Serene by the Sea in Flores

This island had everything: empty beaches, waves perfect for surfing, coral reefs, smoking volcanoes. A mosaic of cultures, masterful arts. So where were all the tourists?

About 500 miles northwest of the tip of Australia, Flores is surely one of the loveliest of the more than 13,500 islands of Indonesia. But in contrast to tourist centers like Bali, Flores remains a tranquil, deeply traditional, little-visited place. Even its name is a puzzle. No one knows why Portuguese explorers named the island for flowers, which are not especially abundant in the dry climate.

After two enjoyable visits to Bali’s crowded temples and jam-packed beaches, my husband, Kevin, and I were ready to see another side of the country and explore more facets of its culture.

About 300 ethnic groups make Indonesia their home, and more than 360 dialects are spoken across the archipelago, which spans the equator for more miles than the trip from L.A. to New York.

Our curiosity piqued by guidebook photos of puffing volcanoes and towering, thatch-roofed buildings, we set out last August to explore Flores, about 1,000 miles east of the capital, Jakarta. With about 210 million residents, Indonesia is the fourth most populous nation, after China, India and the U.S. But only 1.5 million Indonesians can be found on Flores. And the flow of visitors is only a trickle--mainly European and Australian backpackers and surfers.

The scarcity of visitors is partly due to the difficulty in getting there. On paper, it looks simple: Catch a 90-minute domestic flight from Bali to Flores’ main airport in Maumere. In reality, the troubled Indonesian economy makes it anything but easy. Rising fuel costs and falling exchange rates mean that flights are often canceled, rescheduled or overbooked. We were lucky, landing only two hours behind schedule.

Maumere gave a fine introduction to the island’s cultures. In the central market, Sikkanese farmers (one of five major ethnic groups on Flores) in brown and blue sarongs sold bundles of vegetables that looked like neat geometric sculptures. On the city’s outskirts, children waved from stilt houses. Down the street from our hotel, the shops and restaurants of ethnic Chinese bustled into the night.

After our first night at the Wini Rai II, a modest but clean hotel, we embarked on a five-day car tour across the island, from Maumere in the east to Labuhanbajo at the western tip. The hotel helped arrange for a driver and a young freelance guide, Anselmus Marianto, a.k.a. Yanto.

One of our first stops was the dusty village of Sikka, just outside Maumere. You would never know it, but centuries ago the village was the capital of the Sikkanese kingdom. Today it is renowned for an art form that some researchers think may be 2,000 years old.

Within minutes of our arrival, women surrounded me, holding up a solid wall of glorious fabric called ikat. Its subtle, shaded geometric designs are produced by tie-dyeing bundles of hand-spun cotton thread with tints made from local plants and minerals. The work is all the more intricate because the women must plan which parts of the thread to dye before weaving their designs.

“Missus, missus,” the villagers whispered shyly.

My eye fell on a black and brown sarong woven with tiny patterns, representing two months’ work. I asked the price: 200,000 rupiah, about $30. “But we can bargain,” the weaver added.

I hesitated just an instant. “OK, 150,000,” she said. I felt like a thief as I walked off with my purchase, but the woman was beaming.

From Sikka, we set off on the Trans-Flores Highway, a grandiose name for 400 miles of narrow, potholed asphalt that winds its way across the island. But who’s in a hurry when life is unfolding all along the roadside? School classes did morning calisthenics on the beach, women sat weaving on looms under trees, a child bathed on a doorstep. Coffee, cacao, vanilla beans and cloves dried at the edge of the pavement.

At Paga Beach near Sikka, we stopped to eat fried rice in a deserted cafe and watched the glassy surf roll on five miles of gold sand. In Bali, the coast would be lined with concrete resorts. On this strand, not a soul in sight.

Later that afternoon, Yanto asked us, “Would you like to talk to a 109-year-old man?”

I was skeptical until we met him. Bapak Bernardus, an elder with flowing white hair and the long, elegant hands of a musician, is the spiritual leader of the village of Jopu. He lives among the ancient drums and centuries-old wooden carvings in the village’s ceremonial house.

His young helper told us that Bernardus walked around the village unassisted until two years ago, when he fell. Bernardus proudly greeted us in Dutch, learned as a child during the colonial days. The Dutch ousted the Portuguese in the early 1600s and controlled this land until World War II brought the Japanese; in 1945, Indonesia declared its independence.

Surrounded by sacred statues, Bernardus spoke of life “before we had religion.” Missionaries have come since the 1500s and are the reason 85% of Flores is Catholic, while 90% of all Indonesia practices a form of Islam tinged with Hindu and Buddhist concepts.

As we left Bernardus, I couldn’t resist asking: How can I live to be 100? The answer, through Yanto’s translation, was nearly identical to what my 90-year-old grandmother always says: “No smoking, no drinking, no stress. Pray a lot, and work in your garden.”

Others may attribute Bernardus’ longevity to the serene land where he lives. Jopu sits near the foot of Keli Mutu, a 5,500-foot inactive volcano that hides one of the world’s eeriest sights: three crater lakes, each holding a mystery that we had to see with our own eyes.

