Escape Velocity

We don’t always go on the official rally tours. I don’t know, how many endless Indonesian speeches can you listen to before you just don’t care anymore? Sultans, governors, village officials, we’ve watched them all drone on and on, but sometimes the organizers get it right. The bus tour of Kumai promised to be one of the good ones, and besides there’s usually some descent swag. The problem is that once they have you on the bus, you’re on for the whole day until the final speech.

At 9:00 am as I motor toward the official rally dock I can already see the usual madness. Dignitaries at the podium, outrageously colorful “authentic costumes”on the dancers and the band, event facilitators desperately trying to hold a constantly evolving situation together.

After a mercifully short welcoming we are herded toward a couple of nice buses, but I can’t help noticing the six motorcycle Polisi, faces covered, with M4 assault weapons hanging from a shoulder mount. Most Indonesian authorities have extremely colorful uniforms. These guys are head to toe in black. I’m thinking this is just a bus load of bum sailors, what the hell is going on here? Turns out Indo TV has been shooting footage of us and as improbable as it seems, we are a very popular segment most every night on television! The ministry of tourism has pulled out all the stops and that kind of explains all the drone shots and taped interviews we’ve done. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief in the knowledge that when the hail of bullets start, Marce, who begged off with a recurrence of back pain, will be safe back on Escape Velocity wondering what is he up to now?

Right now the well armed motorcycle gentlemen in black are motioning for the bus driver to park over there and personally I think we should just do as they say. Turns out the first thing you see is a traditional long house of the Dayaknese Tribe.

These folks are the people that gave us the term Bogeyman due to their remarkable fierceness.

But first a rice wine welcome.

Things are looking up and, fortified, Yours Truly gives the eight foot blow pipe a go, firmly striking the target, all the while remembering not to suck.

More dancing where the bogeyman finally shows up, and a little more rice wine.

Next up, our armed motorcade pulls up to Astana Mangkubumi which features this cute and colorful little prince and princess.

I’ve noticed that these palaces are kind of empty and have a lot of stuff that looks like the Dutch just left it behind. After the buffet lunch we walk down to the Tujuh Putri Water Castle which is better known as the Princess’s Pool and rumor has it that if you dare to rub this filthy water on your skin you will become beautiful. I pass.

I was pretty excited about this next location at the Rainbow Village and when our armed entourage drops us off at their pier we are swamped with requests for selfies with the locals.

We stumble right into the middle of a Refuse Fashion Contest for all ages. Kinda cute and very creative.

Unfortunately it starts to rain as we clamber aboard the local watercraft called a Tuck-Tuck, a one lung diesel, hand cranked, with a tiny propeller at the end of a long shaft that is mostly out of the water. No neutral, no reverse, no transmission, but kinda fun.

Scenes like something on the Nile overwhelm us as we chug by. The view from the river is a bit less painted rainbow, let’s call it just unpainted wood.

The gents in black motion our bus to the car park for the Yellow Palace where the gala dinner will take place. The Sultan is a no-show due to the romancing of his mistress over in Jakarta, which suits me fine, so Yours Truly needn’t change into long pants out of respect. Strange place this Yellow Palace. Once again a kind of empty museum but with a ballroom and grounds where we end up listening to speeches in Indonesian and watching traditional dance. I’m no judge but this show seemed a cut above. I even meet Biruté Galdikas, one of Leakey’s Angels who still runs the Leakey Camp we’d just visited.

It’s well past cruisers’ midnight as the well protected bus pulls into the official rally dock. On the way to Catnip I pick up several stranded cruisers who find they have no way back to their boats so we all pile in bringing to an official end, the official tour.

Day three of the standard three-day tour usually ends early with the guests transported back to the airport in time to catch a flight to Jakarta. We aren’t going anywhere but back to Escape Velocity so on the advice of a friend we negotiated a longer final day. That meant we could putt-putt downriver at a snail’s pace, savoring the early morning quiet and listening for birds and other creatures in the intermittent rainforest drizzle.

Tourists who lack a sense of romance can hire a speedboat to run them all the way to Camp Leakey and back in one day. That kind of noisy and lumpy conveyance doesn’t appeal to us, but to each his own. These were the only two speedboats we saw during our time in the river.

