A Travellerspoint blog

Ruteng to Labuanbajo

Though I was woken up offensively early by blaring pop music right next to my room at 10 past 6 that morning, I somehow didnt manage to hit the street until 10. The Germans had related the presence of an unexpected net cafe and so that became my first priority, dishearteningly finding it Sunday closed, and local promises of a connection at the Telkom office proved unfounded. I frequented a restaurant for an omelette brekkie with my name on it (Fu Yung Hay) more out of interst to check out their promised noticeboard, though the array of photos and touristy posters served little purpose other than to frustrate my desire to reach distant traditional "beehive " villages, unusual "Spiderweb" rice field patterning and what had long been an intyention, the LIang Bua cave where Homo Floresiensis had recently been discovered. It was only 14Ks away but lay down a riough track rendered sometimes impassable in the current wet season and there was in any case reputedly nothing maore than a few marker stciks to signify the spot. More realistic given my time restriction was a foray out to a nearby "Compang", boasting ancestor altar burial platforms and traditional houses, though it allegedly had been well and trully corrupted a dedication to tourism. In the end a second determined trail back to the net cafe found it superbly to have just opened its door, though in the end I had to tellingly wait for an hour for a satellite connection to be gained. I killed the time by stocking up on cash at another blessed BNI Bank ATM in expectation that I was soon to spend a fortune, those and net cafes proving to be everywhere but where the guidebook promised. In view of my need to progress onto west coast port town Labuanbajo that day I checked out the central terminal to find it frequented only by Bemos and "Treks", cattle class passenger carrying trucks, and it was a real bonus to accidentally bump into the hotel owner once again who betrayed the existence of another unknown terminal out of town. The net cafe also allowed ,me to clarify photo discs I was carrying in order that I might know whcih memory cards could be clueared, but a aconnection loss meant that it took me alsmost 2 hours just to get the most basic of business done. I was taking a chance that the transport to Labuanbajo would dry up in the meantime but an Ojek took me out of town past a beautiful scene of rice terraces, giving in to the fantastically high domes of forested mountains. A lone bus was of a better quality than expected but sadly devoid of even a single passenger, and so it was past 4 O'clock by the time we had excruciatingly trailed around every road and rough track around town touting for business. Western Flores transpired to be even more stunning than the leg from Aimere, with dramatic abrupt rounded summits covered in pristine greenery tumbling down into gorges and rice carpeted valleys, spying as a bonus the hitherto unknown location of the "Spiderweb" field patterning ata spot known as Lingko. Of course the touir touts were never going to advertsie the fact. Forever, twistingm, climbing or descending, the purported 3 to 4 hour trip had somehow stretched to 6 by the time we reached Labuanbajo, and though the doorstep drop off was convenient for it was 10O'clock by the time I had secured a crashpoint in a dirty ramshackle pad in defernce to my intended overpriced touristy aloternative. The boy here thought nothing of squashinga giant cockroach with his bare foot and I museed that at least the tangle of cobwebs with an army of spiders would keep the mosquitos at bay. It wasa priority to immediately pursue a touirist restaurant in search of other folk with whom I might hook up with on an intended tour the next day, but all the white boy establishments had closed their kitchens and it was no time to be hunting arouind for prospective deals. In settling for a dodgy Padang restaurant the locals here were duiscernibly Islamic in the main and used to white faces, and the only "Hello mister" was laced with ulteriuor motive. Thier demeanour was one of slobbishness and ignorance, and a gaggle of grubby locals of all sexes and ages had somehow deemed a dark dirty garagefront as the place to be seen. A scuffle deteriorated into punches and they didnt even have alcohol to blame it on. More unprecedented however was a further ruction experienced when I was lying readiungaround midnight when the room shook and the whole building rattled. The presumed gust of wind was too long in lasting however and so I quickly hauled ona paitr of shorts to dart outside, seeing that my neighbours had done the dsame. It was another first for my time in Indonesia and one to be almost expected here, it was an earthquake. Camped right by a sea wall, I joked of a tsunami but in reality it could have been. No telling of whether it was a small localised tremor or if somewhere else far off was getting shaken to bits.

