The Peace Correspondent (35 page)

We ride into the capital in a gaudily decked out van, with gewgaws hanging from the ceiling and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” playing whenever the driver brakes.

Along the road, shirt-sleeved King George stops to pick cloves from a blossoming tree in the luxuriant jungle, crushing them in his hand to release the rich, sweet perfume of the Spice Islands. These, along with nutmeg, mace and pepper, were the “Green Gold,” that made the islands the world's richest for a time, attracting rapacious European adventurers. The Spice Islands have a longer history of European colonization than North America. “In 1674, the British traded Banda, one of these tiny islands, to the Dutch for Manhattan,” George adds as a historical footnote.

The Portuguese, British, Dutch and Japanese all had their day here. More Dutch and Portuguese forts with ancient rusting cannons and thick, moss-covered walls molder in their jungle graves here than in the rest of this vast country.

Bailey Bridges across deep gullies and abandoned airstrips recall the bloody Pacific Theater battles during World War II. U.S. bombers flattened all of Ambon city during the war, except for the banana-green mosque. The Japanese scuttled some of their ships in the harbor when they fled, and locals still hear explosions of bombs going off underwater. The well-maintained Australian War Memorial cemetery, including two Royal Canadian Air Force graves, is a somber reminder of past troubles in this paradise. George explains that many of the graves are unmarked, because after the Japanese beheaded captured soldiers, they could not be identified by their dog tags.

As we stop to buy flowers outside the Chinese cemetery, dozens of children shouting “Balanda, Balanda” (Hollander, any white foreigner) besiege us, begging for autographs. In crowded, curious Indonesia, a foreigner with a camera attracts onlookers like a crumb of sugar on the ground attracts ants. At the sacred Waai pool, with water as clear as a mountain stream, a man feeds raw eggs to a long, spotted black eel, a sacred, serpentine pet, too heavy for him to lift from the water. The eel's appearance signifies
good tidings and a happy future for us visitors.

On our last evening, George and his friends take us to the town's leading hotel for dinner. Trishaw wheels whisper along the pavement, and sweet Polynesian-like hymns drift from the Gereja (church) Marantha in the otherwise silent evening. The hotel dining room is decorated in standard Southeast Asian Chinese style: acrylic pictures of playful kittens and northern sunsets decorate the wall, while a plastic banana tree, a rude imitation of those lining the road outside, sits in the corner. One of our hostesses goes to the Yamaha organ in the corner to serenade us, we hope with a traditional Moluccan song.

“This is the moment, of sweet Aloha.”

THE mysterious stone head, big as a beach bungalow, glowers in the tropical sun like one of the ancient faces of Cambodia's Angkor Wat. Hollow eyes stare out from under a fringe of vines growing over its forehead like bangs. A small, jagged palm sprouts from the top in a spiky punk rock haircut, and mist steams from the mouth and eyes.

It is like a brooding scene out of Apocalypse Now -- until a bikinied figure shoots out of the mouth and lands with a whopping splash in the turquoise, sun-dappled water. Laughter and happy shouts resound across the swimming pool.

This is not a strange, pagan god spitting out human sacrifices, but an imaginative poolside fixture, with its tongue a water slide. The artistic head in the Sheraton Senggigi Beach Resort swimming pool is patterned after the traditional style of mask of the local Sasak people in Lombok, Indonesia. The unique sculpture cleverly adapts local art to modern play in one of Southeast Asia's newest destinations.

Lombok, a 20-minute flight or four-hour boat ride from Bali, was just a stop on the backpackers' long trail from Europe to Australia until recently. Now it is on the verge of major tourist development.

“Lombok is a new place, close to nature,” says a Lombok local over poolside Bintang beers. “People save it for the last stop on a tour of Indonesia. It is a place to relax before going home.”

Visitors from big-city Jakarta, appreciate the easy island pace. “This is still a fresh area, with no traffic jams and friendly people,”
a guest explains while wandering the resort's lush grounds.

“Lombok was once an adventure travel destination,” he points out. But in the past few years, resorts have made a beachhead in this once remote island, mainly on the wide, sandy crescent of Senggigi Beach on the west coast. Now, people are beginning to see that it is different, and more couples and families are coming.

Lombok has the same rugged mountain-and-seaside scenery as better-known Bali, but without the crowds. It is easy to explore this 80 by 80-kilometer island by car, although the lack of road signs makes navigating on the back roads stimulating, and sometimes adventurous.

The rental vehicle of choice, a four-wheel drive Suzuki Jimmy jeep, seems unnecessary for the paved roads, but my friends and I soon learn otherwise. Driving is easy, except when weaving around pony carts, motorbikes and trucks in the town. In the countryside, traffic disappears. In an hour along the west coast one morning, we only see a truck hauling coconuts, and a few little pony carts, the popular rural taxis, their steeds not much bigger than Great Danes, clop-clopping down the road.

Lombok's back roads lead to sleepy, rural Indonesia of brown rivers cutting through lush jungles and orderly rice paddies like burnished emeralds turning a silvery sheen as the sun dips low over the hills. In the Pusuk monkey forest, hundreds of curious simians, young and old, line the road, hirsute pilgrims in pursuit of bananas or other offerings from passing cars.