I mentioned that the boat people are a close-knit community and that includes those who live on the river. The owner of the only guest house got married that morning and the bride and groom issued a blanket invitation to the boat folks to stop by and say hello, and bring their klotok guests, too.

We rafted up to a couple of other boats and climbed boat to boat to get to shore where we were offered food and drink and ran a receiving line gauntlet to the resplendent bride and groom.

As I was backing up to take the following photo my flip flop caught on a loose bit of carpet and I did a spectacular half gainer with a double twist ending in a full layout right in the middle of the reception. I expertly missed hitting the drinks tray and bounced right back up but not before a collective gasp punctuated the solemn occcasion, followed by laughter as I raised my arms in the universal I-meant-to-do-that gesture.

I thought maybe we should prevent me from performing any more potentially destructive maneuvers in the middle of a wedding and asked Herman if we could stroll through town. He arranged to have our klotok meet us at the far end and we made our way down the dusty road, with the usual stops for teens wanting to practice English and take photos.

Earlier I praised Yana’s delicious mie goreng, the classic Indonesian fried noodle dish. “Best I ever had,” I told her, and with that she offered to make it again for us. We weren’t supposed to get another meal but Yana got right to work and let me watch and photograph the steps so I can make it at home. True to form, she whipped up several dishes and laid a final extravagant lunch for us as we slowly motored back to reality.

Two hours later we emerged from the quiet river and back to the noisy, dusty port of Kumai. Our Borneo orangutan adventure is over and I just want to turn around and do it again.

Our second tour day took us further upriver to another feeding station with a beautiful walk through the forest. Herman showed us various plants, insects and birds along the way, and at one point he talked about “hairballs” just like Jack’s doctor in Labuan Bajo.

“Hairballs, hairballs,” I’m thinking, “What the — ?” Suddenly it clicked. Herbals! It all makes sense now. Doh.

The river narrowed and we turned off the main channel into an even narrower stream to our final destination, Camp Leakey. On the way Herman and Ivan kept watch for more sightings while we tried to do justice to another of Yana’s delicious meals and Iyeb took care of a few infield repairs.

Sitting on the bow of this klotok, meandering deeper into a dense rain forest, watching and listening and smelling for wildlife was one of the best experiences I’ve had since we’ve been cruising. On our own boat we’re constantly concerned about the boat, our ground tackle, the weather, the tides, always alert to sounds or changes that might indicate a problem. What a joy it was to sit without a care at all, to just appreciate the place and time, the peace and the beauty. Heaven! I think there might be a river life in our future.

Once again the boats congregated at a feeding station. Camp Leakey is where Biruté Baldikas has been studying these orangutans since 1970. A sign at the entrance informed us that it’s the “longest continuous study by one principle investigator into any wild non-human animal in the history of science.” That’s saying something.

For nearly an hour at the feeding station no orangutans showed up, despite the frequent calls by the rangers. Many of the guests left but we’d been advised by travelers we spoke to earlier to be patient and wait for the entire time. Sure enough, just when those few of us who remained started to relax our vow of silence and talk quietly we saw an enormous head poke up from behind the platform, followed by huge shoulders. Then with a great heave the entire body of a giant alpha male launched over the edge and came to rest with authority as a shaggy mountain beside a bucket of milk.

This is Terry, born in 1991 and not to be messed with, I reckon. Even the females who came soon after stayed at the other end of the platform. I don’t blame them. A few minutes later a young female swung through the trees toward the platform but when she saw Terry blocking the way she wisely took the overhead route, expertly judging the flex of the tree against her own weight, landing neatly on the other side.

Once again we stayed for the entire time allowed, just watching the behaviors and interactions.

It started raining on our walk back to the boat, and by the time we were underway it was pouring in earnest. The rain meant we couldn’t do a night walk in the forest because the rain brings fire ants and chases the other animals into their hiding places. We were disappointed but we’d come for the orangutans and they delivered so we’re not complaining.

The crew tarped the sides of the boat and we enjoyed another wonderful meal and slept like babies with the rain drumming a lullaby on the roof.

