Flores: Adventures in Flores (the first trip)

I discovered my travel notes of our first big trip to Flores. They don't diverge too much from my earlier post based on photos and memory, but they add more detail and depth. I forgot most of the people we met along the way with the exception of the friend we visited. Most importantly for me, my memories of Flores conveniently erased frustrating details. Re-reading the journal entry surprised me 30 years after the event. I was happy to revisit the "lowlights" of the trip.

December 1994

Ujung Pandang: a frustrating transit

Amazingly, the plane departed Jakarta on time for Ujung Pandang, the transit point for the flight to Maumere. The trip had materialized last minute; hence, there was no time spent looking forward to it. Our end of year travel literally just "happened" (which was unusual for us). I had one week to myself to relax and prepared for Brian's arrival, but what does one expect when given no time for expectations?

In transit - Ujung Pandang: noon. I had already been sitting in a poorly air-conditioned departure lounge with hard plastic seats for two hours. The plane was to depart at 2:00pm (I hoped). As was usually the case, correct and up-to-date information was too valuable to share with the common person. A small kiosk was selling slices of Pizza Hut - I was hungry and went for it. Not good, but my hunger was satisfied. A few minutes after I heard: "All passengers for Maumere please report to Gate 1". Most excellent - we are leaving. At the gate: "Here Mister, a meal voucher because the plane is now departing at 3:00pm". Off to the airport canteen where I received the lunch box that would have been served on the flight. After opening it, I felt even happier with the mediocre pizza. At least I got to see who else was on the flight with me - surprisingly, three other foreigners - a guy with a pony tail and a couple.

Back in the transit lounge another announcement was made: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the flight has been cancelled until tomorrow. We will provide passengers hotel vouchers for the night in Ujung Pandang". I had been to Ujung Pandang before - it is not one of my favorite cities in Indonesia (in fact, it is one of the few I dislike). During the process I got to meet Jurgen from Germany and Anton and Gars from the Netherlands. Jurgen had just arrived from the Philippines to Indonesia through the "back door" (i.e., not via Java or Bali). Wow, I thought, he must be an interesting person. Anton spent many holidays in Indonesia and was showing Gars around Flores for the first time. He had already visited Ujung Pandang (and also Flores). "Wow, meeting this group could actually turn out to be something good" - or so I thought.

They put Jurgen and I in one room (assuming we were foreigners and obviously knew each other) and Anton and Gars in the other. Too late to sightsee (I didn't think there was much to see having visited before), we also weren't hungry. Jurgen said he needed an alarm clock. With a purpose established, Anton led us to the main shopping area. After a frustrating search (an experience with which I was familiar living in Jakarta), we found a small shop with cheap, battery-powered clocks. I helped Jurgen bargain. The price was reduced, but Jurgen wanted it even lower. I felt tired and hot in the market, and we faced a stalemate.

Matt: I don't think they will come down any more.

Jurgen: I don't want to pay 7,500Rp. It is too much.

M: You are fussing over 25 more cents.

J: Oh. (pause) I'll take it

Later, we walked to the seafront promenade. I remembered it from my previous trip. If anything saves that city from being totally dreadful, it is the marvelous avenue that runs right along the harbor edge. Loaded with small food vendors and coffee stands, people can snack or have a drink while watching the sun sink through the ever-changing clouds into the sea. Indonesia often has amazing sunsets. Additionally, the water is not as polluted as that off the coast of other large cities (Jakarta's is terrible). The sea breeze felt nice, so we sat down for a coffee. Anton was in a heavy conversation with some local kids and Gars was silent. Jurgen and I started to talk about Indonesia and Germany. He was a mechanic from the southwest near Lake Constance. I immediately thought of my friend MP who was from the same general area. But Jurgen was not MP (not remotely)

Jurgen: Did you see all those men holding hands?

Matt: Yeah.

Jurgen: I didn't know there were so many gays in Indonesia.

Matt: They are not gay. Male friends here often hold hands or walk with their arms around each other. It's just part of their culture. It doesn't mean...

Jurgen: It's unnatural! Men are never supposed to do that with each other. It's disgusting.

Matt: But, Jurgen, it is their culture. It doesn't mean anything. You see they don't really get the chance to date and be close to women before marriage. Don't you think humans have a need to feel "touch" sometimes?

Jurgen: It's disgusting. No one better touch me!

I had two thoughts simultaneously:

Am I really ethnic German?

How could my refined, open-minded friend MP be from the same part of Germany?

The sun had set. It was time to return to the hotel to eat. We reported to the restaurant where there was a fantastic buffet laid out. It seemed too good to be true. We were told: "Oh, so sorry, there has been a change, please report to the lounge". I will take you there." After being led through the kitchen and laundry room, we arrived at the lounge. We were served yet more airplane food (except it was on a plate and not in a box). I wanted to be in Flores - I did not want to be in Ujung Pandang.

We requested a wake up call at 6:00am and ended up getting three: 5:45, 5:50, and 6:05. Anton and Gars also requested one and received none. We were whisked back to the departure lounge - our flight was not listed on the departures screen. More waiting. We were finally called for our flight - a small prop plane. At least we all had window seats. Soon we were soaring over the open sea which turned various shades of blue depending on the water's depth. Occasionally we saw an atoll with emerald vegetation, sugary white sand, and turquoise water. Ujung Pandang was already becoming a memory. Maybe Flores was going to be good in spite of the bad start.

Maumere, Flores

Maumere Bay

The coast of Flores appeared and soon so did Maumere. What a small town! We landed and stepped off the plane into a blast of hot air. Then we entered the "baggage claim" area (where I should have parted ways with my new travel companions). I was nice, however, and waited patiently for everyone to get their bags - it took 30 minutes to move our luggage 100 meters to the terminal. We could even see our bags and would have gladly taken them ourselves.

I should have realized after we all got our bags that the others were not going to be appropriate travel companions They were budget traveling to the extreme. Anton insisted that we walk about 15 minutes to the main road to take a public bus into town. We could have easily all shared a taxi, but that might have cost more (and not much). Anton, Gars, and I got into one bus, and we helped Jurgen get in another headed out of town toward a diving center. We had not seen the last of him.

On the bus we were joined by a quasi-Rastafarian local, Patrick, who inflicted his help upon us. The adventure only got better (not). It may come off as snobbish, but Brian and my days of real budget travel had ended. When a person is in their 20s and going around the world on limited budget, even 50 cents is important. However, when a person gets older and has more disposable income, why go through the agony of selecting the "cheapest" everything? We all could have shared a taxi from the airport and spent about two dollars each, but, no, we had to take the 15 cent public bus. Why? Of course, there was a huge price difference, but I wanted to enjoy the trip, not suffer through it. If I were that tight with money, I never would have traveled to such a remote part of Indonesia to begin with.

Patrick gave us the third-degree as we all climbed into the "bemo" (mini-van cum bus) already stuffed to the gills with passengers and boxes. The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Anton, who had been to Maumere before, didn't appear to recognize anything. My impression was that the town looked like a war zone. Then Anton gave the missing clue - in 1992 there had been a huge earthquake that nearly leveled the place. No wonder none of the hotels listed in the guidebooks existed. I had a moment of panic: what was Brian going to say when he arrived to such a dire situation? Patrick (who talked nonstop) led us to a hotel that had been severely damaged but was rebuilding. It was, in a word, a dump. Anton and Gars seemed to be seriously considering it (for price), but I was adamant that there had to be something better. We left and finally managed to shake off Patrick who had started to give us the creeps. In our travels we often encountered similar types who make it their mission to hassle and cheat the newly arrived. That certainly is not unique to Indonesia.

Glad to be on our own again, we wandered a city filled with broken buildings in search of a hotel. A short walk took us to a place Anton had stayed before, but he barely recognized it post-earthquake. It was also in the process of repair. We were shown a room in the back that looked terrible. Again, Anton and Gars were about ready to take it. I wanted to give up on the situation: "Let them take it. I'll find a place that costs more than $7 per night". What was I doing showing solidarity with two people I barely knew? Luckily, another room was available. It had literally just been built - new, clean, and with three beds. We all nodded our approval. The only problem was that I did not know the status of Anton and Gars. Anton was tall, lanky, and loquacious. Gars was stout and dour - not particularly attractive. Were they a couple? The hotel staff asked if we would share the room. I looked at my Dutch companions and asked if that bothered them: "no". Finally, the room hunt was over. We were all only staying one night anyway and I would definitely find something better for the following day. I did not want to drag my bag around the wreck of a town looking for a room in the heat. For one night, I could stand mostly anything.

