Indonesia (Part 2c)

Dec 2000

There was only one way for me to deal with the previous events. Get moving and stay moving. I embarked on a 'slash and burn' tour of Nusa Tenggara and I wasn't stopping for passengers. Not that I would see many tourists over the next week or so.

The boat from Gili Air was filled with locals and coconuts (no pigs yet). At Bangsar, I walked up to the bemo area and boarded a small one around the coast to Tanjung. A woman climbed on board with a huge 3ft square manta ray lying on a dish. It was the first I'd seen since the Maldives, but this one wasn't moving. At Tanjung, I climbed aboard the roof of an overflowing bus. In amongst the huge jackfruit, the size of basketballs, coconuts and assorted boxes, I had a wonderful view over the countryside and coast. One final bemo took me up into the hills to the sleepy hamlet of Senaru perched at the base of Gurung Rinjani.

I was the only tourist in town. I had a losman to myself (where they insisted on randomly turning off the water, so everytime I needed a shower or drink, I had to tramp back up the garden to turn the mains on. I was not amused). I had a lovely view of the Sendang Gila waterfalls and endless green valleys from my porch. But it poured with rain all afternoon (the first I'd seen in nearly a fortnight). Dozens of monkeys played in the trees outside my room. Packs of dogs roamed around and small children hung around looking for "pens mister".

At 4.30am I surfaced, grabbed an early pancake and tea and headed up Gurung Rinjani. This is the highest volcano on Lombok (3726m) and third highest in Indonesia. To reach the summit supposedly takes 2 days there and 2 days back, involving renting camping gear and sleeping overnight in the crater. I wasn't that bothered about the summit. I'd climbed higher before. I wanted to see the famous crater lake. Not entirely trusting the owner, I buried my passport, money and credit cards in the garden. Last year, many tourists had been robbed as they made the climb, until 6 bandits were arrested. But there had also been a few incidents this year. Signs told everyone to leave anything valuable behind.

Not that I saw anyone on the way up. Rainy season. No tourists. I left in darkness at 5am and walked through the sleeping village to the start. The trail steadily ascended through scrubby farmland to the entrance of the National Park. No admission charge. Noone in sight. It was then a very humid (my clothes were drenched with sweat) walk through the forest as the sun rose. Brown Kera monkeys played in the trees and the bird life was loud. I climbed past the two sets of shelters after which the forest thinned into grassy slopes. The climb to the rim became drier, rockier and steeper, but it was still the easiest climb I'd done in Indonesia. Supposedly it should take over 7 hours. I was up there in 3.45.

The clouds were beneath me and I had a stunning view of the enormous and amazing crater. Lake Segara Anak arched around the cone of a mini volcano Gunung Baru at one end of the lake (which last erupted in 1996) within the main crater (a volcano within a volcano) while the summit Gurung Rinjani was towering overhead, silhouetted in the sun. It was the finest view I'd seen in Indonesia. I sat and ate my Nasi Campur breakfast (rice, veg, and egg), and took in the view for 30 mins, while the wind howled around me and clouds drifted up. I was glad I wasn't descending to the crater bed to camp for the night.

I descended back down in 3 hours and only saw 2 tourists passed out at the first shelter with their 'porter/guide'. They all looked absolutely shagged out. "Easy climb" I said. "Piss off" was the reply. I was back at my losman by 12.30pm. Showered and packed. No point hanging around.

I caught a half-empty bemo around the north eastern coast of Lombok to the port of Labuhan Lombok. Usual scenery. Mountains on one side, coast on the other, green paddy fields on the flats. The road was empty of traffic.

There were touts offering 'tourist buses' across Sumbawa, the next island, but I didn't trust them or their prices. I jumped on the 5pm ferry to Poto Tano on Sumbawa - about 90 mins away. We arrived in the dark and the tourist buses stopped for noone (ironically, they were full of wealthier Indonesians who could afford the luxury. No western tourists on any of them). I caught a bemo to the first town called Alas (great name). I thought I'd be stranded in this one pig town for the night. I was told by the kids surrounding and staring at me, that there would be more tourist buses on the next ferry.

Sure enough at 8pm we flagged down a tourist bus (which was a third less than the quoted price on Lombok) and I climbed aboard. I was scrunged up in the conductor's seat in front until we stopped for an all-you-can-eat-evening-buffet, when I got a seat at the back and slept through the night.

"Larger than Bali and Lombok combined, Sumbawa is a sprawling island of twisting and jutting peninsulas and a mountain line of weathered volcanic stumps stretching along its length. Lightly populated" (Lonely Planet). This meant nothing to me. It was dark and just an island to cross to reach Flores. I saw nothing until we got dumped in the major eastern town of Bima at 4am.

There is only one daily (8am) ferry from Sumbawa to Flores. This leaves from Sape, about an hour from Bima. Consequently, all the touts in Bima know that the (few) tourists need to get it. The prices go up dramatically. Its either pay or miss the ferry and spend the night at Sape. I laughed off the quotes and then a middle aged English couple, Steve and Jenny, turned up on their month's holiday around the eastern islands. They couldn't be bothered to mess around and chartered a bemo. "Want a free ride?" said Steve (which was nice). On the way to Sape, we passed the bemo I'd turned down. It had broken down with the passengers standing around it.

The half-empty ferry from Sape to Labuanbajo, Flores was a slow but picturesque 7-hour affair past endless deserted volcanic islands. It used to stop at Komodo Island (to see the dragons), but had not done so for three years. Countless tourists were still getting taken in by touts, paying for a ticket which no longer existed. My extensive pre-trip research had already discovered that scam. While we lay around deck, the TV blasted out big time and earplugs/toilet roll in the ears was the only escape. I slept much of the way, exhausted by the previous few days.

Labuanbajo was a pleasant sleepy small port town. In retrospect, it turned out to be the nicest place to stay on Flores. The locals were used to tourists and the hassle was minimal. I found a lovely room at the Gardena Losmen with a fine view over the harbour. The food was excellent. I had the best spaghetti dish in a year of travelling while watching the sunset over the port. I checked out ferry timetables at the Pelni office (Indonesian shipping - the first I'd found. They don't use travel agents) and Merpati airlines to try and plan the next stage of the trip. One option was a 10 day return boat ride to Irian Jaya in the far west but ten days on a boat was not very appealing.