Posted by andyhay2 17:06 Archived in Indonesia Comments (0)

Sumba to Flores


Despite an outrageously belated 0245hrs departure time, I didnt have to endure too much of a marathon with the ferry trip, slumbering little but redeemed by my first sighting of Flores unexpectedly early at around 7. With the light brought an appreciation of flying fish darting away from the boat, an unexpected delight in a pod of very long short finned dolphins and even a rare charcoal coloured seabird resembling an albatross which I presumed to be a Sooty Tern. Even more remarkable was Flores itself however, immediately appreciable as the lofty dramatic land of which I had heard promise but would not have otherwise expected. It was a stunning arrival to witness Gunung Inerie, a perfect volcanic pyramid whose sides slope seemlessly down into symmetrical curves, an intimidating presence heightened by a downturn in the weather mustering moody cloud and a strong sea, perhaps a belated betrayal of the storm which had compromised my schedule. I was little short of elated to have finally reached diminutive port town Aimere only a little later than what I had hitherto anticipated, and though there was a surprising dearth of transport awaiting our arrival it was another real bonus to discover that the 2 attendant buses were both unexpectedly headed for Ruteng where I had finally elected to make for. My initial intention to settle for nearby Bajawa had been forsaken at the last moment in a determination to make swift onward progress with the weather and fatigue rendering my intended motorbike tour from Bajawa a non-starter. Such was Flores's tortuous topography that the road materialised narrower than ever before, with white lines perhaps serving as nmore of a guide in the dark than a method of traffic separation, only a bike would have been able to stay within its lanes. The rollercoaster ride had te drivers arms twirling constantly as he negotiated what on a map must have resembled a plate of spaghetti, with occasional bonejarring disrupted sections more than compensated for by fantastic surrounding domes clad in very thick lush forest. It was a throwback to the vistas of Sumatra as we bumped along the bottom of the cloud layer, such a different hue from the rest of Nusa Tenggara and not one I would have anticipated. Local architecture was underwhelming in the main, with the mainstay of dwellings proving to be squarish bamboo latticed affairs with conventional tin roofs, though the odd squat thatched longhouse perhaps relegated to animal husbandry exuded a certain charm. My involuntary slumber was punctured by exactly that,ma discernible hiss which betrayed a tyre blow out, but the bus crew whoo outnumbered we handful of passengers dealt with it like it happened very day. Maybe it did, because the wheel which came off resembled a racing car slick with not a hint of tread. I even noted that the nut threads on our Mitsubishi Colt bus contradicted common convention but they knew which way to pull them. There was not a single settlement of note along the southern route to Ruteng, the topography took all of the prizes and even had me suspecting a stitch up when we pulled into an incongruous deserted terminal slapped onto the side of a soaring mound, the reputed 5 hour jaint to Ruteng had taken only 3 hours 20 however. Thoroughly disorientetd by the wild rural setting, it was only the few Ojek and Bemo dudes who betrayed any sense of civilisation, and so I instinctively followed the locals into a Bemo with questionable promise of a "Kota" (Town centre). I latched on quick though in realising that I wopuld surely pass by my intended hotel on the road in and so managed a doorstep drop off wheras normaly poor appreciation of the situation didnt allowed it. The rural highland vibe was matched by my sweety little Swiss chalet style crashpad, where experience had taught me to invest in tea and not beer in view of my compunction to now make every day count. Upon consideration, Ruteng's outward diversions did not merit any complication of my itinerary and I settled for a tour of the town to mappreciate first a very new and evidently uninhabited Raja's house, also a gargantuan cathedral further qualifuied by its mountain backdrop and the general air of Ruteng's atypical persuasion in either colourfully painted 2 story timber shophouses or more robust corrugated metal ones. The whole highland demeanour had me struggling to recall Belangkejeren in northern upland Sumatra. Even the "Hello misters" were tangibly of a different ilk, with an appreciably genuine interest in meaningful engagement rather than a mindlessm kneejerk holler. The propensity of churches was the main giveaway as to the regions character, with the streetlined market place revealing more poverty than tradition, and it was a surprise then to trace a couple of cafes of clear tourist orientation. Not one to kick a gift horse up the arse, I availed myself ofa rare chicken and chips as well as a brace of conventional supermarkets, then hooked up with a German couple and French duo who were the first white folk I had seen since leaving Andrea in Mataram almost 2 weeks before. Ruteng was the centre for the Manggarai people, a linguistically distinct people of Western Flores, and the hotel owners admission that he preferred English to bahasa Indonesia perhaps demonstrated a certain inherent distancing from far off Jakarta ............Anniversary?

