Komang had been talking about visiting his home village and
about his wife Nanica, who teaches in one of the village schools. He said we would drive two hours Northwest
toward the coastline and visit a spice farm along the way. No mountains in this directions, but we drove
through lush, fertile farmlands with flat rice paddies, palm and teak trees and
fruit orchards. So many fruits grow in
Bali I couldn’t begin to name them all.
Our first stop was to a fascinating spice and coffee farm
where we saw cocoa and cacao trees, vanilla beans and cinnamon sticks growing, as well as all
types of herbs and spices on trees, bushes and vines. And here they alsogrow the most expensive coffee
in the world, called Luwak. We had come across
this coffee on our trip to China when Keren Su told us about it, but hadn’t had
the opportunity to try it. It is made
from the excreted coffee beans of the civet—in other words, cat poop. Apparently, the civet, a type of wildcat, has
a taste for a particular type of coffee bean, and many years ago the indigenous
people discovered that when the undigested coffee beans are separated (more or
less) from the excrement of the cat, one can make an extremely delicious type
of coffee, much better than the coffee made from the unconsumed beans fresh off
the tree. Dubbed by Komang “catpoocino,”
this coffee can cost up to $100 a cup and thousands of dollars a pound in
certain parts of the world. Not only is
it delicious, all sorts of health and beauty benefits have been attributed to
it—like prevention of breast cancer, diabetes and gallstones, elimination of cellulite
and prevention of wrinkles.
After lingering over the various fruit and spice trees, we
came to a covered shelter where one young woman was roasting the Luwak beans in
an iron wok and the general process was illustrated. Below
are a few pictures of the unroasted beans (the solid masses are civet poop), and
a caged resting civet. Then, the moment
of truth—did we want to try it? They
were offering 10-12 free samples of a variety of teas and coffees made from the
spices grown on the farm—turmeric, mangosteen, and lemongrass teas among them
as well as ginseng and coconut coffee and hot cocoa—but the Luwak was not
free. The cost be damned, we said, we
must try it.
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| A cute picture of Komang with a cacao tree |
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| Those solid masses are... |
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| Not the most attractive animal in the world, especially for a cat. |
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| It looks just like any other coffee, but actually did taste quite lovely. |
After the spice farm, we drove into a more mountainous region to visit a beautiful volcanic lake, formed when the volcano erupted explosively
in 1917 and then again in 1927. Only
minor eruptions have occurred since then. We stopped to take some pictures and then
proceeded on to Komang’s village.
We were learning that Komang is a bit of a master at
understatement. He said we would visit
his wife’s school, but did not elaborate.
When we arrived, (the road was extremely bumpy and I was ready to lose
my Luwak), we were greeted by many smiling faces peering out of a classoom and
taken into the administrative office where we met the four other teachers in
the school (lots of smiling, bowing and hands in prayer position, but no
English). Then we were ushered into
Nanica’s classroom and greeted enthusiastically by her class of 25-30 ten to
twelve year olds. Nanica teaches math—and
English, although her own English is pretty minimal. The students clearly had been practicing for
our visit and a list of English songs was written on the blackboard. They could hardly contain their
excitement. “Hello, Mr. Tom, Hello, Mrs.
Sara,” they shouted and as usual the boys were rambunctious, jockeying for the
prominent spots, and the girls stayed in their seats and behaved more politely. Maybe the best singers and the best behaved had been allowed to sit in the front row because they were mostly girls. I love watching the boys, though--always trying to get away with something. After the introductions were complete, the class sang several of the
songs with Nanica acting as conductor and beaming proudly. It almost brought me to tears. One of the songs—Where is Bingo, they called
it, sung to the tune of Frere Jacques—required several of the students to
solo. “Where is Doni, where is Doni?” “Here I am, here I am,” would sing out the
appointed student, so sweetly. In the
end Tom and I were part of the act and I blew it completely; I couldn’t
remember my one simple line! I hope I
can post the video because it was a priceless moment.
After the classroom visit--classes were over for the day--and
as we left the room, all of the students clustered around us and asked
questions, also clearly practiced and rehearsed. “What’s your favorite color?” “What’s your favorite food?” “Where do you live?” and most amusingly, “How
old are you?”
To that question I answered, “Older than your grandmother.” The nuance of my answer escaped the inquiring
student and so Komang translated for her.
The student looked puzzled and answered Komang, “But my grandmother is
dead already!” We all laughed at that.
If all this wasn’t enough, next a student brought out her
notebook and asked me if I would sign my name.
This is the first time in my life I have been asked for my
autograph! It was a heady feeling! Pretty soon, all the students were clustering
around us with pencils and paper and asking Tom and I to sign our names. We signed as many as we could before it was
time to leave and let the students go home for the day. Truly one of the highlights of this entire
trip. The children are always the best
part of travel.
But wait there’s more.
We knew we were going to Komang’s home for lunch and that he was going
to cook for us. I had volunteered to
help and he told me that there would be plenty for me to do. When we got to his house—a substantial
structure surrounded by jungle, consisting of several small buildings all built by Komang and his male family members--we were led to a covered
outdoor gazebo structure with long teak table and teak benches (almost too
heavy to move), and introduced to Komang’s brother and sister, both in their
late forties or early fifties, already hard at work in the kitchen.
The kitchen was in a small building of its own attached to
this protected eating area. Inside the
kitchen, Nanica was already home and working and Brother and Sister were making
preparations for the lunch. A cauldron
of chicken broth was simmering and the wood stove was ready to go. But Komang was definitely the chef in charge. His sister brought out a plate of garlic,
shallots, chili peppers, and green onions and I was instructed to chop, chop,
chop. Meanwhile Nanica used a stone pestle
to make a paste out of lemongrass in a stone mortar that had probably been used
for many generations of their family.
Then Komang brought out a bowl of ground chicken, added the chopped veg
and the lemongrass, a few other secret ingredients and he and I made chicken
balls which would be added to the simmering chicken broth for our first
course. I learned that if you dip your
hands lightly in coconut oil, the chicken will not stick to your fingers and I
soon became an expert chicken ball maker.
This is definitely something I will try at home.
In the kitchen, Brother was threading chicken strips onto
bamboo skewers for sate, Sister was chopping more vegetables for the fried rice
and Komang was issuing orders just like a real chef. It was all wonderfully chaotic yet sublimely
organized. I’m sure they have done this
before, but we still felt very special and honored.
The fried rice was an elaborate symphony conducted by Komang. Handfuls of the chopped veg were popped into
the well-oiled wok and stirred around until fragrant and softened. Then chopped chicken was added, then some
unidentified green spinach-like vegetable, then the cooked rice and strips of
omelet that Komang and sliced up in his spare moments outside. Everything came together miraculously at the
same time and was served with a flourish, accompanied by a big bottle of
Bintang beer which Tom and I shared.
Continued in next post...
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