The chanting from the Muslim mosque had me up at 4am. I teamed up with Steve, Jenny and a French pensioner to charter a boat to the island of Rinca to see the famous Komodo 'dragons' for the day at a cost of £2 each. The dragons were one of my major 'must sees' on this trip. They live on 2 islands - Komodo and Rinca. To visit Komodo would involve an 8-hour return boat ride. Rinca, smaller and less visited was a 4 hour return ride - much closer and there was never any guarantee that you'd actually see one of the beasts on either island.

We set off in a wooden boat with outboard engine and motored out of Labuanbajo and southwest down the Flores coast. It was very tranquil and hot. Fish jumped out of the water and flying fish scuttled across the surface. The islands around us were empty of habitation.

Rinca, a small, hilly, arid and desolate island, is protected as an UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was virtually deserted and we were the only visitors. The only stall on the island had no water/lemonade because the supply ship had failed to arrive. A guide took us for a 5-km stroll around the area where the dragons lived. Rinca has about 500 dragons. We were fortunate to see 8 in all, 3 of which were huge monsters, over 3 metres long. Later in the trip, I met a couple who went to Komodo and only saw 2.

The Lonely Planet description of a Komodo Dragon: "head is tapered, ear openings are visible, the neck is long and slender, the eyes have eyelids and the jaws are powerful. They have a keen sense of smell and a long thin tongue which flicks in and out. They also have massive bodies - 4 powerful legs (each with 5 clawed toes) and long thick tails. The body is covered in overlapping scales. They feed on other animals - insects, frogs, birds, deer, wild pig and even water buffalo. They are not relics of the dinosaur age, but versatile, hardy modern lizards". Noone knows why they only exist on 2 islands in the world and why the males outnumber the females 3-1.

I was able to get with ten feet of some of them, before they started hissing. We also saw dragon's "nests" (a series of holes, where they lay their eggs, which take 9 months to produce the little dragon dudes). There was the occasional water buffalo and deer looking nervous.

On the way back, we pulled in at a deserted island to go snorkelling in shallow water over the coral which was magnificent, multi-coloured, multi-type, multi-everything. I saw some new varieties of fish, including vertical fish, that drift around in shoals like long blades of grass. I thoroughly recommend the trip to Rinca if you are ever passing this way. It's one of those unique places in the world.

The island of Flores is a fertile, mountainous barrier and "comprises one of the most alluring landscapes in the archipelago" (Rough Guide). 370km long and in some places as narrow as 12km, it has many active volcanoes. The majority of the people survive through subsistence farming - rice, corn and coffee. The 1.5m population is divided into 5 main language and cultural groups though at least 16 languages are spoken on this island. Occasionally, English is one of them.

To cross Flores involved long bus rides. The first, to Bajawa, in a packed bus, had me sitting on a small wooden box in the aisle. But only for 10 hours! The road from Labuanbajo left the flatter arable areas and climbed into the thickly forested hills. The bus had a tough climb up the long steep twisty roads. We entered Manggarai country with its terraced paddy fields and got a puncture at Ruteng.

Not many people know this but, the Manggarai people on Flores have a legend that the first child born on earth, had no anus and suffered intensely (as you do) because he could not take a crap. He was killed by his father, cut up into little pieces and sprinkled on the ground (the world's first dysfunctional family?). Magically, the earth suddenly became fertile and crops sprung up everywhere, his blood making food for all humans. So they like to have plenty of blood drinking and blood spilling during their rituals and ceremonies.

We then descended down the twisty road to the coast. The perfect conical volcano of Gurung Inerie (2245m) loomed in the distance with its peak shrouded in white puffy clouds. There were vast river valleys below us with death defying drops. The scenery was stupendous and the best I'd seen since leaving Sumatra. Real "land that time forgot" stuff.

Bajawa, the centre of the Ngara people, was a scruffy little town selling itself to tourists as a base to visit some 'traditional' villages. Considering that the place was empty of tourists, they still tried to charge 'high season' accommodation prices which I walked away from. At least they did guacamole dip and crisps as a local speciality.

It was not on my original itinerary, but I decided to go and check out one of the villages. Rather than hire a "guide" (lots of those floating around here), I caught a bemo to the village of Langa 6km out of town and then walked a further 7km to the village of Bena. It was a hot but peaceful early morning walk along a single track road, past the locals tending their gardens and crops and yelling "Salamet Pagi" (good morning), around the base of Gerung Inerie which looked awesome with rings of cloud around it at different levels.

Bena is one of the oldest continually inhabited traditional villages in Flores (over 700 years old) and a protected site. The hilltop position afforded both defensive benefits as well as spectacular views over a valley. High thatched wooden houses were lined up in two rows on a ridge with the space between them filled with 'naghu'. These were thatched parasol ancestor totems, which resembled a man in a huge hula-hoop skirt with a shrunken head, carrying a spear and a knife. 'Bhaga' were miniature thatched houses dedicated to ancestors - symbolic of the female womb, and megalithic tombs of previous warrior heroes that had died in battle. I was the only tourist and could potter around and watch local women weaving Ikat tapestries on looms and others grinding corn. There were many horses. Flores is definitely a land of small brown horses, with their thick manes of hair. They are still used in the villages for transport and all looked very well cared for.

I sat and talked with Daniel, the 'head man', while his wife did her chores and chewed betel nut. Her lips, gums and teeth were stained blood red. He told me about the village, and about the main Reba ceremony that had taken place the previous week, where many pigs were slaughtered as offerings to the ancestors. There was another celebration in a few days time - dancing and feasting. He invited me to stay at his house for it, should I be returning this way. I was glad I'd made the effort to visit. It was one of the best "villages" I had seen anywhere in the world. Another special place that few people see. I retraced my steps with a walk back to Langa and a bemo back to Bajawa and got the hell out of town.

The bus to Ende, 4 hours east, was packed solid, so I climbed onto the roof, packed with luggage, where I found a black piglet and 2 chickens as my companions. We set off down the mountainous road and I had to keep my head down to avoid the low tree branches that would smack you across the head if you weren't careful. Then it began to pour with rain. I pulled the tarpaulin over my head and sheltered the piglet which was tied up in a bag with his head sticking out. It had an expression that said "you don't fancy going to the toilet do you? I'm starving". Then it proceeded to shit in its bag. Thank you so much.

So I'm sitting under this tarpaulin in the pouring rain, still getting soaked, with the thunder echoing around me, trees bouncing off my head and nearly suffocating from the smell of pig shit, half thinking "I must be crazy" and half thinking "well, this is what travelling is all about".

