Eastern Odyssey - seldom-seen Sumba

Kupang, the biggest city in eastern Indonesia, is not the ideal place to be if you're in a hurry. Traffic chaos is epic and I was in the thick of it, making a mad dash to Bolok Port to catch the Sumba ferry.

It shouldn't have been like this. At 4am that morning, after disembarking from the Alor ferry, the impressive Port Departures Board had boldly listed the Sumba ferry as leaving at 3pm: it actually left at noon! Luckily, I'd returned to the port at 10.30am to buy a ticket and had been set straight at the Departure Booth. I made a mad dash back to the hotel, grabbed my gear and checked out.





Throwing caution to the wind I broke all my rules. I passed trucks on the left, I overtook on the right, assuming no on-coming biker, texting on his mobile, would collect me head-on and I ducked and dived to get to the head of the queue at traffic lights. In short, I was riding Indonesian-style! With little time to spare I pulled up at the Port gates, showed my ticket and headed for the dock.

The last few motor bikes were boarding. Hallucinogenic heat, mixed with exhaust fumes, swirled around me. The vehicle deck was jammed solid with trucks, crates and cartons. Mine was the last bike on. I managed to wedge my way between a scooter and some stacked crates, each containing a squealing porker. There was no need to tie up - my KLX wasn't going anywhere!

I found a spot below the port lifeboat where I'd be out of the sun. This was going to be home for the sixteen hour trip east to Savu, a tiny island famous for its ikat weaving and lontar palms. The ferry, even by Indonesian standards, was packed to the gunnels.

I headed topside to check out the passenger lounge. It was madness. A Chinese martial arts movie was booming on the TV, the floor was covered with bodies sprawled out on rented foam mats, every seat was occupied and plenty of kids were sitting on laps. Every second male was smoking and those that weren't were about to light up.

I spent the trip lying on a thin cane mat I'd bought for $2 just prior to boarding - a fortuitous purchase indeed. With a folded 40 year old Levi jacket - just run in really - for a pillow, a bagful of sour mangoes, a packet of biscuits and a copy of Orwell's Burmese Days in hand, I was well set for the voyage west across a languid sea. Even so, a slow boat crammed to capacity, making about 10 knots, is guaranteed to get you checking your watch from time to time!

I shared my little hidey-hole with a group of four males who spent their time smoking and playing cards. They basically ignored me - they could see I was engrossed in Orwell's devastating critique of the toxic nature of British Imperialism played out in a dreary up-country backwater.

I reached the novel's end. Florey blew his brains out at about the same time a glorious sunset heralded the onset of night. We steamed westwards, our progress measured by a billion blinking stars. I slept in snatches unable to distinguish between dreams and stream of consciousness. Was I awake? Was I asleep? I had no idea. I craved deep sleep but it was always just beyond my grasp. Tiring.

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We arrived in Savu at 4am but the tide was out so no vehicles could disembark. A posse of uniformed cargo handlers leapt aboard. They formed a human chain and began unloading a massive stack of cartons. I joined in; there was nothing else to do and, although tired, I was grateful for the exercise after hours of inactivity. Every tube of toothpaste, bar of soap and can of drink sold on Savu comes from Kupang - believe me as I had a hand in unloading each one!

The owner of the goods kept a watchful eye over his bounty. After an hour he broke open a carton of flavoured tea and we took a break. The still air wrapped its cloak around us; the sweet, warm box drinks were a mocking reminder of what I really wanted - an ice-cold ! We set to work again. Up on the dock a small crowd had gathered - attracted, maybe, by the novelty of seeing a tourist actually doing some work!

By 6am the sun was climbing. The ship had emptied so I took the opportunity to stride the vehicle deck. I jogged up and down running figures of eight. People might be thinking, "He's mad!" I didn't care. My feet
were swollen from inactivity. I needed movement!