Posted by andyhay2 16:07 Archived in Indonesia Comments (0)



For a capital city Waingapu's rural character meant that the roosters outgunned the mosques for once, and it was only a little after 6 when I rose to find an unexpected inclusive brekkie already presented outside my doorunannounced. Tea and doughnut like cakes were a good start. I wandered out briefly to confirm the non-existence of the ferry office and then just kept walking, under pressure of time to square away an itinerary before check out time. Still singularly ignorant as to the options, I had to by hook or by crook leave Sumba pronto. My wanderings the previous night had at least availed me of the Pelni office, whose schedules had not been what the guidebook had suggested, and whilst I imagined it might be an outside option it proved to be of no use at all. Waiting for office hours, I retraced the local pier where I had sunk a couple of beers the night previous, now able to appreciate an already active scene of a small freighter precariously unloading a loose cargo of rice sacks and tomato ketchup, also a large ocean going trawler which emptied its ice lockers onto an onboard conveyor belt. A ferryboat lay tantalisingly close across the harbour entrance but the guidebook warned me not to try and walk there, it was too far. A ubiquitous Padang lined with a military post and an independence monument went one better in boasting anti-aircraft guns but I was disappointed in my early morning curcuit not to discover any hint of a colonial legacy, only that by 8am the sun was already so strong that I had to seek shelter and water. My erratic wanderings then found me stumbling across the Merpati office as required by chance, already open and bearing schedules to all destinations. Similar to most of the ferries, I had expected the airlines to only service the major provincial destinations and so it was a happy realisation to see that the next day would offer a connection to Flores as required. It was to the port town of Ende in eastern Flores which was less than ideal but might do at a pinch, the dismay mounted however when I learned that it was booked out. I was already ready for lunch by breakfast time and so opted for a good Nasi Soto Ayam (chicken noodle soup) stupidly within sight of a poorer one to which the guidebook gave the thumbs up. From there an Ojek was a rare strategy in getting out to a spot known as Kampung Baru (New Town) where I had established the ferry office actually lay, and it took all of a few seconds to scan their schedule and twig an excellent proposition. Determined to backtrack north west to Labuanbajo at Flores's western extreme, the weekly ferry to Aimere still 10 hours away by bus had been the best possible option, yet the guidebook reckoned it wouldnt run until 3 days hence, an unacceptable delay. Expecting a service to easterly Ende that night I had pretty much resolved that there was nothing for it until I saw that the Aimere boat would leave that very night. It was as close to perfect as I could have hoped for. The Ojek boy took me home for perhaps even slightly less than what it should have been and evidently with a weight off my mind my return prompted a beer, a Mandi and a sleep in that order. It surprised me not for the first time what effect a single beer could have and so it wasnt until just after the thankfully late check out time that I re-awakened to get my gear in order and decamp. In spite of my by now daily resort to the use of mosquito coils I got hammered once again and so anticipated the night boat like never before, one night in that dive had been enough. My information quest and timely departure unfortunately meant that I would not have the opportunity of exploring eastern Sumba beyond its capital, yet I surmised that its traditional heart down on the east coast would probably differ little from where I had already ventured. I hopped on another Ojek on a suburban jaunt in search of confirmation. Described by the guidebook as "a weaving centre worth a peek" Prailiuturned out to be a partiallymodernised village with architecture of similar ilk to the west, and though the only evidence of weaving was a lone granny chancing to flog me some Ikat cloth, its tombs rendered it a more than worthwhile venture.

Posted by andyhay2 00:00 Archived in Indonesia Comments (0)

Waikabubak to Waingapu


Having availed myself of as much of West Sumba as I could squeeze in, it was only left for me to clear up a few local sights within Waikabubak, a leafy spacious town with something of a dual personality. In my previous wanderings I had already spotted sporadic gatherings of more slab tombs which pointed the way to a further series of hilltop Kampungs out of synch with the rest of the modern conurbation. The tombs right by the main road were complimented by a series of horses heads of unknown purpose, perhaps merely as a regional devotion to Sumba's reputation as a renowned horse breeding land. Even a bus shelter here had been hued out of rock into humanoid and animal carvings. It was an abrupt incline from contemporary housing up to a thatch creation of the previous rural villages I had visited, with more tombs to boast.........

