One afternoon of this was enough to convince us we weren’t going to find what we had come this far for here. Returning to the airport we booked a flight east to Sumbawa, where hopefully a couple of determined pilgrims could find some remnants of the magic and romance these islands have been enveloped in throughout history. 

The first half of the next morning was wasted away at the terminal, repugnant with the smoke of a thousand clove cigarettes. At noon the long anticipated flight announcement finally came. Our enthusiasm returned as we were led out to a row of glistening aircraft representing carrier’s that took a little pride in their planes. But expectations diminished as we proceeded past all them, where behind the last shiny transport sat a decrepit tub of a prop job begging to be painted, washed or just scrapped. Its fuselage suffered leprosy, and its interior smelled so rancid we gave serious thought to using our airsickness bags as breathing filters. The tattered curtain between the passengers and crew was intentionally propped open so the co-pilot could reach back and flick his cigarette ash on the soiled carpeting. There was no flight attendant and no safety belts. I’m sure if we wanted to we could have ridden on top. 

We had no sooner landed on Sumbawa’s neglected grass field when its sole official posted a CLOSED sign on the runway, indicating he had plans for the rest of the day. He then paraded us past gawking onlookers who weren’t sure if we were his guests or his prisoners, and in to his office to complete the copious reams of paperwork required of each foreigner whenever their location changes by more than shouting distance, a process that took almost an hour. After meticulously recording every detail down to our brand of lip balm, he personally escorted us to his brother’s house using an in-law’s taxi, where we negotiated for the long trip to the other side of the island. There we would parlay with his cousin for a boat out to where we were would have a Catalina-size island to ourselves. All this bargaining and for, at most, a dollar or two given the hyper-inflated exchange rate. Our conversion of  $500 US on Bali had made us instant Indo-millionaires, almost necessitating a hay wagon to pile all the bales of six-cent notes into.

Sumbawa is two islands distant but a world away from Bali in every other aspect, an agrarian culture blissfully absent of any form of modernity. Scattered among its magnificently terraced landscape field workers peaked out from under lampshade hats while the heavy work of contouring, stump pulling, plowing and fertilizing is still performed by an age old, long-perfected  invention – the Asian water buffalo. This was what we had naively thought Bali was going to be. Sumbawa had gloriously escaped the ravages of outside influences and remained unimpressed with the twentieth century in general. The land is as revered as the source of all life that it truly is; to neglect or abuse it could result in famine, which still occurs occasionally despite the best of efforts. Here no one is in any hurry to get anywhere else. One typical eighteen year old we met had never ventured any further than fifteen miles from his home, nor had he any desires to.

Mule-carted to the far side of the island, we eventually arrived at a small seaside cluster of plank and palm shacks flanked by sad outriggers draped in dark fishing nets, like widows in mourning. Our driver introduced us to his quiet and diminutive cousin Pena, who was to be our escort on Moyo. Pena had just returned from a lengthy fishing excursion and wanted nothing more than some time with his family, but couldn’t think of refusing a rare guaranteed wage. Sensing his dilemma we took an instant empathy with and liking to him, and promised not to detain him too long. It was unfortunately against local policy for non-natives to be left alone on the island, despite our pleas to just be dropped off. But as things turned out, Pena would end up a lifesaver. Literally. His dowdy mother-in-law officiated the trip negotiations - a very solemn affair done over tea with an air of propriety I imagine usually reserved for arranging marriages. As we patiently sat through this ordeal out on the horizon our destination beckoned through a square hole in the planking that served as a window as a handful of curious villagers peered in. When the ceremonies finally concluded we bid the folks over-due farewells and set out to cross the two-mile straight.

The morning was dead calm, the breeze all but non-existent, and it was a damn good thing. Given our boats’ rotting hulls and cracked mast it was comforting to never lose site of land. I could have folded the thing up and carried it off under one arm. Upon landing we hauled it high above the tidal zone, where it definitely looked more at home. The island provided little evidence of human intrusion save for the lone shack Pena would take refuge in pining for his home across the channel. Babe and I wandered the beach and found a secluded lean-to right at the placid waters edge and with the hammocks finally hung that made it official - now we had gotten somewhere.

