Maumere, Flores Island, Indonesia

Next, we took a propeller plane to Maumere, on Flores Island, in the far east of Indonesia. The only Christian island here. And I wasn't alone, because my friend Elena from Berlin, who accompanied me through Mexico, was there again. And Maumere and the people there enchanted both of us like no other place before. The airport was tiny, there was a small baggage carousel, and we got ours after 3 minutes. A handful of other tourists were standing next to us. That was it. We took a taxi to our accommodation. We were warmly greeted by an older woman, who always gave us a thumbs up in our direction and laughed. She couldn't speak English. The owner, a slightly scatterbrained but super nice Dutchman, showed us our hut. Very simple but cozy. The next morning, we rented scooters and rode to a market. As the only tourists there, we were curiously observed by the locals, and we were overwhelmed by the warmth of the people. When they saw our cameras, they called out, 'Photo, photo,' and gestured for us to take a picture of them. A group of children followed us and were crazy about being photographed and looking at the pictures. Next, we wanted to drive to the mangrove forests. The scooter ride was so much fun, the views were gigantic, the roads were good, and children were constantly waving at us and saying, 'Hello Mister' (they had probably forgotten that it's 'Miss' for women - or they mistook us for men ;-)).

Somehow, we accidentally went too far, and when we stopped to look at the map, we were surrounded by curious locals. They couldn't speak English, but they immediately invited us and set up two colorful plastic chairs in front of their house. While everyone was still looking at us, one man made a phone call. I was a little hungry and opened a pack of cookies, wanting to share them with the children... and, whoosh, the pack was empty in seconds. Shortly afterwards, the man's friend, whom he had called, arrived. It turned out that he was an English teacher in the villages and could take us to the mangroves. But before that, he invited us to his place for a meal. It was a concrete house, big for a house on the island, and only partially finished. Photos were hanging on paper on the concrete wall. The room was empty except for a table and a few plastic chairs. Windows and doors were not (yet) installed. In Germany, we'd probably call it a shell. Several children lived in the house, including his own son. We learned that the mother had already passed away. One of the girls cooked noodles, rice, and a fried egg for us. Very simple, but delicious. In front of the house was a kind of grave made of pink tiles. That's where Bert, the teacher, buried his mother. Here on the island, it is customary for people to bury their relatives on their own property.

After the meal, he showed us a photo album. Incredibly proud, he showed us a plane ticket to Paris on the first page. I think it was over 15 years old already. And it was his only time that he had left the island. He told us that he lived in Holland for a few years and studied there. I was deeply moved by how proudly he talked about that time and how special it must have been for him, as this plane ticket had existed for so long and was stuck in this album. I thought about all my flights and where my tickets ended up...mostly crumpled up in my backpack and eventually in the trash...and for most people here, it will never be possible to leave the island or Indonesia. We bought candy for the children at the kiosk and then went with Bert to the mangroves. As it was getting dark soon, we hurried because we still had over an hour's drive back to our guesthouse. Bert invited us to visit his classes, and we accepted the invitation. However, I will write a separate entry about that.