It’s already dark when I reach Probolinggo, just like Desy said. It’s a little past 6 p.m., but with the streets practically empty and only a few sleepy eateries and stores open, it feels later in the night. I don’t have much difficulty finding my hotel, though, and after less than an hour, I’m in my room, lying on the bed and absentmindedly watching an Indonesian soap opera on television. I call Asrori Kholid, the one-man staff of Probolinggo’s tourism office and whom Desy had earlier connected me to. I announce I’m already in Probolinggo and tell him where I'm staying. “I’ll meet you in a short while,” he says. It’s almost eight by the time Asrori knocks on my door. He’s either in his late twenties or early thirties, looks more like a front man
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