Hanya satu puloh ribu hari (Only $1 dollar a day)

They walk by the fence of the villa. Heads wrapped with old, wet towels to keep cool during the 90 degree days, topped by ragged, grey-brown old straw hats. From the kitchen Anni and I greet them in Indonesian. They all smile and wave or sing Indonesian back to me. After they pass by, Anni tells me they are field workers. The poorest of Indonesia. They work very, very hard in the fields, they make 10,000 or 20,000 rupiah a day ($1 or $2 USD for 10 or 12 hours of back breaking work)…when they can get work, sometimes they will go for days or weeks with no work. It is very hard life. They good, good people, she says, because they work hard.

I’ve adopted Anni’s philosophy on giving while here. Give to the elderly and the crippled, anyone who can’t work. Children and “mothers” holding babies (which Anni tells me really aren’t their children, everyone here knows it’s a rouse for the tourists…that and the money ends up going to someone else entirely) with their hands outstretched are kindly turned down. But the field people, Anni nods in their direction, are not like that. She tells me she sometimes walks out with copi (coffee) and snacks because they not have money.

I ask if we can do it today, buy the women food and drinks. I have to work this morning, but if I gave her money would she buy snacks for them. I run upstairs to grab some change. I count out 50,000 rupiah ($5 USD, pocket change) and Anni laughs and shakes her head. She thinks I’m still confused about the exchange rate: This too much money for snacks.

I shake my head – spend it, please, Anni. Maybe they could use the leftovers another day.

She smiles and heads out to the walk to the market. When she returns, she points to my camera, knowing I hardly leave the house without it. But I still feel the little prickles of hesitation. Do I? Do I really go out and take their pictures, like another tourist attraction? But it’s not like that, to me. These women are not like that, to me. I’ve watched them for a few days now. Beautifully lined, rugged faces. Dark almond eyes. Bent backs, covered with lacy kabayah or t-shirts. I am fascinated by their routine, their life, their existence so different from my own. And more and more, I’m realizing if my writing is my way of processing my world – my camera captures it.

I take it. I’ll see how they react. If it seems alright, I’ll take some photos. But I don’t want to force this or any moments to film. I want permission. Because I think I’m learning that’s what creates the magic, the honesty, the depth of my favorite photos. I like the beauty of un-posed, soft, honest moments of real people. I like when people turn their faces, or stare into the sun, or thought passes through their head that no one else sees, but my camera. To get that, to let me see this after a large camera is presented, there’s level of trust that I try to build—through my demeanor or words and in situations where I speak only remedial bits and pieces of the language used, I try to communicate this through my actions: a quiet smile, a soft head nod, and open heart I hope they can feel.

Now, we take off our shoes, to walk barefoot along the rice padi walls—like the workers do. Where a wall crumbles, we sink slowly into gray-green mud past our calves. They see me coming from a distance. I stand before them, mud covering my legs, greeting them in soft Indonesian. They smile wide when they hear me trying out my new words. We present the food and cold soda (for the hot day). They point to my camera and ask questions. I ask if I may take their pictures. When I’m done, I show them. I’m dripping with sweat in my t-shirt and shorts. They are smiling, and warm in their wet rags and long sleeved shirts. They laugh as we flip through photos. I point to faces and call them beautiful, very beautiful. Because they are. The depth, the lines, the warmth. I can’t believe this is on my camera. A woman with a missing tooth and lazy eye, points to me then walks to her bag. She pulls out a small, fistful sized bag of coffee grounds. She thanks me, the women nod their thanks as she holds it out to me.

At first I don’t get it. I’ve intruded on their day, I’ve watched them work, I have a slew of shots I can hardly believe, all for a bag of snacks. And this woman, who works for dollars a day, will give me her coffee to thank me. I put my hands to my heart and bow low to thank them and try to find the kindest words to turn it down, they have given me so much already. She must keep her coffee for later. There is warm confusion and laughter as my heartfelt words get lost in the difficult translation. We walk back in the hot sun on my back, barefoot, through the cool mud, to the house. I look back and they smile at me. I wave. They hold up their cold sodas and wave back, rice padi and coconut trees behind them. I’m completely speechless. (I’m relieved to find with all the amazing people and things around me of late, I’m still not used to it--I can still just revel in being blown away.)