Going overland from Bali to Papua on a motorbike, with the nipper, was supposed to be an adventure.

Now, I’m a realist. I’d expected there to be lows.

But I hadn’t expected the kind of grinding tedium of more than a week of visa hassles followed almost instantly by a broken bike.

We’re on a travel downswing, no question of it. And to add a whole new level of joy to proceedings, I’m sneezing like a b.i.t.c.h.

Yes, travel is fabulous. And yes, it is wonderful to travel the world, work nomadically, and have quality time with my son. And, yes, we are incredibly lucky.

But it really doesn’t feel that way right now.

A calls me from the base of the convent driveway. The chicken bus which is transporting our defunct bike from the village where it has spent the night is approaching the repair shop, where his brother, F, is waiting.

We hurry down with him to meet it.

As the conductor, a passenger and our lads lever our poor bike through the narrow doorway, nuking one of our mirrors in the process, it dawns on me that the repair shop looks, well, uncontroversially boarded-up.

“It’s not open,” I say, roughly at the same time as a Greek chorus of bus passengers make the same point.

“There’s a Honda dealer,” someone suggests, serenely unbothered by the route variation.

“Great!” I say. “Let’s go to the Honda dealer.”

Z, the boys and I scramble onto the bus, over the bike and into the aisle, I hand over another 10,000 rupiah, and the bus reroutes through town towards the Honda dealer.

It has flying pennants. Loads of ’em. Mechanics in pristine nylon uniforms, pitstop style. Neat signs.

Things, I figure, are looking up. And the mechanic speaks amazingly good English.

I don’t know if you’ve seen a motorbike being mended. But it’s sort of like peeling the wings off a beetle. There is no bonnet, as on a car, so you strip off all the exoskeleton – the seat, the gap for the helmet, the side panels, even the number plate, till you’re left with the naked machine. And then you take out each part, one by one, and hose them down to clean them.

“I think it’s the battery,” says the guy, after a few minutes.

This seems unlikely to me, given the circumstances of the bike’s demise, but I don’t like to argue with mechanics.

He checks. It isn’t the battery.

He breaks the bike down further. I feel a waft of sympathy for our poor bike, nude and violated, the skull and crossbones stickers that Z so lovingly affixed lying useless on the panels, its parts disassembling ever further into tubes and nuts and steel…

Our guy sucks his teeth, a sound I recognize as the universal language of mechanics everywhere.

He doesn’t quite say, “This is going to cost you, luv”.

He says, “No oil.”

And then he sucks his teeth some more for emphasis.

The mechanic continues his deconstruction, turning parts into smaller parts, piling up screws by the second. The other guys getting their bikes fixed have been and gone. It’s just me, Z and the boys.

“The piston is broken,” he says. “You ran out of oil and it needs replacing.”

“Oh,” I say. “How much will that cost?”

“No parts,” he says. “No parts here. No parts in all of Flores, I think. We’ll need to get the part from Bali or Surabaya.”

Oh Jesus, I think. That’s three or four decent sized islands from here, and I doubt they’ll be flying the parts in. “How long will that take?”

“Two weeks?” he says. “A month?”

My stomach sinks. “We can’t spend two weeks in Ruteng!” exclaims Z. “There’s nothing to do here.”

“No, we can’t,” I say. “Apart from anything else your visa will expire.”

We are, it appears, shafted.

“I can’t wait two weeks,” I say, despairingly. “Is there any way you can find a second-hand part?”

“You want a second-hand part?”

“Well, if it works…” I say.

“I’ll try,” he says. “Call me at 3pm.”

At this point, all I want to do is go to bed and hide until the problem goes away. “You want to come to our boarding house for tea?” asks F.

The last thing I want to do, right now, is make small talk with the boys’ mates at their boarding house. (Their parents are farmers, so like a lot of village boys they live in boarding houses in town during the school term.) It’s really sweet of them to offer. But I can’t face it.

“I want to rest,” I say.

“You can rest there,” he says.

Oh god.

I’ve paid them some money for their help today. Not that they asked. I think they did it from a sense of duty and friendship.

And it’s not about the money, anyway. It would make the boys’ day to bring back two real live foreigners to meet their mates. But I just can’t face an afternoon of stilted small talk.