The island of Borneo is shared by Indonesia and Malaysia, with the tiny nation of Brunei occupying two small bits in the north. Borneo is rich in oil, coal, tin, diamonds, timber and other resources with ecotourism one of its largest economies. It’s the third largest island in the world with diverse and abundant wildlife and plants, many species, like the proboscus monkeys, only found here. Most important for us is that it’s the only place on earth to find the endangered Bornean orangutans. Sadly, palm oil plantations are causing an alarming loss of the ancient rain forest habitat. Many people fear the orangutans’ days are numbered and that’s why we’re here. As Douglas Adams would say, it may be our Last Chance to See.

The people of this region, called Kalimantan, know what they have and a visit to the orangutans is a well-oiled machine. But happily it’s also charming, personal, warm and most of all, protective of the animals and their precious and beautiful habitat. We didn’t at all feel that the experience has been Disneyfied or rushed, and everyone we came in contact with in planning our trip and on the tour itself was genuinely happy that we are here and went out of their way to make our visit as good as can be.

We arrived in Kumai without reservations late Thursday afternoon and I contacted four tour operators that I’d previously reached out to for info, schedule and cost. Within hours we had a three day, two night houseboat tour booked for the next morning and we scrambled to get the boat buttoned up and our small duffles packed.

By 11am Friday we were underway in the Kumai River, getting to know our houseboat and crew. The boats vary in size and style but are fairly standard in accommodation. Guests occupy the upper deck, with front and back sightseeing decks, a mattress in the middle, and a table and chairs aft. The crew (guide, captain, mate and cook) have the lower deck, including the bridge, sleeping/living quarters, and galley. In the back of the boat are a private bathroom for guests with western toilet, shower and sink, and a crew bathroom. Compared to Escape Velocity this houseboat is luxuriously spacious.

As we chugged up the river to our first stop we enjoyed a yummy lunch of local Indonesian food, freshly cooked with ingredients bought at the market just hours before. We were so hungry that we ate every morsel, which in hindsight must have sent the wrong message to our cook Yana because she upped the quantity in subsequent meals until we were often unable to finish the piles of food she put in front of us.

Our guide Herman (lots of Indonesians have European names, a legacy of 300 years of Dutch rule, I guess) kept a lookout for wildlife while we ate. He signaled Ivan the captain who stopped the boat and often maneuvered toward a better viewing angle for whatever we saw, then waited until we were ready to get underway again. As time went on, Jack and I got better at spotting things too, but Herman, with his repertoire of bird and animal calls, and Ivan with his experience and intimate knowledge of the river, never let us miss an opportunity to see whatever was lurking along the shore or in the canopy above.

In a few hours we arrived, along with a dozen or so other boats, at the first feeding station. A short walk through the forest brought us to a wooden platform where rangers dumped a couple of basket loads of bananas to tempt the nearby orangutans out of the trees. The orangutans aren’t dependent on this feeding, we learned, and in fact if none show up it means they found a more preferred food source elsewhere. Often an alpha male comes to the platform just to find some females and isn’t so much interested in the food as he is in the company. Herman told us the Bornean orangutans are more solitary than their Sumatran cousins, who live closer together for safely because of the threat of tigers.

Before long a few moms and babies showed up, along with an not-too-big alpha male.

While the 25 or 30 guests and our guides watched and snapped away in respectful near silence from crude wooden benches, the captains, mates and cooks socialized boat to boat out in the river. It’s a tight knit community and there’s always a helping hand with docking or mechanical issues or close quarter maneuvering.

At the feeding station we happily watched the orangutans for the entire allowed two hours. Jack and Herman and I were the last to leave.

Back on board we were treated to a chilled wet towel and a frosty Coke, much appreciated in these steamy equatorial afternoons.

For the rest of the daylight we spotted proboscus monkeys and other wildlife until just before dark Ivan and mate Iyeb lassoed a couple of pandanus branches and snugged us close to shore for the night.

At any normal rally stop the host community entertains the fleet with cultural presentations, banquets and other tours or activities, all aided by the Department of Tourism and other civic groups. In the case of Lombok, suffering as they are from the recent disasters, we cruisers wanted to keep our footprint and burden as light as possible. Once again force-of-nature Kimi floated the idea of us yachties paying for our own banquet food and adding enough more so that the local community could join us instead of watching the cruisers eat from the sidelines, something we all feel uncomfortable with. We readily agreed and opened out pocketbooks to contribute as much as we could.

