Thirty-three hours of travel. This is including seven spent on the cushiony, clean floor of the Singapore airport. Finally stumbled in to Jakarta, down a small street and a narrow alley to our favorite homestay. This place is an oasis. High walls surround a bit of quiet nature.

One night of sleep. Now the alarm watch is set for 2:15 a.m. and so is the hourly alarm, a feature we neglected to study, included in the manual which was lost two years ago. For hours we woke every hour, militarily ready for packing and catching our plane, groaned and fell back into a deep sleep for another hour. Groaning for the last time, we stepped out into the dark atrium garden, disturbing a captive, high-wire parakeet, chickens, and goldfish, searching for someone to let us out the two locked doors. The doors reminded us we were in Jakarta. It is easy to forget in this place. The high walls insulate the gurgling pond from the harsh traffic sounds of the city and the trees purify the polluted air, almost unbreathable on the streets.

We were worried at this hour about finding a bajaj (motorized trishaw) but should not have been. They are homes to the drivers, who catnap all night and day between rides. As soon as we stepped to the street, one pulled over and took us to the nearby train station where we caught a bus to the airport.

The plane went through Ujung Pandang to Ambon. Still in a dream and standing at the baggage claim, we met several people who really stood out, probably because they were the only other westerners on the whole flight. "Raggedy Man", an Anglo who was intelligent, well traveled to the point that everything he carried was worn thin, dirty, and had a special place in his setup. A custom pocket here, a zippered slot there. The kind of efficiency and inventiveness a person gets when they constantly have to pack and unpack and make everyplace they stay their home. Another man, "Happy" wanted to go to Banda. He was a young Dutchman with youthful exuberance and accompanying indestructibility, made poignant by a condition which disfigured his outer layer of skin to the point where it looked like it had been stung by a school of jellyfish. He was in the Netherlands when he was reading a book and saw the word "Banda". At that moment, he felt a very strong pull and knew he had to go there. He did not know where it was and had to look it up on a map, and now in two days he will be where he know he has to be. He doesn't speak Indonesian, but somehow managed to spend a week with a poor family in Lombok who got him a car to drive around in. A man who was seated about six rows forward on the other side of the plane, had blond hair and was wearing dark aviator sunglasses turned around in his seat for a moment, and looked directly at me and I at him. He had a mysterious air about him. CIA? or someone with well kept secrets.

While waiting for our bags at the airport, we were trying to figure out the best way to get from here to there while looking at a map on the wall, chatting with Happy and Raggedy Man, side glances always at the hoard of taxi drivers forming a wall of solid humanity outside the glassed-in arrival enclosure. “Mystery man” saw us and asked if he could help because he lived and worked on the Kai Islands in east Maluku.

Since he knew the area, we all followed his lead and shared a taxi to Ambon City, then to a hotel he knew of. He said that he was not too familiar with staying in Ambon, but that this hotel had been clean and good. It is in an area near karaoke bars (a front for yellow houses, or houses of prostitution) and many prostitutes hung out on the streets after dark. The room with balcony and view did have a drawback. It was on the busiest street in the city and over top a "bemo" (public transportation) stop. All night the Kanaks, the children of the vehicle, the hawkers of the vehicle, screamed destinations, “Mardika mardika, mdika dika mardikaaaaaaaaaa”.

Explorations, due to jet-lag and exhaustion, consisted of walking across the street to a place the Mystery man, had recommended. This was ok, and as our bodies came back to life and our senses returned, we realized that this place did not have really good food, in fact, the second to the last time we ate there, they served us a dish of fruit which we did not order, and could not eat half of because the papaya was that old. I complained using a nice tone of voice and the women were visibly upset, rude may be the word, and gave us our $1 back without even looking at us. An hour later, as we were about to leave Ambon for Seram, I took the .50 over to them which we really should have paid and told them why. They did not look at me and put it in the cash register without a word.