Not for the first time, I’m seriously contemplating jacking this jinxed mission in, and getting out of Indonesia and into Laos, thence to China and Nepal.

Maybe I can get some sort of cash exchange for what remains of our bike, I wonder?

Z and I jump a motorcycle taxi back to the convent. “This is a disaster,” he says.

“Yep,” I say, sneezing liquidly into our last strand of loo roll and chugging back yet another antihistamine.

“Let’s work out some solutions,” he says, pulling out a pen, paper and – amazingly – a ruler. Leaning on his Beano annual, he draws up a neat little chart.

One column is headed “Solution”. The next is headed “Liability”.

“So, we can’t spend two weeks in Ruteng,” he says. “How about we go back to Bali?”

“I don’t want to go back to Bali,” I say. “The whole point of this trip is that we’re going overland to Papua. If we fly back to Bali, we might as well bail out. And we can’t do that, cos I spent north of a thousand dollars on the bike. I can’t just leave it here. I need to get it fixed. Or sell it.”

“Oh no!” he says, horrified at the financial outlay. “Well, how about we go somewhere else in Flores?”

“That’s practical,” I say. “We could hire a bike, tool around, and come back here. But that way we don’t make it to East Timor before your visa expires. Even if it’s only two weeks, we still won’t make it.”

I realise with a sinking feeling that I haven’t heard back from the East Timorese consulate about our visa application. So the visa run to East Timor is looking sketchy in any case.

As sketchy, I realise, as the prospect of a nation the size and level of development of East Timor having someone to answer its emails, even if its website does authoritatively tell you to apply for your visa online…

“So we need to go somewhere to get a visa?” Z says.

“Yeah,” I say. “We can either fly to East Timor and fly back here, which will cost a lot of money and leave us retracing our steps, which isn’t really the point of overland travel. Or fly to Bali, get a dodgy visa, and fly back here, which will cost a lot of money, and mean retracing our steps.”

“Oh god,” he says. “This really is a nightmare.”

“I’d like to go to Bali,” I say. “But we left there.”

“I know,” he says. “I miss Bali.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know you do.”

He has made not one entry on his little chart. “There’s just no easy solution, is there?” he says.

“Nope,” I say. “We’re fucked. Let’s just watch a movie and see what the mechanic says when we go to see him at 3 o’clock.”

Few of our films are convent-friendly, so we watch them with the volume very, very low. I drift off into a semi-dose, punctuated by sneezing fits and turbulent half-dreams involving long, long bike rides on rickety dirt roads.

The post A Tight Corner appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

The sisters start their day early, in their cells up the hill, and long before dawn, according to the typed roster that hangs beneath a particularly dyspeptic portrait of Pope Benedict, they are up buying bread, preparing breakfast and cleaning rooms.

After more than four hours on a bike the day before, we’ve been planning a leisurely, butt-ache free day, to feature a walk to a waterfall and very little else.

But then at the restaurant last night, we met A, a sweet, keen kid, at school during the day, working nights as a waiter, and desperate to make it as a guide.

He shows us some pictures of villages, ripped off from a tour company in town. We talk about them. “And in Todo,” he explains, as the coup de grace. “They have a drum made of skin.”

“Skin?” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “Human skin.”

“Whose skin is it?” I ask.

Z is as ghoulish as the next ten year old, and his jaw is virtually on the floor.

“The king’s daughter,” he says. “An old Manggarai king, maybe a hundred years old or more.”

The Manggarai are the dominant culture in this part of the Flores highlands, and in the streets of Ruteng we hear more Manggarai spoken than Indonesian.

A is Manggarai, too, so, parking our desire for a day off the bike, we agree to meet tomorrow, to inspect the village of Todo, a rice field that looks like a spider web, and a waterfall.

“It won’t be too far, will it?” I ask feebly. “It took us a long time to drive from Labuan Bajo, and I don’t want to be driving that far.”

We are not, in fact, that far off, in fact, the 2000k mark, a milestone notable not only for the zeroes but because it means I need to get the bike serviced.

A calls me at 8am, an hour before we are due to meet, as we are finishing our breakfast. “I’m outside the convent now!”

“OK,” I say. “We’re coming down.”

At the gates, he introduces us to his brother. “This is my brother, F,” he says. “He will come with us today.”

