Sumba Soul

There’s a hill in East Sumba that doesn’t try to impress you.  It just stands there - soft, endless, patient. Wairinding Hill, East Sumba . When I first arrived (June 2014), the sun was gentle, and the grass was dry like whispers. The hills curled and rolled like waves frozen in time, waiting to be remembered. People often come for the photos — the drone shots, the golden hours. But if you stay long enough, you’ll realize the hills are alive. They breathe with the wind. They move with stories. A child once told me the grass grows taller when someone truly listens. I believe him. Wairinding is not a tourist spot. It’s a witness. To forgotten battles, to herders’ songs, to lovers saying goodbye in silence. If you come with loud shoes and a checklist, you’ll miss it. But if you come barefoot in your heart, you’ll leave with something softer in your chest. In Sumba, not all beauty shouts. Some of it just waits to be seen.

    Welcome to Sumba Soul.  I wasn’t born to write about this island. I was born with  it ~ raised in its winds, shaped by its rhythms, and gently carved by its stories. This isn’t a travel guide. This is a space for memory, for ritual, for wonder.  For seeing Sumba not as a checklist, but as something to feel . Something to hold close. Here, I’ll share what doesn’t always make it into brochures, the silence between waves, the scent of smoked wood after a ritual, the children laughing in the rain, the paths not on Google Maps.  Whether you’re curious, planning a journey, or just feeling homesick for a place you’ve never been — welcome.  This is for you.  Let’s begin with the soul.  I am your Soul-mate