Arriving at just as noon temperatures peaked made skin diving a priority. The waters were unbelievably warm and lucid and it took but a few submerged minutes before we made our first find - a most curious little cloud hovering effortlessly just above the sea floor - a cluster of magnificent Lionfish replete with their infamous gracefully flowing and highly toxic quills. Why they huddled like this is one of those puzzles that keep ichthyologists gainfully employed. They remained perfectly oblivious to us as they went about their little ballet. Moving on found us in the endless maze of a plate coral reef system that we might very well have been the first to explore, and further out, just shy of where the six-knot current was to be avoided, we’d occasionally glimpse breeching manta rays, their immense fins violently slapping the surface as if to spank back the tide.

Poring over a tattered map in the shack that evening I was drawn to a symbol that suggested a cave a little ways inland that Pena offered to lead us to in the morning. Meanwhile we got a fire going for an early dinner. Pena couldn’t be swayed to try any of our freeze-dried items, but we wanted to get through them early so as to save weight while we acclimated to local cuisine. I couldn’t make out exactly what he was having, but it hadn’t been dead long.

Our first night on Moyo was one that will remain forever etched in our hearts under Meaning of Life. Temperatures never dropped below balmy; so beach towels provided adequate warmth as we settled into the hammocks following a long stroll by starlight along the shore. In the distance lightning began illuminating a few of the neighboring islands that swept the entire horizon. It occurred to me that one of them was the fabled Komodo, adding an even deeper air of exoticism to the enchanting display. I could picture its long-tongued dragons unfazed at the flash of nearby strikes. The direction of the winds ensured the storm would remain a spectacular but distant entertainment. Thunder was just audible - far outdone by the chorus of geckos croaking from the forests edge. We’d drift in and out of sleep. To remind myself this was all for real I’d occasionally reach over for Babe’s hand whenever I suspected she’d awakened. The lightning continued almost till dawn, ever changing with the permutations of clouds, multiplied by reflections off the channels still waters. Heaven met earth. I could almost hear the score from South Pacific in the background. 

After breakfast the next morning we followed Pena up and over the hills through dense dry woods where no trails were evident. Babe and I became distracted with the antics of a resplendent Sunbird teasing a potential mate when we found ourselves at the edge of a shear drop off. A circular acre of forest had uniformly sunk twenty or so feet – the result of a sink hole collapse, all the more improbable appearing given its perfectly intact trees and vegetation which seemed to have adjusted perfectly at their reduced elevation. We circled half way around its edge where one large hardwood uprooted in the sinking tilted over providing a natural ladder. Once down, Pena motioned back across the depression to a large yawning cave opening that just begged for exploration. Overly enthusiastic as usual, I rushed over in to it, outpacing him as it swallowed us in total darkness. Bats began flitting about suddenly alert to our intrusion, drawing my attention upward as their numbers increased dramatically the deeper in we probed. I continued further in faster than my retinas could adjust, having no idea what lie ahead but all too anxious to get there. Suddenly a forceful pull on the back of my belt brought me to an abrupt halt. It was Pena. He pointed his flashlight on the ground in front of me. There wasn’t any. A four-foot wide crevice the width of the cave dropped off into infinity. Babe gasped. I backed away from the void, then carefully leaned over the edge and pointed my floodlight down. The beam never reached bottom. I almost swallowed my heart.

From that point on I let Pena lead. 

Staring into the campfire that night still thinking how that day might have ended, my peripheral vision caught a sizable shadow that rapidly transformed into a wild boar bearing down fast on us, its tusks growing more prominent the closer it drew. Pena cautioned against making any sudden moves as it just might leave without incident. Upon discerning the three of us it slowed considerably, and after sniffing the air with threatening snorts and finding the wafting odors not to its liking, meandered frustrated back into the foliage. It returned the next night at this same time and every night thereafter during dinner in a rather transparent effort to get us to improve the cuisine. I was sorry we hadn’t brought any bacon.

The days and nights on Moyo provided the uplifting our spirits had been in desperate need of. We were reluctant to leave but had so much more potentially promising ground to cover, and we knew Pena’s heart had never left home. When paying him the next day he just couldn’t comprehend being offered the equivalent of five weeks fishing earnings as a gratuity. Having saved my sorry ass, I actually felt I may have short-changed him.

