The second: by land.
The road in and out of town lies through the mountains. The bus station is just outside of town, to ensure that locals get a chance to make a few dollars ferrying travelers. The interior of the bus station is dim, even in broad daylight. Groaning, drunk men lie there, recovering from a pounding by the local arrack. The road winds quickly down and quickly up through Ende, spending as little time as possible in the city, which is a surly collection of long, hot roads. There isn’t much open in Ende.
The third: by seeing.
There is the sleepy town of Ende. There are the shuttered businesses of Ende. There are the villages of Ende that rise upward towards the mountain. There is the Ende that is left to fall down by itself. There is nothing in the eyes of people in Ende. There is only a flicker of anger, of resentment towards the traveler. Here is a city perpetually on the edge of violence.
Most travelers pass through. They do not spend even a night in this town. There is too much of something close to death. It could be the moment before death. Waiting for the inevitable final breath, knowing it is coming, but not quite knowing when.