At the hotel: Marcel was the front desk person. Anton had terrified him because he constantly made ironic jokes that simply did not translate well culturally. Indonesians love humor, but sarcasm and irony are not used in their humor. I was shocked with all Anton's travels in Indonesia that he had not learned that. Marcel was a graduate of a Hotel & Tourism program in Bali - one of the best in the country. Working in that dump of a place was the best thing he could find back home in Flores. I felt sad for him, but underemployment was common in Indonesia.

Matt: How did you get a French name.

Marcel: No, it's just my name.

Matt: But, your name is French

Marcel: I'm Indonesian

Matt: (this is going nowhere) Oh, I see

Marcel: Mr Matt, why is Mr Anton angry with me? Doesn't he like me?

Matt: Mr Anton told me he thinks you are a nice guy (he didn't). Why do you think that?

Marcel: He's always saying angry things

Matt: He's just joking.

Marcel: (disbelieving look)

Matt: Really.

From that time, Marcel warmed a bit to Anton but remained wary. After all, foreigners were very unpredictable. Marcel, however, thought I was the best thing since sliced bread and we soon were having a conversation about his education, his frustrations in finding a good job, his hometown (where Brian and I were headed - he was so pleased), and his new girlfriend. During the whole conversation Marcel held my hand, put his head on my shoulder, or stroked my back - all meaning "I think you are swell". Lucky for Marcel he didn't meet Jurgen.

Speaking of whom, our Fourth Reich friend showed up on the hotel doorstep. "The dive center was expensive and bad. All the coral was damaged in the earthquake. I found a room up the street and am headed to Kelimutu (famous volcanic lakes) tomorrow." Great - now I am very concerned about Brian since the guidebook listed the coral offshore from Maumere as some of the best in Indonesia. I started to wonder if coming to Flores was a good idea after all.

I longed to get away from my new found friends. They left in search of a bus ticket, so I wandered around town and had a look at the dilapidated market. Maumere has little to do and it is extremely hot (a common theme from the trip). Marcel helped me get some information on renting a car and driver, but it was expensive. I asked him if there was a travel agent nearby. Marcel directed me to Agustinus (Agus) and I went to his office to get more information. Agus and I had a long conversation where I got all the details about the car: I promised to return the next day. Meanwhile, my European friends got bus tickets for an early departure in the morning. At last I would be on own (I hadn't been since the waiting room in Ujung Pandang Airport). I felt freer knowing the others were leaving, but also frustrated at the cost of the car rental. I had to let Brian know. I called him and he gave me the go ahead to reserve what seemed to be an overpriced car. The choice was simple: $75 and riding in reasonable comfort at our own pace or $2 and sitting crammed in a small, hot space for a much longer time. We had $75 for the car - done.

Jurgen: You want to rent a car? Why not take the bus?

Matt: We don't have much time and want to see as much as possible.

Jurgen: But $75 is too much. I would never pay that much.

Matt: I agree, but Germany is expensive, right?

Jurgen: This is Indonesia. I would never pay so much.

Matt: (well then don't; ride the public bus for three days)

That evening we all ate together in some street food stalls because there weren't any other options. I got soup and rice. Those were two things I was sure had been cooked a long time. They all got goat sate. Our conversation took a fast downhill turn.

Anton: Don't you like sate?

Matt: Not goat sate.

Anton: Well, I love it. What are you eating, only soup?

Matt: I'm not too hungry.

Jurgen: This stuff is great.

Matt: You know they really don't seem to have much good food in Flores. I think the land is not productive here, so it hasn't led to the development of much of a cuisine. We are eating the equivalent of Indonesian fast food, actually.

Jurgen: Huh? (you have exceeded my English understanding and intellectual capacity simultaneously)

Matt: This is like Indonesian McDonalds (oh son of Goethe)

Jurgen: What? I love Indonesian food.

Matt: This is Indonesian food, but it's not good Indonesian food like you get in Java. Our cook makes excellent Javanese home cooking. It really -

Jurgen: You have a cook?

Matt: Yeah, in Jakarta

Jurgen & Anton: (exchange knowing looks)

Matt: (well at least after I get back to Jakarta I won't have hepatitis or worse)

Our unhappy clan finally broke up. They all got on the morning bus and I sincerely wished them well. I once again met with Agus because Marcel told me Agus managed to find me a a hotel room about 10km outside of town on the beach. That sounded perfect - anything was better than Maumere. All I wanted was a beachside bungalow in which to relax for a few days while I waited for Brian to arrive. Agus felt nervous I wouldn't like it, so he hadn't mentioned it earlier. I thought after the hotel in Maumere, how much worse could it be? Before I knew it, I checked out of the hotel and put on a bemo headed for the next adventure. At least I was getting out of Maumere.

Nogo Beach Bungalows

The bemo bumped down a dirt road off the main road into a cluster of badly built, pre-fab houses. Those homes were provided by the government to people who lost everything in the earthquake. Even low-income housing projects in American inner-cities start out with good intentions and look OK for the first couple of years. Those homes outside Maumere looked as if the government intended to build the most squalid, unattractive, unhealthy houses possible - literally, they were a Jakarta slum transported to rural Flores. The official government line was something like "they're damn lucky to have received this." Jamal, a resident of said housing, volunteered to walk me to the beach (not far). I checked in and sat down in front of my room continuing my chat with him. He was a friendly enough guy just looking for conversation. I, however, with a secret agenda of escaping Islam (at least for two weeks), hoped he would tire of the conversation and leave. I felt guilty about such feelings, but only seven months into Indonesia I had become a late 20th century crusader. Banish the infidels! (or at least blunt their impact on modern Indonesia). Jakarta was strongly influenced by religious conservatives and impacted daily life greatly. I was kind with Jamal and we ended up chatting for a few hours in front of my room. As with most Indonesians, he was an extremely polite young man.

My bungalow was very basic, but clean. The location was next to a very dubious, swampy looking river (source of many mosquitos - but "don't worry, we don't think they are malarial") and, more importantly, in front of a very small beach. To one side, the mouth of the river and mangroves; to the other, a long curving beach near the pre-fab village. Being that the residents were Bugis fisherman (ironically, originally from Ujung Pandang, my least favorite city of the trip), there was a lot of activity to observe all day long. Men were taking boats in and out, families were drying nets, and the shore was constantly being combed for food. Nogo Beach was the ideal location to watch a different world from Jakarta (and Maumere) pass by. Of course, since the nearby village was Muslim, I didn't escape "Azan" (call to prayer - the bane of all foreigners living in Jakarta). I felt the extreme irony of being on 95% Catholic Flores and finding a place to stay that was near a mosque. "Allahu Akhbar" at 4:30am - it was following me everywhere. I asked myself why someone else's piety had to impact my life.

Did I regret going there? No, for two reasons: first, the view over Maumere Bay was stunning.

Volcanic mountains (still active) floated on the horizon of the Flores Sea. At sunset the mountains changed colors from golden to purple to black with the calm sea mirroring the spectacle. At night, stars peppered a cloudless sky with no light pollution of which to speak (even Maumere was dimly lit). I loved it and would stay there for four days - unwinding from the urban tension built up in Jakarta.

And there was a second reason I loved Nogo Beach - the staff.

Eta: From the slopes of Ili Api on Lembata Island (our final destination), Eta had gone to a tourism training program in Maumere and landed the job at Nogo Beach. She was "the cook" (excellent!), but actually she was more. It felt like she was the glue that held the place together. Each night the food seemed to be better than the last with generous servings. Ikan bakar - grilled fish - was my request every day. The fish were caught by the local fisherman straight from unpolluted Maumere Bay and prepared that same day along with local vegetables and rice. Eta was very young but definitely the "mother" of the group. Even if her role appeared domestic, she was no shrinking violet. She joined us at dinner interjecting her opinions strongly with a lot of independent ideas. What a refreshing change from Java where women are largely relegated to the background.

