Our group went out to dinner together, which certainly made one restaurant owner happy. The next morning we wandered around a local market, took a few photographs and walked back to the docks. Here we loaded our gear into a boat that looked more like the African Queen than a seaworthy vessel. Fifteen backpacks were thrown into the engine room/cargo hold, which would double as our dressing area.  Ten minutes into the voyage and each and every day as well, we were made aware that any visit down into this diesel vapor-infested bowel would put your respiratory system in grave danger.

While there were no romantic breeze catching sails or deck chairs on this amenity-free ride, we were finally afloat and heading east through turquoise waters, albeit two days later than I expected. Time was spent reading, socializing and predicting when the seas would cause one of us to deposit the rice and vegetables we were being fed back into the ocean. A daily late afternoon increase in the sea swell generated this behavior. There was nowhere to hide at these times and for a few hours each day one needed to convince oneself that mind control could outlast the feeling that was brewing in one’s stomach. Not everyone succeeded. More pleasant but just as consistent was the nightly palette of colors that filled the equatorial sky at sundown.

On our third day we docked at the island of Komodo, home to the world’s largest monitor lizard. Until a few years ago goats were slaughtered and pinned down daily to draw out the seven-foot long reptiles. Tourists at that point were corralled in a pen and provided with an artificial photo opportunity. Now a more natural behavior could be witnessed; go and search them out.

Our group hired a guide to lead us around the dry scrub covered island. Within a few minutes we located a male dragon guarding a den which contained an unseen female. The guide recommended we get closer for some photos and two American guys and myself jumped at the opportunity that no National Park Ranger from the west would dare allow. The lizard seemed impervious to us and did not exude any qualities that indicated the desire to sprint or snap. The rest of our group kept a espectful distance. We were informed that these creatures could run as fast as fifteen miles per hour and had bitten a tourist as recently as last month.  For now I had the feeling that the reptile was content warming himself under the morning sun, waiting for his anticipated mate. After a few close up photos I heard a rustling noise coming from an elevated ridge. A second male emerged and now our guide quickly changed his philosophy on where we should be standing, or more specifically, running. I took a quick photo prior to hearing the “go” order, thus creating my predicament. I had just shot my last photograph on that roll of film.

The newly arrived male was now chasing the original den watcher directly towards our group. This was the photo opportunity I assumed everyone dreams of, being chased by 500 pounds of prehistoric carnivores. Unfortunately I was forced to reload my empty camera while on the run.  I was pretty sure based on the human squealing that half of my group disagreed with my assessment and would have preferred to be back on our cramped wooden boat. My first two attempts with my camera to install a new roll of film both registered a flashing ‘error’ signal. Tripping on roots and being pinned against a dead end grove of scrub were two of the thoughts competing with the desire to capture this scene on film. The third attempt caught and I fired off a shot from twenty feet while maintaining some contact with my fleeing group, many of whom were shaking in spite of their safe distance. After securing that shot I felt great, even in the face of comments directed towards me by my finger-wagging mates.

That evening would be our last on the boat and as we dropped anchor to watch the sunset we all felt obliged to finish off our supply of third world beverages. Another descent into the diesel choked engine room, which was more of a health risk than any reptile encounter, produced my dreaded bottle of Marco Polo Whiskey. After a final forgettable meal we climbed onto the boat’s roof and muscled our way through our respective bottles. One Dutchman was going pretty hard at his Arak, a local fortified wine, and the other had completely given up on his whiskey as the earlier waves had left his stomach in a state of disrepair. The three Indonesian deckhands happily contributed to his bottles demise. The wisest of our group stuck to their warm beers. My lack of any significant stupor verified the dubious alcohol content in my bottle, but I would have to wait until morning to confirm my suspicion over the water quality.

My sunrise headache was of little concern compared to the sweating and shivering that accompanied me for the next two days. I was clearly feeling the ill effects of something, but given the sanitary conditions on the boat the whiskey was merely the leading candidate. While now safely on the island of Flores I had to begin to negotiate the roads and public buses, a challenge even at full strength. I debated whether to start an antibiotic regiment, which I felt would cure my immediate needs at the expense of lowering my future resistance. I ate my first pill and slept under a rarely seen but requested Indonesian blanket as my shivering was way out of place on this balmy summer evening. The following morning I convinced myself I was physically ready and boarded an inland bound bus. I immediately made sure I could fully access the window if needed. My feverish behavior continued and five minutes into the bus ride I regretted leaving the loseman where I had spent the night. Waves of sweat and stomach uncertainty poured over me requiring my full concentration to overcome. Five hours later I disembarked and was feeling marginally better. I fueled up with some solid foods, another antibiotic pill and after a better nights sleep proceeded to work my way through the bulk of the island of Flores.

Whether traveling by land or sea the only certainty on this trip was uncertainty itself. Tranquility mixed with confusion but as usual endurance was rewarded with experiences not soon forgotten. Having made it to the distant island that is Flores amid parasitic and animal encounters my trip was now to shift gears. Volcanoes needed to be ascended at three in the morning in order to witness summit sunrises and trucks needed to be ridden from their airy roofs. The one challenge that would loom large however was the eventual return by sea back towards Bali. That being on the floorboards of an over packed Pelni ship was to be, as they say, another story.

Andrew Greene has spent the last decade traveling the globe in search of distant places, unique faces and unimaginable cultural events. As a teacher in San Francisco equipped with a large dose of cultural curiosity his adventures have provided experiences and insights not easily found here in the west. As he states, “Adventure travel is not synonymous with taking unnecessary risks, but rather with a willingness to venture down the path that you didn't intend to find.” The son of an internationally recognized photographer, Andrew won his first photography award while in high school. He has since displayed his work in San Francisco galleries and in three books. A selection of his journeys can be viewed at www.bigworldphotos.com