-jCoYJ9mCRa3YK51tipoSQO3X1PbvWcBY1CifcF_as0ZOuMDv6i-_6Uhr0W0_uJVrddPfPE8mZLPjeGdsXGPzjjsE2jR255bBoAYjsMg-rVLaUBQmyggD9jfi79mZbLan5CIbQo/s384/keppel%20house%20.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="384" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSN0SdsxfpOxQGhCri65_sg3xP0bfVXm2xiYJ2pljO5GXw8Yj3czF-jCoYJ9mCRa3YK51tipoSQO3X1PbvWcBY1CifcF_as0ZOuMDv6i-_6Uhr0W0_uJVrddPfPE8mZLPjeGdsXGPzjjsE2jR255bBoAYjsMg-rVLaUBQmyggD9jfi79mZbLan5CIbQo/w400-h266/keppel%20house%20.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keppel House at Keppel Hill </td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />At the foot of Mount Faber, on Keppel Hill, sits Keppel House. A grand old colonial house that once was built to house one of the managers of one of the dock companies of Keppel Harbour. It was built a few decades before ours, in 1899, and its occupants must have been as grand as the mansion itself. Some distance behind the house, in what is now the nature park, is a deserted reservoir. It is said to have been one of three reservoirs that supplied water to the houses and harbour below. Later it became a swimming pool, concrete steps still lead to a diving board that is no longer there. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JyEyVDWjHSyMRo-1oypAs88yIw2qiMaIeDNUtXKq7u0CqhoSkcPCsAsPyGfb3bXC0XXpbOo5wvgs_33BvXeF-VirqbvvQITKuMkiP_nXDtkokV9Q_j0ctIOI-PRtGn5XO9a6EnEO3u1zI8XbzZMwhYjOG-Nph7GK4BrB9wqOiH-lgaqeP1MSv8PIDFU/s4032/IMG_8643.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JyEyVDWjHSyMRo-1oypAs88yIw2qiMaIeDNUtXKq7u0CqhoSkcPCsAsPyGfb3bXC0XXpbOo5wvgs_33BvXeF-VirqbvvQITKuMkiP_nXDtkokV9Q_j0ctIOI-PRtGn5XO9a6EnEO3u1zI8XbzZMwhYjOG-Nph7GK4BrB9wqOiH-lgaqeP1MSv8PIDFU/w400-h300/IMG_8643.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hidden Keppel Hill reservoir</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The old reservoir feels like a place from a fairy land. The sunlight filtered by the trees above creates beautiful, swaying patterns on the dark water below. Quiet in a sheltered place with little wind, the only ripples on the water are created by the insects that dance over the surface. The dark cool water both lures me in and repels me, there is no knowing what lurks in the deep. A cesspool, or a fairy paradise? There are multiple stories of drownings here when it was used as a swimming pool, both in the 1930s and during the war. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphx6F0SVRGC7t659ThN9CgAa2HM4leUswWIZ90wJ-mdEbTRu_d9IFdEDDJx5W89Vn3twOV-DXIAGZmz6Oiko_ccl_yVFU5ukTmq9OQF7TdJvX5-titm3pH-isc-7ebmgEbiVJMZG4dKCED0nurM2iBhEbR7QVUUWAV8DKoyjlzsj-6jABsgnrh9Abcus/s4032/IMG_8633.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphx6F0SVRGC7t659ThN9CgAa2HM4leUswWIZ90wJ-mdEbTRu_d9IFdEDDJx5W89Vn3twOV-DXIAGZmz6Oiko_ccl_yVFU5ukTmq9OQF7TdJvX5-titm3pH-isc-7ebmgEbiVJMZG4dKCED0nurM2iBhEbR7QVUUWAV8DKoyjlzsj-6jABsgnrh9Abcus/w300-h400/IMG_8633.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiae18OxTRR7csl5FCOUxQtbRz1_VKsjT-vPtIOAP170z0L9AFVvPmR_TA7BBBSMun4WmP8ULvsaYRQ4_o_cG6km8KEYpqRu9XHsI5ysZwg5ajT6z4TeNInyM2URbSghqcT8BTFAGEZrOJolkCh9tSVB5NP4Q_-YKmpfpQgPNClisLbkV6rRgfFeIVStvA/s4032/IMG_8634.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiae18OxTRR7csl5FCOUxQtbRz1_VKsjT-vPtIOAP170z0L9AFVvPmR_TA7BBBSMun4WmP8ULvsaYRQ4_o_cG6km8KEYpqRu9XHsI5ysZwg5ajT6z4TeNInyM2URbSghqcT8BTFAGEZrOJolkCh9tSVB5NP4Q_-YKmpfpQgPNClisLbkV6rRgfFeIVStvA/w300-h400/IMG_8634.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDaFGZo8O3XiWjFg0zpFiXWarw2bVCOxA-ErwEOgSIa0hnR4rxEc94WRVve9suOWftx5wbWKiULEv1hbfBYebUHL-V9s4hOtlsbaJU3bFYb1w2BS_jfcUVV_AlObEq36SxXyuKfNQ2DQE1tx2xNAws5Tc-j-7XGGrnaUp047Nw4sX6I2Sulc8oFjvbBo/s4032/IMG_8638.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDaFGZo8O3XiWjFg0zpFiXWarw2bVCOxA-ErwEOgSIa0hnR4rxEc94WRVve9suOWftx5wbWKiULEv1hbfBYebUHL-V9s4hOtlsbaJU3bFYb1w2BS_jfcUVV_AlObEq36SxXyuKfNQ2DQE1tx2xNAws5Tc-j-7XGGrnaUp047Nw4sX6I2Sulc8oFjvbBo/w300-h400/IMG_8638.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8-wOdgK79gZauhpuWudrMHze0_PgxieKGAXq0oFdOl0hhbYFsMfKK1fZSD7Jyv6ReOcUg3wv8n4BUuikWaDzA6PZ6v1YPfbQhcnmWLNorNeXx9aD-xjbVF0kG4FN1PUEr26eHNgG1T0duBfOqexnJKRp3CptNTl84pSMCNZ1eNmKSFisKY2s0xpktrg/s4032/IMG_8644.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8-wOdgK79gZauhpuWudrMHze0_PgxieKGAXq0oFdOl0hhbYFsMfKK1fZSD7Jyv6ReOcUg3wv8n4BUuikWaDzA6PZ6v1YPfbQhcnmWLNorNeXx9aD-xjbVF0kG4FN1PUEr26eHNgG1T0duBfOqexnJKRp3CptNTl84pSMCNZ1eNmKSFisKY2s0xpktrg/w300-h400/IMG_8644.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">I love to sit here and contemplate. But then the dog, impatient to get home, nudges me, and we walk on. There is so much more to explore. Small streams cascading down muddy banks. A field with fragrant betel leaves to sample. Steep paths that friendly fellow wanderers have fitted with ropes, to enable walkers to hoist themselves up. A magnificent banyan tree that feels like a cathedral. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIup0uzl-SLWgKEcY6ftEqbDze0o3_s37ngkIBMESy_PyV6bhGJBqNsGPYH1kPb5w0hekhDI1zflfWtA9DcmxxjABwtsCwxpeN4xOKLBai7BoUaZt1fC7eFLjA7xox8z5CsGBBAbcWtkTvXL8SqYlvE61FqdwvItkXEUhs0zrd-ZbiE3F30Ekp6Rm73c/s466/banyan.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="466" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIup0uzl-SLWgKEcY6ftEqbDze0o3_s37ngkIBMESy_PyV6bhGJBqNsGPYH1kPb5w0hekhDI1zflfWtA9DcmxxjABwtsCwxpeN4xOKLBai7BoUaZt1fC7eFLjA7xox8z5CsGBBAbcWtkTvXL8SqYlvE61FqdwvItkXEUhs0zrd-ZbiE3F30Ekp6Rm73c/w400-h268/banyan.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banyan cathedral </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: large;">I often list my favourite places in the world in my mind, and the wild south slopes of Mount Faber have definitely earned their place on it. I hope they won’t be ‘developed’ any time soon. I hope this place never loses its magic.</span></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-91508940344086664022023-11-09T22:56:00.011-08:002023-11-10T03:34:16.358-08:00Our Black and White House <p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My talented daughter created this beautiful artwork to celebrate the launch of my new novel “The Black and White House”. The attentive reader will notice how it looks very much like the cover of the book, but with another title, and showing a different house. The real book cover features our old house in Adam Park, where the novel is set. So what is the mystery house in this image?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyUIV5bf4GrbaWUmKxdILsY5RHAyp5B6pACLz6quHHsi2tmPAXSOA_he1Jrgzk1KFtfzoYL0c1t6xDYM7RVSfRq_ib-nqFP8b2cITiLrLZQHCtX6TMSOnjetoUKjnlpLcAxouLD8qSrQg7WcqHulHeIlSpgGhCkSLbp3OwnyL734PePDifCfLbRON1wM/s4032/OurB&W.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyUIV5bf4GrbaWUmKxdILsY5RHAyp5B6pACLz6quHHsi2tmPAXSOA_he1Jrgzk1KFtfzoYL0c1t6xDYM7RVSfRq_ib-nqFP8b2cITiLrLZQHCtX6TMSOnjetoUKjnlpLcAxouLD8qSrQg7WcqHulHeIlSpgGhCkSLbp3OwnyL734PePDifCfLbRON1wM/w300-h400/OurB&W.heic" width="300" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Well, this particular house comes with some exciting news: we moved back to Singapore! My daughter drew the house we live in now. That same attentive reader might recall the last few posts I wrote here, and me complaining about the cold and dark weather in the Netherlands. You can understand my elation at being back. To me, it feels like a homecoming. Suppressing the guilt caused by dragging the slightly reluctant teenagers along gets easier now they seem to have settled in quite happily at the new school, and I can’t praise my amazing husband enough for making this move possible. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQN36_oSeYnhHy3HB3_t_OJ6Ci33rGcqpezxpRkRDfKlwzfVN_V2LVPyKsvQwJXSS6k4FDqaXSylRvG6LTdoYPOhjl08Xja8vRlVUPggwJr4NmYuSmPFv1zhixfGkOVLl4UemXHp5n_-PXvmVjtoSPxJVT7OxT7dKy4EK_sUXgSREq6zBXvc91CXlHvR8/s6016/Karien%20en%20gezin-14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQN36_oSeYnhHy3HB3_t_OJ6Ci33rGcqpezxpRkRDfKlwzfVN_V2LVPyKsvQwJXSS6k4FDqaXSylRvG6LTdoYPOhjl08Xja8vRlVUPggwJr4NmYuSmPFv1zhixfGkOVLl4UemXHp5n_-PXvmVjtoSPxJVT7OxT7dKy4EK_sUXgSREq6zBXvc91CXlHvR8/w493-h331/Karien%20en%20gezin-14.jpeg" width="493" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span>So although I am very excited about this new house we now live in, I need to sell books, so first, I am going to take you back to Adam Park. When newly arrived expat Anna moves into her Black & White, it feels very far from a homecoming. Living in Asia for the first time, </span><span>with her husband working long hours, </span><span>she slowly unravels alone in the rambling house. There are strange noises in the hallway, and Anna isn’t sure all of them belong to the many critters and creepy crawlies that she shares the house with. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span>Many of us will have shared Anna’s troubles of moving to a new area, particularly in a new country. She struggles to find her own job, being very blonde and without any local experience, speaking all the wrong languages. To add to her turmoil, memories of her grandmothers colonial childhood in Indonesia keep popping up, making her confused about how she can fit into modern Asia.</span><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Then, Anna meets Salimah. Salimah has her own history with the house, and a number of ghosts from the past she needs to battle with. When one of those ghosts seem to target her teenage daughter Nazra, Salimah too feels her carefully constructed life starting to crumble around her. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The novel follows the two women forging a fragile friendship, despite their cultural differences, until they get pitted against each other over the adoption of a baby. I won’t give too much more away, do please read the book if I got you hooked. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Curious about this new house in the picture? You will need to be a little more patient. There is plenty to explore in our new neighbourhood, from deserted reservoirs to mysterious Japanese tombs and Malay graves in the middle of the jungle. My fingers itch, just like my legs from walking into the deep forests both inside and outside our garden. Stories will follow! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;">"The Black and White House" is published by Monsoon Books and was released this month. It can be bought at bookstores in Singapore and online bookstores worldwide. For instance <a href="https://www.amazon.sg/Black-White-House-Karien-Ditzhuijzen/dp/1915310180/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3DKJYPCZ1RQSG&keywords=black+and+white+house&qid=1699615884&sprefix=black+and+white+hou%2Caps%2C280&sr=8-1">here</a>. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfFucmFsoH5PKxAR7JQ4CHo7yzIlcIcSGACOOsb30C-WaBJ3dezZRJamOz6e5Co_7JKs81uQjltdzWMdOPHymht8Ry9jRqr3srC7iJCv1zqr7IoxitJGTbtFpgLSEDxCn0lW10fQ8GzSkQrBEKpgIcodDVpbjOZDC_8ePQBfymuDuFF9gKUXCeJBTdJ0/s2343/The%20Black%20and%20White%20House%20FRONT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2343" data-original-width="1519" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfFucmFsoH5PKxAR7JQ4CHo7yzIlcIcSGACOOsb30C-WaBJ3dezZRJamOz6e5Co_7JKs81uQjltdzWMdOPHymht8Ry9jRqr3srC7iJCv1zqr7IoxitJGTbtFpgLSEDxCn0lW10fQ8GzSkQrBEKpgIcodDVpbjOZDC_8ePQBfymuDuFF9gKUXCeJBTdJ0/w259-h400/The%20Black%20and%20White%20House%20FRONT.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></p><o:p></o:p><p></p>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-66223786704878438642023-07-06T02:48:00.003-07:002023-07-06T02:48:56.127-07:00‘The House’<span style="font-size: large;">I have a thing for houses, which is odd for a self-proclaimed nomad. I have at times compared myself to a snail, one that carries her house on her back, but the reality is that what I carry around is a forty-foot shipping container full of furniture and knickknacks. Next week, the movers will come to pack it all up again to put it on a boat back to Asia. <br /><br />Most people I tell this look at me with astonishment. You only just finished renovating your house here? Yes, after nightmare renovations that took years longer than anticipated, that are in fact still not finished, that took many sleepless nights and much more money than anticipated, we are leaving, yet again. Warmer shores beckon. Why? That’s another story, for another time, it suffices to say that Dutch winters are not great for the arthritic, nor is the Dutch medical system, and our villainous contractor didn’t help enamour us with this country either.<br /><br />It's summer now. The sun is shining. The almost-finished house has turned out beautiful, with all its light, glass and green. As much as I love going, leaving is always hard. Leaving a life, but also a place behind. We have stayed in some very special houses that have inspired my writing over the years. My novel ‘A Yellow House’ was set in our first condo in Singapore, the yellow house in the title refers to the actual dream house our domestic helper Indah has built in Indonesia from her Singapore earnings. My children’s series JungleGirl Mia is set in Adam Drive, a bungalow where we lived surrounded by the jungles of a national park. Wildlife often sprawled into our garden, inspiring the adventures Mia has with her friends. <br /><br />Our next house at Adam Park has an even more illustrious history. A veritable battle took place between the Japanese and the British, and later prisoners of war stayed there before being shipped off to Birma to build a railroad. Many say these houses are haunted, and as a novelist, what else can one do but write a novel set in such a place? ‘The Black and White House,’ which will be launched later this year. <br /><br />So, what is next? I’ve been spending a lot of time in the last few months on Singapore real estate websites, and whilst we explore exciting new places to live, I ponder another question: what to write? Write about the place we have begun to refer to as ‘The House’, the one that despite endless streams of builders we will have to rent out before it’s even finished? One that despite my wish to leave I have come to love. Though the adventures with our villainous contractor would make an excellent thriller, to be honest, it’s a chapter I’d rather close. Sitting in my favourite chair in my favourite spot next to the large bamboo bush, I dream of another place, the one that inspired the design of this green Dutch house. An idea for a new book germinates in my brain. Working title: 'A House in Bali'.<br /><br />In the meanwhile, do pre-order: ‘The Black and White House’. It’s a haunting tale of fear and friendship set in Singapore. That house in Adam Park, unattainable now rents have exploded in Singapore, will always haunt my dreams as the most beautiful place I ever lived. For now. Let’s see what’s next. </span>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-67344385991368203472022-10-03T07:29:00.015-07:002022-10-03T08:03:54.269-07:00Bali style autumn<span style="font-size: large;">We wanted our new house to be open and bright, similar to the outdoor living rooms we enjoyed in Singapore and Bali, where we were rarely inside. Because the climate in The Hague is rather different, the whole back and side of the house were to be made from glass. In warm weather sliding panels would open to the sunny, south facing garden, giving us that breezy Bali feel. For now, the house could not feel further away from Bali. Autumn storms blow freely inside, rendering it completely uninhabitable. We were hoping to be in by Christmas. Last Christmas, that is. But we are still (very) desperately waiting for the glass panels for downstairs…<br /><br />For months, few words have come from my chilled fingers onto my screen. My brain is a mess, like my life. Why did we have this ominous idea to renovate a house? The thing is, if I have to live through those chilly Dutch winters, I prefer to do so in comfort, and ideally without raking up a ginormous gas bill and making heating unnecessary in the long term because climate change will turn Northern Europe’s climate Mediterranean. What I need is insulation. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />But the type of house I like – charming, old, ramshackle – tends to be badly insulated, which is fine in the tropics, but staying in a draughty rental house made me realise that that wasn’t for me as long as I was in Northern Europe. We fell for a house with large sunny garden, directly by the dunes and very close to the sea, but, as to be expected, it was in a deplorable state. We ended up tearing it down to just a few bare walls. Honestly, building a new house from scratch would have been easier, but the front of the house was a protected cityscape. We never renovated a house before, and I can tell you, I never will again. Even though we don’t do the physical work ourselves. I won’t regale you with all the details, it would take a full novel, but as the contractor said, Murphy’s law applies to this project. Everything that can go wrong, does go wrong. That the contractor likes to deny their own culpability in all of that is something I also won’t discuss here. But as we are nearing the second anniversary of the purchase of said house, I would really like to know whether we will be living there this coming Christmas. The problem is that even though there is light at the end of the tunnel, it just doesn’t seem to get any closer. Quite the contrary. When we packed up our rental house end of July, we thought it was for just a month, hence all our winter clothes went into storage. Our moving deadline is currently set for the end of October. We have been housesitting, staying with my parents and in several holiday rentals. We are safe and dry so can’t really complain, but my patience is running out. And I do really start to miss my thermal underwear. <br /><br />Maybe there is a message in here – that buying and renovating a house isn’t for a perpetual nomad like me. It feels like the whole world is conspiring against us, making sure that this house never gets finished. I have always loved being on the move, being a nomad, exploring new places. But moving around in the same city, I find no joy in that. It’s not an adventure, it’s simply a nuisance. Many a time I have threatened to sell the whole thing and move back to Asia. We still might. But the thing is: We can’t really move abroad until the bloody thing is finished. </span></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-12441667704148614552022-03-09T08:53:00.011-08:002022-03-09T08:58:33.859-08:00Hollandse HokjesgeestI spent last night in bed crying because I had been dumped. No, not by my husband. Not even by a mysterious lover. I had been dumped by my rheumatologist. He said, in his very direct Dutch way, that though he acknowledges my problems are caused by the exact disease he specialises in, he cannot help me. He then spoke those memorable words that must be hammered so deep into every Dutch doctor it sometimes seems all they can say: go home and take a paracetamol. <br /><br />He was my third rheumatologist since we moved here (I know, less than 2 years ago) and my frustration mounts with every time I encounter that what bothers me most about the Netherlands: hokjesgeest. How to translate hokjesgeest? Geest means spirit and a hokje is a small cage or cubicle - it suffices to say it embodies the exact opposite of thinking out of the box. <br /><br />Hokjesgeest is what made us flee Dutch education, where at a very young age children are tested, labeled, and pigeonholed accordingly. It also reigns supreme in Dutch medicine, where doctors can’t help any patient without a proper label. A label you only get if you pass a stringent checklist. I spent a frustrated decade in the Dutch medical mill, until I moved to the UK and swiftly got diagnosed by a British rheumatologist that admitted my condition wasn’t ‘classic Ankylosing Spondylitis’ (AS) but who also said ‘auto immune diseases are very complex, and we don’t understand them completely. Your SI joints are inflamed at the moment which matches best with AS.’ The look of confusion on my Dutch doctors’ faces when the Brit uses the terms AS and RA (Rheumatoid Arthritis) alternately in his reports says it all. <br /><br />The Dutch doctors with their checklists, procedures and labels make me long for the more lackadaisical British, as well as the pill pushers of Singapore. I have to admit that doctors in Asia have a tendency to overmedicate, but this quote from my Singapore doctor resonates with me still: ‘We like to also help less extreme cases with advanced medication. This will not only improve the patient’s quality of life, but also stops the disease from escalating until it is too late.’ <br /><br />Let me stress my Dutch doctors were not bad people. They were friendly, smart and knowledgeable people. Mostly. The first Dutch rheumatologist said my sicca symptoms (dry eyes, mouth and well, dry everything) were not a part of AS, though she admitted they were common with RA. But I did not have that, I had AS. Hence could not have sicca symptoms. When I disagreed, quoting medical research, she replied: ‘Everything you read online is not true.’ For the record, I had not been reading quacksunited.com, the website I consulted was from the national rheumatoid association. <br /><br />The second Dutch doctor measured and confirmed the sicca symptoms, then uttered this confounding line: ‘If you look online you will find that in many countries, doctors would suggest you have Sjogren Syndrome, but in the Netherlands we have a stricter definition and I can’t diagnose you with it.’ He was a Sjogren specialist, and that was it for him. <br /><br />The third one, an AS specialist, made me feel optimistic when he said that sicca symptoms were common in AS patients. But down the line, he ended up being the one dumping me. <br /><br />When I asked him to prescribe the medication that helped me in the past, he told me no. I did not comply with the checklist for it, he would never get the paperwork approved. When I asked him, just to satisfy my curiosity, to put bureaucracy aside, and tell me if he personally felt the medication could help, he got very uncomfortable. He said he did not have enough experience to answer that question because ‘we don’t do that here in the Netherlands.’ This is one of those conversations where afterwards I had a lot of retorts. ‘But you gain experience only by doing!’ and ‘Don’t you read international journals or talk to fellow doctors abroad?’<br /><br />At my last consult he said: ‘The rheumatoid diseases that we treat are like the tip of the iceberg. There is a whole lot of them under the sea that we don’t see.’ There was no room for me on his lifeboat. He sent me back to the GP to see if another doctor can figure out what can be done against the pain that he agrees is most likely caused by a disease he specialises in. <br /><br />The one health care professional that I feel understands my body, that helps me, is my physiotherapist. He does not look at scans, nor blood tests. He looks at me. He feels. Unlike my last rheumatologist, who I only saw in person once (consults are done over the phone these days), he sees me every two weeks. He listens to me and his advice is always spot on. <br /><br />Pondering my medical journey, I have one final fun quote for you. The medal for the most hilarious thing a Dutch doctor said to me goes to an interim huisarts (GP) I saw in the early onset of my disease, who spoke the unforgettable words: ‘Why don’t you come back when you feel better.’ I’ve never been more speechless. She did not even mention paracetamol.Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-75319338006789291862022-01-20T00:47:00.004-08:002022-01-20T04:02:00.072-08:00Indonesian soul food <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQAFa0ECxYNib0Kv17UjWikjeL9eSLloipNDkXbs_PkDxDxD7PIx4FOSlDwVcCSSzOwkBN7ji1kDqs5C4YrtEkcuAmYA8HXToCw5ddCZvie_WJd-faPErO8bVii7HUZ5WNOWu-XK8o7E7CoBIQFGCWLH6v-fqTH30zp30ywvxxK0kjMuhGzL_kWuxw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQAFa0ECxYNib0Kv17UjWikjeL9eSLloipNDkXbs_PkDxDxD7PIx4FOSlDwVcCSSzOwkBN7ji1kDqs5C4YrtEkcuAmYA8HXToCw5ddCZvie_WJd-faPErO8bVii7HUZ5WNOWu-XK8o7E7CoBIQFGCWLH6v-fqTH30zp30ywvxxK0kjMuhGzL_kWuxw=w400-h300" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;">January is a tough month in Northern Europe in the best of circumstances. Days are short, December festivities are over, and spring is not yet on the horizon. It is cold and dark. Dutch weather reports however remain unapologetically optimistic. <i>It will be a beautiful sunny day tomorrow. Most of the country won’t get to see the sun, it will be veiled by thick fog, but some of you may get lucky!</i><br /><br />We get our vitamin D from tablets and a sunshine lamp I purchased online. And to top off all the fun, we are in a lockdown. Blue Monday this year stretches into a long, blue month… <br /><br />Unsurprisingly, the kids scream for soul food, to be precise: chicken soup. So I defy my resolution for a vegan January and succumb. What we need is Soto Ayam Indah! <br /><br />The bright yellow turmeric used in this hot chicken soup should lift our hearts out of the blue. To my shock, I realised I never posted the recipe here. An omission that ought to be remedied fast, so you can all enjoy its super powers. Indah means beautiful in Indonesian, and that is what this soup is. It is also the name of the woman who worked for us in Singapore and whose cooking was famous amongst all our friends, the woman who spend many a night perfecting her recipes to get the flavours exactly right. We miss her just like we miss her soup and the sunshine. <br /><br />Quantities are never specific in Indah's (or my) recipes. This is because spices vary in quantity and strength, so tasting as well as gut feeling is required. I prefer to err on the side of too much spice, feel free to adapt the recipe to your own taste. <br /><br /><b>Soto Ayam Indah<br /></b><br /><i>For the stock: <br /></i><br />1 whole chicken, washed and roughly chopped in pieces<br /><br />2 salam leafs <br /><br />2 kaffir lime leaf<br /><br /> 2 stalks serai (lemongrass) <br /><br />3 cm lenguas root (galangal)<br /><br />1 celery stalk <br /><br />1 green onion stalk </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYpNk4xE5-TNhQYob3Ovpk_1Gdfw2hOnxXG8vC8762IGwJWQF8za7IJwH_K1rF2XpKG0h0OS4d0pbahIS6iZjds6AM_CglppIiYjYzNpR6FJxj5LSU-1IB0dzBw_HKMG9c2EPrd83ewBF5CRITjKgk1UKsNtfj75vX_ZlqopNnvZ7dXqTBi57nJAoW=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYpNk4xE5-TNhQYob3Ovpk_1Gdfw2hOnxXG8vC8762IGwJWQF8za7IJwH_K1rF2XpKG0h0OS4d0pbahIS6iZjds6AM_CglppIiYjYzNpR6FJxj5LSU-1IB0dzBw_HKMG9c2EPrd83ewBF5CRITjKgk1UKsNtfj75vX_ZlqopNnvZ7dXqTBi57nJAoW=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />Coarsely chop the spices. Put all ingredients in a large stockpot and cover with water. Add salt to taste and bring to boil. Cover and let simmer for about an hour. <br /><br />While the chicken stock boils, you can make the spice mixtures, the rempah and sambal, as well as prepare the other accompaniments thar are essential to this dish. Rempah and sambal are both spice pastes, the main difference being is that rempah is used in cooking where sambal is served on the table for everyone to add on the plate. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgJu_FOsQ3QJGBcrrR1xmut5JS6QPX25sMHyccf81E2--6Ri3ezwdwYZlMjf39Rpe-4wKfOzRTP8kqVNakellk7lHaDOITuelIUvQjxK3S0qN5v7FGH6BHEoyNage-SDSdrbOcCLGY59UbQ3wiDqXtO1kw9V60YwCmkEDKF9BMdlxKpi7uvlABiQWA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgJu_FOsQ3QJGBcrrR1xmut5JS6QPX25sMHyccf81E2--6Ri3ezwdwYZlMjf39Rpe-4wKfOzRTP8kqVNakellk7lHaDOITuelIUvQjxK3S0qN5v7FGH6BHEoyNage-SDSdrbOcCLGY59UbQ3wiDqXtO1kw9V60YwCmkEDKF9BMdlxKpi7uvlABiQWA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>For the rempah: <br /></i><br />6 kerimi nuts (candlenuts) <br /><br />2 cloves of garlic<br /><br />handful small shallots<br /><br />5 cm fresh turmeric<br /><br /> 1 ts white pepper <br /><br />1ts nutmeg<br /><br />In Asia shallots are tiny and you can use a small handful. In Europe they tend to be bigger and 1-3 would suffice. Grind all the ingredients together (you can add some oil or water if your blender needs that) and fry the paste in a little oil until it smells fragrant, just a few minutes. Set it aside for adding to the soup later. If you want to go old school, use a grinding stone, some say it improves flavour. <br /><br /><i>For the sambal:<br /></i><br />1-2 tomatoes <br /><br />2-8 red chilis <br /><br />5 shallots<br /><br />2 cloves of garlic<br /><br />Chop all coarsely and boil together for a few minutes until soft. You can vary the amount of chili and tomato based on how spicy you like your sambal. Then grind or blend everything together into a paste. Season with salt. Set aside in a bowl to serve on the side later for those liking some extra heat.<br /><br /><b><i>Soto</i></b><br /><br />After the chicken has boiled, take it out of the stock. When it is cooled down a little, pull the meat off the bones. Here I tend to deviate a little from Indah’s recipe, as I like my stock strong-flavoured. I put the bones back in the pot and simmer them a few hours more, creating a fragrant bone broth. You don’t want to boil your chicken meat that long, as it would lose all its flavour. In the meanwhile, as your broth bubbles away, fry the chicken meat in a wok until crispy, let it cool a little, then pull it apart into small pieces and set aside in a bowl.<br /><br /><br />Indah always serves the soup it straight up, with floating herbs and all, but you can also choose to strain it. Either way, make sure to remove any chicken bones if they are there!<br /><br /><br />Now add the rempah to the stock, then bring it to the boil again. Add 2 tomatoes sliced into quarters, some stalks of green onion, and chopped local celery leaves. Don’t leave it to boil long now, just heat it thoroughly and serve hot! <br /><br />Serve the stock with all the toppings, which I like to lay out on the table for everyone to help themselves: boiled beehoon noodles (you can also serve rice on the side instead), crispy fried shallots, boiled (quail) eggs, lime slices, quickly blanched tauge (bean sprouts), blanched Chinese cabbage, more shreddedcelery leave and green onion, the sambal, the shredded chicken, and some kechap manis (sweet Indonesian soy sauce).<br /><br /><b>Selamat Makan!<br /></b><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-ohe_s0ghtZAPQxo9I4D0Nr6QM6kmKVyN-HaNgoPX3wOMW0zaOt5trCEFBqB6LgHLbcrWWyJ-ykH0vOshqWDVojep8gVPBWZfKnMs0F83S63DteO134Iv2ABa_1Qgu3GeaDvOqixIgszZ6r7EpE-SmDqyir0WDbPgcxfWjjSwUU6MwoyGxRobSgbL=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-ohe_s0ghtZAPQxo9I4D0Nr6QM6kmKVyN-HaNgoPX3wOMW0zaOt5trCEFBqB6LgHLbcrWWyJ-ykH0vOshqWDVojep8gVPBWZfKnMs0F83S63DteO134Iv2ABa_1Qgu3GeaDvOqixIgszZ6r7EpE-SmDqyir0WDbPgcxfWjjSwUU6MwoyGxRobSgbL=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /> </div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-92122381536775372842021-10-14T01:54:00.003-07:002021-10-14T02:38:45.119-07:00World Arthritis Day<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC77xbfmE-y3NRCBeEvEeYrz7Pd-m2bWclKIUojiwrzLZ6AhQ7veLV_BqMDW26YrBW27UGWsBBKNcHGZjD9YBUEjMTl97ki178hKsnAjGbUkBy7_aVpFiFbnUKXqCS9Lkqacguq5_QZBs/s750/10929145_10152985637374886_5958911254877679242_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC77xbfmE-y3NRCBeEvEeYrz7Pd-m2bWclKIUojiwrzLZ6AhQ7veLV_BqMDW26YrBW27UGWsBBKNcHGZjD9YBUEjMTl97ki178hKsnAjGbUkBy7_aVpFiFbnUKXqCS9Lkqacguq5_QZBs/s320/10929145_10152985637374886_5958911254877679242_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I am not good at these ‘days’ that people cook up for whatever reason. I’m notorious for forgetting my wedding anniversary or my parent’s birthdays. This year I managed to almost forget my own birthday. I love a celebration, but why tie it to a date? So it isn’t at all surprising I found out the 12th of October is World Arthritis Day only after it happened. Not a celebration, but an excellent way to bring attention to a rather invisible disease that can make life quite miserable for a lot of people. People like me. <br /><br />Like many fellow sufferers I am a master of disguise. My husband complains the rest of the world gets to see the cheerful me, active and full of spunk. He gets the moaning, grumpy me that lies on the sofa and groans about the loads of laundry that – literally – break her back. That shouting monster that is hiding behind the smile. I’ve tried explaining that he should take it as a compliment that he gets to see the ‘real me’ – but of course he is right. The most important people in my life, my family, deserve better. That terrible creature should not be the real me. It is just so darn hard. <br /><br />The last few weeks I decided to try a different approach. I’d throw off the mask for everyone. My first instinct when someone asks ‘how do you do?’ is to say ‘fine,’ even when I’m not. What would happen if I told the truth? The result was shocking. Shocking in its absence. Do people find it awkward to talk about these things, or do they just don’t care? Or was my answer too jokingly given, my consequent shrug too distant?<br /><br />It doesn’t help to have a disease with a name nobody can remember or spell, not even me. In English, it’s Ankylosing Spondylitis, in Dutch Bechterew disease (officially they changed it to Axiale Spondyloartritis or SpA, so now it has two names, even more confusing). Even rheumatologists barely understand this highly complex disease that manifests itself with a long parade of constantly changing symptoms. If you visit several doctors you get as many opinions. Every time I move, my new doctor questions whether I actually have it, only to grudgingly admit, after many tests, that I do, indeed, have it. Even if my symptoms are not ‘classic,’ apparently. The first symptom people think about with arthritis, an auto-immune disease that attacks your joints, is pain. What many don’t understand is that another symptom can be a lot more debilitating: Fatigue. A symptom so vague even doctors rarely take it seriously.<br /><br />Moving to a colder climate has been hard. I miss the heat that warms my achy joints. I miss the humidity that makes I don’t have to use eye drops several times a day to see clearly. I miss the sunshine that melts away the cobwebs in my head. I miss the Asian masseuses that knead away my stiffness. I miss my lovely fulltime household help. The cold brought new symptoms that my immune system repressing medication cannot fix. Arthrosis in my hips, sicca symptoms (a drought all over my thirsty body) and the ones that are the hardest ones of all to talk about: mind fog and depression. Now autumn is in full swing, getting out of bed in the morning gets harder every day. My body just doesn’t see the point. <br /><br />Thankfully I manage every day, one step at the time. I focus on the good things of living here. Being close to family, seeing friends I hadn’t in a while. Exploring the Netherlands and Europe, meeting new people. Things that give me energy. What can be hard to explain (particularly to my own husband) is that the best way to fight depression and fatigue is to get active. A day in the office supporting refugees might make my body total loss, it also gives my sense of self an essential boost. A morning of caring for baby hedgehogs shows me there is a point to my life. Joining events at my children’s school makes me feel I am part of their lives. Planting a food forest gives me hope for the future. Without all of that, who am I? Lying on the sofa might rest my body, but it stiffens my joints, and worse, my soul. I simply cannot do it. <br /><br />My new novel has been on ice all of last year, as has this blog. Is it energy I lack to write or something more fundamental? A question I can’t easily answer. In the end, it is all about balance. Prioritising. Invest in things that make me happy rather than wear me out mentally. So that is my new year resolution for the coming winter, because as I said before, why link those things to a date?<br /><br />Just one question remains: who will do all that laundry? Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-91411901413278021332021-04-23T06:08:00.017-07:002021-04-23T06:43:42.715-07:00Impetuous April<span style="font-size: large;">I’ve often heard people say they miss the seasons whilst living in the tropics. To be honest, the only season I ever liked is summer – so living in an eternal one suited me just fine. But, now I’m experiencing it for the first time in almost a decade, I have to admit spring too has its charm. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8phEgoUhUFI-behmMckP11JanUMQ0czzIgOXOLU7o7Kl7O4kyh9Eqo8bHFiJAJwjmE9vW5lZA-GP6XplPCY8mojh8rnnJH8RZjqdZBN-f-LP4EGiuUSZylHaCqzv9-GMIbuqCRAjDpMo/s2048/IMG_8453.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8phEgoUhUFI-behmMckP11JanUMQ0czzIgOXOLU7o7Kl7O4kyh9Eqo8bHFiJAJwjmE9vW5lZA-GP6XplPCY8mojh8rnnJH8RZjqdZBN-f-LP4EGiuUSZylHaCqzv9-GMIbuqCRAjDpMo/w300-h400/IMG_8453.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Describing spring makes one resort to clichés that don’t suit the sense of naïve wonder I feel looking at the tiny flowers suddenly sprouting up everywhere, battling up in unexpected places, between tiles on roads and in the sand of the dunes. Spring beauty is so fragile. The weather is still cold, and too early an abundance can be punished by night frosts. Still, spring sunshine has unexpected powers. When you find a spot that is sheltered from wind and showered by sun, you (and hereby I mean me, an extremely cold-hating person) can sit fairly comfortably outdoors. Until the tiniest of clouds obscures the sun and I need to rush back inside, to my electric blanket. And yes, I still wear my thermal underwear most days, in case you were wondering.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dHkP-kFlauhppOTvGrIE1hxqAuzkEKavGgvOi0lrxgpi8ZZ3X0QCtmHitCmTnUXpfgu4o0BsjsKe6eOpJKRHrFuGkmcjIth63eT-DN7-Iu_ePw_niixaLgEfEkXkEkKD-SjOFspq75A/s1280/IMG_EFE9DE3CA72F-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="904" data-original-width="1280" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dHkP-kFlauhppOTvGrIE1hxqAuzkEKavGgvOi0lrxgpi8ZZ3X0QCtmHitCmTnUXpfgu4o0BsjsKe6eOpJKRHrFuGkmcjIth63eT-DN7-Iu_ePw_niixaLgEfEkXkEkKD-SjOFspq75A/w400-h283/IMG_EFE9DE3CA72F-1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">For April weather is extremely treacherous. It fools you into believing spring is here, so you take off all your layers and run outside, and minutes later will whip a hailstorm around your ears, laughing. There is a saying in Dutch ‘April doet wat hij wil’ (April does what it wants) and I've never seen that as clearly as this impetuous last month. I realise now why Dutch people always talk about the weather. There is so much to talk about. Also, my mood seems to be directly linked to the amount of sunshine I get to see in a day. That jar of synthetic vitamin D tablets only goes that far. On the upside, most trees still don’t have any leaves, so at least those sca</span><span style="font-size: large;">rce rays of sunshine don’t get blocked.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">What makes spring in cooler climes so special is that everything happens at the same time. In the tropics birds nest year round, here a massive muddle of building action explodes in April. Spellbound, I stare at Mr and Mrs Blackbird going back and forth into the tree in the back of our garden with little twigs, for an hour. Mind you, we are still in a lockdown. It does not take a lot to excite me these days. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6yc3-msERAzskTwkp6rvEnNGnJPvxI1BhQTBFv0yAvwPrZqInj-gPKetvLo65JU4w8cvBHdzG83_AZcYft8-U0UZ_PDIHlYrP4x4eljOClXWBeGF81732ESE_2lzLDzW8Tji8GG5H-A/s2048/IMG_8608.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP6yc3-msERAzskTwkp6rvEnNGnJPvxI1BhQTBFv0yAvwPrZqInj-gPKetvLo65JU4w8cvBHdzG83_AZcYft8-U0UZ_PDIHlYrP4x4eljOClXWBeGF81732ESE_2lzLDzW8Tji8GG5H-A/w400-h300/IMG_8608.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fZWGnqrziJIaHYZ0yuHwY5wITC6gxoSUJP6ZRTvjLkYhD65xzfIlkAEEtPh3REX14XCkHjWWE_5UOIEcnhyphenhyphenaQHIuuX_1-FB8mr1gdKoSw2bMVvksXvCva8ZvDTetp0-r8xZSF5b6Nvg/s2048/IMG_8662.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fZWGnqrziJIaHYZ0yuHwY5wITC6gxoSUJP6ZRTvjLkYhD65xzfIlkAEEtPh3REX14XCkHjWWE_5UOIEcnhyphenhyphenaQHIuuX_1-FB8mr1gdKoSw2bMVvksXvCva8ZvDTetp0-r8xZSF5b6Nvg/s2048/IMG_8662.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnd6mZXT4QCqtN_mASBprRsJjPiP4eNScLWGoT2WwpnXHNmKhBs3ckJyiZZTTVw1THKBnL5ErtXU0U9xMML1F_O8aj3X6-VwMIYAeGxQ2qpET_ABvBpIuI31WxnqBmhO6ahj11Bg0TNi4/s2048/IMG_8610.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnd6mZXT4QCqtN_mASBprRsJjPiP4eNScLWGoT2WwpnXHNmKhBs3ckJyiZZTTVw1THKBnL5ErtXU0U9xMML1F_O8aj3X6-VwMIYAeGxQ2qpET_ABvBpIuI31WxnqBmhO6ahj11Bg0TNi4/w300-h400/IMG_8610.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">A few weeks back an exuberant frog orgy exploded in our pond. Now this was proper excitement, to see these frogs do what we humans have not been allowed in ages. Dozens of them attended the party of the year, right in our garden, and for some of them, the tight embraces got so intense that they lost their lives in the kerfuffle. This week the first tadpoles emerged from the huge patch of frog spawn that resulted, and I have no idea how the tiny pond will be able to sustain this sudden invasion of thousands. I’m sure the herons are sending out invitations for their big party, happening soon, snacks are being prepared.</span><br style="text-align: left;" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fZWGnqrziJIaHYZ0yuHwY5wITC6gxoSUJP6ZRTvjLkYhD65xzfIlkAEEtPh3REX14XCkHjWWE_5UOIEcnhyphenhyphenaQHIuuX_1-FB8mr1gdKoSw2bMVvksXvCva8ZvDTetp0-r8xZSF5b6Nvg/s2048/IMG_8662.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fZWGnqrziJIaHYZ0yuHwY5wITC6gxoSUJP6ZRTvjLkYhD65xzfIlkAEEtPh3REX14XCkHjWWE_5UOIEcnhyphenhyphenaQHIuuX_1-FB8mr1gdKoSw2bMVvksXvCva8ZvDTetp0-r8xZSF5b6Nvg/w300-h400/IMG_8662.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Spring beauty is not only fragile but fleeting. Soon after opening the cherry blossoms twirl from the trees again, like snow. The daffodils I planted lightened up our front garden for a few weeks but slowly wilt away already. I keep forgetting things I was supposed to do in this season, time goes so fast. Before you know it, summer will be there, then autumn and god forbid, winter again.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />Which means we have to enjoy it while it lasts. I need to get up from behind my laptop, drag my kids from their screens and take them into the dunes. The sun is out, the air is fresh. Slowly, I am warming to this concept of seasons. As long as the sun shines.<br /></span><br /></div></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-10728635059539574982020-12-07T09:34:00.026-08:002020-12-11T04:49:11.797-08:00Warming up inside: Sayur Lodeh<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator"><span style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwHOhdaVfj8ybLMkJD8BtxCZXBE3lCjDiNk7YXc1j8s1KlZH71UL5FpludZsFhJajOy-Chq-_43sC6OL5KBHk5UdBrOJkZJLYjHMNSie7j17382bs3iWcJTlS2e9shFNL1R_CZ8yJ-GU/w400-h300/06293AEF-B837-4798-88E9-2CC164E24B45.jpeg" /></span></div></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></span></blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">Over the last months people have laughed at me in my thick scarf, woollen hat and gloves. ‘It isn’t cold,’ they’d grin. ‘Just you wait until winter really starts.’