PJ & John: Definitely my favorites, those poor guys were one step above slave labor. Aged 19 and 22, they carried out the hardest physical tasks. Flores is HOT and they worked all day without much of a break. Some of the bungalows were still being built and during my stay, they were building a retaining wall near the river to reduce the risk of flooding. The owner (overseer + exploiter) would stop by each day to make sure they were working hard. They busted their butts all day for about $15 per month - quite low even for Indonesia. From all that hard labor they had gym-fit bodies - they could have been models for Greco-Roman statuary (if they were carved in black). They literally glistened in the sun due to their toil and their bright smiles lit up every time they saw me. As I watched them work I felt out of shape and disgusting. I wanted to give them a bunch of money to just go off and enjoy their youth (as I was lucky enough to do).

PJ: Mr. Matt, are you married?

Matt: No, not yet (the culturally correct answer)

PJ: Why not? You are so handsome.

Matt: I am too old and I am fat.

John: Oh no! Your skin is white.

Matt: So?

PJ: We are so ugly with our black skin.

Matt: No you aren't.

John: Oh yes, you look so nice.

Matt: I think women in America would find both of you extremely handsome and you could have many girlfriends there

PJ & John: (peals of laughter)

PJ: Oh no, Mr Matt you are lying to us.

What an export from the West - the concept of beauty. I felt disappointed. In their free time, PJ & John follow me around no matter what I do (they are very sweet) and in the evening would sit and drink arak (local rice wine) with me. I think they find me an endless source of entertainment. I find them disarmingly innocent and "fresh" in their view of the world (in spite of their shocking lack of education).

Vitalis: Number two in command (I actually think Eta is unofficially), he oversees the place while Agus (the travel agent) is in Maumere. Vitalis joins PJ and John in some of the harder physical tasks, too. He often brings my lunch quietly - he is friendly, but very shy. Once I saw him cut down a small tree with only a few blows from his machete. I thought "Imagine him pissed off". It was Vitalis who shopped for the fish and veggies each day for dinner. He made it a point to find a different kind of fish each day. He, too, had completed the Maumere tourism course. It appeared that he and Eta liked each other - I thought they would make a lovely couple.

The Owner: I never learned his name, but he was an ethnic Chinese. I learned that the Chinese owned about 90% of the businesses in Maumere. Although largely I felt sorry for them as they are treated very poorly by the government and made to feel second class in their own country, that guy at Nogo Beach just rubbed me the wrong way. To his credit, he did get out and help with the construction projects on occasion. Mostly, however, I saw him entertaining his friends who stopped by while he barked orders at everyone. I didn't like his attitude.

Matt: What kind of man is the owner?

Agus: Oh yes, he's a very good man.

Matt: Why?

Agus: For Christmas he bought us a box of chocolates.

Matt: (a real Rockefeller)

Owner: America likes to make wars. Indonesia is peaceful.

Matt: I'm not so sure. What about East Timor? What about in the 1960s when all the Chinese were killed?

Owner: (no response) No one likes America's wars.

Matt: No one likes the Chinese in Indonesia.

Owner: That is not true!

Matt: (there is no point to continue the conversation)

Agus: My buddy, the manager, Agus was a frustrated entrepreneur trapped in Flores. To his credit, he realized that Flores was ripe for investment. I think he had good intentions, but unfortunately, he was already infected with that great Western disease - money.

Agus: Do you think Brian would loan me $2,500?

Matt: What??

Agus: If I had that money, I know I could open a successful business in Maumere.

Matt: Why would Brian lend you money? He's never met you.

Agus: You could ask him and tell him my ideas are good.

Matt: Agus, I think you should concentrate on getting more work experience and saving money. Why not travel to Bali and Lombok for a week and see what they're doing with tourists? It would give you a model to start from. Then you can start your own business.

Agus: I think you are right. By the way, do you think he will loan me $2,500?

Matt: (have you heard a word I said?) I am not sure.

Agus and I chatted endlessly about how to make a business in Flores. I told him that if he only coordinated all the tourist-related information in Maumere, his boss' travel agency would become the best. As it was, anyone who arrived in the town had no idea about anything because the guidebooks were all written pre-earthquake. I could not make Agus understand that the investment in a one page city map with a few hotels and transportation facts available at the airport, port, and bus station would bring virtually all tourists to his office. He didn't seem to get it.

Agus liked to drink arak, too. In the evenings, he joined PJ, John, and me while we drank and looked up at the stars. Agus did give me all sorts of invaluable information on travel in Flores (which helped Brian and me later). I felt frustrated that he could not imagine being successful without outside help (read: money)

Going to Larantuka (Brian's arrival)

Christmas Eve morning - I got ready to ride the bemo back into Maumere to meet Brian at the airport. All of the bungalow staff came out to send me off. I tipped them generously - I enjoyed my time there. "Mr Matt, you are a good person". I hope it was just not the tip speaking. Eta and Vitalis were spending Christmas day with family in Maumere. John was going home because he lived nearby. Agus and PJ both lived over 24 hours away by public transport so they were staying at the bungalows. I hoped the owner would stay away and give them at least one day off.

Agus and I bumped into town inside the bemo and then walked to his office. We checked on Brian's plane - 30 minutes late. Compared to my delay, much better. I stopped by the first hotel I stayed and saw Marcel.

Matt: Are you going to Lewoleba for Christmas?

Marcel: (giggle) No.

Matt: Why not? Where are you going?

Marcel: To my girlfriend's village (giggle)

Matt: You are "nakal" (naughty).

Marcel: (bursts out laughing) Oh, no, no, no Mr. Matt!

The car picked me up after lunch. I wanted to detour to the dive centers before picking up Brian. The only information I had was via Jurgen and I'd hate to find out he only judged them on price. We drove out of town (in the general direction of the airport) to the supposed "best" dive resort. It had a nice lobby and modern bungalows (intact) scattered along the beach. There was a pool. Unfortunately, they were in the process of constructing a huge jetty for the dive boats right in front of their lovely beach, ruining the view. Not staying there was OK by me (it was expensive even by Jakarta standards). We continued to the airport.

The siren sounds - the plane was getting ready to land. I couldn't wait to meet Brian. He arrived but had checked bags so we had to wait for them to be unloaded (sigh) - another 30 minute wait to unload the ONLY aircraft and move the bags about 100 meters. Shit. I just wanted to leave Maumere. Brian finally bought some marquisa juice. Sulawesi (Ujung Pandang) is famous for it and it was available in Ujung Pandang airport. On our last transit, we had no room in our carryon to buy any. I wasn't too keen to have to carry around several bottles (glass) over the following week, but Brian was happy. Ironically, it was never a problem - we left it in the car after our arrival in Larantuka and that was the last we ever saw of it.

Agus met Brian and we chatted briefly. The car was loaded and we promised to call Agus again from Lewoleba to let him know when to send the car for our return pick up. We gave a couple of British women a lift to the end of the airport road and I shared some rushed advice. Finally, Brian and I were traveling again. It had been a year since we last made a significant trip - and that was around Arizona. What a difference a year made: from an Alamo rental car to the Grand Canyon to a 4WD jeep trekking across Flores.

Christmas Eve afternoon: the road finally left Maumere Bay and climbed through the mountains. The road condition deteriorated quickly (and we were told it was a "good" road). The earthquake ruined every single bridge and they were all being rebuilt. That made for some very rough and bumpy detours through creek beds. Thank God for no rain and a 4WD. It took us three hours to go 70km. The road snaked through the terrain; we wound up one ridge and down the next. The drop offs were several hundred meters without any guardrails. Finally, we could see the sea again - we were getting close to Larantuka, the extreme eastern tip of the island. We passed beneath a great, double-coned, steaming volcano (which roared to life recently - thank God it was quiet for our transit). We took in a view of the islands Solor, Adonara, and Lembata - the next three of the Indonesian archipelago - even more remote than Flores. The scenery was ridiculously beautiful. The road had zero traffic except the occasional public bus packed to the gills with passengers and boxes. The expensive car was definitely worth it.

