indigo children

BY TOM COCKREM

"Sumba" � the name itself sounds so primal, more resonant of Africa than Asia. But here I am. A mere 40-minute flight from the tourist hub of Bali has got me to this island where so few tourists ever come. And where, had you lobbed here in a spaceship, you'd be hard pressed to ascertain where on God's earth you had come.


The children make sure the villages don't stay silent.
I am in the town of Waingapu, Sumba's capital on the island's eastern coast. It's more a sprinkling of buildings than a town, whose strongest claim to a CBD is its market. There is little that informs of Indonesia. The inhabitants look as much like Melanesians, perhaps an indication that we are closer here to Papua New Guinea.

But you don't come to Sumba for Waingapu, as captivatingly offbeat as it is. You come for the villages, the so-called "Silent Villages of Sumba". And you come in the hope that the culture that produced them has still remained intact. My hopes are high. I am, or so it seems, the only visitor in town, and I'm looked at by the locals like I really am from Mars.

Oh yes, there is one other reason why you'd want to come to Sumba � the textiles. In particular the ikat. It's achieved international acclaim for its spectacular and intricate designs, and impossibly perfect weave. Animal as well as vegetal motifs are used, and human figures that have character and style. Only natural dyes are used. The rich rust red comes from the sap of the kombu tree, and the blue from fermented indigo.


Cultural dancers look pretty in their ceremonial attire.
Ikat means that the design is achieved by first masking then pre-dyeing all the fibre, an incredibly arduous task. Dutch Ethnographers made a point of collecting the royal textiles early in the 20th century. Many are now held in museums. And in the craft shops back in Bali, it's the gorgeous Sumba ikat that is most prominently displayed to attract the passing trade.

Ikat cloth, as tribal legend dictates, is produced solely in villages near the coast. One such is Rende. To get there from Waingapu, it's best to hire a guide. One is sure to approach you at the market. And you go by motorbike � a 60 km bottom-jolting ride. Worth it? Absolutely!

Rende is an authentic Sumbanese clan village. It has the two parallel rows of massive thatched houses, with their peaked roofs soaring up to 20 metres high. Between the rows of houses stand the tombs. Each grave marker has a massive limestone slab set atop two massive limestone supports. Under these are buried ancestral princes and chiefs, whose death has seen them deified. Did I say "massive"? One of the slabs weighs around 30 tonnes, and is crowned with two tall totems, each intricately carved.


The steeple roofs serve as a storage vault for the family.
Why "silent" villages, you may ask. Nothing morbid here, it's just that there are so few folk in residence, only elders, a few women and children, and the family of the rajah. Most clan members reside outside on the farmlands. The villages are reserved for ceremonial usage � weddings, festivals, funerals. The "steeple" roof serves as a storage vault for family treasures � tortoiseshell combs, gold implements, gilded garments and turbans.

Whilst visiting Rende, my guide received word that a wedding ceremony was taking place, not in a village but at a Protestant church. This proved an engrossing and spectacularly colourful event, with cultural dancers and singers in full ceremonial attire, and so too were many of the guests. It was clear from the service that both belief systems - the traditional marapu and the newly acquired Christian � are mutually condoned.


Underneath these limestone slabs are buried ancestral princes.
Waingapu might seem exotically remote, but it's almost humdrum when compared to its counterpart in the west: Waikabubak. It's a five-hour bus ride to get there. But it's not an unpleasant one, as you share the bus with a grand mix of folksy looking folk, as well as live animals and produce from the farm.

Western Sumba is far more traditional than the east. And Waikabubak is in the hinterland, set amidst low-rise rolling hills. It's a neatly laid-out town, with only one shop that sells ice-creams (it tends to draw a crowd), one internet café, one "proper" restaurant, one plush hotel, and one helluva a lot of super friendly folk. It also contains some villages the likes of which you can't believe exist in modern times. They are similar in layout to Rende, but hugely more appealing. For they all crown leafy hillocks in the town.


Thatched houses with roofs soaring 20m high.
Kampungs Tarung and Waitabar all but merge into one, spreading picturesquely along the gently sloping summit of a forest-shrouded hill. Their great high-peaked houses look as if they've just been freshly thatched. The slab tombs too are immaculate, and you'd be hard-pressed to find a single weed.