Crikey, I think. Two for the price of one.

Not that we have agreed a price.

“So, today,” says F, who seems to have done some guiding, or at least watched a guide in action, and appears to be the owner of the motorbike on which the boys embark. “Our programme…”

I hate the word programme. I don’t know why. I guess it’s associated with bad guide experiences to me. And it also makes me feel like I’m on a coach tour.

“I think we could add to the programme some very interesting hot springs,” he says. “There are Japanese machines there making energy from the earth.”

This does sound interesting. But as we trundle down the convent’s steep driveway, I’m beginning to wish we’d just gone for a walk. On our own.

The spider web shape is sacred to the Manggarai people – or was until the Catholic missionaries got up into these hills a century ago — and it’s echoed in the rafters of their traditional architecture, too.

This web of rice paddies comprises one family’s land, and has an altar in the centre of it where, Catholicism notwithstanding, pigs and (on very special occasions) buffalo are sacrificed.

“Wow,” says Z, duly impressed. “It looks like a dartboard.”

And then we head off to the village of Todo, with the drum with human skin.

This is where I realise, yet again, that the volcanic activity that gives Flores its stunning beauty – sculpted gorges descending to turquoise rivers, lower valleys stepped in rice terraces in hues of gold and green – also makes it an absolute bugger to get around.

We head down a jungle road – made, but very narrow – that winds along a vertiginous gorge.

Ah! I think. The village is at the bottom of the valley.

We cross the river, ascend the other side of the gorge, and down again, to a beautiful, turquoise river. No village.

We go up. And down. And up again, an endless succession of hairpins, with the occasional truck coming down them to keep us on our toes.

I watch the kilometres racking up, Z sitting uncomplainingly behind me.

Christ, I think. Maybe I need to get the bike serviced in Ruteng, rather than waiting till Bajawa.

And there we are. High up, nestled into the side of a valley, the tribal house with its thatched roof that stretches almost to the floor, like a wigwam, towers over the surrounding hills and the village itself.

We pay our admission fee, sign the guest book and hire highland tube sarongs at the village gates.

The highlands of Flores, with their steep roofs and sacrificial rituals, remind me of the Tana Toraja, in Sulawesi. As in Sulawesi, Muslim evangelicals, traders, sailors and settlers brought their religion to the coastal regions and the ports, but the inaccessible highlands were left for a later wave of Christian missionaries.

And here, as in Toraja, where we watched a buffalo sacrifice, Christianity forms a fine patina over some very old beliefs. In front of the towering palm fibre roof, an ancient altar, decorated with cannons, stands. A megalithic causeway, grown over with grass, connects the sacred house, the jagged stone altar and an ancient tree.

“This tree is sacred to the ancestors,” explains F. “They used to make sacrifices here.”

I can’t help but notice that the firmly Catholic graveyard, its expensive tile tombs decorated with high colour portraits of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, sits directly behind the sacred tree. Where animals are still sacrificed, from time to time.

Even Z has to bend to enter the low doorway of the traditional house, where deer antlers hang from the central rafters, and quilts shield the fringes of the conical room.

“Who lives here now?” I ask.

“Two families,” he says.

“Are they descended from the holy man?” I ask.

“They are all Catholic now,” F says.

It feels, a little, as though they are squatting an abandoned church. I ask more questions. Nobody knows the answers. At least in this village, the core of the old beliefs appear to have been forgotten, though some rituals remain.

Some conversation passes in Manggarai. “They say it will be 500,000 rupiah to see the drum,” F says.

That’s north of $50. “No way!” says Z. “500,000 rupiah just to see a drum made of human skin. Not to touch it. Not to play it. Just to see it.”

It hadn’t really occurred to me that anyone might want to play a drum made of human skin, but then I’m not a ten year old boy.

“No,” I say. “That’s too expensive.”

“They wonder if you’d like to make a donation,” he says. “Maybe 50,000 rupiah?”

I feel, to be honest, that our $7 entrance and sarong hire is sufficient contribution to the economy of this village. We make our excuses and leave.

“Would you like to buy some ikat?”

No. I would not like to buy any ikat.

“How far is it to the hot springs?” I ask.