We arrived at the coast with Gurung Inerie still looming behind us and followed the coastal road along black sandy beaches. It was still overcast and drizzling, but the wind had dried me. The pig had got bored and taken to trying to bite my genitals and legs. That pig nearly learnt to fly by the end of the ride.

Ende with a 60,000 pop is the major town in Flores and another dusty, non-descript hellhole. The few tourists I'd met on Flores were heading here for Xmas ('civilisation'). Poor sods. I couldn't wait to leave. Both west and east 'bus' terminals were on the outskirts of town which was a pain, but I headed for Wolowana bus terminal in the east to catch the last bus to Moni. We waited an age for the bus to fill up and when it did, the driver discovered a slow puncture, so we had to sit around while the tyre was replaced and repaired. I had to sit on another box at the back. I'd thought about the roof again, but when the rain started, I was glad I'd chosen the box.

We pulled into Moni around 8pm - a dark deserted village in the middle of nowhere. As the base for Flores' most famous sight, I was surprised to find no other tourists anywhere. I got a basic room in a basic losmen for 77p, which included an attack of mosquitoes during the night but nothing major. No mosque. But the cockerels crowed all bloody night.

Just above Moni, the most spectacular natural sight in Flores is magnificent Kelimutu (1600m). It is a unique volcano with three craters within an extinct peak that each contains a lake of vibrantly different and changing colours. There are endless overpriced offers to be driven up there for sunrise but I decided to walk the 15km up to see this world famous phenomenon (I know - none of you have heard of it).

I set off at 5am heading out of the village and up the single track making a gradual ascent past fields of rice and corn, water buffalo grazing, horses carting stuff. There was a fine sunrise of yellow and orange behind the hills. Most of the locals were already up, wrapped in blankets, doing their chores. Indonesia starts early and ends late. They seem to sleep when they can. At one place I had to wade through a ford. It was another hot but very pleasant stroll. I arrived at the crater rim by 8am and before the clouds had started to envelope the peak.

It was a most amazing sight. From the crater rim, which was sheer sided orange cliff faces, I could see two of the lakes. One was a dark olive green, while a larger one "next door" (divided by rock) was a spectacular light turquoise. The strangest lake colour I have ever seen. It was as if a paint company had decided to dump millions of tons of paint whose colour was no longer in fashion. Apart from one Indonesian family, I had the place to myself and scrambled around the moonscape of the crater rim, gobsmacked at the sight. I then climbed to a lookout from where you could see most of the three lakes. The third, a smaller affair was pitch black.

The lakes have mysteriously changed colours over the years and even change between the dry/wet seasons. Different minerals being dissolved over time may cause it. The locals believe that the souls of the dead go to these lakes - young dudes to the olive green one, old dudes to the milky turquoise one and the bad dudes (thieves and murderers) to the black one.

After an hour or so, the clouds started to blow up from beneath the craters and covered the lakes. Fortunately on the long hike back, a construction truck stopped and gave me a 9km ride back down much of the hill. Flores had outdone itself again with another stunning display of natural beauty. Overall, I'd rate it, as the most beautiful Indonesian Island I visited.

I made my way back to Ende, riding on the roof of a bus again with a dozen others and more low branches smacking my head. It is supposedly illegal and before a 'police check', the bus would stop, we'd scramble down, crush ourselves inside or hang off the sides. Once past the police, we'd all climb back up the sides of the bus onto the roof. Unfortunately the bus didn't stop while we did this, so I was hanging off a bus doing stuntman impressions as the bus roared along at 50mph.

At Ende ferry port at midday, I was lucky. There was a weekly ferry leaving for Kupang, West Timor in an hour. The 14 hour crossing cost £2.50 in 'economy' (i.e. the deck). The car ferry had no cars. Just a few mopeds and hundreds of families squatted down on blankets on the car deck with pigs and chickens running around. It looked like a refugee camp. I was able to rent an air mattress for 30p and lay out on the deck in relative comfort for the whole journey. As the token tourist, I was left alone. In the evening, there was an impromptu karaoke session by one of the crew singing badly out of tune to a jumping CD player at ear-splitting volume. I wanted to throw him overboard after 5 minutes. The bastard kept it up for 2 whole hours!

I didn't know what to expect from West Timor. Peter, the British Consulate rep in Jakarta had told me to stay out of there. The last tourists he'd heard who'd been (months ago) had been a couple. The guy was badly beaten up, the girl raped. Three UN workers had been killed there in September which had made world headlines. Any westerner had left. I hadn't met anyone who'd been there, or would ever want to go.

Peter also said noone knew what was happening in East Timor. "The UN are supposedly in charge and it is chaotic". East Timor was originally a Portuguese colony that went for independence, but was invaded by the Indonesian army in 1975 (backed by the USA - another Nobel peace prize move by loveable Henry Kissenger) which then attempted genocide on the East Timorese population. They had been fighting for independence from Indonesia and a bloody civil war took place on the island for years. This year, backed by the Australian army and facing a deteriorating Indonesian army, they finally broke away but were still waiting for official nationhood. Thousands of Timorese fled as refugees and are being encouraged to return to a country blown to pieces. The UN is trying to hold the place together and rebuild the infrastructure.

The ferry pulled into dark silent Bolok port lying outside Kupang around 2.30am. It was Xmas Eve and Day 400 of my trip. I was fortunate to find a bemo going to the outlying bus terminal about 15km away in the east. I sat there for 90 minutes until a bus left at 5.30am heading north all the way across West Timor. There wasn't much point in hanging around Kupang.

We left the coastal plains for rugged scenic hill country, wide flat river valleys and strange beehive shaped structures with thick thatched roofs. Timor is neither volcanic nor physically part of Nusa Tenggara. It is actually attached to Australia a few hundred miles south. It was an attractive island with relatively tidy villages and towns and a predominantly Christian population. I actually heard my first Xmas carols today. Indonesian lyrics over all those favourite tunes you are now sick of hearing in shopping malls.

There were police checks and we all had to file out of the bus and get patted down. It was the first place I'd seen lots of the Indonesian army milling around. Troop carriers. Lots of weapons. The clutch on the bus was playing up and finally gave up the ghost outside Kefamenaru. It was fixed by the side of the road in under 20 minutes and we arrived in the last major town of Atambua at 3pm. The 300+km ride had cost £1.50. And I had a seat!

