flores.
maumere
overslept breakfast. boring ship. nothing but 'hello mister'. i try to plan the next days but there's not a minute you can use for yourself. there's always somebody who sits next to me to chat or just to stare into the lonely planet over my shoulder. i feel like in a zoo. dinner is a really impudence. not a bad decision not to have breakfast. i'm craving for fesenjune (sorry my persian friends, i still don't know how to write it but i know how it tastes). we talk about french cheese and wine as a reasonable alternative to cold fish and burnt meat. boarding time. again incredible masses of people at the port. police with mps. spooky. everybody is grabbing and touching us. nothing for claustrophobic people. . goodbye from derren and lucy. i want to take the night bus to moni. i ask a guy how much it is. no answer. 'to moni? - 'yes, get on the bus' - ' when do you leave? - no answer. after a while i figure out that the bus will leave tomorrow morning. top of the humorous attitude of these people: somebody wants to sell the 10.000 r trip for 200.000 r. i wonder when the day will come when i punch one of them. not for trying to rip me off but for assuming i would be stupid enough to pay it. i can't help it but i have to laugh . this is almost impudently silly. do i look like a package tourist? i'm able to catch up with derren and lucy. and we end up at a place where hieronymus (obviously a good old indonesian name) offers a tour through flores. expensive but convenient and efficient.
maumere, moni
derren and lucy agree to do the tour with me. which is a good thing. more fun with these nice english guys (yes, they do exist. amazingly we don't even spend much time discussing the blitz krieg). first stop at the muslim bugis fishing village. huts on poles, kids playing in the water and the garbage. interesting faces. everybody wants a picture taken. hiero talks about arranged marriages. i guess i will never understand these deals. another market. a guy who sells fish looks like lionel ritchie. no wonder you don't see any new cds - this guy is making money with tuna nowadays. the people try to sell us rice sacks. i admit a unique souvenir.
on the way to moni we end up at an ikat weaving place. when they spot us everybody is informed through a bell. within minutes all the women arrive with their stuff. i think this procedure deserves a bit more professional perfection. maybe i should offer consulting services? 'looki, looki, buying no problem'. i bet. every time we turn to a direction they hold their stuff up in the air. we're surrounded! so i turn permanently to different directions to keep them in motion. what a perfect example of action and reaction. i need a video to document this. amazing how fast they are - the result of generations of the 'surround the enemy and show your stuff' tactic. we're able to escape: seems they became tired after so much moving up and down. sorry ladies.
endless serpentines along the coast. endless amount of incredibly beautiful faces. we play 'hello mister - hello tourist'. we wave back like the royals 'hello locals, hello dudes'. another of my favourite strategy is starring back with wide open eyes and mouth you have to beat them with their own weapons. we all have our fun. lots of yelling and shouting on the street today. sometimes kids run away as if they've never seen a foreigner. additionally to the lousy streets we're faced with psychological warfare: only country music and shania twain. mercy! sometimes the loudspeakers stop functioning. but only for a short while. lunch at a perfect deserted beach.
arrival in moni in the evening. after dinner to the traditional dance. room for optimisation of the organisation: the tourists have to fix the lamps so they're able to see the performance: we let the light shine to the stage instead into our faces. we're the ones who are to be observed: maybe the show is just a trap, we're the highlight of a slave market? very funny. little by little the dancers, musicians, singers show up. the choir sounds african, the dance is nice but nothing compared to the perfection at yogya. but it's this amateurism that makes it an interesting show. you can see how eager they are to make a good show. except this boy who looks as if he'd prefer to be in bed rather than in the show. in the end we're forced to join the dancing. i insist on having a bad knee. derren is even smarter: he sits on one leg, hiding it and pretending to be too handicapped to dance with one leg. not good enough - so the tourist make fools of themselves trying to be locals. ok it 'let's have fun with tourists' time again. the climax of the show arrives: we're surrounded again. surprise! 'looki, looki, buying no problem'. i think i heard that before. this time we don't have an inch to escape, we're pressed to the wall. i have to cry from laughing. there's no way to express the absurdity of this moment. this is real existing satire. 10 tourists threatened by 40 locals. looks like 'buy or die'. miraculously we can escape.
kelimutu, bajava
driving up to the sacred vulcano lakes of kelimutu for sunrise. fucking freezy but great views. take a few ‚crazy german jump pictures'. hiero goes nuts because i jump at places where other people wouldn't stand. and derren refuses to take pictures of me because he doesn't want to be responsible for my death what's the problem? so far only one tourist fell into the lakes to get boiled. and i won't be #2. water colors changed from white, blue, red to black, blue, brown. reason unknown. could be a change of temperature or the mix of minerals. religious meaning of the lakes: place for the souls of the good, the bad and the kids.
