Tau Tau's are wooden effigies of the dead and in cave graves many of them can be seen protecting the coffins looking out onto the villages below. In the olden days they weren't carved so much to look like the dead just to represent them but now they are scarily life-like. Only the upper classes get to have tau tau. The older, ancient ones are highly sought after by dealers and collectors and can fetch up to 6 thousand sterling, hence the grave robbers or tomiloco's.

Anis our guide had no problem bemo hopping (local van-like transport) with us from place to place. I'm sure he likes the tourists who have the cash to hire a car but you would never have known! After the funeral he took us to Londa, a massive cave grave site. Not only were there hanging coffins and tau tau but we had a cave tour by lamplight and were shown hundreds more coffins, both rotting and brand new.

Cave graves

We seemed to wonder around the whole time with our mouths open gazing in astonishment at this cultural timepiece that the locals were quite happy to let us visit. Cigarettes not only featured highly in the funerals but the caves seemed to be covered in them. So many of the relatives thought it was the perfect offering, they were even hanging from the 'mouths' of some of the skulls. Well I suppose they were already dead!

The largest cave burial site in Toraja.

Lemo was our next stop, a sheer rock face with balcony after balcony for tau tau's. It was in the most serene setting about 100 metres from a countryside village. Children played with dolls and ate picnics on sarongs in the grass below. We just stood and marveled at the commitment to death these people have. It takes 3 years alone to make one of the holes for the coffins.

Tampangallo cave graves

Another bemo later and we were at some more cave graves. Hidden away deep in the country-side you would never know they were there. What a gorgeous place to be laid to rest surrounded by rice paddies and waterfalls!

Kambira's baby graves
Our last and most heart wrenching visit was to Kambira where we visited baby graves. We had no idea what to expect but what we found was the most perfect way of burying a baby we have ever heard of. Without doubt it was the most touching, affecting place we'd been to so far. When a very young baby dies (that is a stillbirth, miscarriage or baby who isn't on any solid food) they are buried not in the ground, but in carefully cut holes in the trunk of a huge round tree. The bodies are sealed in by a screen of palm fibres and rope, and left alone. According to tradition adult spirits ride on the backs of a buffalo or pig (sacrificed at the funeral) over the bridge of death to the 'life hereafter. Babies are seen as being too little to ride a buffalo so a duck or chicken egg is placed under the arm of the child so a small animal might lead the little spirit to paradise. The white sap of the tree, like a mothers milk is said to sustain the body before this journey. Over time the tree will heal itself, closing the wooden grave in which its tiny charge has been laid to rest, completely enveloping the body. The spirit of the baby is believed to then become one with the life spirit of the tree, growing and aging together. In this way all the babies that are buried there are thought as still being alive, conscious and growing as long as the tree still grows.

The best way to bury a baby ever!

We saw dozens of closed holes in this one tree, and four or five still covered by palm. Obviously there were a lot of little spirit eyes looking out at us from between the leaves higher up.

Northern Tana Toraja
The next day we trekked in Northern Toraja. Even though the weather wasn't the best, the views were still spectacular, rice paddies after rice paddies, the odd buffalo (alive today) wallowing in mud baths, lush valleys, waterfalls, friendly locals offering us tea and views worth the minor problem of being stranded miles from home with no way to get back after the public transport had stopped. Half an hour later we found ourselves in the back of a sand truck, covered in....sand, a local with a moto took pity on us and piled the both of us on the back setting off in the hope of enlisting another willing helper to take us home. We certainly provided the villagers with their weekly entertainment. They roared with laughter when they saw us and it wasn't because we had to get off every 5 seconds as the 'concrete mafia????' had made the state of the roads abysmal but because 3 on a bike is just not done.

Toraja had been just amazing and if we had time to stay we would. I know we would be back but this time with some poison, the cockfight never happened!

I can become abit fascinated with indigenous customs and tribal beliefs. It rare that you can visit a place where ancient systems and rituals are openly practiced and the experience or even the knowledge is accessible to travelers. Even in Borneo there was only one hanging coffin in Sabah's state museum and this was their highlight. Sulawesi promised more and we were definitely not let down. There were hundreds of intricately carved coffins, not locked away but still full of 500-year-old bones dangling from cliffside crevices or tucked away in the depths of the caves themselves. Ritual slaughters of buffalo and traditional song and dance in elaborate funeral ceremonies are held regularly, rows of 'tau tau', wooden lifelike effigies of the dead guard their graves and look out on to the traditional villages below where the houses are still built in the of shape boats. Sulawesi just might be one of the most fascinating places I have ever been. These people actually live for their death!