Atambua (I discovered later) was where the UN workers had been killed in September. The place was still pretty tense. I walked into the centre to an endless hail of "Hey Misters" (it was like being jeered at) to try and find transport to the East Timor border. My guidebook was hopelessly out of date, because the island was still unified under Indonesia until a few months ago. Noone spoke English. Finally, someone did. "You're brave coming here" he said. I told him I was heading for East Timor. "No chance". But he gave me a ride in his pickup to the bemo area and found a bus heading for the village on the border, Mutaain, 34 km away on the coast.

Mutaiin was a tiny hamlet with old McDonalds’ farms and the hounds from hell running around the roads. It was 4.30pm. The police check post was closed. There were no signs anywhere. I asked a small kid "East Timor?" and he pointed past sandbagged army dugouts. I started walking into the DMZ between the borders, only to have 3 Indonesian soldiers come and chase me back. They went and got their supervisor who spoke a little English. "The border is closed. It closed at 4pm. It is also closed tomorrow - Xmas Day", and the next day and the day after that - end of Ramadan. Public holidays."

Next door was a UN hut. I walked in. There was a Pakistani officer and newly arrived soldier from Thailand. He said I'd have to get a written letter of permission to cross from the Indonesian Immigration office at Atambua. "Where it is?" I asked. "We don't know" he replied. "But it will be closed all week anyway".

So it was back to Atambua, or rather it wasn't. It was dusk and the bemos had stopped running. I decided to hike back 11 km to the small port of Atapupu which was larger. Maybe there would still be bemos there. I was picked up by an off-duty policeman on his moped who gave me a ride there. He only spoke Indonesian/ Portuguese but implied that there wouldn't be any bemos. It was Xmas Eve and everyone was headed for church services. The road was full of hundreds of people dressed up for the services. Small Xmas grottoes with fairy lights were everywhere.

Sure enough. Atapupu was dead. It was dark and there was nowhere to stay. It was 25km to Atambua over the hills. I was marooned. The policeman said he couldn't take me there. It was too dangerous for him as he drew his finger across his throat. He offered to take me back to Mutaain to the UN office. Let them sort something out.

The UN response was "You can't stay here. We are a military observation post. We could be attacked at anytime and we can't be responsible for you". The officer in charge contacted his superiors by walkie-talkie who didn't want to know. He contacted the Indonesian Army next door who said "We don't want his blood on our hands if we get attacked". They then tried the police next door to them. I think they said in Indonesian "oh what the hell, he can stay with us. Who cares if we get attacked". So it was agreed that I'd sleep on the floor of the police hut for the night with two policemen. I gave my friendly policemen (who'd driven me around), my old rugby shirt as a present. I hadn't worn it in months and had only kept it for bribing or as a gift. He was very pleased. It had seen more miles than his moped.

The army escorted me across the road ("too dangerous at night") to a stall where I could buy some food and beer for the policemen. We sat in our concrete cell by candlelight. No electricity. They burped, farted and ate with their mouths open - in true Indonesian style. They spoke no English. The washing facilities were interesting. There was a well out back, where I pulled up buckets of water by rope and showered in the dark. Anything felt good. I'd been travelling non-stop for 40 hours. The toilet had no door, which I discovered when I flashed my torch to see a soldier squatting in the dark who thought he was under attack and went for his gun.

So I spent Xmas Eve, lying on a blanket on a concrete floor in a 15ft x 15ft cell, with no light in a military compound with soldiers patrolling outside all night. At one point, there was an almighty roar, like the tin roof was being bombarded. But it was just a rainstorm. It was so fierce, I thought we really were under attack.

Xmas Day. 5am. Breakfast was a half empty bottle of leftover beer. I had no choice but to turn around and start walking back to Atapupu. As the heat rose, I sweated like the many pigs I saw along the 11km stroll along the coast. The locals were up and off to church again. The women and girls wore their best dresses. Portuguese was the predominant language.

The bemos had started by the time I reached Atapupu. The churches were overflowing with people. I sat outside one and waited for a bemo. A policeman rolled up on moped and inspected my passport. He took me to the police station and gave me tea. "Where is the Indonesian immigration office in Atambua?" I asked. "There isn't one". He told me that if I was going to stay in Atambua, I'd better stay at the police station. It was too dangerous. What? More nights in concrete cells?

A bemo took me back to Atambua. I was buggered. Noone knew what was going on. I felt like the cute robot in an 80's movie that used to say "Information. I need more information". The border was shut for days. Atambua was a nothing town of jeering locals. There was nothing to do, nowhere to stay and everyone kept telling me - get the hell out of Atambua. So I did.

Late morning, I caught a bus heading back to Kupang. The driver was taking no prisoners and gunned it all the way in just over 6 hours. We were thrown around the bus like pinballs. We arrived back in the capital of West Timor before dusk. Most hotels/losmens had shut down (not a lot of tourists lately), but I found "L'Avionan' open. While I fixed his computer, Edwin, the owner gave me the low-down.

Yes, you could get in, if you turned up early in the morning, and the Immigration letter of permission was "bullshit". Two tourists had managed it over the last fortnight. But the authorities could mess you around. The border would be closed until Dec 28th because of the Xmas/Ramadan holidays. He had only had 12 tourists stay in the last 3 months.

In walked Chad, an American surfer. He had gone in the week before, crossing at Mutaain. He had caught an overnight bus up there and crossed with no problems. He told me about East Timor. "F****** nightmare man". Dili, the capital was bombed to shit. The UN was holed up in the posh hotels, which charged extortionate rates, because the UN was paying and they were the only hotels still open. Prices were grossly inflated. You paid in Aussie or American Dollars for everything. Hotel rooms started at $50US if you could find a room. He'd slept on the beach for one night and got out of there. There was also one other problem. To leave East Timor you had to visit the Indonesian Immigration office in Dili to get a new Indonesian visa. Even if I went up there to try and get in on the 28th it would be closed until at least Jan 2nd. I didn't fancy being marooned in Dili for days waiting for it to open while my US dollars were sucked out of me. I also didn't fancy hanging around Kupang, another non-descript place, for 3 days. So I didn't.

