Quotes of the Day

When Abdul-Wahid Jahrani tells you religion saved his life, he's not getting ready to take up a collection. "I'm just glad I'm a Muslim, and we build our mosques so high," says the 49-year-old fisherman from Wuring village, on the eastern Indonesian island of Flores. When a massive tsunami slammed into the island's north shore 10 years ago, Jahrani survived by clinging to the crescent moon atop the local mosque.

It was around 1:30 p.m. on Dec. 12, 1992, and Jahrani had just come back from the morning's fishing. "We didn't catch anything. It was like the fish knew something was about to happen. I had tied up the boat and was walking to my home for a siesta, when there was an incredible boom and the ground felt like a giant was shaking it. I was knocked off my feet. Everyone was in shock for a minute or two, then people were screaming, 'Run, run, the water is coming!' Next thing I know, I'm swimming near the top of the mosque." He points to the fat, green onion of the dome, towering six or seven meters above the colorful chaos of wooden stilt houses rebuilt since the tsunami. "So I grabbed onto the crescent and held on for my life. Three more huge waves came in. The whole village was under water, and I could see bodies and bits of houses being churned around and sucked out to sea."

His wife and the rest of his family were working on a farm up a hill; they survived. The earthquake and the resulting tsunami killed 1,690 of the island's 200,000 inhabitants and destroyed 20,000 homes. In some places, the tsunami's surge was measured at 26 meters above sea level. Large parts of Maumere, the island's second biggest town, were flattened. Some coastal communities were obliterated. "It's taken us a long time to rebuild, for things to get back to normal," says Dominggus Koro, manager of Moni Moi Tours and Travel. "But Flores is ready to welcome the world again."

Koro is a native of Ende, the island's lush capital, which perches on the south shore in the shadow of emerald folds of lava-molded mountains. But he runs his adventure travel business from a wooden house on the outskirts of Maumere. "Maumere is the gateway to Flores. The airport is here, and the best hotels. That's why the tsunami was so devastating," he says.

You can see why tourists might have doubts about Flores (arrivals last year barely topped 11,000, fewer than Bali's Denpasar airport handles on a busy day). Eight volcanoes grumble and belch sulfurous steam along the island's twisted, 360-kilometer spine. Most of them have erupted in the past century or two. The surrounding seabed is crosshatched with fault lines. Maumere, in the local dialect, means "big sea," suggesting the recent tsunami wasn't the first. It doesn't help that the noisy bemos—gaudily painted minibuses that zip around the snaking roads—are emblazoned with biblical names like Golgotha, Revelation and Beelzebub. They add to the sense of impending doom.

But if you can quell your fears of fire and brimstone and killer surf, Flores represents a gentle face of Indonesia. It's a perfect antidote for those bored with Bali and jittery about politically volatile Java. The friendly, predominantly Christian populace has remained free of the religious and tribal violence that has wracked the archipelago. Much of the island is postcard gorgeous. The mineral glitter of its beaches cedes to vertiginous mountains and the misty mysteries of half-hidden valleys. "Most visitors are surprised by the unspoiled beauty of Flores," says Koro. "And the people here have realized tourism is our only hope if we are to prosper. They are learning what real service means."

I had to agree as I settled back in my canvas chair, gin and tonic in one hand, up to my ankles in black volcanic sand, peeping through a curtain of banyan leaves at the gentle splendor of sunset. This was Sea World Club, Maumere's premier dive resort: an unpretentious place with neat thatch-roofed bungalows, where sarong-wrapped staff, flashing wide smiles, shuffle along paths paved with blue pebbles.

Apart from two squid fishermen preparing outriggers under the Gauguin sky, I couldn't see another soul along the length of the beach. It was almost impossible to imagine this tranquil sea, waveless and lambent with the day's dying glow, as a foaming cataract of devastation. And as the waiter glided off to fetch another drink, I remembered Jahrani's parting words: "We live on the edge of the fire here in Flores. We know death can come at any time, from the mountains or from the sea. So we must try to savor each day like it's our last."

• JASON GAGLIARDI
• To the Land Protected by the Cross and the Crescent