</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span>More than chilled enough by autumn, I would shudder. And now it happened: winter started. We’ve had frost at night and during daytime the temperature stays in single digits. Yes, I know, it can get much worse still, but this is bad enough for my tropical bones. Our mornings are a flurry of looking for hats and mittens for the children who complain of having to cycle to school in the crisp dark – this time of the year the sun won’t rise until after school started and sets somewhere mid-afternoon. I’m not sure yet what is worse, the cold or the darkness. The kids quickly caught on to the fact that Dutch winds are always headwinds when you cycle to school, and then somehow defy physics by being the same when you turn around. </span><br /><br /><span>A few weeks back we were stuck without heating for a weekend and now, in the chilling wind and drizzle, the new heating system struggles to keep our old, leaky house as comfortable as I’d like it to be. So what can one do to heat up? Cook warming, spicy, Asian food! I spent our last year in Singapore painstakingly noting down recipes for Indah’s amazing Indonesian food, and when we miss her, miss the sunshine, we cook it and warm our chilly guts. I get many requests to share Indah's recipes - her cooking was famous amongst family and friends, and not without reason: her food is amazing. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBj36TNkK_Pfg3tCXsEX1RH2CLS6nY1IGn2nsr8cS8t1nwnUNtyIP38ZdV32lScO14O49L5Gneg5DJUYvZRblT7nU0z7hUyorah4rTB8QQP5Z7TymrA24fl10tTg4xjYj286ciQ8VCJdU/w400-h300/F885EBFA-DEC9-47DC-98AA-9D0D6E5A70A4.jpeg" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span>Foraging Singapore for wild greens<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Today it is time for Sayur Lodeh. The great thing about this dish is how versatile it is. Sayur simple means vegetable, and lodeh signifies they are cooked in a coconut milk gravy. The dish is mostly vegan, apart from the dried prawns, but those can easily be left out if you don’t eat them. <br /><br />The soul of any curry is the rempah, or spice paste for the gravy. This particular one is a base you can use for many different varieties of vegetable curries. It’s a great dish to empty your vegetable drawer as most things work. In Singapore we would go and forage for our vegetables: tapioca leaves, moringa, jackfruit, tiny round aubergines. But for lack of those, kale, carrots or green beans work just as well.<br /><br />We are lucky that the Hague boasts a large community of Indonesian people, so most of the ingredients are available easily enough. Although the only place that sells fresh (well, frozen) galangal is half an hour drive away, so I do sometimes resort to powdered. And I really don’t understand why all the crispy fried shallots here are made with wheat flour (which I’m intolerant to) when in Asia they never are! If you can get fresh ingredients, do so, but with dried spices this dish will still be nice. Candlenuts (kemiri) can be replaced by macadamia or brazil nuts. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsQ14N2us3zBx8YLWQbksXDwg4oa0S-B-xRslQtW6psX0fsHtFnmO8_ZUmFdfVowzZp1XQ__7fEPNFlHQiJhAYKeX90McxkQvWRk-tSD_puAAaVP2NMjZY6a-TP4U3aoBEbaFWujuU00/s2048/BBAA5506-DE8B-4AE7-911C-74C7020B96BA_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1582" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlsQ14N2us3zBx8YLWQbksXDwg4oa0S-B-xRslQtW6psX0fsHtFnmO8_ZUmFdfVowzZp1XQ__7fEPNFlHQiJhAYKeX90McxkQvWRk-tSD_puAAaVP2NMjZY6a-TP4U3aoBEbaFWujuU00/w309-h400/BBAA5506-DE8B-4AE7-911C-74C7020B96BA_1_201_a.jpeg" width="309" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rijsttafel, an Indonesian feast</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span><b>S</b></span><b>ayur Lodeh</b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b><i>Rempah (spice mix)<br /></i></b><br /><i>8 small (or 3 bigger) shallots<br />3 cloves garlic<br />2 or more chilis (mix large ones for colour with small ones for heat) <br />3 cm fresh galangal<br />3 cm fresh ginger<br />2 stalks lemongrass, hard outer leaves discarded <br />3 cm turmeric, <br />8 candlenuts, <br />1 teaspoon shrimp paste (belachan in Malay, terassi in Indonesian) <br />1 tbs dried shrimp</i><br /><br />As with all Asian recipes, quantities are indicative, kira kira. Indah’s original recipe that she wrote down for me just has a list of ingredients, but I added some indications of how much to use because I know working intuitively is difficult if you are less familiar with these spices. Based on the strength of the spices you use and your personal taste, use more or less of each. If you use dried, about one teaspoon of dried spice roughly equals 3 tablespoons of fresh. <br /><br />Chop all rempah ingredients coarsely and blend them to a paste. Add some oil and/ or water if needed. I do this in a bender, if you are a traditionalist you can use a grinding stone or pestle and mortar. <br /><br />Fry the spice mix in large pot with thick bottom until fragrant, five minutes should do it. Add your vegetables (see below for some suggestions), a few cups water and bring to boil. You an add more water later if it gets too dry, you are looking for thin curry/ think soup consistency. Add some salam leaf, kaffir lime leaf, and salt to taste. <br /><br />Boil 15-20 minutes then add coconut milk, about 400ml should do it. If you use fried tofu, add this only at the end. Sprinkle with crispy fried onion. Sayur lodeh can be part of a nasi campur or rijstafel, a selection of different dishes served together with rice and spicy sambals. But for a simple weekday meal it is fine on its own served with rice.<br /><br /><b><i>Vegetables</i></b><br /><br />As I said, you can throw anything you like in this gravy, but I’ll share two classic versions that I love. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Jn_cmz7cJF5ApCcCvP0i9jYwadUfnco9GiAJRHtoLufnApL5MCbgWYOtfJHcxQKvgVSrvmGLT3B6zV8784loOmQ2RugSsNYRIi69l-Zu0AgXFVyeWbLo7LDksJPXiAyfdHZVYwMd0mM/s2048/8BD68E14-3DFE-4849-ABE9-53ABEAD70BDF_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Jn_cmz7cJF5ApCcCvP0i9jYwadUfnco9GiAJRHtoLufnApL5MCbgWYOtfJHcxQKvgVSrvmGLT3B6zV8784loOmQ2RugSsNYRIi69l-Zu0AgXFVyeWbLo7LDksJPXiAyfdHZVYwMd0mM/w400-h300/8BD68E14-3DFE-4849-ABE9-53ABEAD70BDF_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Singkong lodeh is even better the day after as leftover lunch!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Singkong lodeh </b>(tapioca leaves)<br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">One of our favourites is lodeh with tapioca leaves, which in Singapore and Bali we’d pick wild in front of our house. In the Netherlands I’ve found them frozen in an Asian supermarket. Take the thicker stalks off the leaves, wash them, then boil the leaves for 20 minutes. Squeeze out excess moisture, then chop them roughly. Add the leaves to the gravy as described above. This curry is usually made with only the one vegetable. It is quite an ‘adult’ dish to me and the first time I tasted it, Indah made it for herself for lunch. Suffice to say, the heat of the dish blew my tastebuds to pieces. Although I don’t make it as hot as Indah, I still like my singkong lodeh on the spicier side. If you can’t find tapioca leaves any dark green leafy vegetable like spinach, kale or beet greens will work as well. </span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVTerc3NL7f_9WAQuuVAYREQPHBRpu4HwSQpMUrySgi2wlvdaTi0-3VA7eA2bb_vTM0zjr0vAnTwC-UgsTR2tty5QGhjVNTviS4fP70CihVnfC7l-rvc-tdRw5yNwpD6l_L9BrP5OwAc/s1747/BBAA5506-DE8B-4AE7-911C-74C7020B96BA_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1747" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVTerc3NL7f_9WAQuuVAYREQPHBRpu4HwSQpMUrySgi2wlvdaTi0-3VA7eA2bb_vTM0zjr0vAnTwC-UgsTR2tty5QGhjVNTviS4fP70CihVnfC7l-rvc-tdRw5yNwpD6l_L9BrP5OwAc/w400-h254/BBAA5506-DE8B-4AE7-911C-74C7020B96BA_1_201_a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classic sayur lodeh</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b><i>Classic Sayur Lodeh <br /></i></b><br />The best known version that is served over Indonesia usually contains a mixture of green beans, carrots, aubergine and cabbage as well as cubes of fried tofu. It is the one that can be seen in the picture of the <i>rijsttafel </i>above right in front.<br /><br />Wash and chop the vegetables into bitesize pieces, then blanch them briefly - be careful not to overcook, they still need some crunch at this stage. You can either buy ready fried tofu puffs or fry cubes of firm tofu in oil before adding them. Add the tofu to the curry at the end only, and boil until thoroughly heated and the tofu has soaked up all the flavours.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLJcZ9uX_YCV2aDSBKRo0iGDalwbYMkz2PH3hw0D2oUDqdHGhWmsB9318HbAbjvQCgH-sKdiHic6JdfQhDC6a1e4UwtBsAUiqfR3MJM4bD7XMMY6-9xmYZ_MAu4eKyiMKvWslZj4G_WM/s320/7E4B706F-D8D1-4B99-97B7-6E759CA71670.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lodeh with wild aubergines</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQLJcZ9uX_YCV2aDSBKRo0iGDalwbYMkz2PH3hw0D2oUDqdHGhWmsB9318HbAbjvQCgH-sKdiHic6JdfQhDC6a1e4UwtBsAUiqfR3MJM4bD7XMMY6-9xmYZ_MAu4eKyiMKvWslZj4G_WM/s2048/7E4B706F-D8D1-4B99-97B7-6E759CA71670.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a></div><br /></div></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-44392022341685841952020-12-07T09:09:00.005-08:002020-12-07T09:13:50.033-08:00Festive Fusion Pudding, Brexit proof<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWUz44d6IvQybyuJcEJgfucD2zpFhCgkNS-AYM7SKzRwgCK5r1ZVyX9Rqqht8SYlCbFsapE4qNjYlr4uYwWOunInyIFPcR6Ua9fVw7aowI8h2o0QJ4R83kXu75UbBMTFoEQt_IQk8XCE/s2048/BB04FBC1-92DA-4778-9E6F-C7A4BA066152.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWUz44d6IvQybyuJcEJgfucD2zpFhCgkNS-AYM7SKzRwgCK5r1ZVyX9Rqqht8SYlCbFsapE4qNjYlr4uYwWOunInyIFPcR6Ua9fVw7aowI8h2o0QJ4R83kXu75UbBMTFoEQt_IQk8XCE/w400-h266/BB04FBC1-92DA-4778-9E6F-C7A4BA066152.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><div></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>As much as the country has been annoying me recently (Brexit, anyone?) I have to admit no-one does Christmas like the Brits. My English great-grandmother and international upbringing are likely to blame, but ever since my childhood, nothing shouts Christmas to me like silly hats and bad jokes from Christmas crackers, and a good slice of Christmas pudding doused in brandy butter. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Living all over the globe, ca</span><span style="text-align: center;">tering to guests from all walks of life, and having to stick to a diet for medical reasons, I have created my own ‘recipes’ for many classic dishes that can be adapted not only on the preferences of you and your guests, but also on what is available locally where you live. With the current Marmite crisis caused by Brexit, you never know what is going to happen, so it makes sense to stock up on mincemeat and crackers before it's too late!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: center;">If you break down any recipe to basic food chemistry (I knew that MSc degree would have some use eventually), it is easy to see what can and cannot be substituted. The rest, particularly the flavourings, are simply a matter of taste. Something we Dutch know cannot be argued about. I love to use Dutch speculaaskruiden to stir things up a little. </span></div></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNkEUSu2RF7zY3Wq5YGGg4RmFf4cp_gt5sC4-ekg8MOrQ1-jcdyrhFDjx6c-L0UvgXiLDlX7_-NvxEiZbrNGUoI92LwOYED1thAPFPQ70kfia_feGzu9b182oPvuhGv_6nUYrKQPfaA0/s2048/828B0BE0-DFBB-4D5D-BA84-FC00232FCFDC.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFNkEUSu2RF7zY3Wq5YGGg4RmFf4cp_gt5sC4-ekg8MOrQ1-jcdyrhFDjx6c-L0UvgXiLDlX7_-NvxEiZbrNGUoI92LwOYED1thAPFPQ70kfia_feGzu9b182oPvuhGv_6nUYrKQPfaA0/w400-h266/828B0BE0-DFBB-4D5D-BA84-FC00232FCFDC.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weren't they cute then?</td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Traditionally this pudding is made on stir-up Sunday, the last Sunday before advent, but my Dutch brain can’t do Christmas before St Nicolas has left for Spain, so just after the 5th works well for me. For luck, the whole family is supposed to take turns stirring!</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-eNSobP4QlmNxhq1FT8f4E8UQ23GFIvBsPgB10j5PaS0OuDOl1yiS4xXO9EkrNgE1xhREiWv-4R_SIb97PDAWNwQxgSlmicBzdSu61kCErNWSg2AOM5z24GezJu6iV779lFUi252Tug/s2048/0D8DE244-0FA6-44B7-8BBD-D0EA0C28667A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-eNSobP4QlmNxhq1FT8f4E8UQ23GFIvBsPgB10j5PaS0OuDOl1yiS4xXO9EkrNgE1xhREiWv-4R_SIb97PDAWNwQxgSlmicBzdSu61kCErNWSg2AOM5z24GezJu6iV779lFUi252Tug/w400-h400/0D8DE244-0FA6-44B7-8BBD-D0EA0C28667A.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><b>Festive Pudding for all <br /></b><br /><i>900 g mixed dry fruit, chopped fine<br />100 ml liquor (brandy, or for non-alcoholics use fruit juice)<br />3 ts mixed dry spices (nutmeg, cardamom, cinnamon, allspice, ginger)<br />1 ts baking powder<br />pinch of salt<br />100 g chopped nuts (almond, macademia, walnut)<br />175 g dark sugar (palm sugar, or any other)<br />sugared lemon/orange peel<br />175 fat (suet, coconut, butter)<br />100 g flour (can be wheat or glutenfree) <br />225 g breadcumbs (can be glutenfree) <br />4 eggs<br />300 ml liquid (apple cider, fruit juice, sweet wine, port, sherry, dark beer)</i><br /><br />The heart of the pudding are the dried fruits. Ironically for a pudding often called ‘plum pudding’ plums, or their dried version prunes, are not necessarily included, but they do work well. Raisins, currants and sultanas are your obvious choice, but I love dates, apricots, cranberries, apple, and dried mangos as well. There are really no limits. I’ve done a tropical version once with pineapple. Whatever you choose, dose them in brandy or your liquid of choice and soak overnight. <br /><br />(I’m suddenly thinking up a gin & tonic themed pudding, well, there’s always next year… this year I opted for Middle Eastern with dried limes, apricots, mango and lots of cardamom) <br /><br />For the fat, make sure to use one that is fairly solid, so olive oil is out. Even in the UK the traditional suet is getting harder to get (particularly if like me you boycott the nasty supermarket ‘vegetarian’ version of chemically hardened palm oil covered in wheat flour) If you want to be proper, do ask your butcher for suet, but by all means butter or coconut fat work perfectly fine too . <br /><br />When the fruit is ready, add all the dry ingredients together in another bowl, then add the fat, eggs and last your liquid of choice. When mixed well toss the dried fruit in as well, let everyone have a stir and your mixture is ready to steam. All you need now is patience. <br /><br />My first puddings I steamed in a earthenware bowl with some parchment, but water leaked in and they became soggy, so I invested in some plastic pudding bowls with lids. Place them in a pan with water, that does not reach the top of your bowl, as no water should get in. Add a lid and steam them for hours, at least five; the longer, the darker and richer the pudding will get. Then let it cool and rest in a cool dark place until Christmas. If you like your pudding proper boozy you can ‘feed’ it with a few spoons of brandy once in a while. <br /><br />At Christmas dinner steam it again for half an hour to heat it up, or cheat by popping it in a microwave. Don’t forget to add brandy butter, which is butter mixed with generous slosh of brandy and some powdered sugar (mix 100g of room temperature butter with 100g icing sugar and 4 spoons of brandy, then stiffen in fridge). For a real show stopper heat up some brandy in a metal spoon, let it catch fire and serve your pudding flaming!</span></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-13714115839945510232020-11-24T05:09:00.009-08:002020-11-25T03:36:51.477-08:00Prickly cuteness <div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIntMTu86aCnpsGxQ6JAHEqGG6WbBoPfoo4ALRrMIROGzuAe0Glrg0da90qT1zMF_SyJKvh9C-6xmVQ40qgqhGbQvg8y-xHsmIA1H82eDEvlGPoExc-oxk4muHMzDv1fRIpnL1CyvjhiY/s2048/IMG_6752.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="2048" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIntMTu86aCnpsGxQ6JAHEqGG6WbBoPfoo4ALRrMIROGzuAe0Glrg0da90qT1zMF_SyJKvh9C-6xmVQ40qgqhGbQvg8y-xHsmIA1H82eDEvlGPoExc-oxk4muHMzDv1fRIpnL1CyvjhiY/w400-h276/IMG_6752.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div>When I walk down the stairs, I see my son on his knees in the hallway, talking into his phone – a friend in Hong Kong on the other side. ‘There’s a porcupine in our house,’ my son exclaims. I grin as I skip down the last step. ‘Not a porcupine, a hedgehog,’ I correct him, turning around to his sister in the kitchen. ‘Did you let Rob out?’<br /><br />In Singapore we had squirrels, flying lemurs, pangolins and pythons in our garden, amongst many, many other representatives of jungle wildlife. When we moved to the Netherlands, I worried about getting my fix of crazy creatures. Thankfully there are plenty around, perhaps less exotic, but not less cute. Next to our house is the Westduinpark, a nature reserve that sports Den Haag’s hedgehog shelter. Somehow I ended up volunteering there, and that is how Rob the blind hedgehog made his - albeit brief – appearance in our house.</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL0t6JBBWXdQQEK9jzByHA8FmUxcivZxq7mMxfLn9pGANTQc5IMEt35wF0kNNYAVcPVYOS-sDqMvCHTRoEYs4tHStYA4f_o6tgl8aMnxtZl-F3i_TJwQ505kTSqhuJjipijON6jzDbwlE/s1024/Rob.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL0t6JBBWXdQQEK9jzByHA8FmUxcivZxq7mMxfLn9pGANTQc5IMEt35wF0kNNYAVcPVYOS-sDqMvCHTRoEYs4tHStYA4f_o6tgl8aMnxtZl-F3i_TJwQ505kTSqhuJjipijON6jzDbwlE/s320/Rob.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rob the blind hedgehog aka Houdini</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Hedgehogs are nocturnal and don’t need much in the way of sight, so Rob’s biggest problem is that he cannot distinguish day from night. Wandering around in broad daylight is unsafe - many hedgehogs end up as roadkill. The plan was for Rob to live in our small enclosed garden, so we could observe him to see if he was fit for release. However, Rob aka Houdini had other plans. He came to us because he was stressed in his cage in the shelter and kept escaping, but that wasn't the end of it. <br /><br />We pick him up in a small cardboard box. In our garden he spends half an hour crisscrossing around at high speed, bumping into people’s legs, like Sonic the Hedgehog on speed. We retreat inside, hoping on his own he will calm down. When we can’t see him anymore, I hope he’s settled down into the big heap of leaves I raked together especially for him. As a good hedgehog should, in the middle of the day. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoOdC3DLpqbZld44bHXBfHRX8vL_9mJ7UPuPQjJL7woJWroELPOx1-Vfb9n_wZrJKsSV1cNn1pV84h5WoxOGJtGp5MCu9gwe4uA0cW2NJjCtuI26j-6PDfSWzt1YQbzDFHbJtc1tp5ys/s2048/IMG_6614.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoOdC3DLpqbZld44bHXBfHRX8vL_9mJ7UPuPQjJL7woJWroELPOx1-Vfb9n_wZrJKsSV1cNn1pV84h5WoxOGJtGp5MCu9gwe4uA0cW2NJjCtuI26j-6PDfSWzt1YQbzDFHbJtc1tp5ys/w400-h300/IMG_6614.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The quadruplets at the sanctuary<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">You can imagine my surprise when I walk out my front door and see Rob racing across the road, full speed ahead. Thankfully I can grab him quickly, and put him in a box inside whilst I call the hedgehog shelter to confer: what to do with mr. Houdini? Before I hang up, Rob has escaped again, long story short: that sunny afternoon we decide to drop Rob off in the woods at Clingendael. He stomps off happily into the bushes, as far from roads and people as we can manage. Where he hope he still lives.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSpiPsooRmqdrU1s6HT4Xoqp0r6inZQ0eZ-fBS-QFe5XIQ6Bb8_xKiV429xjBCS1ynN_hitakSvG3Fv_6QZz5w0ll9gmu6CXsye2wD25JI295_h4ISxlyIuSc_L-YulK5HOXlFcIm6Xg/s2048/IMG_6701.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSpiPsooRmqdrU1s6HT4Xoqp0r6inZQ0eZ-fBS-QFe5XIQ6Bb8_xKiV429xjBCS1ynN_hitakSvG3Fv_6QZz5w0ll9gmu6CXsye2wD25JI295_h4ISxlyIuSc_L-YulK5HOXlFcIm6Xg/w400-h300/IMG_6701.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Release into the garden</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtt0SutbQxn6I2-8wXESwQWan31Z6Su9C2LiQVbrCTZ9GvTwQxVyjxyS1ISMJsqNGMdM5fitYA-O57fRWoORSdZXHa4jbqi4KMuOCoTfL-pssOtJ4_h2ljha09igSAcH7kvoa8yHsQERg/s2048/IMG_6704.JPG" style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtt0SutbQxn6I2-8wXESwQWan31Z6Su9C2LiQVbrCTZ9GvTwQxVyjxyS1ISMJsqNGMdM5fitYA-O57fRWoORSdZXHa4jbqi4KMuOCoTfL-pssOtJ4_h2ljha09igSAcH7kvoa8yHsQERg/w300-h400/IMG_6704.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">After more, finer wire has been installed, we are ready for the next lot. Spriet, Meneertje, Meisje and Hyacint are quadruplets that lost their mother and were brought into the shelter as tiny infants. They are healthy and grow well, but as hedgehogs hibernate, young ones that don’t reach a proper weight in time have poor chances to make it through winter. The siblings will hibernate in our garden, where we can fatten them up on a diet of cat food and cuddles (well, just the food. They are prickly, after all). If they do wake up hungry too soon, we can supplement their food so they can go back to sleep.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNt-3Si5SLBiKoOOYHr5u8mH4HU4qh4BoUi7565-JQMPwKG2qz9Mgltb7KHskPBu2MFBbso4sdAWNzq9eoBc0xGKr0GUsxF_cjRE5zvUPCHiR7r1pmUgIvVb44rYENpee7DTTfGsuKgM/s2048/IMG_6705.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNt-3Si5SLBiKoOOYHr5u8mH4HU4qh4BoUi7565-JQMPwKG2qz9Mgltb7KHskPBu2MFBbso4sdAWNzq9eoBc0xGKr0GUsxF_cjRE5zvUPCHiR7r1pmUgIvVb44rYENpee7DTTfGsuKgM/w300-h400/IMG_6705.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />These little guys behave as hedgehogs should: sleep all day. In the evening we can see them roam around the garden, digging up the lawn and wolfing down the food we put out for them gratefully. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDFxQIQZJSy5TXki6FWhoUBXz3jmYZEvyWn6D6ZTvv7EhZ_nLUDHMOZmMXITL0o8zTh5sqzDvjJdGO4VdSEFLce8WyEfRVNlahhRpNBxtC3vmUM5r7b11PPGA_XkmpTPFXQ6cj3AUHLJ4/s2048/IMG_6747.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDFxQIQZJSy5TXki6FWhoUBXz3jmYZEvyWn6D6ZTvv7EhZ_nLUDHMOZmMXITL0o8zTh5sqzDvjJdGO4VdSEFLce8WyEfRVNlahhRpNBxtC3vmUM5r7b11PPGA_XkmpTPFXQ6cj3AUHLJ4/w300-h400/IMG_6747.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weighing time<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Every few days we weigh them, and clean out their little pen – hedgehogs are messy animals that love to relieve themselves where they sleep and eat. But when they look at us with their beady eyes and pointy snout, we will forgive them all their sins. The weather is mild and they are still underweight, it will likely be a while before they start their long sleep. So in the meanwhile we can enjoy their company.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>De Egelopvang Den Haag runs on volunteers and donations, if you can, do consider giving them some extra cash to help more of these amazing little creatures. More information can be found on their website: <a href="https://www.egelopvangdenhaag.nl">https://www.egelopvangdenhaag.nl</a></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">And here, just because I know you love them as much as we do: some more photos:</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c6o_4q4o99yw5mjyHBYhkn2DuoczMO1oWYhotznEKD5GYP2V_nO9ar-NpeafzC9jIl3bSJGBrYhFvJMYyfOqrt_QzUUzzmq9siH-0uVaXR8HmL51toPsXXjCOxJmCkI8i7AHo2vGmp8/s2048/IMG_6619.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_c6o_4q4o99yw5mjyHBYhkn2DuoczMO1oWYhotznEKD5GYP2V_nO9ar-NpeafzC9jIl3bSJGBrYhFvJMYyfOqrt_QzUUzzmq9siH-0uVaXR8HmL51toPsXXjCOxJmCkI8i7AHo2vGmp8/w400-h300/IMG_6619.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUpul3L7NmmrnKCuGhmPkt_tCTltcgdd3PMUOrAvE5qrHXgAYICE15f1C9irtSHNY_bsjP_2ImOCkhJsuxhAWA-ygNSkRYOhBRA2o77FoFz53v7m_GbIC0Pdh2WVUp2pOZL9zE34pcLQ/s2048/IMG_6745.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUpul3L7NmmrnKCuGhmPkt_tCTltcgdd3PMUOrAvE5qrHXgAYICE15f1C9irtSHNY_bsjP_2ImOCkhJsuxhAWA-ygNSkRYOhBRA2o77FoFz53v7m_GbIC0Pdh2WVUp2pOZL9zE34pcLQ/w300-h400/IMG_6745.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpb_uv7kLXYNbZSLB5dRVy-miDfU4TztiWtkCmPD9BCxX2_klEIhUGEE3se1_3b3TrE9An2aq40rY_8UczXs_n-v2h-U4exFYF0VrEI2cJ7f4k2rgS1ahC_QFo4ZCH3bXtpxMapxlXIOI/s4032/IMG_6746.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpb_uv7kLXYNbZSLB5dRVy-miDfU4TztiWtkCmPD9BCxX2_klEIhUGEE3se1_3b3TrE9An2aq40rY_8UczXs_n-v2h-U4exFYF0VrEI2cJ7f4k2rgS1ahC_QFo4ZCH3bXtpxMapxlXIOI/w300-h400/IMG_6746.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3bLm0in70tXnUOt_THwtRumeJ77sVxeIT_QLixXNdatWA-CZc1fvUnylQH40SOBw41QT_DiX66eRd4worjNdeoBNmL7GuWVJhVLMn-c5xoVgQ4s-O3eXMBYQsJ3vAhOHJvmJAy9GEcw/s4032/IMG_6749.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3bLm0in70tXnUOt_THwtRumeJ77sVxeIT_QLixXNdatWA-CZc1fvUnylQH40SOBw41QT_DiX66eRd4worjNdeoBNmL7GuWVJhVLMn-c5xoVgQ4s-O3eXMBYQsJ3vAhOHJvmJAy9GEcw/w300-h400/IMG_6749.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-49180563389947766912020-08-25T03:30:00.006-07:002020-08-25T04:20:53.909-07:00West wind blowing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6hyem3DQFmbyzBlfAKk04fuSrTRhFECbzaRh6XdtM_eOOZ8NwY2gSJEXPB6pIs8QTxZt7yxerRuAJnJ8mtA2Mif3ytDX5o0r23TYnm10iKRnhBSyMElAlw-I_t1uC1l7k8q8yg4lpS4/s2048/A247C252-7B6F-4A6D-BF22-77E00BE062BA_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1795" data-original-width="2048" height="449" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6hyem3DQFmbyzBlfAKk04fuSrTRhFECbzaRh6XdtM_eOOZ8NwY2gSJEXPB6pIs8QTxZt7yxerRuAJnJ8mtA2Mif3ytDX5o0r23TYnm10iKRnhBSyMElAlw-I_t1uC1l7k8q8yg4lpS4/w512-h449/A247C252-7B6F-4A6D-BF22-77E00BE062BA_1_201_a.jpeg" width="512" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">So here we are, the wind has turned. The breeze blowing hot and dry weather from the East, with temperatures that the Dutch call a heatwave but made us feel right at home, has been replaced with a stout <i>zuidwester</i>, that fierce sea <span style="text-align: center;">wind from the West, right off the North Sea. Dutch sea winds bring moderate temperatures and rain, making me shiver as I type this in my clothes that are better suited to the tropics.</span></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-RlvzjkbyLFgfQe2SuZLYp2l99Drd_GDDBr2RLAivCy-OKbbymYAU6bj_H_Ipyg0F5hzVERXZRb19NGMONrCtFpeguB4kB5_DRttTwynmjeJBMbm-g_GZZXc3sFUcLo9gT7NQzJ-L08/s2048/IMG_5271.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-RlvzjkbyLFgfQe2SuZLYp2l99Drd_GDDBr2RLAivCy-OKbbymYAU6bj_H_Ipyg0F5hzVERXZRb19NGMONrCtFpeguB4kB5_DRttTwynmjeJBMbm-g_GZZXc3sFUcLo9gT7NQzJ-L08/s2048/IMG_5271.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-RlvzjkbyLFgfQe2SuZLYp2l99Drd_GDDBr2RLAivCy-OKbbymYAU6bj_H_Ipyg0F5hzVERXZRb19NGMONrCtFpeguB4kB5_DRttTwynmjeJBMbm-g_GZZXc3sFUcLo9gT7NQzJ-L08/s2048/IMG_5271.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-RlvzjkbyLFgfQe2SuZLYp2l99Drd_GDDBr2RLAivCy-OKbbymYAU6bj_H_Ipyg0F5hzVERXZRb19NGMONrCtFpeguB4kB5_DRttTwynmjeJBMbm-g_GZZXc3sFUcLo9gT7NQzJ-L08/w512-h384/IMG_5271.JPG" width="512" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">The Netherlands are beautiful when the sun shines. At the end of our road we walk straight into the dunes, were pathways meander between wild roses and seaberries, all the way to the sea. Dutch beaches are wide and white, worlds apart from the black lava sands of Bali, both equally gorgeous yet so different. The first time we walked onto the beach here, we almost got blown off again. Dutch summers are treacherous, sunny and warm can become cold and wet in minutes, you have to bring layers of clothes when going out. The North Sea is grey and frothy, its waves flat compared to Bali. My Canggu-trained menfolk won’t get their wax out for them, but as I see Roel and Tijm staring at kite surfers scooting across the waters of the zandmotor, I’m thinking those sea winds may serve their purpose yet.<br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc0to0NRYm3nY3Lb5KTIYqK8z_ItmehNydhqTgBYSZfDOXNvQYTqQmkJZDiYYnlo9iITy24ss-in6uMV3VQxYzy7xhlFtj8jdKgxc6xlUd1PZjF7bc1M1M32QwD4IGTRwlmCf0VD8LGrI/s2048/IMG_5718.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc0to0NRYm3nY3Lb5KTIYqK8z_ItmehNydhqTgBYSZfDOXNvQYTqQmkJZDiYYnlo9iITy24ss-in6uMV3VQxYzy7xhlFtj8jdKgxc6xlUd1PZjF7bc1M1M32QwD4IGTRwlmCf0VD8LGrI/w512-h384/IMG_5718.JPG" width="512" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Of course, getting used to living in a new country is about more than the weather. And although many people tell us we moved ‘home’, it doesn’t feel like that, not yet. The Netherlands are new to us, it has been fourteen years since we lived here, the kids never have. Repatriation is strange, you have all the hassle of an intercontinental move, without the excitement of an exotic location. You have changed, with a lot of different cultural experiences, yet you still look and sound the same as a ‘local’. Often, as I stand in a shop or am on the phone with one of the many institutions this country boasts, I feel myself an awkward outsider - the Dutch don’t cope well with people that don’t fit into boxes. It makes me feel for ‘real’ foreigners, that don’t speak the language and have no network of friends and family to advise them how to navigate the Dutch bureaucracy where, unlike in Asia, rules are rigid and the same for everyone.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="display: inline; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCMQubIMhalJmECEiJ1Rf6mq7R3ZYCmGrteycOEjgLqb-8u6Y3vhvhYShIX6VKww3fE9SDyMxLCvcwUIg2termtVqMJ2-wSW5O4K-_k7EFZRpag1TvQY_e-U2D5Es_blsaV22aBBH9nM/w512-h384/IMG_5436.JPG" width="512" /></span></div><div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;">This move was a tad unexpected to me, and with both Roel and me at home, the children that haven’t been at school in half a year, I still feel in limbo. In a few weeks, school will start and hopefully life will become more normal. As normal as this family gets. Often, when people ask me whether we moved ‘back for good’, I cringe. I smile politely and give the only answer I can. ‘For good is a very long time.’ I’m sure the wind will eventually turn again, and who knows where it will blow us?</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqaAhfDURm8p4Fy2nPxAR4TCsumsSYWAlU3RnnF_wpe3hh9wHJIlL0fC7OuWEqM2hrsbuF3wyVdtwbDxmNJprx3HDaiRBOhOrfdbT6QFLDK1eVuniTwRA7TSLh0aSkAWYOVNhSHIRSqY/s1280/IMG_5757.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1280" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqaAhfDURm8p4Fy2nPxAR4TCsumsSYWAlU3RnnF_wpe3hh9wHJIlL0fC7OuWEqM2hrsbuF3wyVdtwbDxmNJprx3HDaiRBOhOrfdbT6QFLDK1eVuniTwRA7TSLh0aSkAWYOVNhSHIRSqY/w512-h277/IMG_5757.JPG" width="512" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We are here now and will stay as long as we like it. And there are plenty of things I like about the Netherlands and living in Den Haag. When I feel too cold I list them and I feel better: Family and friends old and new. Kids sleeping over with aunts and grandparents. Cousins. Boating in Friesland. The dunes, the fresh air (although I might revisit this in winter when it becomes too fresh), the wind in my hair on the beach, and the fact that the sun is friendly enough to sit in (ironically I’m much more tanned now than I ever was in Asia). Seaberry kefir and kids picking blackberries. Public libraries. <i>Kringloopwinkels</i> (recycled goods shops). Cheese. Dewdrops. Petting zoos. My new old fermenting crock. Wild green herbs and flowers. Museums. Sheepskin rugs and wild duck down duvets.<br /><br />A lot to love and we are here, in the Netherlands. Our newest adventure.</span></div></div></div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-5432282161312124212020-04-09T22:53:00.001-07:002020-04-29T05:32:53.448-07:00Keep Calm and Ferment On<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYlno9UbV306LNYYN_rMUGHXLC06Ea0lJdo2q_YQS1GhwoEqqrXLNIkpXc_kzFnv7ZaYSlKo__QfvCo2XeI_GU_r-4YLQokB5ulmtniRoZ9K7nattXTAEWshrGNLk-kSuyr5gxxSXWFA/s1600/IMG_3474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A delicious selection of homemade sodas!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of the advantages of being cooped up inside is that you start doing all that stuff you normally would like to do, but don’t have time for. Or, in my case, do what you were doing already a lot more. Like fermenting delicious drinks. Fermenting is such a fun thing to do with children, and mine love the flavour of our homemade fizzy sodas! You can make them as sweet or sour as you like, and add all sorts of fruits and spices to spruce them up. I get a lot of questions about how to make them, so I'll share my recipes and experiences here. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You don’t need a lot of materials to get started, but what is imperative is to get some flip-top glass bottles that close well, and some large glass jars. For some versions a strainer, a funnel, a grater and a blender can come in handy too, as do cup measures. I normally prefer weighing ingredients as it is more precise, but in this case, cups are much easier to use and more than precise enough. Also, you’ll need a lot of sugar! But don’t worry, most of the sugar will be broken down by the good bacteria by the time you drink your soda, and those bacteria will do all sorts of wonders for your gut. So basically, these delicious sodas are not only delicious good for you too.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I won’t bore you too much with the scientific details, but feel free to ask them in the comment section as well as any other questions you have. </span><br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">Kombucha</span></i></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Kombucha is a fermented tea, and it is extremely easy to make. The one thing you need is a kombucha SCOBY (symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast), which is a solid mass of microorganisms that will ferment your drink. The best way to get one is to reach out amongst your network if someone has some to share. I definitely have some to share, they grow very fast. Kombucha feeds on very strong and very sweet tea. I typically use 4 tea bags and ¾ cup of sugar with 2 liters of water, but kombucha is very forgiving so don’t worry too much. Kombucha microorganisms are a non-fancy bunch, they like simple black tea and white sugar best. Although you can use other types of tea and sugar, it is best to regularly give them some good old builders brew with a light sugar to stay strong.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kombucha brewing, the SCOBY on top</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Let your hot tea cool down to room temperature before you add the SCOBY – you don’t want to kill it. The SCOBY is a layer that gets formed on the top, and with every brew another layer will form until it resembles a pile of pancakes. When it gets too thick, simply peel off a few and discard (give away or compost). Cover your jar with a cloth and elastic band – you want to let air in and keep the ants, flies and lizards out. <br /><br />So how long to let it ferment? This depends on both the temperature of your kitchen and your taste. I like mine quite sour, so I leave it a little longer, but my kids prefer it sweet. Just use a clean spoon to try a little. As the colour slowly gets lighter as it ferments I now tend to judge if it's ready by colour. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Mine (brewing at tropical temperatures) is usually ready in two days. You can drink it straight, or choose to do a second ferment, which I will describe in more detail below.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Milk kefir and yoghurt</i></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">For kefir you need kefir grains, which are similar to a SCOBY but small and roundish rather than flat, hence the name. There are two types, one to ferment milk, and one to ferment clear liquids. The milk kefir grains feed on lactose (or milk sugar) in milk, the water grains on different sugars, but the process is fairly similar. In our family we love milk kefir as it reminds us of the Dutch buttermilk, which these days is mostly no longer churned but fermented. Other cultured milk products from the Middle East like Ayran and Laban are made in a similar way, as is yoghurt, the reason they all taste different and gave different textures is because different cultures are used. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">To make milk kefir, simply add a few spoons of kefir grains to a jar of milk; they will float to the top. Then leave it out until you have the flavour you like (the longer, the more sour). I have had issues doing this in very hot weather, as the milk will curdle before it ferments (which means it separates into thick curds floating on liquid transparent whey). There is no fixing this, but you can use that whey for whey soda explained below, and put the curds in a smoothie. Or make cheese from it, but that is another story). To prevent curdling, I would ferment milk kefir in the fridge in Singapore. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitchen top 'cheat' yoghurt</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because I don’t have milk kefir grains at the moment, I buy my kefir ready made, and then make it last longer (it’s expensive here!) by this cheat method. Simply leave a little in the bottle, top up with fresh milk, and leave it out until it thickens. Make sure to shake regularly, I find it goes fast, so don’t leave it out too long.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We do exactly the same for yoghurt, by putting a few spoons of store bought yoghurt in a jar and topping up with milk and leaving it out. In colder climates you will need to do this in an oven or hot place, but here its warm enough. For best results, heat up the milk for yoghurt until 80C, this gives a sweeter flavor and also makes the yogurt set better. Make sure to cool it down before adding the cultures or you’ll kill them!<br /><br /><b><i>Water kefir</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b>Water kefir grains live on a sugar solution. You can also use them to ferment coconut water, but you do need to feed them sugars regularly too or they’ll flounder. Again, it’s not rocket science when it comes to measurements, but I do find kefir less forgiving than kombucha. They need extra minerals, so you need to mix in some darker sugars, molasses, or even a pinch of seasalt. Some people add dried fruit like apricot for this reason, but I find dark sugars work just as well and much easier. <br /><br />I use roughly ½ cup of light sugar for 2 liters of water, plus a small scoop of a darker sugar as a supplement. You can experiment with different brands, but don’t use a very refined sugar. Toss in two spoons of kefir grains and cover with a cloth. Again, taste to see what acidity suits you. The longer you leave it the more sour! <br /><br /><b><i>Second ferment</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b>We tend to drink our kombucha straight and do a second ferment for the water kefir, but this process works for either drink. Transfer your kefir/ kombucha to a flip-top bottle, but don’t fill all the way to the top. Now for the fun bit! Add any kind of fruit and spices you fancy. You can either blend the fruit, mush lightly or toss in in straight. I most often use passion fruit or (frozen) berries as those are easy and yummy, but any fruit will do. Harder fruits like apple are best added as a juice or puree. You can add slices of ginger, a stick of cinnamon. Get creative!<br /><br />Now, set the bottle in a warm spot and wait. Make sure to burb your bottles regularly to let out the gas. Once it's fizzy it is done, transfer the bottle to the fridge – it will keep there for a few weeks, but will keep fermenting slowly. Be careful when opening bottles, always press down the top and open it slowly; sometimes there is so much fizz it will burst out explosively. I have had stains on the ceiling! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Whey soda</i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Making whey soda is relatively new to me, and I am amazed how easy and delicious it is. It is a bit of a cheat’s ferment as it makes use of left over whey which is already rich in pro-biotics, so it is a great one to make if you have yoghurt or milk kefir gone bad or produce your own cheese. (I started doing this because a friend who sells artisanal cheese was looking for some products to make with her left over whey; I used to work as a product developer in the food industry, so that was right up my alley. Alternatively some stores also sell liquid whey, I got some at Bali Direct). In the Netherlands there are a number of whey beverages on the market, and the distinct flavour of it brings up memories. If you don’t like that, it is easily masked by strong fruit flavours.</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /> </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whey soda, the kids experimenting with flavours</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For when soda I tend to puree the fruits, as we don’t just use them for flavour, we need to release their fruit sugars. For a one liter bottle I use between ½ and 1 cup liquid whey, which you add to a sweet fruit juice drink. To make that I puree fruit with some additional sugar, quantities are approximate and depend on your taste. It should be a little too sweet to drink straight. For instance, I would puree ½ a cup of berries with 1/3 cup of sugar for a one liter bottle, but you can add more or less depending on your taste. To be honest, I usually don’t actually measure and just do it on gut feel. (Something that I had to stop doing on my job as a product developer, as you can imagine!) A squeeze of lemon gives a little tang to a berry and brings out the flavour. Whey soda is quite forgiving, but it can also be very explosive so be mindful not to add too much sugar and whey. <br /><br />My kids love the berry flavoured ones (blueberry-dragonfruit is a solid hit, as is raspberry lime), but my personal favourite is mandarin – turmeric, which has a note of bitter in it, just like Campari. <br /><br /><b><i>Ginger beer</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b>I love, love, love ginger and all sorts of root beers and although these can be a little more tricky to make, trust me, it will be worth it. Imagine yourself with a homemade Dark & Stormy cocktail of fresh gingerbeer and dark rum. Most shop-bought root beers are just carbonated sugary flavoured drinks, but this stuff is the real deal. Add the beneficial features of many roots and you have the moist delicious health tonic ever (did anyone say gin?). Isn’t that what we all need in times of Corona?</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ginger- turmeric bug</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So the first thing to do is to make your ginger bug, which will take a few days to a week. Roots have a lot of microorganisms on their surface, and it is these we want to proliferate. Apart from ginger, salsaparilla and burdock are traditionally used, but since we are in Asia I stick to gingers. Regular ginger works best. I have tried to make a turmeric starter, since it is such an amazing anti-inflammatory as well as flavour, but it does not work. Now I make one that is a mixture of ginger and turmeric and that works well. I occasionally toss in other ginger family roots, and the other day even some burdock. But using regular ginger as a base is your safest bet. Get organic ones if you can, we don't want chemicals in our ferment. There is no need to peel, the skin is where most of the micro-organisms live. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To make a ginger bug, grate or finely chop some ginger and put it in a jar, cover with water and a few spoons of sugar. Quantities are not that important, but let’s say roughly 2 cups of water, a scant cup of ginger and a few spoons of sugar. Most sugars will work. You can cover the jar with a lid or cloth. Now you need to feed it daily, by a spoon of sugar, a spoon of grated ginger and stir. After a while you will notice it gets bubbly and smells and tastes sour, which means it is ready to go! If you don't want to feed your bug all the time, store it in the fridge, and only feed it once every week or so. In that case, you need to let it come our of hibernation before you can use it by feeding it at room temperature for a day. If it is at room temperature try to feed it a spoon of sugar most days, and grated ginger regularly, but it is okay to skip a day if you forget. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ginger - turmeric beer</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To make ginger beer, make a sugar solution in a flip-top bottle, roughly ¼ cup of sugar to a bottle, but I tend to not measure but eyeball it. You can use any sugar, I like to use dark sugars like the Indonesian Gula Aren (palm sugar) for extra flavour. For a one-liter bottle add roughly a few tablespoons, more or less depending on taste, and add some of the grated ginger for a stronger ginger flavour. Top up your ginger bug with new grated ginger, water and sugar. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At this stage you can add any fruit or spice that you fancy as well, similar to a second ferment as above. Then leave it out and remember to burp. It takes a little longer to get carbonated, typically up to two days in the tropics, just taste it to see when you like it. If you are lucky it will get a proper fizz! </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /><i> This is my repertoire at the moment, if you have been fermenting other drink, I'd love to hear, please do share tour experiences in the comments!</i></span></div>
Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-38676350559235447042020-04-03T20:54:00.004-07:002023-07-06T03:16:14.810-07:00Essential<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioEnLfleEPz9o69zes8nR0iLVTzvcfhyUjhNbDtq7iwc_KMRapFAYL1Mbk6vcnRFjv3_lj0t7m3Zt4Iar5SqzDn_d-bRlbsBRx9tqMQGLVVEnkVEeSl-l3yDzcAzH-6msqSymfPgV5vJM/s1600/IMG_3363.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The best thing to calm me down, for instance when the world has suddenly turned completely upside down, is to be in nature. So it is my luck that right now, as we have to stay at home, I am living in a place surrounded by rice fields. When stress takes over my body I sit and breathe and look at those waving green stalks. Nature gives me perspective, it shows me what is really important in the grand scheme of things. <br /><br />In those rice fields, life goes on. Plants do not stop growing, or go in lock-down, and when the government talks about ‘essential jobs’ that have to go on, this must clearly be one of the most essential jobs in the world, not just now, in times of corona and panic, but always: Farming. </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son Tijm at work in the fields </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We need food to stay alive. And not just any food; healthy, nourishing food, and this current crisis makes it clear how our modern lifestyles weaken our bodies, people that are obese, have diabetes or similar health conditions are vulnerable. This is not the last virus that will hit humanity, and this pandemic resonates with issues I have been pondering this last year in Bali and at the Green School: the future of agriculture and the food industry. Friends who met me in the last few years know me as a writer with a passion for human rights, which I am, but this sabbatical in Bali I find myself at a crossroads. Do I continue with that, or do I go back to an earlier version of myself? As a teenager I wanted to study tropical farming, I loved plants and badly wanted to be back in the tropics of my childhood. But then, I could not see myself as a farmer, my lifestyle has always been nomadic, not grounded in one spot. Later I developed a new passion, and wanted to be a perfumer, but recurring sinus infections in the cold northern European weather ruled perfumery school in Paris out. I ended up studying chemistry, although I can’t really remember why. I specialised in sustainable development, a subject at the time – twenty years ago, gosh I am old - still developing itself, and fascinating. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Ploughing with cows, much harder than it looks</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As life is what happens when you make other plans, I somehow ended up with a job at one of world’s biggest food manufacturers as a product developer for ice cream. Creating new flavours, sourcing fair trade and sustainable ingredients, for ten years it was a dream job until I realised that such a big commercial company, in the end, wasn’t for me. With three young kids we moved to Singapore, I started writing, and that seemed that. </span><span style="font-size: large;">But Bali is known to be a place that opens your eyes. It is full of people that want to ‘find themselves’, as I used to sneer, but not me because I knew exactly who I was. Then, of course, Bali slapped me in the face and laughed. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Green School parents at work in the field, planting</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Green School Bali is not only a school for the kids, it also offers courses for parents, and the first thing Roel and I both did after we arrived was enrol in a rice farming course organised by Kul Kul Connection, the departement at school dedicated to forging connections to the local community. It was such an inspiration that we joined again in the second semester, and I topped it up with a course in syntrophic farming and agroforestry. Suddenly I was that teenager again as I bended over the soil, feet in the mud and hands on the leaves, the hot tropical sun beating on my head and shoulders. I know my rheumatic body and nomadic lifestyle will never make me a farmer but boy, I am so tempted.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roel weeding: SRI rice production means more weeds!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As we observe the Balinese farmers, listen to experts from over the world, as we toil and chat, ponder and learn, I start to realise more and more what a dire state our food supply is in. Monoculture depletes soil everywhere, wrecks biodiversity, disrupts the climate. Unhealthy lifestyles make people susceptible for diseases, there is an explosion of auto-immune conditions like the one I suffer from, one I know is strongly influenced by my diet. Massive changes will need to be made if humanity wants a future. This current pandemic illustrates that only more clearly. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">left: Pak Wayan, one of the Balinese farmers we work with<br />
middle: an agriculture specialist from the Badung government</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">In Bali, most of the farmers are over 60 years of age. Getting farming to be ‘sexy’ and a popular choice for young people is one of the challenges the island faces. But of the high school students I teach creative writing to, none want to be a farmer, even though many of their grandparents were. These are smart and ambitious kids, that want to be lawyers, doctors and accountants. Their parents work in tourism or run businesses. Why would they work long back-breaking hours in the heat for a pittance, a fraction of what they can make in a cool office?</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not much easier than the cows..</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Farming these days is not ‘romantic’. Modern farmers in Bali don’t use the farming methods of their grandfathers, they use the methods promoted by the government since the Green Revolution of the late 20th century; a way of production where everyone uses the same hybrid seeds, and an increasing amount of chemical fertiliser as the soil depletes and an increasing amount of pesticides as the unbalanced eco-system gets ravaged by pests and diseases. The resulting grains have less flavour and nutritional value than the rice I remember from when I was young and living in this region.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pak Wayan seeding our no-till ricefield </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Those older farmers still remember how it used to be. How there were eels and frogs in the fields that naturally fertilised the soil. How the water coming down to the subak from the aquifers in the mountains was clean and not full of nitrates. But they also know there are many people to feed in Indonesia, and that the current population can’t be fed on the low yields those old methods produced. Most people in Indonesia can’t afford to pay the premium for the organically produced rice we grow in our course – we sell it to expats and restaurants, and to Green School that feeds it to our kids. The flavour is amazing. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, happy at harvest time</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">If one thing has become clear to me, it is that we need to find a way where we combine the good things of the past, where balanced eco-systems were naturally protected and nature not a threat, with modern methods that allow us to produce enough to feed a growing world population. The courses I did the last year showed me many innovations in agriculture that offer solutions, and also that farmers are keen to join in. The challenge will be to roll these innovations out, to get governments on board, to supply initial investments and guidance. It is something that needs to be done. Because the natural world, the climate, the soil, the water; they are all essential for our very existence. The most essential. We can train doctors and develop vaccines as much as we like, but without a healthy world, we are fighting a losing battle.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arthur, a farmer from Brazil teaching agroforestry </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />So as I sit behind my laptop, typing as I glance over the screen at the rice fields beyond, I know that Bali raised more questions for me than it can answer. The crossroads we all stand at right now might seem blocked - in a literal sense, as there are very few flights out of Bali and most countries closed their borders – but the good thing is the roads are there in front of us, we just need to decide which one to take. Do we go on as usual, or do we make a U-turn and fix this world? There is one thing my all-over-the place life taught me, and that is that many roads go to the same destination, they meander and cross again, go over hills and hurdles, through streams, deserts and fields of abundance. As long as you go forward, not back, you will get there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />Looking at the farmer ploughing his field behind my house, a slew of white birds behind him picking up the worms he whips up, I feel optimistic. He is essential. Hopefully I can be too.</span><br />
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</div>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-73857900948815193202020-03-24T19:56:00.001-07:002020-03-24T19:56:31.669-07:00Silent Day in Bali<span style="font-size: large;">As I woke up this morning and stepped from my bedroom onto the adjoining patio, the first thing I noticed was the sound of the river at the bottom of our garden. Then, twittering birds and cicadas. Today Bali celebrates Nyepi, the Day of Silence. There were no farmers in the field with noisy tractors. There was no music from ceremonies floating over from the village. No revving of GOJEK scooters delivering wares. My own noisy kids were still asleep.</span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />Nyepi marks the new year in the Balinese calender, and its arrival has never been more well-timed in this time of social distancing and isolating. Nyepi is a day of self-reflection, and everything that can interfere with that is banned. So during Nyepi everyone in Bali, Hindu or not, needs to stay home and follow the restrictions: no fires, no electric lights, no work, no entertainment, and, importantly, do not leave the house. Today is a day of rest for ourselves and the earth. <br /><br />Staying quiet and meditating doesn’t come natural to all. Just now, when my kids played noisily I warned them, only to be met with rolling eyes from Linde. ‘I don’t believe in Nyepi,’ she declared, and when I mentioned respect, and the banjar guards patrolling, she shrugged. ‘What will they do, arrest us?’ <br /><br />Normally, internet and mobile networks are switched off all over the island, and I am not sure I was glad or disappointed when both seemed to work fine this morning. With the current global crisis I could have used a day without any news. A day to retreat with my family in the safety of our home and relax. Our day today won’t be much different from the ones we had the past week. To protect both ourselves and the Balinese we decided to self-isolate a week ago. Initially it felt very surreal, as we noticed the world going on as normal outside. But slowly Bali started to catch up with us, as the government banned large events, and bars and restaurants closed one by one. Isolating isn’t easy for the Balinese, not only because many don’t have the savings to support staying home, but also because religion is such an important part of their lives, particularly at this time of the year. <br /><br />For months they have been working at their Ogoh Ogoh, large statues of demons in all shapes and colours, that would have been paraded around the island yesterday. The Ogoh Ogoh serve to purify the environment of any spiritual pollutants emitted from the activities of living beings, especially humans. So when the government, wisely so, banned the parades, this was difficult to accept for everyone; surely purification is needed now more than ever. I have to admit even I was disappointed, for months I have been following the progress of the statues, being made in every neighbourhood. Even as an atheist, I can not but admire the dedication and creativeness the Balinese put into their religion. <br /><br />And now, today, Nyepi. A day of silence at home seems to be exactly what the world needs, and the governor of Bali agrees by edict: Nyepi will last two days this year. A smart move, as the day after Nyepi, New Year’s day, involves a lot of visiting and a kissing ceremony where single youths get together and – kiss. After those two days, life will have to resume to some kind of normality, but what that will look like, no one knows. The situation changes by the day.<br /><br />We will stay home a bit longer. We are thankful for our comfortable house and pool, for the GOJEK drivers that are out there and tirelessly deliver our orders. For all those working to keep the world running. For the medical staff that puts their own life on the line. <br /><br />For now, I am enjoying the sound of my kid sweeping leaves, and try to make my greatest worry of the day the matter of how to keep them silent. </span></div>
Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-1377991124304865912019-12-17T19:29:00.001-08:002019-12-18T00:06:10.799-08:00Mentawai musings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Before the end of the year with all its distractions arrives, I am trying to gather my thoughts on my visit to the Mentawai tribes of Siberut. My friend </span><a href="https://www.andreagalkovaphotography.com/">Andrea</a><span style="font-size: large;">, who is a photographer, shared some of her amazing shots of the trip, and staring wistfully at her colourful work I wish I could go back. Stay longer this time, and bring my family too. Learn more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course I know, self-sufficiency is hard, but jungle life does seem simple and happy. I’d love to get back the state of mind I had when I was there. What can tribes like the Mentawai teach us? Can we simplify our own lives to make them less stressful and more sustainable? What - if anything - did the tribe get out of our visit? And how can we help protect their habitat and way of life? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCkZFmfWN-cC5EgPWghmDv4AHojnBi8LchjPr7asS-e79eKA6F9g91bpYh1CrRnzTXbFOQTTvhcuu5mzq4-LZ6aBhixzFsqK3JwZpfuqx3pATUPzIvuRJAjJrVldJVncXi5HTuVyiCyE/s1600/IMG_1223-2019-11-08at08-25-39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCkZFmfWN-cC5EgPWghmDv4AHojnBi8LchjPr7asS-e79eKA6F9g91bpYh1CrRnzTXbFOQTTvhcuu5mzq4-LZ6aBhixzFsqK3JwZpfuqx3pATUPzIvuRJAjJrVldJVncXi5HTuVyiCyE/s400/IMG_1223-2019-11-08at08-25-39.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjHwLd3AH8OZSGgw_xLDDozMtisUmEvDk7zkk0Wr1fYH0l8bgLxn23Nl5K4dEa05h1Cds93yZ6BfgUA4bIqakgA826vsWWm_QudBlo8oNMN1ax10iSoFpG6OmbRoOHjTCBlXU1xDh4c4/s1600/IMG_1567-2019-11-09at11-40-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjHwLd3AH8OZSGgw_xLDDozMtisUmEvDk7zkk0Wr1fYH0l8bgLxn23Nl5K4dEa05h1Cds93yZ6BfgUA4bIqakgA826vsWWm_QudBlo8oNMN1ax10iSoFpG6OmbRoOHjTCBlXU1xDh4c4/s400/IMG_1567-2019-11-09at11-40-23.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It sounds like a fairy tale; a place with no mobile network, no electricity, and no cash economy. A place where people only use what they find in the forest surrounding them and even then, ask permission from its soul before they take what they need. Yet that is what we found on Siberut. And the sense of community the tribe demonstrated, the way they live in harmony with nature, was an inspiration. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pxzNbqFgN6V6Fcn-0KfIZuaABSzCN-i56R6soZhAEAsee2M7TWNx9r822haT8l2VH4rETwknpn0dJnG9uYn7YmQfeXZ69BSYz_jy8TEmu0EN32wojxIPRcCWBFt-lsw9GuBij4H0vtU/s1600/IMG_0071-2019-11-06at08-29-38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pxzNbqFgN6V6Fcn-0KfIZuaABSzCN-i56R6soZhAEAsee2M7TWNx9r822haT8l2VH4rETwknpn0dJnG9uYn7YmQfeXZ69BSYz_jy8TEmu0EN32wojxIPRcCWBFt-lsw9GuBij4H0vtU/s400/IMG_0071-2019-11-06at08-29-38.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Getting there was a journey in itself. Slowly, gradually, I felt myself moving away from the modern world. From Bali I flew to Padang, in West Sumatra, where we boarded a ferry to Muara Siberut, a small town on the south of the island. As soon as our boat left Padang, it felt like we left ‘civilisation’. (i.e. we left the mobile network behind. I missed it like a sore tooth.) In Muara Siberut we met local guides Johan and Aman Ipai, and after a night in a guesthouse, we were ready to hit the jungle. Unfortunately, because of drought, the water level in the river was too low for a canoe; we had to travel by motorbike. On the back of that bike, with the driver balancing my too big backpack uncomfortably between his knees, I felt the excitement build in my stomach with every bump, leap and shake. </span></div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpMHGcIhegDCI2WYzVKcTlQrm557amRU6AgrkzJqC_3x1LpzNy1LZBou3Z00J5kLoJzAbAh0xblqVdCY6ZBUxL67B_9lC9qFu6jGj3ug2gtPTjsFBCgaKCpgZOufa_R7Xf8c9SbvL1vY/s1600/IMG_0399-2019-11-07at06-36-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpMHGcIhegDCI2WYzVKcTlQrm557amRU6AgrkzJqC_3x1LpzNy1LZBou3Z00J5kLoJzAbAh0xblqVdCY6ZBUxL67B_9lC9qFu6jGj3ug2gtPTjsFBCgaKCpgZOufa_R7Xf8c9SbvL1vY/s400/IMG_0399-2019-11-07at06-36-27.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Aman Ipai's uma in Buttui</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78HorqSqmNjpBKnk9AwjBWCoepzfI7alOVpQ31tydBHRSCx5E3s75LAePSZxn4B4c1EkOvMn1LHCxUQ3fAgRWFgRnZzDe42dRnShpbBvDx1AMvCbOZyr0VSOon2rJk0yI3cARfnv5QT4/s1600/IMG_1734-2019-11-10at11-41-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78HorqSqmNjpBKnk9AwjBWCoepzfI7alOVpQ31tydBHRSCx5E3s75LAePSZxn4B4c1EkOvMn1LHCxUQ3fAgRWFgRnZzDe42dRnShpbBvDx1AMvCbOZyr0VSOon2rJk0yI3cARfnv5QT4/s640/IMG_1734-2019-11-10at11-41-17.jpg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We follow Aman Ipai into the jungle</td></tr>
