Bloody Comforts, Part 2 (13/15)

The fernhill campsite at the entrance of The Passage. Waigeo-Gam channel.    | Photo: Moira

Tropical camping in tents was stuffy, especially in my single layer tent which was waterproof but trapped heat. For the past few nights it took some minutes of sweating, even in nakedness, before the body cooled. Last night was no different. But sleeping in sweat was no longer a bother. Sand, a small nuisance before, was no longer unwelcome guests in tents, but like hair and skin, felt a part of the body now.

The heat continued this morning, and the sunshine was very hot. Movements were lethargic. The rashes had started getting to us. It was difficult getting up in the morning without being reminded that there were the itchy parts and sore areas. The wet unwashed lycra scrapped on the sores when we put them on again. I urged to dig my fingers at the rashes. 

“Let’s find a nice campsite today for some body maintenance”, Chan told me.

Why was the skin weak only now, I wondered.

I was reminded that our water supply was low. We had discovered a freshwater well behind the campsite, and we filled up 50 liters of water with our empty bottles. Pete and Rosie purified them diligently, mixing chlorine dioxide to kill the viruses and protozoa that might be in the well waters. Unknown to us, the well water was contaminated with hundreds of mosquito larvae, among other small moving stuff. The bucket that we dropped into the well brought up hundreds of these, and they filled our drinking bottles. The powerful chlorine dioxide was not toxic to these little organisms, as we discovered later.

~

All done, we crossed to Pef Islands. It was a calm day. The water was smooth and waxy. Any glitter from the sun was reflected in lines that crisscrossed the flat grey sea. We paddled as a group for a long time, alternating closer to talk and drifted away to be lost in our own songs. The focus was not on the island we were aiming for. It was not the beautiful scenery in front. It was not only the little waves parted by the bow of the kayak, or the sound of the paddle as it sliced through the water. It was something inside that, even when everything one could desired were present, we sometimes forget where beautiful also exists. With no wind and currents, it was easy for our thoughts to drift...following a flow deep into my heart and memories...I miss you.

At Pef. A small island among the many islands of Pef. A limestone rock with hardy plants and cornices. More of these rocky islets dropped around a lagoon. The deep blue water and the shallow green. The corals and the living under the shallow green. Looked up and you see the roots of the mangrove forests, planting into the reefs. Some shallow green are endless carpet of white sand. The soft corals swayed. 

~

“Chan, there are things swimming inside your water bottle.”, I held up the bottle for a closer inspection. We had stopped for lunch at Tanjong Ombrab.

The group of twitching larvae made the lunch packets even more revolting. We discovered that our new supply of water were contaminated with larvae. But that seemed not of anyone’s health concerns. 

“I will never eat glutinous rice for the rest of my life.”

“The last quarter..oug...it is worse than running a marathon...”

“Where did you get this stuff from?!”

“No matter what they wrote outside, japanese or nyonya, they all taste the same!”

And it went on...

~

“No beach...”, Chan’s voice came over the radio.

“So? Village or wilderness?”, I replied. 

Our local intel of promised land did not rise to the occasion. Kabui village was an hour paddle away. Staying in villages meant a lack of privacy, but access to food, water, and shelter. Searching further meant successive night paddling and sleeping on rocks or trees. We headed for the village.

“I saw a dirt beach. I will go check it out.”, I sprinted away to some dismay from the group.

On closer inspection, there were two choices. Option one was a logged slope covered with grass, a small flat burnt patch, and a large turtle shell on a tree. Option two was a fern-infested slope with felled logs, with trees still standing. 

“Not perfect but it will do.”, Pete said after a short walking survey of option two.

There were little privacy and comfort. It was damp forest floor underneath the tall ferns. Some clearings of logs and vegetation were needed to make the ground flat. Chan’s pick of property was beside a pile of saw dust, home also to hundreds of crawling wood boring black beetles. Eventually everyone made do, and the camp clustered in two places at ‘first floor’ and ‘mezzanine’ level. A couple of hammocks were needed due to lack of space. As long as there was no rain, it might be comfortable.

~

Soon, a Papuan speedboat stopped by to watch us complete our camp set up. They were very curious to see us. They were out collecting firewood. The old growth wood on their boat were chopped sections from an extremely large tree. We were more awed by the topless helmsman, who had such ripping muscles we wondered if we should diet exclusively on indo-mie.

“Dari mana?”, I asked, still fixing my eyes at his large ripples.

“Desa Kabui. Tak jauh.”, the ripped man answered.

“Ada warung, ada nasi? Bisa tidur?”

“Ada. Bisa.”, he pronounced.

Sharing a large Jack fish gifted 
to us by the Kabui Villagers.   
   | Photo: Moira

They were later joined by another group of villagers out harpooning for fishes. Both groups stayed for a while watching us silently. They could see we were ribbed in a different way. Their communal tradition were strong. Before they left, the fish hunters gifted us a large, freshly harpooned jack fish, which we later grilled over the fire. The jack fish was oily, juicy, and absolutely delicious. 

Yet it was a short-lived alleviation of famine. How we craved for something more.

“Are we given enough calories?”, Tiak wondered aloud.

“Dinner’s done...?”, came another.

Very quickly, everyone went back to their tents.

The ‘mezzanine’ cluster had the best view of the two clusters - top of a little cliff overlooking both the sky and sea. It was getting chilly at the foothills of Waigeo’s mountain ranges, so I sat up inside my hammock to put on the sweater. In front I saw a peaceful scene of a flat sea flickering with moon flakes, and a floating kayak casted by the moonlight. It was floating out from our little inlet into the fast-flowing passage. 

“Chan! Channnnnnnn!! Your kayak is floating away!”