The next morning on Dec 26th, Chad and I went to a travel agent. I booked onto a noon flight to Kuta, Bali and paid in Indonesian Rupiah currency. Chad only had US traveller’s cheques which they wouldn't take. He went off to change them somewhere even though the banks were closed. I headed for the airport. I had just climbed onto a public bus (the first town bus system I'd seen outside Jakarta), when he ran up. "Got any US dollars". I got off the bus and gave him $100 cash. He ran off to the travel agent. I waited for another bus. There was only an hour until the plane left and no sign of a bus or Chad. I walked back to the hostel just he appeared. "They won't take dollars either". I retrieved my money and said "Sorry mate, but I'm going for the plane. Sort it out and catch one tomorrow".

I had a very nervous time waiting for another bus. I'm always adamant never to use taxis to and from airports. Eventually a bus turned up and he drove like he was asleep at the wheel. 10 kms and a million stops to let people off and on, later, it was 30 minutes to take off and I had a mile to reach the terminal. I started jogging with my pack. Fortunately, an Indonesian family catching the same flight, stopped to pick me up in their jeep and I made it. The 90 minute flight took me over Lombok where I could see Gurung Rinjani and the Gili Islands.

I was back in 'civilisation'. If Indonesia was shut down for the Xmas week, I might as well be in the place where I could function best. The trip across Nusa Tenggara had provided some stunning sights but its was tough travelling. I still wanted to get into East Timor, but Xmas was the wrong time of year to try it.

'Salamet Natal' and 'Tenah Baru' from Bali. (Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year). Kuta, the main tourist resort in Bali was packed full of Australian, Western Europeans and Indonesia tourists from Java over for the holiday period. The Indonesian Rupiah had dropped to over 14,000 per English Pound. It was all getting cheaper and cheaper. Ironically, considering that Kuta wasn't even on my original itinerary, I would spend as much time here as I did in Kathmandu and Bangkok. It was the only place in Indonesia, outside Jakarta, where you could get things done.

I plunged into getting myself organised: Giving my parents a rare phone call (only 4 so far on this trip –email has replaced the phone), laundry, developing rolls of film, posting off another package of rubbish and finding more second-hand books to read (what a luxury)

I got an Australian visa from the consulate (a freebie ETA job that would allow me to stay in Oz for periods up to 3 months, over the next year). I had a vast amount of work to do on the computer. Typing up the updates (you read them so you know how much I typed), updating my homepage and replying to pages of messages. Thanks to everyone who sent messages of support regarding the Lombok incident. In fact, while the sun and heat was extreme and I should have been down the beach, I locked myself away for 4 days in a cheap internet cafe I just wanted to be 'away' from Indonesia, the constant barrage of “Transport Mister?” and just be alone.

Of course, I also enjoyed the benefits of supermarkets, 'Happy hour' beer and found a local cafe that did Pepper Steak, chips, veg and a huge mixed salad for the princely sum of £1.20. This became a nightly staple. I started to fatten up again. In retrospect I think the shocking events of Lombok were only starting to sink in. I slept badly, ate too much, drank too much, did no exercise except walk the streets and tried not to brood by staying busy.

Where to go next? A logistical nightmare. Originally, the Philippines via the large Indonesian island of Sulawesi was my next port of call, but I discovered that the 'low season' for airfares started on Jan 6th. There seemed little point in going all that way north to the Philippines now, when I’d have to return to Bali in the summer (because Australia requires a return airfare before they let you in), and I could do it en route to China. The Philippines was having a bit of a crisis too. So I contacted Jo, still roving around New Zealand and co-ordinated dates so that I could fly into Australia a few weeks earlier than planned. I managed to book myself onto a night flight to Melbourne on January 10th and arranged to meet Jo in Tasmania on the 19th.

While I was booking the flight, an Englishman called John walked in. He’d literally flown in from Japan an hour earlier, took one look at Kuta and thought “I've got to get out of this place and go to the Gili Isles' to do a scuba diving course”. We got talking and I said I'd organise it for him. We ended up spending the afternoon together, drinking ice cold beers in the forbidding heat. He was a 27-year-old, working as a lawyer for 3 years in Japan. I realised that he was the first Westerner that I had talked to since flying back into Bali 4 days previously. Kuta is a couple’s place and tourists generally stick to themselves, so you don't meet the more outgoing backpacking types eager for a chat. He was an interesting guy and appreciated my 'in depth' knowledge of Indonesia - if only to find out what everything should cost.

We drank our way into 'Happy Hour' around 4pm (I can't knock Kuta for beer drinkers 'Happy Hour' starts in one place at 4pm, another at 5pm and lasts in others until 9pm. If you know where to go, you can drink cheaply for hours. So we did. With the exchange rate, a pint of ice cold beer cost 38p (read and weep!). We were approached by Mike, a clueless 38 year old Australian who had just flown in that morning. It wasn't until I met a real 'tourist' that I discovered how much they actually spend. His hotel was $100 a night and he still had a cold shower (mine was £1.75 - but not exactly a hotel and he probably didn't have to fight off the cockroaches). His taxi ride to Kuta from Sanur was 40,000 rubes. I had paid 2000 in a public bemo for the same ride. Boy, did I feel an expert.

John and me were laughing so much at his misfortunes that we adopted him for the evening. I was forced to eat at a 'tourist' restaurant with them. I had 'Steamboat' (a fish/seafood buffet cooked at your table). £4 and I was still hungry! We then walked to a night-club 'the Sari Club' (currently in vogue with the Oz punters). It was a large covered outside disco with videos, numerous bars) for my first experience of Oz tourists at play. It was packed solid with partygoers. At least you didn't have to wear a shirt in the heat. Mike had come for a weeks' holiday purely to 'meet girls' and failed miserably. "I can't believe these Australian women" he'd moan after getting turned down again. We crawled out of there around 3am. Fortunately, Kuta has 24-hour supermarkets so I could replenish that which the 'Steamboat' failed to fill. Noone likes to go shopping at 4am.

The next morning was New Years Eve. On the way to the Internet café, Chad, the surfer I'd met in Kupang, stopped by on his scooter with surfboard attached. "I made it man! It took me 7 hours to change my money!". I ventured out at 11pm to the 'Sari Club' for the midnight celebrations. The streets were gridlocked with traffic and every Indonesian had a large cardboard trumpet which they would blow continuously in your ear. The noise of horns was deafening. Midnight came and went. I nursed a beer on my lonesome until I bumped into Mike, still unsuccessful in his quest to find a girl. He had rented a scooter, then been flagged down by that same traffic cop that I had in Sanur, argued a lot and had had his bike registration papers confiscated. I told him that it would cost plenty to get them back. "I'll just dump the bike and wave some dollars in the owner's face" he concluded. I didn't like to tell him that it wouldn't be that easy.