We were cutting it fine as the Pelni ship was late. Our 12 days had turned into 3 and there was ALOT I was desperate to see. Absolutely no rest for the wicked. No rest at all as we were staying in Cock capital, Rantepao. There was no escaping their evil shrills and it wasn’t just at 6am like normal birds, oh no, 2am was normal, then again at 3am, half past 3am and every ten minutes until you were forced wake up in a mood from the depths of hell. Jeremy had a word with the owner of the hotel and he assured us that many of the cocks surrounding the property would not be around to bother us that night as there was a cock fight scheduled for that evening. And we were happy about this. That’s how bad it was! It was them or our sanity.

Traditonal boat shaped house. The more buffalo horns the richer the family.

Ke'te kesu gave us an introduction to the traditional villages of the Torajan's. The houses are immaculately layed out usually in rows, they each have a private rice barn, equally well decorated and sweeping peaked roofs symbolising praying to the sky. Each house has intricate colourful carvings all over the wood and each shape means something special, maybe religious or sacred or protective. We watched some of the wood carvers at work and with a lot of willpower only bought the smallest of souvenirs. The houses look massive from the outside but there is only 3 rooms on the second floor up a steep stair case. The cooking goes on in one of them, the 'reproducing room' is reserved for the parents and when the female children reach puberty they sleep in the front room. All very structured. The buffalo horns at the front of each house represent how rich a family is. Ritual slaughtering is definitely central to their lives.

We took a walk to the back of the village and we greeted by a Torajan graveyard. This was unlike anything I have ever seen. Hundreds of bones and skulls escaped from ancient wooden buffalo shaped coffins. The body parts were in no specific order but nor did they seem to have placed there because of abuse by anyone. The rotting coffins were piled one of top of the other at the bottom of the cliff and in each crevice there were more. Coffins hung from wooden supports on the cliffside but as you looked up you could see holes in the bottom of them were the bones would soon be joining those at the bottom.

Woops wrong turn!

There was so much to see in Toraja that we decided to hire a guide for the next day. Anis from county tourist services was a little star. The funeral season is supposed to be in June but he managed to find us one to go to. Stocked up with their favour brand of cigarettes 'Nicky' we took a jeepney to the third day of a 7 day celebration. And celebration it was. far from being third wheels we were honored guests, our participation bringing good fortune to the 'dead body' as they constantly referred to the man. We were greeted by the dead bodies son, offered tea, coffee, local sweet delicacies and our cigarettes were gratefully passed to as many of the guests they would stretch around. There were 200 of them but many many more guests and its traditional to smoke at these funerals.

Granchildren of the 'dead body' in traditional dress.

The funeral was by no means a somber affair. Even though after 2 years of the 'dead body' living in the families house it is considered not dead but 'sick' and still offered food until they could afford the lavish ceremony expected. The event was more of a family get together and a confirmation of 'status' that would follow the soul to the afterlife.

The more buffalo slaughtered the richer the deceased. Pigs being slaughtered are commonplace. Each visitor who offers a sacrifice has to register their animal for tax reasons and they are all entered neatly into a little book so that such gifts can not be forgotten when their turn comes to enter paradise.

Squeeling pig about to follow his new master to paradise.

The more people that attend the funeral the better it seems to be for the 'dead body'. It’s actually the most important day in a persons life, more important than a wedding. It’s the day their whole life has been geared towards. Its not just the cost of the animals, the rice the ritual cigarettes and the beverages but a mini village is constructed for the 7 days and the families all sleep together in the newly erected and decorated huts. It’s quite amazing.

Look away for the squeamish

The pigs aren’t slaughtered infront of the guests but the buffalo are, right in the middle in full view of everyone. Sometimes there are over a hundred killed throughout the course of the celebration, but that’s only if the 'dead body' is very very rich. They are killed by the shepherd then skinned and butchered there and then, the blood collected to be roasted with the meat and all the guests get to eat well....for days if they like. Witnessing this was pretty gruesome but it was very quick.

Close family entering the 'greeting tent' for betel nuts and cigarettes.

The dead body’s niece took a liking to me and we were invited to tea in the close families tent. Even they weren’t sad. They were chuffed at having us there and tried very hard to make us smoke....after all it was a funeral. In the distance there was a lot of chanting in circles, more pigs were squealing in the distance and 3 more buffalo were brought into the middle of the makeshift village. Not something I wanted to see twice.

Indonesia is like a huge jigsaw puzzle of islands, each piece taken from a different picture and forced into a collective mould under one unifying flag. Every one of its 6000 or so inhabited islands has its own identity, culture and history. The people are Batak first, Torajan first, Komodo first... Indonesian a close second, but second nonetheless. Thats why traveling through these dots of land in the ocean is like navigating many differing countries without all the visa hassle. And Flores was different again, this time not in a particularly nice way. I almost felt like we were back in Egypt, the people openly stared at Amanda as if sizing her up, we were didn't feel particularly welcome, accepted or even ignored (which would have been nice). Instead groups of people would shout 'hello Mr' as you walked past, not intimidating in itself, but annoying after a couple of days. You had to be there.

