The rain comes down in torrents. Outside the flooded river rushes thunderously down in spinning swirls, brown and white like creamed coffee in a blender. Under the shelter of this restaurant/guesthouse we sit. Some of us watch, awed by the power of the river, rain, and lightening thunder. Others of us play cards and chess around wooden tables. Still others of us read and sip coffee. All of us smoke. Mingled in and through us, the travellers, are they, the natives--the Indonesians. They stand out among us with their black skin, shirtless many of them, with tight backs and biceps. Their hair is long and bushy, held together in a low pony tail. They wear necklaces of black string and wooden pendants. They walk carelessly, confidently, strutting in tight Levis on the dusty planks. One sits with the card players. Another makes a trekking deal with a young blonde Brit. Two sit around the chess players playing guitar and singing Marley songs. They are Indonesians, but Indonesians who guide treks for us tourists. They speak English well, use our idioms better than us, tell us to trust them, slap our backs in jest, smile easily, look into our eyes straightly and shake our hands after a deal. They pretend to befriend us, but they talk in whispers with each other and elbow each other knowingly when they walk past each other. They are tight, these guides and work under rules we know nothing about. What a strange life they lead here among us, in a town built up for us. They live here in a community defined by constant replacement; travellers come, trek for a few days, and leave. Those of us who come wear long skirts and tank tops with no bras. We wear bandanas in our hair and tatoo our arms. We have long unkempt hair. We smoke and walk lazily, talk slowly. They act accordingly, for we are who they work for, we are what they know. We are their community. So they peel themselves of their Indonesian-ness and take on the character of the rambling, wandering traveler here in this small town for always. What they don't know (or they ignore) is that we, most of us, go home and cut our hair, don our suits, and start wearing deoderant again. Then we work hard towards the next bit of travel we can afford. They, however, continue with this traveller life indefinitely.