angusmccoll

Manado is a big city on the northern tip of Sulawesi. It’s a busy port and business centre but banarkin island just out from the city does lure some foreigners for its diving and snorkeling opportunities. There are some nice reefs here. My local friend knows of a better place for viewing the corals and fish of this part of the world.

It’s an early start. I’m greeted at the hotel by our driver for the day. Then we pick up my friend Ali and make way for his little known location. It’s just across the other side of the narrow finger-like peninsula from Manado but it takes hours to travel because the roads are narrow and the landscape mountainous.

It’s a small Muslim fishing village. Fishing is it’s heartbeat but changes are afoot. They’re now realizing their waters have potential for something more than catching fish. Tourism. Foreigners are discovering the reefs here and all they have to offer. A French man has built 3 houses on one of the islands and he is luring foreigners.

Ali’s organised a boat and for the next few hours we explore the underwater life off the coast here. It’s impressive. The colour and variety of corals and fish is easily the equivalent of what I can remember of the Great Barrier Reef. And there are little ‘petit’ reef sharks. This area has many apparently. I saw one in the distance. The other guys saw more. Of all of the wonder under the water, it was something I saw while walking up a small island peak. There’s a few trees making home for some birds. There’s a flash of brilliance and I recognize this bird. It’s a kingfisher. It looks like our azure kingfisher. What a treat.

It’s back to the village for lunch then back to Monado. Weekends on the roads through the villages can be unpredictable. Main thoroughfares can be closed for weddings or funerals, forcing traffic into slow narrow side streets. We’re redirected many times. Then the traffic closer to manado thickens to a standstill. Short distances take hours. I get back to the hotel around 6:45pm. What a spectacular day.

I’m up early, packed, early breakfast then a lift to the airport by the hotel. It was part of the deal. My first flight to Denpasar on Wings Air goes well and it’s a 3-hour wait for my next flight to Manado.

It seats 180 people but there are only 25 of us.

My flight from Bali to Manado on Sulawesi is with Lion Air on a Boeing 737-8Max. Does that sound familiar? It should because both the airline and the aero plane were all over the news a few months ago. The brand new plane flew into the ocean off Java killing all aboard and the plane’s electronics are one of suspected causes, along with pilot inexperience.

Why so few on this flight? Manado is a big city and a popular destination for Indonesians and some foreigners. It can’t be the reason. Could it be that people are untrusting of this particular make of plane?

Anyway…you’re only reading about this because I have landed and able to tell the tale.

I get to my hotel finally at 5.30pm. Manado looks very familiar to me know. This is my third time to this city. And the traffic hasn’t improved. At times this city is just clogged.

Not a good day. I have to be in Labuan Bajo on Friday to catch two flights to Manado so I decide to fly from Ende rather than risk buses. It was a process just buying the ticket then mid flight we’re redirected to Lombok because of bad weather. Waited in the Lombok airport for hours before reboarding the plane for Labuan Bajo.

I prebooked a hotel in Labuan Bajo. I had difficulty finding it but finally booked in and crashed. I’m tired. Then the sound of angle grinders! It’s a construction site as the hotel is in the process of expanding. Bugger. I pack up and leave, with full refund of course. There’s no WiFi so I can’t search for another place so I walk, in the rain, for kilometers. People offered rides but I turn them down. I cold call into a hotel I found on MapsMe, Kasawuri. I’m really exhausted now, and wet. And on top of that, fluey.

I read about Paga on Flores and the opportunities to experience nice beaches from the Lonely Plants guide so rather than spend a night in the airport town of Maumere, I caught a mini bus from town directly from my flight for Koka Beach. My rogue of a taxi driver from the airport to the bus recommended staying at Cowboy Ricky’s place near Paga. I nervously went with it. After a hairy ride in an overpacked mini bus with bald wire-exposed tyres in the pouring rain over a windy mountainous road, they dropped me off without directions! I found signs. Quaint little bungalows are what I first see, then Cowboy Ricky. He’s a local but obviously a stand out character. Shirtless and bejeweled in all sorts of regalia he introduces himself and shows me around. Facilities are truly basic. Open bucket showers and toilets and an open kitchen if you want to cook your own stuff.

Right away I want to visit the beach which is 2km away. A bungalow owner on the beach picks me up and gives the hard sell about his place. It looks very nice and right on the beach. Anyway I’ve committed to Ricky’s for tonight.

Wow, it’s beautiful. White sandy coves find space in a rocky coastline. Fishermen fix their nets. I walk to the top of a knoll for views. It really is pretty and will become a tourist lure. I’m located between Maumere and a place called Moni, where tourists go to experience famous crater lakes of multi colours. With a bintang in hand after a walk around I’m approached by Joseph, a young local man collecting shells on the beach. He stops to practice his English. He’s come home after working in other parts of Indonesia to be closer to his ailing mother. And because he suffered some illness. He’s father and brother have passed away from illness. He’s English is good, he says from school and an effort to engage with tourists. He’s catholic as are a large majority of the population on Flores island. He’s a beautiful personality and easy to engage with. He wants to make jewelry with his shells to sell to the tourists but he also wants to become a guide and is waiting for a certificate from the government. He offers me a lift back up the bumpy road to Ricky’s. I offer to pay but he refuses, which is extraordinarily refreshing and genuine when travelling. I like him a lot.

I’m s but out of the town of Paga but Ricky points me in the direction of A local warung (or restaurant). It’s a small family place and the food is awesome. My second meal of you day.