We got underway again at midday. The vehicle deck was bare save for one car, twenty motorbikes and hundreds of containers of lontar palm sap bound for our destination, Waingapu, Sumba island. We cruised a calm sea, the flat mass of Savu gradually fading until it was just a smudge on the horizon to stern. I shared some biscuits with my fellow passengers and ate sticky rice snacks in return - we were all in the same boat.

We sailed north-west across the same featureless sea. Darkness fell; the stars came out to light our way. Most passengers lay on deck alongside their precious cargo. I scanned the western blackness seeking the first pinpricks of light from Sumba. At 10pm a light appeared blinking every five seconds; at last we were off the coast!

Two hours later we docked; a handful of locals greeted our arrival. A couple of taxi drivers came aboard looking for fares - without luck. Some dealers had set up scales on the dock to weigh the lontar palm sap before loading it into waiting trucks to be whisked away for processing into palm sugar.

I wasted no time getting underway. It felt so good to start up the bike and hit the road. Thirty-six hours at sea is a long trip - maybe not, if you're aboard a cruise liner sipping cocktails! But I'd been traveling at the opposite end of the scale - if I was even on the scale! I rode out of that ferry feeling like a freed prisoner. The potholed road greeted me like an old friend - at last I was back!

Midnight in Waingapu is shutters up time - well almost. I passed a solitary pedestrian and a stray dog. The cackle of exhaust marked my progress as I cruised the streets searching for a hotel. There was no traffic. I came to an all-night petrol station. A friendly local offered to guide me to a hotel. The Sandlewood (sic) would not ordinarily have been my first choice. It was faux modern, however air con, a TV and a mini-bar - empty by the way - do not a pleasant hotel make. The furnishings looked grubby, the bathroom was tired and the cobwebs had gathered dust. But it was way past midnight and I was past caring. I stripped off. Sloshing gallons of cool water over my tired body, to lather away the patina of grime that clung to me like a carapace, was bliss. A few minutes later it was lights out and I was walking the Street of Dreams - 36 hours deck class on a ferry does that to you!

Sumba has revelled in its remoteness over the centuries. Dry, unsuited to spices or other cash crops and well south of major trade routes, it was practically ignored by the Dutch and was never part of any of the Hindu or Buddhist empires centred on Java. Muslim traders gave it a wide berth too and Christian missionaries only became active in recent times. Consequently its indigenous religion with its emphasis on ancestor worship, connection to nature and divination, is still vibrant.

I rose early and went for a run around town. The first thing to catch my eye was a very large rat making hurry down a drain. Then I spotted a couple of trendy cafes - hipster hangouts in far-off Sumba!

The streets were practically empty. I trotted along un- disturbed by vehicles or pedestrians. I passed ramshackle shops each one bearing a billboard advertising cigarettes. Mango trees laden with fruit shaded my way. I passed an impressive Catholic Church and school; a few early arrivals kicked a soccer ball around the yard.




I turned around for the run home. Groups of pretty girls strolled along hand-in-hand, sparkling white uniforms framed a rich array of complexions from milky white to ebony. I envied their youth. How good it would be to turn the clock back and live life again with the benefit of the wisdom accrued!

Back at the hotel I had the worst breakfast ever - a couple of pieces of barely toasted bread that someone had waved a butter knife over. But the coffee was passable. I showered, packed and checked out. Bye-bye Sandlewood, you won't be seeing me again.

A few kilometres out of town I came to one of Sumba's few modern tourist attractions - an impressive statue of a warrior astride a rearing horse. It was mounted on a rather ugly plinth but the sheer size. height and form of the edifice made it impressive. While I was admiring it a couple of bikers arrived: two young women from Java on a university break exploring their own country on hired bikes. We chatted and took photos before going our separate ways.

The eastern half of Sumbawa is savannah country. Rolling hills and high country plains covered in rich grasslands stretch either side of the excellent, practically deserted road. I passed through small patches of dense forest, emerald green and dark, the air perceptibly cooler. Traditional Sumba houses dotted the hills their distinctive, truncated-pyramid roofs reaching ten metres high. The space within is used to store the family's harvest safe from the depredations of rodents.

