Living the Dream: Eastern Flores on a Motorcycle

December 23, 2007

My next destination on Flores was Kelimutu, a volcanic crater that is home to 3 colorful lakes. Having had such a great time trekking with William as my guide and translator, I decided to take him along. This time, however, I would travel not by knee-crunching bus, but by ass-kicking motorbike - a regular Che Guevara a la Indonesia.

DAY 1
We got a late start having to organize a more powerful motorcycle (instead of a typical Southeast Asian glorified scooter) for the journey and getting it outfitted with a new back tire. It wouldn't have been a problem to reach our 1st destination, Ende, in one day had it not been rainy season in Flores, showers beginning daily between 12 and 2pm. As we took off around 1:30pm it was beginning to rain - hard. We were quite the sight, the two of us bundled in rain gear and my poncho flapping up and down over my 50 liter/13 kg pack strapped to my back. Rain or shine, this adventure could not be stopped. Postponement, not an option.

We had driven about 1 hour when the rain really started to pour. The pitter-patter of the drops on my helmet were relaxing, but the reduced visibility, wet pants and slippery road were not. We stopped on the roadside and sought shelter in William's uncles 4 room bamboo shack.

The family welcomed us with the same hospitality we had found in Watu. We drank hot coffee and ate savory bananas grilled over the fire in their green skins. The 5 kids ranged from age 6 months to 16 years. I watched as they played with toys made of string and bottle caps and the baby peed on the hut's packed dirt floor - this was normal life.

Three hours later the rain let up and the sun threatened to disappear. We took to the road again, aiming for a small town 30 km away that had a local hotel at which we could spend the night and wait for the clear skies of morning. The hotel owner was hosting choir practice in anticipation of Christmas. I fell asleep to the dueling sounds of carols and the Muslim call to prayer coming from the mosque down the street (Flores is 85% Christian and 15% Muslim).

DAY 2
Clear skies to Ende, one of Flores's main port towns. We wound around the mountainous countryside breaking periodically to regain feeling in our backsides and take a rest from the back, ab and lat workout my bag was providing. This was the life - wind in my face on the back of a motorcycle zipping past rural rice fields, roadside shops, make-shift markets and daily life in Indonesia.


A little before noon we arrived at a beach covered in blue stones. We sat on top of a large pile that had been collected to sell to the Chinese for use as natural color in ceramic art. The clouds rolling in, we boarded the bike once again and headed for Ende. As we arrived it began to rain: clockwork. We spent the afternoon running short errands - plane ticket, the eternal search for Internet, ATM.

The early evening skies cleared and we sat down by the beach - dark sand, sprinkled litter and local life. A group of boys had set up a makeshift net (two oars stuck upright in the sand and connected with a string about eye level). They played a game similar to volleyball, but using only their heads and feet to keep the ball afloat. Excited to have an audience, they put on a show, flipping, diving and tackling one another. The game ended when one of the boys' mothers came to fetch him (angered by his tardy return). We could hear the sound of a broom slapping his backside all the way up the hill.

DAY 3
The road to Moni, the base town of Kelimutu, was stunning. William hugged the curves in the road as I gazed at the landscape surrounding - palm trees, roaring rivers, mountains, cliffs, rocks, lush greenery. The scenery so stunning and vast, no camera could capture it. At one stretch in the road more than 5 Yosemite-quality waterfalls were in view at one time. The world seemed peaceful and again, it began to rain. We continued, occasionally encountering other motorists tackling the road by bike or car.

We arrived in Moni and checked into bungalows just out of town where we could enjoy the sound of the nearby river and William's friend Robert's family. Tired of endless restaurants and Warungs (local restaurants), we decided instead to visit the market and cook a meal to share with the family.


We pealed garlic and onions, chopped carrots and cubed potatoes and (the highlight) killed, cleaned and cooked a duck. The white and feathery friend was so docile - almost as if it new it was to die, resigned to his fate as dinner. CHOP! went his head into a shallow hole in the garden.

The meal, partially cooked over a fire and partially over a one burner stove, was delicious. The whole family joined us - Robert, his wife, his children, his mother-in-law, sister-in-law, nieces, nephews and maybe even a few neighbors, it was hard to tell who was who and since they seemed not to care, neither did we. We feasted and drank tea and local coffee into the evening before retiring. It would be an early morning the next day trekking up to Kelimutu for dawn.

DAY 4
Day four was day one of trying to see Kelimutu. We left the bungalows with great hopes, but as we ascended on our motorbike, the clouds grew thicker and thicker. Visibility dwindled and it became clear that we would not see much more than a few branches in the not-so-distant foreground. We turned back.

With little to do in Moni other than visit the volcano or some local villages (both not optimal in drizzly weather and bad road conditions), we decided to pay a visit to the local billiards "club." Two pool tables sat next to one another in an open air shelter made of bamboo. One table had standard sized balls while the other smaller mini balls. The cues were light and warped. A chicken kept jumping onto the table in the middle of our game. We twiddled away the afternoon playing pool with the abysmally poor local players and drinking coffee. Lazy day.

