Hello Mister

Upon returning to Makassar from tribal adventures in Tana Toraja, I checked into the dodgiest hotel ever (probably a bit of an over statement but this place wasn't very nice at all). It was however, very late and I asked the driver to take me to the cheapest hotel suggested by the Lonely Planet. The next morning, I left the no name hotel to find a travel agent that would book me the fastest ship outta there and into Flores. The earliest Pelni ship south would leave in four days and after checking multiple agents, because you never know whose telling the truth in Indonesia, I paid the price. Unable to bear another night sleeping with the roaches, I went looking for another cheap but bearable hotel in which to spend the subsequent three nights. Once in Chinatown, I wandered into hotels checking the rooms and asking for prices and although it was the middle of the day, the hotels were poorly lit. In one such cave like place, I even remarked about the oddity that the rooms rates were by the hour. Upon exiting such establishment, I was dumbfounded to see that one of the "rooms" wasn't a room at all but more like a living room with red lights for entertaining guess. Concerned mainly with finding a cheap decent place to spend the night, I naively ignored the lack of integrity of the hotels I had just visited. After settling into The New Legend Guest House, I was reminded by a newly made Spanish friend of the rampant prostitution that is synonymous with many parts of Asia. As I passed "Karaoke" bars called Sexy Lady and the like, I could not help but feel wounded by one of the many ways in which women are exploited and oppressed. But from prostitution I walked into poverty when Jorge and I discovered hidden ally ways off the main port road. There we were greeted by the surprised but amused round faces of many women and children jubilantly screaming "Hello Mister." Although living in tin shacks, these people were extremely friendly and welcoming and despite living in poverty and neglect, they wanted nothing from us and were content with our just being there. It was in the home of one such caring soul that I found myself but a few days later.
As I walked the streets of Makassar I was stopped on the street by a petite Indonesian woman who wanted to introduce herself while her husband and child waited on their motor bike a few feet away. She wanted to share her culture, her home and family with me so she invited me to dine with her parents. After meeting an interminable number of cousins, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews (for Indonesian families are very big), I was offered a lot more delicious food than I could stomach. After pictures with the family I was taken to a park where Dolphin and her hippie friends hangout making music, art and small talk. In this park, a bohemian rastaman lives in a tree house and many others play the drums, guitars, paint murals, take photographs. We sang Bob Marley songs, "Besame Mucho," and "Para Bailar La Bamba" (two Indonesian favorites). In Dolphin's humble home we ate runny egg noodle soup and stayed up late talking about life in America and Indo. In the morning, it was hard to say goodbye (literally as Dolphin continued to introduced me to friends) but the call of the sea is strong and I had to sail south.