Hiring a Skiff to See the Giant Dragons of Komodo Island and Walking Through a Snake Cave in Waist High Bat Excrement in Search of Reticulated Pythons 

It turns out I wasn’t actually allowed to explore Komodo Island on my own. When the boat crew finally woke up, they were quick to inform me that visitors are required to check in with the park rangers and be escorted at all times—for good reason.

Before we could officially begin our trek, a group of rangers met us at our boat, each carrying a long wooden staff—their only weapon against a charging dragon. We followed them to the ranger station to check in, and that’s when I noticed about six Komodo Dragons lazily sprawled around the headquarters. These ones were sluggish, either digesting a recent meal or still warming up in the sun. Since they were used to human presence, they barely reacted to us, unlike the more elusive dragons we would later encounter deeper in the park.

The station itself was built on a raised platform, accessible by a steep ladder. Our ranger explained that this was a recent addition after a particularly gruesome incident. Just months prior, a dragon had managed to sneak into the cabin and attack a ranger, sinking its teeth into his leg. Another ranger had to pry the beast off him in what was described as a violent and bloody struggle. The wounded ranger had to be evacuated to Bali for emergency surgery to save his leg—and his life. After that, they installed the ladder, since dragons aren’t great climbers.

Before setting off, the rangers handed Dan and me our own sticks—our only means of defense if a dragon got too close. They then reviewed the park’s rules with us:

• Stay near and behind the rangers, especially if a dragon charges.
• Always check around corners before rounding them.
• Never enter a toilet without looking first (dragons have been found lurking inside).

Komodo Island has miles of trails and an incredible variety of wildlife, particularly snakes, though unfortunately, we didn’t spot any. We did, however, embark on a ranger-led trek that took us 3-4 hours up into the hills, giving us a Jurassic Park-like experience. The hike was wild—I constantly felt like we were on the verge of being ambushed by velociraptors.

Along the trail, we spotted a few dragons, but these ones were much warier than the lazy giants by the beach. They’d dart off into the dry brush before we could get too close. The most interesting sighting, however, was a group of baby Komodo Dragons living in a tree. Since adult dragons are cannibalistic and will eat their young, the babies instinctively take refuge in trees, where they stay until they’re big enough to defend themselves.

After our time hiking through the rugged interior of Komodo, we set off in our boat once more, this time heading toward the pristine, coral-fringed beaches that make this island a true paradise.

After our trek through Komodo Island’s rugged interior, we set sail toward a coral reef just off the island’s coast for an unforgettable snorkeling experience. The highlight? Swimming alongside majestic manta rays. These gentle giants glided effortlessly through the water, their enormous wingspans casting shadows over the reef as they fed on plankton.

Next, we made our way to one of the world’s few pink sand beaches. The sand gets its striking hue from crushed red coral mixing with the white grains, creating a surreal, pastel-pink shoreline. Since our boat anchored about 100 yards offshore, Dan and I decided to snorkel to the beach, exploring the vibrant coral reef along the way. The underwater world was alive with colorful fish darting between coral formations, making the swim just as rewarding as the destination.

Once on the beach, we took our time soaking in the scenery. The sand was soft, the water crystal clear, and best of all, there were no Komodo Dragons lurking around. After a while, we swam back to the boat, where a delicious lunch of freshly caught fish and coconuts was waiting for us.

With full stomachs and unforgettable memories, we spent the rest of the afternoon circling the island, photographing Komodo’s dramatic coastline. As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, we made our way back to Labuan Bajo, bringing an end to our adventure in Komodo National Park.

The journey to Istana Ular felt like an adventure in itself. After spending the night in Labuan Bajo, Dan and I set out early in the morning with a taxi driver who had no idea where the cave was. Luckily, I had done my research and came prepared with directions. The road was rough, winding through remote parts of the island, and for hours, we stopped to ask locals for guidance.

When we finally reached the village that served as the gateway to the cave, we were met with an enthusiastic welcome. Dozens of schoolchildren rushed toward us, giggling and smiling, eager to interact. Their excitement was contagious, and we spent time photographing their joyful expressions as they playfully posed for the camera.

Finding the cave required the approval of the village chief. After explaining our purpose, we paid the necessary village and guide fees, and that’s when we were introduced to the village shaman. He would be accompanying us to the cave—not just as a guide, but to perform a traditional ceremony ensuring our safe passage.

This added an unexpected layer of mysticism to our adventure. With the shaman leading the way, we set off toward Istana Ular, unsure of what awaited us inside the legendary snake cave.