They confer with the villagers. “Maybe two hours from here?” F says. “The road is a little bit broken.”

The boys are sweet boys, good people with great hearts. They are also beginning to annoy me, especially as I wonder how many of these places they have actually visited prior to today.

“No way,” says Z, who has seen a few hot springs by now. “Let’s just get back to Ruteng. How far is Ruteng from here anyway?”

“About one and a half hours,” says F. “We can go to Ruteng, eat lunch, then return to the hot springs.”

Z’s buttocks are not exactly well-padded. We’ve already spent a good three hours on the bike. And this was supposed to be a rest day.

The boys have been taking it in turns to drive. We, of course, only have one driver, which is me.

“Let’s just go back to Ruteng,” I say. “No hot springs.”

A gorge and a half along, we pause at a turnoff down another jungle road. “From here it is forty minutes to the hot springs,” says F.

“I think we should do it,” I say to Z. “It’s only forty minutes, and it would be brilliant to see an alternative energy plant.”

“If there is one,” says Z, still smarting from the drum.

“They have machines?” I ask.

“Yes,” says F. “They have machines.”

Some time later, as we turn up an utterly destroyed dirt road, juddering over substantial rocks, we pass a selection of huge aluminium boilers and pistons gathering dust at the side of the road.

“Look,” says F. “Here are the machines.”

“Ah,” I say. It appears that — not atypically for Indonesia — the alternative energy plant is a work in progress. “So there are no machines at the springs?”

“Yes, yes,” says F. “There are machines at the hot springs.”

Z wants to go back. I figure, given that we’ve come this far, we might as well see the hot springs. And, as an optimist, I do believe we still might get a fantastic hands-on learning experience at Ulumbu’s alternative energy plant.

We judder up the road, our progress grindingly slow. (One thing I’m learning, as we wend our way to Papua, is that we’d have been better off with a trail bike and the skills to use it than our little automatic.)

We judder down. And up again.

At the top of the gorge, we see great puffs of steam bursting from the ground, and smell the satanic waft of sulphur.

“Look,” says F. “Hot springs.”

“Oh god,” says Z, who has seen quite a few hot springs by now. “This is a complete waste of time. Let’s just get back to Ruteng already.”

I share his feelings. But there’s still a part of me which believes there just might be an alternative energy plant down in the gorge waiting to be explored. “I think we should at least check it out, given we’re here,” I say.

We wander down the hill.

The alternative energy plant is a building site. Albeit a rather steamy, sulphurous one.

“OK,” says Z. “NOW can we go back to Ruteng?”

“What you think?” asks F.

“I think,” I say diplomatically, “I think it will be very interesting when the machines are working.”

I take F up on his offer to drive my bike. Z piles on the back of the boys’ bike with A, who wobbles at speed towards the unguarded cliff edge, executing a tight turn with under a foot to go.

I am quite glad they are sufficiently ahead of us on the route down that I don’t have to watch. I’m also really, really keen just to get back to town and chill, before heading to the next town along, Bajawa, in the morning.

Ruteng is a pleasant little place. And the countryside is gorgeous. But it doesn’t really merit an extended stay.

On the main Ruteng road, I reclaim my bike. I am ascending a hill, for a change, when the engine strains, squawks and then cuts out.

Now, I’m not mechanically ept, but as a repeat purchaser of vehicles in the three-figure price range, I recognise, or think I recognise, the sound of an engine overheating and something serious, possibly terminal, going wrong.

I start the bike again. It goes a couple of hundred yards and then cuts out. The engine heat warning gauge isn’t illuminated, but then, given the bike is Indonesian and second-hand, I figure the only time that gauge is going to light up is if the thing bursts into flames and some come out of the dashboard.

“Do you remember when the Rover blew a gasket?” I ask Z.

“Yeah,” he says. It was snowing that day, Z was only little, and as we sat by the M11 awaiting assistance, a guy stopped, reversed back and gave us a blanket.

“I think the bike’s just blown a gasket,” I say.

The boys come back. “You want me to drive your bike?” asks F.

“No,” I say. “There’s a problem with the bike. I need a bengkel.”

One of the beauties of Indonesia from a biking point of view is that very few villages are too small to have a bengkel, a little roadside shack where guys replace inner tubes, weld parts, inflate tyres and perform seat-of-the-pants jerryrigging operations that would undoubtedly be illegal in the first world. When we blew a valve on a tire the other day, we were barely 500 metres from one.

