Hope, wing, prayer? Nun of the above
By Conrad Walters
We had imagined our flight from Bali to Ruteng on the nearby island of Ruteng would be a short hop, but this was before we encountered the Third World Law of Geometry: the shortest distance between two points is an irrelevancy.
Our trip starts off all right. On Bali we board an inter-island Merpati flight with a host of locals, including three smiling nuns whose English is worse than our Indonesian.
The trouble begins halfway to Flores. At Bima, on Sumbawa, we stop to change planes, but, inside the airport, an official explains the flight has been cancelled and we’ll have to spend the night in town.
My wife responds to this news with what is to become our motto: “Follow the nuns.”
We join them in a van and as it bounces into town, I open our Indonesia Handbook and encounter a bad omen; the listing for Bima is on page 666. “Bima,” it says, “is a handy pit-stop…but has little else to recommend it.”
This is confirmed as the van pulls into the Perewa Hotel, which has an odd concept of Western luxury. Our room has a colour television – 10 channels – all showing the same black and white program. You can wash in any of three ways: by Asian bathing tub, by shower or by a steady leak in the ceiling.
Forty-five minutes later, just as we finish unpacking, one of the nuns raps on the door. “Ruteng. Ruteng,” she says and points to the lobby. The other nuns are hauling their suitcases out the door. Our plane is leaving after all. Now.
We hurry to the airport and wait. On the tarmac is our plane, an oversized version of those wind-up balsa wood toys that are powered by a rubber band. Even its name makes it seem unflightworthy: the Twin Otter.
We seize the safest o the plane’s 20 seats: in front of us is the oldest of the nuns, behind us the two younger ones.
We take off in a strong wind – towards the mountains – and with each bit of turbulence I find myself trying to rebalance the plane. After an hour of this, I want to get off this roller-coaster.
I look at Mother Superior. We’re at a high, cool altitude, but she’s sweating. Above her head, the coverplate for the emergency exist is dangling as though it has been used so often that it won’t stay in place.
I rifle through the seat pocket and notice there’s no emergency card, and suddenly I realise the flight is taking longer than expected.
Our pilot is definitely flying in circles. As he shades his eyes and peers into the clouds, it become apparent we’re well overdue, if not outright lost.
I look at my wife. This was her brilliant idea for a belated honeymoon. We both lean towards the window. We see plenty of mountains, but nothing that looks like it could be used as a landing strip. I’m worried, but there’s tenuous consolation in knowing we’re the meat in a nun sandwich.
In the cockpit, the co-pilot studies a sheet of paper filled with blue and greens and browns. It’s a map. We boarded the plane in Bali at 9.30 am. It’s now 2.30 pm. I strain to see into the cockpit, but I can’t sight a fuel gauge.
A crew member shouts “bad weather” to me. We can’t land of Flores; we’re going to Kupang in West Timor. Almost as one, the entire plane – except the nuns and me – light cigarettes.
Out comes the guide book. “In 1791, the irascible Captain Bligh ended his epic 6,500-kilometre journey in Kupang after the mutiny on his ship, HMS Bounty.” Easy for them, I think. They were at sea level.
For an eternity, we fly over water. Every whitecap looks like sand, every smudge on the windows seems a hint of shoreline, every puff of cloud is a wisp of false hope.
Finally, we see real land and encounter the worst turbulence yet. The flying nuns are not coping well. Mother Superior holds an air sickness bag, and one of the younger nuns has a handkerchief clutched between her lips. As we descend, Mother Superior fills the air sickness bag.
We’ve been travelling for longer than it took us to reach Bali from Sydney, but who cares if we’re 400 kilometres off course. We’re on solid ground.
Inside the Kupang airport, we’re directed to a fleet of taxis.
“Follow the nuns,” cries my wife, seeing them crawl into a blue Toyota Corolla with a bumper sticker that says “Jesus Loves You”.
We reunite at the elegant Hotel Astiti. There’s a resplendent lobby, and I sink into the luxurious womb of a chair.
It’s lovely and a far cry from the Bima dive. It’s also a mistake. We’re rounded up and taken to a low-security prison called the Hotel Laguna.
At 5 am the next day, we return to the airport. Our 6 am department has changed to 7 am, but we don’t board until 7.45.
My wife and I move up to where Mother Superior sat on the previous day. I check the emergency exit cover and find strange comfort in seeing it still swings freely.
As our journey resumes on its final leg, I open the guide book to Ruteng: “A cool, net town set amidst scenic hills…with three-shaded streets, photogenic churches and an airstrip that will put the fear of God in you.” We laugh. After travelling through hell with the flying nuns, we’re immune to fear.
And was Flores worth it? Absolutely.
In Ruteng, we enjoyed sweet tea and fried banana fritters at the home of a local teacher. Outside Bajawa, we witnessed a buffalo being sacrificed to consecrate a new church. In Moni, we saw the sun rise over the Keli Muto volcano with its three crater lakes, each a different colour.
And best of all, at Maumere, we caught a respectably large plane back to Bali.
Published in The Sydney Morning Herald, December 28, 1992