Angelino: lost in Flores
Author’s note: Our guide on Flores, Angelino, is a kind and helpful person who struggles every day against all the hardships involved in making a living in an exploited and forgotten developing country. Here, many people like him earn their daily bread by taking tourists on trips in jeeps owned by rich Chinese. Of the money the employers take, the drivers probably get no more than 10%. Maybe in the following story this fact gets overlooked somewhat – hence the reason for this note. We owe him that.
The ruins of Maumere
Maumere, Flores, Indonesia: East of Java, Bali and Lombok we find the extremely poor, catholic Flores Island welcoming us one sunny morning. The small city wounded by earthquakes survives among the ruins of its old houses that have never been reconstructed. The tourists the make it this far are few and far between and naturally there’s quite a bit of competition for them among the local guides. Finding a guide is absolutely fundamental if you want to cross the island. There are very few buses and trains are non-existent. But chosing a good guide is like the lottery. We didn’t win.
Vote Angelino!
Once we got off the plane, we happened to come across a young boy who, in fluent English, convinced us to get in his car and take us to a small hotel (his uncle’s, of course). We make a time to meet in the afternoon to bargain about a price for a tour of the island in the days to come. The pros about him are as follows: excellent English, similar age to us, nice, car at his disposal. The cons are: the price. As stingy as two Scotsmen, we launch into an exhausting bargaining session, we were certain we’d get the better of him. Result: our friend leaves us with an “I’ll think about it” and disppears into the ether. Having lost the first round ofdeal-making, we meet a series of other guides, we weigh up offers and, after a lot of thinking, we chose Angelino: middle-aged, thin and bearded, serene but very persistent. Why did we chose him? That’s a question we’re still asking ourselves.
Angelino drive a car
The following morning, our man Angelino meets us at sunrise for our departure. In front of us are many miles and several days in his company – through forests, volcanoes, isolated villages and dirt roads. On the first leg of our tour he surprises us immediately when we try to understand why we’ve stopped by the side of the road to look at the bark of a tree. His English vocabulary consists of about 10 words. But why didn’t we notice that yesterday?
What language did we bargain in? Oh well, we can’t go back now. We’ll try to use sign language. Our guide drives along the dirt and stone roads, totally relaxed – a little too relaxed actually -especially when we’re going round corners or when we meet other vehicles coming in the opposite direction. Every ten minutes he lights up a Kretek, smelly cloves cigarettes with mildly halluconigenic effects, and his car starts to reveal the signs of shoddy repairs. God preserve us!
Terror in paradise
After an entire day of bunny hops along the island, various trips, some of them incomprehensible, and failed attempts at conversation with our man Angelino, we finally arrive at Moni, in the interior, at the foot of a volcano that we’ll visit tomorrow morning. We find somewhere to stay and after a walk in the rice paddies we discover our little paradise. A pond full of warm water and a waterfall over the rocks. Trousers off! We dive straight in.
It must have been the atmosphere, or the tiredness but somehow we are struck with a brilliant idea: Let’s swim right under the waterfall…yes go on! So that’s what we o and here we are under the powerful stream of water that… in two seconds flat drags us down into an unexpected whirpool. We manage to get out somehow after drinking a good deal of water. We know all about potential gastro-intestinal problems – but what could we do! So just to spoil the magical, poetic moment, we put two fingers down our throat…. we go back to our hut cursing ourselves. Maybe noone saw us. Here’s hoping.
Rally on the volcano
It’s still night when Monsieur Angelino proudly takes his place behind the Jeep’s steering wheel: We have to go with him almost to the summit of the Kelimutu volcano. Here’s how it was: it’s dark, freezing, the memory of the previous night is ingrained in our memory – Angelino, drunk on Arak, dancing on the table and singing at the top of his voice. To go up or not to go up – that is the question? We go up. After the first few corners in the forest, a telling off for uncontrolled skids, three yellow cards for whiplash caused by driving over hidden potholes, fifteen verbal warnings for excessive speed on muddy terrain, we decide Angelino can go to hell. But Angelino immediately calms down (or maybe he wakes up?!) and manages to get us up to the top of the hill unharmed. We will live to see another sunrise.
Pissed off in the plains
After the rally and the sunrise on Kelimutu, the day proceeds with a long trip to the Riung. Miles and miles of roads that certainly don’t do much for Angelino’s car. Infact after a few hours we need a mechanic. We go to the first village and we stop the car infront of a workship. That is, maybe it’s a workshop: men at work, screwdrivers, hammers, some tubes: yes it has to be a workship. Angelino opens the coffin, distraught, and starts the consultation. A few people gather around the motor.
Everyone puts in their two cents worth, except our driver, who doesn’t know anything about motors. He trusts the experts. The Surgical/mechanical team, after various discussions, opts for an open-bonnet excision of the carburator without anesthetic. It is put on the ground, actually on the soil that is, and gets hammered at with enthusiasm by various members of the team in turn. Probably to end its suffering. No, maybe not. Now the mass of battered metal get reinserted, two more blows and it’s done.
Off we go again followed by the looks of the mechanics that observe us with a mixture of compassion, incredulity and derision. While Angelino takes us away we have our noses stuck to the window, mute, looking at our last hope fading away.
Not even an hour later the jeep gives off its last gasp and dies on the side of the road. It’s really dead this time. Angelino won’t accept it: destiny, the inevitable, his lack of understanding of cars: he buries his head in the motor and plays around with things for an hour or two.
We try to help him but he doesn’t even respond to us. From feeling solidarity and sympathising with his pain we become exasperated at his obstinate muteness. Also because it’s getting dark and we are in the most deserted, wide open plains ever seen. And then a miracle happens. A truck appears skipping along on the horizon. We run away without hesitating.
As we run away, we feel like traitors, but sometimes you just have to trust your instincts.Bye Angelino, hope to see you again … sooner or later.
Preferably later.
Pictures – Indonesia
Indonesia – Map and itinerary
Indonesia – notes from the journey