Before continuing toward Watuliney, I asked my friends to stop in Pangu, a village well known for its salak, or snake fruit.

But I was not stopping to buy fruit.

I wanted to see the church.

I had heard about the way the church was decorated during the Pengucapan Syukur season, and I was curious to see it for myself.

When we arrived, I was warmly welcomed by a friendly man who may have been the pastor of the church.

He invited me inside and accompanied me as I looked around.

What caught my attention was the altar.

It was decorated with salak and other fruits, including bananas and coconuts.

The fruits were not simply agricultural products.

They had become part of the visual language of thanksgiving.

The harvest had entered the church.

The landscape had entered the celebration.

And the food of the village had become part of an expression of gratitude.

The man then invited me to stand in front of the church.

He took photographs of me.

Actually, several photographs.

It was a small encounter, but it reminded me once again that during Pengucapan Syukur, even an unexpected stop can become part of the journey.

From Pangu, we continued toward Watuliney, a village close to the sea.

This was the first major destination of the day.

But this was not simply another village visit.

It was a family reunion.

We were visiting the Logor–Pijoh family, at the home of my niece, Rifka Pijoh.

Her father is my mother’s younger brother.

So this first stop connected the journey directly to my own family.

When we arrived, my aunties Anna and Keke, my mother’s younger sisters, were already there.

The reunion immediately became part of the Pengucapan Syukur atmosphere.

Family members.

Food.

Conversation.

Memories.

And, of course, a table prepared for visitors.

Among all the dishes that afternoon, one immediately stood out:

babi putar.

The dish became one of the memorable highlights of the Watuliney table.

Pengucapan Syukur tables often tell stories through abundance.

There may be many dishes, but certain foods become the dish everyone remembers.

At Watuliney, for me, that dish was babi putar.

As always during this season, food was not simply served to us.

It was shared.

And before leaving, we received dodol and nasi jaha to take home.

Another house.

Another table.

Another gift.

Another story.

After Watuliney, our journey became more adventurous.

Our next destination was Kalait.

Kalait is far away, tucked among landscapes of jungle, coconut trees and clove plantations in Minahasa Tenggara.

I had visited the village before, several years ago, when I brought guests on a Minahasa journey.

But that time, we had approached the village from the opposite direction.

This time was different.

And I was trusting one of my friends to lead the way because he had visited Kalait during the previous year’s Pengucapan Syukur.

Perhaps he had forgotten the route.

We will simply say that the road had its own ideas.

At one point, we reached a T-junction.

We turned left.

It seemed reasonable.

But eventually we realized that we were heading toward another village:

Bunaq.

The road to Bunaq became increasingly narrow and rough.

We decided not to continue down that road.

Instead, we stopped and asked for directions.

There were two possibilities.

We could return to the T-junction and take the other road.

Or we could continue forward through another village.

We chose the second option.

And that decision gave us an unforgettable drive.

The road became extremely narrow.

Several times, we encountered cars coming from the opposite direction.

There was hardly enough space.

Sometimes we had to negotiate carefully to pass one another.

It was frightening.

The road was unfamiliar.

But at the same time, the scenery was beautiful.

Coconut trees.

Clove trees.

Dense vegetation.

Mountain landscapes.

Remote villages.

And the feeling that we were travelling through a part of Minahasa that few visitors experience.

This is one of the contradictions of slow travel.

The road can be difficult.

The journey can be uncertain.

And yet those very moments can reveal landscapes that would otherwise remain unseen.

Eventually, we reached Kalait.

And the village was alive.

The atmosphere was animated.

People were moving between houses.

Families were receiving visitors.

Tables were full.

The Pengucapan Syukur spirit was everywhere.

Our journey had taken longer than expected.

But we had arrived.

And now began a remarkable sequence of house-to-house encounters.

Our first visit in Kalait was to the home of Drayfain, from the Masambe family.

Drayfain is a student whom I know through my work at SMKS Kristen 2 Tomohon.

It is important to clarify that the students we visited in Kalait are not my own students from the Tourism Business Department.

I teach Tourism in the Tourism Business Department.

The students we visited in Kalait are students from the Nursing and Health Care Department.

But being part of the same school creates another kind of relationship.

They are still part of our school community.

And during Pengucapan Syukur, the relationship between teacher and student can extend beyond the classroom.

At Drayfain’s home, we met his father and grandmother.

We ate.

We talked.

And, as often happens during this season, we were encouraged to take food home.

We received nasi jaha, dodol and other dishes.

Then came an unexpected invitation.

Drayfain’s grandmother insisted that we visit her house somewhere else in the village.

Her husband was there.

She wanted us to meet him.

We agreed.

But before continuing, there was something I noticed about the family.

Drayfain’s mother had passed away.

His grandparents had taken an important role in his life.

His grandfather told us that he was supporting Drayfain’s education.

That information changed the atmosphere of the visit for me.

This was no longer simply a student visit.

It became a human encounter.

Our second house was the home of Rama, from the Sumilat family.