Finally, Larantuka came into sight. It appeared so close. The road snaked toward it, seemingly making no progress. In spite of the gorgeous scenery, the journey was getting the better of Brian - he had been on the road since 6am (and there was a time difference). At last we arrived in Larantuka as the sunlight was fading. Brian was near collapse.

Larantuka

We checked into the Hotel Rulies (recommended by Agus). We watched the sun set over Larantuka harbor and the islands further on. It was breathtaking, but we were exhausted. It was Christmas Eve - we felt we had just arrived at the end of the earth.

Hotel Rulies was supposedly the best in Larantuka. It was an old property that had been added onto repeatedly, a rambling place. We found it run-down, but clean. Our room, however, was airless. At least we were only staying for one night. The place was redeemed by the five-star treatment rendered to us by Andreus - bellhop, cook, waiter, cashier, receptionist (an any other job that needed to be done). He bubbled with hospitality and sincere warmth - the kind of person that made the "bad" hotel seem "not so bad" after all. The place was filled with cheap Catholic icons and leftover-looking furniture in every style imaginable. The hotel instantly became a travel-classic for us to which we often referred.

We walked down to the port, a few minutes from the hotel and asked three independent sources if there was a boat the next day (Christmas) for Lewoleba. All indicated, "yes" and pointed to the same boat. Triangulation of information (from unrelated sources) is imperative in Indonesia. Heaven forbid we ever believed the word of just one person - we had learned our lesson early on. We approached a nearly seaworthy craft already laden with boxes and furniture.

Larantuka Harbor

Matt: Are you going to Lewoleba tomorrow?

Boathand: Yeah.

Matt: What time?

Boathand: Morning.

Matt: About what time?

Boathand: 8 o'clock or maybe 7:30

Matt: Are you certain?

Boathand: Yeah.

That meant Brian and I needed to get the boat by 7:00 and be prepared to leave any time after that.

Back at the hotel, Andreus had a note from Didi (Didymus), our friend on Lembata Island (ex-security guard of our neighbors in Jakarta). He planned to show us the manufacture of the traditional textile, "ikat". Apparently, he had arrived from Jakarta only the day before, left a message, and continued home. We wanted to call him to confirm we were coming the next day (Christmas). A few paces down the street lay another hotel, Tresna. The property looked a million times better than where we were staying from the outside, but our Hotel Rulies came recommended by everyone (guidebook included) - we wondered why? Andreus accompanied us to help make the call. The receptionist at the Hotel Tresna was a flaming queen and hilarious. Christmas Eve in Larantuka, Flores and we met someone who appeared to be openly gay. What a strange and ironic world. We were amazed that his behavior (outrageous) did not bother anyone: either Flores was very relaxed in its views of homosexuality (doubtful), or the people who lived there were simply oblivious (likely). After several attempts, we finally reached Didi.

The phone connection was horrible, but we managed to communicate that Didi should meet us at the dock tomorrow morning in Lewoleba. Of course, we both were still not 100% sure the boat would launch on time (or at all). We were tired from the ride and had a bite at the hotel (prepared by all-in-one employee, Andreus). Making an early night of it was our plan. Later we were joined by some Australians who were on one of those classic adventures that would take them around the world for a year (most Australians we met on our travels did the same). They had departed Australia from Darwin in the north and flown to Kupang, Timor, Indonesia (a short, cheap flight). They stayed a few days and then took the boat directly to Larantuka. Their plan was to visit Lewoleba (our destination) and then slowly island-hop across Indonesia until the end of their two-month tourist visa. Both were in Indonesia for the first time without having visiting the tourism-ready islands of Java and Bali. We tried to impress upon them that Flores was nothing like the rest of the country on many levels. We couldn't decide if they would find their later travels better because of better infrastructure and services, or worse because of the constant hassle of travel on those crowded islands. In any case, they were friendly and we did actually meet them later in Lembata.

After our dinner conversation with the Australians, we were convinced that missing the Christmas Eve mass in Larantuka would be a mistake. We got out our best clothes (which were not very formal) and joined our new travel friends (and Andreus and the "grandfather" of the hotel) for the short stroll to the cathedral. The earlier service was still in progress, so people had gathered outside, waiting to enter. We chatted, admired everyone in their only set of nice clothes, and listened to the beautiful strains of Christmas music float out of the church interspersed with the monotone of the priest's voice. It felt magical - the farthest thing from a Christmas I was familiar with yet so much more genuine. That precipitated some internal confusion for me - just how Christian was my own version of Christmas?

In Indonesia, asking someone their religion is not considered impolite. In fact, it is likely one of the first questions someone will ask after name and country of origin. So many times I was asked, "What is your religion?" and I responded, "Christian" (read: Protestant) rather than trying to explain modern secularism to people who had no concept of it. There in Larantuka, amidst beautiful dark-skinned people dressed in their most colorful and least ragged clothes waiting to celebrate a mass connected to the birth of Christ, I felt an internal crisis. Around me were Christians (well, Roman Catholics - but that difference was irrelevant) who believed the religious dogma far more than me. The feeling of "religion" was thick in the air during the ceremony and I felt dirty and unworthy to share in it. Brian (Catholic) and I were European-Americans and did not have to go through the empty motions of such celebrations. As an Occidental, was I not automatically more Christian than these people whose ancestors were head-hunting animists? Our people built the cathedrals of Europe. I felt simultaneously extremely Christian and very lucky to have been born in the West yet at the same time very much a closet infidel who believed very little of the ceremony happening within the church. My feelings were a mix of both "better than" and "less than" all at once. Ultimately, it was refreshing to be faced with such high-level thinking after months of mindless work and frustration in Jakarta.

The interior of the church was plain and the pews uncomfortable. The pomp and ceremony of the priest and his entourage were juxtaposed beautifully against such simplicity. A high mass based on those learned from Portuguese Jesuits centuries earlier, it was as if history were being re-enacted before our eyes. I felt like we were in a small Mexican town rather than Indonesia. As we stood up, sat down, and kneeled repeatedly in the hot interior, I felt immersed in the colors of the vestments, the scent of the swinging incense, the drone of the priest's litany, and the songs of the choir. I was tired and longed for the service to end, but not before soaking up some of its profound spirituality. One of the best Christmas Eves I had experienced in many years, I wondered how it could compare with the mindless exchange of gifts.

We returned to the hotel and climbed under the mosquito nets. The room was too hot for sleep, but we were also too tired to stay awake. The next day we would take a boat to an even more remote corner of the country. We were both filled with anticipation - good and bad. We finally slept.

Getting to Lembata Island

We awoke early and walked to the vessel moored at the same place it was yesterday. We quickly grabbed seats inside the cabin and waited for departure - 7:30, 8:00, then at 8:30 the engine started. We actually cast off three times each time to return to take on one more passenger who called the boat back to shore. Finally at 9:00am we definitively left. The sea was like glass and in shallow water the bottom was visible. We cruised over schools of colorful fish. The boat chugged away from Larantuka and the mountain rising behind it. The water was so calm it appeared we were on a lake rather than the sea. We could see the islands of Adonara, Solor, and Lembata clearly. The sun shone down intensely - the flat water meant there was no breeze. All the islands showed little vegetation - each dominated by one, large active volcano. As we rounded every headland the scenery became more beautiful as if we were in Michener's South Pacific. It took three hours to sail to Lembata through the most beautiful scenery we had encountered in all of Indonesia.

On the boat we met Datuk, a young Muslim who was a member of Mohammadiya, a semi-political organization in Indonesia. He represented a social welfare group that did a lot of good for those with little money. They were not without an agenda (as with missionaries everywhere), they hoped their service to others would encourage conversions. Additionally, they had political support. Datuk was tasked with distributing prescription drugs in out-of-the-way islands. However well intended, Datuk was not a doctor. Brian and I were shocked at his cavalier attitude toward his job. He was very friendly, of course, and well-intended. Giving out drugs without any medical training though - that was downright scary. What he expected to accomplish in that staunchly Roman Catholic region was beyond us. Hope sprang eternal, perhaps.