We set out for Keli Mutu after catching a few hours’ sleep in the town of Moni, the most popular base for visiting the volcano. Our spartan room, like all the other accommodations in town, offered just a bed, a mosquito net and a sense of adventure.

Hours before dawn, we hopped on a truck that carried a dozen or so tourists each day from Moni through the chilly darkness toward the summit. After our ride, we stumbled for half an hour up a rocky trail in the moonlight, then sat bundled in blankets, drinking coffee sold by local entrepreneurs and waiting for the sun. The smell of sulfur swirled around us.

As the dawn broke, the first dim view appeared of three jagged craters filled with satiny water. Then the brightening sky slowly revealed the mystery. The lakes were unearthly colors, dazzling like a child’s paint box: One glowed turquoise like a swimming pool, one was a deep olive green and the last was a dense black that seemed to swallow all light.

The vertical sides of the craters make it impossible to reach the lakes; people have died trying. Scientists speculate that the strange hues may be caused by minerals in the water. The color scheme has changed over time. Postcards in dusty souvenir shops show the lakes when they were ruby red, black and milky white.

At the Soa hot spring, outside the mountain town of Bajawa, we joined the Florinese at play. Extended families soaked and splashed in the big rocky pond, snacking on roasted bananas and ears of corn cooked over little palm-leaf fires.

Bajawa is cool and pleasant, but the real draw of the region is the dramatic thatched architecture of the indigenous Ngada people.

Travelers generally visit Bena village, with its two long rows of towering traditional houses lined up against a backdrop of volcanoes. Yanto led us instead to equally picturesque Luba, just down the road, where the people seemed surprised and pleased to have visitors from another world. Pak Markus, the village head, poured us aromatic home-grown coffee and happily answered our questions about their way of life.

Like many Florinese villages, Luba is a startling cultural synthesis. Dutch missionaries converted locals to Christianity in the 1920s but allowed the people to apply their native animist beliefs to create a hybrid faith of sorts.

Villagers decorate their Catholic churches with strings of buffalo skulls from the harvest sacrifices. Houses display ancestor dolls on the roof and pastel pictures of the Blessed Virgin on their walls.

The Trans-Flores Highway reaches its western end at Labuhanbajo, a fishing port that faces Komodo Island and its “dragons,” and we said goodbye to Yanto.

Our simple room at the Hotel Wisata opened onto a pleasant tiled courtyard, and days somehow evaporated as we read paperbacks under an awning and occasionally strolled to the market for fruit.

“Labuhan,” as locals call the town, is a transit crossroads. From there, you can catch a bus to Jakarta (with help from ferries), or cross to the islands of Sumbawa and Sumba on jam-packed boats. If you’re truly fearless, sail for four days to Lombok Island on a decrepit fishing boat.

Or you may find yourself irresistibly drawn to the quiet, lazy beaches strung out north and south of the town, where days turn into weeks. Like most people who venture this far, you may well find yourself in no hurry at all to leave.

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GUIDEBOOK

Riding the Trans-Flores Highway

Getting there: China, EVA, Malaysia, Singapore and Thai airlines fly from LAX to the Indonesian city of Denpasar on the island of Bali, with one change of planes. Restricted round-trip fares start at $1,100. Merpati airlines flies from Denpasar to Maumere on Flores Island. Merpati schedules and fares aren’t published, and tickets must be bought in Bali. My fare was about $100 one way.

When to go: The dry season is April through September.

Getting around: Hiring a private car with driver and guide is best; book through a hotel. The price is negotiable; we paid $350 for a five-day trip, gas included.

Where to stay: Flores has an abundance of clean, simple hotels, although none is luxurious by any standard. Double rooms at all the following run about $10 a night. Reservations usually aren’t needed.

In Maumere, Hotel Wini Rai II, on Jalan Doktor Sutomo, telephone 011-62-382-21362, has spotless rooms with glacial air-conditioning. Helpful staff.

In Moni, gateway to Keli Mutu, accommodations are basic: “homestay” rooms tacked onto residences. Ours was called Sao Ria Wisata, on Jalan Koanara-Moni (no phone). It served wonderful banana pancakes.

Labuhanbajo’s hotels are scattered the length of its main (and only) street, facing the harbor. We chose the Hotel Wisata, on Jalan Yos Sudarso, tel. 011-62-385-41020, for its peaceful courtyard.

Where to eat: We mostly ate at market stalls or simple roadside restaurants.

In Labuhanbajo, the Hotel Wisata’s restaurant (address and phone above) has good food.

Guidebooks also recommend Gardena restaurant, Jalan Yos Sudarso, local tel. 0385-41258. Indonesian, Chinese and Western dishes are all under $10.

In Bajawa, the Hotel Anggrek’s restaurant comes recommended, although I didn’t eat there. It’s on Jalan Letjend Haryono, tel. 0384-21172.

For more information: Indonesian Consulate General, 3457 Wilshire Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90010; tel. (213) 383-5126, fax (213) 487-3971.