On New Year's Day, I was out of Kuta on the first public bemos at dawn. I had 10 days until my flight and decided to go and visit Mt Bromo in south eastern Java. When I had passed by it in November, it had been erupting and had been closed to the public. It was now open again and a day's ride away. At least I thought so.

Bemos and a bus to the ferry port at Gilimanuk, a short ferry crossing to Ketapang, Java and a bus to Probolinggo. I thought I was going to get to Mt Bromo, until we got stuck for 2 hours in New Year's Day traffic at a seaside resort. I had forgotten just how crowded Java is, compared to the rest of Indonesia. The heat was sweltering and I just wilted. I knew it was hot. Even the Indonesians were sweating. The delay meant that I missed the last bus to Mt Bromo and had to hole up in Probolinggo, where every hotel was full of Java tourists and prices had doubled during the holiday season.

I had forgotten to put my watch back an hour, so after breakfast I set off for the bus station. Then I realised it was actually only 5.30am. The streets were already packed with noisy markets and bicycle rickshaws. Someone walked up to me and asked "Are you Chuck Norris?"(the faded B-movie martial arts celeb). Usually, they thought I was Elton John.

There was a slow but spectacular bus ride up through a twisting green valley with towering volcanic hills on both sides and clouds drifting around within the valley. The volcanic soil is obviously very fertile because the valley was full of terraced farming. There were maize, potatoes and acres of cabbages being grown in every available space. One of the most scenic bus journeys I’d enjoyed in Indonesia. Over the horizon, a large plume of smoke appeared. "Mt Bromo!, Mt Bromo!" the enthusiastic young bus conductor yelled.

At the heart of the Bromo region lies a vast ancient volcano crater with sheer walls over 300m high and filled with the enormous desert-like 'Sea of Sand'. The original volcano was thought to have been 4000m high, but imploded to form a caldera which is about 10km in diameter and within this crater, subsequent volcanoes appeared including the dramatic, still smoking Gunung Bromo (2392m) which rises up from the 'Sea of Sand'.

Cemoro Lawang is a small village which is actually located on the crater rim itself and you can look across the sand to see a wonderful vista of Mt Bromo literally going up in smoke. The village was empty of western tourists (I counted 4) but full of dust from the recent eruption. Every surface was dusty and wherever you walked, you kicked up a cloud of dirt. If you like to stay clean, avoid this area. I was black from head to foot within an hour of arriving. It penetrated every orifice (oo-er) and took days to remove.

After checking into a cheap empty losmen, I walked down the crater rim and across the 'Sea of Sand' which was like walking across the moon - absolutely desolate. Mt Bromo dominated the horizon spewing forth tons of very fine dust like an atomic bomb explosion. Locals would gallop past in the dust on horses offering rides ("Horse mister?") to the foot of Bromo - about 3 km away. Jeeps took out the Indonesian tourists but they still had to climb a final steep set of 249 steps up to the crater rim of the exploding volcano to an observation area.

It was my first active volcano anywhere in the world. The first impression was of being enveloped in fine dust and the smell of sulphur. The mid morning wind was gusting the smoke around and I couldn't see a thing. Gradually, as the wind dropped, the crater became visible. 100m muddy cliffs sloped steeply down to the crater bottom which was a spider-like set of wide fissures in the ash, one of which had a huge plume of smoke rising hundreds of feet into the air.

I was the only person up there and set off around the crater rim. A few years back, a couple of Dutch tourists had fallen into the crater and died. The path started out along a wide ridge, gradually climbing to the peak at one end. From here, I could look back across the 'Sea of Sand' to the village and the picturesque extinct volcanoes within the larger crater. Then, the path deteriorated and the rim got thinner until finally I was balancing along a foot wide ridge looking down into the crater. But it was reasonably safe as long as you could see where you were going. The biggest problem was my boots continually filling up with dust. When I returned to the observation post, a few Indonesians were there. I was bare-chested and completely black. "Hey! Rambo!" and "Crazy Man!" they yelled, laughing at the state of me. Like a naked Lawrence of Arabia, I returned across the desert for a well needed cold water wash using a bucket (showers didn't appear to exist in this village).

That afternoon, I walked back down the valley along the narrow road to enjoy the valley scenery. Locals tended their fields. Everyone smiled and said hello. It was one of the nicest places in the whole of the country. And after 7 miles, I was able to get the bus back up to the village.

Mt Bromo is most famous for the spectacular sunrises which can be seen from its rim, so at 3.45am I got up and descended down into the 'Sea of Sand' in total darkness (except for the procession of 4 wheel drives with powerful headlights, ferrying Indonesians across the caldera). There were at least 100 Indonesians there by the time I ascended the staircase up to the rim at 4.45am. From the rim, the whole caldera was awash in a thick layer of cloud covering the sandy desert which all looked very spectacular when viewing it from above.

The sunrise, which took an hour was indeed an amazing and memorable sight. One of the best I've ever seen. It started off with yellow and orange streaks then gradually evolved into a scarlet mackerel sky and finally became a thick orange turning to blue. Apart from the yapping Indonesians, it was very tranquil sight. The clouds within the caldera swirled around provided stunning photos. I met a Danish guy and 2 Dutch girls and took them around the crater rim. We descended, completely black again, to see hundreds of tourists arriving on their organised daytrips. It had been well worth the effort to get here, and I'd rate it as one of the top five places to visit in Indonesia.

I had fancied having a go at making a 'Batik' painting and Java is famous for its courses in Solo and Yogyakarta. From Bromo, I originally intended to go to Solo to do a course. I changed my mind because a) I could do one in Kuta which was nicer than Solo, b) I'd save myself 2 long days of travel to get to Solo and back and c) Solo had gone up in flames again over the Xmas period with more riots.

So I headed for Kuta and managed to get back in the same day. The traffic was heavy with Indonesian tourists, but our bus driver to Ketapang used his horn as a 5th gear. He ploughed his way through the traffic and overtook wherever possible (and not so possible) and gave anything in his way (bemos, landcruisers, trucks, other buses, scooters, bicycle rickshaws, oxen pulling carts, small children, dogs, old women, even police cars and police motorcyclists) fair warning that he was coming through with his loud and incessant tooting and was taking no shit from anyone. It was both a deafening and nerve shattering 4-hour whirlwind ride to the ferry. On the side of the road was a dead black dog comically lying on its back with its 4 legs pointing skywards with rigor mortis. Sitting on this bus, I felt like doing the same.