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Shortly after we arrived in Aman Ipai’s uma in Buttui, where we would stay for a night before hiking on to the more remote area of Attabai, a delegation from the Sakkudei clan arrived. They had walked though the jungle for several hours to deliver bad news: one of our host Teu Reppa’s sons had passed away. They still wanted us to come, but needed an extra day for the funeral arrangements. Staying longer with Aman Ipai and his wife Bai Ipai – affectionately nicknamed Baboi or mother, was no disappointment at all, and soon enough the porters arrived to carry our bags up the difficult path to Attabai. Meeting my porter Monica, a lady about half my height and more than my age, I stared hesitantly at my big bag. I ended up giving away many of my possessions, but a sense of embarrassment of the amount of stuff we modern women seemingly need, continued to bother me throughout the journey.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil61xoUKJRE4YqbALxjZJOF2mm6ez4wTIdU_-erWisNrOGshN-NvuFesjddj4SqO1W08NCRqe_kQJpjYa4xVzBBuYUr-PblYjXByt7lcpBTurVBSbRumE_12qjh57f2gdVdYXRHbwFlYY/s1600/IMG_1422-2019-11-08at12-23-53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil61xoUKJRE4YqbALxjZJOF2mm6ez4wTIdU_-erWisNrOGshN-NvuFesjddj4SqO1W08NCRqe_kQJpjYa4xVzBBuYUr-PblYjXByt7lcpBTurVBSbRumE_12qjh57f2gdVdYXRHbwFlYY/s640/IMG_1422-2019-11-08at12-23-53.jpg" width="425" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzO_rMgmRkDZ61_h1oj-PYwejtRKDKOSYyS7Q-VbApcOztpTaBRzDYMQWdgci3HjMKRHs9zCiK0YTYA7KxX7K7365G7CLWrKl5T0PacS_P_t0k7WWPQDE1sa59uw-avBz_zIJRtYcKd4I/s1600/IMG_1403-2019-11-08at12-10-05.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzO_rMgmRkDZ61_h1oj-PYwejtRKDKOSYyS7Q-VbApcOztpTaBRzDYMQWdgci3HjMKRHs9zCiK0YTYA7KxX7K7365G7CLWrKl5T0PacS_P_t0k7WWPQDE1sa59uw-avBz_zIJRtYcKd4I/s400/IMG_1403-2019-11-08at12-10-05.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Buttui is close to a village and a rough motorcycle track, but Attabai can only be reached on foot; following Aman Ipai’s measured and steady steps we hiked through rivers, over a steep hill, and pathways that in more muddy conditions can only be navigated over wooden beams. When we arrived in Attabai, we were mindful of the mourning this family was in. Grief at the Mentawai is expressed physically, with a lot of hugging and loud wailing. We felt awkward at first, but soon learned that for the tribe, these emotions have a natural place in life, and are not something to be hidden or feel embarrassed about. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVH1c0esAMmDb9gq2CpYQjYFluUCre9VJZZJJekvKW8LlwXdSOZnPXs-_q65KTzMYgah6fiYpMrrV3kCvv3XfywGcPG15_VXhDsB3YGrBYZwn_-Tn2TPqijp0N4lHGLNvXhxWxpi_jZUk/s1600/IMG_1645-2019-11-09at19-01-47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVH1c0esAMmDb9gq2CpYQjYFluUCre9VJZZJJekvKW8LlwXdSOZnPXs-_q65KTzMYgah6fiYpMrrV3kCvv3XfywGcPG15_VXhDsB3YGrBYZwn_-Tn2TPqijp0N4lHGLNvXhxWxpi_jZUk/s400/IMG_1645-2019-11-09at19-01-47.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teu Reppa's uma in Attabai</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKSgj-oop_d-mESPhWkUFsS3hDInSblTlbFpCMtCK8mvEf4xrH75KDPrUjdOTuzOG9AX2JqzRGnSYEIhLFvpbDMwFtS3FAuEhkQ2Tr9FBnt1otX5wbPDiIQLYPqlSWRe8q11NsAFKByM/s1600/IMG_1790-2019-11-10at14-40-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKSgj-oop_d-mESPhWkUFsS3hDInSblTlbFpCMtCK8mvEf4xrH75KDPrUjdOTuzOG9AX2JqzRGnSYEIhLFvpbDMwFtS3FAuEhkQ2Tr9FBnt1otX5wbPDiIQLYPqlSWRe8q11NsAFKByM/s400/IMG_1790-2019-11-10at14-40-11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our bedroom at the uma</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We explored our new home. Teu Reppa’s uma is further from the river, the wooden house stands in the middle of a dusty clearing. Pigs, cows and chicken roam around and under; the house is raised on stilts. There is no toilet there, you go outside and the pigs clean up after. The house consists of a large wooden patio with benches all around, a middle section where we will sleep, and behind that, the kitchen. In an uma, men and women sleep separately, men stay on the patio - sexual relations are not allowed (which is why families also have smaller wooden huts in the forest – for privacy). The uma is decorated with skulls of deer, pigs and monkeys. Along the patio fly wooden birds, which Johan explains are toys for the souls. The Mentawai believe everything has a soul, and many of the ceremonies we witness are to give thanks to, or ask permission from the soul of things they take from the forest. Spirituality is an integral part of Mentawai culture, and we observed many shaman ceremonies, knowledge exchanges and even clan members going into trance with a visiting soul (described <a href="http://www.bedu-mama.com/2019/11/back-to-uma.html">here</a>). As an atheist, most religious aspects perplex me if I think about them too deeply, but it is clear how interwoven the ceremonies are with Mentawai culture. One cannot separate culture from religion here.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihza0b7dyBth8MxAw7H1EwiTKi0GD_5wYfJbQf8jnxQWJzqpf9juOVNuGszDSHscpynvfrCTT_KzXpKtzlBxLojqAtA-JwYIb9Pg4yggsGPZyVaIov6Qd1n20PnSVToVu1RkA7eLNiYU0/s1600/IMG_0380-2019-11-06at20-49-39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihza0b7dyBth8MxAw7H1EwiTKi0GD_5wYfJbQf8jnxQWJzqpf9juOVNuGszDSHscpynvfrCTT_KzXpKtzlBxLojqAtA-JwYIb9Pg4yggsGPZyVaIov6Qd1n20PnSVToVu1RkA7eLNiYU0/s400/IMG_0380-2019-11-06at20-49-39.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kerei (shaman) sharing knowledge </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtOQt1wHE9B_NUNbRnBDF4nijcM3yDHmxFANvUVSs9MRJ6K0Z5NNukwE8TD4fh6zOWxYR1Oj5b3MNCWo1Q2Y__u35hsn2VuPIPcwNYJjmNjavW6Gcsj3xaKrJqULPJHoGagTbTNdwr-Y/s1600/IMG_0272-2019-11-06at16-23-17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtOQt1wHE9B_NUNbRnBDF4nijcM3yDHmxFANvUVSs9MRJ6K0Z5NNukwE8TD4fh6zOWxYR1Oj5b3MNCWo1Q2Y__u35hsn2VuPIPcwNYJjmNjavW6Gcsj3xaKrJqULPJHoGagTbTNdwr-Y/s400/IMG_0272-2019-11-06at16-23-17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For a week we were part of the community and learned about their way of life. We played with the children, went hunting with the men – a tad relieved that our noise scared away all the monkeys. We ate a lot of sago. We witnessed the ceremonial slaughter of pigs and shared the meat with the tribe. We watched Aman Suri, one of Teu Reppa’s sons chop up a rotten sago palm trunk, and the children swarm to it as if it was a candy store. Sago worms! When you bite through the outer rubbery skin, the soft insides ooze creamy and sweet, like custard. Quite a treat.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvA-O_Uu8mxbEFgFd2XkISx3LcI32uaBMkaLNeBL1HOeSd-94Rh6Z17jaLXbJte1quWhOoa6g3-962N4QvnVqcGlqfNBRAuysud-QZs3hM50oL-Qo136roDAk3gbyrkhoaVPSNiFzlB7o/s1600/IMG_1602-2019-11-09at15-05-51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvA-O_Uu8mxbEFgFd2XkISx3LcI32uaBMkaLNeBL1HOeSd-94Rh6Z17jaLXbJte1quWhOoa6g3-962N4QvnVqcGlqfNBRAuysud-QZs3hM50oL-Qo136roDAk3gbyrkhoaVPSNiFzlB7o/s320/IMG_1602-2019-11-09at15-05-51.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flora and Adriana</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5w9lU0XU405tHurw_5A0SbsFDnNMziZcHqcGln5U0tKzzCpN5H07okFKD_KKOnjR9eX_0ZPfhubGqXv7EFTDgbmD-YCYTiSCJ66LI6oVbB5OkCsqPtsO5k4JnJKT3_HcBiV2GtWTRk74/s1600/IMG_1616-2019-11-09at15-42-29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5w9lU0XU405tHurw_5A0SbsFDnNMziZcHqcGln5U0tKzzCpN5H07okFKD_KKOnjR9eX_0ZPfhubGqXv7EFTDgbmD-YCYTiSCJ66LI6oVbB5OkCsqPtsO5k4JnJKT3_HcBiV2GtWTRk74/s320/IMG_1616-2019-11-09at15-42-29.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patrisius</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkAk_ZfGCGRPdl2PlXm4-gtDkwO8N9ps7yicoIRNgWQtTCM5_pSMnIcTjrH4EjjFG5T4mz56DZu5KvJIv_9S1EF_2fjC4JLcStuqVmCD1_Xn8YGEG4IMpE_uAn-BmqERcZL0VFLxDoZY/s1600/IMG_1621-2019-11-09at15-44-47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYkAk_ZfGCGRPdl2PlXm4-gtDkwO8N9ps7yicoIRNgWQtTCM5_pSMnIcTjrH4EjjFG5T4mz56DZu5KvJIv_9S1EF_2fjC4JLcStuqVmCD1_Xn8YGEG4IMpE_uAn-BmqERcZL0VFLxDoZY/s320/IMG_1621-2019-11-09at15-44-47.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elisabet</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Thankfully, some of the clan members spoke some Indonesian so I could talk to them. There is a clear divide amongst Teu Reppa’s sons. Two became kerei like their father; their children grow up in the forest. Two others chose to move to the village, like Paulus, who wants his children to get an education. I asked those kids about their plans for the future. Flora, aged twelve, was clear: she wants to be a doctor. Her cousin Adriana of the same age isn’t sure yet, she giggled a lot, and got teased by the others that her only ambition is to prepare sago. Little brother Patrisius who is nine, wants to be a policeman, which made his sister laugh: he is too naughty, she said. Elisabet was too shy to speak, and hid behind her hands. On Sunday afternoon the four of them walked home to their mothers in the village. Unsupervised for the three-hour walk; they are still jungle kids at heart. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Head, shoulders knees and toes... </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their cousins that don’t attend school can’t speak Indonesian or write; they are clearly at home in the jungle and proficient with a machete. Communication is more difficult, but time and again we saw that not many words are needed for humans to bond, as we massaged the elderly, dispensed medicine, sang songs and strung beads with the children – the smiles and hugs at our goodbye said it all. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teu Reppa and Goreng enjoy a multi-hand massage</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Teu Reppa receives tourists like us in his uma to make some cash - to pay for school fees, medicine, tools and tobacco. Their last visitors came over a year ago and on the way back, Johan told us how much they enjoyed our visit; most guests are men, there for serious hiking. To have a group that reached out to the women of the tribe specifically was a rare treat and much appreciated. Still, I had mixed feelings. Apart from cash, we brought plastic waste, mobile phones with cameras and sugary sweets. Our empty water bottles were in great demand to be re-used by the tribe, but what would happen to them after they broke? Didn’t our mere presence threaten the authenticity of the tribe’s way of life? I put this complicated question in front of Johan. To him, the answer was simple. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sago palm plantation</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sago preparation: separating the starch (a man's job)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preparing sago palm leaves</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Goreng preparing sago</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After grating sago needs to be wrapped for roasting</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wrapping sago in leaves is harder than you think!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baboi roasting the sago</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Johan grew up in a fishing village on Siberut and spent several years with the tribe in Attabai working for Unesco. His father was one of the first local guides who took tourists into the forest in the nineteen nineties. Before that, the Mentawai tribes had been forced to assimilate, first by missionaries, then by the Indonesian government. Their artefacts were burned, and those who performed ceremonies or sported tattoos could end up in jail. Shamanism is still not accepted as a religion, everyone needs to select one of the five formal state religions of Indonesia. Only those tribes deep in the forest persevered. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teu Reppa weaving a basket</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burning the hair off a pig</td></tr>
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When ecotourism grew, the government started to see the economic potential of their natural and cultural heritage, and in 1992 a large part of Siberut Island became a nature reserve – which is an important reason tribes like the Sakkudei can still live there as they do. In most parts of Sumatra indigenous tribes outside reserves have lost their habitat to logging and palm oil plantations. For Johan the answer to my question was easy: tourism saved the tribes.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sakkudei children</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sakkudei chief Teu Reppa and his wife Goreng</td></tr>
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<br />To formulate a broader answer, I spoke to people from other organisations active on Siberut island: <a href="http://www.sukumentawai.org/">Suku Mentawai</a> and <a href="https://www.iefprograms.org/">IEF programs</a>, that both work to educate people in the government’s resettlement villages about their own culture. Most people living there have lost touch with the forest way of life, and since employment options are limited in these remote villages, life is hard. People are keen to reconnect with their rich heritage, and Suku Mentawai’s programs show the benefits of education, and how it can be used to preserve traditional cultures. One thing is becoming clear to me: doing nothing and ‘leave these people be’ is not an option.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Guide Aman Ipai and his wife Bai Ipai</td></tr>
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For a tribe like the Sakkudei it is impossible to keep living the way they have for centuries. There are many things threatening them in this modern world. They need an education; language, maths and the law, if they are to protect themselves from illegal logging, the government, or others that try to exploit them and their forest. At the same time, they need to be able to maintain their identity whilst they develop themselves – which is why locally run cultural initiatives like Suku Mentawai are so important. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharing pork after ceremonial slaughter </td></tr>
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I believe that as long as tourism remains small scale, and focused on empowerment rather than exploitation, it can help in preservation of indigenous tribes and their habitats. Cultural exchange can enrich both parties, as long as there is mutual respect. Even though there is much to admire about strong communities, they can at times be oppressive for the individual - one thing I’d like to learn more about myself is the position of women in the clan. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">WOAM visitors with the Sakkudei and our guides</td></tr>
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Through Whatsapp conversations with Johan, I know we are missed in Siberut - like we miss them. My life is still hectic, not as simple and sustainable as it could be. But every now and again I think of the Mentawai and try to keep learning. I hope to go back one day, and show my own children what life in the jungle can be like, now it is still there to see. This story is not over yet. </div>
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<i>Photos by Andrea Galkova (</i>https://www.andreagalkovaphotography.com)</div>
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Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-9596922803087875542019-11-25T01:02:00.000-08:002019-12-17T23:56:42.463-08:00Into the jungle – Uma ‘light’<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">In front of me Amanipai takes slow, decided and steady steps. Occasionally he looks behind him to see if we are on his track. The path, if you can call it that, in this jungle is rough as we stumble along it. We often walk though rivers, the undergrowth elsewhere dense. The water isn’t deep, ankle height mostly. There has been an ongoing drought in Siberut Island – in all of Indonesia in fact – it hasn’t rained for six months. The plan was for us to make the first part of our trip upriver in a canoe, but we now had to do it on the back of motorbikes. It was a lumpy ride, that took us past a number of vegetable gardens and government villages over a path that became less of a path and more of a jungle as we rode away from the town. We were finally on the way!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: justify;">The last few hours we trek on foot. Trees aren’t high around here, this area consists of swamp forests. I was expecting to trek trough deep mud, and as a mud lover, I have to admit I am disappointed – the lack of rain has dried the soil to hard clay covered in fine dust, which veils the green lushness you usually experience in tropical woods like these.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amanipai's Uma </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helping the women with sago preparation (left Baiipai)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The river early morning</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">We sleep at Amanipai’s Uma in Buttui for our first nights. Here we get our introduction to life in an Uma – gently. We travelled with porters carrying bottled water, chefs to cook for us and - piece de resistance - especially for us, eleven female visitors, Amanipai has put in a brand new concrete step toilet! The house is quite new and clean; the river for bathing and collection of water just below.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To the the river to fish </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dressed for fishing - apparently the banana skirts repel snakes</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">On the second day, as we are relaxing after a fishing expedition and lunch, we see several visitors come and go via into the narrow paths to the banana plantation across the river. Curious, a few of us follow for a stroll, and after passing sago and taro, are astonished to realise the village of Madobag is just behind! And here we were, thinking we were in the middle of the forest…We even manage to find a tiny warung, run by pak Dani from Padang. His wife is the local primary school teacher. I’m glad of my improving Bahasa Indonesia as we chat with Danni and the other customers – in traditional loincloth and tattoos, who we treat to coffee and the ubiquitous cigarettes. Poppo has his name conveniently tattooed on his arm. This part of the village has a school, volleyball field, and many small wooden houses built by the government to rehome the tribes from the forest. Some seem empty, others have well maintained gardens. Danni tells us many villagers also have a place in the jungle, sending children to school is an important reason for families to stay here. He is glad of our business; cash is a rare commodity here. The village has a still, eerie feel to it, but I’m not sure this is in part because at this – hottest- time of the day people hide somewhere cooler. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qkMTf9tE6VBSFnPgnOoqoAVuwdNNNHw-fKLSHhyphenhyphenvcdknzzH9AiOgfiw8VMCzuCQfJ2QkrX_J0Pm_XVDwJ1TE867JXdH6oUUohVgCdRhBjniWb-X3dIgKrLkRyg8M2wzk4m12S8tyIQc/s1600/37d87442-bf88-4b3f-b6ce-567ca7b41322.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qkMTf9tE6VBSFnPgnOoqoAVuwdNNNHw-fKLSHhyphenhyphenvcdknzzH9AiOgfiw8VMCzuCQfJ2QkrX_J0Pm_XVDwJ1TE867JXdH6oUUohVgCdRhBjniWb-X3dIgKrLkRyg8M2wzk4m12S8tyIQc/s400/37d87442-bf88-4b3f-b6ce-567ca7b41322.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Socialising at Dani's warung</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On our way back to the village we learn tall blonde women are very much a spectacle in these parts, a familiar sense in South East Asia. A few marriage proposals later we make our way back to the Uma, where Amanipai is going to demonstrate the traditional way of making poison for the hunt. To be honest, I barely listen to Amanipai’s demonstration, nor Johan’s translation. In my mind, I am trying to piece together the Uma, the village, and it’s people. Amanipai’s skills seem genuine, but how much are they used in reality? How much is his Uma influenced by the village nearby? And how different will it be in Attabai, where we leave for tomorrow – to stay for a week in another Uma which is much more remote? </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amanipai showing me the poison on his tongue</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am shaken out of my reverie when Amanipai holds a stick in front of my face and points at my mouth with a wide grin. Without thinking, I stick out my tongue, and only when the bitter spicy – the potion contains tiny wild chilli’s as well as many other roots and barks - hits my taste buds, I realise this is a mixture I have just been told will kill a wild boar in minutes. Amanipai laughs, and Johan reassures me: it only kills when applied intravenously, not when you eat it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That night I go to sleep – still alive – thinking excitedly about what the next days will bring. As the smoke coming from the kitchen swirls between the monkey skulls above my head, I listen to sounds of chatter that seep in from the common veranda. I smile, remembering how I had imagined these people living in nature, without electric, would go to roost when the chickens do. On the contrary: everyone including young children were up most of last night. Amanipai is a newly initiated shaman, still learning, and he met with three other kerei and spent most of the night in ceremonial chanting, and exchanging information. All the traditional knowledge of the Mentwai kerei is shared orally, so every time two or more shamans meet, there are rituals and ceremonies to perform, and lots of information to share. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kerei sharing session</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The rituals involve the killing of four roosters, which I am glad to notice is done by breaking the necks, no bleeding, since this is done by one of the sons at mere inches from my sleeping pad. After hours of chanting and chatting, we decide to call it a night, and try to sleep best we can, next to the kerei immersed in their discussions, soothed to a little sleep by the rhythmic sounds of their singing. </span><span style="font-size: large;">It is not easy to figure the exact meaning is of the rituals we witness; Amanipai’s Indonesian is similar to mine – basic. Guide and translator Johan is helpful, but I still don’t feel I’m getting the depth of things. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds - toys for the spirits </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The Uma is full of intriguing objects, like the wooden birds flying from the roof of the veranda. Toys for the spirits, Johan explained, for the souls of things to play with. From research I know that the Mentawai believe everything has a soul. Some of the ceremonies we witness are to give thanks, or ask permission to things they take from the forest. But of course ten days isn’t nearly enough for any kind of real understanding, as always much of my wisdom will have to come from books. Some of the rituals remind me of the blessings common in Bali, with its Tri Hita Karana, or three principles of harmony. What we do see, what we are told – it definitely tastes like more.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqStsuoJFSgnMrWElruX8epBwNM6ihXkaAkgoDIj7bwP1_25HiCwIjui_dmcG0Bmx_WmIEsVDr3RRv8lEEsLye7GGyKRTzoA1z0IJ9uRjNO5PSCPaC_jOz4LICt_RScu2W8CQ8F7ivkhM/s1600/IMG_6447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqStsuoJFSgnMrWElruX8epBwNM6ihXkaAkgoDIj7bwP1_25HiCwIjui_dmcG0Bmx_WmIEsVDr3RRv8lEEsLye7GGyKRTzoA1z0IJ9uRjNO5PSCPaC_jOz4LICt_RScu2W8CQ8F7ivkhM/s400/IMG_6447.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way deeper into the jungle </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I enjoy the relative silence and a good night sleep, excitement further builds. Tomorrow, we will leave the comfort of Amanipai’s Uma and trek to a more remote area, to stay for a week in a place with no village, shops or a toilet!</span></div>
Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-69841841643940483632019-11-20T22:54:00.004-08:002019-12-17T23:52:54.471-08:00Back to the Uma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPOCsJp3Ahp6nZ4Nb5Sa-C1Bj6gnKExGUdxMDfuoRXnZy38h6rj9xIAZWtOcPI7oMtfHpVOgBW95sF-61x8Wbggx1EJP_niGQTuASZdmdFB-owasPKDtAwYE7U4FjRbffLI3KTrNaARLg/s1600/d0670fec-72e8-4c25-bd5f-2001be7406af.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />When I close my eyes I am back in the Uma, trying to sleep on my slowly deflating air mattress, under rows of monkey skulls, surrounded by sounds. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is not just the expected jungle orchestra of cicadas keeping me awake; I’m listening to the rhythmic chanting of the kerei - shamans, sharing knowledge and songs in the patio adjacent to the area we sleep in. But here in Teu Reppa’s Uma in Attabai, even more is in the air. The animals know it too, as you can hear in the roaring groans of the big black bulls in the clearing around the house, the occasional cry of a pig or the cock-a-doodle-doo from the roosters that never quieten. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amanipai, in his element (as always)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After I came home from my stay in Siberut Island, I was straight away plunged into the madness of modern life. A school event, my son’s birthday party, things to arrange and deadlines to meet. Those two worlds are so different I struggled to collect my words. But slowly the world I left behind off the coast of Sumatra seeps back into my mind. How can I learn from the things I saw there? How can I get back that feeling of peace, of being one with the world? That feeling that what we have is enough, in fact much more than enough. That we need to simplify our lives. I gave away half the clothes I carried but I still felt embarrassed about the size of my backpack that my porter – teenage girl Toktak, lugged back out of the jungle for me. I gave her my cap. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teu Reppa (right) with me and his wife Goreng</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toktak and I</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our guide Amanipai carried the tiniest of string-bags for his ten days with us, the biggest thing he lugged along being his pouch of tobacco tied on top of his loincloth. The Mentawai people smoke – a lot! </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bai-Ipai (Aman-ipai's wife) during a fishing trip</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bai-Ipai and I</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Let’s not kid ourselves; life in the jungle isn’t easy. It is hard work, lugging water from the river to the house, hiking miles through rough terrain to visit friends or family. Having no electricity, mobile network, access to modern medicine or any other modern comforts. To be self-reliant. But the people we saw seemed happy, living in harmony with each other and nature. They have enough sago and plenty of livestock. I miss the starchy sour taste of sago, freshly roasted above the fire in palm leaves or bamboo. I miss bathing outside in the river, low as it was after months of drought. I miss the thankful smiles of the old ladies when we rubbed their knees with tiger balm.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The WOAM team with the Sakkudei clan</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our host Teu Reppa is not only a kerei but the head of a large clan. Just before we arrived one of his sons passed away, so we worried we were imposing - but the messenger, a son who had hiked several hours to pass us the news at the Uma of our guide Amanipai, ensured us we were still welcome. The care we got from Teu Reppa’s family was astonishing. Even without a common language we managed to bond with them, particularly the women and children. Mostly the visitors they receive (the last group having come a year ago) are men, and serious hikers. We were eleven women, there for a week. We drove Johan, our head guide and interpreter, crazy with all our questions, but also managed to elicit so many laughs. We chatted and sang with the children, several of which attend the village school and therefore speak Bahasa Indonesia. We ate sago worms, witnessed the slaughter of pigs that we feasted on ceremoniously. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chatting with the children</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feast of boiled pig during ceremony</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is clearly a split in the family between the traditional and modern minded – of Teu Reppa’s sons two became shamans and live in the forest with their families, where another specifically wants his children to have an education in the village. This chasm in their lives is a tricky one that raises important questions: how long can their lifestyle last? And; how can the Mentawai maintain their culture and religion in modern Indonesia? There is so much more to reflect on – and write about, but for now I digest, I reminisce. I look at the photos and transport myself back to the Uma. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aman-suri (Teu Reppa's son) preparing sago flour</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in the 'bedroom'</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I try to doze off, back there, I shake awake, startled by a stampede on the wooden floor planks and screaming voices. The air in the Uma crackles with suspense, and curious, my friends and I sneak past the tribe on our way out to the bush toilet for a quick peak. We won’t find out details until Johan enlightens us the next day: The spirit of the recently deceased clan member has come back to inhabit others. In a deep trance the possessed woman rocks and sways, restrained by family members with a long piece of cloth. As we walk back to the area we sleep in she follows us, tells us not to worry in a friendly tone, then continues dancing right at our feet as we acquiesce to the fact we won’t get any sleep tonight. The woman’s beautiful yet eerie voice fills the electric atmosphere as she dances, twirling and smelling the sweet ginger flowers her mother-in-law gave her to keep her soul grounded. It goes on all night, the chanting, the singing, the trances and the stampedes. The animals, my friends and I, we don’t sleep a wink. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />From my house in Bali, I think back to Siberut. I am still alive, but I hope I can go back to that Uma too some time soon, if not in real life, then at least in spirit. <br /><br /><br /><i>To be continued</i><br /><br /> <br />(PS several of the photos not by me but by teammate Andrea Galkova)<br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> </span></div>
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Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-58080428711494525992019-10-23T01:38:00.000-07:002019-10-28T01:00:52.914-07:00Eating worms for charity<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria; margin: 0cm 0cm 4.5pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #1c1e21;">My ‘modern’ life is safe, clean and comfortable. It is also hectic, more connected to devices than nature – and leaves a disproportionately large ecological footprint. Living in Bali I am starting to realise this more and more, as I witness how people live in the villages surrounding us. The Balinese lifestyle puts a bigger emphasis on spiritual wellbeing than on economical growth. Work is easily abandoned for yet another ceremony – to the despair of many expats. To be fair, at times that includes me, but at the same time I am glad to see there are still people in this world that don’t think everything is about money. That is not to say there are no challenges here – that many Balinese don’t also want that new handphone or a faster scooter. But life does seem to flow at a different pace, and there is a lot to learn for bule like us.</span><span style="color: #1c1e21;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">As fascinating as the Balinese culture is, I have an old dream: to dip my toes in even deeper mud than that of the Balinese sawahs. Triggered by memories from my childhood in Malaysian Borneo, I have always been fascinated by tribes living in the deep jungle, trying as much as they can to live in and off the forest. This dream, however, is not that easy to fulfil when you have young children – one doesn’t just bugger off and say ‘bye guys, mummy is of on her own to stay with some headhunters for a few weeks…’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">So when I heard of the upcoming expedition organised by Women on a Mission, I knew this was my chance. With a group of twelve women I’m going on a ten-day trek to stay with an indigenous tribe in the Indonesian jungle. The twelve women joining are Singaporean or (former) expats in Singapore. Twelve privileged women, used to comfortable hotels, clean sheets and air-conditioning – trekking through dense jungle, sleeping in makeshift shelters full of creepy crawlies, bathing in rivers, eating sago worms; it has to be an unforgettable experience!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">The original plan was to visit the Korowai tribe in West Papua – the most Eastern part of Indonesia that harbours the largest stretch of unspoilt rainforest in the region and ranks very high on my bucket list, not only for the amazing nature, but also the fascinating yet tragic Papuan people. The political situation in West Papua has been unstable for a long time. The Papuans are fighting for independence from Indonesia, and violence has escalated recently after racist incidents on Java. It would be irresponsible to travel to the region at this time. The Papuan struggle for peace is far from over, nor is my dream to visit them, and I hope both can be accomplished in the future.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thankfully, Indonesia is huge, and WOAM managed to find another tribe that will welcome us. We will stay with the Sakuddei, one of the tribes that live on Pulau Siberut - the largest of the Mentawai - a group of islands west of Sumatra. Almost half of the island is a national park, covered in dense jungle. The tribes eat what the jungle provides, sago, fish and shrimp from the rivers, wild boar and the famous sago worms I’m particularly looking forward to! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Indonesian government ‘encourages’ indigenous tribes like these to assimilate, leave their homes in the jungle and re-settle in villages on the coast. Their habitat of primary forest is cut down for timber, or redeveloped for palm oil. I am keen to learn how the Sakkudei manage to preserve their tribal identity in the modern world. In preparation for the trip, I have been in touch with <a href="http://www.sukumentawai.org/">Suku Mentawai</a>, a local NGO whose mission is to improve the health, well-being and livelihood of the Mentawai community by supporting indigenous culture and teaching its wisdom to the younger generation. They have agreed to meet when we are there, to discuss in what ways we can support this important cause.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;">The wisdom Suku Mentawai teaches young people on Siberut is old. Whilst life in new resettlement villages is often one of poverty, as there are few jobs there, tribal forest lifestyles are infinitely rich; developed over centuries to be in tune with their surroundings. T</span><span lang="EN-GB">he Mentawai traditionally live in <i>uma</i>, communities where everything is focused on balance: with each other and nature. Central to their beliefs is that everything has a soul, plants, objects and animals as well as people – and these souls need to be in a good relationship with each other.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"> </span><span lang="EN-GB">Every community has a <i>kerei</i> – or shaman - who can communicate with souls and the spirits of ancestors. These shamans also have a wealth of knowledge of magical medical plants from the jungle.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;">Shamans, astonishing nature, eating worms; there is a lot to look forward to on this trip. The other thing the rainforest surrounding the Sukkadei is famous for is mud. Knee and thigh deep mud that we will have to hike through for hours – because the best things in life don’t come easy. What there won’t be is Wi-Fi, or even a mobile network – which will provide us with a much needed digital detox. And the upside is that not many tourists venture out there, so we will have all the privacy we crave. Aside from these physical and mental challenges I hope there will be much to learn in the forest, particularly about l</span><span lang="EN-GB">iving together on this planet, in harmony with each other and nature. </span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">About Women on a Mission<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.womenmission.com/">Women on a Mission (WOAM)</a> is a non-profit organisation, headquartered in Singapore, which aims to raise awareness and funds for women’s rights and empowerment, partnering with existing non-profit institutions that serve the underprivileged, with a particular focus on women's issues. Every year they organise challenging expeditions - self-funded by each participant - to raise money for the chosen charities. This will be WOAM’s 10<sup>th</sup>expedition and they have raised over SDG 1 million to date for their chosen charities. The upcoming expedition’s objective is to raise $100,000 SGD for Women for Women International – UK, a charity which provides women survivors of war and conflict with the tools and resources to move from crisis and poverty to stability and self-sufficiency. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;">So whilst the participants of the trek are roughing it in the jungle, with their blisters, belly bugs and jungle meals, they ask their friends to sponsor them. Not for them - they themselves are lucky to go on this amazing adventure. But because there are many women in the world who have been through terrible events, and they need our help. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;">Please consider supporting me to reach our target, donations made through the page below go directly to <a href="https://www.womenforwomen.org.uk/">Women for Women UK </a></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #1c1e21;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/karien-papua" style="color: purple;">https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/karien-papua</a><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #201f1e; font-family: "segoe ui" , "segoe ui web" , "segoe ui" , , "blinkmacsystemfont" , "roboto" , "helvetica neue" , sans-serif;"><span style="caret-color: rgb(32, 31, 30); font-size: 15px;"><i>Photos courtesy of Rob Henry of the Indigenous Education Foundation (IEF), partner of Suku Mentawai </i></span></span></span>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-3540462175068907152019-09-19T20:18:00.001-07:002019-09-19T20:23:21.229-07:00Pesky pest or yummy treat? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Can you guess what local delicacy this is? </i></span><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Read on and you will be rewarded... </i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbdaVGfuLcQnQ_RTiMDN0IjZ6z2uWsah9KO7dOuIH3xo9xAfzXtXXwh7btwYDiXsC6gHPZtoaVwGzg98MONAa-2T0aY4g2iofpQekVZ45HFGWPd8d90gYk86mgI1dt5Z6nrOPfSCXKtk/s1600/fullsizeoutput_34e.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1099" data-original-width="1600" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbdaVGfuLcQnQ_RTiMDN0IjZ6z2uWsah9KO7dOuIH3xo9xAfzXtXXwh7btwYDiXsC6gHPZtoaVwGzg98MONAa-2T0aY4g2iofpQekVZ45HFGWPd8d90gYk86mgI1dt5Z6nrOPfSCXKtk/s320/fullsizeoutput_34e.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Bali we are surrounded by sawah – rice paddies. So what better way is there to get ourselves acquainted with Balinese life than to learn how to farm rice?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ93paWw4yyHC6um-kEKn2uguNWYUA1XvT1ABLmL7W52weqLapLE03L0fCs-dfFsdI2r0lriHZ6JYBfJd3QxqmesTSPVyWIL36e3sC6Vn0CNsbrwNmSKAA0uyfL8G0eQy-_YCC-pEwnN4/s1600/9kbDD4QLQpK1v3%252BzVmkDVw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ93paWw4yyHC6um-kEKn2uguNWYUA1XvT1ABLmL7W52weqLapLE03L0fCs-dfFsdI2r0lriHZ6JYBfJd3QxqmesTSPVyWIL36e3sC6Vn0CNsbrwNmSKAA0uyfL8G0eQy-_YCC-pEwnN4/s320/9kbDD4QLQpK1v3%252BzVmkDVw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For the past weeks Roel and I have been immersing ourselves in mud - learning from local farmers how they work, the issues they face these days, and see how they have been switching back to traditional chemical free farming methods. As soon as I feel less of a newbie on all matters rice, I will definitely be sharing more of that, but or now, here is a little appetiser to get you hooked on farming life in Bali. Yesterday we took revenge against one pesky pest we encountered: snails. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv6rYJ0a2GQImFhZ1ONL1veVMnCIIS1k5wQeNLPvVYaxk8FoktjgauqfLnVWQ3VTkA5qAZlok5RUNsPE5NgM-pQrf841sG3iGCcO7EjhrNUVeuqf5d4aWwDSrUyCK0M8uKIBmJ06Dnrgc/s1600/5adlreiBRvOzjvhmhSfVWQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv6rYJ0a2GQImFhZ1ONL1veVMnCIIS1k5wQeNLPvVYaxk8FoktjgauqfLnVWQ3VTkA5qAZlok5RUNsPE5NgM-pQrf841sG3iGCcO7EjhrNUVeuqf5d4aWwDSrUyCK0M8uKIBmJ06Dnrgc/s320/5adlreiBRvOzjvhmhSfVWQ.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXsT6CL-OVuA3e5FNviWbWDvwg0YHuDKuoxAFCEHQ14CChexerWccBRh4rEH1qd3w1_uFAOjJyF_8UMwHf6KmGDd5PwHJ_1ZwZUmIdtZMFgGL4_NfWSvRJkgZTb96yRknJ9B8F3yN3bE/s1600/%25258uAoHSLQrG5ONxNg10UXg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXsT6CL-OVuA3e5FNviWbWDvwg0YHuDKuoxAFCEHQ14CChexerWccBRh4rEH1qd3w1_uFAOjJyF_8UMwHf6KmGDd5PwHJ_1ZwZUmIdtZMFgGL4_NfWSvRJkgZTb96yRknJ9B8F3yN3bE/s320/%25258uAoHSLQrG5ONxNg10UXg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />After we spent weeks preparing the mud; ploughing, hoeing, stamping, fertilising, seeding, it was finally time to plant our tiny padi plants in the neat rows our farmers had drawn for us in the mud. With about ten bule it took us a couple of hours, and when we sludged out proudly, I have to admit I was slightly disappointed to hear that a Balinese farmer can do this in an hour. Alone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Later, when we came back to inspect our work, we saw how pesticide free farming presents challenges: a horde of hungry molluscs had been feasting on our babies. One of the fields particularly saw more than half of the padi devoured by snails - thankfully not the one we had been working on. As we don’t use chemicals, we started googling, asking around for natural remedies to scare the snails away; ideas from beer-filled traps to crushed eggshells and human hair were tossed around. But the Balinese farmers had a better idea: let’s have a barbecue!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GszyOGzTJXvFM9KgZ5fAil6vpdTEcqm56Caj-BH1stZMRSDNX2RYwj8YsNAwtFDQhWief62fRsjmlZKN8f9bqvmaRcbX_BpAOuJ1pa1TCKD7OujYHsAs4cdca6AfEvitpXsh-8H3hkk/s1600/fullsizeoutput_34b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GszyOGzTJXvFM9KgZ5fAil6vpdTEcqm56Caj-BH1stZMRSDNX2RYwj8YsNAwtFDQhWief62fRsjmlZKN8f9bqvmaRcbX_BpAOuJ1pa1TCKD7OujYHsAs4cdca6AfEvitpXsh-8H3hkk/s400/fullsizeoutput_34b.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">As Green School parents we all know that to preserve our planet we need to eat less meat; the production of beef, lamb and pork greatly contributes to climate change, deforestation - and of course there is animal welfare to consider. So I can say that I personally rejoiced at the idea of eating some sustainably sourced, free range protein. Guiltless meat! Bring on the snails.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We roamed the field and surroundings to collect as many of the buggers as we could and collected them in a large bucket. And as I am sure by now you are all very hungry from reading this story: here is the recipe for grilled Balinese rice field snail! Even my children agree: they are enak! Delicious.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">1. Rinse the snails and bring them to boil in a pot of water with a generous handful of salt. Boil for 10-15 minutes until scum starts floating to the top.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">2. The scum is what you don’t want, so rinse this off. Then use a satay stick take out the flesh: only the first fleshy bit is good to eat. The black part deeper in the shell contains the gut. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">3. Rinse the snails again, first with salty water, then with fresh water until no more mud comes out. Then string them onto bamboo satay skewers. You can grill the on a coal fire, but a gas grill works well too. Dip and coat the snails in some kecap manis (Indonesian sweet soy sauce) and grill until fragrant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">4. Serve with pecel, Indonesian peanut sauce and sambal (mashed chili). Ready made peanut sauce can be bought in supermarkets here, in varying degrees of spiciness. They are very easy to cook – just add hot water! They are great with any kind of satay, as well as vegetables, I always have some ready in storage for a quick lazy meal. </span><br />
