August 3 - 8, 2005
At Anchorage in Kalabahi, Alor, Indonesia
08°13.1980S, 124°30.8765E
Kalabahi: Agro Festival and Anchor Dance
by Lois Joy
0650: A cockpit view of the town.
My view from the cockpit this morning overlooks the little fishing town of Kalabahi, the chief town of Alor, Indonesia. The tower of the village mosque is enshrouded in a mist that puts a gentle finishing touch on an otherwise drab and dirty landscape. Before I sat down here with my coffee, I walked to the bow of Pacific Bliss to photograph the mysterious peaks past the channel opposite the village. They remind me of Japanese art.
At the village shoreline, a bright red fishing longboat, holding four young men, bursts out of the mist, a bright contrast to the impressionistic scene. One man in a green singlet realizes I that I am taking his photo. He stands quietly, his line in the water. Another man sits frozen, like a sculpture waiting for the artist’s touch.
This town wakes up very early with the taped muezzin blaring out from the mosque at 0400. It is a long prayer. I wonder about the families. Do the mothers with little children go back to sleep after this intrusion? Do the children even wake up or does it become merely background noise that they ignore as they grow up? I find it impossible to go back to sleep until the noise finally ends. Then an hour later, the sun’s first rays are creeping over the mountains in the mist. Roosters crow. Fishing boats leave the harbor, their one-cylinder diesels emanating a distinctive put-put-put. Soon, on the street lining the harbor, the rumble of motorcycles adds to the melee.
The sun begins to burn off the mist, exposing the ugly brown of rusted corrugated
iron roofs—in stark contrast to the green of arching palms and spreading
shade trees. At high tide, the sea covers the pathetic little dinghy landing.
Where are the guests from over 40 yachts supposed to land? The tide also covers
the muddy, rocky shore leading to the cement-and-rock quay, reaching up to
the retainer wall lining the entire harbor.
The colorful Sail Indonesia rally flags now line the shore. Most likely, they
were brought here from Kupang; they look familiar. I had seen them being hoisted
yesterday afternoon, after the first yachts arrived here. There is a brand-new
unpainted pine building that we assume has been recently built for this festival.
Next to it is a row of hastily erected stalls of bamboo covered with tarp.
What’s missing is the bamboo dinghy dock that Dick, the Indonesian rally
organizer, said that the locals would build.
Oh, well. Sometimes the cruising life is just waiting around to see what might happen. I pull out my Lonely Planet, Indonesia to read up on Alor: It is a rugged island, 100 km long and 35 km at its widest. Because of the high rugged mountains, its people have become isolated from each other until fairly recently. With a population of 150,000, there are over seven major linguistic subgroups and 50 distinct languages¾one language for every 3000 people. The various tribes have practiced “shifting cultivation,” what we would call “crop rotation.” Most of the population is nominally Christian, but quite diverse. Before the 19th century, bronze Moko drums were traded and used as the price for a bride. They are related to the Dongson drums of North Vietnam. Alor has the potential to become a tourist destination; the island is gaining a reputation for having some of the best dive sites in Indonesia.
0830: The Anchor Dance
“It should be an interesting anchor dance today,” says Gunter. “I’m listening to the RallyRadio Net on VHF. Patrick is net control. He is moderating a discussion about where the last of yachts—still on passage—might anchor. They either anchor far out in deeper water, 50+ feet, or crunch in with all of us.”
“Put your fenders out,” Pat is cautioning with his dry Irish wit, “this could be Intimate Bliss here.”
“Mi Gitana is now finally anchored, “where we are settled but can shake hands with our neighbors,” says Michele. She describes how they anchored five times yesterday—the record so far—but that record could be broken today when the rest of the fleet comes in. First, MiGitana dragged twice. Then they anchored successfully, but when they pulled back, they were too close to their neighbors. After finally getting settled, RallyRadio asked them to move to make room for the ferry coming in today. “Now, we are real intimate with our neighbors!” she concludes.
After the net, Gunter and I discuss the situation. Dick had announced casually that “they are getting ready for us.”
“I say he is too casual. At the least, they could have worked out the dinghy situation.”
