Fai Tira blog Friday 23rd October

 Arrived in Rinca 8:42.06S 119:39.57E

Our starting point in Indonesia seems a while ago now and much has happened in the intervening period.

It was the middle of the night when we arrived in Kupang, and an arrival full of atmosphere, drama, intrigue and anticipation. We’d kept station with Angel for much of the journey and could see their lights not too far ahead, Enchantress was a little further on and just out of sight.

Even from some distance away we could detect a change as we became aware of a dense earthy smell hanging on the breeze. The line between land and sea was a difficult one to distinguish and the frequent background lightening flashes, that had significantly marked the last stages of the journey, had intensified both in frequency and power, but their silence still felt, eerie and haunting.

Even with the occasional dense cloud cover, there was enough moonlight to make it a comfortable dark. However, the confused combined impact of shore lights and the often powerful and sudden appearance of those on the countless fishing boats, presented an undiluted pattern of light difficult to comprehend and unravel.

It was about 3am as we closed in and the lights and silhouettes of the other BWR boats became distinguishable. Our anchoring was uneventful and safe and as we nestled under the twinkling white lights illuminating the town of Kupang there was just time to reflect on an expensive, peaceful but boring crossing. Have a quick drink and collapse into bed.

The night was very short, and It was only a few hours later when I was woken by the hauntingly beautiful and evocative sound of the call to prayer as it echoed over the rooftops. As often happens, the romanticism generated by the previous night’s lights, quickly evaporated in the harsh daylight. The dawn broke with the electric storms subdued but still active. There was the noise of children laughing as they ran along a narrow strip of beach, playing in the sea. Senses were immediately outraged with the confrontation of masses of concrete in various stages of construction, neglect and decay, often rising four or five storeys directly out of the water. Walls were left open. Washing hung from shabby balconies and there was lots of rusting corrugated iron. It formed roofs, clad walls and patched holes. The whole scene looked as though it had been shoehorned together to form an intricate pattern of shapes and rugged rawness, somehow visually appealing. No pretentions about this place. Poverty and determined enterprise seemed everywhere. As we landed our dinghy we were met by an organised bunch of helpers who for about £2 would mind the boat for the day and help every time it was launched or landed, and all this organised by a Mr Fixit, who seemed to have a finger in many pies. The squalor and deprivation were hard to ignore and a constant reminder of the reality of life here, also that the fascination for visitors is, no doubt, in stark contrast to the emotions of those who have to live with this apparent permanency. However, it seems that nothing can suppress the friendliness, dignity, or curiosity of these people, and there wasn’t even the slightest  show of resentment towards this mass influx of foreigners who, to them, must have seemed to have it all.

For the duration of our stay, the heat was almost debilitating, and much of the first day was spent in the confined shade of what was formerly Teddy’s Bar, a place that achieved local wartime fame through the patronage of the ANZAC forces stationed nearby.

Even in this partly Muslim community (60:40 Christian we were told), Sunday seemed to be a day of rest, with the town and immediate surrounding areas quiet and relatively empty. A few active shops were scattered around with loud music shouting through their open doors. However, our foray in search of an ATM revealed a mainly peaceful scene with shuttered shop fronts.

Back at the bar and with a pocketful of local currency (1 million of it equal to about £80) we relaxed, had a beer, sampled the remarkably cheap brilliantly flavoured food, completed (or so we thought) the clearing-in procedures, caught up with the others, generally relaxed, tuned into the major cultural turnaround we were all experiencing, and contemplated ways of making the best of our short stay.

Afternoon turned quickly to evening and as always happens in this part of the world, the rapidly fading light was soon overtaken by the fast approaching night. We decided on a walk up the main street to find the night market and food area.

Restful Sunday no longer existed. People were everywhere. Groups, both standing and sitting, formed in the large tree-lined open area at the bottom of town opposite the pier. Stalls had sprung up, smoke rose from fires as embers were fanned, generating a delicious smell of cooking sweet corn. Shutters were lifted and shop fronts bathed in light were suddenly alive, generating a chaotic scene of sound and activity. Successions of noisy bemos (the local minibus taxi service) formed colourful lines as they cruised the street looking for custom, and lines of scooters stood parked against broken and sometimes potholed pavements.