Our early morning exit from Labuan Bajo turned out to be more like a prolonged wait at the town bus station, until someone eventually told us the Bajawa bus was busted and wouldn't be coming. So much for the 5am start.

We took a bus to Ruteng, which played some of the most obscene (to the point of offensive) 90's rap music I have ever heard. It had Amanda on the verge of tears. The tape ran through and our driver followed it up with some Bahasa love ballads, which most of the old ladies on the bus much preferred. Five hours later we arrived at the bus stop three kilometers outside Ruteng. A nice bus driver told us it should be about 2000 rupeas to town, the tuk-tuk and Bemo drivers were demanding 10,000 each. What followed was the slightly ridiculous scene of two tourists determinedly lugging their backpacks down a long, long road to town, completely surrounded by two dozen or so hassling bikes, taxi's and minibuses, all shouting at them, trying to convince them to pay way over the odds for a lift. Not that they were asking for very much by English standards, at this point it's the principle that matters. Amanda was at the edge of violence pretty early on and were it not for our nice bus driver passing by and offering us a lift things would have gotten very ugly indeed.

The only nice memory of Ruteng

We waited a few hours in Ruteng for the connecting bus, not a great town for it but needs must, and finally arrived in Bajawa by nightfall. Again the taxi mafia had the bus drop off tourists five km from town. After a quick chat we decided to walk again, but picked up a couple of bikes round the corner fro half the price... they must think all tourists are completely stupid.

Knackered and fed up of transport scamsters we stopped at the first place to offer us a room and collapsed into bed.

Apparently there is a volcano somewhere near to Bajawa that someone once told Amanda was worth climbing, come the morning though thoughts like that were banished to the 'wishful thinking' box, and we decided to visit a little ancient country village called Bima instead. We knew there were buses going there from the town market, but finding it amongst all the touts and scam artists proved to be a distinct challenge. Everyone we asked told us that no, there was no bus to Bima, but they/their cousin/mate/mum/hairdressers sister-in-law could take us in air conditioned chartered style there and back for the tiny sum of... It took us nearly an hour, eventually with the help of possibly the only honest man in town to find the real bus stop. Another hour later the bus pulled up, a truck with planks for seats which drove round town for yet another hour picking up people, pigs and farmyard equipment till we eventually got going.

Bima, worth a sore bum to see

It was worth it though. Bima is set amongst the real Flores countryside. Rice terraces and tiny thatched villages forgotten by the rest of the world as their lives plod on, timeless and unchanged for generation after generation. Bima itself is a throwback to a time so ancient that when we asked the age of the place the inhabitants only shrugged, swept their arms round to indicate the graveyard and said "only the dead know". Which is spooky enough to come straight out of a Victorian horror novel. The village is built on three man-made stone levels, like a miniature hill, round the outside at the base sit a circle of wooden and thatch huts, each decorated with totems, bones and other long forgotten mojo. Elaborate graves sit on the highest parts, tall, thin stone obelisks rising from the ground, very reminiscent of superman's home, mark the last resting places of the village dead. Interspersed with these stone tombs are intricately carved posts topped with wide straw umbrellas and small huts, again carved in fabulous designs. This is an anthropologists dream. As it is they only get one or two visitors a day and hold onto their old ways with relative ease.

If you see a big wicker man... run!

Later we asked the man in our hotel how old the village actually was. He said the best estimate he'd heard was about 10,000 years... Maybe only the dead do remember after all.

We met Thomas and Yanne that night, two Dutch travelers cluttering up our favorite Bajawa restaurant. They seemed ok at the time so we decided to go with them the following morning to climb mount Kelimutu. Yanne had adopted a severe tendency to travel sickness whenever she drove anywhere for longer than 20 minutes, which is unfortunate when you're trying to travel the world and twenty hour bus trips are a weekly event. They went by shared cars whenever they could as it was easier to ask the driver to stop and wait for five minutes while you poke your head out of the window and vomit. Thinking about that now I don't really know why we didn't take the bus after all.

Yanne, not throwing up!

The little village we stayed in clung to the side of the volcano desperate for tourists to fill their homestays. More a one horse street with a few houses than an actual settlement, Moni was all we needed for a little peace and quiet (though that afternoon we had forgotten about the ever present fighting cock population of Indonesia). As soon as we arrived a gaggle of touts materialised as if from nowhere to help us choose their 'hotel'. Carrying a rucksack alone and un-molested through any street in Asia is, I am sure a complete impossibility, you might as well paint a target on your backside. We settled for Sylvester's place, mostly because he hadn't harassed us (more like ignored us) and we respected that kind of reverse psychology. It turned out to be the best choice in town, his sister cooked huge buffet dinners for the guests and breakfast was included in the tiny price of the room. OK, we had to sleep next to Thomas and Yanne (I think it was Yanne doing the snoring) but you can't have everything...