So it was Kuta for a final week. I returned to my regular losman which was full but pulled a last room. Over the next few nights, I had a running battle with brown cockroaches that would climb into the bathroom from the roof and scuttle about the walls and floor. I contained them in the bathroom and would collect 20 or so in a bucket and drop them into the toilet, and then repeat the process until they gave up. The next night, the reinforcements would be back. Gradually I must have destroyed the entire colony because by my final night, only 2 crawled in. What with them, water supplies that gave up the ghost occasionally, and a blocked squat toilet, it was cheap and cheerless. But it was spacious, with a good fan, a flask of tea in the morning and very familiar (my 4th stay in 2 months) and when it came down to it, I was just too lazy to go looking elsewhere. It was the cheapest place in town. I wonder why?

I went to see Heru up the road. He is a qualified master 'Batik' artist, originally trained in Java, but now running the only 'Batik' course in Kuta. He was a short, plump man with bushy moustache and pigtail. Aged 44, he had been making batik since he was 17. He lived in a small house with his wife Amin and 1 year old daughter and cages of songbirds which are his hobby. He takes them to shows and wins many prizes. There was an adjoining studio room, crammed full of paintings but we actually did most of the course outside. Despite being located on a back street, it was actually very noisy. Mopeds coming down the lane all the time, screaming kids, chirping songbirds and a temple across the way that had a 3-day ceremony going on. Kuta is one loud place.

I decided to do a 3-day course to make a 2ft square batik painting. Heru told me that Batik is "a philosophy of life" What is in your heart comes out into the design of your painting (as with every other art form I suppose). It was originally an elite 18th Century Indonesian art form in Java, sponsored and housed within Sultans’ Palaces. Joe Public never got to see it because the masses wouldn't appreciate it. But after Indonesian Independence in 1949, the masses did see it and it spread like wildfire because it was used to symbolise that new Indonesian spirit of independence. It is a slow complicated process to make a 'batik' painting, but I'm going to take you through it so you can understand just what was involved (so you can bore your families and complete strangers you want to annoy).

Essentially, Batik painting is about applying colours in various stages (light to dark) on the areas you want to colour and then covering those areas in wax, so that they are protected. Repetitive multilevel painting using dyes. You also have to do it to both sides of the cotton.

First you start off with your white cotton canvas on the floor (Batik can also be done on silk, t-shirts etc) and you have to draw your design in pencil. "You must relax and let it come out" I drew a kind of fiery sun shaped blob radiating from a centre with other blobs around it. Then I started to fill in the detail of the blobs -lots of wavy lines and circles. I thought the hardest part was 'being creative'.

We then sat outside on stools with a small gas stove that heated a dish of wax. I learnt to use 'cantings'. These are small 6" long metal pipes with a small funnel that you use to draw the outlines and details in wax on the cotton. There are three sizes of funnel, depending on the width of the line you want. Holding the canting with thumb and forefinger, you dip the pipe into the wax and empty it again 3 times. On the fourth, you scrape off any wax on the underside of the pipe on the edge of the dish, then wipe it on a dishcloth on your leg, and test that the wax comes out of the nozzle and off you go. I spent an hour practising to draw straight lines, wavy lines, circles, triangles and dots on a dishcloth, just so my hand could get used to the movement. You have to hold the pipe upward to the wax doesn't all pour out at once.

Once Heru was satisfied I was confident, I started on my masterpiece. Before I used the canting I had to “get my position”. I held the cotton over my left hand with the area I wanted to apply wax, then lean over and go through the 'filling the pipe with wax' routine, then bring up the pipe and start applying the wax in small measures. You only apply 2"or 3" before you wipe the pipe down on the dishcloth and then go back over the same area again. Everything gets two layers. I'd then put the canting down, get my new position and start again. You have to keep your right hand free when you hold the canting - no cheating by resting your elbow on your lap. It seemed to take hours to do my outline. Very concentrated work. Even if I was accurate with the first layer, I could still bugger up with the second one (i.e. letting too much wax come out at once). And once I'd finished one side. Guess what? I had to do it all again on the other over the wax outline that showed up through the cotton. Two more layers of outline. I had to keep getting up to stretch because my body wasn't used to holding such strange new positions.

Heru was a patient teacher. He'd give me a demo of how to do something, what had to be done where and then let me take over. While I tackled the job, he'd puff his way through about 3 packs of cigarettes a day. After completing the outline, he indicated where I should put wax dots on the design next and I also had to create a border around my painting using small dots. More painstaking work.

Obviously, I was a beginner and I managed to let some wax drip onto my cotton - but only 3 small dollops. These had to be removed with another lengthy process. First you rub clean water, over the guilty blob of wax, then apply soap over it and then use a knife that has had its blade heated on the gas stove to gradually scrape away the wax. Since the wax actually stains the cotton, you have to repeat these 3 stages endlessly until the wax is completely gone. And then you turn over and do it on the other side two. But at least they could be removed. That was day 1. I was exhausted, but I had my original outline finished in wax.

The following morning we started with the colouring process. The cotton is pinned to a wooden frame and stretched. Then it is laid down to rest between two stools and you take a cotton bud and apply water to the section of your design you want to colour. Then a little pot of dye is produced and you use a cotton bud to apply the dye to the wet patches. Twice. Then you turn over and apply the dye twice to that side. The 'Indicosur' colours get applied first. These are the lighter soft colours. My first colours were yellow and orange.

Then the painting is left to dry in the sun. After which it was dipped in a chemical solution ('Fik' to fix the colour). More drying in the sun. Then dipped in clean water and left to dry in the sun. Much of the day was spent waiting for the drying process but today it was hot and sunny so relatively quick. The Indicosur colours react to the sunshine. I added another couple of colours, front and back More drying, fixing, rinsing, and drying.

Inevitably, I relied on Heru to pick the colours. He was the expert and knew what would work. The dyes also changed colour when they dried, so it was all quite exiting to see the painting evolve in stages. I took a photo at each of the major stages so that I can remember how it developed.

Once this colouring stage was completed, it was back to the canting and wax. Heru told me where to add more wax detail on the cotton, and then I had to cover all the 'painted parts' in wax, both front and back, which was another lengthy process. I was starting to settle into the relaxed mode of making 'Batik' but I was glad I had a book during the drying processes.

