A road trip through Flores
Warning: After getting a load of grief over the disturbing pictures in the Tana Toraja post, I’m giving you fair warning that this one contains rather unpleasant pictures of pigs being sacrificed and a fairly graphic description. Enjoy…..
At 06:00 on 15th August the island of Flores in East Nusa Tenggara was struck by a 7.7 magnitude earthquake. In the ensuing chaos 111 people lost their lives and many more their homes and livelihoods. It was also felt in Sumba. People around the area panicked and ran inland fearing a massive tsunami that thankfully never came, but the damage to both islands was severe in places.
Though we experienced several aftershocks in Sumba, we were in Timor Leste at the time of the largest quake and didn’t feel anything. But, unsurprisingly, it threw our plans for a road trip across the island up in the air. At first we were dubious about coming, as we anticipated a major rescue operation and didn’t want to hamper any efforts. We didn’t know if it was even possible. The ferry terminal at Aimere, where we’d planned to dock after the overnight service from Sumba, was totally out of action, the ferry port of Ende was only taking ships for the relief effort and all the local airports were closed. We left it for several days and contemplated what to do.
Flores countryside
Our contact and driver on Flores was a guy called Oris and he suggested we fly to Labuan Bajo and start our trip from there. The roads, though initially blocked by landslides, had already been cleared and were passable again. We checked with our booked hotels and guesthouses and all but one, which had been badly damaged, were keen that we still came. We remembered our trip to Tunisia back in 2015 just after Islamic State gunmen killed holidaymakers on the beach in Sousse and in the Bardo museum in Tunis. We only went there out of sheer bloody mindedness and were warmly received, being the only tourists around. Our support was welcomed at the time, so we decided to try and make it work in Flores too.
Oris met us at the airport and straight away we were convinced we’d done the right thing. Most, but certainly not all, tourists had cancelled their plans to travel through the island and the drivers and hotels were desperate for the income. I tried to tell Oris that I wasn’t the ‘Mrs Simon’ or ‘madame’ he’d been calling me online but was in fact a gentleman of the male persuasion. I don’t think he cared. He was just pleased to see us.
Spider-web rice fields near Ruteng
We travelled directly to the town of Ruteng via a delightful stop for lunch overlooking distant villages and towns, and via a collection of rice paddies that resembled spider-webs as they radiated out from wells in their centre. It was only as we entered the town that we started to see signs of the earthquake’s impact. Surrounding villages had many tents pitched next to their houses. Though the houses themselves showed little sign of damage, residents were fearful of collapse due to the thousands of aftershocks that kept coming.
Ruteng itself was noticeably hit however. The university building had large cracks running up its central facade and plaster debris was everywhere. Many shops and houses had disturbingly large cracks running over door lintels and up supporting walls. Some, on the outskirts, had collapsed completely. We visited a shop in town to replace the clothes eaten by rats on Sumba and talked with the assistants there. They’d made it out into the street when the quake hit and were admittedly terrified at the time. One told me his parents, who live near the port of Maumere, our last destination on the trip, were still living in tents and had no idea when or even if they could return to their home.
Makeshift hospital, Ruteng
Makeshift hospital, Ruteng
But perhaps the most poignant sight was the many large orange and blue BNPB emergency tents that had been set up in many streets to cater for hospital patients. The city hospital itself had been abandoned as unsafe, so entire wards were reconstructed outside with only thin tarpaulin for protection. Outside people trundled hospital beds across the rutted streets, trying unsuccessfully not to bounce patients around too much. Many others stood around bundled in blankets. A few seemed to be sleeping rough nearby. Inside it was possible to catch a glimpse of beds, drip-stands, nurses and monitoring equipment, much of which beeped softly. The whole thing seemed bizarre and incongruous. All was quiet too. Though street vendors still served food from tiny warungs lining the parade of tents, everyone was eating in silence. A makeshift waiting area for inpatients had been set up under a gazebo with neat rows of chairs. It was packed, but no one spoke.
