Dian's MOOR Walk and Putu's Crab Apartment

Planting mangroves for humans, animals, and nature-a One Chance e.V. project

Today, I'm spreading some forestry gossip because I think it's important that you, too, get a sense of what motivates and drives the people here, even from afar, and to show how important genuine connection is in a joint nature project like this, which is financed by foreign money.

So here's the prelude. Beam yourselves up with me to the Balinese mangrove forest with maximum Sunday creativity and imagination:

After a bumpy three-hour drive from the southwest to the northwest, half asleep, half awake, I arrived in Jembrana at 9 a.m. My neck was slightly stiff, my eyes were heavy, and I was a little hungry, but at least I had gone to the bathroom beforehand, so my bladder was empty, which was good. But do I feel like trudging through the mangrove forest in 30-degree heat? I'm not so sure. Cry quietly, Dian, because Team Bendega was already standing at the edge of the forest, greeting me with big smiles and handing me giant rubber boots. They've been here since 7 a.m. working.

I let myself be infected by the boys' good mood and start chattering away: Apa kabar, sehat sehat, semangat yaaa. (=How are you, are you healthy, how's it going, let's go). The usual Balinese greeting, in which neither side expects an answer under any circumstances.

The mangrove boys led the way. I followed straight behind them and briefly felt quite cool in my role as a German Indonesian development aid worker with XXL boots in the mangrove forest. However, I soon realized that the mangrove forest is no catwalk. On the contrary. Full concentration please. Just don't fall down, I thought, and then Is that mud, or is it already moor?

With one hand, I clung to my cell phone, with the other to branches, while I slowly but surely sank into the mud, rooted to the spot. Okay, you should get going now, or do you want to sink into the mangrove forest in slow motion, I asked myself. Every step was a very special form of slowness exercise, first I had to quickly free one XXL boot from the suction without losing it, then quickly pull the other one out of the moor in such an unsexy way, shaking my calves. Each time there was this squelching immersion, followed by an indefinable plop, pop, whoop, or whop when pulling it out. Amazingly, I didn't fall and was even able to keep up with the mangrove boys in the end.

After a few (many!) meters of Dian's moor walk, I was thrilled to discover that there was virtually no trash. Instead, there were countless crabs everywhere, some in beautiful colors, mostly black, with the babies almost transparent.

I saw our mangroves, which had clearly grown, but I also saw quite a few dead plants and freshly planted seedlings. I turned to Bendega and gave him a thumbs up. They were smiling. Wonderful. At this point, I would like to thank all of our supporters in good old Germany once again.

I looked for some firmer ground and stopped. There was chirping and twittering, and everything seemed slightly blurred, as if viewed through a soft filter. I saw the heat, felt the humidity, and was happy that nature had everything it needed here. Mother Earth is alive. Awesome.

Satisfied, I stomped back onto the road with Team Bendega, time for a chat in the small restaurant of the Wana Mertha Community. Pak Putu, the mangrove boss of Wana Mertha, is already waiting for us. By the way: Pak is short for Bapak = Mr.

We sit down in a pergola. Pak Putu is already sitting there cross-legged. When he sees me, he stands up and greets me warmly with his hand, which he then places on his heart. I praise him and his community, as well as Bendega, for their great cooperation and commitment. Despite the torrential rains, 70% of the mangrove seedlings survive.

At first, the conversation is a little awkward, and I wonder whether I should engage in deep talk or basa basi. Basa basi is Indonesian small talk. It is polite, often superficial, and intended to create a pleasant atmosphere.

Feeling a little drowsy, I decide to simply continue praising the collaboration. I then casually mention, somewhat strainedly:

“... after a successful first year, One Chance could certainly support something extra for the Wana Mertha community.”

Bull's eye. That's fuel for the fire. Pak Putu grins, nods, and agrees with me:

“Absolutely. I've been looking for someone to help me with my apartment project for a long time.”

I must look quite irritated, because he just laughs and says:

“Don't worry, I mean apartments for my crab breeding.”

Relieved, I laugh along with them. Everyone laughs. But hati-hati (= be careful). It's not good if Balinese people get the impression that you have too much money at your disposal, otherwise they'll quickly mistake you for a walking ATM machine. That's why I ask quite directly:

“What is the new government supporting here? Perhaps the costs can be shared.”