I pulled up at one of these houses - seemingly abandoned - to take a photo. As I turned to leave I noticed the family in the house across the way. They were sitting on their verandah. They beckoned me over. I spent the next half hour chatting with Grandpa and three generations of his extended family. They were farmers who grew corn and betel nut. All bore red-stained lips and teeth, testament to their addiction to the nut after which Penang island is named. All, that is, except one strikingly-beautiful woman who had the composure and presence of a royal. Her hair was silvery-white, her dark-chocolate complexion was unlined. Beauty is indeed ageless.



These people were very friendly but not at all inquisitive. They asked me no questions but were happy to answer all mine. They were nominally Catholic but, in reality, their lives were governed by the spirits of the ancestors, the need to propitiate local deities and the ebb and flow of the seasons. Big town life and most of its influences were yet to reach this outpost, even though it was a bare three hours away from the island's biggest town.

I continued my journey towards Waikelo on the north-west coast. Passing through the small hamlet of Lenga I heard a voice from the roadside call out in English. Intrigued, I turned around. The voice belonged to Maria, the owner of a small general store and cafe. I ordered a coffee and some snacks and was introduced to Maria's husband and daughter. Maria had only attended primary school but she loved learning. She seized every possible opportunity to practise her English and, for the moment, I was it.



I learnt that only a handful of tourists passed through Lenga each year, that the weather had become very haphazard and that the government had little impact on the daily lives of the people. Maria had ambitions for a better life and was working hard to achieve them. I was very impressed by her energy and positivity.

Back on the road again I passed through the large regional centre of Waikabubak and thirty minutes later reached Waitabula where I had lunch in a small, busy cafe. The young woman sitting opposite me said grace before and after her meal - a gesture I had not seen in decades.

Waitabula boasted one hotel. Located on a busy street in the middle of a strip of shop houses it lacked any sort of appeal so, I struck out for the port of Waikelo a few kilometres away.

The road traversed scrubby country; good for goats and not much else. Windswept, rock-strewn flats played host to the ubiquitous remiga plant, grey-leafed saltbush and spinifex. A few ramshackle houses clung to the roadside as if seeking protection from the hostile landscape. Constructed from grey breeze blocks they looked as if they'd been slapped up by a builder suffering the DTs!

I crested a sharp rise and beheld a glorious vista; the azure ocean glinting and blinking in
the afternoon sun. A brace of small freighters were tired up and just offshore another rusty workhorse waited patiently for a berth. The ferry berth was empty.

I dismounted at the tiny ticket office. The news was uncertain. "The ferry might arrive tomorrow morning ... or, maybe the next day. The engine is broken." There was nothing for it but to look for lodgings.

I resigned myself to spending the night in Waitabula's only hotel but then Lady Luck played her hand. Just as I was turning right onto the main road, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a small signboard nailed to a tree: "Redemptorist Villa and Conference Centre. 300 mts."

I turned left onto a gravel track that wound gently down to the shoreline. I pulled up in the sandy yard. A large smiling woman came to greet me. Juliana explained that I could only stay two nights as a conference was scheduled. Perfect. The wood and bamboo buildings were well-constructed and sat atop a coral outcrop overlooking the sea. It was a great spot from which to look for the arrival of the ferry.
I made myself at home unpacked and showered. My room was a large dorm containing eight beds - I had it to myself.

Waikelo is a hamlet - no more, no less. There were a few shops, some houses and little else. I decided to go for a run. Further along the coast, to the east, I could see another ferry dock so I headed in that direction. I chugged along through the late afternoon heat passing the occasional grey breeze block home built without the aid of string line or spirit level. Each sported a yellow plastic 5000 litre water tank.

I ran through the open gate of the ferry complex. The terminal building looked quite new but it had been extensively vandalised. Broken glass and smashed tiles littered the floor. Doors had been kicked in and the walls were liberally splashed with teenage graffiti. It was a total mess.

