Sensations of the Islands
April 30, 2010
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Chriswan Sungkono travels through the islands of Eastern Indonesia for a date with a dragon. A big one.
We alight from the boat on the wooden jetty at just the precise moment to greet the rising sun. It's that kind of salubrious morning everyone can be cheerful about. Never mind that last night all 17 of us slept – or tried to – in a condition I guess we had only ever imagined before: lying side by side, just inches between us, on thin damp mattresses and hard flat pillows tattered from overuse, under a tarpaulin roof. Our small boat has no cabin, except for the captain's cramped quarters.
We are on the island-hopping "Komodo Boat Trip", whose climax is obviously to see the Komodo dragons in their original habitat, the Komodo National Park.
That's not what it's all about, though. According to our itinerary, we'll stroll around several other small islands and snorkel in their crystal-clear waters during our four-day journey. Sounds utterly exhilarating.
The captain of the boat brought us here to Pulau Medang, which is not on our list of islands to visit, simply because he wants to see his family. His cheerful daughter proudly trots alongside him as he walks through the age-old Bugis-Makassarese settlement. The girl looks exultant to have her father back; in a couple of hours, they must part again.
Venturing inland, passing rows and rows of stilted houses, we are barraged by calls of "Hello, Mister!" from the kids. An amiable family invites my companion and me in for a short stop in their backyard, where preparations for a feast seem to be underway.
"We're having a wedding party next Thursday," says a young mother as she serves us sweet, steamy tea and homemade cookies. "Please, take a bite. No need to rush, your boat won't leave without its captain."
Almost two hours later our boat approaches Pulau Moyo, best known among laypeople as the place where Princess Di once slept inside a tent (at the ultraplush Amanwana resort, that is). But there's more to the island than just the resort. Underwater, it's clear as day, although on this section of the island (the other is exclusively for the well-heeled) the marine life scarcely impresses.
"You'll see much better sea life on the other islands we're going to," says Yoyo, our so-called guide whose role involves no more than uttering a few short introductory sentences to a place before retiring to his cabin to sleep or smoke a joint. The guy sucks, but never mind. We're here to see the waterfall.
Walking for several minutes along a narrow path strewn with yellowing leaves and broken stems, we reach the waterfall. Coming close to it requires treading a lean, semicircular slice of rock bounded by a murky pool (my companion calls it the "pool of death") to the right and a vertical drop into an even larger pool to the left. For those of us who decide to brave it, the reward of a refreshingly cool stream of water awaits. It's also easy to climb to the source and take a dip in one of the huge pools several meters above the waterfall.
Lunch is served on board as we sail to Pulau Satonda. It turns out that Yoyo is doing the cooking, assisted by some teenaged deckhands. We sit cross-legged around the edges of the front deck as trays of very basic food (usually egg- or noodle-based) are carried to the center. Like our first dinner, this lunch contains no meat – good thing for our vegetarian friends. Yoyo is certainly more of a cook than guide for us, although we enjoy his dishes more because of our hunger than their flavor. But so long as there's beer, contentment never strays too far.
A riot of shifting colors bursts outside my mask as I plunge into Satonda's waters. Excellent visibility means we never run out of reef fish and healthy anemones to entertain us as we swim beachward. A school of enormous long-finned batfish loiters underneath the jetty, undaunted by my presence.
Satonda boasts a saltwater lake that purportedly has the supernatural power of reinvigorating the weary and the old, and can grant the wishes of the sincere – provided they remember to grab anything they can get from the lakeside and tie it on a branch. Predictably, the fringing trees brim with dangling ornaments from the truly inventive (two coral remnants shaped as a lingga embraced by a yoni) to the single-handedly stupid (soft-drink can).
From late afternoon till morning, our boat's engines never cease toiling against the choppy tide of the treacherous Flores Sea. Throughout the squally night we rock back and forth in every direction. Trying to sleep alongside 12 other people on a totally cramped upper deck is one thing; doing it as you struggle to contain your queasiness amid endless vibrations of the engines is a completely different proposition.
* * *
We get up feeling more spent than refreshed. The boat has been moving through a safer, more serene section of water since dawn. Now within sight of a stretch of rugged islets, the boat is sailing smoothly, as if sliding on a bed of silk.