On the third day, the amplified warbling from the temple across the way, deteriorated even further. It had started off on Day 1 with a preacher chanting a verse, then saying something and then chuckle in a low guttural manner (like a horror movie soundtrack or drug addled psychopath). This had gone on for hours and provided a strange backdrop to my course. On Day 2, he was joined by a woman to produce a variety of high-pitched warbling in-between the recitals, which never seemed to end. Today, his mate joined him and they chanted in stereo. He wasn't chuckling much today. Truly horrendous. They must have scared small children and dogs. It got on my nerves so much I kept losing concentration.

It had poured with rain early in the morning and stayed overcast all day, and poured again in the afternoon, which slowed down drying processes. Today I applied 'Napthol' (hard) colours. Two coats. Both sides. On top of it, I applied 'salt' colour. Two coats. Both sides. The two dyes react together and are self fixing (no 'fik' needed). They had to be dried out of the sunlight (good job because I didn't see any), rinsed in clean water and then dried again. Then I had to cover those areas in wax, front and back.

By now, my design was nearly completely in wax. We started work on the background colours. The cotton was dipped in a tub containing a blue Indicosur colour. Put back into the frame and left to dry, I then applied a darker colour to it, using a small piece of sponge, and after that used my finger to swirl the dye around to cause a new effect.

In the rain, the drying ground to a halt, but I was enjoying it all so much, that I decided to do another 3 days and create a second masterpiece - hopefully, I'd be more proficient at it. So we had no problems about finishing the first one tomorrow. I wanted a 'Bali Mask' design for my next one and got Heru to draw the basic outline (so at least the original design would be a decent one). I then sat for a couple of hours with my canting and applied wax to the new design.

The painting dried overnight and I dipped it in the chemical bucket to fix the previous Indicosur colours. Left to dry in the sun (now back) and rinsed with clean water and left to dry. Solid paraffin was then heated on the stove and using a brush, I applied hot liquid paraffin over the background colours. It solidified. Two layers. Front and back. To produce the famous 'cracking' effect of Batik paintings, you place your fingers either side of the cotton and squeeze the paraffin until it cracks. Then the painting was dipped in water and left to dry a little (to fill the cracks with water).

The painting was then dipped in a black Naptholcolour, hung to dry without sun and then dipped in a salt colour and left to almost dry. The black colour is applied last - it provides the border colour, plus the cracked lines.

The final process was to heat a large metal bucket on the stove containing some strange potion called 'Loret'. When hot, the painting was submerged in it with a stick and stirred around. The wax and paraffin were melted off the cotton, the colours came to light and were also burned into the material. After 5 minutes or so, it was washed in soapy water and then rinsed in clean water. Heru got as excited as me. Hey Presto! My painting was complete. It was a revelation to see what had happened where. Multi layered effects. I could now see what process had achieved what effect. I was impressed. When it dried, it was ironed. These paintings last for years. "Must wash it every 10 years" Heru said.

On that 4th day, we had begun the colouring process on the second painting so I worked on two at once. For the next two days, I worked on my second painting, trying to get more accurate with my waxing. The unveiling on Day 6th was wonderful. A spectacular decorative brown, red, yellow, white dotted/striped mask in front of a grey moon in front of an aqua blue-cracked background. I was impressed. Good job Heru knows his colours.

If you ever get the chance, I’d really recommend trying one of these courses. You come away with a good insight into the process and a lovely souvenir. The 6 days seemed to rush past but were also very tiring. It certainly provided me with a most rewarding final week in Indonesia.

I spent a total of 10 weeks here on two visits and I still have to return for more in June. Like India, it is a tough place with vast distances to explore. You either stick to one area or try and hit the highlights. Off the beaten track, the physical nature can be extreme. The local transport systems are excellent and cheap, or you can cheat by using the tourist shuttle buses. But ask the price before you buy or use anything. It was so cheap, I gave up haggling most of the time. When you haggle they have a phrase "Good (price) for you, good for me".

The heat and non-stop attention from Indonesians eventually wears you down. They stare at you and everything you do. If you are reading or writing, they will come right up to you and peer over your shoulder and ask questions like "What are you reading?"("a book") and "Why?". They like to touch you, stroke the hairs on your arms/legs (because they have none). Most seem illiterate and only a few have a smattering of English. They love English football. They are a friendly, gentle people (except in a riot) and like to make some kind of contact even if it is just "Hey Mister". Half the population just seems to sit around watching the world go by. The others rush around maniacally trying to earn money.

You don't see many old men around. They seem to die off early - either from hard work or a lifetime of smoking. It passes the time. An Indonesian can make a slow burning clove cigarette last 20 minutes. If you hate smoking, you'll hate Indonesia. It is the major pastime and allowed absolutely everywhere. Around 5am every morning you will be greeted by a dawn chorus of hacking Indonesians clearing their throats and getting their hearts started with the first of the day.

As an introduction, I'd recommend Bali as a stop over for a few days. It is a gentle introduction to Indonesia. But get out of Kuta and see the rest of the island. Kuta is a tourist world unto itself. If you have the time, make side trips to the Gili Isles on Lombok and Mt Bromo on Java. Both are a day away by tourist bus/ferry. Door to door delivery.

Indonesia provided me with some of the most stunning landscapes I've ever seen, some unique wildlife (Komodo dragons, orang-utans) and also some of the ugliest cities ever. It had some of the most interesting culture too (Gamelan music, dances, shadow puppet plays, batik). But I will always remember the stunning volcanoes and crater lakes most of all. All in all it lived up to expectations. Some of my most thrilling moments, and some of my worst.

Roadkill totals on trip so far: 15 dogs, 7 donkeys, 8 rats, 7 snakes, 5 cats, 2 kittens, 2 camels, 2 cows, 2 frogs, 1 goat, 1 porcupine, 1 monkey, 1 bird, endless bus, truck and moped crashes. (cockroaches not counted as road kill).

Costs in Indonesia for 57 days (Parts 2a, 2b, 2c) (in British Pounds Sterling)

Travel - £597.41 (inc £59.50 flight of Kupang(Timor) to Kuta (Bali) and £470 return flight of Kuta (Bali) to Melbourne (Australia)
Accommodation - £80.66
Food - £203.80
Other - £483.31 (inc £86.66 scuba diving in Bali/Lombok, £58 for new passport, £42.31 for 6 day Batik course
Total - £1365.18
Grand Total - £7317.25