It was only left for me to snap a couple of very prominent Catholic churches before I hoofed it back through the Hello Misters to grab my bag, encountering on the way great swathes of what I took to be macadamia nuts laid out to dry in the scorching sun before being shovelled into sacks. Traversing the town's heart found my path impeded for what I took to be a set-up for a muslim weddingwith bamboo barriers blocking the main road so that a matted seating area could look upon a pavement niche brightly adorned for the happy couple. It was a frustration in reaching the handily very central transport terminal however, something of a flattering nomenclature for the patch of asphalt surrounded by the grubby market, when it was confirmed by all comers that crazily the transport had dried up by lunchtime. The relaxed ever friendly vibe allowed mutual laughter at some ambitious suitors proposals, but thankfully many were honest in pointing out a far from obvious ticket agent hiding behind a shopfront of agricultural equipment. It transpired that a charter minibus was scheduled for 3 and though it was almost double the standard fare I was still happy in the relief of securing a way out. A nights delay was a consideration I could not afford. Killing time found me first braving a throroughly unappetising looking eatery which actually rustled up its sole offering of fried chicken with rice and veg., lipsmackingly scrummy and cheap, and then the habitually intriguing offerings of the adjacent market were another fine indulgence. Sumba betrayed its rural rustic heart in first a selection of pigs trussed up inside a bamboo shelter, but more remarkable still was a small central reservation where dogs and goats had been tied up to street signs. The dogs in particular were a hitherto unknown consideration with largely Islamic Indonesia considering them vermin, and though at least they were not destined for the pot but Sumba's massive population of guard dogs, they looked miserable strewn about in the sun with their neck shackles made of wooden batons lest they chew through a rope tether. They had already proved to be a persistent menace on Bali especially as they zealously guarded shopfronts, and any aspirations of a white man sneaking into a village unperturbed was soon scuppered. Though it was sometimes a tricky juncture to negotiate market places
in view of the unprecedented levels of attention I attracted, it at least meant here that people were happy in turn for themselves to be appreciated, and I negotiated plots of more piles of salt, dried fish, betel nut et al with even a request for photos. The swanky minibus trip revealed Sumba's main artery to be in perfect condition all the way along the 4 hour traverse to Waingapu, surprisingly climbing further up out of Waikabubak at 600 metres to realise very twisty and undulating topography occasionally cloaked in very tall temperate forest. The sweet chick next to me throwing up for most of the trip didnt detract from some excellent rolling green vistas and it was only a pity that what appeared to be the most dramatic of the ranges were cloaked in darkness. The benefit of the direct service only punctured by a quick tea stop had been eroded by its convoluted house to house pick up, and though it was dismaying for it to pick up at the hotel I had recently vacated was a saving grace so late. Rather forced into settling for an arbitrary guidebook recommendation, the dive was if nothing else what I had more habitually expected of East Nusa Tenggara province, at little less than what I had happily forked out the night previous. I guessed the resident world's largest cockroach was throw in for free. Though I was whacked, it at least made it not a spot to loiter, encouraging an immediate foray along unlit streets in search of pertinent needs. First of all should have been the most pressing concern of all, but the ferry office supposedly located in the same street was not to be found, and reversion to a promised rarity a steakhouse was similarly flouted. Rarer still was the discovery of a "pub & karaoke" den whose dark glassed front saw me resist it in expectation of a girly bar scene, and in an unusual modern food court where a large party had had the audacity to finish off all the beer. Hell, if you didnt like a challenge then travelling sure wasnt for you!

