Into Equatorial Soup
Sulawesi, Indonesia
On a map Sulawesi looks like the result of an adventurous child’s idea of the ultimate island of mystery. It’s bent and twisted arms are coarsely marked with spines and ridges that are draped in jungle, fringed by coconut plantations, sometimes reaching, and abruptly dropping, into the surrounding sea.
I headed towards an inviting archipelago that sits in calm waters between two of Sulawesi’s arms. Travelling these islands by public boat was enjoyable; to sit atop these old wooden ships, passing plentiful islands with overflowing vegetation, with calm seas only interrupted by dolphins, flying fish and pursuing pelagics, and our unwinding wake behind. To complete the scene, an eerie mix of golden-oldies power-ballads tore over the loudspeaker.
On Malenge island, afternoon jungle trekking turned into torrential thunderstorm nighttime jungle trekking. Malenge’s jungle interior also harbours a cavernous bat cave where I literally climbed a mountain of shit. Stepped off a boat a few kilometres offshore into the most appealing array of marine life amid excessively healthy, vibrant coral.
On the boat from the islands, the other tourists were all planning their next move; to the next stop on the guidebook trail. Upon reaching the port, I turned in the opposite direction, still with a similar destination in mind, but abruptly deciding on a rather lengthy detour for no real reason except just to go. I was exasperated by the guidebook pilgrims and their relentless attempts to organise; to materialise departure and arrival times in a place where such things do not exist. This is not Europe! Busses leave when they are full, busses arrive when they arrive. Questions of how far, and how long, pointless and met with strange stares or arbitrary estimates offered to superficially ease their foreign minds. So, I was in a minibus, well after dark, speeding towards the town of Luwuk.
The driver, whose incessant burping sounded like he was simultaneously necking a carbonated beverage while giving an enthusiastic blowjob, established an environment ill-suited to sleeping. His lamentable gurgling must have subsided as eventually I fell asleep. I woke to shakes and an open van-door, where I was being vigorously accosted by a local passenger-boat captain who was highly recommending I sleep aboard his ship. After assessing the risk of a dangerous homosexual encounter with an old seaman as somewhat unlikely, I agreed. Slept outside on the bow on a soft little mattress. Woke up, apologised in my head for considering that the friendly man’s kind nature was of unsavoury intention, and left.
Luwuk was alright. A jovial local took me out for fried bananas and coffee at the local beach. We also watched a football game together that evening. A kind host. He ran a modelling agency. Truly ruing potentially dozens of missed opportunities there.
Leaving Luwuk involved a packed minivan — 12 people in a 7 seater — passing bootleg breakfast whiskey, and great feelings of uncertainty. Ended up in a Bajau fishing village — not the place I had indicated I wanted to go at all. At the dock sat a ferry heading in the appropriate direction, departing the next day. Apparently it is acceptable to board and dig in for the night, despite being more than 12 hours from departure. A local Bajau showed me the village, built on stilts above the water, and took me to some persons’ house for a meal. Word got around, and 20 neighbours came to watch me chew in silence. Then I fielded questions through the sole English speaker largely concerning my current marital status.
Another slow chugging ride on an old wooden ferry. A guy got on the boat who was heading for Mecca, his family waved him off on the dock. Hell of a pilgrimage. Someone asked me if the book beside me — Heart of Darkness — was my bible. I laughed. But Mr Conrad’s ruminations on encounters between ‘others’, and the conduct of the Western subject in foreign lands had indeed spurred much though and introspection. Along with Lord Jim, Mr Conrad offered me a language for ruminating on my scenario, as a conspicuous foreigner in a foreign land.
Eventually I made the lakeside town of Tentena: a cool place well suited for the relaxation I duly needed. It had been a tiresome, pointless, but interesting detour, and I was glad to escape the guidebook pilgrims for a few days, travelling as opportunity afforded. The rest of Sulawesi then began to unroll before me revealing numerous oddities and strange scenes.
While exploring the villages around Toraja, I came upon nine recently killed buffalo lying on the trampled dirt and blood of previous sacrifices. I watched a dozen men skin and portion all nine beasts with machetes and crudely forged axes. I left the increasingly sickening scene, oddly enough, because of a powerful hunger. The following day I woke up incredibly ill. It felt unique, foreign; something tropical? I rode out this illness on a 30 hour economy class ferry to Surabaya. This came after a sweaty, delirious, and butt-clenching nine hours on the bus from Toraja to Makassar.
It was a good month.
Originally published at Tropic of Capey