Hobbits, red lakes and white spirits: Flores
After the doom ship sailing from Timor, I pitched up in Larantuka town with relief and keen, to explore. However, I often have delusions about my own endurance, and this morning was one instance. " I know, after that baking hot, 16-hour through the night boat journey near the equator and without sleep, I'll just chuck down my main bag and jog up the nearest 1000m high volcano to get a nice photo". Then I sit down to tie my laces and wake up 4 hours later having no recollection of slumping into an exhaustion coma over the coffee table. So I opted to sit in the garden, relax, and watch the Floresians getting on with their daily lives instead.
Judging by the garden of the guesthouse, Flores is certainly floral. Beyond the gate is the main strip of tarmac through town, and by it a well where there was always someone pulling up buckets of water to wash their clothes with, or pour over their head to rinse off shampoo lather. Kids buzzed about on bicyles that'd be on the scrapheap in Britain, or ran along a crumbly concrete pier to leap off the end and into the sea between rusting fishing boats. Women with perfect postures glided past balancing vats or cloth-wrapped bundles on their heads, giving me a jolly, "Siang" (lit. 'Good lunchtime'). As a nice change from the rest of Indonesia, the men didn't give me any long stares, frowns, or hassle to buy something, as they drifted by in small packs like sheep without anyone to follow. Talking of shepherds, the only other pale face I'd seen here is Jesus's, in his multitude form of statues, stitchwork pictures and calendars. Christianity arrived into Flores in Larantuka, and has been embraced to great extent. The guesthouse reception was adorned with pictures of the messiah and stitchworks of Christian quotes. I felt like I was in American Bible belt, but for the palm trees and smoking volcanoes.
Skillful Larantukans carrying their purchases from the market, Solor Island across the strait behind
I was just pondering my schedule for crossing Flores when an American anthropologist turned up at the guesthouse. I picked his brain about the Flores hobbits, as I wanted to assist the archaeologists if it was their dig season.
The Flores 'hobbits' are a newly discovered (2004) and tiny species of human that scientists believe lived in Indonesia at the same time our own ancestors were colonising the world. The partial skeletons found have caused a sensation as they've been claimed to be a human species new to science. Homo floresiensis, as it was called, was little more than 1 m (3ft) tall and lived until at least 12,000 years ago. They shared Flores with golden retriever-sized rats, giant tortoises, huge lizards - including Komodo dragons - and a pony-sized dwarf elephant which the Hobbits probably hunted.
It is said the creature could have come out of Homo erectus, a long-extinct early-human species that was known to populate Flores about 800,000 years ago. Homo erectus may have arrived on Flores then evolved its tiny physique in the isolation provided by the island. Chris Stringer, head of human origins at London's Natural History Museum, said the long arms were an intriguing feature and might even suggest H. floresiensis spent much of its time in the trees. "We don't know this. But if there were Komodo dragons about you might want to be up in the trees with your babies where it's safe...."
Even more intriguing is the fact that Flores' inhabitants have incredibly detailed legends about the existence of little people on the island they call Ebu Gogo. The islanders describe Ebu Gogo as being about one metre tall, hairy and prone to "murmuring" to each other in some form of language. They were also able to repeat what islanders said to them in a parrot-like fashion.
Edited from: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/3948165.stm
Unfortunately my hopes of joining a dig to uncover more evidence of these intriguing 'humans' were dashed. As far as Dave understood, the team of Aussie archaeologists who reported the Flores hobbit in Nature magazine had been working with a 'junior' Indonesian archaeologist. One of his seniors, who wanted the prestige, took the hobbit bones from the museum and into his lab for 'safekeeping'. Dave didn't know how the situation has progressed since. A curse on scientists with over-inflated egos and desperation to be the best!
