The island of Flores is so breathtakingly wild, raw and real that It’s no wonder that the locals are devout Christians. It would be easy to believe in God when you are surrounded by such beauty. Common sense would imply that a skilled artist had carefully crafted the landscapes.
The east of the island is painted with cordial green rainforest. Old growth trees groan under the weight of dangling vines pouring down to the road. The road passes along cliffs that dive steeply to bubbling streams and when the banana and palm trees part there are gasping views. Views that make your heart beat large inside your chest, views down crevices, along stream and past peoples’ homes and histories, views along rice fields that show generations of hard work, views across jungles, towards honest villages made insignificant by menacing magical volcanoes.
As we pass these honest villages with our windows down to smell the sweet banana tinted air the children jump and wave and scream ‘hello bule! (foreigner)’. The adults look on from their shabby huts, initially suspicious but lightning fast at summing us up and then grinning a grin so warm that you feel it lift your spirits. They have nothing and I envy them. I’m jealous of their uncomplicated approach to life. Their day by day, night by night traditions that have existed for generations. They don’t question, they don’t need to question, the world is impossible to understand. Each night they watch the sky sink into black and slowly fill with millions of distant worlds that tease us with their millions of distant secrets, but to the villagers the stars are just another incomprehensable part of this immense, elaborate masterpiece.
Would be nice if you come and visit us, we have an extra room with a (small) double bed, so feel free to use it!