The rally organizers reported weeks ago that our hosts said they might be down, but they could still dance, and could they ever. On the big night we had to remind ourselves that most of these folks are likely living in tents, makeshift shelters or with relatives, and yet they paraded to the marina grounds in gorgeous costumes, dancers, drummers and musicians leading the procession of women carrying the dome-covered food trays we’ve become familiar with in Indonesia in the tradition of “eating together.”

The trays of food were spread out over the lawn and we each found a spot to sit and share the generosity of these resilient folks.

After we ate the performers put on a beautiful show of traditional music and dance. We’ve been treated to so many stunning performances and it’s remarkable that each island, each community we visit presents a different style of movement, different traditional costumes, slightly different rhythms and musical riffs.

Indonesia is more varied than we imagined before we came, and seeing this diversity is the best part of joining a rally. Traveling on our own we may have chanced upon some unique celebrations, but having our host communities show us what they’re all about is a privilege.

Kimi gave a speech at the end, in Indonesian no less, thanking the community for welcoming us even in their troubles. Our own traveling community of cruisers could have no better representatives than Kimi and Trevor; mere words can’t express how much we admire their big hearts and generous spirits.

As visa runs go this one looked easy peasy. To navigate the circuitous path through Malaysian bureaucracy we’ll hire a car and driver to take us to Mataram, the capital of Lombok, about an hour and a half away.

We expect to see more evidence of earthquake damage, then up into the mountains for alto buena vista photos, to the west side of the island, where we are promised mechanics and boat parts, some local sights and the Immigration Office where, with any luck at all, we can dress up pretty like we own the joint and renew our visas.

Our driver arrived first thing in the morning and in company with the crew of Erie Spirit we were on our way.

“How is your family?”

“They’re ok, thank god.”

“And your house?”

“Finished.” It’s getting to be more than I can take.

Leaving Medana Bay we found more damage but in a more or less random hit or miss fashion.

In the mountains the only signs of the earthquakes were hastily patched road surfaces to bridge the gap where the roadway no longer matched the level of where it was before the quake. Disconcerting, but nowhere near the devastation of the quake zone.

Mark found a sympathetic mechanic who puzzled out how to repair the problem with his in-mast furler system.

This huge mosque had only slight damage, or is it just a maintenance problem?

Our driver found another temple featuring the ever popular Island Temple in a Large Lake motif.

Of course this would have been even nicer if they hadn’t followed us around asking for more money.

Turns out that before one enters the Immigration building of visa renewal, the guards insist on proper respectable traditional clothing.

The guards would not take no for an answer. Personally I feel that I haven’t got the legs for this kind of look anymore but what the hell. They insisted. I think of it as a when-in-Rome kind of thing. 

All things considered the visa renewal went surprisingly smoothly.

The last stop on the way back home was a deli rumored to have blue cheese, unheard of in Indonesia, and our driver knew right away which place we were talking about. We were impressed right off the bat but as I wandered over to the deli counter, I bent over and could not believe my disbelieving eyes. I know it’s impossible but that looks like apple pie.

“Is that apple pie?”

“Why yes, that’s apple pie.”

“You couldn’t make it á la mode could you?”

“Why yes, we make all our ice cream right in house!”

I tell you, dear Escapees, it was a religious experience. I even think the second piece was better than the first.

You know how the way back home always seems to go quicker? This outing was no exception, tempered by what we knew was waiting for us back in Medana Bay, that feeling of impotence in the face of an overwhelming task while aware of the privilege of knowing we can sail away from this seemingly impossible situation.

As soon as we get back we’ll pitch in again at the school build. Kimi and Trevor and the rest of the core crew continue to put in long days and are starting to look the worse for wear. I don’t know how they do it.

While many of us were feeling daunted by the rebuilding task facing the earthquake victims, there are no-nonsense coiled springs in the rally fleet who leapt into action almost as soon as their feet hit dry land. By the time Jack and I arrived in Lombok, Kimi and Trevor of Slow Flight and a core team of other movers and shakers saw that while the big relief entities had most primary and secondary students studying again in makeshift classrooms, the kindergarten children and their parents were left out with no where to go. In no time they decided to build a temporary schoolhouse for the area’s little ones and the effort was well underway when we arrived.

