…when Anton dropped me at Kelimutu – even the name sings – it was one of those heart-bursting days of glittering morning air and infinite vistas. The birds serenaded, the butterflies flirted, and I was all alone in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Two of Kelimutu’s lakes are divided by a single wall of jagged rock. One lake I remembered as being emerald green, the other a great pool of milk, The third, off at a distance, was sticky, oxidized blood. This time, though, the sibling lakes seemed to have bled into one another; they are now turquoise twins. As the clouds puffed in, smoky shadows flitted over their surface. I walked on up the dust-muffled path to the third lake, passing a solitary groundsman who was attacking the acres of scrub grass with a scythe the size of a Swiss Army knife. The blood lake, the one where locals believe old souls find their rest, had thickened almost to black. I wondered what had become of the souls of virgins and innocents now that the white lake where they used to seek refuge had morphed to blue. Geologists say these colour changes are the work of minerals burped up into the lakes from vents under the water. Though according to Kelimutu National Park’s official website, locals believe they are the spirits’ reaction to the election of a military candidate as president of Indonesia.
I sat for a while in a silence punctuated by birdsong and the occasional buzzing insect. It was mid-November, not high tourist season, but still, it seemed amazing that I could have this whole majestic scene entirely to myself. No busloads of rich kids from private schools in Java exploring the wonders of their nation. No groups of camera-clicking Japanese tourists with a niche interest in vulcanology. Not even any gap-year backpackers storing up exotic tales for fresher’s week at university in Manchester, San Francisco or Berlin. I was thrilled by the solitude, of course. But I felt almost offended on behalf of Indonesia.
Elizabeth Pisani, Indonesia Etc.