Lulie and I (Julie wants to change her name to Lulie) are packing up tonight. We are leaving the mountain town of Moni and riding to the coastal city of Ende. Normally I would whinge and catch the bus - the mountains are a killer on the bikes - but most of the journey should be downhill. I hope I don't come unstuck. My legs are already sore from three days of intensive walking; I decided not to complain about excessive exercise and as a result, Lules has led me to clock about one hundred kilometres on foot. My God! That girl has no idea when to stop.
The rice padies around Moni's terraced slopes are gorgeous!
The area around Moni is not flat. The chief attraction is a set of three coloured, volcanic crater lakes at Kelimutu, fifteen steep winding kilometres away from the small town of Moni. Most people catch a bemo (minibus) in the early morning, to view the sunrise. Yesterday we walked up, around and down with little rest. We didn't see any other tourists, and only a handful of locals wandered by. The crater lakes were awesome. We trekked a couple of kilometres around the lip of the crater; a dangerous, exposed, scrambing walk over a crumbling, rocky path. We peered down at the large, dark, coffee coloured lake, over one hundred metres below. Lules has a fearless habit of standing right on the edge, a frightening sight considering the near verticle drop and the usntable footing; only a handful of hardy plants dare to stray closer. Minerals bubbling into the lake are responsible for the colouring and the lakes change color over the years. Adjacent to the coffee lake is a brilliant aquamarine lake. The intense color is spectacular. Reflections from the lake leave an aqua tinge on the already colourful rocky crater wall and from the lip, the smell of sulphur occasionally drifts past your offended nostrils. The third lake was black, shadowed and boring in comparison. Lules was heat exhausted when we returned to the room and a nasty fight broke out as I wasn't in a sensitive mood, being exhausted myself. All was smoothed over an hour later.
Loopy Lulie hanging upsidedown - note the crimson sign of the heatstroke to come...
The day before climbing Kelimutu, we walked down from Moni to Nggela, a small traditional town known for its beautiful ikat weaking. Ikat is commonly worn in Flores, and is made from carefully died threads. The path to Nggela took us through various towns. We had planned to snack on fruit purhcased in the towns, but there was little on offer and we were lucky just to get water. We were both starving and my blood glucose lows depleted the little food we did carry. Still, it was scenic and tranquil walk, starting with a wander through rice paddies, snaking down through the lush mountainside and final hot descent amongst banana and coconut palms. To our surprise Nggela was an interesting little place.
Not only was the town full of woman weaving ikat on their looms, but there were a number of tall, thatch traditional houses. The houses were on stilts, and the shade beneath harboured groups of men, weaving women and kids playing. We arrived just after midday and were the only ones silly enough to be walking around in the intense heat. We managed to buy some dry biscuits and some lollies, but there were was no market. I haggled with the women and bought some ikat, they pounce on you from all directions when you show some interest in their woven products.
We had walked twenty-four kilometres and had planned to catch public transport to Wolowaru. We asked locals when the bus left. Answers of 1am, 2am and 3am caused confusion. Most said 3am - too long to wait. We wanted to go back to Moni via Wolorwaru, to allow us to stock up on fresh fruit. During the nineteen kilometre walk to Wolorwaru, we encontered not a single bus going our way. It was hot. The walk was steep uphill. I opened the biscuits on the slope leading out of Ngella. They were mouldy, not just a bit green, but totally grey-black with dusty fuzz. Lules peeled back a stuck on use-by date to reveal they actually went off in 1997. She fed them to a skeletal, starving horse at the side of the road. After a long sniff at her hand the horse politely declined.
It was an effort for a whinger like me not to complain. My legs went completely numb for over an hour. We only rested to piss and to eat sweets to raise my blood glucose levels. The sceney was spectacular, and once the road flattened out and the day cooled to below thirty degrees, it was rather pleasant. We dreamed of the market in Wolowaru, and the juicy fruit.