Welcomed to the home stay with open arms

Like early morning addicts we were up at four the next morning for a quick jeep ride to the top of Mount Kelimutu. By the time we'd had a cup of tea, dragged our weary feet up the half hour set of steps and emerged, tired but alive at the top the sun was beginning to rise majestically over the horizon. I think it was anyway, our view of it was completely obscured by the heavy layers of dark cloud that wisped ghost-like across the landscape. At least we got sporadic glimpses of Kelimutu's famous coloured lakes as a gap appeared for long enough to take a quick picture.

Cuppa anyone?

Soon enough the sun was strong enough to burn away most of the clouds and we were treated to a full view of the volcanic lakes we'd come to see. The first (the enchanted lake) was a deep black, right next to the lake of young men and maidens which was a rich green. Further up was the lake of old people (where the souls of the dead are said to congregate) which was a dark chocolate brown. Thomas was suddenly struck by a severe attack of vertigo, refusing to get anywhere near the edge and look over. It's amazing the pair of them are traveling at all with their combined phobias and foibles. They truly deserve each other.

Danger!!!!!!

We stayed at the top for for about enough time to annoy the hell out of the hippy couple, desperately trying to meditate while we pushed Thomas to the edge and joked about loudly (sorry). The view once the clouds had gone was magnificent and we drank it in for as long as we could before climbing down. Our bemo had driven off without us but we wanted to walk back anyway... our 'Book' spoke of a short cut back to Moni and we headed off confidently in the morning sunshine.

Just one step back...

Eight hours later, after taking one wrong turn after another, asking mischievous locals (who it turned out had all sent us the wrong way) we finally arrived back to Sylvester's, tired, hot and sunburned. Apparently the very first turn we had taken had sent us through a maze of farms, valleys and villages, we forded two rivers, climbed an unnecessary amount of steep sided hills and nearly got charged by one evil looking bull. Our short cut turned out to be a mini country tour, at least we got to meet the locals and learnt in no uncertain terms that 'gula gula' means 'give me some sweets'. Thomas also tought me a number of interesting Dutch swear words, which are a little too bazaar to repeat in this site.

Last view of Kelimutu

Another huge buffet dinner later, and a quick play on Sylvester's super duper electronic keyboard synthesizer (he's available for weddings, funerals and barmitsva's at very reasonable prices) later and we were ready for an early night. Amanda had bought a hand woven long sarong, sewn together like a sleeping bag with holes at both ends from Sylvesters sister and I wanted to get out of there before she decided she wanted anything else. Yanne had also bought one, so I know Thomas wanted to leave soon too. Our chaufer driven posh car failed to turn up the next morning however so we were forced to take the bus (with the rest of the peasants). Luckily a cockerel had kept us awake for most of the night and Yanne slept most of the way to Maumere without the need to throw up out of the door.

Once again Thomas and Yanne followed us to our hotel when we arrived in town. It looked as though we were going to have to get a boat out to another island in order to shake them. We'd arrived in Maumere several days before we needed to because some annoying Austrian traveler we'd met told Amanda that the Pelni Ferry might not be going to Sulawesi. Terrified that we would miss the chance to visit Sulawesi we had left plenty of time to arrange a contingency plan, but all without need. Nothing short of a major act of god seems capable of stopping the huge Pelni ferries from their scheduled departure. The result was that we had three days to wait in the most boring, dull and lifeless town in the whole of Indonesia. Maumere's one decent restaurant produced food so horrible that we collected the bread for breakfast to eat at lunchtime to avoid going. At night when hunger forced us outside we ordered the same omelette and chips (the safest option) which looked different every time. Food in Indonesia till this point had been consistently great, Maumere changed that unbeaten record. The internet cafe near the port was Maumere's only form of entertainment, the children on the street followed us there and back with their grim 'Hello Mr's' haunting our steps. Pigs rooted through overturned rubbish, uncollected for months and rotting in the street, the Pelni office, the reason we were there, remained closed for days. Our days were hot and long, Thomas and Yanne got out quickly, flying back to Bali to escape the interminable boredom, Amanda and I stuck it out for three whole mind-numbing days before finally being allowed to board the boat.

