Traveling, writing and living around the world
One of the most exciting invitations when you are traveling are those that really make you a part of the culture, a spur of the moment activity that you seize the chance to get involved with and perhaps step outside your comfort zone (if you even have one anymore after years of traveling).
In the early morning hours, just before dawn started awake from its slumber, it was like I was running for my life, as if I was illegally crossing or fleeing a border.
It all happened so fast: The bus zipping through the street, the men hanging from its door screaming out “Bajawa bajawa bajawa” the way people would hastily cheer for their favored horse during a horse race.
Bajawa! I yelled back, and we made a run for it. The two men lept from the bus, one grabbing my bag and throwing it on board, the other herding us onto the bus the cattle.
I had long dreamed of going to Flores for reasons I can not quite explain. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that its name is derived from the Portugese word for flower, or that I had long ago read about the three-colorer lakes of Kelimetu. It could have even been its proximity to Komodo Island – hell, I do not have any clue what originally put Flores on my map, but it had a bright red pin hitting the dead centre of it.