I was very unsure of how this day would turn out, from my flight with Wings Air with their reputation for cancelling flights, to my plan of avoiding Mauree by bus to Paga. I’m very happy so far. Can I stay another night? I really want to.

Koka Beach is even more beautiful in the morning light. I walk down there first thing with no real agenda apart from getting some photos. It’s hot and steamy already so I take a swim. The water is crystal clear and I have the beaches to myself for a while. Fishermen start coming in and with them their catch.

Some ladies have just open up their stalls so it’s deep-fried banana and coffees for me. Very relaxing.

It’s Sunday, church day and the only school-free day for the kids. Once church has finished the locals come down to the beach for fun. Kids come down in boisterous mini-packs or if they’re on bikes they come freewheeling at speed down the last stretch of bitumen road. It’s a satisfying morning observing the locals on their Sunday morning. The beach is popular with people from the cities too. They come in their cars. The fishermen get to sell their fish fresh from the ocean.

It’s a shower and short rest before Andi arrives and offers to take me up into the mountains to his village. It’s high up and a struggle for his little bike. Andi teaches sport at his local elementary school. He gets paid the equivalent of $10 per three months! Unbelievable. They teach six days per week with just Sunday off so he finds tourists to take to his village for extra cash. His cousin (he describes her as his sister) is a physics teacher at mid-school and she gets paid the same. Andi takes me around his village to meet his extended family and introduces me to his culture. They are farmers here tending gardens of corn and other things on the sides of steep mountain slopes. There are children of all ages everywhere and I’m a bit of a novelty despite the number of tourists Andi has brought up here. I feel so intrusive taking photos but Andi encourages me to do so. Most oblige but some don’t, which is fine. I explain to Andi if I was them I wouldn’t want my photo taken either. He explains that Indonesians are jealous of our noses and our skin! Wow. I’m jealous of their looks and their skin. How crazy.

People of Flores bury their deceased family in crypts next to the houses. Some of the crypts date hundreds of years Andi says. There are many small graves for children dying very young. These crypts are part of the family furniture. Children play on them, elders sit and chat. It’s like the dead are still part of family life. I explain to Andi how we treat the dead in Australia, some cremated and some buried. He’s in a family of three but his two older sisters have died already from sickness. He doesn’t know what the sickness was. He invites me to his home for coffee, made by his cousin. Country and western music is blaring. They prefer Western music to Indonesian for a reason I don’t understand.

The views from his village are spectacular. We’re up about 1000m I’m guessing and it’s cool and clear. Thunderstorms fill the background.

Back at my bungalow Ricky tells me the local restaurant is normally closed on Sunday but they would be happy to serve me. The doors were shut but a young girl scurried to find the owner. She opened the doors for me and I chose nasi ayam goreng because I had it last night and it was delicious. I thought they would have chicken in the fridge somewhere but going from the flurry of desperate chicken noises out the back, there is slaughtering happening at this moment…for me! Now I feel I’m imposing. Why didn’t I just ask for fried rice?

Today it’s back to Bali. Our flight is for 8:30am so it’s a 6:30 start from our hotel. All went well. It’s a short flight. Indonesia is very well serviced with domestic flights. Most islands have at least one airport, some have two or three.

Tambolaka is a small city on Sumba that is the gateway to western side of the island. We flew directly from Bali to here and will fly out from here tomorrow. There is another airport on the eastern side at Waingapu.

Our driver takes us from Waikabubak to Tambolaka in the morning, arriving around 11am. We book into our hotel then it’s to lunch at the Sumba Hospitality School about 20km out of town. It’s a Belgium foundation that runs a school on the island to train locals for the hospitality industry. There are about 60 students chosen from around 900 applicants so competition is tough. They target school leavers and up to 23 years of age and they say they give preference to those from underprivileged backgrounds. The course runs for a year and the students board onsite. Teachers are interns from Belgium universities. They also have English teachers providing the necessary skills of English. Classes are supplemented with a 5- month internship with a hotel in Bali.

We signed up for lunch, which gives the students an opportunity to apply their new skills on real customers. Students can specialise in one of five disciplines, from room cleaning to table service.

The rest of the afternoon for me is walking around the town taking photos. Foreigners are a bit of a novelty for the locals, especially around the markets. They love you taking their photo, asking you then thanking you. I say thank you to them.

From the city it’s possible to do a walk along a ridge line to the edge of town. Along the way you pass by temples, guest houses, spas and retreats before coming out onto rice fields and farms. It’s a hot balmy day and the farmers are tending their rice fields. It’s planting time and the fields are being prepared. Hand-walked mechanical ploughs work the sodden grounds. It’s a fascinating sight to see ploughs working in watery mud. Egrets have learnt that this will give them great food gathering opportunities so the follow the plough. It’s an interesting relationship they have with the farmers.

The men work the ploughs but it’s mainly the women that plant the rice. Individual seedlings are hand planted into the mud under water a few centimeters deep. There is something disturbingly obvious here. Nearly all of the people working the fields are elderly. Very few young people involved. What does this mean for the future of rice farming in these places?

It rains every afternoon.

My tongue is still in agony. On advice from my Facebook friends, I sourced medicine from a pharmacy. The pharmacies here are staffed by young women who have a pretty aggressive selling technique. After finding what I wanted they insisted on all of these other treatments I needed. It was difficult saying ‘no’. Grabbed my medicine and ran away…