It was a strange place. The waitresses had to wear skirts and blouses which matched, almost like McDonalds uniforms had a run in with Bozo. These combinations of polka dots and stripes sometimes was hilarious, not really because of the clothing, but because of the way the sour employees looked blankly at you in outfits fit for a clown.

The day before we were to have left was a Sunday. Most people are Christian on this island so a lot was closed, but thought the port offices would be open anyway. We had just inquired about main passenger ships to Banda and now needed to find out some information about the possibility of small ships leaving for there. We had told “Mystery man” that we would ask about ships to Kai at the same time. The regular lines had told us to go the the small ship's harbor a kilometer or so away. The sun was scorching as we came up to a kiosk with many men sitting inside and some overflowing to the outside. I asked questions and the men inside made no sense in their answer. They then began pouring out, still making no sense whatsoever, laughing and leaning on each other. They were completely intoxicated and before they began using us as lampposts, we left, with no answers. We left that future destination to the future and went to a closer island first.

The boat trip from Ambon to Seram was advertised as "Aircon, Cold Drinks, Full Video", not that any of the above was desired, but it was the first to depart. It was a precarious walk across planks that connected three boats to ours where we were directed down the stairs to our seats four feet under the portholes. It was a giant cockroach trap smelling dungeon where extremely violent movies were playing on two screens. It seemed like it could have been a good way to brainwash people. Fill their respiratory systems and brains with chemicals, lure them into a cool environment, then subject them to these movies which were so violent and graphic that they became comic.

Topside had better scenery, coral reefs passing by and the approaching mountains of Seram. For a short while, the seas became rough in a strait between Seram and another island. The boat was exactly the right size and was going exactly the right speed to surf a long wave and before plowing into the trough, have it's bow propped up by the next wave. It was a wonderful feeling, like an amusement park ride.

The boat docked in a very characterless town where streets were vastly wide for the few people using them and the small number of houses along side of them. Empty becaks (motorized trishaws) were circling around like so many flies. It seemed like a suburb gone awry, and while looking for a place to stay, realized why. It was a semi-modern suburb of nothing. The town center was only a market place in a dusty square, covered with tents and filled with sellers who only wanted to hassle and people who wanted to taunt. The people were unusually unfriendly and forward. We later found that this was Maluku's Military Central.

Early the next morning we had to walk to the market area to catch a bemo to the station. Hip-hop is big here and blaring out the "FULL music" speakers of each vehicle. I like hip-hop but maybe I don't like to hear it at 6:00 in the morning. Even moreso, I can't believe the older people who patronize busses and bemos want to hear this, but they seem to polite to say anything. It is the same everywhere. Hip-hop may be the thing to listen to here, but other places its hard rock, soft rock, country and western, Elvis.

The colt (a very small long distance bus) waited to fill for a while, then left. After many bumps and sways it had a flat next to a tiny village whose first interesting landmark was a toy sitting in the middle of a path. A long plastic water bottle with the top cut out to make seats, and four rubber wheels cut from old flip-flops. After the tire was fixed, we took the fording paths past many new bridges being built. None have lasted to date and I wonder whether these, seemingly built so sturdily, will last through one year of monsoon, or for a long time. I worry, in a selfish way, that bridges like this will end the isolation of pristine areas, making it easy for development, for tour group busses. I hope, selfishly, for the annual destruction of bridges.

We reached the end of the line and sat for a while waiting for a canoe trip to a village from which we wished to begin a walk across the island. While eating a few snacks and having a coffee in the port’s small restaurant, I haggled over the price of a trip across the wide bay. First there were only speed boats which would set us back about $40. After a while the price dropped to $20. I finally got through to them that we would just stay there and wait for a "pok-pok", a sampan with a motor, which would cost a lot less. It finally came together for about $5 with a rain cloud chasing us through indigo waters to a rocky coast filled with the town children gleefully waving both arms in greeting.