“And there was no warning about how small this harbor might be for 40+ yachts, or where to anchor,” I add. “I didn’t like his attitude yesterday when I asked him for the waypoint on #77 RallyRadio on the way in. He said we’d see the harbor situation when we got there, just head for the four boats already here. In other words, he’s the organizer and doesn’t even have the waypoint. He gave us waypoints for the end of the Darwin-to-Kupang Rally run, but not for here, our second Rally stop. ‘Just anchor anywhere you find the depth you want,’ he’d said. Well, that turned not to be good advice, because later in the afternoon, after four yachts had anchored in front of the ferry dock, RallyRadio told them to move because a big ship comes in Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
We’d had our own problems doing the anchor dance: As we approached the harbor yesterday, we were the second yacht of the day’s arrivals; Cinderella had preceded us. Another five had followed us down the inlet. Two other catamarans, XCatRiot and Quoll II, had already arrived the day before, and had anchored close to shore. I tried the anchor to see whether it was free, because in the Kupang harbor, just as I was ready to set it, the anchor became stuck in the roller and wouldn’t move. This time, I wanted to test it first. I let the anchor down so that it was barely touching the sea, and when I pressed the windlass control for it to come up…nothing. I informed Gunter but there was nothing we could do right then. “At least the DOWN control works,” Gunter said. But wouldn’t you know…we pulled up behind a fishing boat and pulled back, and to get a three-times scope, we were too close (we thought then) to Cinderella. However, as we swung around, our position seemed better. Gunter called out from the stern, “We can’t pull up tighter.” Our windlass control UP doesn’t work, either! Gunter was sweating, like he does when he’s stressed. And the heat didn’t help. On top of it, I still had a case of “the trots,” left over from our last lunch at the bemo station in Kupang. What a pair! The heat was crushing me, I was so dehydrated. We decided to leave the situation as is.
“This always happens at the worst time,” said Gunter. I recorded
the instrument settings in the logbook without saying a word; I knew that
anybody, in such a weakened condition, could not take the stress. I vowed
to take it easy in Kalabahi.
Gunter turned down the offer of an arrival drink, not even a Pepsi, until
he could troubleshoot the problem. First, he checked out the wires to the
control. No power to the UP side. Then he heaved the settee cushions out of
the way. Aha! The connector was loose. He tightened it. It worked. Problem
solved. “Gimme a five!” he yelled out, brows perspiring, hand
outstretched. The three of us—Alison, our crew, Gunter and I—slapped
hands and began to unwind. The remainder of the day, we watched the rest of
the incoming yachts anchor. The fishing boat left. Calypso took his spot.
We realized that we couldn’t re-anchor, even if we wanted to. Adriatica
came in close and took the spot we’d hoped Norma Ann could take. They
arrived later, and squeezed in next to shore anyway, tight, like they had
been in Kupang.
With more yachts arriving every hour, the anchor dance story would continue to unfold.
0930: The Anchor Dance Continues, Part II
Drums beating. A young girl in a short majorette skirt—but wearing a
headscarf—marches at the head of a makeshift band, twirling a baton.
She must be roasting under the hot sun. The locals are practicing. Tomorrow—the
opening of the Agro Festival—will be a big day. Two sets of young girls
come up to Pacific Bliss in dugout canoes, using pieces of bamboo for paddles.
I give them each a lolly. Clouds are gathering over the high mountain ridges
backing the village. A wind comes up. The paddlers are struggling against
the current, but they make it back to shore.
1200: The yachts are not so lucky. The anchor dance seems to be the day’s main event. Today’s yachts are beginning to arrive, four so far. One little yacht tries to anchor where Simpatica had already anchored and encountered a big cement slab. She leaves and moves far out. MoonShadow, a 62’ monohull, finds a spot. Imagine runs about, searching, but finally gives up and anchors out in “the deep.”
“Have the cruisers tried rafting?” Alison says, watching the drama unfold.
“No, never, this isn’t crowded California,” I answer. “And
it isn’t French Polynesia, either, where I did encounter rafting, among
friends, usually chartering together. But it is a zoo here, I must admit.
