We Stay With The Sisters

“Let me explain the rules,” says the young, smiley nun, jiggling the world’s most-indulged baby who’s balanced on her shoulder. “We close the gates at 9pm every night, so you must be inside by 9pm. Breakfast is from 5.30.”

Z, not an early riser, gasps audibly. We’ve had a lovely ride here from Labuan Bajo, spiraling through a volcanic landscape of steep gorges, pastel churches, huts of patterned bamboo, bright blue rivers and tumbling waterfalls. His plans for Sunday, however, include a lie-in.

“What time does breakfast end?” I ask.

“Well,” she says. “Tomorrow is Sunday. So 8am.”

Ruteng, Flores, has approximately 57 Catholic churches. An impressive number, by any standards, and roughly one for every 600 people in the town.

It also has a number of mosques. One built cathedral. One in progress. And several Pentecostal edifices.

Outside Indonesia, the country is known as the world’s largest Muslim nation. Internally, and more accurately, given that we’ve driven from Hindu Bali through Lombok, where they practise a subset of Islam known as Waktu Telu, and Sumbawa, with its strait-laced Islam, to predominantly Catholic Flores, it is known as the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation.

It’s a sweet little place, Ruteng. 1100m or so up in the volcanic highlands of Flores, it’s backed by tree-shrouded peaks and surrounded by rice-fields. And in the morning mists, the view from the convent’s pristine grounds is stunning.

The convent, or the Kongregasi di Santa Maria Berdukacita, is in fact, delightful. A driveway lined with palms. Beautiful gardens. Sparkling rooms. Serenely quiet.

It’s by far the best place to stay in town.

As we wander the streets in search of something to eat, I say to Z, “You know? This reminds me of the Philippines.”

“Me too,” he says.

“This would be a good place to learn about Catholicism,” I say. “You know I was raised Catholic?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re a lapsed Catholic.”

“Yep,” I say. “But I’m still a Catholic. Because I’ve had all the sacraments… Wait.” I pause. “Do you even know what a sacrament is?”

“Nope,” says Z.

“There are seven sacraments,” I begin.

“Do you mean the seven deadly sins?”

“No,” I say. “Sacraments are different. They’re sort of, erm, rites of passage. What are the seven deadly sins?”

“Pride, lust, greed, gluttony, wrath, ummm….”

We are having a bit of difficulty in our chosen restaurant. Z has ordered chips. I am having dumplings. And we both want vinegar with that.

“Do you have vinegar?” I ask, in Indonesian.

“You want salt?” they say, in English.

“No,” says Z, in Indonesian. “I don’t want salt. I want vinegar. Cuka. C.U.K.A.”

They stare at us blankly.

I try a number of variations on “cuka”. It’s weird, since this was one of the first words we (well, certainly Z) acquired in Indonesian, and it’s stood us in good stead on a number of islands.

Z writes the word into my mobile phone and brings it over to them. They stare blankly.

“Vinegar,” says one of the three young guys in sportswear on the table next to us. “Cuka! They want vinegar.”

“Oh,” they say. “Cuka.”

“You have cuka?” I ask in Indonesian.

“Oh yes,” they say. “We have!”

While we begin the long, nay infinite, wait for our non-existent vinegar, we fall into conversation with the guys.

“I couldn’t help hear you saying that you wanted to go to Wae Rebo,” says one. “I think –- and you’ll excuse me if I’m wrong, because I’m a foreigner too –- I think it is near Todo. I think it is in the same parish.”

“Oh,” I say. “Where are you from?”

“The Philippines,” he says.

“Oh!” I say. “Z and I were just saying how like the Philippines it is here. What with all the Catholic churches, and the Pentecostals battling it out with them. And, just the feel of it, you know. The bemos, with their music turned up high.”

“Where have you been in the Philippines?” he asks.

We chat about the Philippines a bit.

“So what brings you here?” I ask.

“We’re Catholic priests,” he says. “The three of us.”

“Oh!” I say, embarrassed. “You don’t look like Catholic priests.”

Now, I was raised Catholic. I went to not one, but two, convent schools. Our lovely parish priest was friends with my parents and used to come round to our house for dinner. As did the occasional nun.

“Why do you say that?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, thinking about it.

Well, for starters, they are all young, late 20s, early 30s, and the youngest Catholic priest I’ve known in England was my grandmother’s priest, who was in his 40s. And that is a positive infant for a Catholic priest in England — or Europe, for that matter — these days. But it’s not just that.