In a chain of ten thousand islands it was imperative we become adept at covering a lot of ground fast as an efficient means of sampling a seemingly infinite tropical banquet, so the fourth morning served as a test run for the pack-light/move-fast maneuvers that became our modus operandi. After sailing back over to Sumbawa’s coast we again carted across the island, flew west to Lombok, taxied up to its northern coast, charted a small boat out to Trawangan island, then ox-carted to it’s far eastern end. And there, for $3 a night, we had a comfortable cabin just a Frisbee throw away from a spectacular azure beach, breakfast included. Well, rice with a side dish of nutritious additional rice. Sharing this two square mile idyll with a few dozen Aussie backpackers felt relatively crowded at first, but of course there was plenty of room and beer and rice for everyone, and given that the beaches were rife with topless women I was determined to endure these hardships some how, some way. 

Within a few days we found ourselves on the southern shore of Lombok bicycling a blissfully desolate palm-shaded coastal road where, except for cavernous potholes or yielding right of way to the occasional water buffalo, we shared an afternoon free of every earthly care, giving scant thought to anything beyond the next bend or the next bay, including the condition of the bikes or, more specifically, their brakes, which mattered little until rapidly accelerating down a sizable hill when Babe made a terrifying discovery. They hadn’t any. 

Losing control was only a matter of where, so rather than kissing roadway she reluctantly maneuvered for a sliding crash on a grassy siding. Her left arm absorbed the brunt of the impact but mercifully her poor little head was saved by a semi-fresh buffalo dropping – often so immense in these parts they’re depicted on maps. The tears were welling up as I scrambled to her side, and having witnessed the brutal crash and roll I was relieved by the absence of protruding bones. She’d gone down hard and her left arm was unmovable with pain. Abandoning the bikes where they lay, I wrapped her arm with my shirt and we hitched a ride back, where our young innkeeper frantically piled us into a rusting van and drove us in to town to seek the local healer. As I washed her face and hair off with a rag, the innkeeper explained that healers provide all the medical services that pharmacists don’t. We assumed this was with marginal formal training at best, but an honorable trade just the same, passed down from generation to generation in the same tradition one would expect in a family of cobblers, mystics or corrupt politicians.

Having no idea what to expect, we waited anxiously in an unkempt house that only hinted at serving any medical-related purpose and were eventually ushered in to a back room by a fellow who displayed a shaman’s dignified manner complimented by a rather impressive turban. Clearly gratified by the notion that westerners were investing confidence in his abilities, we never let on we were only going along with all this for lack of more legitimate alternatives.

As we sat in a circle on a faux-exotic rug he cautiously felt the arm and elbow to isolate sensitivities, and then performed a gentle methodical massage with oils. Only once during all this did Babe register pain, after which he changed technique, lightly stretching the forearm while rotating it just like a chiropractor might do, only supplemented in this case with the technological breakthrough of smoldering incense. Whatever this was going to cost us, his melodramatic gestures alone were worth the price of admission. It was like watching John Barrymore hamming his way through a role Sabu had turned down. 

The elbow was gently wrapped and comfortably positioned with a colorful sling. As a final touch he produced a naturally shaped wooden ‘pain’ bracelet that just fit Babe’s wrist. While little of what he did approximated modern methods, the net effect could not be denied. Babe was suddenly feeling dramatically improved, and when she finally had it x-rayed almost a month later, two prominent cracks appeared that theoretically should have caused undeniable agony. Inquiring about his fee we were advised to offer whatever we felt like. Dumbfounded, we asked what a typical offer might be, expecting to get a fleecing - not the equivalent of around two dollars. Both of them were stunned when what we gave was closer ten. We implored them to indulge us, explaining how in the States the tradition is to leave feeling so pissed-off about the doctor’s bill that you forget all about the injury, thereby initiating the healing process. 

Babe was a trooper, as always. She fawned over the pain bracelet constantly, ever amazed at its potent if purely psychosomatic effect. The next day we hitched a ride a few kilometers past the crash site to an immense secluded bay where we carried on almost as if nothing had happened. Her slung arm didn’t slow down our hiking, beachcombing or frolicking in its crystal waters, and later that afternoon I had a great excuse for helping her in the shower. After dinner we hiked where the hills tapered down to the ocean’s edge, watching the sun taking shelter behind distant volcanic peaks, ending one more day we’d remember the rest of our lives. 