Istana Ular had been on my radar since I first started researching Flores Island, but there wasn’t much reliable information online. What little I found intrigued me—biologists had documented a massive 20-foot reticulated python living in the cave, and villagers claimed it sometimes ventured outside as well. Unlike them, I wasn’t afraid of the snake. In fact, seeing it would be a highlight. My real concerns were the deadly tropical diseases carried by the cave’s bat population and the dangerous lack of oxygen inside, caused by the decomposition of bat guano, which released ammonia and consumed breathable air. The cave was rumored to stretch for miles, but no one had fully explored it due to these hazards.

Our trek from the village to the cave took about an hour, winding through dense jungle and descending a steep, muddy path. As we approached the cave, we spotted our first snake—but it wasn’t the legendary python. Instead, a small tree viper was coiled up at eye level, staring at us intently, blending perfectly with the foliage. It was a reminder that this jungle was teeming with life, some of it quite dangerous.

The entrance to the cave was small, with a murky stream flowing out and feeding into the river below. Inside, we could hear the eerie echoes of thousands of bats, their shrill cries bouncing off the cavern walls. Every so often, a bat would dart out of the darkness, flitting past us as if warning us of what lay ahead. The air smelled heavily of damp earth and something more acrid—the unmistakable stench of bat guano.

With the village shaman leading the way, we stood at the threshold of Istana Ular, preparing to step into the unknown.

The shaman presented an offering at the cave’s entrance, a solemn ritual meant to appease the spirit of the massive snake that the villagers believed lived within. They spoke of it in hushed tones, describing it as a mythical creature of impossible proportions—capable, they claimed, of swallowing a human whole. He chanted a prayer, asking the spirit for permission to enter safely. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he turned to me and nodded. “You have permission,” he said.

I was already adjusting my headlamp and checking my flashlight batteries, eager to step into the darkness. Then I realized—I would be going in alone. The shaman was not coming, and Dan had already made it clear that he wanted no part of this adventure. My only guides? A group of barefoot 8-year-old village boys who had no flashlights.

Luckily, I had extra torches to share. The boys eagerly took them, their small faces lit with excitement rather than fear. As we stepped inside, one of them suddenly shouted, “Snake!” But by the time I got there, it had vanished. The cave was riddled with holes, the perfect hiding spots for pythons. A friend who had explored this place before me had once seen a python swimming through the flooded tunnels, and I had no doubt they were here, lurking in the shadows and feeding on the countless bats overhead.

I tried to stay on the dry sections of rock, but it didn’t take long before I found myself waist-deep in murky, foul-smelling water, thick with the stench of bat guano. My hiking boots felt like my only defense against whatever lurked beneath the surface. The ceiling pressed low in many parts, forcing me to duck as I followed my fearless young guides deeper into the unknown.

The cave was a true chamber of horrors. Every step I took sank me deeper into a nightmarish mixture of mud and bat excrement, sometimes up to my knees. I gripped slick, cockroach-infested rocks for balance, all the while trying to avoid slipping my hand into a crevice that might conceal a lurking python. The cave wasn’t called “Istana Ular” for nothing—it was home to countless snakes, and attacks were not unheard of. Somewhere in its uncharted depths, the villagers believed, slithered a 25-foot behemoth, a python so massive it had taken on mythical status. I could only hope the shaman’s ritual had granted me safe passage.

Yet, despite the snakes, my biggest fear wasn’t being ambushed by a python—it was the invisible dangers. The deadly tropical diseases, some possibly undiscovered, festering in the thick layers of bat guano. Thousands of bats swirled around me, their eerie red eyes flashing in my headlamp’s beam. Suddenly, one slammed straight into my face, its tiny claws scraping against my skin. Instinctively, I grabbed it, my heart racing at the thought of a bite. Carefully, I pulled it away and hurled it to the ground, trying not to let my nerves get the best of me.

For 30 minutes, I pushed deeper into the cave, my fearless 8-year-old guides leading the way. Then, we reached a chamber where bat feces had piled up to the ceiling in some areas, an overwhelming sight. The air was thick with ammonia, burning my lungs with every breath. I felt lightheaded, my body screaming for oxygen. I had to get out—fast.

This was not the place to perish.

I turned back immediately, pushing through the waist-deep filth and stumbling toward the exit as fast as I could. When I finally emerged into the humid jungle air, I inhaled deeply, savoring the freshness. The cave had been revolting, suffocating, and outright terrifying—but it was an experience I would never forget. A raw, primal adventure into the unknown.