Now that helping dig up human fossils was off the agenda, I had more time for absorbing the amazing scenery and getting to the intriguing Kelimutu volcano. So I took the bus that did a person and sacks or rice collection around town then headed west for Ende. The scenery is jagged and pleasantly devoid of human habitation, triangular volcanoes towering until the yellow sandy coastline near Maumere. Then the road weaved up into jungley mountains on a single-track and mostly paved road, doubling back and back on itself with 100s of vomit-inducing, 180 degree hairpin bends. As the topography became gentler west, the rainforest gave way to vast tracts of postcard-picture paddy terraces:
Typical volcanic scenery - just west of Larantuka
Typical cultivation scenery - between Maumere and Moni
Lunch stop was at the nun run Bethania school canteen and truck/bus cafe, greeting customers with a glittery 'Mary Christmas' banner over the entrance. The chicken noodle soup was delicious, though its cost not very charitable considering the prudence the sisters exercised with the non-water ingredients. Descending from Moni village, the scenery was of narrow valleys and high waterfalls, each spectacular enough to be a top tourist attraction in Britain. And here, together and numerous. Wild and rapid rivers swept through steep gorges scarred by spectacular landslides.
Typical mountain scenery - between Moni and Ende
Oh yeh, the landslides. The one that had recently removed a stretch of this road, and currently halting our progress, had a slip plane of maybe 200-300m down the ravine and into the river below. An exodus of people were abandoning the line of parked buses and the few private cars and carrying suitcases, boxes, rice sacks (mostly women) across the slide area by foot. Men stood in groups just staring, as usual.
Exodus across the landslide plane
"Why are the men just standing and gawping and not trying to clear the road?" I asked an English-speaking Indonesian chap who works in a West Timor embassy.
"If they help to clear the road, they expect payment. But nobody can pay them."
"Yeh, but if everyone helps to clear the rubble, everyone gets home quicker and the produce for tomorrow's market doesn't go off in this heat."
"But they want money for clearing the path."
"But the men are doing nothing and their hard-grown fruit isn't going to earn them any money if it's rotten."
"We may be here 24 hours." - I think this meant, 'stop asking questions'.
"But, but...."
I must train myself not to try and understand, or judge, what I perceive to be non common sense actions, that I see every day in Indonesia. I'll drive myself bonkers.
Thankfully, the professional road workers made the way passable after only another hour, and we trundled on to Ende. The music was from the same CD as on the doom ship: Vengaboys, Cheeky Girls; Westlife; some lame Danish band. I hope this music wasn't for the benefit of me, the only European and only passenger able to understand the lyrics, as it was absolute horse manure. Tell me this isn't what the Asians that aspire to be like Westerners think this is our top quality music!
I spent a day walking around Ende town looking for something to eat that wasn't fried rice or noodles, and internet access to tell Rob where beyond Timor I was. Everyone shouted, "Hello Mister" at the token Westerner: the small kids, women breastfeeding at their roadside noodle stalls, men up on scaffolding or on motorbikes. The place is as friendly as Bali and without the glaringly obvious motive of being courteous so as to get some money from me. The town looks incredibly scruffy in comparison its surroundings of lush-forested volcanic peaks and black sand beach. There wasn't much produce available at the market: each stall/groundsheet showing off only modest piles of the same few types of fruit and veg, reeking dried fish and bits of chickens.
Typical smily Floresians at Ende market
The nearest I got to internet access was a computer in a college library, that couldn't load up a starter webpage. The list of last-accessed sites included playboy.com and wanitasex.com, a testosteroney 'up-yours' to the recently passed anti-porn law that's causing tension on Java. And with the presence of Christianity instead of solely Islam comes abundant street graffiti, from the global: 'Eminem', 'PEACE' and 'Donny loves...', to the obscure 'LEGO LEGO' and 'Roland Pure', to the downright radical in this part of the world, 'SEX ITS OK'.
The next day I set off to Bajawa, a 9-hour bus ride away, to see Bena traditional village and because it's the place on Flores where I was told there could be working internet. Again, the scenery was awesome, with the deserted black sand beaches, mountainous jungle, broad grassy plains just below cloud level and triangular volcanoes. Another reason to come was to hopefully meet other tourists; I'd only seen one Westerner in the last 5 days and fancied some conversation. Alas, I was again the only fair-skin on the bus, street, empty guesthouse, market.