On our way back up to northern Lombok we splurged 40,000 hard-earned rupias - $29 US -  for a night in a former sultans palace open to the few intrepid visitors who make their way into the remote central highlands. Its fading opulence aside, the primary attraction was a nearby jungle that the Rajah in his wisdom had seen fit to leave uncultivated, which, if historic gossip is to be believed, pretty much also describes the late Rajah. A hike made for an interesting morning but the aggressive insect population had an insatiable appetite for foreign epidermis, and what the mosquitoes and flies didn’t gorge on, the ants, spiders and ticks did. In between licking each other’s wounds afterwards back at our royal digs we watched duck herders marching obedient flocks through nearby rice paddies from our palatial balcony. Babe lazed seductively in the out-sized rattan furnishings wearing her sling and not much else while I, in keeping with palace tradition, tended to her majesty’s every need and whim, and entertained a few of my own. Thus we sampled life as we imagined the Rajah and his high-maintenance maharani had – essentially The King and I in the nude. But we grew restless after a day as decadent imperialists.

To catch the flight east we spent another interminable day on Bali pretending we were somewhere else, confirming our distaste for what this once mystical place was fast becoming. Returning the thousand miles back to Biak, a temperamental puddle jumper from there eventually got us to Manuakwari on Irian Jaya’s northern coast. An insignificant deepwater port, the town’s only noteworthy entertainment was watching dog being roasted on a rotating spit, prepared in this manner for the discriminating palate of locals. Being a whole new food group to us, we wondered if that called for a red or a white wine.

First thing we did upon arrival was to dutifully report to the police station as required to present our traveling documents. Turns out the officer was not exactly a wellspring of accurate information; we had heard that there was a nearby island populated with giant fruit bats and were eager to explore it. He advised us to proceed up the road a few kilometers where missionaries there would be glad to help us arrange such a trip. So off we went with high hopes arriving an hour or so later at what had to be the right place, and inquired with two boys using my best Bahasa to ask if they could take us to the missionaries. Their puzzled looks begged several repeats of the question, but once certain they had heard correctly we were led behind the church and over a hillock where, at its base, they pointed to two flowered-covered markers - the missionaries’ well-tended graves.

Leaving for a hike through the nearby hills the following morning, a local interceded to introduce himself hoping, possibly, to attain some sort of guide status though he only obtusely suggested any special skills or knowledge and acted more as is if he simply wanted some company. Mavan could have passed for a young Ossie Davis, possessing invaluable insights and an endearing sincerity, and we were to become inseparable over the next few days. Given our desire to explore further afield, he offered to arrange a boat excursion far from where any roads had yet to reach and were accommodated the next morning with a welcomed sunny change to what had been days of dismal overcast. Waiting down at the waterfront provided a glimpse of Manaukwari not all that apparent from our remote lodging. Homes here came in two models: shanty’s and hovels, their foundations tenuous, their community toilets nothing more than a small shed or wall on the end of a dock with a hole in the planking, some of which were embarrassingly close to where we waited patiently for our boat. While the appearance of the big dugout that pulled up to collect us failed to instill much confidence, our only immediate concern was falling into that water.

Why five men were escorting us wasn’t clear until we were a good three miles off shore. Turns out we were essentially guests, if not ballast, on an offshore fishing excursion that would divert for our purposes only after their day’s fishing was done. But this added immensely to the unexpected flavor the experience was taking on, not unlike the continuous bailing required to counteract the boats prodigiously leaking hull. 