The correct procedure upon landing, was to ask for the "Bapak Raja", the King. This was a rather awkward situation, as I am sure it should have been. He sat on one side of a small table covered by a cloth. We sat in chairs opposite him. Behind him were all of his government certifications. I really did not know what to say, so tried to talk about the weather, his family, the village and how it had changed over the years, anything. For some reason, I felt uncomfortable. It was not a situation where room was offered in good will and compensation given. He was being paid a set price for the room and also acted somewhat oftstandinsh, uninterested. We took a slight nap, then a walk returning to a vacant house, save for a child who smiled strangely and said that there was a dead person. Something did not feel right in the household and there was a wailing outside. I asked him again where his parents were and he again said that there was a dead person. I walked down a lane and saw a multitude of wailing people in front of a nearby house I returned and found the Bapak who told us that a friend, an old man, had died from an ular mati (death adder) bite suffered in his garden. In not less than three hours his body had become numb and his breathing stopped. We expressed our remorse and returned to our room, knowing not what else to do. It seemed a private matter and we were feeling much like the uninvited, though paying, guests we were.

My companion said that if you weighed less than 90 pounds, snakes could kill you. After hardly any dinner last night, a piece of bread for breakfast , a small fried cake for lunch and nothing now, We were worried about eating enough before our five day walk through the jungle. I said that we may weigh less than 90 lbs before tomorrow. There was a small dinner. We would later realize how well off we were.

The Bapak Raja and his wife were understandably preoccupied, so not much was said about the trek into Manusela Reserve. We had talked earlier about a guide. He had recommended one, a man who had accompanied the boat owner and said it was necessary. We, of course, declined, then agreed to one for 1/2 a day to get us past the numerous and confusing trails at the start. He mentioned supplying ourselves with anything we could find from the store down the lane. I went there and bargained for twelve hard-boiled eggs, and three loaves roti (bread) to be ready in the morning.

We've never had a guide, and somehow, egotistically, feel that we should not have one. After all, I speak the language, we don't want to be taken advantage of, and we don't want what should be a venture into paradise turned into another person's idea of what he thinks we want. We wanted to be alone.

In the early morning, a 15 year old guide who smoked kretek cigarettes all the way, took my pack for 2 1/2 hours and ran with it before he gave out prematurely. He left off at the most opportune moment for him, as I put on my pack and climbed straight up, the pace turned to a crawl. The first day of a trek always seems the most difficult, moreso if walking at a steep incline from sea level. There is a shortness of breath which is not experienced on succeeding days and I always feel asmathic for that one day.

From the bamboo forest where he left us, claiming that this was the place called setengga hari, meaning a half a day (clever, yes?), which we had contracted him for, we walked for about another hour to a pass with a cave shelter and good view where we had a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a hard-boiled egg. We continued on down an impossibly steep, narrow trail which led to a more horizontal path along the side of the mountain. Taking this slow, to appreciate the sounds of large birds never to be seen, flitting butterflies the size of normal sized birds, and the sound of insects that we probably did not want to see if they were anything like the size of spiders which loved to make their web across the trail and wait about eye level for the next human. Humans. We were not to see another one for three more days.

We passed several other rock shelters, these more fit for camping. The people who use this trail and the shelters politely leave new wood to dry for the next traveler. The trail finally descended to the river where we rushed to set up our tent on a rock strewn riverbank, bathe and eat before sunset. This place is magical. Several small waterfalls pour into icy, crystalline pools surrounded by ferns and gigantic philodendron glistening with permanent dew. On the other side of the river rising high into the sky is a sheer, amazing jungle covered cliff of limestone.

Night begins to fall and a vine hovering over the river catches the evening breeze, its four feeler arms move as gracefully as any Balinese dancer's. A singular large leaf, here or there becomes activated by some unseen force not following the attitude of the rest of the jungle. It is jaunty and sways full of individualism.

We awoke to an incredibly damp environment. The tent was wet outside and under the flysheet. We crawled into the mist and bathed in silky waters seeming to originate from the plants themselves. Each soft drop of dew slipping from it's leaf adding to the sum of drops which make up the river. My sweat, my tears also must make their way down the mountain. So must my snot. I was getting over a cold and my nose was very runny. A kleenex was useless here, they were wet before used, so I learned the Asian method of expelling mucus from the nose. It worked very well holding one nostril closed and blowing hard through the other...and the trees can stay here and not become kleenex.