continuing to bajava. more serpentines with very interesting faces on the way. unusual african savannah landscape. arrival in bajava. great dinner with guacamole, chicken, french fries. kitchen is already closed but i'm still hungry. order the same stuff again. suddenly we hear hysterical chicken screaming and we see the cook how she grabs a chicken at its throat to the kitchen. i can't believe my eyes. i'm about to yell ‚excuse me, i'd like to cancel my order! i'm not hungry anymore'. but we're already hearing the typical noise of the axe. sounds it's too late for a cancellation. we can't but start to laugh. i just image the chicken stall: they already thought they made it today and started the survival party but suddenly the doors opens again ‚hey you in the corner, i regret but there's this insatiable tourist who placed a new order and you have a job to do! - ‚can't we make a deal? all of us spend a leg! can't we agree on that?'. seems the others weren't convinced to join the deal. what a tragedy! but we agree it's a good destiny to be eaten by people who appreciate good food. then we hear a little kid singing in the back. i wonder if they're having sort of a chicken funeral with the rest of the gang: ‚tonight we lost our good friends john and james. we will not forget them. lets sing a song to honor them'. i feel so guilty. i am a chicken murderer! we create some heroic poems to praise the chicken for its courage and its taste. just imagine such a procedure at kfc: the chicken dragged to the kitchen in front of the kids: oh traumatised little souls.
bajava, bena
very relaxing hot springs. i try to climb up the waterfall but the rocks are too slippery and the current is too strong to succeed. i end up with some bruises and cuts. i guess just sitting in the water would give me a heart attack. drive to the traditional ngada village bena with its matriarchal system. again a mixture of animistic ancestor worshipping and christian belief. female and male huts forming a couple that belongs to a family group. back to the chicken execution restaurant for dinner. this time the food is a disaster. back to the hotel with more ‚helloing'. derren mentions that he would end up in prison for attempted rape or that he would be beaten up if he asked somebody in london: ‚hey, what's your name, how old are you, where are you going? this time we change the roles again and interview the locals we see on the streets. they're more than irritated, good fun. ‚beat them with their own weapons'.
labuanbajo
to labuanbajo. the serpentines are brutal. i'm close to puking but the motion sickness medicine works well and the landscape looks endurable again. but i'm not in the mood for ‚helloing'.
exceptional spider web rice terraces at ruteng.
the last kilometers to labuanbajo our driver has a race with some other maniac. we're going 80 km/h through the villages with playing kids. it must be a genetic insufficiency. i wonder what would kill me first : a heart attack or the mob lynching us after an accident. as usual no reaction to our repeated demand to slow down. at least there's loads of guardian angels out there today. don't want to know about indonesian accident statistics. great food at the restaurant but i have to admit that the rat in the front garden is a bit irritating.
overslept breakfast. boring ship. nothing but 'hello mister'. i try to plan the next days but there's not a minute you can use for yourself. there's always somebody who sits next to me to chat or just to stare into the lonely planet over my shoulder. i feel like in a zoo. dinner is a really impudence. not a bad decision not to have breakfast. i'm craving for fesenjune (sorry my persian friends, i still don't know how to write it but i know how it tastes). we talk about french cheese and wine as a reasonable alternative to cold fish and burnt meat. boarding time. again incredible masses of people at the port. police with mps. spooky. everybody is grabbing and touching us. nothing for claustrophobic people. . goodbye from derren and lucy. i want to take the night bus to moni. i ask a guy how much it is. no answer. 'to moni? - 'yes, get on the bus' - ' when do you leave? - no answer. after a while i figure out that the bus will leave tomorrow morning. top of the humorous attitude of these people: somebody wants to sell the 10.000 r trip for 200.000 r. i wonder when the day will come when i punch one of them. not for trying to rip me off but for assuming i would be stupid enough to pay it. i can't help it but i have to laugh . this is almost impudently silly. do i look like a package tourist? i'm able to catch up with derren and lucy. and we end up at a place where hieronymus (obviously a good old indonesian name) offers a tour through flores. expensive but convenient and efficient.
maumere, moni
derren and lucy agree to do the tour with me. which is a good thing. more fun with these nice english guys (yes, they do exist. amazingly we don't even spend much time discussing the blitz krieg). first stop at the muslim bugis fishing village. huts on poles, kids playing in the water and the garbage. interesting faces. everybody wants a picture taken. hiero talks about arranged marriages. i guess i will never understand these deals. another market. a guy who sells fish looks like lionel ritchie. no wonder you don't see any new cds - this guy is making money with tuna nowadays. the people try to sell us rice sacks. i admit a unique souvenir.
on the way to moni we end up at an ikat weaving place. when they spot us everybody is informed through a bell. within minutes all the women arrive with their stuff. i think this procedure deserves a bit more professional perfection. maybe i should offer consulting services? 'looki, looki, buying no problem'. i bet. every time we turn to a direction they hold their stuff up in the air. we're surrounded! so i turn permanently to different directions to keep them in motion. what a perfect example of action and reaction. i need a video to document this. amazing how fast they are - the result of generations of the 'surround the enemy and show your stuff' tactic. we're able to escape: seems they became tired after so much moving up and down. sorry ladies.
