High mountains and moving hospitality on trip to Flores
High mountains and moving hospitality on trip to Flores
By Angela Ee
JAKARTA (JP): "Nama?...Agama?" Our names and religion were the
only formalities needed to break the ice. We were at Kampong Pemo
Baru -- a village built to replace one destroyed in the 1992
earthquake in Flores.
We found our way there with the assistance of Yeremia, who we
met on a narrow mountain track. She was returning home after a
day's work peddling ikat sarongs in the valley. Yeremia is
nineteen and unmarried. She said girls from her village usually
marry between the ages of 25 and 28 -- we were not worlds apart.
In fact, the villagers living in the high attitudes of
Kelimutu in Flores are accustomed to foreign tourists. Many flock
to the summit, at an altitude of seventeen hundred metres, to see
the three-colored lakes.
Set in a desolate landscape, roughly hewn by a massive
volcanic eruption of a former time and by the dry, cold winds,
the three lakes of Kelimutu stand out like three precious gems.
Turquoise, sea-green and black-red -- their colors are
mysteriously inconstant. Like a witch's brew, the lakes were
blue, maroon and black not more than ten years ago; and, blue,
reddish-brown and chocolate back in the 1960s.
Scientists remain baffled and so the lakes remain mystical.
The people of Flores believe that the souls of young children go
to the sea-green lake, the old to the turquoise, and murderers
and criminals find no solace in the black-red waters.
Yeremia's village was a few hundred metres below the calderas,
an ideal overnight stop for us before our ascent in the early
morning to catch the lakes at their most brilliant colors. We
were taken to the house of the kepala dusun (village head) who
smiled benignly at us, like the picture of the Pope above him.
About twenty women stooped around us, swathed in ikat sarongs --
woven by hand and dyed with natural pigments. They stared at us,
some with teeth stained blood-red by betel nut, and broke out
into smiles when we professed fealty to the papacy. With the
permission of the kepala dusun, we pitched our tent in the
backyard of Yeremia's house. This gave us a commanding view of
the valley soaked in the golden light of the evening sun.
We were invited into the house when darkness fell. Made of
woven bamboo, it keeps the cool in during the hot day, and the
winds out during nights when temperatures plunge as low as ten
degrees. A table was laid out for us, the people from the city,
but everyone else sat on the floor. Not wanting this social
divide, we attempted to sit on the floor but that caused greater
embarrassment. Yeremia's family were outraged that we should sit
on the packed earth, so a huge tarpaulin sheet was dragged out.
We wished we hadn't caused so much trouble. Despite the initial
social kinks, dinner went on brilliantly -- the conversation
flowed and so did the coconut rice, vegetables and potatoes.
The villagers live relatively well but there is an obvious
lack of protein. Water is hard to come by because no river flows
through Pemo Baru. Buckets are hauled every day from an hour
away. Fortunately, we had lugged four bottles of mineral water,
which gave us the luxury of brushing our teeth before we settled
down to sleep in the cool mountain air.
Early the next morning, we trekked through shady paths and
open fields which looked like Europe in spring. From a far, the
summit looked to be covered in a pine forest; but within this
gentle shroud, the wind blew hard and swirls of sulfur rose from
the lakes. If not for the blue skies, we could have been on the
moon, marveling at the spaciousness and edging our way along the
craggy ridges of the crater.
The way down the volcano was, of course, less precarious. In
truth, we took the paved road which most tourists use when they
drive up to the summit.
But it wasn't downhill all the way -- a turbulent volcanic
past has left the island with a chain of ridges and valleys.
After four hours walking up a slight but relentless gradient, the
loads on our backs began to make us feel like beasts of burden. I
prayed to the Almighty for a vehicle to pass. Instead, a man and
a horse came our way. "Tidak bisa...tidak bisa". Cannot, he said,
"Kuda sudah setengah mati." A half-dead horse? He was serious.
Looking at the horse and the many four-legged creatures in
Flores, it was obvious that we made better beasts of burden.
"Hello meester! Hello mees!" greeted us in Koposenda, Tira,
Nuamuri and Jopu, a few of the villages along the route to the
south coast. They are mentioned in the guide books as places to
buy traditional ikat sarongs. The great billing, unfortunately,
has resulted in a huge demand which has inadvertently caused the
villagers to discard the very time consuming process. The threads
used to weave the sarongs now come from factories.
Ikats which use hand-spun cotton threads are hard to come by.
We were told about a group of Americans who had come to Flores
with a huge hoard of money to buy sarongs, only to find
themselves cheated by time. A week before, an Australian had
criss-crossed the entire island and bought up every single piece.
