My worst nightmare in the Flores Highlands:

I arrive in a tiny mountain village on Flores with that typical backpacker optimism – you know, the kind that makes you think Indonesia is just one big adventure waiting to happen. The sun has already disappeared behind the jagged peaks, my legs are burning from hours of trekking, and the tropical heat I’d been cursing all morning has given way to a cutting cold. Up here, at nearly 1,500 meters, the thermometer plays by its own rules.

The “guesthouse” – if you can even call this ramshackle wooden hut that – is the only accommodation for miles. Nothing fancy, just a place to crash for the night. I don’t have a choice. The next settlement is hours away, and darkness falls fast in these mountains.

In the communal bathroom, I’m greeted by the familiar sight: a huge concrete trough filled with crystal-clear but ice-cold mountain water. Next to it, the obligatory plastic scoop. Normally I would’ve just gritted my teeth and dealt with it. But not today. Not with this cold already creeping through my thin trekking clothes. I’m exhausted, I’m freezing, and I just want a warm shower like a civilized human being.

So I ask the owner – a weather-beaten man with a face like the volcanic rocks surrounding us – if he could heat up some water for me. He looks at me like I’ve just asked for a butler and champagne. Sighs theatrically. Disappears into the kitchen with the body language of someone who’s already decided to teach me a lesson.

Ten minutes later he returns. In his hand: a small pot with maybe two liters of lukewarm water. That’s it. His message is crystal clear: pampered tourists aren’t welcome here. I take what I can get and perform an acrobatic speed shower where every drop counts. My hair stays half-washed, but at least I’m no longer caked in hiking sweat.

If I’d known what was coming, I would’ve appreciated the shower a lot more and been damn grateful for it.

The communal sleeping room is a long space under a slanted roof. Four wooden cots stand there, each equipped with a “mattress” that in no way deserves the name – a thin foam pad, barely thicker than a folded towel, that probably saw its best days back in the ’80s. Three other backpackers are already there: a Dutch couple and an Australian, all already cocooned in their sleeping bags. Nobody talks much. Exhaustion hangs heavy in the room.

I’m too tired to complain. Too tired to look up and notice the rotting ceiling beams. Too tired to register the scratching that’s already starting quietly above our heads. I wrap myself in my sleeping bag, listen briefly to the creaking of the old wooden beams, and sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Famous last thoughts.

What wakes me isn’t the wind. Not the cold. Not even the Australian’s snoring. It’s something wet. Something dripping directly onto my face. Still half-asleep, I open my mouth to yawn – right at the moment the next drop comes.

Directly. Into. My. Mouth.

That’s the moment my brain kicks in. The taste is… there are no words for it. Warm. Salty. Organic in a way that’s fundamentally wrong. And then I hear it: the scratching and scurrying of tiny claws on rotten wooden beams directly above my head. Multiple animals. Rats or large mice running across the decaying ceiling slats like they’re on a nocturnal highway.

The realization hits me like a punch: One of these creatures just pissed directly above my head. Through a crack in the rotted boards it dripped. Directly. Into. My. Goddamn. Mouth.

That’s the shock that hits you like a cold slap of reality. One minute you’re a carefree traveler who thinks he’s adventurous. The next minute you’re lying there – or in my case, bolt upright – wondering how you became such an easy mark for cosmic irony.

I shoot up. Panic explodes in my chest. I spit, gag, spit again. Grab my water bottle and rinse my mouth like I can erase the last five seconds of my life. Again and again. The water tastes like plastic and desperation, but it’s better than the alternative.

The other sleepers don’t stir. The stampede above us apparently hasn’t woken anyone else. Or they were smart enough not to sleep directly under the running paths of the nocturnal residents. But here’s the weird part: nobody warns you about these things. No sign on the wall. No “watch where you put your head.” Just you, your ignorance, and a rat with damn bad timing.

With trembling hands and a disgust that creeps into my bones, I analyze the situation. Leave? Where to? It’s pitch dark, freezing cold, and the next guesthouse is hours away. I’m trapped, caught in my own shitty decision to sleep exactly here.

So I just turn around. 180 degrees. Head where my feet used to be. Pull the sleeping bag up over my nose and listen paranoid to every sound from above. Every scratch, every rustle makes me flinch. I imagine the rats throwing a party directly above me, maybe even laughing at the stupid tourist who dared to sleep beneath their kingdom.

At some point, from pure exhaustion, I must have fallen asleep again.

When the first rays of sunlight pierce through the cracks in the wooden walls, I’m the first one packing my things. The owner looks at me questioningly as I put the money on the table and leave without a word. He says nothing. I say nothing. What is there to say?

Flores is beautiful. The rice terraces, the volcanoes, the traditional villages – all of it is breathtaking and absolutely worth seeing. But when someone asks me about my worst travel experience, I tell this story. Not the malaria prophylaxis that turned my stomach inside out. Not the ten-hour bus ride on serpentines above the abyss. But this one night when fate – or a rat – taught me a lesson in humility.

To this day I can’t enter attics without reflexively looking up. And when something drips at night, I’m instantly wide awake, ready to fight or flee. Some experiences just burn themselves in. This one burned itself into my taste buds, along with a healthy dose of mistrust toward cheap accommodations with exposed ceiling beams.

Welcome to Indonesia, where adventure sometimes has a very bitter – or rather: very salty – aftertaste.