And there are more yachts yet to come.”
August 4th, 0645: A Disorganized Beginning
Drums are beating again. But this time it is not for practice. A soloist belts out lyrics we cannot understand. Speeches are already in process. I check through the binoculars, squinting against the sun, already up over the town’s eastern shoreline. A lone motor yacht, festooned with banners and ribbons, has pulled up to the Festival building on the Town Square next to the improvised dinghy dock.
The Rally Net said that the morning program¾just a welcome¾would begin at 0730 and that yachties were invited to attend. It actually began at 0630, but no worries, if yachties were there, they’d have no place to be or any way to get on shore. Gunter sees one crew in a dinghy hanging on to the motorboat at the dock. We can observe better from here, where we are anchored.
“What a joke,” comments Gunter. “There’s certainly no understanding of yachties’ needs here.”
Yet this WELCOME must be intended for the yachties. I know that because I can pick out the words, “Darwin, Kupang, Riung”¾our destinations all. On the RallyRadio Net this morning, Olivia had asked, “Will this 0730 WELCOME be on Indonesia time?”
“Of course,” Dick replied. “It is on Indonesian time. I’d recommend throwing away your watch for the duration.”
“Is it important?” she asked.
“Yes, VERY important,” he replied.
Then, perhaps, Dick, you could figure out where we should land our dinghies
at high tide, which seems to occur in the morning, I mumble to myself.
It turns out that the local custom for arriving boats is for local warriors
to board the boats as they arrive. The WELCOME powerboat rounds the anchorage,
filled with Indonesian men dressed as traditional warriors. They stop at half
a dozen yachts, but they perform the traditional drum dance for only one boat.
Then they return to shore where the drums continue to beat. This seems to
be the end of the arrival ceremony.
0830: All My Children
My most precious memories of Kalabahi will be all the children who visited me on Pacific Bliss. They reappeared around 0830, two dugout canoe loads¾about seven or eight of them. Since Gunter and Alison were still on board, I let the children up into the cockpit. Yesterday, alone on Pacific Bliss, I kept three canoes full of children at bay, on the swim steps, afraid that I would not be able to control them all if they entered the boat proper.
Today, they presented to me a large picture of Pacific Bliss, drawn with the crayons and notebook I’d given them yesterday. The pre-school girls had enlisted the services of a slightly older boy who has a reputation as the town artist. He replicated Pacific Bliss in detail, right down to the Indonesian flag on our spreader and the American flag at our stern. Upon presentation, I hung the drawing above the entrance to our salon. As a thank you, I sat the kids around our cockpit table and handed out juice drinks. Alison put them to work making paper helicopters, planes and boxes. The loved to make boxes using the photo pages from my Outdoor Photography magazines. Fortunately, I had a U.S. national park issue with lots of full page scenics.
Persuading the children to leave Pacific Bliss was another matter! Finally, the bigger boys left the little girls on board, as they had yesterday. I flagged down a yachtie couple, who took the four remaining girls and brought them back to shore in their dinghy.
Then I showered. (Gunter re-connected the fuse in the starboard engine yesterday, a jury-rig approach to get around a water-damaged Catana circuit board.) I had to relax in my cabin¾if I were in the cockpit, the kids would come again. I love them dearly, but only for a few hours at a time.
1030: Still staying close to ‘home’ with Bali Belly, as the whites call it here. But we haven’t been to Bali yet on this voyage, so I just continue to call it the trots. “It’s inevitable in Indonesia,” cruisers tell me. “It’s not a matter of whether, but when.” Rice again, ginger ale, crackers, and today I even splurged on a juice. This is one way to lose some inches off the tummy!
Alison and Gunter are on shore for the 0900 DIVE ALOR meeting. There are dangerous currents here; Alor is considered a spot for advanced divers; so already today, I am praying for Gunter’s safety tomorrow. He is not concerned.
