In Kedisan

The expanse of the crater's lake rests before me, creasing and folding loosely in the wind. One time, long ago, it was the center of a mountain before it blew up in red, flowing earth and hot ash to form the ridge which now encompasses it. The sun has set behind the tall ridge of cliffs and trees; the sky is dusk.

There is a woman, a solitary figure (a shadow for lack of color) at the edge of the lake, bathing. She strips off her underwear, lifts layers of batik skirt, and squats in the shallow water scrubbing herself, a quick glance at me, one who is curiously watching this--her routine. She stands, then, and fills a large bucket, heaving it onto her shoulders, then her head, a movement tired and practiced. She steps gently out of the darkening waters and onto the land, between rows of green onions, planted on the shore, to her home of bamboo sticks and leaves.

The wind blows cold now in this crater. Night is falling.

Another shadowy figure enters the stage before me--a canoeist, struggling against the folding current. He sings as he paddles home, a thin, nasal voice, which reaches my ears barely, depending on the winds' direction. He is dwarfed by the tower of cliffs behind him, his song by the immense silence of darkness. He moves swiftly and smoothly, here but a brief second before my eyes. Now he is gone.

Clouds begin to sneak over the edge of the ridge now, deftly, pushed by the wind which chills my body. This is their home--their land, their sky, their water. I am here but two days to see it.