The bowman stood proud scanning the seas intently for signs that few but fishermen would correctly interpret, and it was about an hour out that morning when our little cruise became more than just another fishing trip. A massive writhing patch of white water came into view and we soon found ourselves in its boiling center, a violent cauldron that to our astonishment was more fish than water. Huge yellow fin pursuing schooling baitfish shredded the surface like so many detonating depth charges. The sea literally exploded in a flurry of foam, fish, hunter and hunted. The men tossed in baited lines tackling their prey unaided by rod or reel, then gaffed their catch deftly, all with a perfect economy of motion. The first behemoth hauled in had the girth of a welterweight and fought just as hard as one once aboard. Scores of its cousins flailed and charged furiously beneath and all around us, a feeding frenzy stirring up turbulence that would have upended any smaller vessel. Babe and I took on supporting roles as the men scampered and screamed for gaffing help or bait when lines came up empty. The boats center of gravity became perilously unstable with everyone swinging, lurching, hacking and hauling as more of the slippery giants were snared. After several intense and chaotic moments in the maelstrom the baitfish slowly began dispersing drawing off their relentless pursuers. We had become so singularly caught up in all the exhilaration that we hadn’t even noticed three other boats had also moved in followed by albatross, gulls and pelicans now raining down in their own hunt. The little drama would have inspired Winslow Homer to immortalize it on canvas and left us with a rush that classic adventure authors try to articulate but that simply has to be experienced. 

There was a second similarly intense encounter not a half hour later, but afterwards the crew intuitively knew it would be slim pickings  for the rest of the morning, and the boat couldn’t be burdened much more anyway. And it was about then, when the motorman had all but given up trying to get the outboard restarted that I noticed four or five ominous fins breaking the surface in an unusually symmetrical pattern. Drifting closer confirmed my fears - it was the only time I had ever actually seen sharks circling and they were between us and the shore miles away. And here we were in the leakiest boat we had ever put to sea in. Babe and I grabbed the nearest cups and cans we could find and commenced bailing furiously. 

Behind one of the many peninsular fingers jetting out from the mainland a small island two or three hundred feet offshore hove into view. Protected by its lee, Babe, Mavan and I clamored ashore on the mainland beach leaving the crew behind. The coast here was thick with the jungle I had first seen during the flight over weeks earlier, into which we were soon entangled following a route that only suggested a trail. Our pace was checked by the countless tree spiders bobbing on door-size webs crossing the path, or extricating our selves from the thick mud our legs were constantly disappearing into. Wherever the canopy parted we’d glimpse iridescent birds sporting long flowing scissor tails or bright ruffled plumes that looked far too delicate for the rigors of flight. Though too fleeting for a composed photo, the brief sightings were a revelation. We were routinely regaled with bizarre calls emanating from well-concealed species that Mavan had no clue to and would probably take some crypto-zoologist to decipher. 

Curiously, about an hour in, laughter and voices percolated through the foliage ahead of us from a pooled section of a stream we’d been paralleling. Finding the source we were mutually embarrassed to have intruded on a small group of village women taking their daily bath. Though they were marginally dressed, strangers suddenly popping out of the jungle were probably the last thing they expected. Their shocked expressions evaporated once Mavan convinced them we were just passing through and weren’t really from some tribe of perverts. A lone tribesman soon materialized up the trail a way and, after an introductory chat with Mavan, turned and affected a loud, high pitched call apparently intended to alert others further ahead. 

The path ultimately emptied us into a clearing of huts where clouds of children swarmed us. Adults coming out to investigate attempted fractured English greetings. Elders smiled warmly from doorways. Mavan talked briefly with the headman, explaining our interest and gathering what we could about their culture. As still more folk materialized out of the woods we found ourselves amidst a sea of smiles. Small talk bantered back and forth peppered with humorous anecdotes. Mavin was a model moderator, probing diplomatically, elaborating how these people, as is the case with all remote villagers, still retain a strong bond with the land, the forest and the sea and the ways of their ancestors, not like the displaced souls that tend to populate most of New Guineas larger towns. These faces reflected a pride and a sense of place in the natural scheme of things that sadly escaped those we had encountered in Manuakwari, Mavan being the rare exception. I was sorry we weren’t in a position to spend a few days here. We had been welcomed as family, and probably had much to learn from them. When we finally continued single file on our way I somehow sensed our party had grown and turned to discover that the entire village had fallen in line behind us. Babe did a double take seeing this and grabbed my waist conga-style as we continued to the far side of the settlement where they waved a warm goodbye in unison as the forest swallowed us up. “They don’t get many visitors” Mavan explained. “That was their way of wishing you a safe journey. You’re probably the first whites those children ever saw”. I found myself hoping we’d be the last. These people were doing just fine without the quasi-benevolent intrusion of foreign influences. 