Breakfast was a happy surprise of hard-boiled eggs and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The unhappy surprise was looking at the map in the guide book which showed five crosses of the river and comparing it to the actual terrain. The trail crossed the river only two times which led us up a different side of the river. Which was right? The only one which existed; which we followed through the wettest jungle I could ever have imagined. I had purchased guaranteed waterproof boots, which they were. I had not considered the problem of water from trail side plants pouring into the open top of the boots with every step, being wicked by the wick socks into the pond which became the inside of my boot. Looking back I supposed we should have created some kind of umbrella around our ankles with a piece of plastic bag and rubber bands, but we really didn't realize this was happening until it was too late.

The trail that skirted the mountains was a dangerous 4”- 6" space between plants, that is when it could be seen. Most often it was indicated by a dip in the height of the ground cover foliage as it bent towards the path. At times, after slipping into holes, or having a footstep on a rock which careened down embankments, we became conscious of the people who must have walked here before us and would use their visible mistakes as our guide. A plant which was crushed and tilted down the cliff, a rock displaced leaving a hole in the trail, an old footprint leading to a muddy slipprint. Many times the trail was very steep and slippery tree roots became stairs.

At another cave shelter, we ate another happy surprise lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before continuing up the mountain. People had been here not less than one day ago. The ferns they used as bedding were still fresh and green, and the fire, though not at all warm, had a new smell about it. The people who used this were probably two men we had seen at the beginning of the journey, returning from the summit.

From here the trail became even more narrow and more complicated. The pass was finally visible, the highest point that we would have to climb, before a gradual descent to swampland on the north coast. We crossed a river jumping rock to rock, then were confronted with a waterfall. A tree trunk was leaning up it, with several notches leading to one notch carved into the stone of the waterfall. There was no avoiding becoming even more soaked. This took us to an island in the middle of a rushing river. We had no idea where to go so tried to follow the hack marks on the trees. Here, everyone carries a machete and leaves signs that they were there for the next person. This is normally the way to confirm a path, but people do get restless with their parang (machete) and will hack at a tree trunk with almost the same intentions of a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. Out in the jungle after a time there is a certain desire that wells up within you and wants to say, "I've been here."

We walked around the island and tried to find the path, racing off in numerous directions across shallow portions of the river excitedly coming back to tell each other that a path was found and then rushing off on the path to nowhere. There were so few places to stop and camp on this trail, maybe someone slept there once, maybe they thought it was a great place to eat, with a great view. Thus the trails. An impressive rock slide had recently occurred from the pass down to the river that may have partially obscured the actual trail, making it even more difficult to find. This would not have been such a concern if the jungle growth was not so thick and the terrain so impassable. We should have had a parang.

This part of the trek which should have ended in a small village was supposed to take about two days, and we would have made that easily had we been able to keep going. Having only one spare day of food at most and only the hope of finding the trail, it was only wise to head back.

It is strange. I will complain about exhaustion, or thirst, but I am not usually a person who panics. I was in tears. So frustrated of hell in paradise, fearing the descent through the two most difficult days of the trek, fearing the lack of stamina to return down that narrow steep trail with bruised legs and weak knees. I think finally, fearing dying here in this place so full of wonder and beauty, in this place I dreamed of so often when I was a child. I felt I couldn't live up to it. We were standing on this island in the middle of the river looking up to steam rising towards towering trees and mountaintops, a place so fecund that you could see plants grow and vegetation breathe. It felt like the beginning of time, the precambrian period, the jewel of life neither good nor bad, the ambivalent jungle world not caring if you live or die. Nothing would mourn your passing nor celebrate it. It was like looking into the face of god and I was afraid.