I made my way to the loading ramp. It was a smashed and twisted wreck. A solitary fisherman told the story: the year before, in a heavy monsoon storm that had "appeared out of nowhere", a ferry had been smashed into the ramp by an enormous wave. He didn't know why the ramp hadn't been repaired.

Back at base I watched a magnificent sunset bathe the sky in reds and oranges. Later I dined on a beautifully prepared dinner of fish and spicy stir fried vegetables washed down with cups of coffee. The black night watched over a tranquil sea, the swish of waves against the breakwater, the only sound. The balmy night air, the lit-up freighters at the dock, the smell of the sea and a full belly completed the scene - the only thing missing was the lights of a ferry approaching from across the western horizon.






Morning. No ferry had arrived. I went for a ride to nearby Kodi and spent a few hours at the Sumba Cultural Centre. The initiative of local priest Father Robert, it was dedicated to preserving local culture and traditions. Father Robert showed me around the fabulous collection of textiles, weapons, masks, bone and ivory carvings, head dressings, jewellery and household items.



Photos adorned the walls. There were marappu priests conducting divination ceremonies which involved examining the livers of slaughtered animals. Others showed hundreds of men dragging massive slabs of rock to place across the graves of deceased nobles. This was indeed a still-living, ancient culture, albeit under threat from the modern world. Father Robert was doing his best to record and preserve it "just in case". He voiced his dismay at the lack of understanding, and sometimes direct hostility, he received from his fellow priests. He was indeed a very noble man, passionate about his island, his people and their traditions.

That night I witnessed another brilliant sunset. After another slap-up dinner I spent the evening reading and scanning westwards for tell-tale lights which never appeared. I hit the sack after eleven lulled to sleep by the swish of the waves. I slept lightly however and, each time I woke I'd slip outside searching for the ferry - in vain.










When I woke again the sun was already climbing a blue sky stairway. I stepped outside and there was the ferry, tied up to the dock, ramp down. Juliana readied breakfast - the word was the ferry would leave at 9am. I bade goodbye and fired up the bike. I took one last look at Juliana through my rear view mirror. She was still waving as I exited the gates.

Down at the dock a line of trucks waited to depart. They were carrying cashew nuts to Sumbawa. Their drivers squatted by the roadside smoking. Patience was their long suit, resignation their default position. I joined them for a coffee at a ramshackle stall. Time passed. More coffee, more smokes.

Then, around eleven, the loadmasters gave us the signal. The roughest-looking of this gang of desperadoes insisted on paying for me which goes to prove that old adage: ‘You can't judge a ... ‘


We cast off just on midday. The port of Sape in east Sumbawa was eight hours distant. I'd met Sumba at the end of a three week circuit that had taken me from Lombok east to Kupang and then back west. For the moment, I'd run out of that most precious of all commodities - time left on my visa. There were many aspects of Sumba still to explore - pristine beaches, fortified mountain redoubts, river valleys and the wild south coast. I'd had a taste but wanted more. So, as the little port of Waikelo faded in the distance I made a vow: "Sumba, you haven't seen the last of me. I shall return. Promise."

Here are a few more photos of the trip.

This is the harbour at Kalabahi, Alor Island







Outskirts of Waingapu



Savannah country



Betel nut farmers.



Maria and family



Sumba Cultural Centre



The smashed up dock at Waikelo.



Overlooking Waikelo Harbour

Savannah country



On the ferry from Savu to Waingapu

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Oh those indonesian ferries. Horrible as they are I still miss cruising with them....

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In the end everything will be fine. If its not fine its not the end....

Yeah, they are an experience for sure. Sort of the opposite end of the spectrum from going on cruise liner. No waiters serving fancy drinks festooned with bits of fruit and a coloured paper umbrella. No deck chairs on the fore deck - or any deck for that matter! But I love them. You get to see a slice of Indo life up close - real close!