We’ve walked to the beach  in Batu Putih beside Tangkoko. Ooh it’s very hot black sand. I’ve got sturdy sandals but yikes, my feet sink deeper than the soles and  the sand burns something awful.

The boats  are really nice. We sit  in the shade enjoying their colours and elegance.  And there is  a floating platform house under construction.

The village’s name is Batu Putih, which means White Rock, I don’t see it  but then again maybe it was far sighted  because now there is polystyrene crumble everywhere. It’s perfect material to use  under the floating platforms.

We walk back  to the road and the path goes  straight through someone’s yard.  Our arrival created lots of laughter.

Nothing is open . Too early, oh and it’s Sunday  but there is  a little sembako open. I do like to buy something from the little places. I bought peanuts and sweet buns.  Another dollar  spent rashly.

And then a little bunch of bananas…one more dollar!

All around the village reverberates with church song and then  further along there is the evanlgelical hectoring.

Now the streets  have people coming from church in Sunday Best. You know people are dressed up when they are  carrying  handbags. Some on their heads as a sunshade. 

We had one hundred hellos. We are  greeted by everyone. One tiny elderly  lady marches up to me, holds my hand and tells us she is 83.

And then a young man walking on very twisted legs, up on his toes with his feet twisted in.

We are melting in the sun. Only mad dogs and Australians go out in the midday sun..

What’s that, bags hanging ..water ? coconut water? Nope . There is tiny fish in them there bags . I asked the customer who came  how long they live. One month.

There is nothing I would have loved more than es cakar/grated ice with syrup. The lady is shaving it with the blade set in the wooden stand.

It’s time to head back to Manado

Dang, it’s Sunday and all the drivers seem to be having a day of rest. Nobody is picking up on Grab taxi. Back at our lodge Steve suggests I sit out the front in case somebody gets dropped off . Now I learn there is a reason the staff sit on a platform out near the front gate..the signal is better. I tell them we might have to sleep  in the garden  or on the kitchen floor. No! says the cook , there is no mat.  you will  sleep on banana leaves..

Eventually someone stops a village Taksi.. we wouldn’t have even identified it.

Head back down those same very windy roads to Bitung station. Not lots of traffic which is always a relief. The driver made the most of it and drove on  the centre line almost the whole way.

He was playing music and tapping along.  I said I like  Iwan Fals songs (because  I’ve found some that are slow enough for me to try and learn). He is maybe the indo  folk equivalent of Bob Dylan X Joni Mitchell.    A story teller and sometimes  almost at speaking pace.  Fortunately he chose two I know (or nearly).  We  sang  together. Me with gusto in the chorus,  and a fair bit of mumbling at other times.

If you have Spotify you can get the lyrics  find Iwan Fals  and the song Sore Tugu Pancoran

We have several times crossed a toll road TOTALY EMPTY.  Huge infrastructure.. concrete  road rather than bitumen. Empty as far as the eye can see. Apparently 4 lanes and an average of 4 cars a minute  don’t know where they are. The 2 lane road we are on probably does more than that a second with cars overtaking  scooters either side. 

The mikrolet bus. We are prepared by  our previous experiences.  Expect to get squished.  So far it’s been good but expect our luck  to run out. And we are prepared to be told to move up for people to get a third person in 2 seats.  I sit beside  Steve  we are both bigger than these seats are designed for. One butt hanging off the seat. Our backpacks filling the aisle.

A lady comes and points . Sit there. At a pair of empty seats. I start to apologise and move my bags..does she want to sit there? No..  does she want to sit where we are? No. She doesn’t mind.  You sit! Steve prepares to move with me.

No.

Satu orang,  dua kursi…one person 2 seats.   Aagh is this rule for COVID I ask.

Yes.  The whole bus is happy And the lady goes back to her seat.  And off  we go.

We exit at Manado bus station and within  about 40 seconds I realise my sunnies aren’t in my pouch.  Oh no, my prescription specs. I go hareing around the bus station.  I tell  the snack vendors. The bus has moved and I can’t identify  the one we came on .  I get advice this way, over there, that one! green one! Phew, there is the driver dangling them out the window.

Head for dinner near the waterfront . This is pretty fancy. Big shops.

I comment on the English  in signs No Pork, No life. And in it’s  religious counterpoint. No pork, no lard.

We have dinner and are served by a girl with a cleft palate.  I can see the scars and  all   may be stitched on the outside, but still  her speech sounds quite compromised.  I wonder if maybe the outcome would have been better in our well resourced health system. And then I remember the child we met years ago in Sumatra with a gaping cleft palate and I think -they’ve done well.