Gift from an Island Chief

Bright sunlight spilled through the hatch, and a loud swishing sound resounded though our twin hulls, surprising me awake. Scrambling up on deck, my head felt foggy. I was bolted awake when I saw the swift current ripping past Scud, our St. Francis 13.5 meter catamaran. We were riding in one massive washing machine. Six knots of current clawed at our hulls, and Scud was going like a train before a gusty southeast breeze up the narrow Straits of Boling in the Savu Sea

Situated in the far eastern archipelago of Indonesia, the Straits of Boling are much like an underground saltwater river, which set north and south in the Indian Ocean, 800 km northeast of Darwin. Currents can reach up to ten knots, but Peter had perfectly timed the set, using the moonrise against the longitude of the strait. Gripping the helm, his furrowed brow gave me that intent look of concentration, but when his face spread into a wide grin that spit his face in two, his gaiety was infectious, and I yelled yeah baby! into the wind.

“Nearly there,” he said with a tingle of excitement. I peered ahead around the genoa to see Kawula Island looming just ahead in the salty mist. The hairs of my neck stood on end, as I took in the view before me. The island was set against the backdrop of an immense volcano that jutted from a shimmering sea of azure crystalline waters. From the volcano summit wafted tendrils of smoke that disappeared into the cloudless, indigo-blue sky. At the volcano base were two native men drifting in a dug-out canoe, slapping long paddles on still waters, stunning fish into nets. Riding the morning breeze came a fragrance of wood smoke and sweet earth. The surreal and magical beauty of it all threw me into sensory overload. As I passed Peter his morning tea, we sat mesmerized, anticipating our landfall at Kawula, an island relatively untouched where bare footpaths stitch villages together.

Spreading 5,000 km east to west over an area roughly the distance across mainland China, Indonesia offers more than 18,000 islands to explore. They dip and rise across the equator like emeralds jutting from a sea of steaming volcanoes – Indonesia has 400 volcanoes, 130 which are active. The country is soaked in colorful history: Merchants arrived from Arabia in ocean-going dhows, and from the Orient in reed boats, seeking their fortune in the lucrative spice trade of clove and nutmeg. When Vasco de Gama sailed around the Cape of Good Hope, opening up the first sea-route for European ships, word was out that riches could be had, and the Portuguese quickly gained control of the spice trade from the Hindu kingdoms. It was the Dutch East India Company that finally supplanted the Portuguese, remaining in power until Independence in 1947. Exotic yarns of sword-wielding Sultans, turbaned Sheiks, and the powerful Dutch are still told today by raconteurs in sailors’ yacht clubs.

We rounded a rugged limestone outcropping, as Peter swung the helm to come into the wind to strike the mainsail and genoa. We skimmed around bombies (coral heads) that eat anchors, and long lines of plastic soda bottles that were tied to shiny strands of floating seaweed. A glistening white beach fringed in coconut palms appeared before us, flanked by tropical hardwoods on both ends. In the background rose a patchwork of hills scored with the furrows of cultivation. The only signs of village life were the myriad of wisps and spidery films of smoke that intertwined and writhed on the hot morning air. It was a scene that might have stepped out of a Chinese painting.

VILLAGE JAUNT

With little Bella, our new Schipperke puppy, we headed ashore to stretch our legs. Our rucksack was loaded to the gunnels with peanut-butter biscuits, toothbrushes, pen and paper for the kids. The nearest ‘Tesco’ for the villagers was 800km west towards Bali – a month’s journey by sailing dug-out, while stopping to visit kin along the way.

We followed the long stretch of beach until coming under the shadow of a great banyan tree draped over the water’s edge. Behind it, we peered to discover a skinny goat trail half-obliterated by bush. Taking it, we watched our own feet appear and disappear magically below us in the tall grasses that enfolded them. We passed burnt piles of coconut husks, cornfields lying in fallow, and fields of tall grass. The footpath ended at a hut of latticed bamboo and thatched straw. Outside stood a woman bent over the task of thrashing rice in a courtyard of pressed earth. We slowly approached, arms extended in greeting. A toddler, wrapped in the shadow of her spindly legs, broke into sobs from abject terror – we were new and foreign to him.

Quickly, I expanded a blue balloon to amuse him, striding gently over to say in Bahasa Indonesian, “Salami- pagi, good morning”. Betal-juice, a natural bush stimulant, oozed from the mother’s scarlet lips, and her face was etched in dry riverbeds of sun. Upon receiving his new toy and biscuit, the little boys’ fat tears dried up, and he stretched out his tiny palm for more, with a grin as sweet as honey erupting across his moon-face.