We left in a somewhat sober & reflective mood and made our way to the district of Bajawa, stopping at the port of Aimere on the south coast, the place where we’d meant to start in the first place. From here things took a more lively upturn. We’d asked to see a place where the local firewater, arak, was produced as it was apparently the best place on the island to sample it. Oris took us to one of the several roadside ‘distilleries’, which consisted of a thatched roof supported by wooden pillars with a double-still and drip-pipe. The producer waved a few sample palm flowers in our faces, a thing that looked remarkably like a large, floppy chicken’s foot, and described how he collected its juice, fermented it for a bit, then boiled it off in his stills. A small dirty bucket was positioned at the end of the pipe collecting slow drips. We sampled a few versions – 35% and 40% proof plus one mixed with palm sugar. Not too shabby at all, though disappointingly they’d run out of the good stuff to buy.
Disappointment was soon forgotten however, as we entered the tiny traditional village of Belaraghi. Reached up a hill along a terrible and practically vertical track, it doesn’t see many tourists, but those that do make it are treated to a stunningly beautiful place with enormously welcoming villagers. When we arrived, Oris perked up. “Ceremony”, he said, using one of only a dozen of his known English words. One of the traditional wood and thatch houses was being rebuilt and was due to be completed that afternoon. To celebrate, several pigs were to be sacrificed and shared amongst the populace. We were just in time, it seemed, to witness the event.
Belaraghi Village
One of the pigs was already in situ, trussed up with forelegs stretched backward and tied together over its back. Gradually 3 other enormous porkers were similarly bound and dragged by the ears to their place of execution, screaming and screeching in the most hideous fashion. We were advised to get in front of the row of pigs in order to see better. I did, but Helen wisely stayed to the side. I turned to my right and contemplated taking a picture of a man dressed in ceremonial garb and holding a large knife. Thinking he’d be the principal pig dispatcher, I was about to take his picture when we heard a loud crack. Turning back to the pigs we discovered their end was slightly less ceremonial than we’d supposed. A handy bloke with a machete had just chopped into the skull of the first pig, standing from behind and leaving a 10 inch cleft going down towards the snout. At least it was quick.
Others joined in and soon all four had met the same fate, though the biggest had to be stuck several times to finally finish it off. All the pigs were pulled over to a ditch, where I was standing, and turned so the tops of their heads draped over. Small boys placed plastic washing up bowls under the heads to catch the streaming blood. Others inserted sticks into the cavities to scrape out the brains. Through it all it wasn’t the sights and smells that made the biggest impression, powerful though they were – it was the sound of steel smashing through bone. We can still hear it now. All done with the casual nonchalance of popping a champagne cork.
Excitement over, we had a chat with a village guide who explained the other ceremonial features of the village, from the spiritual associations of tribal ancestors, manifest in the form of opposing thatched structures representing grandfathers (Ngadhus) and grandmothers (Bhagas), to the idea of male and female houses that displayed either human figures or models resembling a birdhouse on the topmost thatch. We were invited into one and given rice and small morsels of the first pig to finish cooking, plus the hottest, most vicious sambal we’ve ever experienced and washed down with several large shots of the village arak. We were both a little squiffy by the time we’d finished. The only downside was that we’d already eaten a big lunch only a couple of hours before. Leaving we felt dazed, a wee bit struck by the scenes we’d witnessed and as fat as buggers. At least we managed to get them to sell us some arak, in a used plastic water bottle that we had to label in case of mistaken identity.