When next the jungle cleared we found ourselves on a beach at the mouth of a sizable river. Mavan had been planning take the boat upriver, but insurmountable forest debris had accumulated following the recent heavy rains, and the tangled impasse scotched that notion. The boat caught up with us here and as an alternative we proceeded out to the tiny island where relatives of the boats owner lived, the sole occupants of its spectacular few acres. We were enthusiastically escorted around its heavily jungled periphery where kaleidoscopic parrots found refuge in palms above the turquoise waters lapping a powdery shore. It was a serene escape from the distant drab town, but its pure silica soil made importing everything except coconuts and seafood necessary, including the beer they were so generous with.

At dusk we sailed back hugging the coastline, and just after the sun dipped below those same fishing grounds we had gotten so intimate with earlier that day, we entered Manuakwari’s sweeping bay, the town’s lights just discernable in the distance. The calm sea reflected a sky that couldn’t decide between crimson and magenta as a huge graceful form unexpectedly glided over us in perfect silence, its geometric wings undulating in slow motion like a resurrected pterodactyl - a giant fruit bat, largest of its kind on earth, sweeping in low, returning to its roost from an afternoon of foraging. The skies were soon full of their ethereal silhouettes against the purpling background, and it was soon apparent that their colony’s population must be uncountable. Experiencing this spectacle plainly illustrated why so many indigenous tribes considered them the spirits of the dead. We wanted desperately to cut the motor and just bask in this overpowering scene, but the crew had families to get home to and a day’s catch to unload. We followed the majestic procession well into the bay where their direction diverted, probably toward that island the missionaries will never be able to help us get to. Mavan had given us a day of magic and intensity. 

Days later we were off to Yapen, truly the backwater of a backwater, where, judging by the attention we commanded, outsiders were all but unheard of. Tramp steamer crews lingered dockside eager for duty, though prospects were remote. Motor scooters hobbled past balancing families of five, like an Ed Sullivan act. Walking the waterfront we were constantly enveloped by locals eager to know how far over the horizon, or the rainbow, the land that produced us might be, or just wanting to practice their English. Any time we stopped, even if to just tie a bootlace, a small crowd soon gathered. Babes’ colorful sling only piqued their curiosity further, some translated comments coming across unintentionally hilarious, our favorite being advice from one insistent little lady that “…If you were an obedient wife your husband wouldn’t beat you!” 

We hunted down the captain of a crusty outrigger for an around-the-island charter and found a fledgling entrepreneur more than willing to offer his services. For the unheard of rate we were willing to offer, fishing could wait. An early start the next morning unveiled a maze of protective barrier islands completely surrounding Yapen, ensuring a smooth cruise through endless glassy bays and inlets. The steep forested topography precluded any chance of costly road building and had the collateral effect of keeping this wild coast intact and in a wondrously primitive state. Far above, hornbills circled nests the size of truck tires in trees protruding at wind-swept angles from mountainsides. Below through crystal waters virgin coral formations loomed that would rival anything the Great Barrier Reef had to offer, only these will forever remain our secret.

We rounded one bluff to find a village of thirty or so shanties perched precariously atop stilts above the tidal range. Upon spotting our boat we thought they had mistaken us for someone else - the entire populace was soon porch-side welcoming us like Olympian’s returning home with the gold. Children showing off dove off the crude railings as older kids paddled out in wobbly dugouts for closer investigation. The adults offered waves and salutations, hoping, possibly, that we represented the first of an onslaught of affluent visitors, or more likely just proud that foreigners found their world fascinating enough to come this far to see. My taking copious photographs only seemed to intensify their enthusiasm. We were to pass by four more villages that day, each one offering the same unwarranted heroes welcome, each one isolated by mile after mile of pristine bays, alcoves, islands, inlets, reef systems and beaches.

