1.
Caminho
Duvidoso
KM Nggapulu on its approach to the Banda Islands. This gigantic liner, which can carry 5,000 passengers, visits the Bandas twice a month along its route from Jakarta to Papua and back. Operated by Pelni (Indonesian Shipping Line Company), it is the only reliable mean of transportation to the islands throughout the year.
It was early February 2014, and I was trapped in the womb of a passenger liner belonging to the world’s largest archipelago nation. Economy Class was filled with solid bed frames laid side-by-side, full of weary bodies that sprawled weakly amid cardboard boxes and bundles of old fabric. Whiffs of stale food, the foul odor of vomit, and a urine stench from the toilet coalesced in the stagnant air, permeating an unvented space where the air conditioner no longer blew. Loudspeakers shouted out meal times, prayer times, and schedules for film screenings in quick succession. Occasionally, they warned against littering in the sea.
I paid 15,000 rupiahs for a movie ticket, went into the cinema on the middle deck, and sat down between red-eyed men who stared intently at a love scene involving young Korean women. The film grew steamier as the ocean waves crashed even harder against the hull. Our ship swayed and rocked in tandem with the shaking of the bed on-screen, where the girls were consumed in a fit of passion.
Moving on to another deck, I stepped over sleeping bodies scattered on the floor and rubbed shoulders with people who spoke in different languages. Once in a while, itinerant vendors passed by offering hot coffee, instant noodles, packets of rice bundled with side dishes, even large teddy bears. The night was alive with conversation, children’s cries, and loud snores from a deep slumber. On the upper deck, dance music drifted over from the ship’s restaurant while the cheerful voices of women were audible in the background. I lay down to sleep, curling up amid the barrage of noise and nausea’s embrace.
KM Tidar, a ship owned by Pelni (Indonesian National Shipping Lines), is like Indonesia in miniature: a colorful vision of chaos. A trip aboard a Pelni vessel does not promise comfort, but many Indonesians have little to no choice. In a country with more than 17,000 islands served by just 297 airports, Pelni ships are one of the only regular and reliable means to connect locales around the far-flung archipelago, including the Banda Islands, my destination.
By now, the ship was entering the Banda Sea. The 30-year-old giant, measuring 144 meters long and 14,500 gross tons, noisily split the raging waves, typical of the early months of the year. Almost a week since its departure from Jakarta, KM Tidar had sailed over 2,000 kilometers, stopping at harbors scattered across eastern Indonesia. Soon, the German-made ark would visit Banda, a group of islands surrounded by deep and wild seas. A tiny archipelago rich with dramas and stories.
I was trapped in the womb of a passenger liner belonging to the world’s largest archipelago nation. Economy Class was filled with solid bed frames laid side-by-side, full of weary bodies that sprawled weakly amid cardboard boxes and bundles of old fabric.
Often sailing way over its capacity, many passengers of KM Tidar have to sleep on the deck floor.
Often sailing way over its capacity, many passengers of KM Tidar have to sleep on the deck floor.
Under good weather, the journey from Ambon to Banda would take at least eight hours.
Under good weather, the journey from Ambon to Banda would take at least eight hours.
On a journey to the Banda Islands, teenagers spend time on KM Tidar's lifeboat.
On a journey to the Banda Islands, teenagers spend time on KM Tidar's lifeboat.
The Bandas consists of 12 islands which are often too small to appear on most maps.
The Bandas consists of 12 islands which are often too small to appear on most maps.
Centuries ago, Banda was an obsession. European kingdoms tried so hard to discover it, fight over it, and rule it. More than 500 years before my journey, the Portuguese, Spanish, and later the English and Dutch, sent their fleets to Banda as well as neighboring islands in the Moluccas, in a massive, high-stakes sailing competition that was incredibly costly.
Sailing on wooden ships, these European sailors were reading the compass at a time when the world map was still incomplete, hoping on the kindness of the wind, the currents, and on sheer luck. The Portuguese dubbed these expeditions Caminho duvidoso, “the doubtful way.” Perhaps it is also fitting to call them the voyages of failure. So many lives were sacrificed. So many ships lost. Half of the fleets never returned.
Unlike the sailors of yesteryear, I was traveling at a time when navigation technology has mapped the oceans, and GPS has recorded almost all the corners of the world, even the most obscure. The storm continued raging and the waves kept on pounding against the ship’s hull, but KM Tidar sailed on without hesitation, without getting lost. I was sailing in a world that had grown much smaller and more connected than ever before.
KM Nggapulu sails pass Sonnegat Strait, the narrow point of entry into the port of Banda Naira. Normally, the ship would anchor for an hour before continuing the journey to the next destination.
Beneath the dimly lit skies of dawn, the ship's horn blared, like an earthquake warning siren intent on waking all 1,900 passengers from their slumber. The loudspeakers announced that we would soon be stopping in Banda. And faintly, I could see small islands springing up on the horizon.
“The island can be smelled before it can be seen.” So begins Nathaniel’s Nutmeg, Giles Milton’s account of the race between the English and the Dutch to colonize Banda. Standing on the bow of KM Tidar, gazing at the approaching land, I could not relate to what he was saying. Milton’s writing was based on old archives and the journals of sailors. The British historian was talking about the past. This early in the morning, I could only detect odors from the sultry air of the decks mixed in with the briny smell of the sea.
The Portuguese dubbed these expeditions Caminho duvidoso, “the doubtful way.” And perhaps it is also fitting to call them the voyages of failure. So many lives sacrificed. So many ships were lost. Half of the fleets never returned.
An abandoned colonial-era building in Banda Naira.
A Run Island's villager takes an afternoon nap. There is nothing much to do for the islanders apart from working in the nutmeg farms or going out fishing to the open sea.
Dragging its weak body into port, KM Tidar anchored at Naira, Banda’s main island. Passengers spilled from the doors. Luggage scattered onto the wharf. The harbor was suddenly teeming with life, but not for long. KM Tidar soon departed, leaving me on my own to roam the alleyways of the market, passing by colonial-style bungalows supported by fat pillars, modest houses with doors flung wide open, and kids on their way to school.
This was Banda, a place once sought after by many sailors but oftentimes neglected by modern maps. Scattered between Ambon, Papua, Timor-Leste, and Aru, Banda resembles foam in the middle of the ocean, just a little more than a collection of faded spots amid the thousands of islands that make up Indonesia’s vast territory.
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