Pak Putu rolls his eyes.

“Ibu...” (Ibu = woman in Indonesian) “please don't start with the government.”

What follows is a very entertaining monologue about endless government meetings on the subject of forestry. Discussions that hover somewhere between nirvana and nonsense. Empty promises that have become somewhat comical.

“... and in the end, as always, collective gluttony at least,” sighs Pak Putu.

I am surprised. Normally, Balinese veterans like Pak Putu are not so outspoken when they don't know someone very well. He doesn't hide behind his face.

Pak Putu's face is leathery from the sun, marked by wrinkles, his eyes are lively and friendly. No one can fool him anymore. He has the Balimoji theater completely under control.

“Keyword: crab apartment. Why, how, what for, Pak Putu?” I ask.

"The crab apartment is equivalent to an integrated mangrove aquaculture. Crabs and nature conservation in one package. The animals grow in natural water channels, while the mangroves purify the water and keep the coast stable. No chemicals, no stress on the ecosystem – and we farmers and fishermen also benefit. Sounds like a win-win, right? We eat some of it here at Warung Mangrove, and the rest stays in the water."

“I'm in!” I call out, foodie-style.

Pak Putu: “There are hardly any local crabs here, almost everything is imported. Well, maybe the ones from Suwung.”

Fajar, a member of the Bendega team, pricks up his ears.

“Suwung? Bali's garbage dump, right by the sea?”

Pak Putu laughs loudly.

“Yap. Crabs from Suwung, unique in the whole world!”

Everyone laughs, slightly desperately.

“In Indonesia, people think backwards.”

“What do you mean, Putu?” I ask.

"Everyone sees the trash, everyone knows it's a problem, even the children. But instead of finding solutions, we convince ourselves that only tourism brings money. And then there's always this ‘education first’ blah blah blah... It's too late for education when you see the mountains of trash. Besides, the children aren't stupid. At school, they learn all about waste separation and proper disposal, and as soon as they're out on the streets, they see how trash is flying around and being carelessly thrown away. As a child, I would think that's a bit inconsistent and not take the issue of trash seriously. And it's also stupid not to see nature as a treasure, but to destroy it for tourism."

Bendega nods:

“Everyone knows it, but no one speaks up.”

“While the government looks the other way, local and foreign NGOs are taking over waste separation and disposal. Maybe it's because of the past? Indonesia has become accustomed to being dependent on others. Is that smart or just convenient?” I ask.

Without waiting for an answer, I continue:

“In no time at all, we're deep in deep talk. He he he. Actually, not he he he... but what can you do? Our mangrove project is a drop in the ocean. We can only try. Together.”

“Amin, Amin,” everyone calls out together. Here, one word is said twice in the plural form, even when you want to emphasize something. If you don't feel like writing the word twice, you simply add the number two after it. Like Amin2.

It's time to go back, and I'm thinking about what clever closing words I could use to say goodbye. Suddenly, I have an idea:

“During the next monitoring visit, I would like to interview some women from the Wana Mertha community who were involved in the planting. Our supporters would certainly find it exciting to hear their perspective.”

I look at confused faces and see three question marks in the air. I grin inwardly. There it is again, that idealistic, meaningful Western thinking. For the Balinese, it is far removed from reality.

“But of course it's possible,” Pak Putu assures me with a friendly, polite, and benevolent expression that promises nothing. “Bisa, bisa,” he adds. (= It's possible, it's possible.) A typical Indonesian promise, positive and friendly, vague and deceptive.

So that's what development aid is all about, slowly feeling your way forward, cautiously approaching one another. The mangrove forest, the crab apartment, is initially just a backdrop, background noise. What's much more important is getting to know and appreciate one another first. Because it's only when you meet on equal terms that you get the feeling of being there for each other and not just for a project. Without any finger-wagging.

Amin2.

PS: Balinese people love hand signals in photos: the claw in the photo above is the hand signal for roots among forestry professionals.

In the group photo below, the letter L formed with the hand stands for Love Lestari (= love the environment).

And in the following picture, we laugh at the heart formed with the thumb and index finger. That could just as well stand for money, money, money.