Goodbye from Little Sylvester

And another island was done. Not my favourite I have to say, worse than the sum of its parts. Komodo, obviously was a fabulous highlight, it was just a shame about the National Park accommodation and the state of Labuan Bajo. Bima was a very interesting place, but getting there was hell itself. Kelimutu, a great volcano, Maumere has to be the dullest place to spend five minutes in the whole world. It had been great to see all the separate things we saw, but we were glad to be leaving. Anyway, Sulawesi promised some extraordinary sights. It was time to leave.

Well off the ancient maps, into `uncharted' waters somewhere near the fabled spice islands of nutmeg and cloves lies a long strip of land named Flores (presumably for its flowers though I didn't actually see much colourful vegetation of any kind). Here (according to those same old cartographers), be dragons... and this time, for once they were absolutely right. Flores and it's smaller cousins Rinca and Komodo are home to the largest lizards left on the planet, beasties so big that they wouldn't even break a sweat whilst having your leg off, monsters so dangerous and viscious that the Indonesian army employs them as first response shock troops in times of national crisis. I'm told they are the most effective crowd control devise that has ever been tested on revolting poor village peasants and dissident students. These creatures are huge, with firey breath and sharp teeth, they can run faster than a number 23 bus and would think nothing of lying in the sun for two full days without a break. These scaley guys may or may not be magic, but they definitely live by the sea. Amanda wasn't sure they existed, I was chomping at the bit to see them in the flesh (though from at least one big sticks distance away). Flores was for all intents and purposes the absolute place to be.

Don't be lulled into a false sense of security

Most of the above is true. Komodo dragons really are very big, and can actually run at about 35 miles an hour, they do not breathe fire however. But they do have very bad halitosis. I have no proof whatsoever that the govenment of Indonesia have even considered using them as a means of social control... but that means nothing does it?

Having landed by ferry in the port town of Labuan Bajo, tired and dehydrated from our two day bus, boat and scamming tout ordeal we were delighted to see that, contrary to the rhetoric in the Lonely Planet the town had no endearing features whatsoever. It was techically by the seaside, but the dusty main street was shielded from a lovely water view by a long row of nasty, dirty concrete buildings. Mostly mobile phone shops, though there were a handfull of really bad restaurants, a couple of rat infested sleazy hotels and a bank whos ATM took a serious dislike to my card. I walked up and down this road (the only one in town) looking for a place I was prepared to stay in. Bearing in mind that the longer I am travelling from A to B the more likely I am to settle on the first flea pit I find as long as they have a bed and a door in the room, the fact that I didnt find anything I was even remotely prepared to stay in gives you some clue as to their delapidated state. We were forced out of town on mopeds to the posh option, high on a hill, overlooking the crystal bay below. We don't often lord it over the peasants, but I think we deserved a bed without the bugs for a while.

We quickly found a company to dive with (the one everyone else seems to choose, must be the lack of rust on their equipment) and explored the possibility of spending the night on Komodo island. "oh no", we were told, "no-body does that". Despite the fact that they actually have National Park accommodation it seems we were the first people ever to ask the dive boat to come back in a few days and pick us up. They had to invent a whole new tour for us. I felt like a pioneer (of sorts).

The latest in wetsuit fashion... Looking good

And so it was at six in the am, a time best suited to binmen, milkmen and crazy overexcited divers, that we chuffed out of the bay on the way to Rinca, and the first of our four utterly incredible dives. The weather by the way was uncharacteristically perfect for the time of year. This was supposed to be the rainy season, boats had been collapsing left right and centre in the previous weeks, waves as big as your house. We picked the week with an ocean as still as a bathtub, wind like a vacuum, blue skies and red necks. It was as though God himself had come to see us off.

The coral in Komodo National Park is astounding. The most colourful, pristine, beautiful riot of reef I have ever seen. There were some sharks, fish and all that, but loads more little stuff than normal, clinging like mad to the reef trying not to get noticed (and eaten). We saw loads of nudibranches (like neon, glow in the dark slugs in fabulous colours) shrimps, crabs and all sorts of the wierd and wonderful. Our dive master seemed to have a knack of finding all the good stuff. Then we arrived at Rinca Island and were able to prove to Amanda once and for all that dragons really do exist.

But Grandma, what a very big tongue you have

A nice National Park officer took us on an hour long stroll through the islands underbrush to hunt out these nasty monsters. We needn't have bothered though, before we even started we spotted about five behind the camps kitchen, attracted by the smell and hoping for scraps. They lay in the shade, reluctant to muster enough energy to even blink as an acknowledgement of our existence. Amanda, faced with concrete evidence got really excited and took about 500 photo's but I was strangely dissapointed, they didn't actually do much. The guide quickly sorted that little problem by poking these eight foot eating machines with a (long) stick. They got a bit shirty but at least they moved a bit.

