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.