Rama is a friend of a friend.

He had previously studied in Tomohon and was now studying at a university in Manado.

There was also an interesting connection with Tomohon.

His father told us that Rama had been born in Tomohon.

For him, that was a reason not to forget the city.

Despite the considerable distance between Kalait and Tomohon, the connection remained.

And then something happened that marked this house as a particularly memorable stop:

This was the first house to serve us Bintang beer.

The table continued to grow.

We were given nasi jaha and dodol.

And then came another unexpected gift.

A half sack of coconuts.

The Pengucapan Syukur gifts were becoming increasingly difficult to fit into the car.

Our third visit was to the Karuh family.

There were many people gathered there.

The house was lively.

And then came a surprise.

Among the people gathered around the house was Altje.

I knew her from somewhere else.

She had once lived in the same village as me:

Matani, Tomohon.

What were the chances?

We had travelled all the way to Kalait and encountered someone from my own neighbourhood history.

She now lives with her husband in another village in Tomohon.

But she and her husband know many people in Kalait and often visit the village during Pengucapan Syukur and other celebrations.

Altje told me something interesting about Kalait.

The people there enjoy welcoming visitors.

And they like to give visitors food as souvenirs.

Suddenly, our increasingly full car made perfect sense.

Meeting Altje at Kalait reminded me of something important about travel.

A village may seem remote on a map.

But human connections rarely follow maps.

Someone from Tomohon can appear in Kalait.

A former student can lead us to another family.

A family member can introduce another family.

A road can lead to the wrong village.

And a wrong turn can lead to a surprising reunion.

The geography may be remote.

The relationships are not.

Our fourth visit in Kalait was the Sangkaeng family.

Their son, Dirly, had graduated from SMKS Kristen 2 Tomohon and was now studying at a nursing academy in Tomohon.

Again, the connection was through education.

Again, the school had extended beyond its physical campus.

And again, the table was waiting.

We received:

nasi jaha,

dodol,

and ikan woku wrapped in a woka leaf.

The woka leaf wrapping was particularly beautiful.

It reminded us that traditional presentation is itself part of gastronomy.

The leaf is not merely packaging.

It is part of the story.

And this was where the earlier surprise became even stranger.

Altje was there.

The same person we had unexpectedly encountered at the Karuh family house.

Now we met again at the Sangkaeng family home.

It felt as if Kalait were repeatedly connecting pieces of my past and present.

Former neighbours.

Students.

Families.

Friends.

Tomohon.

Minahasa Tenggara.

All around the same Pengucapan Syukur table.

But we still had one more visit to make.

We had promised Drayfain’s grandmother that we would visit her and her husband.

Their home was located at the end of the village, away from the main village centre.

Interestingly, if approaching Kalait from the opposite direction, their house would be among the first houses encountered.

It was another reminder of how different the village looks depending on which road you take.

We finally reached the house.

Drayfain’s grandfather told us about his grandson.

His daughter—Drayfain’s mother—had passed away.

He had taken responsibility for supporting his grandson’s education.

Listening to him, I felt deep compassion.

There are moments when the role of teacher becomes much larger than teaching.

We are sometimes asked to look after young people who are far from their families.

We are sometimes entrusted with a small part of their future.

And that afternoon, Drayfain’s grandmother asked us to take care of her grandson while he is studying in Tomohon.

My answer was immediate:

Of course.

The grandmother’s request stayed with me.

It was not an official school responsibility.

It was not written in a document.

It was simply a grandmother asking someone she trusted to watch over her grandson.

I hope that I can meet them again someday.

And I hope that Drayfain will continue his education successfully.

The visit ended with another generous offering:

nasi jaha, dodol, and a large bottle of traditional cap tikus.

Once again, we had more gifts to carry.

The car was becoming a moving Pengucapan Syukur table.

By the time we left Kalait, it was already evening.

The village slowly disappeared behind us.

The forest.

The coconut trees.

The clove trees.

The narrow roads.

The houses.

The many tables.

The people who had welcomed us.

And the gifts filling the car.

We had originally intended to visit several homes.

Instead, Kalait had given us an entire sequence of encounters.

And there was still one more village.

We continued toward Liwutung.

By now, it was already getting late.

But I had promised to visit Meyfiani, a former student.

Unlike the students we had visited in Kalait, Meyfiani is my former student from Tourism.

She belongs to the Ronsul family.

Even though the hour was late, we stopped.

A promise to a former student matters.

We were welcomed and received some traditional gifts.

As with every house during this Pengucapan Syukur journey, there was food on the table.

And once again, we had to eat.

By now, our rental car was almost a small warehouse of Pengucapan Syukur gifts.

From Watuliney:

nasi jaha and dodol.

From Kalait:

nasi jaha, dodol, traditional snacks, dishes, coconuts, ikan woku, and more.

From the grandparents:

nasi jaha, dodol and cap tikus.

From Liwutung:

traditional gifts.

There is a point during these journeys when you realize that you can no longer simply ask:

“Where should we put this?”