The little ones can be a bit quick

Out on the island walk we spotted at least five more Komodo's, all lazing about. One or two hoped up and scarpered as we approached, but the others couldn't be bothered, even staying for our close up with the dragon photo's. These guys seriously have to be the laziest species on earth (next to the sloths). They don't even put any effort into their hunting. Inside their gaping, tooth lined mouth they cultivate an astonishing number of nasty bacteria. When something edible comes close enough to their recumbent forms they give it a quick nip, sending it scurrying away with a sore leg. A few days later, having succumbed to the ensuing infection such a cesspit maw provides the poor unexpecting prey dies. All the Komodo dragon has to do is wait a further few day till their dinner is nice and ripe in the tropical heat, follow the smell and dig in.

Not exactly pride of the top predator is it.

Still, they are impressive to get up close to. I was very glad of our guide and his big stick, not that it would make any difference should the beastie I was three feet from (smiling for another picture) decided I was on next weeks menu.

Note the terrified expression (Amanda also looks uncomfortable)

After another awesome dive we ended the day on Komodo Island itself, surprisingly the least visited despite its name. We found out we were the only visitors to stay overnight that week. It wasn't hard to understand why, most of the 'National Park Accommodation' was either falling apart, had already disintergrated, or was being used by the Park staff as a little private palace. They seemed to have expanded across the whole complex.

Ok, not the Park HQ's only visitors that day

The first room they tried to push on us had no lock on the door. The one we eventually settled for hadn't been cleaned since at least 1974 (making it the best of a bad bunch), there was no electricity till 6pm, no running water till the fat bloke in charge decided he wanted a cuppa and no food whatsoever in the canteen. Luckily the lonely planet had advised us to bring some snacks (one of the rare times when its advice has been at least half right). The (chain smoking) chef offered us a choice of plain rice or plain noodles for dinner, which was a bit slack considering we could see the proper food being cooked in the Park staff kitchens. The local Komodo dragons obviously knew where the good food was at as well. None were around the delapidated 'tourist' canteen, at least five big ones lazed the day away under the park mess.

Luxury five star accommodation?

We finished off a packet of crisps, tried unsuccessfully to chat to the park staff (some were park staff anyway, of the 20 or so men making use of the facilities I would say at least ten didn't work there) who all turned out to be burping chain smokers and ignored us completely. Giving up the evening as a bad job we hoped for better the following morning and went to bed.

The power retired before we did.

Komodo Island has one village, the government 'encouraged' the resident tribes people living in the hills to all move to the same place and become fishermen instead when the National Park was formed. It was only an hour along the coast so we decided to go and see if we could find our guide, spot a dragon or two and maybe pick up a souveneer. We'd discovered that the stuff for sale in the National Park had had a mandatory 'skin tax' imposed on it by the local staff. The Park gets this much... the staff get the rest, at least in the village we could barter.

Komodo village

About an hour later, sweating profusely in the intense heat but pleased with ourselves not only for the walk, but also because of te fantastic, picture postcard coastal views we got, we finally arrived at the village. Trailing along close behind were a group of kids who had run to meet us halfway with trinkets and carvings to sell. They had dogged our footsteps with persistant pleas for business and handouts that almost became begging for half and hour till I told them all to bugger off. Running from the village now were a new group, younger and more interested in the strange visitors themselves than what was in their wallets, we had an eager lot of guides who tried very hard to find a Komodo dragon for us near the village, but unfortunately failed.

Our younger (better) guides

We found our guide in the house of a village elder, documenting stories from the old culture of Komodo, now sadly almost extinct. The dragons apparantly are the mythological sister of all the islands inhabitants. It is very frowned upon to harm one or get in its way when it is rooting through your kitchen, which is a good thing when you think about the size of those jaws. Invited in we sat and chatted for a while before re-emerging to an even bigger group of kids and another Komodo dragon hunt.

Back in the Park camp, tired, hot, dusty, sweaty and very smelly we asked if the water could be turned on in our rooms for half an hour so we could have a shower and clean up. "No", was the unequivical answer, "not till tomorrow morning"!

Bearing in mind this place amounted to the most expensive accommodation we had stayed in in the whole of Indonesia we were not at all impressed. An hour later we managed to get our shower (cold of course) but the effort made it less than relaxing. Dinner that night was a little better, a group of new park rangers were arriving for training that night so a few vegetables had been shipped to the camp. Our rice now sported a bit of greenery AND garlic... oh the luxury!

