Flowers, Volcanoes and a very weird piece of cake...

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If you have ever been to Flores you would have to concede that the landscape is amongst some of the most beautiful in the world; Lush rainforests sweep down volcanic mountainsides into a turquoise ocean. The name itself comes from the Portuguese word for flower and they are there in abundance- red, blue and yellow petals adorn the hillsides and plunging valleys are filled with terrace after terrace of rice paddies.
It is difficult to appreciate this beauty, however, when you are being hurtled around hairpin bends whilst swerving between motorbikes and trucks in the back of a minibus. The driver on our second day in Flores must have received a text from his girlfriend informing him that she had the house to herself because he drove like the hounds of hell were at his heels. It was the exact opposite of the day before, where the driver was clearly being paid by the hour, and took full advantage of such by stopping for regular food breaks. Sadly, he stopped at some of the most disgusting vendors I have ever seen - he would always disappear out back (presumably into the house of some relative for nice home cooked grub) whilst we were left despondently staring at dubious pieces of meat with flies buzzing around. I survived the day on boiled rice and some of the hottest chilli sauce ever produced. Even Andy had a vegetarian day. So it was that on the first day our 6 hour bus trip took 11hours and on the second day our 7hour bus journey took only 5. I’m not too sure which was worse…

We spent the first night in a village called Bajawa; after 5 days of no showers (we had swum everyday, so didn’t smell but were coated in more salt than a packet of Hulla Hoops) I was fantasising about a hot power shower, jets of steaming water blasting off 5 days of grime. Instead I got a cold dribble in a hillside (read cold) town. Oh and the sink was in the bedroom not the bathroom - though all that happened was the water went down the plug hole, into a pipe, through the wall and then spurted out onto the bathroom floor. A little disconcerting if you’re sitting on the loo next to this pipe when Andy uses it for the first time!

At the end of the second day we found ourselves in a little mountain village which goes by the name Moni, the nearest settlement to the crater lakes at Kelimutu National Park. The lakes are lovely, three extinct volcanic crates filled with water that mysteriously changes colour from time to time. Local legend says that it changes according to the whims of spirits, scientists scratch their heads and mumble something about chemicals. Either way, it’s quite a mystery - and a mystery we were lucky enough to see taking place; When we arrived one lake was black (a bit boring) and the other two were turquoise. Then, all of a sudden, a yellow spot began to appear in the centre of one of the lakes. There is no where for water to flow in from, and the lakes are so deep in the crater that there can be no significant wind to power a current, yet, as we watched, the water appeared first to swirl one way, then the other. It was a slow transformation and we stayed watching it for four or so hours until heat and hunger drove us down. Plus Mr ‘I don’t burn, just go pink then tan’ Chalkley was beginning to resemble a lobster so we set off down the mountainside. Where we met a man with a machete. I have never met a man with a machete before so was slightly alarmed when he began following us at a distance of about 5m. He never said anything, and seemed to be making a point of ignoring us, but he followed us for a good 15mins before ducking through a fence and into a nearby field. No idea why he was following us, maybe he just happened to be walking that way, you can come to your own conclusions on that one.

The walk down took us through some local villages which clearly had nothing to sell us so were actually quite friendly. Though, weird habit of the Flores inhabitants seems to be burying their dead in quite ornate mausoleums on their front lawns. Living in a wood and corrugated iron shed with gramps in a marble tomb on the porch seems a little strange.
It’s a fair old walk down the mountain (we had gotten a lift most of the way up in the morning), made slightly longer by walking the wrong way for a while, so we were pretty hungry when we arrived back in Moni. We ate a restaurant which had the cutest little girl outside, the food wasn’t great but the beer was cold and we must have been their only customers of the day. Moni really isn’t anything to write home about, it’s in a beautiful location but it is basic. The local delicacy, Moni cake, is to be avoided. It is not what a cake is supposed to be at all. It is made from mashed potatoes which are then seemingly dried beyond all recognition, fried and covered in grated plastic masquerading as cheese. Very disappointing, especially as you have to pre-order it and for a minimum of 3 people. I’d say we were all equally disappointed but the look on Gill and Andy’s faces could mean that I’m wrong. Either that or they are just both terrible poker players. Which is true of Andy given how I wiped the floor with him when we played on the boat! Gill claims not to know how to play cards - though I think this is just a ruse.

Gill is definitely one of the most interesting characters I have come across since I started travelling. An enigmatic French/Hawaiian man in him 60’s he earned the nickname Jacque Custoe on the boat because he looked exactly how you would imagine a French explorer to look. It was during lunch with me and Andy one day, while we were debating the need for me to get a fake wedding ring for India, that he told us he ‘didn’t bother with rings for last wedding’. Conversation continued for a couple of minutes before one of us asked just how many wedding he had had. Four apparently. In his own words (imagine a French accent here) ’Once because I was young and stupid, once for a green card, once to avoid paying tax and once for medical insurance’. OK… And the number one thing he learnt from all of these marriages was: ‘to never sleep with a woman you married for business - it doesn’t end well’.

Our stay in Moni was slightly blighted by the incredibly rude owner of the hotel we stayed at. He tried charging us double at first, then offered us transport at what we discovered was four times the actual cost, then had a tantrum worthy of a three year old when we booked our transport with the restaurant down the road. The rooms themselves were ok, the beds all had mosquito nets, but a lot of holes in them. So the next hour or so was spent using the magical material Gaffa Tape (never going anywhere without it again) to seal ourselves in, which was a good job because as soon as the sun set hordes of the little buggers filled the room - even with the net, 99%!d(MISSING)eet and mossie coils I still managed to amass 17 new bites by the morning. Andy had none, apparently I am the best mosquito repellent invented. I may start marketing vials of my blood…

After Moni we all headed for Ende, which seems pleasant enough, though I doubt there’s anything much to keep you entertained longer than a lunch. Here we parted ways with Gill and boarded our, very delayed, flight to Jakarta via Kupang of all places. Each airport in Indonesia gets to charge their own airport tax, an amount seemingly picked at random, so in Kupang they made us all get off the flight, leave the airport to come back into the airport to board the same plane, just so we had to pay the tax. So, as I have now paid tax in Timor I am saying that I have been to Timor.

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