The Sumbanese house is essentially square. It is rimmed by a verandah, which can barely be discerned beneath the overhanging eaves. It is here, kept cool and nicely shaded, that the women do their weaving, often with the youngsters looking on. But they will not be making ikat in these parts, only warp weave and embroidery. But it's gorgeous just the same, and often for sale.

Waikabubak's villages are also slightly less than silent. The children see to that. Quite a number of the elders are in traditional attire. The men wear a sarong known as a hinggi - a large rectangular ikat cloth, folded, cinched and draped in something like Indian style. They also wear a turban, and carry a long bladed knife in a wooden sheath. The woman's sarong, or lau pahuda, is worn as a wrap-around. It is a fantastic work of art, incorporating ikat, warp weave plus bead and shell embroidery.


The ikat here has earned international acclaim for its intricate designs.
I managed to explore around half a dozen of the villages in and around Waikabubak. Each one was a joy. My next task is to visit at a time of ceremony � maybe New Year. Or I might come in March for Pasola, when huge mock battles are staged between the rival clans, with the combatants all on horseback, and prepared to spill blood for the honour of the clan. Yes, Sumbanese culture, you happily conclude, does still remain defiantly intact.

A couple of weeks ago I decided to take another stab at attending a nature oriented festival. This is one in a series of nature festivals for me.

Two years ago I started this trend with a trip to the Rio Grande Valley for a butterfly festival. Then last year I went to Roswell, N.M., for a dragonfly festival. I'm not up to anything so grandiose this year, in fact, I'd thought I would skip the whole nature-fest scene. Then my friend Elizabeth pointed me at one in Uvalde. That's far but not too far. We could do it in a day trip.

Uvalde lies in the Texas Hill Country River Region. They hold both a spring and fall Nature Quest every year. (You can find out about the next one at: www.thcrr.com). Since Uvalde is about 2.5 hours away (or 4 hours if you go the way we went), we missed the morning's activities. We did arrive in time for lunch and the afternoon tours.

Elizabeth and I opted to go on a butterfly hunt. We hopped in a van with the other tour members and headed down a dirt road toward a remote ranch.

I was impressed to find the other tour members had come even farther than we had: Houston, Dallas, Oklahoma, Mexico. I had thought we'd be the most far-flung since this festival is rather small. And they all knew each other. Their conversation focused on which was better, to be a bird watcher or a butterfly watcher. The consensus was that it is easier to be butterfly watchers and it is therefore more fun.

Fun or not, they took the whole thing more seriously than Elizabeth and me. For example, one woman named the species of each of the butterflies she saw as the van drove down the bumpy dirt road toward the ranch. Maybe her view was better than mine but I could hardly even see those butterflies. We passed a group of wild turkeys foraging alongside the road but they hardly raised a comment from our fellow butterfly-watchers.

Finally we reached our destination at the end of the road high in the hills. I thought we would be in for a bit of hiking, seeking out those elusive butterflies in every nook and cranny of the rugged landscape.

We started at a patch of frost weed on a sunny slope a few feet from where we parked. We spent about an hour examining every flutter of colorful wings that came anywhere near those flowers, never traveling more than a few dozen feet. It was nice. There were quite a few butterflies. But it lacked drama, no matter how our guide yelled that we should rush to see his newest find.

Later we drove about a quarter mile to view butterflies along a creek. There really weren't many there but there were other interesting things. I got some photos of a lynx spider eating a hairstreak butterfly. That was pretty interesting to watch. And I spotted a tiny jumping spider with indigo eyes and bright blue pedipalps. A tiny frog blended perfectly with the pebbles on the bank of the creek.

While Elizabeth and I had fun on our tour of Hill Country butterflies, I think we didn't fit in in crucial ways. We aren't dedicated enough as butterfly watchers. For example, we didn't even bring a butterfly field guide. Secondly, we're more active and more interested in hiking around to see wildlife while getting some exercise.

Another point is that we are not part of the butterfly clique. It's probably more fun if you know the other people. Elizabeth and I aren't outgoing enough to insinuate ourselves that doesn't go out of its way to include us.

Surprisingly, the age distribution was skewed way toward the high end. Apparently butterfly watchers are all retired people. I imagined all ages would be interested but especially families with preteen children. What better way to teach children about the wonders of nature than to experience the diversity of everyone's favorite insects? Maybe the kids were missing because school just started. There's another Nature Quest in the Spring. Elizabeth and I may go. If we bring her kids we can at least attempt to reverse the trend.