At least the view was five star

In the morning we had completely run out of our own food. A huge breakfast buffet had been laid out for the trainees, omlette, tempe, veggies, coffe, tea, fruit and rice. We asked if we could pay to join in and were given an absolutely not. If we were hungry they were willing to sell us a packet of crackers! So we ate nothing and went for a walk instead, with a park guide who tried to charge us again for his services, something we'd already paid for. Eventually we sorted it out and came upon a platform in the bush where Komodo 'shows' used to be put on for the (then more frequent) tourists. A dead goat was hung from a post each day and various big dragons would come and rip it to pieces for the amusement of all. This was stopped about eight years ago (by some bleeding heart liberals no doubt) but we still held some hope of spotting a dragon in the wild somewhere nearby. No joy that morning however, though we did catch glimpses in the early morning light of groups of flores deer, wild pigs and birds, scattering back into the undergrowth as soon as they caught our scent.

I eventually managed to talk the cook into giving Amanda a banana when we got back to the camp canteen, it took about half an hour of persuading. Our guide turned up, argued for a further twenty minutes on our behalf and at last suceeded in having one plain omlette (single egg) made for us, for the approximate cost of a medium rare sirloin steak and chips on the mainland. Whilst the island of Komodo itself is beautiful, a naturalists dream full of secret coves and hidden bays, it's a bloody nightmare of a place to stay. All the national park staff seem to do all day is smoke and think up more ways to scam cash off the couple of tourists a week that stay there. The rooms are either dirty and musty (like sleeping in your grandads old slippers) with no electricity and no water or occupied by an ever expanding group of staff and their mates. Some of the 'occupied' rooms I saw had satelite TV and hot water while we were forced to sleep by sunset on a bed of ancient spiders webs.

Looks like someone had beaten me to the bath

The camp canteen is a complete joke. Boiled white rice does not create a balanced meal no matter what you do with it. Crackers do not constitute a healthy breakfast, if you ever go to Komodo island I suggest you bring your own food... and a tent.

At least it was good fun watching the local kids harrass the hell out of a couple of Germans out on a day trip, trying to sell them pearl necklaces with ruthless persistance. It turned out they were professional pearl dealers so nothing got sold that day. Amanda did end up with a little Komodo necklace though, it had only taken her two days to successfuly barter for it.

Our merry boat crew was one stronger for the way back to Flores. Fred from Sweden joined us on our two final Indonesia dives. Which were as good as the previous two by the way, if not better. Near the first site we spotted a huge Manta ray in the distance breaching right out of the water. Once we were under we saw him again, gliding effortlessly past with a million times more grace than I manage at 20 metres. There was the by now expected array of pristine coral, colourful fishes and little interesting beasties. I sometimes think we spoil ourselves out here. Where are we going to dive once we get back to England? A quarry pit in the Midlands just won't be the same.

Rinca's coastline

Back in Labuan Bajo we collapsed into the welcome arms of the Golo Hilltop resort, once more lording it over the peasants in our expensive luxury. The first thing we did was order up a big meal, peoper veggies, even some chips! We gave ourselves another day in bed before leaving at 5am to catch the bus to Bajawa in central Flores.

All in all the last few days had been amazing; it was the nights that were the problem. A completely unique experience in a unique part of the world. Komodo dragons are a one off, very special species, ancient and brooding on their tiny island strongholds. The diving is absolutely world class and the scenery is exquisite, but you'd better bring a packed lunch or you're going to end up very, very hungry.

The boat from Bali to the island of Lombok was only 2 hours late leaving. This surprised us since we were used to living according to Indonesia’s 'rubber time'. We had come so far down that massive stretch of land in one of of the longest, hardest countries to travel, one that I had paid the least attention to while planning Asia and one that was rapidly rivaling Cambodia in the 'favorite SE Asian country' stakes.

It was only a week or so after the devastating news that a ferry had sunk between Borneo and Java because of a massive wave. Possibly 400 people dead and survivors still hanging on in the water days later with the rescue mission still not organized enough to pick them up. The rumours about this country's disasters fly around from family to family, village to village, tourist to tourist until nobody has any idea of what is true anymore. A week before, the Adam Air plane crashed, apparently because it had run out of petrol while circling unable to land because of bad fog. We still don’t know if this is true. Most of Indonesia has been spent in a news blackout because the information superhighway can’t reach us in the back of beyond and all we get is secondhand gossip about yet another heartbreaking feat that the people of this country have to endure.

Relaxation in view

The 8 hour ferry trip in air conditioned hell listening to Indonesian kareoke with far too loud distorted bass went quickly for me as I was asleep. Jeremy only just stopped himself from killing our neighbours. He did used to be a calm person! When we eventually escaped and braved the intense humidity outside, punishing even on the deck of a ship, we really were impressed by the scenery. Green green green and more green. Island after uninhabited island, really really beautiful. The bad weather had passed and the seas were calm. We just prayed they would stay that way as the main reason for travelling through the Nusa ……..was to see the Komodo dragons in Flores, the next island along. If the weather was rough the boats would’nt go and Jez wouldn’t get to prove to me that they really did exist.