1400: Agro Festival: The Opening Ceremony
We are seated in one of the last covered seating areas allotted for those attending the Festival. All around us are delegations from various towns in Alor, and there are even some from other Indonesian islands. This is a big deal. Most of the cruisers are seated on the concrete half-wall separating the audience from the performers out on the field, where they can get better photos. But I know that I cannot take the sun yet—even with a hat. As it is, I am concerned about my well-being, and had only rice for lunch. Occasionally, though I can’t resist rushing out to take a photo as the marchers from each area come into view. The Bali delegation is the most exotically dressed—no surprise there. But the war party from Alor is the fiercest.
After the delegations have marched onto the field, and the long speeches are over, the most interesting part of the day begins. A carnival atmosphere takes over as teachers and students, dancers and musicians, intermingle with each other and the festival-goers along the dusty road leading back to the town. There are numerous opportunities to talk. And everyone I approach seems eager to pose for me. How they giggle and point as they see the images on the back of my Nikon! The children who rowed out to Pacific Bliss find me among the throng, and from then on, they never leave my side. We stay in town for the first time, having dinner on shore. I try to order a dish of plain rice, and for some reason, have a difficult time making my wishes known. The other cruisers in our group have all finished their more complex meals before mine arrives! Go figure.
After we find our way past the jubilant throng, and wind through the crowded tents and lean-to’s—set up like a US county fair—we reach the new, expanded dinghy dock, a few planks nailed to the top of empty oil drums. There is still not enough room for all the dinghies, so the cruisers are given numbers, like a primitive valet service. Our dinghy arrives as night descends. But, nightfall does not mean the end of the festivities. Far into the wee hours of the morning, we are kept awake with music from two competing venues, both with loudspeakers blaring far out into the sea.
August 5th, Dive Alor, the Governor’s Ball, and Anchor Dance # 3
0545: The muezzin call to prayer begins at 0410 followed by a wail that lasts
until 0435. Gunter hands me a pair of Doctor’s Earplugs, made of conformable
wax silicon. They don’t work. I shut the window, cutting off our air.
That’s an improvement. But I never fall asleep again.
As the streaks of dawn’s light peek over the derelict ships at the eastern part of the harbor, (I find out later that they are still being used), I dress and move bleary-eyed toward the cockpit. It’s hardly quiet in the anchorage. In addition to the early muezzin call and crowing roosters, the sound of drums and music pierces the air. This doesn’t sound like practicing though; in fact, it sounds just like the party music continuing from the night before! Perhaps they just forgot to turn off the record and the loudspeakers. Otherwise, when do they sleep? Or perhaps they don’t sleep during the Expo. I go out to the cockpit to listen again, after stirring the coffee in our French Press. Yes, it is the two competing venues—going strong again…and now they are competing with the roosters as well.
Afternoon: The DIVE ALOR boat comes to pick up Gunter and Alison. It is unlike any dive boat I have ever seen before! I’m praying the rickety thing doesn’t fall apart, as I snap photos of its rumbling departure. Gunter and Alison enjoy some nice dives off the surrounding reefs of the villages in the channel. One was a drift dive in which they saw lots of colorful coral, but few fish. Their special reward, though, was sighting a lion fish, a species that I have seen only seen in aquariums. Dive Alor turned out to quite reliable; Dive Master Donovan himself partnered with Gunter and Alison.
Evening: The gala ball is a big bust. The women wear their cruising best; the men wear slacks as a courtesy. We were told the ball would be held at the Governor’s house, and that we be transported there by bus. We expected to be seated around tables. We were to show up at the temporary yacht club promptly at 1800. So after a big day diving, returning close to 1700 with no rest, Gunter promptly changes and we rush off. Alison sacks out, but she doesn’t miss much. Those who had signed up for the traditional island tour cut it short, and skip the dancing show, in order to be back in time. It is the hurry-up-and-wait syndrome all over again: We wait at the club; then we wait again at the house.
Our English friends, Tony and Norma, arrive dressed to the nines. After all, this event is promoted as the governor’s ball. Tony sports a snappy white jacket, with a red bow tie and cumberbund; Norma is elegant in a full-length Oriental-style dress, shawl and gold sandals. Upon arrival, we cruisers are seated in a row of plastic chairs facing a platform on the outside of the governor’s house. We never do get to set foot inside. And we are dog tired from the long day, followed by the long walk, uphill most of the way. (Yes, we were also told there would be busses to take us from the club, but of course, like lots of promises on this Rally, those busses never materialized.)
