Once I was known, grown used to, an endless stream of strangers approached me, waved me over, bought me coffee and tea, called out to me. In my space on my plank I was an old family member. Florinda fed me slices of fishy tempeh. Mrs. Nova made sure I was hydrated. Lena, I suspect, prayed for my soul. One evening I trudged back from up on deck, stepping gingerly past people's sarongs on the floor and hands and heads, and came upon nine ebony-colored men with muscular arms gathered around each other a few planks down from mine. Three of them held crude, homemade ukuleles constructed of fiberboard and nylon, thinly painted in whitewash. Clouds of cigarette smoke rose around them. Perspiration flew from their heads--it was 100 degrees at least, with not a wisp of fresh air. And for two hours they sang in rough, deep, and mad harmony, songs of Papua and work and Indonesian folk songs, other men keeping beat with empty water bottles. They were coming off five months on a gas well in Brunei, heading home to Sorong, a journey from start to finish of almost 12 days. "Sit! Sit!" cried Jacobus. "We want whiskey! Where are you going?" "Ambon," I said, and they broke into song, with a refrain of "Ambon Man" in English. Their singing was spontaneous, organic. The raw energy of lions roaring on the plain, the best of human beauty in the midst of the worst possible place. After two hours they wore themselves out; Jacobus's fingers were bloody, he'd played so long and so hard. I lay down to sleep, the lights bright, my body a series of bruised points on the hard plank.
You can read the rest of the excerpt here, read Carl's blog here, and order the book online here.