Kuta Lombok's legendary sunsets

Before we let ourselves loose on what promised to be the paradise islands of the Gilis, we decided to see a bit more of what Lombok had to offer. After haggling for one and a half hours at the port with the local transport mafia we eventually managed to reach an agreeable price and set off for Kuta Lombok. This was a far cry from the one we had heard of in Bali. It was a gorgeous stretch of white sand, great surf, rugged hills an cliffs as its backdrop and not a tourist in sight. (until the surfers got back from their day on the waves) We had a good chill out day disturbed only by the whining sales ladies crying at us to buy sarongs and leaving in near tears when we did’nt. We had become used to it. Constant calls of “Transport?” had been the annoyance in Bali and here it seems it was going to be the potential sale of anything else including sand for the fishtank. Anything they could think of.

We decided to go to Gili Air on the public boat and instead of fishermen and women laden with veggies on their heads we were greeted by hords of school children. They had decided to descend on the islands by force in an attempt to track down the white people and practice English. We just hoped the island would be nicer than the port. We had been fed stories of the 'porter mafia' who greet the boats, snatch your bags, carry them off and demand money for the pleasure. Jez was terribly disappointed that we weren’t the centre of this scam. It looked like they only greeted the Perama boats, not wasting time on the savvy people who take the extra 5 hours to save 800% and get the local boat. Jez’s dangerous little game of second guessing the scammers would have to wait till the next time.

Our Gili Air beach

A quaint little horse saved our souls, he let us escape the heat and took us to ‘Legends hotel’ where we could assume Tom and Gemma’s identity as we stayed in the very cabin they did and even adopted their pet gecko. It was a great place. Coral and shell murals everywhere, Dahab style cushions facing the bluest of seas. A place to kick back appreciate our lives.

When we mustered up the energy to move from our seaside hideaway we went in search of Merel and Jacqueline, our new friends, to see if they wanted to come on a snorkeling tour. We had heard conflicting reports about the diving on the Gilis and we though this might be a good way to 'test the water' so to speak. These two were great company. A straight talking, no nonsense couple who were happy to spend hours talking about their homeland South America and took us right back to our first year away. Thank God as the snorkeling was crap. El Nido, rising water temperatures, cyanide fishing, careless boatmen and their anchors and stupid tourists had all paid their part in the death of the reefs. It was upsetting as the Gilis had once been a well known and respected mecca for underwater life. It certainly wasn’t any more. We did see a turtle in between the broken battered coral and we did get to see Gili Meno and Gili Trawangen much to the distress of our captain as this wasn’t his plan! Lets hope the local dive shops can fulfill their aim of bringing the reefs back to their former glory. We wish them well.

Munchies with friends

We spent many a night in Munchies restarant with the girls, waiting 3 hours every night for our Gado Gado. We were the only customers, Gili air was quiet!!!! We spent our final night in hell as our hotel had their weekly ‘Dance party’ night till 4am, mostly for the locals as there were no tourists in sight. We hadn’t had the nouse to move hotels in time which was a big mistake as we were still recovering for Bali’s arak and couldnt face the noise! The next day, dazed and put out we made our way on the local boat again to the bus station.

Gili Air cocktail hour

Touts, touts and more touts greeted us. Each one wanted to sell us a ticket with much the same company but we had done our research with a few agents and knew who we wanted to go with and how much it was all the way to Flores. Only about 20 million hours, a night bus or two and a ferry ride away. They only wanted to charge us twice as much as we had been quoted by the company on the phone. Giving up after 4 hours they conceded and we were allowed on our bus to pick our seats. 3 American girls joined us later, green behind the ears they agreed to pay an extra 50’000 rupea to ensure their bags were safe! This was onto of the stuipd fee they had agreed for the ticket.Later I fear we may have scared them a little with our chats on the ways of the traveling world. They were grateful though and on the final 8 hour boat trip we stuck together, solid as a rock as we complained to the captain that he was a great singer and it wasn’t his karaoke we objected to but the volume. He prompted moved us to first class and as we wallowed in our gorgeously comfortable seats the rest of passengers, the locals, were forced to be an audience to his show, babies crying and families feigning smiles. The Indonesians never seem to complain. Even when the last bus that would be able to get to the ferry in time to get to the island of Flores got a puncture they sat there, silent, no concern showing in their faces at all. Even when that very same bus took stupid little detours down the narrowest of streets at 4am looking to pick up sacks of ‘whatever’ to load onto the roof, but got stuck in the process and ended up doing 25 point turns, they still accepted the ludicracy of the situation. We did astoundingly arrive on time but the ferry had been cancelled. GREAT! It was only us that wanted to go and they couldn’t justify the expense. Sape might possibly have been the worst town we had even seen on our travels yet and we were supposed to wait how long?