With its surrounding dry, red hills and dusty-colored vegetation, there is something about Manggarai - Flores western-most district - that is reminiscent of the Central Australian desert. But the similarities stop at the natural elements. Culturally-speaking, Flores is much more upbeat. The official welcoming party that greeted the minister as he emerged from the belly of the plane offered a first taste of how the people of Manggarai revel in adorning their bodies and houses with a brightness of form, sound and colour, and in setting this against their landscape in a celebration of contrast. A row of percussionists lined up against the terminal wall crashed and bashed, as if to let the Minister know that half a century of put-downs from the centre had failed to grind this ‘Outer Island’ culture into nothingness. A live chicken was offered, squawking and flapping, creating a riotous flurry of white. And even the civil servants donned not the stern batik usually symbolic of that occupation, but button-down, short-sleeved shirts of soft fabric, the basic dark of which was subverted by embroidered lines and points, stylised stars and circles - all established patterns in the Manggarai style of weaving.

Once the ritual was complete, our party traversed the terminal to board a convoy of Kijangs bound for Labuan Bajo. Perched opposite me in the very back, inward-facing seats was one of the ikat-shirted civil servants. His face was as round, as brown and as creased as a walnut, and he uttered a heavily-accented speech, racing, surging towards the end of a sentence and then clipping the last word short even before one had a chance to realise he had spoken. I am reminded of my friend’s father who retains an Alorese accent as thick as when he arrived in Denpasar thirty years ago, as if it were carved onto his tongue as deeply as the gorges gouge the hard hills around Labuan Bajo. It would be an easier task to clear Flores of its every stone than to strip his tongue of that accent.

There is something circus-like about the town of Labuan Bajo. Its main street, unsealed and rocky, releases a fine dust when our convoy traverses its undulations. It is as ragged and jumbled as a gypsy camp, and its timber houses, weathered and cracked by wind-borne sea salt, suggest a certain impermanence. Stilts ease the sea breeze beneath them, relieving the floorboards of the hard earth’s white heat, and providing a cool surface to receive the soles of the fisher peoples’ feet, their seated thighs, their sleeping torsos. Like a Muslim woman’s purdah, low balconies are bordered and fringed by closely-fitting narrow planks, allowing only a slit of a view of the street beyond. But the outers of these houses are far from somber. If they appear boarded-up, it is only to offer a cool, dark shelter from the unrelenting climate, and not to suggest the inhabitants' fear of the world. Awnings are painted in carefully-chosen, contrasting primary colors and cut to ornamental points. As if to project a collective yearning to bite into that cursed, ungiving earth, they strike the ground with sharply spiked shadows.

There is only one plain-colored house in Labuan Bajo. As yet unweathered, it emits the smell of newly-sawn timber. When construction started in the house, the children of Labuan Bajo brought their games to the street in front, to be close to the source of the hammer and nail beat. Every now and then the excited din of their game playing would ease off and the kids would dribble over to group in front of the site. Grouped in a snug huddle, they would gaze on in awe as the builders hammered long planks of Kalimantan timber into a form that became narrower as it did higher. And when the two sides of its steep A-frame came to meet in a triumphant apex, the builders dispersed, leaving heavenward-aimed arrow. Its very form, its perfection, is to the sleepy town of Labuan Bajo as a martial order to a disheveled mass: "Advance directly to Development's Final Take-Off stage!"

Following the builders’ example, the children have since moved their games elsewhere. But the people of Labuan Bajo still make sure to break their journey when they reach the makeshift entrance of the now completed building. Craning their necks as they draw breath, they allow their squinting eyes to be pulled skyward to that single, self-satisfied point. This is not a church. It is the Labuan Bajo office of Puri Komodo, and it is here that our convoy comes to rest.