On the way down I fell a lot, my legs disappeared into black holes, creating warnings for the next traveler. I didn't think about the death adders then. Black, temporarily deadened toenails from a constant pond in my shoes were all I experienced. Feet, incredibly strange looking. White and wrinkled at first, then numbness in parts but still white and wrinkled, now not only not looking like my feet, but not feeling like them either. Tired of taking off shoes and socks for fording streams and our feet looked so translucent and fragile that it was hard to put them through slipping on rocks and stubbing toes anymore. The last stream before our campsite was crossed with shoes on. In the long run, it really didn't make much of a difference.

We were happy to see "home", our rocky bed. This time we utilized the abundant fern fronds to pad the area under our tent, taking a hint from the remains of forest beds seen on the hike, and realized we were fairly stupid not to have done this because it made a big difference in the morning.

Which came too soon leading us to the breakfast we thankfully made out of the remaining peanut butter and jelly and crumbs of bread. The moldy pieces were out and thrown to the ground for the happy local ant community, heroes bringing a weeks worth of food back to their families. Time to pack up and leave this Eden, what better way to begin than to plunge naked into a freezing stream, then air dry while taking down the tent. Boy am I ready to go. I want to sweat.

This was supposed to be the easy part, which is why we pushed ourselves to get this far. About half way back to the coast the jungle turned into grassland and scrubbers and we followed the bamboo aqueduct we had followed on the way up. On tall tripods, it goes on for at least a half a kilometer from a mountain stream to the houses below. An amazing plumbing system to one of the most sombulant places on earth. A few huts, one on stilts surrounded by red betel stains. The people, having just been warned by dogs, regretfully rose to look out from the open walls and smiled. From here it was a gradual descent, easy...until there were too many paths. The ocean looked a few kilometers away, not far at all, so we felt after the first choice of paths. No problem, we will just keep heading for the sea and even if this was the wrong path we will get there. We got there, this is true, but I can't imagine a more round about way. Before leaving, the Bapak Raja had said that if we didn't take a guide to lead us through the maze of paths at first, we would walk up and down, up and down, up and down. On the way back, we walked up and down, up and down and the day was waning. Many paths we took, were abandoned and retraced. I did not feel enough energy to get to the coast, let alone add more distance. An extremely steep hill led to a river spanned by a bamboo bridge, and a seemingly well traveled path up the other side. After walking for a long time, we came to a traditional village where a new long house was being constructed. They pointed to a path which forked, and as usual we took the wrong one. This time trudging carefully through people's cassava orchards for kilometers and kilometers over a very rocky terrain. Giving up on this path, we turned again down towards the river, finally crossing it again and through more gardens to a town, which we at first believed to be the same as the one we left .

The march began with just the two of us, but by the time we got to the Bapak Raja's home we had a full regiment. The first to greet us at the house was his daughter, a gregarious woman with a wide smile who walked out onto the porch and opened her arms like Francine greeting Shannon in "The Night of the Iguana". I was charmed.

We were asked to sit in upholstered chairs, and constantly declined because we were so wet and smelly. They brought out the plastic porch chairs. It was difficult at the time to talk to the king. This one was very personable, but we were dead. After a short conversation, we left for our rooms, leaving a pack of cigarettes?.

The room was charming. It had two windows, one to the porch often filled with faces of the curious, and one to the side yard, looking into other the yard next door, filled with our curious faces. A small table and mirror and a decent bed, sheets clean, now like us. The door had an interesting traditional feature, a curtain. Probably at one time there were just curtains, now both because the curtain softens the look of the doors from the livingroom. The house was interesting. A large covered porch with stairs leading down a gate and the drainage ditch before the street. The other way led inside via either two doors to the livingroom, or one door off to the left leading first through the Bapak's office. The room was large with at least three curtain covered doors on each side. Then to a partition wall creating halls on each side to a diningroom. The diningroom shared another partition wall with the back entryway, which also had a table. One door lead to the backyard, with walkway around the house, close line, fruit trees, and many chickens and geese wondering around the swept dirt. The walkway to the right lead to the separate kitchen, mandi (bathing room) and toilet.

