I walk through Denpasar airport with my travel outfit soaked in sweat. Australian summer had ended, but Bali promised 30°C every day. The hot air hits me in the face as I exit the airport, and I’m immediately swarmed by a bunch of guys offering taxi rides. Daisy had suggested Gojek—kind of the Asian version of Uber—and Mau told me about Grab, which is similar. I book a ride on Gojek because I’m too tired to negotiate, and half an hour later I arrive at the hostel.
Check-in is at 14:00, and I’m early, but they let me leave my bag behind the counter. I grab a different top and change in the bathroom. When I step out again, I bump into Mau, who’s just come down from the dorm. We both let out a squeak—we haven’t seen each other in six months—and throw our arms around each other. While it feels like no time has passed, it’s also surreal to see her standing right in front of me.
We head out for a juice and catch up on all the things that have happened since we last saw each other—which is A LOT. Of course, we stayed in touch over the phone, but some conversations just need to be face to face.
The next day, we’re at the airport again. Two flights later, we arrive in Ende, Flores. We don’t spend much time at the airport—just enough to look up the cheapest hostels—when an Indonesian woman named Angela suggests we go to Apollo Capsul Hostel. She runs a scooter rental company and offers us a motorbike for the road trip we’re planning.
We sit down with her and her husband, who offer to take us to Kelimutu the next day—a day trip to the stunning three-colored lakes, with them as our drivers. After making plans, we check in at the hostel, where we each get our own capsule. It honestly looks like something straight out of Star Wars. The aircon is blasting at full power, so when I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s actually freezing, and I pull on my sweater.
For dinner, we grab something quick at a cheap fried chicken place, which ends up being surprisingly good. It’s the first of many fried meals over the next few days. After eating, we go for a short walk, but there’s not much to see—it’s not a very touristy area. Still, after about ten minutes, we stumble upon a group of kids playing volleyball. I can’t resist their invitation to join, so I kick off my sandals and run down to the field.
My outfit’s not ideal for playing, and within minutes, my top is soaked and my pants cling to my skin. It takes me a few hits to find my rhythm again—it’s been a year since I last played, and the field, ball, and net aren’t exactly great.
We end up playing a full game, and the other team keeps targeting me. They’re clearly excited to have a foreigner join, but honestly, I’m probably more excited to play my favorite sport again. We’re on rough concrete, and after about an hour, I check my socks—completely destroyed. I take them off, only to realize my feet are wrecked too. The calluses have peeled back, leaving skin half-torn. I flip the socks inside out so the holes are on top. “Mama didn’t raise no quitter,” I tell Mau when she asks if I’m okay, and I finish the game.
The next morning at 7 AM, Angela and her husband pick us up after we have mie goreng (fried noodles) for breakfast. I hop on the back of Angela’s scooter, Mau joins her husband, and we head off. We have to stop a couple of times along the way to the lakes. For water or fruits, but mostly for our asscheecks to get a break.
To see the lakes, we have to climb the volcano—but the second we reach the top, we forget about the effort. The view completely mesmerizes us. I’d seen a sneak peek online, but the photos didn’t even come close to capturing the real thing. Two of the lakes sit side by side—probably the most beautiful of the three. One of them is the brightest, most surreal light blue I’ve ever seen in a lake. The water is so still, like a picture, not even the tiniest ripple moves across its surface.
The second lake looks like someone dropped a bucket of paint in it. The color is intensely saturated—bright, more turquoise-like, and stunning. These lakes, part of Mount Kelimutu in central Flores, are famous for their changing colors, caused by varying mineral levels and volcanic gases. The third lake sits a little farther off, and each one has a name and story rooted in local myth—believed to hold the souls of the dead.
After the lakes, the couple takes us to see a waterfall. I can’t explain what it is exactly, but I have a massive soft spot for waterfalls. I could sit in front of one for hours—reading, journaling, just existing. When we arrive, my eyes immediately land on a very questionable bamboo bridge: it goes in two sections, about four to five meters each, only 1 meter wide and no railing in sight. My eyes start sparkling. I love a silly adrenaline rush.
Angela’s husband goes first. I see on his face that he thinks I’m scared and has to to help, which is very sweet. Of course I’m nervous—falling into the water with all my stuff wouldn’t be ideal (I did give Mau my camera, just in case)—but I also want to take on the challenge and cross the bridge alone. Despite my tenuous balance, I make it to the other side and am able to get closer to the waterfall.
If we weren’t there with our drivers, I’d seriously consider getting in the water. I’d probably spend way more time at this spot than the twenty minutes we do—but we’re on a schedule, so we hop back on the bikes and head to the next stop.
Before we go back to the hostel, we stop by Wologai, a traditional Indonesian village tucked into the hills. It’s small, peaceful, and feels frozen in time. The houses are all built in this beautiful, symmetrical way—tall roofs, wooden beams, stone paths.
We walk into the village and Angela calls out to a woman like they’re old friends. She makes us sign the guestbook and we pay a small entrance fee. As a sign of respect to the people of the village, it’s required to wear a tenun ikat or sarong—a handwoven fabric made using a traditional dyeing technique, worn around the waist like a skirt. Angela chats with an older man who starts explaining things while she translates parts for us. He mentions ‘the ceremony’ a couple of times, but the language barrier denied us his explanation of what this ceremony actually is. What we do gather is that the next one is held in the second week of September, and it’s a major event where villagers and their extended family—including those living abroad—gather together. Tourists typically aren’t allowed, but they sometimes make exceptions. It’s strictly invite-only.
After the long day—of which half was spent on the scooters—we arrive back at our air-conditioned hostel and collapse into our Star Wars-style capsules. My body is tired, my feet are wrecked, but my heart is so full. We scroll and share our photos, still buzzing from everything we saw. Flores already feels like a dream I don’t want to wake up from, and this is only the intro.
I’m starting my third week in Indonesia now (time flies!!!!), and so much has happened. Indonesia has been a double-edged sword for me – while it’s beautiful and great, it’s the first trip where a lot of things have gone wrong, too. Of course, that is part of the adventure and the challenge.
I’m doing my best to catch up on the blog and update it with everything that’s been happening lately, but it’s a lot, and I’m trying to find some peace of mind too:)
-Cels
CelsAway 
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