“We can go to the place where we bought fuel,” says F.

It is downhill, and the bike makes it. I am beginning to feel optimistic.

“I can’t fix that,” says the guy at the bengkel. “You need to go to Ruteng.”

“Ruteng?” I say.

We are 40-odd k and several steep gorges away from Ruteng. I begin to curse myself for having bought an automatic.

“Yes,” he says, miming turning the accelerator with his right hand. “Don’t do too much of this.”

I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get the bike up the gorge without tugging the accelerator quite vigorously, but my options at this point seem pretty damn limited.

I check the coolant. It’s fine.

We make it about 3k before the engine cuts out. When I try to start it again, all I get is a gentle plinking sound from the ignition button.

The boys head back down the road. “Do you want me to drive your bike?” says F.

“No,” I say. “The bike is broken. Rusak.”

A gets on my bike, and presses the ignition button, turning the unresponsive accelerator.

Plink, plink, plink, says the bike.

A has another go, concern written across his face. I understand his anxiety. The kid’s only seventeen. This trip is a coup for him. At the same time, I am really, really irritated, and really, really wish he’d stop pushing that button.

“It’s not working,” I say through gritted teeth. “The bike is broken. I think we need a truck to take it to Ruteng.”

Within five minutes, we have a village full of helpful chaps around us, and seven or eight bikes pulled up at the roadside as the guys confer.

Z slumps on the grass verge with his visor down as, one after another, they press the ignition button. It plinks.

Someone gets the bike up on its stand and tries the kickthrough. It won’t move.

This is not a good sign. To me it suggests that the bike has a) run out of oil b) over-heated and c) fused or broken some critical (and probably expensive and/or rare) part.

“I know a mechanic,” someone says.

He calls him. “He can’t come out.”

“I think we need a truck to take the bike to Ruteng,” I say.

“There are no trucks today,” says A. “No trucks till tomorrow now.”

Of course, I realise. All the trucks in the highlands run regular transport routes – with the occasional special hire for ceremonies or weddings. Substantial vehicles don’t just lie around idle. Personal transportation is a motorbike, or nowt.

We flag down a couple of passing goods trucks. They’re full to capacity.

Then a bus comes along, a little school bus affair, like the chicken buses that run in the Guatemala highlands. The boys and the guys and the bus driver confer.

“So you leave the bike here,” says F. “It will be safe. They will look after it. Then in the morning, the bus driver will pick the bike up and take it to the convent for 50,000 rupiah, at 8am or 9am. This man is going to Ruteng, so he will take you with him.”

The guys wheel our poor, forlorn bike down to someone’s house, and Z and I pile on the back of our saviour’s bike.

It’s quite an impressive gorge that we ascend to Ruteng: misty, vertiginous, cloudy. If it weren’t for the fact that our saviour’s bike barely fits three people and struggles so much with the extra weight that I have to get off and walk the steepest and most degraded sections of road, it would actually be a pleasant ride.

I try not to think about our bike. I’m pretty sure the guys will get to Ruteng in one piece. And I’m really grateful to all these guys for going out of their way to help us out. There’s a real generosity and honesty there which is phenomenal.

But, the more I try not to think about it, the more I begin to realise that, while there’s a lot of Honda Varios in Bali, I haven’t really seen any automatics of any kind on the island of Flores.

There’s got to be parts, haven’t there? I mean, there have to be, right? This is a town with, ooh, 40,000 or 50,000 people, the biggest for several hundred kilometres. They’ll have a Honda dealer…

“Sometimes,” I say to Z, back at the convent. “I think the travel gods are against us right now.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And you know, if we hadn’t gone to the hot springs, the bike would be just fine right now.”

The post The Great Hot Springs Disaster appeared first on EscapeArtistes.

Z, not an early riser, gasps audibly. We’ve had a lovely ride here from Labuan Bajo, spiraling through a volcanic landscape of steep gorges, pastel churches, huts of patterned bamboo, bright blue rivers and tumbling waterfalls. His plans for Sunday, however, include a lie-in.

“What time does breakfast end?” I ask.