The entire car has become part of the celebration.

But the day was not supposed to end in Liwutung.

We still had another destination:

Tondano.

Our teacher friend Eko had invited us to the baptism celebration of his first son.

We had promised to come.

So, despite the late hour, we continued toward Tondano.

We arrived at around 10 p.m.

But the celebration was already over.

The baptism celebration had taken place at the church parsonage.

Eko’s mother is a pastor, and the family stayed in the pastor’s house behind the church.

By the time we arrived, the celebration had finished.

We had missed it.

After such a long journey, this was a disappointing ending.

We had intended to be there.

We had promised.

But the road, the distance, the village visits and the unexpected encounters had taken much longer than expected.

We returned to Tomohon with a feeling of guilt that we had not arrived earlier.

But there was also another feeling.

Gratitude.

This day taught me again that Pengucapan Syukur does not follow a strict timetable.

A house may invite you to stay.

A grandmother may ask you to visit her home.

A table may be filled with food.

A former friend may suddenly appear.

A road may take you somewhere you did not intend to go.

And someone may insist that you take a sack of coconuts home.

You cannot always say:

“We have to leave now because our itinerary says so.”

At least, not if you want to experience the celebration as it is actually lived.

Among all the villages we visited that Sunday, Kalait left a particularly strong impression.

The village is remote.

The road can be difficult.

It is surrounded by forest, coconut plantations and clove trees.

But the welcome was extraordinary.

Every house seemed ready to receive visitors.

Every table seemed to have room.

And every family seemed willing to share something.

Food.

Stories.

Memories.

Or simply a place to sit.

Altje’s explanation helped us understand why.

The people of Kalait are accustomed to welcoming visitors during Pengucapan Syukur and other celebrations.

The hospitality is part of the village culture.

One of the defining characteristics of this second Pengucapan Syukur journey was the amount of food we received.

But the food itself is not the whole story.

A packet of nasi jaha carries the memory of a house.

Dodol carries the memory of a conversation.

A coconut carries the memory of a family saying:

“Take this home.”

Ikan woku wrapped in woka leaf carries the memory of the table where it was served.

The gifts become edible souvenirs.

But unlike souvenirs bought in a shop, these gifts come with relationships attached.

Our journey covered several different landscapes.

Watuliney, close to the sea.

Kalait, remote among forest, coconut and clove plantations.

Liwutung, where a former student welcomed us in the evening.

Tondano, where we arrived too late for the baptism celebration.

The journey connected coast, village, plantation, school community, family and church.

It showed how Pengucapan Syukur moves through different layers of Minahasa life.

As a teacher at SMKS Kristen 2 Tomohon, I often meet students inside a classroom.

But the relationships created at school do not always end when the school bell rings.

A student’s family becomes part of the story.

A former student’s home becomes a place of reunion.

A grandmother asks us to look after her grandson.

A former student invites us to her village.

The school community becomes connected to the wider community.

This is one of the things I value most about being involved in tourism education.

Tourism is ultimately about people.

And education is also about people.

A journey such as this is not an ordinary tourist itinerary.

We did not visit famous attractions one after another.

We visited:

a niece,

aunts,

students,

former students,

families,

friends,

a church,

and people we unexpectedly encountered along the way.

The destinations were human.

The food was part of the welcome.

The road connected the stories.

This is the kind of journey I believe deserves a place in the idea of slow travel.

The first Pengucapan Syukur journey had taken us through Tewasen, Karimbouw, Tumpaan and Koreng.

The second took us through Watuliney, Kalait and Liwutung, before ending unsuccessfully—but meaningfully—in Tondano.

Two Sundays.

Two journeys.

Many houses.

Many tables.

Many stories.

And a growing understanding of what Pengucapan Syukur means when experienced from inside the community rather than simply observed from outside.

At every house, there was something to eat.

Sometimes the table was full of familiar dishes.

Sometimes there were traditional snacks.

Sometimes there was nasi jaha.

Sometimes dodol.

Sometimes ikan woku.

Sometimes something as simple as coconuts to take home.

But the most consistent ingredient was not food.

It was hospitality.

Perhaps the most memorable part of the journey was the road into Kalait.

We trusted a friend who had travelled there the previous year.

He may have forgotten the route.

We took the wrong turn.

We reached Bunaq.

We encountered a narrow and difficult road.

We had to ask for directions.

We chose to continue rather than return.

And eventually we arrived.

If we had followed the perfect route, we might have missed the experience.

That is one of the paradoxes of travel:

sometimes the wrong road becomes the right story.

The first Pengucapan Syukur journey taught us about open doors and unexpected encounters.

The second taught us about family, education, responsibility and the generosity of remote villages.

Together, the two Sundays began to reveal a larger picture.

Pengucapan Syukur is not one experience.

It is a season.

And every Sunday can reveal another part of it.

Watuliney → Kalait → Liwutung → Tondano

Family → Students → Former Student → Friend

Sea → Forest → Plantations → Highland Road

Table → Table → Table → A table we arrived too late to share