After a brief stop at a Muslim fishing village (even in that heavily Catholic area there were many Muslim fishing villages), we entered the huge bay in front of Lewoleba. The water remained flat. On either side of us rose two huge, steaming volcanoes staring down somewhat ominously. Long strands of palm-tree-lined beaches adorned the coasts and small fishing boats skimmed the the surface of the lake-like water. The stilt houses of Bugis fisherman greeted us and marked the entrance to the harbor. The boat pulled into the sleepy dock. Had we arrived in paradise?

Lewoleba, Lembata (Part I)

Christmas Day: we struggled to get through the crowd receiving the treasures unloaded from the boat. Finally, we located our smiling friend, Didi. He instantly rescued us from the confusion. "Merry Christmas and welcome to Lewoleba". We walked the short (and hot) distance to our next hotel. Other than the occasional bemo ferrying people from the pier into the town center, the place was devoid of the usual drone of motorized transport. Lewoleba felt "Caribbean" - a place where "hurry" was not in the local lexicon. It was understandable - the heat was oppressive even before noon. Additionally (and perhaps more importantly), what was the rush to do anything? We strolled into the hotel and were shown our room. Not luxurious, but the property was far better than Hotel Rulies back in Larantuka (we breathed a sigh of relief). A pleasant man, John, explained everything about our temporary home, the Hotel Rejeki. As it turned out, John was an English teacher in Maumere and home for the holiday. He was happy to help out (and hang out with us) in his father-in-law's hotel. Didi confirmed we were settled and said he would later pick us up for dinner at his house. He told us to "relax". Considering how hot it was outside, there were few other options.

Hotel Rejeki, on the main street, at the main intersection of town no less, had a nice lobby with a huge map of the islands. Inside, the rooms were built around a courtyard used by the owner's family and guests. Although the hotel was not full, it felt busy due to the return of the owner's extended family. People were everywhere and it was a scene of non-stop activity. John's little boy was running around having a grand time. A few other Europeans were already staying there, but we didn't interact with them beyond greetings. Datuk from the boat and his traveling companion checked in, too (we weren't sure if it was the only option in town). We took a brief (hot) nap under our mosquito net, and longed for a ceiling fan - standard in most basic Indonesian hotel rooms. After waking, we chatted more with John. The friendliness of the people was disarming - we kept wondering if it was sincere since in most of Indonesia people are usually trying to relieve tourists of as much money as possible. He pointed to a nice beach on the lobby map - we would try to go the next day. Other than that - not much else happened on Christmas Day in Lewoleba, but at least we arrived safely and hooked up with Didi.

After the sun got lower in the sky, the temperature cooled enough to walk around outside. Brian and I decided to walk to the beach for some photos. We followed one street beside the hotel for a short distance where it ended in a maze of pathways at a stilt-house fishing village (Muslim). The demarcation between Christian and Muslim Lewoleba is stark. We hoped to take a good photo across the bay in the late afternoon light, but getting access to a viewpoint through that jumble of houses seemed impossible. We would be walking on a path and find ourselves in someone's back garden. The residents laughed at our confusion and didn't mind the intrusion at all.

Matt: I think if we go over there, it will be better.

Brian: I don't think so. That's private property.

Matt: Nah, I don't think so. It all looks communal.

Brian: How would you like it if someone walked into your backyard with a camera and said, "oh sorry, I just want to take a few photos"?

Children: Hi Mister!! Hi Mister!! Hi Mister!!

Brian: Can we just get out of here?

Matt: OK, OK. Maybe we can get a better picture down by the boat dock.

We had a very hard time determining what space was private and what was public. Finally, we walked to a part of the beach with easy access and provided the views we wanted only to realize it was a public toilet. EW! Brian retreated to the room with some remembrance of the place on his sandal (and not in a good mood). I stayed on and braved the beach turds to take in the gorgeous views of Ili Api (lit. Mt Fire) across the bay. I couldn't believe places like that still existed in the world.

Didi had been waiting for us. Where were we? Huh? The better question was where was he? He was more than an hour later than he promised. Why was it that Indonesians can always show up late and claim "jam karet" (lit. rubber time - culturally acceptable lateness), but Westerners can't do the same? We followed him to his house - about a ten-minute walk from the town center.

Didi: How is Lewoleba?

Matt: Beautiful.

Brian: Gorgeous.

Didi: You know, I haven't been home in three years. Things have changed a lot.

Matt: Like what?

Didi: Before I left there weren't any bemos or becaks (bicycle rickshaws)

Matt: Wow. You must be surprised.

Didi: Yeah. Many of the roads are surfaced now, too.

So Lewoleba literally exploded in development since his last trip home. (you could have fooled us).

We reached the end of the houses made of concrete and walk down a dirt road. We entered the "real" Lembata Island of bamboo huts with thatched roofs. Didi pointed out his house and we entered. We were living the dream of an anthropologist simply because we had befriended our neighbor's security guard.

That in itself was a separate story line.

Meeting Didi (Jakarta)

I just had a shirt tailored from traditional silk material given to me as a gift by students. Didi took notice:

Didi: Mr. Matt, do you like textiles?

Matt: Textiles. What kind?

Didi: My mother hand-makes material. Would you like to see some?

(a few days later he brings some for me to see)

Didi: Here is is. These are just examples. Actually, these are part of someone's wedding dowry, so I can't sell them.

Matt: Your mom made these? (shocked because the work is excellent)

Didi: Yes, she and her friends.

What he showed me is what looks to my as yet untrained eye like "ikat asli" (traditionally-made woven textiles). Most ikat is made by cultures outside of Java and Bali and retains partially animist themes in its designs. The cloth I was shown was made from hand spun thread, dyed with natural materials, designed individually, and hand-woven. Each piece takes months to make; each, a work of art in it own right.

Later, I looked up Didi's hometown. According to our guidebook (in the pre-internet age), his island, Lembata, is one of the few remaining places that people still weave ikat asli. Wow, I thought, what he showed me was something very special and unique. I asked Didi what he would sell the pieces for if he could and he tells me extremely low prices. He told me that he could make an order for us and when he went home at Christmas, pick it up.

I knew his prices were way too low. I had no desire to rip him off, so I invited Didi to meet me at one of the largest department stores in Jakarta (Sarinah) which has an entire floor dedicated to Indonesian handicrafts. Although I knew the prices there were inflated, I wanted him to have some reference price for how much he could see the ikat. Didi was absolutely floored at the prices (and the low quality). The trip to Sarinah established in Didi's mind that Brian and I were honest with him. Over the next few months and several more conversations, we laid the groundwork for a trip to Lembata ourselves.... "someday". We had no idea it would materialize so quickly and unexpectedly.

Back to Lembata:

Lewoleba, Lembata (Part 2)

the elephant tusk - family heirloom

The inside of Didi's house was extremely dark. The walls were made of bamboo lathe and covered in brown paper (like package wrapping). The roof was thatched palm leaves and the floor packed earth. The house consisted of three rooms and we were seated in the largest which had a small table with four chairs. Another table with a small TV against the wall looked terribly out of place. The lighting consisted of one bare lightbulb (25w?) dangling from the ceiling. I was surprised there was enough electricity to power the TV. The mosquitoes were pestilential. In short, it was the house of very poor people, but they were not ashamed to invite us inside. Didi welcomed us warmly and was not apologetic for the surroundings (which was our experience in Java repeatedly). We were being invited as equals rather than foreign dignitaries. That made a huge difference and - except for the mosquitoes - we felt at home.

We met Didi's mother and youngest sister. Apparently, the rest of his family has either moved to Jakarta or gone to Malaysia in search of work. In fact, Didi's father left for Malaysia and had not returned in 13 years. They spoke as if his return were imminent, but it was clear that the speech was rehearsed. He was not coming back - that was obvious. Didi's mother ended up raising the family and playing the role of the suffering, old mother - she was no fool. We came to understand that much later.