We continued down the dirt trail, passing old men squatting in cool shade, and two women bent under the weight of kindling gathered in the far forest. They giggled as we passed. Cackling geese wandered by; cows chewed cud while tied to bush; dogs began to announce our impending arrival.

News travels fast in a village, like silent whispers strung onto the breeze, rapping on hidden doors. Soon a young girl with sparkling teeth, and liquid brown eyes rimmed in Kohl approached, leading us to the chief’s hut, where a crowd of jubilant children waited. A tall man with a warm demeanor greeted us, as two rickety chairs were quickly placed like thrones before him. Lowering ourselves to sit, a sea of writhing, gangly arms and legs enveloped us. Peter expanded the balloons to entertain them, as I opened out rucksack of homemade biscuits. Screaming, pushing pandemonium ensued, and upon receiving the balloons, a cacophony of squeaking balloons erupted, sounding like a New Years celebration. Two hundred biscuits disappeared in two seconds. We played games; practiced Indonesian with their English phrases of: “Hello Mister; how are you? My name is; what’s yours?” The chief was grateful. “You make the children very happy,” he exclaimed animatedly, regarding us in knowing amusement.

“May I show you my village?” asked the chief’s daughter, after a prompt from her father. Standing at the new Catholic Church built of cement block (instead of traditional bamboo and straw), she said proudly, “Better for the tsunamis.” Kawula had been hit hard by the tsunami of 1992, which swept away coastal villages in nearby Flores Island, drowning 2,000. Although Muslim is the predominate religion of Indonesia, Hinduism, and Buddhism are commonly practiced, in addition to Christianity.

Meandering through a shadowed warren of alleyways between thatched huts, we heard them before we saw them. Rounding a corner into an open courtyard, a group of women knelt at a well in a pool of fizzy bubbles, chanting softly and singing, while scrubbing homespun clothes. Their eyes shot up, as we approached. Gossipy whispers were cut short, and jocular children halted midair from water games. The air was suffused with a soapy fragrance, and I watched like a placid infant transfixed on a mobile, awaiting their reaction. “The well is from the Canadians, after the tsunami,” our female guide said during the ensuing silence. But the women’s’ faces broke into beaming smiles, and I prickled with pleasure, infused with desire to grab my own mountain of laundry to jump in – my lone soapy bucket on the boat was not much fun. It didn’t even talk.

At the village garden, we peered to see empty cornfields that gave way to strong rice fields. Because much of Kawula Island supported steep slopes and mangrove swamps, green vegetables were difficult to grow, so the villagers harvested seaweed from the harbor to provide them with a complete diet. I made a mental note to request a bunch before our departure.

We returned to the village center, where a meal had been arranged on large banana leaves. A heavy fish odor jetted from two old men who huddled over a meal of rice, fish, and seaweed, rich with the aroma of fragrant spices. Next to them were large black kettles over charcoal braziers simmering with green curried soup.

RETURN

Shadows began to lengthen, as we said our goodbyes. The village chief “The children; so happy,” he repeated. As we turned to go, he handed me a chambered nautilus shell with reddish stripes, lined in mother-of pearl, the size of a dinner plate. It was a rare find, as they reside at ocean depths of 550 meters, rising to the surface at night to feed on fishes and shrimp. My heart swelled, and I stifled a cry before bleating an inadequate thank-you. It was a munificent gift – I’d strolled many remote beaches for long hours in hot sun searching for such a find.

As we emerged back onto the beach, a platoon of jubilant children hung in our shadows, lifting in song to a tune from their forefathers. They chased after Bella, tossing her sticks, amazed she could fetch. Their chorus of giggles was music to my ears.

In the sandy void against waning light, strode a man on the beach, towing a dug-out at the water’s edge. In it, sat a mother and child with all their earthly possessions – in one canoe. He flashed me a toothy grin, as we passed in greeting. A shout came, and I turned to see a fisherman behind us, offering handfuls of glossy seaweed, harvested from the shallows. Beside him strolled a mother of such beauty, she could be a Vogue model. Bandaged around her was a young boy, and attached to her side, a young girl balanced a large plastic tub atop her head with the help of her mother. Together they chortled, and tickled each other, ambling down the beach. The beach was one big sandy lane, stitching the village together.

Aboard Scud, I placed my gift from the chief upon our salon table, knowing I’d always recall precious lessons learned in a rustic village, where time stood still beneath the rubber tree; where family measured one’s value in life, not possessions. For how many possessions could I carry in my own boat, much less a lone canoe?