DAY 5
Good thing it's about the journey not the destination. Kelimutu take two = rain and impossible viewing conditions. With Christmas looming and William needing to get back to be with family, we packed up our bags and headed back to Ende where I sought out the "flashiest room in town" for Christmas - a $15/night air conditioned tiled room with a television. No Kelimutu. No tri-colored lakes. Just an adventure I wouldn't trade for the grandest of view.

Watu Village

December 17, 2007

At home we have work, cars, supermarkets, bills, nail polish, department stores, packaged meat, appliances...stuff. We know about George Bush, Elvis Presley, Forrest Gump, bombings, births, what Britney Spears and the royals are up to.

Watu has gardens with taro and tamarind, bananas, corn, pineapple, cashews, cassava melons and more. They know of America, but not California. They want an access road for their village, cook over a fire, haul water up the hill on their heads and backs and have a local newspaper from March 17, 2007 to read on December 18th of the same year. Most importantly, however, they have community.

My guide William and I trekked a leisurely 6 hours along the base of a volcano and through a leech-infested jungle to Watu, a traditional Ngada village population 100-something. We first came across one of the village gardens where an old woman was cutting up fruit to feed to the pigs. She greeted us with smiles and pineapples and chatted about village news. She invited us to stay with her and her daughter for the evening. We graciously accepted and headed for the village.

Watu means stones in Ngada and is set in a hillside with many steps leading from house to house. The traditional houses and gravestones keep the ancestors' spirits close. The children play together in the dirt where buffaloes and pigs are sacrificed and come and go like every house is their own. The houses palm frawn rooves (for the most part); a single room for sleeping, cooking and storage; and a porch where people gather to eat and chat.

When we arrived, all of the neighbors came to say hello and stayed through dinner. We spent the evening talking and laughing. Of course, I don't speak Indonesian or the local Ngada dialect, but William would translate and I learned a bit - Ah-nak (children), A-nak (delicious), A-rak (local palm wine spirit) and other words that triggered smiles as I continuously mispronounced and/or confused them.

As the hour got late and the oil lamps burned low, we prepared ourselves for bed, falling asleep to the sound of pigs and chickens quarreling under the house. In the morning, more food, more conversation and an excursion in search of cell reception to arrange our ride home. We struggled arm extended on top of the one rock in the village that we were told we *might* get a signal. After about 25 minutes, we had success and headed down the mountain leaving behind a wonderful group of generous people and a life some beautiful in its simplicity.

Watu

December 17, 2007

At home we have work, cars, supermarkets, bills, nail polish, department stores, packaged me

200 km

December 16, 2007

One bus, 200 km, 20 seats, 32 people, 3 babies, one chicken, eight 50 kg bags of miniature onions, countless personal belongings, 3 packages to deliver en route, 13 inches of leg room, one official rest stop, 11 hours & 46 minutes.

The Lonely Planet travel guidebook describes the bus journey from Labuanbajo to Bajawa on Flores as "seemingly interminable." They weren't far off the mark.

The bus circled the small port "city" of Labuanbajo to pick-up passengers starting at 6:00am. I boarded around 6:12. The seat I was initially directed to had no legroom, just a huge bag of onions where my legs would normally go if the seats were being used as intended by the manufacturer. I had to sit cross-legged, all rolled up into a ball. After about 5 minutes, I knew that this would not be acceptable for the, what I thought would be, 9 hour journey. I schemed to change seats, trading mine for one of the few without this onion problem. I settled for a spot in the furthest back seat with just enough leg room to fit my legs if sitting perfectly upright. For once in my life I was glad I never grew to the 5'8" I optimistically reported on my driver's license at age 16.

As we bumped along the pothole ridden "Trans Flores Highway," with some portions rivaling San Francisco's world famous curvy Lombard street with its hairpin turns, nausea kicked in despite the medication I had the foresight to consume. A veteran motion sickness victim, I tried to sleep knowing it would help pass time and suppress the urge to vomit. I dozed.

Unfortunately, the relaxation necessary to escape the hell that my stomach was experiencing created a new problem - slowly sinking into slumber my legs ground into the seat in front of me, applying pressure on my knees as well as digging my bum into the less-than-cushioned seat. Crazy pain kept me lucid and I battled the curves one by one, trying to get what little fresh air was available as the passengers puffed away at cigarettes around me.

The passing scenery was stunning - lush jungle hillsides and volcanic peaks in every direction. The clucking of a chicken in a cardboard box in front of me added to the ambiance. This was traveling: pain, beauty, perseverance and poultry.

Every once in a while we'd stop long enough for the driver to take a leak by the roadside or to chat with someone passing by, but we never got off ourselves (with the exception of the men and boys who rode standing in the doorway hanging off the side of the bus) for fear of being left ruthlessly behind. My bum was asleep and my legs locked into uncomfortable paralysis. I prayed for a rest stop.