We slept until dinner, about 7:30. What a wonderful meal we awoke to, so fresh, healthy and tasty, and so much. The Bapak would sleep a lot of the day, awaken late, take his sampan out and fish all night to return in the early morning with fish, scallops, and squid. Ibu, the mother, would cook his catch with help from what seemed to be servants. I was never sure if they were somehow related to the family. They did the grunt work around the house, and in the kitchen. For the cooking they ground the bumbu (the mix of spices for a dish), and assisted. Ibu was an excellent cook and served up exquisite dishes three times a day, once for breakfast she surprised us with squid in ink sauce.

I wanted to see her cook and wrote down recipes as she moved around in the shadowy, oil lamp lit kitchen. She first threw ingredients into a great mortar made out of hardwood as the helper ground. The smells of the spices began as individual scents, but ended as a wonderful smelling mixture. The mortar and pestle do a much more thorough job of grinding than a modern blender, so that when it later is thrown into the wok, there are no pieces large enough to spoil that blended scent. The other kitchen machine was a coconut shredder. It was a long stool, almost shaped like a hobbyhorse seat, connected by the neck to the devise itself, a piece of wood with a serrated piece of black metal tied to it. This, when a coconut half was moved from top to bottom across the teeth in a circular motion, efficiently grated it. The inner kitchen, even darker, had a glowing fire on top of a stone stove with the wok heating and the dinner was finished in no time. There were several other interesting objects in the room, including a four foot high and three foot wide metal amphora with lid where boiled water was kept.

I asked the Bapak why he likes to spend so much time fishing. He replied that learns so much while with the greater one. Maybe he just wanted to get away from all the people.

The day after we arrived, and of course after breakfast, we asked where we could wash our clothes, moldy, wet smelly things, feared alive, at this point. Normally we are directed to a bucket and the mandi, or a clothes washing room near the mandi. "Francine" led us to a stream on the outskirts of the town which was slightly altered for different functions. The first pool was for swimming (only by young naked boys), the second for bathing and the third for washing clothes. A wall of stone for scrub brushing clothes was in the center of the clothes washing tank. Everyone wades in to that point and scrubs away, then rinses in the water slightly upstream. I was certainly a show and a lot of the town came out to watch.

We took a number of short walks around the town, with and without Francine, many along the shore. The ocean is an incredibly pure opaque indigo where deep and completely clear in the shallows. The beach is covered with round rocks, all conglomerate and all beautiful. I've never seen so many interesting rocks in one place and wonder what there origin is. Giant trees overhang the beach, along with many coconut palms. One tree has red flowers shaped like the plumage from the Bird of Paradise. These flowers, when first picked have hardly any scent at all, but days later in a vase on the diningroom table, when wilted and faded, smells of deep tropical perfume, sweetness in their rotting. It's fruit is a sturdy 4"x4" green box with a triangle top, and looks like a Victorian purse. I'm sure it could be hollowed out and used as such.

With Francine's brother, we walked up the beach to his father's grove of coconut palms. He had his friend, climb up a palm and pom, pom, pom, pom, many young coconuts fell to the ground. A young coconut, when well picked, is one of the freshest tasting, thirst quenching drinks on earth, with a bonus thin membrane of sweet, soft, almost gelatinous coconut flesh eaten with a machettied out piece of husk shaped like a spoon. While drinking and eating, we were sitting in an area piled high with husks. When dry, these are used as fuel for cooking fires.

We walked with Francine east of town to a river, the river we had crossed many times to get to her village. She led us to a tree where we picked fruit we had seen in the mountains; about 2" in diameter and yellowish-brown when ripe. I did not like it at first. It was sour and pungent, but as we continued walking towards the ocean by the river, the taste left in my mouth demanded another. On the way back, I picked what my taste buds desired. I don't know if I have ever eaten something which I did not particularly like and left a memory of its flavor in my mouth for so long that all I wanted was another fruit.