Cruisers with engineering and building experience put their heads together with local experts in native building techniques and in no time they had a design, got the site cleared, the perimeter laid out and materials ordered and delivered.

While Trevor coordinated the builders, Kimi guided the volunteers who showed up day after day wanting to pitch in.

The buzz of activity also spurred the surrounding community to make headway on their own daunting task of clearing the rubble from their homesites in preparation for rebuilding when relief funds become available. Streets and laneways that were impassable gradually got cleared and defined again. A daily walk to the building site was almost like watching time-lapse photography, so quick was the pace.

All of this comes at a price, of course, and Trevor and Kimi organized a fundraising night at the marina. Cruiser musicians provided the entertainment and all of the boats donated what they could to help pay for materials.

Many of us also lent tools to the effort, and there was a secondary call for donations of food, clothing, and personal care items for some of the more inaccessible villages that haven’t yet been reached by the big relief organizations. Every day we cruisers, aware of our privilege and bounty, brought bags and bags of canned goods, rice and other dry goods from our boats, along with clothes, diapers, and toilet items and whatever else we thought might help, like flashlights, batteries, rope, tarps, and so on. The donations piled up at the marina shelter, got sorted and organized, and eventually delivered via 4-wheel-drive vehicles to remote communities.

No matter what else was going on during the rally stop, work on the school continued all day, every day. The core building crew put in 10 and 12 hour days to finish what Kimi described as an “achievable goal.” To us older folks with worn out knees and aching backs it only seemed achievable by the younger among us. And boy did they work hard! Even the kids pitched in and while everyone put in what hours they could moving debris piles, clearing pathways, sorting bamboo poles and whatever else we could, the bulk of the work was done by the strong backs and nimble hands of youth. They were a force of nature, driven by a desire to leave the place better for having been there.

The kids and moms started to gather at the site as soon as a space was cleared for them and I think their presence was a constant inspiration to the weary builders.

With a profound sense of foreboding we stepped ashore in Medana Bay, Lombok. Evidence of earthquake stress waves were everywhere but I guess I expected much worse. Of course the marina is gone except for the small floating dock we’d just tied up to, but there were decent temporary structures that will make do. There were reports from the other cruisers that it’s pretty bad in town, a short hot walk from the marina, and that’s where we’re heading. Survival tents are a clue of what’s ahead. 

As we walked, the closer to the town we got, the scope of the devastation got worse. Pretty bad hardly describes what has happened here.

A once thriving market place was almost erased.

It seems that many families are either afraid to live in their houses or their houses are rubble.

In every interaction the dialog is the same.

“How is your family?”

“They are ok, thank god.”

“And your house?”

“Finished.”

At first we thought great, the reconstruction is going really well. Then it dawned on us. “Finished” means gone, obliterated. 

People told us the initial disaster response from domestic and foreign aid agencies was quick and comprehensive with shelter, food, water, and medical assistance, but moving the rubble out of the way just so you can walk is a monumental, overwhelming task. I saw an old woman frozen in place, shoulders slumped, head hanging down, holding a small piece of concrete in the middle of a head-high pile of rubble, seemingly unable to decide what to do with it. The government has promised relief funds for rebuilding but, well you know, you apply and then you wait for the wheels of bureaucracy to turn. The people we talked to aren’t holding their breath.

The concrete block masonry construction techniques are pretty good in a cyclone but just don’t fare well in an earthquake.

We feel so inadequate and helpless with total devastation all around us. What can we do in just a few days?

Back in early August when we arrived in Bandneira we heard the news that Lombok, one of our scheduled rally stops, and an island described in guidebooks as “like Bali used to be,” had suffered an earthquake. We combed the news for details and asked our organizers if we would still make the stop, figuring an island struggling for basic needs didn’t need 42 foreign yachts showing up expecting a party.

A week later the same island was hit with another, bigger, 7.0 earthquake causing hundreds of deaths and heavy destruction. For weeks, wave after wave of aftershocks continue to rock the island and we asked daily if it was wise to descend on a devastated community. “We’ll let you know,” we were told, again and again.