We start the day trekking Gili Laba (aka Gili Lawa). The climb is strenuous – consistent walking brings you to the top in about 20 minutes – and the path is scorchingly dusty, yet the view from the pinnacle is unbeatably magnificent. It rewards you with much more than you give it. Gili Laba's crescent-shaped bay sports an azure hue that crashes head-on with the copper-toned aridity of the nearby islands. The sheet of sea feels so close I can almost trace the texture of the waves and pick up the tiny vessels with my fingers. I take pictures as if obsessed, but shortly realize no photograph can do justice to this dramatic landscape. Some images just have to be recorded in my memory, not in my memory card.
While we stand dumbstruck by the hilltop scenery, our captain hunts in the waters with a spear. He emerges from the sea with eight big fish tied to a rope, including an adult sweetlip and an obscenely fat grouper.
Feasting on the fish and enjoying the panorama of clouds, mountains and white-sand beaches reflected in the glossy sea surface, we finally arrive at Red Beach on Pulau Komodo, "the best place to snorkel", says Yoyo. Without further ado, we jump into the water with masks and snorkels, welcomed by a gamut of hard and soft corals and an assortment of reef fish. My companion and I swim along with the strong current to the beach – whose sands indeed cast a pinkish hue – but spend a lot of energy getting back to the boat after that, against the same current.
In between our destinations, those who tire of mingling, talking and drinking with the others on the front deck often crawl onto the upper deck, any time of day, to read a novel or the ubiquitous Lonely Planet, apply sun cream, or sleep. Thus the upper deck, far from being avoided, gradually becomes our haven of respite.
While sleeping is quite easy to do, relieving ourselves is not. The latrine, located at the rear, is so constrictive (it's not even a meter square) that the knees of a tall person squatting on the porcelain toilet (should he manage) will bump against the wooden wall he's facing. The floor is constantly drenched – hopefully that's water – and there's nothing else there but a roll of cheap toilet paper and a bucket of seawater to flush one's waste directly out to sea.
"Having to go once a day is punishment already," quips Antoinette, a passenger from the Netherlands.
Punishment, indeed, for choosing the tour with the lowest price. Probably I should opt for the second cheapest next time.
* * *
The landscape of Komodo, observed under the bright afternoon sun, is mystifying. I've been in the wilderness many times before, but here the soil, the vegetation, even the atmosphere convey a markedly intense nuance of wildness. I would believe it if someone told me a baby brontosaurus had just glanced at us through the twigs.
For a full hour, everything I see on this island puts a spell on me. I don't care that we encounter zero komodo during our short trek. (Not to worry: Eventually we see several hanging around the tourist information center near the front gate.) This place is otherworldly.
My purchase of french fries on Komodo ignites a candid conversation on the boat, involving rows and explanations and then the unanimous admission by our Dutch and Austrian friends – even the French – that the Belgians make the world's best fries (and not the French). The conversation snowballs from there as we discuss issues ranging from food to fundamentalism, and the day weaves itself into night.
This third night, after watching thousands of flying foxes tear through the twilight sky as they go hunting, we sleep like babies. With no night voyage to make, the boat sits motionless on the calm sea. It feels like sleeping on land.
The next morning the captain finds some difficulty starting up one of the engines. Unable to fix it and pressed by the passengers to get going (missing the dragons on our last day of voyage simply because we're late would sound ridiculous), after two hours he decides to steer the boat, with only one engine running, toward Pulau Rinca.
As foretold by Hubertus, our youngest deckhand, we find it much easier to spot wild komodos in Rinca.
"It's because of their distribution. The dragons here are isolated naturally within the valley. In Komodo they roam the whole island," explains our guide. "Rinca practically has a higher komodo concentration."
Our guide is extremely conversant with komodos and skilful at detecting their presence. He points out for us nearly 20 komodos in the wild – juveniles, fully grown males, several adult females guarding their nests, plus a baby hidden from our sight as it hangs from a lofty branch. The biggest, however, sprawl near the information center, including "Big Boss". At 2.97 meters long, he's the largest dragon on the island.
For our farewell party, Yoyo slaughters the chicken he'd bought while our minibus took us from Mataram, in Lombok, to the port. Before finally going to chicken heaven, the hen had spent the whole voyage sitting terrified in a corner – the only creature that remained alive among our food supplies.
This "special lunch with meat" comes late in the day. Hungry though we all are, we're not really looking forward to this ultimate lunch, but rather to reaching Labuanbajo, our final port of call. After swimming in the sea so many times during the past three days, without showering even once, we long for nothing so much as a freshwater shower to rid us of the salt deposits on our skin.
