Deeply-stacked blanket of grey on the horizon and a prodigal son for coffee. Lunchtime leisure, (this is nongkrong), slow discussion of organization and mobilization, elsewhere, interpretation of natural signs, anywhere, and closer to home, planning lamp configurations, as the boys laugh and assure me with barefooted confidence that motherly love knows nothing of high places. (They may be right about that.) Preparations in the village, celebratory or instructional announcements on a distant speaker, (just beyond the jungled ravine, for Odalan), and occasional mantra. So much competition for Frankie, who doesn’t like the look of the sky. He takes advantage of distraction to explore the workshop, with its precarious planks and mounds of dusty woodchips, scratching to unearth bugs, eyeing us warily from across the yard. As we all wait for the (ever unseasonal) rain.