The night is hot and there is no breeze. The cruisers bring out their bug spray as the speeches drone on past 1930. The Norwegian couple we call the Vikings give a nice speech that tops the ones given by the officials. Very nicely done. Finally, we are invited to go through a buffet line, and return to balance our food, sitting on those same chairs.l It is a disappointing buffet of two rices, five fishes, and stringy green vegetables. I don’t dare to touch the shrimp and calamari; so a few pieces picked off the fish supplement my rice. Water is provided in the typical little plastic-covered glasses with the miniature straw that one uses to pierce the top plastic. The good part: at least I didn’t get sick and have to use a squat toilet.
The Anchor Dance, Part III: Some of the cruisers who don’t attend the ball are having a worse evening. A few yachts, Aldeberan among them, are grounded when the tide becomes exceptionally low. Forced to move in tight, now the monohulls who don’t usually anchor that close, are listing to one side on dry keels. Their captains and crew spend the better part of the evening attempting to move to deeper waters. Some simply wait until the high tide returns. None have lasting damage.
August 6th, Leaving Kalabahi
We haul anchor at 0700, 15-20 minutes after Norma Ann. Tony had come over
to Pacific Bliss yesterday to discuss plans and we decided to leave Kalabahi
together. Mi Gitana is leaving later and proceeding straight to the next rally
stop: Riung. Frankly, Gunter and I are tired of the Rally and the Expo. The
crowded anchorages, all the noise, all the togetherness—it is simply
too much.
We are “rally’d out,” says Gunter. Seeing the frenzied rush
of yachts leaving for the past two days, we know that are now behind the pack.
Furthermore, it appears that the next anchorage, Riung, will be even more
crowded, and with coral heads to boot. This morning, I counted 20+ yachts
remaining in the anchorage. Eight left ahead of us and another half dozen
or so are behind us. There will be only a few stragglers left in Kalabahi
for the day. The German fleet is among the group that leaves this morning;
they too are not interested in arriving for the Riung opening ceremonies,
dreading the hemmed-in feeling of yachties crowded together, at the anchorage
and on the shore. That fleet is day-hopping now, planning to anchor today
at the first island west of Alor, called Pantor, where Cinderella headed yesterday.
August 7th, Underway
08º 09’ South, 124º 17.61 East
1045: We are rounding the jutting Northeast point of Pantar; Solor rises dimly to the south. Soon we’ll be far out into the Indian Ocean, outside of the current and wind influence of the islands, sailing (or motoring, more likely) along the northern coasts of Pantar, Kawula, and Adunara—islands few tourists have ever seen—possibly anchoring at the northernmost tip of Flores. It will be one overnight. If we pass our contingency anchorage of Gedong before dawn, we’ll continue on to the Sea World (dive) anchorage east of Maumere. We’re motoring, both engines working against a one knot current, which I hope will subside as we leave lands’ grasp. But the wind is only F1 to F2. We saw FO in the channel leaving Kalabahi this morning.
1500: Ungodly hot. 98º F in the salon. Woke up from afternoon nap below—sleeping off a rather heavy American lunch: old-fashioned hamburgers with cheese and tomato, open-face on some rather dry white bread purchased in town. Joy! I can eat regular food now! Still motoring but the wind has increased to F3 now, 7 knots from the northeast. Perhaps we can finally sail soon. Frenzy II is close behind us. Norma Ann way back. We’ve passed the northeast tip of Alor; now we are motoring along the northern coast of Kawula. A volcano island rising to our starboard, called Komba or Batu Tara. Gunter tries to sail but the F3 breeze only gets us three knots; one is engine back on.