Typical coastal scenery - just west of Ende
Flores island has several regional languages. I bought a T-shirt with a picture of a village leader and an inscription of his prayer to a god, thanking for the weather, harvest and good fortune (is as much as anyone could translate). Beyond 70km, none of the Flores people knew this village language. Then I got sick. I blame the water in the mandi (bucket or tiled box containing water to pour over one's head in the absence of showers) that I'd stupidly rinsed my toothbrush in, then saw worms swimming in the next morning.
Bajawa market - the most affluent I saw on Flores and Timor
After 3 days, most of that ill in the 'bathroom', I met a European! Parisian Manu and I took another 6:30 am bus bound for Moni village and Kelimutu volcano. Before 7am we whizzed past tin-pot churches packed to the rafters and surrounded by worshippers unable to squeeze in. Those villagers not at church were scurrying there in their Sunday best (only non-ragged) outfits with Bibles in hand.
At Moni village, high in a mountainous basin of cool climate, we bargained down rent in a showerless shack beside a stagnant pool (malaria-carrying mosquitos hatchery we were told), to the now-familiar pleads of, "We bankrupt, we bankrupt". A Dutch ex-pat living here liked to talk, and as the women running the guesthouse searched each other's hair for bugs, he filled us in with some Indonesian current affairs.
100 million Indonesians don't have clean running water to, or near, their homes.
100,000 children under the age of 5 die every year because of unclean water.
Children die of malaria, i.e. 1 in the house opposite (Christian grave by the front door) because families can't afford the widely accessible medication at $2 a day for 10 days.
The petrol increase I hear every transport driver complain about has gone up by 100% a turn, twice in 2 years. The government times the price hikes with the start of Ramadan when people are to busy to demonstrate. By the end of Ramadan, they have kind of accepted the prices that are by then a few weeks old so don't demonstrate. Of course the petrol price hikes affect so much of daily life:
- women don't take their produce to market every day, but every few days, to save bus fare;
- men no longer tear around the village on their motorbikes all day, showing off their new exhaust and stopping for a chat and a cigarette. "The village isn't such a friendly place now."
The Jamia Islamia terrorist group, linked to Al Qaeda and currently active in Indonesia, recently lost one of its seniors. He and a cell of terrorists were located in East Java and shot by police. The police found 4 lock-up garages full of guns and ammunition, addresses of 21 tourist-related next targets in Bali, and instructions to shoot tourists on the streets as they flee from future bomb explosions they'd just survived. This group may have been responsible for the Bali bombs: their way of expressing their opinions of bikini-clad Western nightclubbers.
Many Indonesians are now unhappy with Jamia Islamia, as the tourist industry and their incomes have crashed. The men in each village that everyone knows are members of JI, and who they never used to have an issue with, are now being murdered by village vigilante groups. The government turns a blind eye as every JI supporter killed is one less potential terrorist to deal with.
Manu and I hired motorbikes and drivers to take us up Kelimutu volcano for the sunrise over its 3 different-coloured crater lakes. In the near-summit carpark we both exclaimed with surprise, "Tourists!" at the sight of 2 tour buses. Where have they been staying? Walking the track up to the crater rim, I refrained from glancing to the crater lakes until I could see all 3. What colours would they be? Well, since the postcard aerial photo was shot, the aquamarine lake has changed to peppermint green. The green one is now non-milk tea red and the red lake a deep-sea blue. The ex-pat Dutchman reckoned they changed colours soon after the 1969 eruption of a volcano, +30km away. What interesting crustal fluid plumbing if true! He also reckoned the lakes' waters are as potable as regular drinking water. Call me a cynic, but peppermint green acidic water with frothy milk-tea brown streaks of scum rising from depth, sat in a volcano crater, isn't something I'd fancy topping up my hiking waterbottle with.
Looking across Flores at sunrise from the rim of Mt Kelimutu is an incredibly beautiful and tranquil place to ponder, and marvel, at the magnificence of volcanic activity and products. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to do so. A tour group of Jakartans were taking it in turns to shatter the serenity of the moment by singing hymns Pavarotti style. They all had matching T-shirts and some called, "I love you, Jesus" instead of, "Cheese" for group photos. The housewives wildly applauded and whooped after the overly-camp kid's, admittedly very good, rendition of Amazing Grace. The bloody Church! There's a time and place for praising God through song, and sunrise on the top of my volcano is not one of them!