Before sunset, we alight at the jetty of Labuanbajo, steeped in exotic, if not life-altering, experiences to brag about back home. But that's for later. Right now, a whole set of new adventures on Flores awaits. First would be finding decent rooms to sleep off the fatigue on this overcrowded chunk of land – but land, nevertheless.
We are on the island-hopping "Komodo Boat Trip", whose climax is obviously to see the Komodo dragons in their original habitat, the Komodo National Park.
That's not what it's all about, though. According to our itinerary, we'll stroll around several other small islands and snorkel in their crystal-clear waters during our four-day journey. Sounds utterly exhilarating.
The captain of the boat brought us here to Pulau Medang, which is not on our list of islands to visit, simply because he wants to see his family. His cheerful daughter proudly trots alongside him as he walks through the age-old Bugis-Makassarese settlement. The girl looks exultant to have her father back; in a couple of hours, they must part again.
Venturing inland, passing rows and rows of stilted houses, we are barraged by calls of "Hello, Mister!" from the kids. An amiable family invites my companion and me in for a short stop in their backyard, where preparations for a feast seem to be underway.
"We're having a wedding party next Thursday," says a young mother as she serves us sweet, steamy tea and homemade cookies. "Please, take a bite. No need to rush, your boat won't leave without its captain."
Almost two hours later our boat approaches Pulau Moyo, best known among laypeople as the place where Princess Di once slept inside a tent (at the ultraplush Amanwana resort, that is). But there's more to the island than just the resort. Underwater, it's clear as day, although on this section of the island (the other is exclusively for the well-heeled) the marine life scarcely impresses.
"You'll see much better sea life on the other islands we're going to," says Yoyo, our so-called guide whose role involves no more than uttering a few short introductory sentences to a place before retiring to his cabin to sleep or smoke a joint. The guy sucks, but never mind. We're here to see the waterfall.
Walking for several minutes along a narrow path strewn with yellowing leaves and broken stems, we reach the waterfall. Coming close to it requires treading a lean, semicircular slice of rock bounded by a murky pool (my companion calls it the "pool of death") to the right and a vertical drop into an even larger pool to the left. For those of us who decide to brave it, the reward of a refreshingly cool stream of water awaits. It's also easy to climb to the source and take a dip in one of the huge pools several meters above the waterfall.
Lunch is served on board as we sail to Pulau Satonda. It turns out that Yoyo is doing the cooking, assisted by some teenaged deckhands. We sit cross-legged around the edges of the front deck as trays of very basic food (usually egg- or noodle-based) are carried to the center. Like our first dinner, this lunch contains no meat – good thing for our vegetarian friends. Yoyo is certainly more of a cook than guide for us, although we enjoy his dishes more because of our hunger than their flavor. But so long as there's beer, contentment never strays too far.
A riot of shifting colors bursts outside my mask as I plunge into Satonda's waters. Excellent visibility means we never run out of reef fish and healthy anemones to entertain us as we swim beachward. A school of enormous long-finned batfish loiters underneath the jetty, undaunted by my presence.
Satonda boasts a saltwater lake that purportedly has the supernatural power of reinvigorating the weary and the old, and can grant the wishes of the sincere – provided they remember to grab anything they can get from the lakeside and tie it on a branch. Predictably, the fringing trees brim with dangling ornaments from the truly inventive (two coral remnants shaped as a lingga embraced by a yoni) to the single-handedly stupid (soft-drink can).
From late afternoon till morning, our boat's engines never cease toiling against the choppy tide of the treacherous Flores Sea. Throughout the squally night we rock back and forth in every direction. Trying to sleep alongside 12 other people on a totally cramped upper deck is one thing; doing it as you struggle to contain your queasiness amid endless vibrations of the engines is a completely different proposition.
* * *
We get up feeling more spent than refreshed. The boat has been moving through a safer, more serene section of water since dawn. Now within sight of a stretch of rugged islets, the boat is sailing smoothly, as if sliding on a bed of silk.
We start the day trekking Gili Laba (aka Gili Lawa). The climb is strenuous – consistent walking brings you to the top in about 20 minutes – and the path is scorchingly dusty, yet the view from the pinnacle is unbeatably magnificent. It rewards you with much more than you give it. Gili Laba's crescent-shaped bay sports an azure hue that crashes head-on with the copper-toned aridity of the nearby islands. The sheet of sea feels so close I can almost trace the texture of the waves and pick up the tiny vessels with my fingers. I take pictures as if obsessed, but shortly realize no photograph can do justice to this dramatic landscape. Some images just have to be recorded in my memory, not in my memory card.
