It is a truth universally acknowledged that the captain should go down with his ship. To Davy Jones' locker, or to Labuanbajo for the fourth or fifth time. In hindsight Tribute could have travelled further through Nusa Tengara if there weren't three separate crew movements through LBJ.
Ever since the owner of a mooring demanded money, Tribute's been strung between its anchor and a stern line which is tied to a lamppost in the police station's garden. When leaving for the morning's nasi, the gentlemen in uniform and I exchange selamat pagi's. And likewise malams at night. They made a handy profit out of our last fuel transaction and now often ask if my jerrycans need refilling. There is a mosque just up the road and both Peter and I are impressed with its imam. He has a good strong voice with range and passion and there is variety in what we presume are prayers. In the distance we can hear his colleagues but they don’t have a patch on ‘our’ guy. Little things like this matter, especially at five a.m. And just behind the cops is the harbourmaster's office whose inhabitants have yet to bother us.
Back in Oz, many commented on my Indo plans by saying 'piracy'! Some skipped that word and simply asked what guns I'd be taking. The sailing press was reassuring on the piracy front but pessimistic about another scourge, the bureaucrats. As I understood it an official of some flavour would row, swim or motor out of every hamlet and village to demand copies in triplicate of all possible paperwork as well as arbitrary fees for this honour. Now, it is unwise to sell the skin of the bear before one's shot it but so far this has happened only once. And there’s the possibility that on our return the Australian Customs and DPI will outhassle Indonesian Officialdom. Any takers for a bet?
But I digress- the friendly humans in uniform are as the rest of LBJ's citizens. Not a grumpy Indonesian have I met, and the ones who speak English cross the (currently broken up) street to get some practice in. LBJ is a bit of a transit port for dive charters and visits to Rinca or Komodo and it has some low-key tourist infrastructure. A couple of simple restaurants, a few dive shops and a souvenir store where wood carved dragons are displayed. And secluded in the forest up the hill is the Paradise Bar.
Paradise has a colonial atmosphere. The entire clientele is Caucasian except for a gaggle of local boys who all have Rasta hair and who seem focused on meeting girls. For the others there's food, Bintang and live music. On guitars which are out of tune in themselves and between each other a selection of world music is performed. The artists swap instruments, the waiter joins when he's free, the audience is invited and overall (like I noticed in the Philippines) there seems to be a refreshing lack of ‘look mama I can play' attitude.
I rented a small motorcycle to explore the hinterland of LBJ. Without a map I followed my nose until the road or track petered out, and then returned to repeat the same in another direction. Eventually I found the main road to Ruteng which was so rutted and gutted that I took it for a dead end. You'd think that off-road bikes would be very popular here, but strangely the roads are swarming with the standard issue Asian motorcycle. The type that can carry an entire family. I am unsure what they are-there's no markings apart from the brand. How can anyone own a motorcycle that is simply 'Yamaha'? Where do they get their bragging rights from-the colour? Is there no need in Asian society to be able casually mention that your Howazuki GXR-Z 1100 Mk II has not only got ABS but also RSVP? It is all very odd and I cautiously made my way up a distant pass where the air was cool and bamboo grew four stories high.
Meanwhile I'm on my own and moored in a pretty bay on the Northern tip of Komodo. I set a new Zen record by taking 8 hours to cover 17 miles- and that is as the fish swims. Until half an hour ago it was idyllic, half a moon and a glassy sea and silence except sounds of splashing fish and indeterminate animal noises from the land. Pure tranquillity. Then a small motorboat came into the bay- I suddenly thought of pirates and guns again- but they scouted a mooring for a large and brightly lit tourist barge which motored around the headland later. The sanctity of nature was shattered, the music and laughter carried miles across the water and I thought fuck you too & started the generator after all.
So, back to LBJ to pick up Mix and Lou. I hope Bali doesn’t damage them too badly. The clock has started ticking again. There’s a mission and a schedule and there’s the wild South coast of Sumbawa and Lombok, and after that the Indian Ocean.
...I once travelled with a Swede who took his time to deliberate the postcards he wrote. But he always settled on the same phrase, which he explained was the nicest thing you could wish someone and that he couldn’t think of anything better to write:
‘May all your dreams come true’.
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