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Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-5977470330318205992019-09-02T04:35:00.001-07:002019-09-02T05:24:56.359-07:00That thing with Bali dogs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">When people talk about the ways of Bali – which are supposedly both mystical and mysterious, I’m always sceptical. A very down-to-earth Dutch person doesn’t believe in such things, obviously. But Bali didn’t need long to prove me wrong. </span></div>
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<br />Roel and I have had a long-standing argument about pets, which basically boiled down to the fact that he wanted a dog and I didn’t. But now he was gallant enough to accompany me to the island of my dreams. </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">So when someone posted a cute doggy on my Facebook wall, that happened to be staying in a kennel on the East Coast, conveniently located mere miles from where we were spending our holiday – it made sense even to me. Lara, a cute little Bali rescue dog joined our family. She was about one year old, raised and leash-trained by a Dutch dog rescuer. Lara has a sweet temperament that started to make me rethink my stand on dogs. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />One had better like dogs when visiting Bali. Because the main thing with Bali dogs is: they are everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere. It is hard to walk more than a few meters without stumbling over one of the mongrels that live on Bali’s streets. Although they look like street dogs, the majority actually has an owner. Unfortunately, some of these owners have a different mentality towards pets from what most of us westerners are used to. Lucky for the dogs, an army of dog lovers are ready to sweep to the rescue of the mangy, the underfed, the scabies sufferers. They feed, medicate, sterilise and educate, important work that will hopefully help establish a healthy, happy population one day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They also swamp my social media daily with pictures of cute puppies in search of a ‘forever home.’ But I was resolute – I’m done with sleepless nights, potty training and needy infants. No matter how hard the girls begged, we would not get a puppy.<br /><br />But then, one unlucky day, Bali strikes again. As we drive off from the Pantai Munggu carpark, where we tried to coerce Lara to like walks on the beach, we feel a bump. Roel looks up from the wheel and a queasy feeling comes up in my stomach. We pull over and we rush out of the car. Long story short – we hit a dog. <br /><br />Not only had we hit a dog, it turns out we had hit it right in front of one of Bali’s dog rescuers – which are only slightly less ubiquitous than dogs here. She had just had this little stray vaccinated. Of course we immediately offered to pay for any veterinary costs. <br /><br />It turned out the dog had broken both hips and needed surgery - expensive surgery. Since we live in a country where some people cannot even afford medical care for their children, we found ourselves in a moral dilemma. Was it justified to spend this amount on a stray dog? On the other hand, not only had we promised to pay, we felt responsible for the poor creature - after all we did drive over it. I think you can now all see that there is only one way this story can end? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is no way we could put a dog back on the streets after spending so much on medical bills. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Little Munggu, estimated to be about six months old, is a cute black puppy with the saddest eyes ever. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Having adopted me as her new mother, she follows me around everywhere like the puppy she is with her slow limp. </span><span style="font-size: large;">In the end, it didn’t matter whether I wanted dogs </span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: center;">or not. The dogs got me. </span></div>
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Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-89334191954952202492019-08-15T19:46:00.000-07:002019-08-17T17:27:31.603-07:00Goodbye bacon, hello tofu<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">We knew we were in for some surprises in Bali; after all, we moved from metropolis Singapore to a small rural community in Indonesia. Tumbak Bayuh is a village on the west coast of Bali, about ten minutes from the sea and the hustle and bustle of touristy Canggu. It is a different world. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />We are surrounded by fields. When we walk the dog, we have to be mindful of the cows that graze in between the sawah. Chicken run amok everywhere. Friendly farmers wave at us as we plod along the narrow ridges between the mud. Last week we ran in to Pak Candra, our security guard at night, working his day job tending to a field of beans. He immediately pressed an armful of long beans on us, as well as a pile of tiny cucumbers. Dinner sorted. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">It is obvious people here, in a farming community, are much more in tune with nature. But farming life can be harsh, for people and animals alike. Many Balinese families keep a few pigs at the back of their house. Exploring the back alleys we pass the friendly, noisy giants in their small concrete pens. A few days ago the kids came home from school upset. On the way they had witnessed the rather uncomfortable transport of a large pig on a truck – I think we can all guess its destination. I won’t share details, but it suffices to say that they decided to become vegetarian on the spot. I explained that they had been eating pork for years, and that in other countries animals raised for meat are not treated particularly nice either. But we, the consumers, don’t get to see that. The animals and their torture are effectively hidden. The Netherlands for instance, is a huge pork producer, yet I have never seen a pig outside a petting zoo there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">As we eat little meat in our family anyway, Roel and I decided on solidarity – we would all not eat any meat for a month. Better for the animals as well as the world, since meat production is a mayor contributor to climate change. Jasmijn stated that if she hadn’t died by then, she might consider doing it long term. Linde was fine as long as she didn’t have to become vegan and stop eating cheese. Tijm, our resident carnivore, will struggle the most. Roel is already considering cheating (he got invited by a friend to eat babi guling, suckling pig, shht, don’t tell the kids) As I rarely eat meat I was full of encouragement, until I found out they intended to exclude seafood too. To show that they meant it, they made up a contract, signed it, and put it up on the fridge. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Thankfully the Green School lunches are all vegetarian, and we have plenty of meat-free recipes up our sleeves, like Indah’s <a href="http://www.bedu-mama.com/2018/02/aunties-tempeh.html">tempeh</a>, <a href="http://www.bedu-mama.com/2016/03/hot-eggs.html">sambal eggs</a>, and our children’s favourite: crispy tofu. This is the dish that you can serve to any visiting child that claims not to like tofu. Trust me, I tried it with the pickiest of playdates! I have promised friends many times to share the recipe, so finally, here it is! And, without Indah to cook us for us, it is all hands on deck and Linde helped in the preparation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><b><span style="font-size: large;">Crispy tofu</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><i>extra firm tofu <br />cornflakes <br />cornstarch<br />2 eggs<br />light soy sauce<br />fresh lime or lemon juice <br />pepper & salt </i><br /><br />You need a firm, dry tofu to make this successfully. In Singapore we used Tau Kwa, which is perfect, but in Indonesia and Europe the tofu is often more wet, so make sure to drain it well. If necessary, squeeze out excess water. Cut it in bite-sized rectangles, roughly the size of chicken nuggets. Marinate the pieces in about two tablespoons of soy sauce and one of lemon juice for a little while. Season with salt and pepper.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Crush the cornflakes - we use a mortar and pestle but you can also crush them with a roller pin - until they have the texture of coarse breadcrumbs. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Now, make an assembly line: one bowl with about half a cup of corn starch, one bowl of beaten eggs, one with the cornflake crumble. Toss & turn each cube of tofu in the corn-starch, egg and cornflakes consecutively. Make sure they are coated all around. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: start;">Heat a generous layer of oil in a low frying pan or wok. When it is very hot, toss in the coated tofu pieces. They need to be fried in a single layer, so it will take a couple of round. Fry them on both sides until brown and crispy, it only takes a few minutes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We all enjoy them with our favourite sauces, the kids like tomato ketchup and mayonaise whilst the adults prefer sweet Thai chili or sriracha.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>* the gorgeous pig photographs are courtesy of fellow Green School parent Ted!</i><br /> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-12272242630109124732019-08-12T18:34:00.001-07:002019-08-15T20:35:43.503-07:00Greener in Bali<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />The grass is always greener elsewhere, and as a nomad, I evidently got itchy feet after seven years in Singapore – a personal record of living in one place. But one can’t just pack up and leave, you in fact need to go somewhere, which raised the difficult question: where should we go? That exact question has been buzzing around our household for years. <br /><br />Often a next move for expats is dictated by work, but if there is no such push, just a general pull and a sense of adventure – the world is your oyster. That sounds like the ultimate luxury, but it also makes things ultimately complicated. Drowning in a sea of too much choice, too many factors – good education for the kids, a pleasant climate, liveable surroundings, a good culture for raising kids, and exciting prospects for work, we felt stuck. We were tired from the high pace of city-state Singapore. We needed a break; time to spend together as a family before the kids were too old to want to spend it with us. <br /><br />The question I have been asked uncountable times the last few months is: why Bali? I always want to answer; why not Bali? After debating for years what our next move would be we eventually decided on an impulse, after seeing a Facebook post on one of the green attractions of this green island: a Green School. Combined with my own fascination for all things Indonesian, Roel’s wish for a fun place to spend his upcoming sabbatical overthinking his next steps, it seemed perfect.<br /><br />So here we are. In Bali. In our new house overlooking rice fields, with our new Bali rescue dog, discovering new things, learning a new language. Away from the safety and comfort that was Singapore. And we are starting to figure things out. The Bali traffic no longer defies us, as we find order in the chaos and the politeness of the Balinese (if you get cut off on your scooter you can bet it’s a fat white Bule on that bike). We are starting to find out where to get our groceries (and sorry Linde, we do really need to cut down on cheese, who would have believed there is a country in the world where cheese is more expensive than Singapore?)<br /><br />The kids are starting to settle in in the new school, and I can say one thing: things are definitely greener there! This is the school where all new parents (including me) sigh: I wish I was a kid again so I can go to school here… The classrooms are made of bamboo and have no walls. They are situated in lush gardens. There are rabbits and chicken, and cats wandering about for Linde and Jasmijn to cuddle. Tijm has started Middle School where he can select exciting elective subjects like surfing and free diving. The focus is on sustainability, the school wants to educate the green leaders of tomorrow. At the same time they are innovative educators, the guiding principle is that school should in fact be fun, as kids learn way more when they can follow their passions and enjoy themselves. We hope that they will manage to challenge our boy with a passion for maths as well as sports. <br /><br />And, there is plenty for the parents too. Roel and I enrolled in a course where we will work alongside the Balinese to learn about the rice cycle, establishing ties with local farmers and develop a shared vision for expanding organic rice supply. I can’t wait to get my feet in that mud! Roel’s other goal this year is learning to surf whilst I am looking forward to many mornings like this one, where I sit on my patio alternating writing and gazing at our amazing view. I am starting to believe this was a good move. <br /><br />And then of course there is always the follow up question that still defies me: how long do you plan to stay? There is only one answer to that: I have no idea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>(Okay, some photos, because I know you all want me to poke your eyes out with the gorgeousness of our new surroundings. And yes the guest room is ready... )</i></span></div>
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Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-11372956504489399322019-05-29T20:56:00.000-07:002019-05-29T20:59:30.194-07:00This snail moves on <span style="font-size: large;">I like to call myself to a nomad – a Bedouin. But there is something that distinguishes me from a genuine nomad: they tend to travel light through life. And I carry a lot – a lot - of stuff. <br /><br />When people ask me where home is, I simply point around me. Any place can be my home, as long as my husband and children are there and - my stuff. That is why I sometimes call myself a snail, not because I am slow (admittedly I’m not the fastest runner, that’s a different story) but because I carry my home with me wherever I go. And it’s a full home.<br /><br />My children take after me. Since they were very young, every time we travel and arrive in a new hotel, sometimes for just one night, they start nesting. They divvy up the beds, arrange their stuffed animals, notebooks, pyjamas and other items on it and voila; they feel at home. They often refer to hotels or guesthouses we stay in as home too. <br /><br />The thing is, I can get ridiculously, sentimentally, attached to objects. I still remember some items I lost years ago, and genuinely miss them at times. The little blue vase with flowers that was a wedding present and that the cat smashed. The yellow glass lamp my parents bought for us in France, one that careless builders broke. The necklace my late grandmother left me and got stolen in the US when I was a teenager. <br /><br />One of the reasons that could cause my attachment is that I rarely simply buy something. Years ago I needed a new teapot, and spent hours online, browsing vintage websites to find the perfect one. At some point my husband looked over my shoulder and dryly commented: ‘Normal people just go to a shop and buy a teapot….’<br /><br />So when we move house or country, which is on average every few years, I pack up all this stuff and ship it to the next location; even if it is across the world. But our upcoming move to Bali proved a painful one. It soon became clear why most houses there are rented out furnished: Indonesia is a country where nothing is easy. At the same time, storing furniture in Singapore proved more expensive than renting a house in Bali. <br /><br />When I asked for advise on an online group, the first comment came in quick: “sell everything, you will feel so happy and light after.” A big ‘no’ groaned up from my stomach. Never would I sell my collection of vintage enamel trays! The antiques we collected over the years! My Omani silver! Or our gazillions of books!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Thankfully, where there is a will there is a way; eventually. We will ship as much small items as we can manage to Bali, and store the bulk of the furniture in Europe (yes, you hear correctly, on the other side of the world. In fact, have a container with our furniture sitting on a boat, going round and round, would still be cheaper than storing in Singapore. But that seemed too insane, even for me.)<br /><br />Our plan leaves me with one big thing to do in the coming month before we leave: get rid of as much as I can. Sell, give away, dump. Some items, like hideous IKEA wardrobes, or the sagging sofa, I’m happy to see the back of. Others, like our colourful outdoor dining table, I’m sorry to lose, but I can comfort myself with the thought that similar – better – ones can be bought cheaply in Bali. <br /><br />Now I just hope one thing: that shipping the stuff I’m sure to amass there will be much easier to ship out. To wherever, whenever we will go after. <br /><br /><br /> </span></div>
Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6795956411320246899.post-8692763233003316652019-02-19T04:05:00.002-08:002019-02-19T05:32:38.360-08:00Domestic drama<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Dinner is never a quiet event at our place, although this is normally due to our children’s lack of table manners, or their refusal to sit still and well, eat. But today we have another form of entertainment: a family of wild jungle fowl. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mother hen struts around the grass niftily, a clutch of three babies in close pursuit. It’s close to bedtime, and mother look up at the trees, searching for a good spot to roost. She spots a fine branch, takes off and flutters steadily to a high-up branch. Her three babies look after her with trepidation. Mummy went very high! After a minute of staring, number one flies up. Its little wings can’t reach quite as high as mum, and it lands on a dead palm leaf halfway. After some quiet deliberation, number two follows suit. It ends about a meter higher that the sibling, and perches on its higher branch triumphantly. Number three now can’t stay behind, and flies up, managing to come highest of all. But none of them is as high as mummy, and slowly they flap their way further up. <br /><br />Suddenly, there is a rustle in the bushes and a fierce rooster appears. He flies up determinedly to where his wife is sitting, and a ruckus erupts, with leaves shaking and chicken shrieking. The flustered hen soon jumps down from the tree again and lands in the grass with a thump. The babies look down from there spots at different height, confused how to proceed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />Dad comes down too, in hot pursuit of mother. He runs after her with his tail up high, and his wings slightly spread. Mother is in no mood for this, and runs off, her wings open too, her legs bent and her neck low. For a minute they chase each other in and out the bushes whilst their offspring looks down, showing their dismay with louder and louder discerning cheeps. <br /><br />The first one decides to take action, and dives down from the tree. At this point, cat Snowy, who like us has been observing the scene from a distance, decides to get in on the action. Slowly she prowls towards the baby, prompting Linde to panic and rush over to save the baby. The chick decides to scramble, quickly clambers up the bushes, until it is safely out of reach. Linde too decides to cut her losses; barefooted as she is, she doesn’t dare follow into the wet bushes, where Snowy stares up longingly to the little fluffy snack. <br /><br />The other two babies, still sitting up high, still cheeping noisily, now decide to come down too. Soon all three of them run around the grass, looking for mummy, who is still being chased around the bushes by dad. <br /><br />Mother finishes off the kerfuffle with a big peck into dad’s tail. He settles down, slowing to a strolling pace, as if he never did anything more exciting this evening than a turn around the garden. <br /><br />Snowy sticks her nose out from under the bushes, spying the three chicks in the middle of the grass. She attempts to stalk, but has counted out dad, who swiftly runs past her, scaring the little cat back to our table for a tumble with sister Pepper. <br /><br />The family, reunited, leisurely strolls off to the other side of the garden, the three babies running their little feet off to keep up with their parents. <br /><br /><i>We sit and watch and enjoy. Who needs a television when you have a garden?</i></span>Karienhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07030460465762682810noreply@blogger.com1