When we finally plodded into Wolowaru, we had to walk two kilometres to reach the market stalls. The market was empty, and only a few roadside stalls were selling fruit. We had bought fruit from the same women the previous day; our bus from Maumere had stranded us there for over an hour whilst two flat tyres were repaired. We had bought four delicious (and previously untried) green sawo four two thousand rupiah. Today, the exact same women wanted two thousand for just two. Lules doesn't like to be ripped off and the woman was a little rude and bitchy. No sale. Lules walked away. We were heading back to Moni. I appreciated the irony of walking an additional twenty one kilometres to the market, only to not pay the equivalent of an extra twenty Australian cents for the fruit we so desired and needed. I laughed as we truged up the hill, at least I had restocked on lollies and some cheap, nasty, but under the circumstances yummy chocolate. Moni was thirteen kilometres away but we were now on the main road to Ende. My aching feet only had to cope with another two kiloetres before an enterprising young man in a 4WD offered to take us to Moni for five thousand rupiah (of course, we had turned him down and kept walking for twenty metres when he had initially said ten thousand rupiah (US$1)).
Today we decided to have a rest day. Lules realised that she was pushing both of us a little too hard. We caught a bemo to Wolorwaru (the same town we had visited the day before yesterday). There wasn't much room so Lules stood in the open doorway with the tout - she never likes sitting down anyway - and the passengers gawked at her muscles jumping under her tanned arms. I sat in silence, with my legs twisted awkwardly to avoid a trussed up live pig at my feet - the poor little squealer - and we both passively sucked acrid smoke from my neighbor's burning cigarette. The pig's eye looked human, with a clear white, brown iris and a large panicking black pupil. It stared at me and closed sleepily when the smoke drifted and obviously stung it. The bemo stopped. The man picked up the wooden pole that was threaded between the pig's tied legs. The pig screeched and was carried outside and dumped on the ground like a piece of luggage. I grimaced sadly.
Saturday was the main weekly market day, and by a stroke of luck, today was Saturday. We were in search of sawu again, and ironically (it just keeps getting weirdier), we bought the sawu from the same women for the inflated price we had previously refused. We also snagged some popcorn. In Nusa Teggara they pop corn in a little metal black drum that is spun by a handle. The drum is heated by an intense kero or petrol flame that spews out of a tap; the tap is welded on to a little resevoir. The contraptions frequently explode with a loud bang. Enough of popcorn. We also stocked up on little tomatos, home made cornflakes (like half-smashed bits of popcorn that hurt your teeth when you chew too many of them), unripe mangos (I tried to unsuccessfully trade an uneaten one for a pile of cornflakes), a variety of fruit called salak which has a brown snake skin peel, small stale loaves of bread, carrots and lollies. It was a successful expedition. We would eat like kings!
We didn't want to make the day too easy and decided to walk the thirteen kilometres back up the mountain to Moni. The walk was surprisingly peaceful - despite the occasional bemo tooting at us - and the views over the green rice terraces and dense tropical foilage were superb. Most people stay a day in Moni and zip up to Kelimutu to see the lakes, missing the great walking and the cooler (just below thirty in the shade) climate.
The road was in a bad state - another good reason to walk - and was really just a series of connected potholes and rocks. We passed gangs of road workers repairing the narrow 'Flores Highway'. They were chipping and digging rock out of the cliff face next to the winding road, and piling it up on the shoulder. They were creating avalanche conditions. So, after the road was repaired, the unstable cliff would probably collapse on the road and more repairs would be required.
The few locals living in houses perched precariously on the roadside waved and laughed at us. I guess foreigners are rarely seen walking on that stretch. Still, the kids had obviously had made 'contact' before and shouted 'gula gula!' (sweets) and 'PEN!' at us. We didn't give them anything. The tourists who handed out sweets to the kids around Moni have really done a diservice to the island of Flores. Pens aren't such a bad thing to hand out, but it's probably better to do so at a school or only to children who are polite and don't scream at you.
We ignored the kids (and some adults) who shouted at us to give them candy and waved and smiled at the genuinely friendly and curious ones. The road climbed further and we crossed a couple of rivers, that we had previoulsy seen winding their way through the steep sided valley. Serenity. We left the shade of the tall trees as the road opened out into agricultural land, tended by woman in bright ikat. Red and orange dragonflies buzzed over the green rice stalks, whilst irrigation water loudly trickled through the mud walls dividing the paddies. The last kilometre was an exposed uphill stretch in the hot sun. The calming senery and lazy sounds drifted into the background as the sun slowly heated our heads and fried our brains. Upon reaching Moni, we were glad to hide in our hotel room and rest.