Now movement around was a case of considered calculation, the traffic flow was in one direction, but the speed, volume and angles were difficult to judge and one eye was always on the alert for what was coming from behind... It was amazing. Where was this switch that someone had just thrown to start all this?!!

The whole place seemed like one huge market. The food area was easy to find in a section of the main road closed off by old tyres. Makeshift eating areas with plastic tables and chairs were arranged either side of the narrow road alongside tricycle bikes acting as kitchens leaving a small walk through for access.

Before long, familiar faces emerged from the crowd, the whole of the Rally seemed to be here. It was amazingly inexpensive eating, with the atmosphere alone being worth more than the cost.

We arrived back at Teddy’s Bar just in time to see, judging by the turn out of spectators, one of their favourite forms of entertainment. Taking place at an adjacent bar was a cross dressing parade (a fashion show for blokes in women’s clothes). A quick glance was enough to confirm that a quiet beer was a better option!

The following day was about trying to, unsuccessfully, get about on my bike. Both Peter and Jeremy’s arrangements of being part of a mass scooter convoy seemed to work and they had a great time.

My efforts were always dependent on the accurate timing of the newly purchased fuel, they went completely out of shape, and not helped by the discovery that the bike was now being affected by the ravages of the journey (know just how it feels), so my trip was a short one , but did include an interesting traditional market, just about as basic as could be with all the smells noise and colour you’d expect... Worth the trip just for that!

In the evening, a welcoming party was provided by the local government. I thought that their hospitality was brilliant, providing a great meal and souvenir scarves. Considering their obvious lack of resources, a very touching gesture

The next day was dominated by the revelation of - and associated meetings regarding - our apparent non-compliance with Indonesian customs regulations that questioned the legality of our presence in the country. It also raised the question of the possibility of boats being impounded and arrests being made.

The reasons for this were complex, and the answers unachievable. It was, therefore, agreed to leave early the next day before any proposed action by the authorities. So we arrived under a cloud in the dead of night and left under one, albeit metaphoric, in the early hours with a problem that hadn’t gone away and that could affect us anywhere in Indonesia. It’s a disrupting and unsatisfactory affair that could have the effect of preventing us from seeing this beautiful part of the world.

Decisions had to be made. The easy one was to go straight to Singapore, in which case the Indonesian authorities would probably leave us alone, or carry on as normal and hope for resolution in Bali.

We decided to stick, broadly, to our original plan and headed off in the direction of Sawu an island about the size of the Wight one off the South coast of England.

The 104-ish mile journey took about 17 hours and was made in the company of both Natibou and Bionic. The early light winds soon gave way to brisk southerlies and before long we were prancing along at 6-7 knots, still not enough to keep pace with the others, though, and our arrival in the evening was about 2 hours behind them. So for the second successive time we anchored in the dark, gasped after a long day and collapsed into bed

The first trip ashore, in the morning, was surrounded by uncertainty. In the event the official reception was about as good as it could be, with all the inherent Indonesian friendliness on display in abundance.

The next trip included us all and we were soon hauling the dinghy ashore, acknowledging the many welcoming gestures and heading, in ferocious heat, towards the jetty and dusty stall lined main-street. We decided seek out a guide mentioned in the reference book. Even though the out-of-date information proved fruitless, it did lead us to a guy called John. He could speak good English and turned out to be a great substitute, who at short notice organised a trip incorporating a traditional village and a visit to the now-crumbling ruins of what was once a grand Portuguese villa overlooking the sea.

The heat and need for a beer caused a slightly premature end to the events. However, John still provided me with a seat on the back of his motorbike for a trip, on scary roads, across the highest point of the island to a much larger village. The ride back was even more scary and I arrived just before dark in time for a beer on Natibou.

A short, but most enjoyable stay!

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Hello Rinca