With our flight out in limbo, on New Years Eve we languished in Yapen’s only inn. Earlier that day, as the result of some petty grievance, its owners, the islands most prominent family, had reneged on a previous promise to provide all-you-can-drink rum that night as part of the annual open house / street party festivities, and a group of male youths counting desperately on this fully sponsored drunken revelry had taken hostile exception. Around two p.m. a dozen or so of them came storming into our courtyard thrashing, smashing and tearing up everything that wasn’t lashed down, and some that were. Visualizing this escalating in to a large-scale riot, I had Babe lock herself in the bathroom with the mace canister while I tracked the savage horde through a torn curtain, fumbling my hunting knife. As the destruction intensified the panicked owners soon saw the wisdom of cutting their losses by reversing their earlier decision and defused what was getting closer and costlier by the minute. The strategy worked. Long before midnight most of their visiting guests, including the earlier hostiles, had gotten as pickled as museum specimens, a widely scattered array of which could be found the next morning passed out in nearby fields and gardens. 

Closing in on our last days we had returned a fourth and final time to Biak. While it offered spectacular waterfalls and quaint villages, the previous months experiences mandated one last immersion into nothing less than the pristine and the uncorrupted, which described perfectly the Bodado islands, all within a twenty mile radius.

The fishing skiff’s jovial skipper we’d hired brought along his two energetic sons that morning, both having ditched school to begin learning something potentially practical, like catering to whimsical foreigners. There were certainly few other prospects on their horizons that regular schooling might prepare them for. Most of the Bodado’s were mere stepping stones hardly more than a few acres, and none more than a kilometer or two apart, but they littered the ocean here well over the horizon as our numerous flyovers had made apparent. Some squatted above the sea like huge mushrooms, their odd profiles shaped by the relentless erosive tides; others bore expansive beaches that had seen few footprints. Almost all were void of inhabitants. Most curiously, cruising close by some attracted their entire fly populations, which swarmed us as if on queue like marauding clouds of tiny pirates. Only the dense schools of jellyfish kept us from seeking escape from this torment in the water. 

Our first stopover was a village of about thirty, which translated to four tenuous houses made of local materials and a few hastily arranged corrugate panels. A large ships wake could have washed the whole outfit out to sea. Overwhelmed again with our reception, we were greeted like the first visitors they’d had since the island had originally been settled. Which, looking around, may have only occurred earlier that week.

At midday we beached on a remote sandy shoal and skin-dived its surrounding coral. I couldn’t get over the boys’ unbridled enthusiasm for their neighboring islands, or maybe it was just getting the day off of school and a trip to distant locales far from the usual fishing grounds. It was a revelation, watching children embracing their natural surroundings, finding such joy in experiences rather than possessions. On the last island we were to visit we were feted underneath a large lean-to that served as the official gathering place, and before leaving were begged repeatedly to please forward all their outgoing mail – both letters. 

The day ended wondrously, if not somewhat drenched, when a thunderstorm pummeled our little boat as we trawled with free lines all the way back in to Biak. The older boy hooked a feisty catch that I captured in a sequence of frames showing him wrestling with, almost falling overboard in his excitement. It was an ocean perch so large he needed help lifting it aboard. The only thing bigger than that fish was his ecstatic smile, which I bet hasn’t left his face to this day. 

I think often about the people of Yapen, Manuakwari, Maven, the boys of Biak and all the others whose hearts we may have insinuated ourselves in to, especially after I had learned that the airlines eventually dropped Biak from their itinerary, and how all these places have likely returned to their former total obscurity as a result, not that they had ever risen much above it. Between that and their considerable distance from the diminishing political power the government in Jakarta has been steadily if reluctantly surrendering throughout this increasingly uncontrollable nation, they’re likely to remain the semi-hostages of a corrupt patchwork of local officialdom. 

For an initial emersion into an Asian culture, these islands left us both satiated and reflective, with a little burnt wiring from sensory overload. The experience also left a big question mark as to what the future might hold for both a people and a setting that nature and history were so spectacularly creative with. We wondered if the priorities we set as guests would inspire our hosts to save and protect precious remaining wilderness? Certainly we had made it clear that what we had come to see could be found few places else. Wishful thinking perhaps, but something we had to hope for.

The following are John's previous articles for the magazine:

• Late Autumn In Laos ~ In The Laotian Jungle
• Explorations In Nepal ~ Deep In The Hinderlands
• Explorations In The Amazon Basin ~ Into The Unknown
• Adventures In Surinam ~ Into The Jungle
• More Adventures In Surinam ~ Explorations