endless serpentines along the coast. endless amount of incredibly beautiful faces. we play 'hello mister - hello tourist'. we wave back like the royals 'hello locals, hello dudes'. another of my favourite strategy is starring back with wide open eyes and mouth you have to beat them with their own weapons. we all have our fun. lots of yelling and shouting on the street today. sometimes kids run away as if they've never seen a foreigner. additionally to the lousy streets we're faced with psychological warfare: only country music and shania twain. mercy! sometimes the loudspeakers stop functioning. but only for a short while. lunch at a perfect deserted beach.
arrival in moni in the evening. after dinner to the traditional dance. room for optimisation of the organisation: the tourists have to fix the lamps so they're able to see the performance: we let the light shine to the stage instead into our faces. we're the ones who are to be observed: maybe the show is just a trap, we're the highlight of a slave market? very funny. little by little the dancers, musicians, singers show up. the choir sounds african, the dance is nice but nothing compared to the perfection at yogya. but it's this amateurism that makes it an interesting show. you can see how eager they are to make a good show. except this boy who looks as if he'd prefer to be in bed rather than in the show. in the end we're forced to join the dancing. i insist on having a bad knee. derren is even smarter: he sits on one leg, hiding it and pretending to be too handicapped to dance with one leg. not good enough - so the tourist make fools of themselves trying to be locals. ok it 'let's have fun with tourists' time again. the climax of the show arrives: we're surrounded again. surprise! 'looki, looki, buying no problem'. i think i heard that before. this time we don't have an inch to escape, we're pressed to the wall. i have to cry from laughing. there's no way to express the absurdity of this moment. this is real existing satire. 10 tourists threatened by 40 locals. looks like 'buy or die'. miraculously we can escape.
kelimutu, bajava
driving up to the sacred vulcano lakes of kelimutu for sunrise. fucking freezy but great views. take a few ‚crazy german jump pictures'. hiero goes nuts because i jump at places where other people wouldn't stand. and derren refuses to take pictures of me because he doesn't want to be responsible for my death what's the problem? so far only one tourist fell into the lakes to get boiled. and i won't be #2. water colors changed from white, blue, red to black, blue, brown. reason unknown. could be a change of temperature or the mix of minerals. religious meaning of the lakes: place for the souls of the good, the bad and the kids.
continuing to bajava. more serpentines with very interesting faces on the way. unusual african savannah landscape. arrival in bajava. great dinner with guacamole, chicken, french fries. kitchen is already closed but i'm still hungry. order the same stuff again. suddenly we hear hysterical chicken screaming and we see the cook how she grabs a chicken at its throat to the kitchen. i can't believe my eyes. i'm about to yell ‚excuse me, i'd like to cancel my order! i'm not hungry anymore'. but we're already hearing the typical noise of the axe. sounds it's too late for a cancellation. we can't but start to laugh. i just image the chicken stall: they already thought they made it today and started the survival party but suddenly the doors opens again ‚hey you in the corner, i regret but there's this insatiable tourist who placed a new order and you have a job to do! - ‚can't we make a deal? all of us spend a leg! can't we agree on that?'. seems the others weren't convinced to join the deal. what a tragedy! but we agree it's a good destiny to be eaten by people who appreciate good food. then we hear a little kid singing in the back. i wonder if they're having sort of a chicken funeral with the rest of the gang: ‚tonight we lost our good friends john and james. we will not forget them. lets sing a song to honor them'. i feel so guilty. i am a chicken murderer! we create some heroic poems to praise the chicken for its courage and its taste. just imagine such a procedure at kfc: the chicken dragged to the kitchen in front of the kids: oh traumatised little souls.
bajava, bena
very relaxing hot springs. i try to climb up the waterfall but the rocks are too slippery and the current is too strong to succeed. i end up with some bruises and cuts. i guess just sitting in the water would give me a heart attack. drive to the traditional ngada village bena with its matriarchal system. again a mixture of animistic ancestor worshipping and christian belief. female and male huts forming a couple that belongs to a family group. back to the chicken execution restaurant for dinner. this time the food is a disaster. back to the hotel with more ‚helloing'. derren mentions that he would end up in prison for attempted rape or that he would be beaten up if he asked somebody in london: ‚hey, what's your name, how old are you, where are you going? this time we change the roles again and interview the locals we see on the streets. they're more than irritated, good fun. ‚beat them with their own weapons'.
labuanbajo
to labuanbajo. the serpentines are brutal. i'm close to puking but the motion sickness medicine works well and the landscape looks endurable again. but i'm not in the mood for ‚helloing'.
exceptional spider web rice terraces at ruteng.
the last kilometers to labuanbajo our driver has a race with some other maniac. we're going 80 km/h through the villages with playing kids. it must be a genetic insufficiency. i wonder what would kill me first : a heart attack or the mob lynching us after an accident. as usual no reaction to our repeated demand to slow down. at least there's loads of guardian angels out there today. don't want to know about indonesian accident statistics. great food at the restaurant but i have to admit that the rat in the front garden is a bit irritating.