“Well,” she says. “Tomorrow is Sunday. So 8am.”

Ruteng, Flores, has approximately 57 Catholic churches. An impressive number, by any standards, and roughly one for every 600 people in the town.

It also has a number of mosques. One built cathedral. One in progress. And several Pentecostal edifices.

Outside Indonesia, the country is known as the world’s largest Muslim nation. Internally, and more accurately, given that we’ve driven from Hindu Bali through Lombok, where they practise a subset of Islam known as Waktu Telu, and Sumbawa, with its strait-laced Islam, to predominantly Catholic Flores, it is known as the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation.

It’s a sweet little place, Ruteng. 1100m or so up in the volcanic highlands of Flores, it’s backed by tree-shrouded peaks and surrounded by rice-fields. And in the morning mists, the view from the convent’s pristine grounds is stunning.

The convent, or the Kongregasi di Santa Maria Berdukacita, is in fact, delightful. A driveway lined with palms. Beautiful gardens. Sparkling rooms. Serenely quiet.

It’s by far the best place to stay in town.

As we wander the streets in search of something to eat, I say to Z, “You know? This reminds me of the Philippines.”

“Me too,” he says.

“This would be a good place to learn about Catholicism,” I say. “You know I was raised Catholic?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re a lapsed Catholic.”

“Yep,” I say. “But I’m still a Catholic. Because I’ve had all the sacraments… Wait.” I pause. “Do you even know what a sacrament is?”

“Nope,” says Z.

“There are seven sacraments,” I begin.

“Do you mean the seven deadly sins?”

“No,” I say. “Sacraments are different. They’re sort of, erm, rites of passage. What are the seven deadly sins?”

“Pride, lust, greed, gluttony, wrath, ummm….”

We are having a bit of difficulty in our chosen restaurant. Z has ordered chips. I am having dumplings. And we both want vinegar with that.

“Do you have vinegar?” I ask, in Indonesian.

“You want salt?” they say, in English.

“No,” says Z, in Indonesian. “I don’t want salt. I want vinegar. Cuka. C.U.K.A.”

They stare at us blankly.

I try a number of variations on “cuka”. It’s weird, since this was one of the first words we (well, certainly Z) acquired in Indonesian, and it’s stood us in good stead on a number of islands.

Z writes the word into my mobile phone and brings it over to them. They stare blankly.

“Vinegar,” says one of the three young guys in sportswear on the table next to us. “Cuka! They want vinegar.”

“Oh,” they say. “Cuka.”

“You have cuka?” I ask in Indonesian.

“Oh yes,” they say. “We have!”

While we begin the long, nay infinite, wait for our non-existent vinegar, we fall into conversation with the guys.

“I couldn’t help hear you saying that you wanted to go to Wae Rebo,” says one. “I think –- and you’ll excuse me if I’m wrong, because I’m a foreigner too –- I think it is near Todo. I think it is in the same parish.”

“Oh,” I say. “Where are you from?”

“The Philippines,” he says.

“Oh!” I say. “Z and I were just saying how like the Philippines it is here. What with all the Catholic churches, and the Pentecostals battling it out with them. And, just the feel of it, you know. The bemos, with their music turned up high.”

“Where have you been in the Philippines?” he asks.

We chat about the Philippines a bit.

“So what brings you here?” I ask.

“We’re Catholic priests,” he says. “The three of us.”

“Oh!” I say, embarrassed. “You don’t look like Catholic priests.”

Now, I was raised Catholic. I went to not one, but two, convent schools. Our lovely parish priest was friends with my parents and used to come round to our house for dinner. As did the occasional nun.

“Why do you say that?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, thinking about it.

Well, for starters, they are all young, late 20s, early 30s, and the youngest Catholic priest I’ve known in England was my grandmother’s priest, who was in his 40s. And that is a positive infant for a Catholic priest in England — or Europe, for that matter — these days. But it’s not just that.

“You’re wearing a Nike T-shirt,” I say. “He’s wearing an Adidas jacket. You’re all wearing shorts.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ve been playing basketball.”

We laugh. It’s jolly.

“Where are you staying?” one of the priests asks.

“At the Kongregasi di Santa Maria,” I say.

“Ah!” he says. “With the sisters! That’s the best place in town. It’s very clean.”