We were served dinner - ikan bakar (grilled fish) - one of our favorites with a few side dishes. Didi's sister served us demurely. She was a shy and attractive young woman who was just finishing junior high school. Didi and his mom were discussing whether to send her to Jakarta to finish her schooling or keep her in Lewoleba to help out at home. Brian and I ate heartily. We hoped that the good karma we were generating by eating in our friend's humble abode would ward off the worst possible stomach ailments we might suffer from locally prepared food. We counted on the remoteness of Lembata Island being a factor - it was less polluted.

The conversation turned to the next day's plan. What would we do? We wanted to see the beach John at the hotel had told us about. Didi promised to meet us in the morning and arrange transport. Later that day, we would meet his mother's ikat weaving collective to see how the product was made. Also, the next day was the once-weekly market in Lewoleba where people came from all over Lembata and neighboring islands to buy and sell their wares. It appeared we would have a very full itinerary. We finished dinner and took our leave. Didi escorted us back to the hotel where we all had a few beers. He introduced us to Alex, the hotel owner. He had just come back from visiting relatives in Malaysia with a stopover in Singapore. The city impressed him greatly. Brian and I couldn't imagine people from Lembata going to Jakarta let alone Singapore. The culture shock must have been immense.

We were all tired and returned to the hot room, under the protection of the mosquito net, to sleep. Those white, gossamer veils made the difference between contracting malaria or not.

The next day I woke up before Brian and walked down to the dock to take some photos in the morning light. The sea looked like glass and Ili Api and its companion across the bay cast their reflections in the morning light. It was silent except for the distant chug-chug of a small fishing boat going out for the day. Jakarta was lightyears away. I returned and Brian was awake. We had a simple breakfast of toast and coffee. Didi soon arrived to tell us he arranged transport, but we weren't quite ready. Then started the comedy of getting to the beach. After Brian and I were ready, we found the transport had left. They would return "momentarily". After a very long wait, Didi went in search of them. Then they returned, but Didi was not with us. They went to look for Didi. Meanwhile, the day rapidly got hotter and Brian and I wonder if we would actually make it to the beach. After two hours of confusion, we were finally bumping along a country road on our way. The island interior was not developed at all. We passed through villages, each with a very tidy parish church. I thought, "Gee, John Paul II, couldn't you throw these, some of your poorest, a bone from your gilded palace in Rome? Finally, we arrived at another huge bay on the other side of Ili Api and a long, crescent beach. Although the sand is not pure white (which is what we were told), we found it extremely beautiful. The tranquility and views over the still waters were arresting.

We sat down near a small village and immediately attracted a crowd. Didi fielded the questions and kept the onlookers in line. Actually, the people (mostly kids) were not as annoying as in other remote places we visited in our travels. Most of them were content just to sit and look at us. After all, how often do people you have only seen on TV emerge from a bemo and take a rest on the beach near home? One of the kids climbed precariously high into a palm tree to retrieve young coconuts for us to drink. Given the crowd, we decided against swimming (although the water was inviting). It felt pleasant simply to sit in the shade and look out over the sea. A nice breeze was blowing... Life was good.

When it came time to return we had to wait for a bemo heading for town. Luckily, it was a good day to find one because so many people were going to the market. The island was so quiet we could hear the bemo coming from a great distance. We all listened carefully to determine which direction it was headed - to town or out of town. When one finally came, it was filled to the gills (unsurprisingly). I volunteered to sit on the roof. We had done that in Nepal a few year before, no problem. What I failed to consider was that in Nepal the roads are in such poor condition, the buses barely creep along. There in Lembata with better roads (not dirt, asphalt), the bemos literally fly. Sitting on top of a mini-bus with only the luggage rack for support, I hung on for dear life at each turn. My fellow roof-seat companions were surprised at my obvious fear (not without some humor). Other than sharp turns and the occasional low tree, the ride was fantastic: the wind in my face, the view over the sea and Ili Api, the stunned faces of villagers who saw me zoom by - it was a thrilling ride. I chatted with two young guys on top of the bemo - I wasn't sure what was more surprising for them, that I could speak some Indonesian or that I volunteered to ride on the roof. Just before town, we all had to cram inside the van so the police would not be upset (I wondered if they actually cared).

We returned to the hotel to find the Australians we had met back in Larantuka at Hotel Rulies. They had actually arrived. We chatted a short time and shared what we had learned so far about Lembata. They were also interested in visiting the market that evening. We met Datuk once again and he was completely decked out in a very official-looking white uniform for dispensing medicine. At least he looked believable (and quite dashing). If he gave the wrong medicine, people could take solace in the fact that he looked the role. We considered visiting another beach near the dock, but the heat was too unforgiving. We just relaxed in the hotel. I wanted to call Agus back in Maumere - we would be leaving the following morning and I wanted to be certain there was transport waiting for us in Larantuka.

I took a becak (bicycle rickshaw) for the short ride to the Telekom Office. In those days, long distance calls were made from the phone company office on prepaid phones in small cubicles. Apparently, the manager was Didi's neighbor. In fact, it was his house we called from Larantuka when we wanted to speak to Didi. I entered and introduced myself to "Pak Bie". I told him I had spoken to him a couple days before from Larantuka and I was Didi's American friend. He was extremely friendly and helpful (how could I ever return to Jakarta?). I tried Agus, but it was impossible to get a line. Pak Bie confirmed it was not possible at that moment. "Try again later". I went back to the hotel and after some time returned to the Telkom Office (it was so hot). I finally got Agus and the connection was terrible.

Matt: I need you to pick us up tomorrow at 11:00am in Larantuka.

Agus: OK. Uh..... the price has gone up.

Matt: What? How much more?

Agus: They want 150,000 to come and get you (double the previous amount)

Matt: What? Agus, I refuse to pay that.

Agus: OK, I'll see what I can do. Can you call me later?

Matt: It's difficult to get a line, but I'll try.

I didn't manage to contact Agus again and I was furious. Since Agus was not personally getting any of the car rental money, I knew the "sudden increase" had to be his boss. What an absolute asshole.

Didi met us again at the hotel and we returned to his home. Little did we know that next meeting would change our lives in Indonesia unexpectedly.

Lewoleba, Lembata (Part 3) Making Ikat

We entered Didi's humble home again. It had not improved much in the light of day. Soon we were guided to the rear where fifteen women, mostly clad in traditional clothes, were waiting for us. Assembled were the weavers with their tools and materials for making ikat. They appeared to be ready for the visit of an anthropology group or perhaps tourists from a cruise ship on a package tour. In fact, they were there expressly there for Brian and I. We got out our cameras for a blaze of photos...

Locally grown fiber-bearing plants (not sure which ones, but not cotton) are collected and put through a primitive "cotton gin" to remove any foreign materials. The product is fluffed, spun into thread, and wound into balls for later use. Some of the thread is unwound and soaked in a dark mixture and later left to dry. That dye is created by putting water and bits of this and that (all natural) into a wooden mortar where it is ground until the color becomes very dark (sometimes brown, sometimes black). It has the consistency of mud. We were very impressed by the first step alone. Some of the thread remains undyed (white) for later use as the "base" on the loom. Those threads on the loom are tied off ("ikat" means "to tie or knot") and removed from the frame for dying as well. The knotting resists the dye similar to tie-dye. That is what actually creates the patterns - dyed thread for one direction and tie-dyed thread for the other. After drying, the threads are placed back on the loom and woven with the others dyed earlier. The loom is very basic. As the process continues, the designs begin to magically appear from the previously knotted base. We were seeing the process in a series of "fast-forward" steps. Normally, it takes months just to reach the weaving stage (the final stage). Even the weaving itself takes a very long time as it is a hand loom held in place by the weaver's feet. After several months, a sarong (or small blanket) is produced.

We were fascinated. It was like jumping into a National Geographic documentary. The women looked regal - mostly matrons with the lines of hard living etched deeply into their hands and faces. Their eyes shown with the light of their original gods before the adopted Christian. It is the old deities whose designs and stories are retained in the weaving. All of them chewed betelnut which turned their lips and teeth a bright red. They were very proud to be photographed (yet were painfully shy at the same time). Brian and I methodically took photos of all of them and the entire process. They could barely contain their delight. All the while, Didi's mother barked out directions. She was clearly the boss (and someone with whom they had to contend). Abandoned by her husband in a place where life was a struggle, she had raised a family. Hard as nails she told us who and what to photograph (at which angle). If we didn't follow her instructions - she insisted we do it again. We laughed considering the woman had never used a camera in her life.