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Biking Sumba


With a full on day planned, my unexpected inclusive brekkie was a helpful juncture in swiftly deeming me as ready as I would ever be, and so I mounted my very new looking Honda 125 complete with spanky modern helmet and face visor. Though I had played this game a couple of times already in Sumatra it was always destined to be something of a liability what with my inexperience, crazy driving and poor road conditions, but some things just had to be done. I had stoically resisted that temptation on Sumbawa and accordingly had only managed to avail myself of a single sojourn to a traditional village, the allure of Sumba's even more traditional culture was too much to deny myself however so I took my life in my hands once again. It really was just like riding a bike, once you learned you never forgot the gist of the gear shift mechanism and the braking strategy, and Sumba's main road continued to prove to be an excellent if narrow surface with happily little traffic. After a nip round to the nearby tourist office, an incredibly overstaffed bureaucracy full of khaki uniformed honeys, I left still devoid of my pertinent need of a map but now at least in the knowledge that a local month long festival I had hoped to witness had already passed.
Having already spied a rare petrol station in my wanderings I opted to fill the bike to the max there, learning that it would hold all of 2.9 litres at a cheap and cheerful 70p. Bemos which frequently stopped without warning were the greatest hurdle in recrossing the town, appeased by the realisation that at least they observed traffic lights in this nick of the woods, and soon I was hammering along an excellently straight and flat road out east to a junction village named Pasunga. Though there had been many periodic hints as to Sumba's demeanour, Pasunga blew all of that away with the readily apparent roadside setting of a very traditional village, a double row of supremely sharp roofed thatch houses on squat bamboo frames, an unlikely design which somehow had me thinking of Windy Miller's hat. Andy Pandy had arrived!

What really qualified the village however beyond its size and unusual setting upon a flat plain was the nearby presence of a concentration of typically gigantic tombs, the prime example being an excellently adorned slab of grey rock with an atypical carved headstone all of 3 metres high. Carved clean through in parts to render it 3 dimensional, its main feature was a male/female couple stood beside each other with their hands on hips. An old boy dressed in traditional Ikat sarong and bizzarely a reggae shirt was conveniently or perhaps inconveniently ensconced on the nearest verandah, promptly assuming a posture of a held out hand, it was predictable if unpalatable. Though I had often had to fight against a long legacy of determined rip offs, it wasnt so much the money as the fact that these people presented me with no service so as to deserve it and I knew that with every ostensibly rich white man who reaffirmed their stance they would surely become corrupted to the point of endangering the very culture people came to appreciate. I had recently witnessed the downward spiral In East Kalimantan where villagers had wholeheartedly sold out to the tourist dollar and began cavorting around in unrepresentative overwrought costumary, performing pantomime and demanding payment for photography. If it wasnt a true unadulterated experience as far as I was concerned then it had no traditional base whatsoever however, and though I had to accept my fare share of the blame for supposedly creating the demand for such behaviour, I certainly didnt have to like it. I gave the old boy 5,000 Rupiah and grudged sponsoring his idleness. It was the greatest irony of tourism that one frequented places only to bugger them up in the very process, and how long would it be until the whole world was like Benidorm or Bali? It would redistribute wealth certainly, but it wouldnt preserve their culture. Turning south at the nearby junction, a very grungy grass roots market immediately stopped me in my tracks, boasting the kind of honest unlovely vibe I was in search of. Lines of women sat or slumbered in rows, each proferring a humble assortment of local staples such as sampat (chilis), baby tomatoes, dried fish and vegetables. Rarely witnessed fruits such as custard apples and bell shaped wax apples were present, but more interesting still was the discovery of freshly harvested salt (garam), so different from the western packaged variety that I at first took it to be coconut, and the regions most notorious indulgence Sirih (betel nut). It was here that I first came across its frequent usage too, with most notably the old women partaking as a matter of course. Destroying what might have been otherwise beautiful faces, a plug of the mildly intoxicating plant would be held under one side of their top lip, after taking shards of the nut, revealing a grizzly glare from black teeth and bright red gums. The unpaved ground was randomly splattered where they had spat out the residue, and it was especially disturbing to spy young beauties who would soon prove to be too ghastly to kiss.