I had quite the TO DO list on Friday, and did not even stop for a nap. My day began with boat frau work: washing the floors, shaking rugs, cleaning heads, cleaning and organizing the fridge. Then a cold shower in my starboard side for a change; that felt so-o good. By that time, my “little kids” arrived and I set them at the table, offering the rest of our banana bread and ginger ale. I showed them where we live (from the placements and photos on board), then gave the boys and girls each a large postcard of Pacific Beach, California to take with them. These children have been the highlight of my Kalabahi experience. I will never forget their smiling faces and deep brown eyes, glowing with the thrill of being on board a yacht.
1615: We’re sailing! Only a F3 NE 8.7-knot wind and we are inching
along at 4.4 knots, but hey, it is nice to turn the iron jenny off. Sunday
songs by Christie Lane croon from the cockpit speakers. A mountainous tip
of land to port. Low cumulous cloud formations ¾ up the peak. It’s
looking greener, more lush, than Pantar and the others. A new volcano—according
to our chart—ahead to starboard at 2200 position. I talk to Sharon on
Frenzy II: perhaps we’ll see a volcano blazing during the night along
the Indonesian coast. I’m thinking about the three crater lakes near
Maumere. I really want to take this tour. Out comes the Lonely Planet.
“No matter what we see, we’ll miss something else,” I complain.
“But wherever we go, there we are,” says Gunter. Who can argue
with that?
August 8th, Morning watch at sea
0645: “You’re up half an hour before your watch,” says Gunter.
“Yes, I wanted to soak in the sunrise in a different place.”
The sun rose behind us to the port stern as we sailed SSW toward the Sea World
resort anchorage on the island of Flores. The reef-studded point of Flores
that took forever to round last night falls far behind now. I’ve been
multi-tasking and it’s much too early for that: making water, furling
in the jib, turning on the engine (we had a nice quiet sail for less than
a half hour), replying to a VHF call from QuoVadis (they’re at the anchorage
along here; “didn’t go to the Alor zoo” quipped Mark). Now
there is fifteen minutes before the Tony net and 45 minutes before the Komodo
net. It’s much too early for such time pressure!
My plan was to come topsides at 0630—before my 0700 scheduled watch—in order to have some quiet contemplation, a “cuppa,”and perhaps listen to more of those hilarious Garrison Keeler stories on tape. Well, now I’m on watch early, sitting at the port helm, sun at my back, skimming the seas at 5 knots, engine humming along, jotting notes in my journal.
“I’ll take the fifteen,” I say to no one in particular.
No one replies; they have both disappeared down below.
The dawn is cloudless and monochromatic: the seas below the swim steps a dark
blue glaze, the mountains of Northeast Flores projected in dark purple-and-blue
relief, the sky to starboard a pastel blue, stretching all the way to the
horizon. As the sun rises, the sculpture turns to sepia: the grayish yellow-brown
shapes of the three closest islands rise in front of us. A yacht approaching
them has taken down their sails. I scan for fish traps. (Gunter had mentioned
that he saw one fishing platform, flagged but unlit, during his pre-dawn watch.)
I peruse the chart laid out in the salon, attempting to identify the islands.
Pamana, Pu Kaabah, and Babi. We will head between the first two.
I shade the cockpit with our blue awning. Already it is heating up. Coffee
cup washed. I am already drinking my first glass of water. (Since my bali
belly experience, I am very careful about drinking enough water.) The midday
heat will be ferocious, as usual. Salon temperature is 86º F at 0730.
The water temperature is 86.9º F. Hard work for our keel-cooled fridge
and freezer.
1000. The end of my morning watch. Force O. Zero wind. Seas like rolling oil
fields. Haze over the mountains. The nearby islands in stark relief to the
hazy purple mountains in the background. Two yachts still ahead, one on our
course, direct, the other hugging the island’s shoreline.
“Why?”
“Perhaps to get out of a stronger current,” says a revived Gunter.
But Pacific Bliss has had a one-knot current in our favor, motoring along at 5-5.5 knots, port engine humming. I have a boiled egg and toast with a revived Alison.
My thoughts anticipate another anchorage. I yearn to jump into cool water at Sea World resort. Cool at 87º F? Ah, but the evaporation will make it seem cool, I rationalize. And next, the crater lakes of Kelimutu. Another stop. Another adventure. And who knows what lies ahead?