While we stand dumbstruck by the hilltop scenery, our captain hunts in the waters with a spear. He emerges from the sea with eight big fish tied to a rope, including an adult sweetlip and an obscenely fat grouper.
Feasting on the fish and enjoying the panorama of clouds, mountains and white-sand beaches reflected in the glossy sea surface, we finally arrive at Red Beach on Pulau Komodo, "the best place to snorkel", says Yoyo. Without further ado, we jump into the water with masks and snorkels, welcomed by a gamut of hard and soft corals and an assortment of reef fish. My companion and I swim along with the strong current to the beach – whose sands indeed cast a pinkish hue – but spend a lot of energy getting back to the boat after that, against the same current.
In between our destinations, those who tire of mingling, talking and drinking with the others on the front deck often crawl onto the upper deck, any time of day, to read a novel or the ubiquitous Lonely Planet, apply sun cream, or sleep. Thus the upper deck, far from being avoided, gradually becomes our haven of respite.
While sleeping is quite easy to do, relieving ourselves is not. The latrine, located at the rear, is so constrictive (it's not even a meter square) that the knees of a tall person squatting on the porcelain toilet (should he manage) will bump against the wooden wall he's facing. The floor is constantly drenched – hopefully that's water – and there's nothing else there but a roll of cheap toilet paper and a bucket of seawater to flush one's waste directly out to sea.
"Having to go once a day is punishment already," quips Antoinette, a passenger from the Netherlands.
Punishment, indeed, for choosing the tour with the lowest price. Probably I should opt for the second cheapest next time.
* * *
The landscape of Komodo, observed under the bright afternoon sun, is mystifying. I've been in the wilderness many times before, but here the soil, the vegetation, even the atmosphere convey a markedly intense nuance of wildness. I would believe it if someone told me a baby brontosaurus had just glanced at us through the twigs.
For a full hour, everything I see on this island puts a spell on me. I don't care that we encounter zero komodo during our short trek. (Not to worry: Eventually we see several hanging around the tourist information center near the front gate.) This place is otherworldly.
My purchase of french fries on Komodo ignites a candid conversation on the boat, involving rows and explanations and then the unanimous admission by our Dutch and Austrian friends – even the French – that the Belgians make the world's best fries (and not the French). The conversation snowballs from there as we discuss issues ranging from food to fundamentalism, and the day weaves itself into night.
This third night, after watching thousands of flying foxes tear through the twilight sky as they go hunting, we sleep like babies. With no night voyage to make, the boat sits motionless on the calm sea. It feels like sleeping on land.
The next morning the captain finds some difficulty starting up one of the engines. Unable to fix it and pressed by the passengers to get going (missing the dragons on our last day of voyage simply because we're late would sound ridiculous), after two hours he decides to steer the boat, with only one engine running, toward Pulau Rinca.
As foretold by Hubertus, our youngest deckhand, we find it much easier to spot wild komodos in Rinca.
"It's because of their distribution. The dragons here are isolated naturally within the valley. In Komodo they roam the whole island," explains our guide. "Rinca practically has a higher komodo concentration."
Our guide is extremely conversant with komodos and skilful at detecting their presence. He points out for us nearly 20 komodos in the wild – juveniles, fully grown males, several adult females guarding their nests, plus a baby hidden from our sight as it hangs from a lofty branch. The biggest, however, sprawl near the information center, including "Big Boss". At 2.97 meters long, he's the largest dragon on the island.
For our farewell party, Yoyo slaughters the chicken he'd bought while our minibus took us from Mataram, in Lombok, to the port. Before finally going to chicken heaven, the hen had spent the whole voyage sitting terrified in a corner – the only creature that remained alive among our food supplies.
This "special lunch with meat" comes late in the day. Hungry though we all are, we're not really looking forward to this ultimate lunch, but rather to reaching Labuanbajo, our final port of call. After swimming in the sea so many times during the past three days, without showering even once, we long for nothing so much as a freshwater shower to rid us of the salt deposits on our skin.
Before sunset, we alight at the jetty of Labuanbajo, steeped in exotic, if not life-altering, experiences to brag about back home. But that's for later. Right now, a whole set of new adventures on Flores awaits. First would be finding decent rooms to sleep off the fatigue on this overcrowded chunk of land – but land, nevertheless.
Baca Selengkapnya ....
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