The eternal onslaught of "Hello misters" at least had its compensations in affording me the prerogative of engaging with some of them who might have otherwise been typically aloof. It was another short hop down a straight newly laid surface to Kabonduk, a village which had given in to practicality by lining their pointy roofs with corrugated sheeting, but there were still centrally ensconced tombs to appreciate including a modern glazed tile example which was reputedly the largest on Sumba. It weighed in at 70 tonnes and had incredibly been rendered there manually. As an ever friendly army post opposite watched over my bike, I was approached by another enforced suitor, with this one settling for a cigarette which I had stocked up on in anticipation. It was nice to hear him pay silent homage to my Bahasa in saying that normally tourists didnt speak it, but I still succumbed to his game plan when he elected to escort me for the short walk up to a subsequent couple of more traditional kampungs nestled on nearby hilltops. Knowing that he would expect payment and in defence of my fearsome independent streak, it was a tough call but I eventually decided to make my excuses and forego my plans. I knew from experience that my eyes would glaze over in frustration and spoil the experience. 5 minutes further down the road lay one of Sumba's most impressive tombs at the modern hamlet of G........, and having been forewarned by the guidebook of the grumpy aggressive headman in whose yard it lay, it was payback to be able to appreciate it unmolested save for a few harmless "Hello misters". Not only was it fronted by a very tall headstone carved with intricate geometric patterns, a male-female head pairing and birds, but upon the giant grey slab had been placed a rock representation of a traditional dwelling. I suppose to simulate a final resting place. Though any dating or other inscription was unusual to find, most were remarkably recent constructions which gave a much more honest insight into the present day perpetuation of obviously ancient practices. The excellent example at Pasunga for example dated only as far back as 1926, and 150 buffalo had allegedly been ritually slaughtered in the same juncture. Another nearby had a block of stone steps reaching up to it dated 1992 and 2000, it might have seemed hundreds of years old in the absence of that detail. From G...... I had a bit of a problem in that trying to manufacture an efficient loop of all my proposed destinations, I was left with nothing but a woefully inadequate guidebook map to convince me of its viability. What certainly didnt help was the singular absence of road signs and village nameplates and soon in resolve to continue south and then west on a periodically degrading road, I eventually found myself unsure as to where I was and in which direction to turn. Though I sought local advice time and again at the expense of rapidly depleting cigarettes, where there was any conviction at all it proved contradictory. Upon tiring of negotiating a now rocky puncture threatening track I finally had to admit defeat and retrace my motocross course, it had been a waste of a precious hour but had at least afforded me fine vistas of endless green pastures and a horseman shepherding a buffalo. Stick in hand, he resembled the local ancient festival of mounted fighting known as the Pasola, a major tourist drawcard every February. Many uniformed schoolkids on their long walk home in the middle of nowhere were unanimous in shouting "Hyaaagh!" as I passed, until back at the Pasunga junction I opted for a tea stop. Finding the only watering hole around frequented by a crowd of locals dolled up in their finest, I was promptly beckoned over to join what proved to be a funeral reception, an appropriate find considering my tomb hunting agenda, and it was an excellent opportunity to be able to appreciate friendly intercourse with men decked out in their traditional diminutive headband like turbans, Batak shirts, Ikat sarongs and waistbands with a Keris (sword) sometimes tucked in. I was made to feel very welcome and blessed with water, and perhaps it was upon my enquiry for tea that it was soon served to whoever cared for it. A young boy with a smattering of English told how it was his 75 year old uncle who had passed away, an influential man who had served in both the army and the police, his legacy betrayed by a preponderance of muslims dressed Malay style. I was offered Betel Nut which I politely declined, the boy explaining that the tiny green corn on the cob resembling plant sprigs and an accompanying fine white powder were both very spicy. Though a full funeral ceremony might be delayed for up to 10 years in this nick of the woods as the family struggled to afford its requisite elaboration, I rather suspected that wouldnt be so in this case. I shoved a few thousand in the donation box all the same. Retracing Waikabubak, I didnt stop but passed through onto a southern tangent in search of the elusive village of Tanamura where my initial loop had been aimed. Initially climbing on a now twisty blind bend road through this most undulating of lands, the main artery had been a thankfully tame introduction to some demanding driving where the back of the bike would try to step out on a dusty overlay. I stopped frequently to appreciate the fine vistas, with sporadic thatched roofs betraying periodic hamlets sometimes only 2 or 3 houses strong, eventually reaching a crest and spying a distant line of surf. The Indian Ocean. It was at one of these pit stops that a bike drew up to match mine and the young boy with his sweet pillion squeeze asked the ubiquitous "Where you go mister?!". Citing Tanamura, he beckoned me to follow him which I struggled to do on the snaky road, but eventually he pulled up by the start of a steep rocky trail and pointed the way up. I subsequently learned that up there lay not Tanamura but the very traditional villages of Praiguli and ........ which had actually been my ultimate goal, and I would never have found them on my own. This was the real McCoy. Praiguli was a typical huddle of sharp thatched roofs with bamboo verandahs sheltering pigs and chickens underneath, encircling a concentration of ancient looking slab tombs of which one was fantastic in its ancestral homage............

Posted by andyhay2 00:00 Archived in Indonesia Comments (0)

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