We took a few group photos as well as pictures of a variety of finished pieces they had brought with them. The demonstration complete, we returned to Didi's house and sat down.

Didi: They are waiting for you outside for some words of encouragement.

Matt: What do you mean?

Didi: Now that they are working for you, the want to hear something from you directly.

Matt: What??

Didi: You only need to tell them how many you want initially and how much you will pay for each piece.

Matt: Uh.... Brian, what do you think?

Brian: Are we prepared to discuss the price?

Matt: Not really.

Brian: Just tell them you can't guarantee prices right now.

Matt: But we are leaving tomorrow. If we don't establish something with them now, we might be blowing a big chance.

Brian: It's against my better judgement, but do what you want.

Matt: Didi, maybe it's better that the women set their own prices keeping in mind that if they are too high, we won't be able to resell them.

Didi: OK, please go talk to them directly

After a long, confusing conversation with Didi, we went out to the women's collective and told them that we would be happy to work with them, but we intended to start placing orders later. At the time of the order, we would pay half the money, and upon receipt of the finished goods, the other half. They agreed that was fair. Then we moved on to a detailed pricing structure - that stretched into hours. We felt exhausted (and hungry). The mosquitoes were pestilential. We wanted to finish and return to the hotel - finally it was over.

We ate something and then Didi brought us back to the hotel. The market was almost totally closed - we felt so tired, we didn't even care we missed it. I only wanted to sleep. Upon arrival, we met the Australian couple who told us the market wasn't all that good anyway. At least we didn't miss out on anything. The boat was scheduled for 7:00am - we had to sleep. I promised to return to Didi's house to point out the finished pieces of ikat we were interested in buying since it was too dark by the end of the negotiations. I wanted to see them clearly in bright sunlight. Brian and I were too exhausted to discuss the events of the day - we slept.

Back to Larantuka

Up early, I hastily ate breakfast and hoofed it back to Didi's house (I already knew the way). There I picked out the sarongs we wanted and Didi would bring them back to Jakarta with him (we didn't have enough cash on us to pay for them and didn't have space in our bags either). The whole experience was rushed - the boat to Larantuka would leave shortly. Didi gave me a letter to present to the police at the port on arrival to Flores. Supposedly, they would help us find a car back to Maumere. Didi's friend gave me a lift on his bicycle back down to the hotel. Brian and I bade quick farewells to everyone at the Rijeki, checked out, and took a becak to port. There Didi's friend made sure we got on the right boat (already packed). Brian and I took some of the few remaining seats and before 7:00am we were headed back to Larantuka.

What had just happened? Brian and I were in shock. What did we do? We joked that we just bought an ikat factory. It all happened so fast: were the prices right? was the stuff as good quality as we thought? Did we even know what we were doing? Maybe not... but it was too late; the ball had started rolling. If we were going to start some sort of "side business" in Indonesia, we had definitely fallen into it (or more correctly - were shoved). The return journey was calm and beautiful, but after all the events of the night before, we hardly took notice.

Ili Api, which had not deigned to show his face the entire time we were on Lembata Island even shook off his cloudy mantle and bade us farewell. Perhaps he was giving his blessing for helping local industry. Or, perhaps he only wanted to see clearly the two foreigners who had just been duped by his children - just as they had been cheated by their former masters for centuries.

Back in Larantuka we went to the police station by the port. Apparently, Didi's letter produced the appropriate effect because the officers kindly offered us a seat. They ordered a car (at a price even lower than what we paid to go to Larantuka) and chatted with us until it arrived. The officer that was Didi's friend is originally from Bali, but has lived in Larantuka for many years. Although the Javanese dominate most of the country, the Balinese have a heavy presence (especially in government jobs) in Nusa Tenggara (the islands east of Bali). After all, at that time they were the most populous and educated group in the region. Being Hindu, they were also seen as neutral in disputes where religion crept in. The car arrived and we started the long journey back to Maumere. We were still in shock about our final 24 hours in Lewoleba.

Maumere (again)

The car dropped us at Agus' office. Even if I'm pissed off about the car price incident, he is still our only contact for renting a vehicle to Kelimutu, our final destination before leaving. He greats me full of smiles:

Agus: How are you? How about Larantuka?

Matt: Fine, fine. What happened?

Agus: I couldn't find a car for the same price you paid to go. Then after you called, I looked some more and found one, but you never called back.

Matt: I told you getting a line out of Lewoleba was difficult. Besides, do you actually think that we would want to pay more money to return? You should have found a cheaper car before I called you.

Agus: I waited for your call until 6:00pm

Matt: Whatever. That is finished now. We are back in Maumere and ready to get on with our program.

Our "program" was (originally) to return from Larantuka, stop in Maumere, pick up Agus (as our guide), and continue on to Moni at the base of Kelimutu. That way we could get up very early the next day to make it to the top of the mountain before it clouded over (usually the case). By the time we met Agus, it was already three o'clock in the afternoon and we felt tired from the long journey back to Maumere. We finally struck an agreement to stay in Maumere (ugh) for the day and go to Kelimutu first thing the following morning. It would be a gamble with the weather (it was rainy season), but it was the only realistic option. If we got the car back before 3:00pm then the price would be lower than if we took it for the entire day. That stipulation arose from the owner wanting to the car available to meet the afternoon flight and pick up passengers. We agreed. We needed to rest.

Our new hotel, far more upscale (even with AC), was so much more pleasant than the first one I stayed in before Brian arrived (it already felt ages ago). We showered and relaxed. After the day cooled enough to be outside, we set off for the market. I wanted Brian to see "poor" examples of ikat. In the entire market we only saw one piece of traditionally made ikat - the rest was machine-made either fully or in part. We had learned a lot after our demonstration - our group of ladies turned out to be very skilled indeed. If that was the largest market in the area and it doesn't even offer traditionally-made ikat, maybe our newly made arrangement was more exclusive than we realized (or maybe we were convincing ourselves that it wasn't a mistake). We stopped off at the first hotel I stayed in (so Brian could see it) and I greeted Marcel. Marcel told me Anton and Gars were back and shortly after, Anton appeared. Apparently, their travels went off OK, although the roads after Kelimutu were supposedly "shocking". We all needed to visit the Merpati (airline) office to reconfirm some flights.

We returned to Agus' office to ask him if he was coming with us to Kelimutu. He wasn't sure because of the very early departure. He said he'd let us know later (he never did). I found his attitude strange because before leaving for Larantuka, he desperately wanted to be our guide (to find a moment to hit Brian up for a loan?), but since our return he had cooled to the idea significantly. Perhaps after the car incident, he thought we were angry. I had no idea. That evening after meeting Anton and Gars at the Merpati Office (and feeling satisfied that we had seats on the return flight), we invited them to a local restaurant for some drinks. The conversation was not memorable. We returned to the hotel for an early rest. We had yet another 5:00am wake up call.

The road to Kelimutu

Not long into the journey, I changed seats from the back to the front. I rarely get car sick, but in the case of Flores, I was. With those winding roads, it was not too surprising. Unfortunately, our driver was going as fast as possible because we were making a crazy day trip from Maumere and the earlier we arrived, the better chance we had of seeing the lakes at the top. The combination of waking up early, eating breakfast too quickly, driving on the winding road, and worrying about seeing Kelimutu clearly pushed my body (read: stomach) over the edge.

Some places in Indonesia become "tourism objects" and then suffer from uncontrolled adoration. In other words, rampant development destroys the very thing that is being singled out as outstanding. Kelimutu, the famous three-color volcanic calderas of Flores, was on its way to the same fate that had befallen other such places (such as the temple of Borobudur in Java). In fact, when we told our Indonesian friends we were traveling to Flores, their singular response was, "oh, you are seeing Kelimutu". In fact, most Indonesians were shocked to find we had any other plans besides Kelimutu ("what else is there?") Although I had reached saturation with Kelimutu's image before we even arrived (it is even on a bank note and appears on many calendar photos), Brian insisted we see it. So, we were on our way - motion sickness notwithstanding.

