By Ashley Chapman

It is near dusk as the rickety bus begins its descent down the 44 hairpin curves that feed into Lake Mennejau in Sumatra. With each precipitous turn, baskets of livestock, fruit and Indonesian babies slide across the bus floor as I stand in the aisle, clinging to the hand bar above. The bus is teeming with teenagers, many of them prepubescent Indonesian boys, whose furtive hands persistently climb up my legs and under my sarong until I give them a swift kick with my flip-flop. The evening is hot and the sweat drips down my back and my hands slip along the rusty hand bar.

Monkeys perch along the road and in the trees, peering at us like dubious guards inspecting intruders. Lake Mennejau is a volcanic crater, and seems to spring right out of a surrealist's painting. In this golden hour everything glows: the rice paddies, the pointed thatched roofs, the lake. The sun sets violently, splattering shocking streaks of pink and red across the canvas of the sky, and the lake mirrors its fury with a deep blood red reflection. Then, like a big gob of paint, the sun drips over the mountain range and suddenly disappears beneath the horizon.

For a moment, everything seems frozen, motionless like the split second before a shutter clicks. Then the fog rolls in, rolling over the mountains, coasting over the warm, soupy lake like a thick steam. The wind picks up, sending furious ripples across the water. Darkness cloaks the little valley, and the jungle blinks with the feeble flickering of lamps hanging from the trees. The night pulsates with the jungle's rhythm: the treetops sing with chirps, caw-caws, yelps and groans. But above the symphony of animal voices resonates another voice, the daily Muslim prayer from the temple's loudspeakers.

There is nothing to do now but sit in the dark and listen to this invisible orchestra, and be lulled to sleep by its haunting lullaby.