Belaraghi Village
Oris with the arak
Belaraghi Village
Belaraghi Village
The following morning we went out to another couple of traditional villages. The first, Gurusina, was a less attractive proposition than Belaraghi, set in a cascade of dusty terraces. Here were impressive Ngadhus and Bhagas, but the rest of the place was largely empty. This was due to one house at the top of the terraces being used to host the villagers at a funeral. “Ceremony”, said Oris, drawing his finger across his throat as we approached the mourners sitting outside on chairs. We paid our respects and stood in the house staring down at an open coffin in which an elderly lady was lying. Rather bizarrely, she was wearing glasses. Back outside we couldn’t leave until we’d partaken of the food. We’d just eaten a large breakfast. Inwardly groaning, we tucked in – pig again, rice again, arak again. It was possibly a little early for imbibing, but of course it was only right to honour ancient traditions in the appropriate manner. It was also a useful distraction from our bulging bellies.
Gurusina Village
Oris’ aunties, Gurusina Village
Gurusina Village
The second village, Tololela, was mercifully free from residents making us eat & drink, excepting a cup of tea, and set in a most beautiful hillside position. We spent a few contemplative hours wandering around and soaking it in, noticing elements in common with other traditional places, but also those that make each one unique. Here the smell of cloves drying on mats in the open air was memorable and wonderful.
Tololela Village
Late in the afternoon we ventured out to a local spot to watch the sun set against the mighty profile of Mount Inerie, the perfect cone-shaped volcano that dominates the surrounding area. It was a gorgeous place overlooking tree-clad hill tops, with ever deepening golden hues striking the mountain and the small hill in front of it. We’d walked up the steep path to get there at some speed, hoping the clouds that were covering Inerie would lift, and left Oris puffing away in our wake. It was a satisfying afternoon knowing we’d out-hiked a lad half our age and watching the beautiful vista materialise in front of us to the point where just a small drift of cloud lay at the peak of the volcano, as if it were pretending to erupt. Despite the beauty of the place, we only saw 3 other tourists. A Dutch couple who didn’t stay long and an eccentric woman from Romania who smoked wearing a single glove and took her own smiley posed pictures with a drone buzzing away in front of her face.
Watu Nariwowo viewpoint
Watu Nariwowo viewpoint
Watu Nariwowo viewpoint & Mount Inerie
Mount Inerie
Having had lots of fun in the Bajawa area we were reluctant to leave, but the road was calling again. Oris drove us to the little settlement of Moni, via the small but impressive Blue Stone Beach where we ate our 100th portion of nasi goreng (probably) and marvelled at the greenish blue of the beach pebbles, apparently coloured so from an abundance of sulphides and feldspar in the surrounding rocks. We had to cut our time short here, as repair work was due to start again on a stretch of road damaged by a landslide caused by the earthquake. We just made it over before the site was closed for the next few hours.
The appropriately named Blue Stone Beach
A brief stop at another village, this one called Wologai, was disappointing, largely as the place had burnt down a few years earlier. It was being reconstructed and had dwellings sporting an unusual palm-fibre thatch, but none of the houses were actually lived in anymore. It felt museum-like and devoid of personality, though someone clearly had had fun carving the pairs of boobs that adorned most of the female houses. Better was the stop at the Wolopaku coffee plantation, a small affair run by a local family. We had a tour with the loquacious Fanny who was most informative about coffee bean extraction and drying techniques and even let us pluck cherries from her Robusta bush in the front garden.
Wologai Village
Wologai Village
Wologai Village
We finished the long day at Rago’s Homestay, a lovely courtyard style place with a communal dining area and a host, John, who regaled us with tales of his youth and marriage. Here, as elsewhere in Indonesia, it seems courtship is long, tiresome and very expensive (it won’t surprise you to know it involves the purchase of many pigs and buffalo). His wife cooked us an amazing selection of tempeh and tofu goodies, with spicy tomato eggs and stewed eggplant. Here we met a few other tourists at last, all amiable and a lovely evening ensued. John lamented the fact that prime season had been decimated by the quake and he was most grateful for our being there. Most of his other guests had cancelled.