Our driver, Alex, quiet at first, once realizing I could speak some Indonesian, became a chatterbox. He was from Kupang, Timor, but had grown up in Maumere. He was Protestant (but didn't attend church). Only finishing school through lower secondary, he got a job as a driver (his salary was almost the same as Brian's driver in Jakarta - a huge amount for Flores) through his father who was a policeman. Worth noting: his father worked at the very same police station in Larantuka where we were assisted in finding a car to Maumere! Alex was recently married and recently "matured": he regretted that he had been an "anak nakal" (lit. naughty boy) and he was trying to become a respectable young man. Apparently, he had dropped out of school, was constantly in trouble with the law (lucky to have a policeman as a father), drank at an early age, and dated many women. In short, the man was a reformed sinner.

Matt: (from a highpoint in the road) Is that Nggela over there?

Alex: No, no. We are far from there.

Matt: But on my map it shows that village should be Nggela.

Alex: No, it is certainly not. Nggela is very far from the sea - that village is close to the sea.

Matt: It only looks like it is close to the sea, it's really not. Look, we just came from over there. There's the road that leads to Nggela past a bunch of other villages.

Alex: Mr Matt, things on a map look closer than they actually are.

Matt: Of course, of course (how could I be so stupid - sigh)

Brian: What was that all about?

Matt: Nothing. I just learned that "things on a map look much closer than they actually are"

Brian: You are arguing with someone who barely finished junior high school.

Alex: Should we continue?

Matt: By all means.

In reality, Alex was an excellent driver. He was polite and tried very hard to please us. Perhaps his most important asset was that he was disarmingly handsome. In the eastern islands of Indonesia, we had a driver whose DNA mix included Melanesian, Malay, and European in a perfect combination. No wonder he had been such a ladies' man - I didn't doubt he had any problem attracting women. To add to Alex's appeal, he had a twinkle in his eye indicating he was a "reformed sinner" who might be prone to an occasional backslide. Brian and I had a big laugh about that and enjoyed his company throughout the day.

The winding road climbed up and down countless hills between Maumere on the north coast and Paga on the south. The countryside became greener than what we encountered along the north coast. We even spotted the occasional rice field. After reaching the southern coast, we noticed a white sand beach. I so wished Maumere had similar. From there we rapidly began our ascent into the mountains. Although the mountains of Flores are not extremely high, they are quite severe. The road began to reach dizzying heights as the conditions worsened. From the crests of ridges we could see the valleys of Flores, dotted with small villages, spread out below us. Beyond that, the Flores Sea occupied the entire horizon. Once again, Flores' views were magnificent, but there was no time - we were on a mission: limb Kelimutu before the clouds rolled in.

Finally, we reached Moni, the traditional gateway to our destination. Moni was being developed to "service" visitors to Kelimutu. The village was at the stage of development where it was still pristine enough to be relaxing, yet had enough homestays, restaurants,, and shops to provide basic services to foreign (and local) visitors. If Moni halted its development as we saw it, I would be a perfect place, but Brian and I knew that would never happen based on other "famous" places we visited in Indonesia. Where there is money to be made, development occurs with a vengeance. It was a shame we had no time to stay in Moni - it actually looked like the most pleasant tourist destination we encountered in Flores to that point.

Mt. Kelimutu

No time for Moni, we pressed on. From the main road we turned onto an even smaller one that was surprisingly well-maintained. Of course, we had to pay an entrance fee for the car (it felt reasonable) as well as ourselves. Given how many "informal" tolls we encountered in Indonesia where the roads were not kept up at all, the money seemed to be well spent - the road was one of the best we traversed in Flores.

The car entered a cloud bank. Our hearts sank. The early morning departure, a near-death race across Flores, my car sickness - all for naught. We continued. We had come that far - maybe something would be visible. We wound up and up and up. Finally, in the last stretch of road which had deteriorated into a pot-holed dirt-track, we popped out into clear blue sky! We scrambled up to the edge of the first lake and there it was - green as pea soup. The sun was shining directly down into it.

Kelimutu's summit is barren. The calderas are set in a moonscape strewn with sulfurous, dead earth. Vertical cliffs drop into blue and green lakes (with no guardrails). It is spectacular - exceeding every photo. The blue lake was Navajo turquoise showing yellow highlights in the bright sun. We took countless photos. Then we carefully descended to the car where Alex drove a few hundred meters farther to the highest viewpoint where the black lake was also visible. The breeze was crisp and cool. We were alone except for one other vehicle whose passengers were exploring near the black lake. The fresh mountain air was invigorating, and although we wanted to stay longer, the clouds had started to roll in. We were hungry, too. So we left after less than an hour at the top. We were ecstatic: we had seen Kelimutu under clear skies!

Return to Maumere

After a relaxed breakfast in Moni, we began our slow return to Maumere. No racing was needed; Alex made sure to stop any time we wanted a photo. It was a lovely, slow ride (kind of... the road was still horrific). We returned to Paga Beach where the road turns north to Maumere. We saw some bungalows and stopped for a drink to enjoy the view. The rooms were even more basic than Nogo Beach's, but the setting... wow. We finally found our white sand beach (with steep green mountains rising behind it). By that time it was early afternoon which meant it felt HOT. Our stroll along the beach was brief and we returned to the shade of one of the gazebos. Our day had been full already and it was only half finished.

Alex took a well-deserved rest from driving and Brian and I quietly enjoyed the silence We checked out some samples of ikat that the proprietor happened to have in his shop. They were far better quality than what we saw in the market in Maumere, but still not as good as the ladies of Lewoleba. The man was keeping a sea turtle in a small pond in front of the bungalows. I was very angry and disappointed when I saw it. The owner claimed he saves the turtles from local fishermen and later returns them to the sea. Why didn't he do it right away? I felt so sorry for the creature. With everyone rested, we left Paga Beach for the long drive to Maumere.

Maumere (again!)

Back in Agus' office we negotiated renting a car to go to the beach beyond the Nogo Beach bungalows (it was apparently unspoiled). The plan was to visit the seaside and then take dinner at Nogo Beach so Brian could see where I stayed and taste some of Eta's cooking. The discussion with Agus was a disappointing hassle - I was starting to feel frustrated with him and his attitude toward everything (even if he was very kind and polite). Apparently, Alex was suffering from a toothache (he complained about it that morning) and was not interested in driving more. We had to find another driver, which we did, and then set off. A few kilometers one after Nogo Beach was an empty strand of black sand that overlooked Maumere Bay and the mountains behind it. We sat quietly and relaxed reflecting on all that had happened over the past week. We even spotted one of those huge shells on the beach that are usually only found in tourist shops. It became our number one souvenir from the trip that we proudly displayed back in Jakarta. How unlucky for Nogo Beach Bungalows that their location was not there instead of next to the post-earthquake, pre-fab village. The potential for development in Flores seemed amazing.

We returned to Nogo Beach and sat under their dining pavilion watching the sun set and the mountains change color. Once again, we were served a delicious dinner of ikan bakar. All the staff were there except John who informed them he was not returning. I hoped he could find a better job than what he had been doing at the hotel. They were all happy to see me (I was also happy) and to meet Brian. Agus joined us for some Arak, but was not very animated. With all the hassles we went through, perhaps Agus gave up on us. I hoped he learned something from the experience - but I doubted it. From a customer service standpoint, we didn't think Flores would ever be ready for development. People were kind, but disorganized and only interested in getting as much money as possible. As the car pulled away, the staff called out their goodbyes. They hoped I would return soon - I hoped that, too.

Back to Jakarta

The flight to Denpasar, Bali in a small plane gave beautiful views of Flores and the other islands in between. The scene below us was breathtaking: turquoise and emerald waters, desert islands, towering volcanoes. Our departing view reminded us of how much was left to see in Flores (and Indonesia).

We had just begun our explorations, but that trip remained one of the best in the five years of living in Jakarta.