Free Of Foreign Build by Jackie Parry Page B

spotted what looked like an alfresco restaurant, with dancing and singing, all amid a brimming rainbow of colour. We should have been checking in, but we were ashore now and wanted some lunch. We meandered past, trying to covertly spy on the party.
    Wafting from the stage, there was funky Arabian music played by a ragamuffin band sitting cross-legged, with homemade drums, violins, and guitars. On the other side of the stage were young men dressed in strangely plain, but beautiful, long Dish-Dashers (tunics), dancing and singing. Around the tables were the usual family members that gathered for a wedding. We were invited in. Well, not so much invited, but physically dragged in. I had worn a long sarong and a shirt with long sleeves in respect for the officials we would meet when checking in (some Indonesians are not used to seeing women’s bare legs and arms). Other cruisers passed by and were not invited in, because they were wearing shorts – Indonesians can find this offensive. At first, we were reluctant and I felt shy. We had been reading about the way of Indonesians, their culture and do’s and don’ts. I was terrified of making a huge faux pas. Taking a proffered plate, we were manhandled around the buffet, Mum and Dad ensuring that we sampled everything. It’s actually rude to turn down an invitation, or pretty much anything offered by an Indonesian, so we just went with the flow.
    Our unbidden hosts tossed out a local family from the best seats near the stage and indicated that this was where we must sit, as honoured guests.
    ‘Everyone is watching us,’ I said to Noel with a broad smile, hiding my embarrassment.
    Noel and I sat and took the first tentative steps of trying the unidentifiable food. Noel smiled at me reassuringly.
    ‘I know,’ he said, ‘my goodness, try some of this, it’s delicious.’
    It wasn’t long before we were spooning it in with gusto. The flavours were incredible. New spices assaulted our taste buds, sending them into a frenzy of wanting more. All washed down with the sweetest lychees and plenty of water.
    Eventually, the performers on the stage insisted that we joined them for a dance. We put them off for a while by slowing our eating and resisting eye contact, but it was inevitable. Still nervous of doing the wrong thing in this fresh experience and novel culture, we tentatively stepped onto the makeshift stage. The groovy music pumped around the band, vibrating the stage; we sedately boogied on down, trying to mimic our hosts’ dance moves. I didn’t feel like dancing like a westerner, because I wasn’t sure how hip swinging would be received and all the guests were watching our every move. The laughter was infectious: from the pleasure of their guests dancing and enjoying themselves, from the men who could tell I was nervous, from the jokes at our expense from the stunningly dressed girls; there was no stopping it.
    Fine fabrics in an array of different colours beaded with sparkling rainbows, flitted around the party, pointing and staring at the plainly dressed visitors.
    After a couple of songs, we were thanked profusely and settled back into our prime seats. Several guests joined us to talk. We didn’t understand a word anyone said! It was enormous fun speaking in our own, unprofessional, sign language.
    Noel and I were both handed a gold painted, heart-shaped photo frame as a gift, and we thought it might be appropriate to present one in return to the bride and groom. I always carried a few handfuls of sweets for kids and some small koala bear figurines that donned cork hats and ‘I Love Australia’ t-shirts – a bit tacky maybe, but it was all we had, and we liked to think it was the thought that counted. Once our hosts realised what we wanted to do we were promptly pulled up and gently shoved to where a photo session was taking place. We were reluctant to interrupt, but were literally pushed over to the supposedly happy couple and made to stand with the rather stiff