The Postman

Alright this is going to have to be quick cos the clock’s ticket and the money’s running out.

Yesterday the sun shone and the ferry ran, which meant that at last I could leave Kupang in West Timor behind and head for greener horizons on the island of Flores. There was just one problem.

The ferry was a hole. A bit dirty black smear of the face of maritime tradition. It was rotting, rickety and full of unwashed people who spat and snotted all over the bare metal deck we were supposed to sleep on. It was disgusting, especially the one woman who blew her nose with her fingers and then flicked it wherever she fancied. It made me retch.

And then there were the rest of the passengers, who aren’t content with a passing curiosity on the white man with his motorbike. Oh no, they want to tough every bit of it, ask how much, lean on, stand and stare at it and look inside the storage box every time I opened it. They’re not nosy, they’re annoying. Especially one fella who I just didn’t trust. He came over time and time again, just loitering, up close, a bit menacing, he looked trouble.

So when the ferry docked I rode like the wind, well I would have had I not dropped the bike against a line of brand new mopeds that I expected to topple like Dominoes. But they didn’t so off I rode, first to Ende where I quickly realised that too was a bit feral and then on to the town I’m at now with a name I can’t remember. But it’s in the hills and it’s much nicer.

And before I forget not only was I charged mysteriously more for my passage on the ferry, but I was also asked to pay an ‘administration fee’ to the local constabularly. Charming.

On that note I’m going to go have a shower. I need one. I smell.