Our prime purpose for coming to Moni was to experience the 3 volcanic lakes of Mount Kelimutu. Legend has it that the lakes change colour depending on the attitudes of the people in the surrounding villages. Good deeds and evil thoughts can cause the waters to go pink or deep green, or simply more vivid shades of blue. A more prosaic explanation lies in the abundance of bacteria in the lakes that thrive in certain atmospheric conditions. In any event, the lakes, though clearly different from each other, were not overly dramatic in terms of vibrant colouration. Everyone comes here for sunrise, but alas the earthquake put paid to that. We were lucky to get there at all as the park had only just opened after 10 days of inspection. John showed us how some of the dividing crater walls had collapsed. He was there at the time with a party of Italians. His video hones in on the landslide at the same time as he’s urging the others not to panic.
2 of the 3 coloured lakes, Mount Kelimutu
We’d decided to walk back to the homestay from the mountain as we’d heard the 4-hour downhill jaunt was very worthwhile. Along with a couple of women from Germany and Austria, Helen and myself led the way using offline maps. We were fine with the route finding but the terrain was very steep and mostly through dense undergrowth that made any chance of a view impossible. It was also extremely hot and no refreshments could be found in the small dusty village we passed through. Our Teutonic friends were clearly not in great shape either and eventually had to make an escape to the main road to get a pick-up back to base. Helen and myself continued to a small waterfall, then back to Moni for lunch.
When a 16 strong contingent of Indonesian tourists turned up unannounced at the homestay we feared the worst for the night ahead. It wasn’t long before they were drinking and carousing away. Only when we went to sit with them for a while did we realise they were all doctors and medical staff who’d been out and about for almost 2 weeks attending to the sick and injured in remote villages. A bit of boozy relief seemed the least they deserved. Oris turned up there too and brought out more arak, a bright red concoction that looked alarmingly like kerosine. We (I) partook of course, but not without a certain degree of trepidation that we might go blind.
Our last day on the trip took us to the wonderful Koka Beach on the south coast. We were giving our Austrian friend Michaela a lift to Maumere, so all three of us jumped onto ojeks corralled by Oris at the side of the road and zoomed off down a tiny rutted track to the beach. Koka is a gem of a place, and as luck would have it, we had it all to ourselves. A wonderful couple of hours lazing and swimming before bouncing back up to the main road. Another stop at a Christ statue overlooking a viewpoint (there’s a lot of them around) and a brief stop at a weaving workshop cum ethnographic centre. Here the majority of the action consisted of city girls dressing up in traditional tribal dresses and paying for expensive professional photography shoots. I was allowed a few shots myself. Though normally we’d scoff at this kind of behaviour, they all looked most fine in their borrowed livery.
Koka Beach
Lepo Loren Ikat weaving centre
Ngadhu, Lepo Loren
Lepo Loren Ikat weaving centre
We ended at a beach resort just outside of the port of Maumere which had undergone a significant amount of damage in the earthquake and the collapse of its port buildings had made it onto international news broadcasts. To be honest we saw nothing of the trouble here, but we supposed that was simply due to the road route we’d taken. Here, possibly for the penultimate time, we indulged in the art of doing absolutely nothing, other than the occasional swim in the sea. I even read a book. A lovely end to the roadtrip indeed, in a bungalow directly on the beach, with glorious weather and a delightful dearth of possible activities to distract from our indulgent inactivity.
Coconut Garden Beach Resort, Maumere
In comparison to the beauty of Sumba, we found Flores ever so slightly less appealing, but in the context of recent events that seems a little churlish to dwell on. In many ways we were privileged to be visiting an island shaken-up, quite literally, but ardently trying to get on with things. No-one we came across complained much – all seemed to stoically accept the loss of life, property and income. As a minority of tourists in the island (outside the largely unaffected hub of Labuan Bajo) we were no doubt even more eagerly welcomed than we might have been, though that’s hard to prove in super-friendly Indonesia. I think we managed to ‘do our bit’ by turning up when most others didn’t. We were more than happy about that.
Simon (3rd September 2026)