The green (fore) and red (back) lakes within the summit crater of Kelimutu volcano
Back in Moni village we pottered about the village market, where there weren't even apples or tomatoes for sale, only battered cabbages and tiny green oranges. Then Rob turned up out of the blue. Celebrating our chance reunion in the middle of nowhere, Rob, Manu and I went to a local cafe - a wooden shack with smoky, dim interior and no customers. Manu went to the toilet but was gone 30 minutes before we figured we'd better go rescue him. We found him sat out the back, in the 'cooking area' behind the shack, with the women (as usual working beyond 11pm whilst the men of the family sat at a cafe table like statues) who were preparing cake-like sticky goo balls to sell in the market in 7 hours. He was chewing on a betel nut and powdered, roasted coral that most of the women chew here as a stimulant and to get their necessary calcium. Their mouths were filled with red juice that they spat every few minutes as it threatened to overflow out of their lips: a great flying gob of beetrooty saliva from a mouth of permanently crimson teeth.
Elisa, the 23-yr-old daughter, waitress, cleaner, cook, market stall holder showed me the bedroom: a bamboo-reed platform of a bed, 1 sheet and tiny cupboard in a room of bamboo reed walls and no larger than the 'bed'. She apologised for us having to sit in this barely-habitable place (their house) whilst speaking with them. As Manu took another betel nut and Elisa donned my Man Utd fleece and handed my MP3 earphones, blasting out Oasis's 'Rock 'n Roll Star', to her mother, I explained we were thrilled to be accepted into her family home.
And then I noticed them. How had they escaped my vision for those few minutes when only 2 metres away across the room? Huddled on another bamboo-reed platform, in a shadow by the wall, were two elderly women wrapped in traditional sarongs. They twitched startled and hid their faces behind their loose sarong flaps when I gave a gentle, "Selamat malam" (Good evening) and nod. I got the impression they didn't speak Indonesia's national language. They were terrified when I raised my small camera in their direction, after Elisa's permission, and nervously glanced at, then quickly away from, the digital screen bearing their image. Then they huddled closer together, like scared kittens do. Elisa explained, as she lit a cigarette secretly so her father wouldn't see, that they'd come from their mountain village to sell what they could carry at the market here. And they don't see white people in their village. I got the impression that meant never.
The traditional old women, and their way more modern relative, Elisa
I felt I was intruding in their family nest and intimidating those who deserved infinite respect, so I made my excuses and left Manu to sit and chew the betel nuts with Elisa's mother. I wondered what the old village women, with their animistic beliefs, thought of us three 6-foot, white men with pocket-sized cameras and MP3 players, driving loud and unintelligible conversation with their relatives. Spirits? Demons?
The final bus ride westwards to Labuanbajo, to sail to Komodo and see dragons, was a 2-day epic. It started at a luxury 9:45 am (after six 6am starts in 9 days) with the usual out-of-this-world scenery and some humour. Two head-scarved Muslim girls sat on a wall shouted, "I love you" and blew a kiss at Rob. We rolled about with laughter at their response to Rob's, "Rambut anda chantik" - your hair is beautiful - had they heard it. The road took us steep mountain sides for an hour, up to cloud level, then on an hour of steep descent. Then again. Then again. It was great for the scenery but why would engineers build a road that after scaling and descending the peak of one massif, immediately wind up to the pinnacle of the next? The gearbox rarely got out of first gear and after hours of screaming for mercy the engine gave in. I couldn't believe what happened next. 4 men/teenagers all worked at once, to get filters cleaned, oil checked etc, and after an hour the bus set off again. They do work!
At 6pm, on the 9th day to travel Flores's 375km length, but on a road of nearly 700km as it's longest straight section is about a kilometre, and a lot of cursing of starers and guesthouse bathrooms, we finally pulled into Labuanbajo bus station, about 6km from the town.
Komodo dragons on Rinca Island tomorrow.....
posted by Graham, Manchester at 3:46 am
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