“You’re wearing a Nike T-shirt,” I say. “He’s wearing an Adidas jacket. You’re all wearing shorts.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We’ve been playing basketball.”

We laugh. It’s jolly.

“Where are you staying?” one of the priests asks.

“At the Kongregasi di Santa Maria,” I say.

“Ah!” he says. “With the sisters! That’s the best place in town. It’s very clean.”

“Soooo clean,” I say, almost salivating. “I think it’s the cleanest place I’ve stayed since I’ve been in Indonesia. And it has hot water.”

The guys guffaw. “That says a lot about Indonesia.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Well, maybe not in Indonesia. But certainly in Flores.”

They have finished their meal. “Enjoy your time here,” one says. The priests pick up their basketball and wander out into the night, in their shorts, the perfect Filipinos abroad, dog collars strictly optional.

Our exit is a little less dignified. The convent is a couple of k from the restaurant, it’s on the chilly side at night, there are no street lights, and I have neglected to bring a torch.

No problems, think I. I’ll get a motorbike taxi.

We wander up the street to where there’s a bunch of bemos, the ramshackle minibuses which function for mass-transportation in and around the towns of Indonesia. “Is there an ojek here?”

A guy comes up. “How much to the Kongregasi Santa Maria?” I ask.

“100,000,” he says.

I laugh. This is over ten dollars, at least 20 times the appropriate fare, and roughly 10 times what I am prepared to pay because I’m foreign, I’m cold and I’m gagging for a hot shower.

“OK,” he says. “50,000.”

We are surrounded by a swarm of aspirant ojek drivers – every man in earshot with a motorcycle, and then some. I get the impression Ruteng doesn’t see too many tourists on the street sans guides and is keen to milk them for all it can.

“I take you,” comes a voice from a bemo. “Where you want to go?”

“The Kongregasi Santa Maria,” I say. “Jalan Ahmad Yani.” (As with most Indonesian towns of any size at all, one of the main streets is dedicated to this hero of independence.)

I clock the back of the ramshackle minibus. There’s eight guys in there, all of them talking excitedly in Manggarai, the local language in this part of Flores. Anywise, I figure there’s other people in there so there’s no way the driver can claim we chartered his vehicle.

The bemo driver sparks up Indo karaoke –- the theme “romance” –- on a portable DVD player on his dashboard, as we begin to navigate the steep and rural back streets of Ruteng.

None of the guys in the back are getting out, which is odd.

Z begins to get incensed. Like me, he has both walked and driven the route we are supposed to be taking, and is well aware that we should be back by now.

“I’m not paying more than 10,000 for this ride, no way, no matter what they say,” he says.

Our driver, as he negotiates another tight bend in the dark, begins to look positively anxious. I’m a little nervy too. I can’t quite work out the dynamics of the vehicle, but it feels as though his teenage passengers are pushing him to do something.

It briefly crosses my mind that they could be taking us out of town to rob us, but it seems unlikely given the numbers involved.

We stop at a fried-food stall. One of the kids in the back gets out to ask directions.

For about the third time, I say, clearly, “The Kongregasi Santa Maria on Jalan Ahmad Yani.”

We wind through banana orchards and tropical hedgerows to what looks like it might be the back of a hotel. “No,” Z and I say in unison, in Indonesian. “The Kongregasi Santa Maria on Jalan Ahmad Yani.”

“God,” Z says. “They’re taking us to every bloody hotel in town.”

I have one wary eye on the time. The last thing I want is to roll up at the convent after curfew with beer on my breath in the middle of a heated dispute with a bemo driver. It is not, as they say, a good look.

We wind another corner. “Look,” I say. “Are we going to Jalan Ahmad Yani?”

There is no way the guy cannot know the street. We wend our way there, on quite the magical mystery tour, Indo pop still blaring and the guys in the back mouthing to the lyrics.

“Here?” he asks. We’re outside the other hotel on Ahmad Yani.

“200 metres more,” I say.

We graunch up the convent’s steep driveway. And we’re there.

“50,000,” says one of the guys in the back.

“No,” I say. “This is a bemo. There are seven guys in it. The journey is 2 kilo, no more. I’m not paying 50,000 rupiah.”

A nun emerges. Oh god, I think. Here we are polluting their grounds with a fare dispute.

“How much you want to pay?” he asks, sulkily. Though, as a good Catholic, he too seems shy about taking the p*ss in front of a nun.

“10,000,” I say, handing over 10,000 to the driver.

“5,000 more,” he says.

“Fine,” I say. And we retreat to our spotless room, where I will be woken at 3.30 am by the first observance of Sunday from the chapel below.