Rustics loiter outside village houses with red-tiled roofs; young boys scramble up tall coconut palms; and women in batik sarongs walk to the fields carrying primitive farming instruments or bundles of firewood delicately balanced on their heads. Small, whitewashed mosques the size of cottages, with pink trimmed wooden windows and domes like silver onions, lie half-hidden in the jungle. On these narrow dirt roads with pot holes big as bath tubs, we appreciate the jeep with its rugged suspension and high clearance.

The winding, dipping coast road north from Senggigi is as stunning as the California Coast, or Kauai, Hawaii, with its high cliffs. The road climbs high up a cliff to give a sweeping view of Bali's volcanoes across Lombok Strait, then drops to run along perfect beaches with outriggers pulled up on the sand, but not a tourist in sight.

Our destination this day is the small port of Bangsal, to catch an outrigger to one of the three small islands known for their tranquillity, and coral. At the end of the short road, village urchins, all budding entrepreneurs, try to get us to park in the shade near their homes for 2,000 rupiahs (US$1). When we park under a palm tree instead, they warn us, “Boss, a coconut will fall on your car.”

Looking at the battered Jimmy, I ignore the self-appointed parking attendant's warning.

Shuttle boats leave for the three small islands when they have 15 passengers, for only 1,500 rupiahs (75 cents) each. But it is past noon, and there are only three people waiting. Gili Air, the closest island with a small village, gets the most visitors. Gili Trawangan, the largest, has a party every day with tour boats from Senggigi, they tell us, as though that were a major attraction. So we book a private boat for 35,000 rupiahs (US$17) return to Gili Meno, the quietest island about a 50-minute ride away, and climb aboard the Kontiki, an outrigger with a hull the color of a ripe mango.

As we bounce along the choppy water, we look back to Lombok's majestic Gunung (Mount) Rinjani on the north side of the island. The perfect cone of the 3,726-meter active volcano could have been the model for the hat one of our boatmen wears. The scenic Sidenggile Waterfall on the slopes of the volcano is an hour's hike from the end of the road. Energetic and athletic types climb to the peak to see Segara Anak, a crater lake deep in the caldera. But that three-day excursion, with camping in tents, is best left for another time.

Our destination, Gili Meno, is not totally undiscovered. Basic
rental bungalows on stilts line the beach and a group of temporary islanders, weekend beachcombers, sits at a little open air cafe sipping fruit juices or Bintang beer and inspecting new arrivals.

Well-used face masks, snorkels and fins hang from a bamboo frame like forgotten objects in a lost-and-found department. The proprietor asks 7,000 rupiahs rental, immediately dropping to 6,000, but it seems pricey. Instead, we walk past the bungalows to a fine sand beach near the end of the island. There, a cheerful old fellow rents masks for only 2,000 rupiahs. Alone, we snorkel the warm green waters, like swimming in a massive private aquarium of exotic, radiant tropical fish darting through the feathery coral.

While Lombok equals the larger Bali in these physical attractions, it lacks that Hindu island's abundance of man-made sights, the timeless temples, palaces and ubiquitous artwork. However, those attractions we happen upon have an understated charm. Narmada, the water palace 12 kilometers west of the main town, Mataram, is a pleasant spot with the added allure of being devoid of other visitors when we arrive. The King of Lombok built this summer palace in 1727 as place of worship -- and a pleasure garden with a series of swimming pools. The old rogue reputedly had a hidden spot from where he would select village maidens for his recreation.

On this hot day, it is a serene, riverside setting with a flock of truant school boys swimming in the Hindu-style temple pools. Below, the large, modern swimming pool stands empty, while in an ancient pool nearby, modern plastic peddle boats shaped like swans stand alongside age-old, moss-covered stone statues.

South of here, in traditional Sasak villages with stilt houses, locals make pottery, carvings, baskets and weavings. This part of the island is arid and barren compared with the lush north. At the end of the road south, through the dry, dusty hills, down the steep road to the coast, a sign advertises the Matahari Inn. “Kuta Beach, 1 km, Matahari Inn Hotel and Restaurant, The Place Where
All Nations Are Together. Reasonable Price and Nice People.”

Seaweed and coconut fronds cover the large, curved Kuta Beach facing an open bay, fishermen stand ready to launch outrigger canoes and water buffalo graze on the sand vines, but no one swims in the clear water.

The Matahari, the only commercial enterprise in sight, is a pleasant, thatched, open-air backpackers' hotel, with reggae on the music box, but no cold beer. Besides the standard Indonesian staples of nasi and mee goreng and gado gado, the menu offers roesti a la Switzerland and spaghetti Napoli, Bolognaise or marinara.

It is a secluded tropical hideaway. But a Japanese company is building a hotel next door, a new international airport is planned nearby, and the area is going to be the center of new tourist development. Then, this tranquil Lombok Kuta Beach may become like its bustling Balinese namesake.