“Soooo clean,” I say, almost salivating. “I think it’s the cleanest place I’ve stayed since I’ve been in Indonesia. And it has hot water.”

The guys guffaw. “That says a lot about Indonesia.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Well, maybe not in Indonesia. But certainly in Flores.”

They have finished their meal. “Enjoy your time here,” one says. The priests pick up their basketball and wander out into the night, in their shorts, the perfect Filipinos abroad, dog collars strictly optional.

Our exit is a little less dignified. The convent is a couple of k from the restaurant, it’s on the chilly side at night, there are no street lights, and I have neglected to bring a torch.

No problems, think I. I’ll get a motorbike taxi.

We wander up the street to where there’s a bunch of bemos, the ramshackle minibuses which function for mass-transportation in and around the towns of Indonesia. “Is there an ojek here?”

A guy comes up. “How much to the Kongregasi Santa Maria?” I ask.

“100,000,” he says.

I laugh. This is over ten dollars, at least 20 times the appropriate fare, and roughly 10 times what I am prepared to pay because I’m foreign, I’m cold and I’m gagging for a hot shower.

“OK,” he says. “50,000.”

We are surrounded by a swarm of aspirant ojek drivers – every man in earshot with a motorcycle, and then some. I get the impression Ruteng doesn’t see too many tourists on the street sans guides and is keen to milk them for all it can.

“I take you,” comes a voice from a bemo. “Where you want to go?”

“The Kongregasi Santa Maria,” I say. “Jalan Ahmad Yani.” (As with most Indonesian towns of any size at all, one of the main streets is dedicated to this hero of independence.)

I clock the back of the ramshackle minibus. There’s eight guys in there, all of them talking excitedly in Manggarai, the local language in this part of Flores. Anywise, I figure there’s other people in there so there’s no way the driver can claim we chartered his vehicle.

The bemo driver sparks up Indo karaoke –- the theme “romance” –- on a portable DVD player on his dashboard, as we begin to navigate the steep and rural back streets of Ruteng.

None of the guys in the back are getting out, which is odd.

Z begins to get incensed. Like me, he has both walked and driven the route we are supposed to be taking, and is well aware that we should be back by now.

“I’m not paying more than 10,000 for this ride, no way, no matter what they say,” he says.

Our driver, as he negotiates another tight bend in the dark, begins to look positively anxious. I’m a little nervy too. I can’t quite work out the dynamics of the vehicle, but it feels as though his teenage passengers are pushing him to do something.

It briefly crosses my mind that they could be taking us out of town to rob us, but it seems unlikely given the numbers involved.

We stop at a fried-food stall. One of the kids in the back gets out to ask directions.

For about the third time, I say, clearly, “The Kongregasi Santa Maria on Jalan Ahmad Yani.”

We wind through banana orchards and tropical hedgerows to what looks like it might be the back of a hotel. “No,” Z and I say in unison, in Indonesian. “The Kongregasi Santa Maria on Jalan Ahmad Yani.”

“God,” Z says. “They’re taking us to every bloody hotel in town.”

I have one wary eye on the time. The last thing I want is to roll up at the convent after curfew with beer on my breath in the middle of a heated dispute with a bemo driver. It is not, as they say, a good look.

We wind another corner. “Look,” I say. “Are we going to Jalan Ahmad Yani?”

There is no way the guy cannot know the street. We wend our way there, on quite the magical mystery tour, Indo pop still blaring and the guys in the back mouthing to the lyrics.

“Here?” he asks. We’re outside the other hotel on Ahmad Yani.

“200 metres more,” I say.

We graunch up the convent’s steep driveway. And we’re there.

“50,000,” says one of the guys in the back.

“No,” I say. “This is a bemo. There are seven guys in it. The journey is 2 kilo, no more. I’m not paying 50,000 rupiah.”

A nun emerges. Oh god, I think. Here we are polluting their grounds with a fare dispute.

“How much you want to pay?” he asks, sulkily. Though, as a good Catholic, he too seems shy about taking the p*ss in front of a nun.

“10,000,” I say, handing over 10,000 to the driver.

“5,000 more,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. And we retreat to our spotless room, where I will be woken at 3.30 am by the first observance of Sunday from the chapel below.

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