My prayers were answered when we came across an overturned truck in the road. Cutting a corner too close, it seemed to have toppled over the side landing head first onto the road below. Huge bags of rice were everywhere. The local village had all come to look. Some sat on the hillside and others on the overturned truck itself. They sold bananas to passer byers and watched the mayhem as other vehicles encountered the mess. Our bus stopped.

If the truck had been a few feet further into the center we could have been stuck for a day or more (a million miles from nowhere, mind you). As it were, we all disembarked as the bus maneuvered between the wreckage and the rocky roadside risking our luggage rather than our lives. I stretched my knees, sorry for the truck driver and his load, but grateful for my lucky ligaments.

We continued on and soon reached flatter and straighter terrain, crossing through rice fields with a jetting mountainous backdrop. My knees still hurt, but I stood up now and again (to the extent the short ceiling would allow), stretching my legs and subjecting myself to the woman seated next to me's comments about how "strong" I was while pointing to my decidedly un-Asian thighs.

Seven hours into the journey we stopped for lunch and a "1-hour" break. The local food was tasty. The bathroom was rank. The driver was impatient and we boarded again after about 30 minutes.

The journey continued - stopping here and there to drop things off, pick things up, chat to other drivers about the road ahead. I periodically dozed but when awake kept my mind occupied with questions like why a "www.gemini.com" decal was placed prominently across the from windshield when I had been unable to find a working computer/Internet connection since arriving on Flores or pondering how tough the chicken meat was going to be after hours of constant stress flapping around its small box wrapped in string.

The sun setting, we pulled into the Bajawa bus terminal (a large flat dirt area). A man climbed to the top of the bus and started untying the mountain of luggage. Another started unloading the onions and other contents of the bus's interior. I grabbed my bag and hopped into a bemo (Indonesian minibus) to the center of town. They blasted Bob Marley for the duration of the 5 minute ride. I checked into a guest house, closed my door, laid down, took a breath and thought about what a truly great journey it was.

Lombok to Flores

December 10-14, 2007

For USD$100 I took a boat for 3 days and 4 nights to the island of Flores (meals and snorkel gear included). It was basic and rather uneventful. Twelve 20 and 30-somethings crowded onto a cabinless boat sans chairs, sans running water and ample snorkeling/swimming/komodo dragon viewing breaks. Not much to report specifically other than: a good time was had by most, sitting on the floor with perpetually salty skin made my butt sore and rashy, giant lizards are RAD!

Island Paradise

On Gili Meno's neighboring island, Gili Trawangan (the "party island") I was amazed by what I saw. Not only is there an Irish pub, but also movie bungalows on the beach! What has technology done to the average humans attention span?

Night Fishing

December 5, 2007

Everything is so peaceful on Gili Meno, a small island (1 sq km) off the Western Coast of Lombok. It takes about 2 hours to walk around the perimeter beaches at a relaxed pace and about 20 minutes to motivate oneself to move from the beach side bungalows to snorkel around the reef just off shore.

During the day I explored the magnificent world underwater with friends I had met on the ferry. The coral was brightly colored with thousands of fish circling round. Sea cucumbers, star fish, sun fish, parrot fish, sea turtles, neons and many more I could not name - all creating a visual masterpiece around me. I marveled at their beauty knowing that, later, they would be dinner.

The sun set and around 7pm we met our boat. As we passed over the reef the sleeping fish below had little idea that the floating object above blocking the moonlight was a beacon of death, the grim reaper headed for them.

When we got to our destination, Dean, our fisherman guide handed us a waterproof flashlight and taught us to use a spear gun. The idea was to snorkel along the surface looking for the sleeping fish under rocks, dive down to pointblank range and BAM! spear the unsuspecting animal. While easy in concept, juggling all the gear and avoiding a lung full of salt water proved difficult. Drowning in the dark lonely Indian Ocean lacked appeal. My deep resolved to avoid that fate well trumped the competing desire to assume the role of underwater hunter, slaying my own dinner. I stayed at the surface, content to watch the locals we had along execute the massacre.

The majestic fish we had seen during the day were equally beautiful flapping vigorously on the end of the spear. We cheered and saluted as the experts surfaced with fish after fish - our job to swim the fatally wounded to the boat where they awaited their next chapter: The BBQ.

"We" caught 9 fish and took the best 4 back to our beach front bungalow for a feast. Still in our swimming suits and sarongs, we eagerly awaited our meal. At a long table set up in the pathway along the sea, we garnished our catch with sambal (a chili and lime concoction), garlic oil, sweet & sour, onion tapenade and/or the simplest sprinkling of lime. I thoroughly chewed each savory bite before swallowing. Mmmmmm. One of the best meals I've had. Anthony Bourdain would be proud.