It takes about a year to complete an ikat sarong in the
traditional way, so it can be easily imagined how irked the
Americans were.
Admittedly, we were also on a semi-mission to buy a piece of
traditionally-made ikat, but our motives were less commercial. We
would occasionally ask for the kapas asli (hand-spun cotton)
which either brought us disappointed looks or bags of fakes.
Finally, sensing our persistence, they brought out a piece --
and, I mean, just one piece.
South coast
An apparently authoritative guide book states that it is an
easy twelve kilometer walk to Nggela, a coastal village set on a
cliff. But after six kilometers, which took us to the main road,
a very uneasy feeling washed over me. The road marker read "NGE-
14 km". I checked the book for any fine print, but there it was
-- "six kilometers" -- plain and clear. In a panic, I looked at
the road stretching infinitely uphill. Total hysteria was checked
as I looked down at my sore feet which stood on firm asphalt,
that could only mean a vehicle would pass soon. Or, that was what
I thought. After an hour we were still the only things trudging
up the road. Then an ambulance pulled up, a miracle that could
only happen in the Third World. It was stacked with medical
supplies that were being delivered to the villages. We gratefully
piled on top of every imaginable pharmaceutical and found our way
to Nggela.
There are only two homestays in the village but they are
usually unoccupied. Lawrence, the owner of one, was desperate to
get some business, but we were bent on camping. After some
negotiating, he agreed to show us a camping spot overlooking the
sea and we promised we would return to his home stay for dinner
and a traditional massage.
The next day, we set off east to Wolowaru. But wanting to see
more of the island, we decided to forego the daily bus, and have
Lawrence guide us along a hard to find short-cut. When we finally
stumbled across a village, we had to stop for a drink. Our thirst
was quenched by a boy who pluckily climbed twenty feet up a
coconut tree.
The town of Wolowaru is a stopover for minibuses plying
between the east and west. The Jawa Timur, the third restaurant
we had been in run by Chinese, cooks up fast, tasty meals for
people waiting for buses. We were told we had missed the bus to
Maumere and would have to wait for nightfall. But after just an
hour's wait, a voice boomed at us to run for the bus whizzing
past us. "Ke Maumere! To Maumere!" the restaurant owner screamed
at us. No point in asking what happened to the schedule -- we
made a dash for the bus and it screeched to a halt. Our backpacks
were thrown unceremoniously on the roof, landing on a squealing
pig. We squeezed into the 20 seat van with 30 other people.
The bus weaved along narrow mountain roads, and, at times,
along thin ridges with steep banks on both sides. Once, the tiny
wheels of the bus barely circumvented a gaping hole in the
bridge. Through it, we could see the rushing river far below.
Intermittently, the bus driver stopped to help workmen remove
the boulders and stones standing in our way. We were not certain
whether the road was damaged by the earthquake or by heavy rain
-- but both these elements have given Flores a very rugged
landscape.
Two years have passed since the earthquake that killed over
two thousand people. Because of the difficult terrain, medical
supplies and food reached many people too late. The town of
Maumere, although inhabited by over forty thousand people, looks
like a ghost town, with roofs blown off and heaps of rubble lying
around.
But the tourists are coming back -- especially to dive in the
clear blue waters of Maumere. Many of the famed reefs were badly
damaged by the earthquake, but what we saw rivaled some of the
best diving spots on the east coast of Malaysia. The corals and
fish are small but the variety is wide -- a good sign that the
marine life in Flores is beginning to thrive again. Diving on a
Japanese shipwreck, we saw a phalanx of lion fish guarding the
entrance to the hull. Moray eels, manta rays and scorpion fish
swam amidst a colorful array of corals and fish around the
numerous deep drop-offs.
From Maumere, we took a bus to the coastal village of Sikka
where the ikat-weaving tradition is said to be strong. But the
set-up was aimed too much for the tourists. The village women
were seated in a semi-circle showing off their skills.
Traditional methods were demonstrated but traditional ikats were
not on display. Not to be disappointed, we traipsed down to the
beach and spent the day stretched out on the volcanic sand with
no tourist in sight for miles.
Our last dinner in Flores was at the Sumber Indahrun. We
gorged ourselves on the Chinese proprietors' famed fried chicken.
The Chinese couple could definitely put KFC out of business. With
so much feasting, we had forgotten that the last bus had left at
seven. An amused crowd gathering to witness our plight. In no
time at all, a car pulled up. Some local boys out for the night
offered to give us a lift. Happily we jumped in and were
immediately asked our names. Like a refrain, the question of our
religion came up next. Having professed a certain faith, we found
ourselves drinking with the boys in quantities that would force
us to make the following Sabbath Day an extra sober one.