What? Someone may actually want Part 2? Here goes...
anyway. the torrential afternoon rains again confined us to our dreary hotel, and we learned that though there may be much to see on this island, it had better be done by noon or shortly thereafter. the next day we moved on, travelling by a hailed car this time: a slightly more posh option. station wagons ply the routes, and for only slightly more than the cost of a bus, one can travel in slightly less discomfort, in a vehicle where passengers are limited to available seats and laps. PLUS there's usually a rockin' sound system. it was UB-40 all the way to ende (remember them?) in ende, a pretty seaside village with all the modern conveniences (like a functional ATM, and a one-lane airport who's runway sees a lot of foot traffic when there isn't a plane there), we had some chores to take care of before moving on. so it bears to mention yet another form of local transport, the bemo. these are little minivans that ply local routes (or just drive around). they seems to be the provenance of young men, and they are highly customized and tricked out with really serious speakers. there was the bat-mobile bemo, for one...all of them have airbrushed names across the front and slogans across the back, ranging from sheer nonsense to cheerful slogans like "f@#$ you!!"--apparently (?) ignorant of how offensive this actually is in english, as little old ladies hop in and out with their days' shopping. the insides have stickers, trinkets, and stuffed animals (the alphabet caterpillar is inexplicably popular). it takes three youth to operate a bemo: one to drive and operate the stereo, one to sit scowling in the passenger seat, knees on the dashboard with a fistful of petty cash, and one to hang out the side of the back. my friend's nail-on-head term is 'shenaniwagons.'
so after getting ripped off for dozens of cents by a couple of those guys, we had yet another public bus ride to negotiate. they actually tried to tell us the bus was full!! which meant that, after much rearranging, i was vised into a seat between local women, and my friend was on a sack of rice between my legs. the only thing i could wiggle was my toes. it got worse when the girl next to me, far from an actual window, was quietly sick into her handkerchief. the diligent doorboy stopped us at a roadside market where he picked up some packages of plastic bags and distributed them among the (many) puking passengers, who filled them, tied them up, and threw them out the windows: little missiles arcing into the weeds, to eventually take their place in the plastic-clotted waterways of flores.
the scenery is really stunning. there's something about dramatic mountainscapes that make you more aware of space than you can possibly be in a flat country, as you whiz through it clinging to the hillsides. the distant hills are cascading with waterfalls from the recent rains, the roadsides are lined with tiny shacks and pigstys, laundry hanging our despite the downpour, tiny gardens filled with flowers despite the poverty. more people are crammed into our bus, a mother in filthy clothes and her three clingy children pin my legs sideways, and the kids, each clutching an ear of sweetcorn, take turns filling little yellow bags without loosing their grip on dinner. we stop at a roadside market, and shopping is done from the bus windows, people shouting orders and passing off money, bags and bags of groceries added to the load. i think at the fullest point i counted 43 people inside a bus with 17 seats.
eventually we arrive in moni, the base for our exploration of mount kelimutu and its colored lakes. it's a true mountain village, scenic and quite...rustic. our room has a falling in ceiling, dubious locks on the handle-less door and a broken window pane adjacent to it, a showerhead long since rusted shut, no sink, a toilet without tank or seat, and a plastic tub with a dipper as our all-purpose water source. the water is muddy. it will do... dinner is family-style, and delicious, prepared by maria the proprietress, who accurately calls herself 'mama.'
at 4:30 in the morning we start the trip up the mountain, by motorbike, for the sunrise. at one point we have to ford a stream which runs right over the pavement and ends in a four-foot waterfall. and then the hike to the top: the lakes of kelimutu are something to which neither words nor photos can really do justice. there are three of them, set in a moon-scape of barren stone surrounding the sunken craters of three overlapping volcanoes. mineral deposits have made them deeply, richly, opaquely colored, like giant witches cauldrons, or huge squirts of paint on a massive palette. one is dark green, one brilliant turquoise blue, and one rich chocolate brown. occaisionally (over years) they change. it's surreal as the sun rises and the clouds wisp silently past like fumes from a test tube. absolutely enchanting. the locals believe that the souls of their dead reside here, and as such it's a spiritually charged place, made more so by the abrupt transition from green mountainside to desolate dreamscape.
we stick around as the sun rises higher and brings out the real brilliance of it all. the turquoise and brown lakes are separated only by a razor-thin ridge of stone. all are so sunken within their round craters that they are utterly out of reach; to fall in would be death. the brown one bubbles. we stay, and marvel, until the clouds finally close in, and then we practically have to tear ourselves away. all the travail, all the weariness of journeying: definitely worth it. coming down from that mountain is like coming back to earth from a dream.
sorry this got so long! again.. glad to hear from anyone who feels like writing back! i've only one more week left here in indonesia, and plenty to pack into it. till next time...
Comments