We are out to see a wonder of natural beauty, the three crater lakes of Mount Kelimutu, roughly in the middle of Flores. To get there we fly to the small village of Ende on the south coast, and from there take a taxi to Moni, a village in the shadow of the great mountain.
Moni itself is not so impressive, a very small village center and farms scattered around it. Our lodge, calling itself an “Eco” lodge, is in a canyon in the outskirts. It’s not so impressive either, the service is quite sloppy and on our first night we unfortunately get a young Chinese couple as next door neighbours, screaming at each other constantly. And the walls are thin.
There is a restaurant on the premises, but it’s no place to hang out, and the village center is too far away for a nightly beer. The road is long and pitch black at night.
But we’re in a nice garden with a babbling brook, and after that first night the young couple next door move out, so now it’s nice and quiet.
The good people of Moni are openhearted and friendly, and with a few exceptions we feel this positive vibe all over Flores. Maybe that’s a typical phenomenon in places that tourism hasn’t yet found. We walk around and everybody we meet says hello and then continue doing what they did. Some work in the fields, some stand around talking while things are loaded onto the roof of a van, one of them being a live goat. Some kids fetch water from a stream.
It was the Portugese invaders who named the island Flores for its lush and abundant vegetation. It’s still a green island with mostly wild and untouched nature, and large forests. And obviously farming here gives good crops, judging by what’s in the shops by the roadsides.
But we’re here to see the crates lakes, and to do that properly you must rise very early in the morning and drive up serpentine roads to a parking space high up on the slopes. Then proceed on foot a few kilometers, flashlight is necessary, up to the peak of Mount Kelimutu. With just a few hundred meters left, a faint light is seen in the sky. The dawn is slowly breaking. We sit down, get a cup of hot coffee to chase away the morning chill. We are at 1 639 meters above sea level.
Suddenly a sharp orange flash is seen over the mountains and we’re able to see the surroundings. To our left there is a steep slope, but straight ahead there are two almost circular surfaces of water separated by a narrow stone ridge. Later we spot the third lake some hundred meters behind and below.
As the sun rises we see that the lakes have different colours. And the colours change over time. The legends say that the lakes are homes to souls of the dead. The nearest one is for the young men and the women. The one behind us is for the old people. But the third is called “the bewitched lake”, and is home to the souls of evil people.
Coming down from the mountain we stop to listen to a Gariguwa bird in the forest. It’s an elusive fellow that few have seen, yet it’s famous for its varied song (click on the arrow to hear it):
From Moni we also make an excursion south, stopping in two of villages on the way. The first lies deep in the mountains and forests, and here we meet Mama Maria, the daughter of the village chief. She tells us about the life and religious rituals in the village, and we get a glimpse of what seems to be a very old vision of a universe ruled by spirits that need sacrifices to help with getting good crops, choosing the right village chief etc. Most of the people on Flores are Christian catholic, but here in the mountains old beliefs still rule.
-Come back here when we have a village fiest, and we’ll dance, Mama Maria laughs when we say goodbye.
The second village is larger and by the coast, mostly fishermen live here with their families. Here we see many houses with the same “pointy hat” roofs that the ritual house in Mama Maria’s village had. But here it’s a part of the village center where only the ruling clan members may stay. All other villagers live in ordinary houses on the outskirts. In the village center the clan’s forefathers are buried, some of them inside a boat-like concrete sepulcher.
In a few minutes we are surrounded by women who want to sell us their handwoven textiles. It’s good stuff, but we have to explain as politely as possible that we already bought similar textiles. The women are very disappointed, some even angry. And they all leave and walk home.
We move on to the next place that’s so small it’s not on most maps. Join us!