As we monitored the situation the fleet carried on to Buton, to Flores, to Labuanbajo and Komodo. Three weeks after the largest aftershock we were assured that yes, we will still go to Lombok. In fact, we were told, the hosts begged the rally not to cancel. They were knocked down, they told our organizers, “but we can still dance.”

After Komodo we had a few hundred miles to go to Lombok, a coastal journey complicated by the usual fishing nets, unmarked floating FADS, and squid boats, plus adverse currents and less-than-ideal anchorages. Jack was still recovering from his infection and the after effects of antibiotics so we intended to take it easy to the extent we could and daysail it.

For some of the journey we sailed in the company of Lane and Kay on Mai Tai. The weather, if not the wind, cooperated for the most part and we had pleasant days and quiet nights.

The anchorages along Sambawa are deep with a very narrow shallow shelf close to shore. At night our challenge was to get over the shelf and our anchor dug in with enough chain to keep us there but not enough to swing too close to land in case the wind changed 180°. Most nights we managed. We monitored our position with our charts and also by noting where Mai Tai was relative to us.

One dark night I awoke for no discernible reason and went out on deck to appreciate the magnificent starry sky. I couldn’t see Mai Tai and became disoriented in the fun-house blackness. Were we turned around? Am I looking in the wrong place? I checked the chart. No, Mai Tai should be right over there, and yet I couldn’t see an anchor light. Odd, I thought, and I woke Jack.

“Mai Tai’s gone,” I said, and I pointed to where they should be. Jack checked our position, as I had, and we both wondered if they decided to weigh anchor and leave. It was a puzzle, but all was well aboard EV so we went back to bed.

When the sun rose we spotted Mai Tai about a quarter mile off shore, bobbing peacefully. I hailed them on the radio. “Did you move?” I asked, and after a pause Lane answered, “Yeah, we just noticed that.” Turns out the weight of their chain pulled the anchor off the narrow shelf and with chain and anchor dangling down in 200+ feet of water the heavy boat just drifted slowly away from land in the windless hours overnight. It was lucky that there were no obstacles to hit and aside from a bit of a scare, no harm no foul. But holy cow!

The next night we faced the very same anchoring conditions, and both boats took extra care to be well over the shelf with enough scope to hold but not enough to fall off into deep water. About 3am something in the motion of the boat woke me and once again out on deck I couldn’t see Mai Tai where I thought she should be. I checked our position on the chart and whoops! EV had drifted slowly away from land, chain and anchor dangling straight down and touching nothing.

In a repeat of the previous night I awoke Jack, but this time we pulled up the anchor and inched slowly back toward shore. It was inky black with near zero visibility, and with me at the helm Jack stood in the bow and called back instructions as he gently guided us toward the now visible anchor light of Mai Tai. Since they were still safely stuck to the shelf we wanted to get as close to them as we could without endangering either boat.

As you can see, charts of Indonesia don’t have much detail. We have to rely on satellite images when we can get them, EV’s depth sounders, and our own senses and experience. These two nights taught us that even in perfectly calm conditions it’s possible to drag or drift into unsafe territory and only the luck afforded to spunky fools by the sailing gods kept us from potential disaster.

We weren’t looking forward to crossing the Alas Strait to Lombok, known for a strong current and a southern inter-island venturi that kicks the seas up. We monitored the boats crossing ahead of us and marked the chart where they reported getting suddenly slammed with high winds, and also where the wind died just as suddenly. We plotted a course that would put the high wind on the best quarter and waited, as we usually do, for the most favorable conditions. Our care paid off and while it was still an uncomfortable couple of hours, we dropped anchor behind a low island in calm water for our last night underway on this journey.

The following day as we motorsailed along the northern coast of Lombok we trained the binoculars along the shore and began to see what we could only conclude was earthquake damage. Villages marked on the chart seemed to be completely missing, and it dawned on us that bright white mounds were in fact piles of rubble from collapsed buildings. We were passing the area most affected by the quake and I felt heavy in my heart.

The anchorage at Medana Bay is long and narrow, squeezed between two reefs extending well off shore. We dropped anchor toward the back of those who had already arrived, happy to be safely hooked but dreading what we would find when we landed.