After that was settled, we walked the path along the sea back to town. Francine picked several fruits from plants along the trail. They looked like weeds, like a common clover before the flower comes out. They contained seeds bearing a taste somewhat starchy, somewhat lemony. Later, in the Kai Islands this same roadside plant boar a flower akin to a passion fruit's. We were beginning to reenter the village and Francine took us to a place where she virtually demanded the last remaining pineapple that this villager had. There seemed to be some bad blood, and she was going to take it without paying. We began walking away, and I recommended that we pay for the pineapple. We did, and took one very large sweet pineapple back to Ibu, which she cut, all the time mumbling, "manis, manis", sweet, sweet.

Another walk with Francine was particularly memorable because of the colors and light. It was cloudy and the mountains were turning a soft gray-blue. We were walking back along the path from a stream, west of town and paralleling the ocean. The late afternoon sun edged warmly through the dark clouds and lit only the tops of coconut palms. There was an overwhelming contrast of intensity, between the vibrant yellow-green of the palms and the calm, serene, presence of the now blue-black mountains.

Every morning we are awakened before sunrise to five drumbeats from the mosque across the street and this begins the sounds of the day. Children scream, cocks crow in a daisy chain, multitudes of geese become a living, quacking carpet. A woman pounds sago or cassava, a dull kthump........kthump, a pause and resuming to ump,ump,ump,ump, on into the morning as the sun rises. The feathery sweeping of dirt yards adds to the symphony. Stoves begin to belch smoke and the sound of scoops of water hitting the cement floors of the mandi finally wake us up for good.

The mandi. The first bucket of water that is poured over you is sometimes excruciatingly freezing, sometimes not cold enough, but always is a good way to go to start the day. The body feels silky soft after the water hits your face, rolls over your shoulder and down your legs. I want a mandi, I also want an Indonesian toilet. Water, not toilet paper is used. No trees need to be cut down, no paper to be recycled, in order to wipe your butt. It can be used for better things. It is usually a porcelain unit with two non-slip surfaces for feet and a hole in the middle. A much better position for doing the morning constitutional and a much cleaner one, as you do not sit on a toilet seat. If the toilet is separate from the mandi, there is a small tub next to it, usually a plastic pan floating ready for use, if it is in the same room as the mandi, which is usual, the water can be scooped from there.

The children of the king were interesting contrasts, and also somewhat the same. They all wanted to be somewhere else, to either go live in America or marry a foreigner. They wanted to move from one of the most beautiful places on earth. They seemed to have relatives everywhere on neighboring islands and we saw several of the family back in Ambon City, but it is here that they were the most personable; easier to talk to, friendlier, and it seems more in touch with themselves. They felt some kind of tension, of making something of their lives apart from their parents when we saw them in Ambon. Is the nuclear family beginning here?

I have this bad feeling. A mother and father, traditional in their ways and the rest of the family still living in the household and wanting to change. There were several other older children who were already married and lived in this village and the next up the coast. Then there seemed to have been a split. No one left wanted to marry an Indonesian. They all wanted to have a Caucasian sweep them off their feet and take them away, it didn't matter to where. The status was there. They wanted to go to big cities, move to America, or go into tourism. (this was in 1996, I am sure the feeling is different now)

The bad feeling continues when I think of how many times Francine mentioned her particular Dutchman. She had met him in Bali, Kuta Beach to be exact, one of the worst places I can imagine an Indonesian woman meeting a man. There were pictures, but I think that's all. And it was very sad, because I now realize that the reason she kept mentioning Bali and Kuta Beach was because she was in love with this man who would probably never enter her life again. She would never meet his parents in Amsterdam, whether she went to Bali again or not.

We kept telling them that they didn't realize what they have, but we were there and living proof of people wanting to see other things, wanting to live in other places. Everytime they mentioned wanting to live in the U.S.A., I said that we would trade places.

For some reason, maybe because it was the weekend and the youngest son had some free time, he wanted to have listrik (electricity). The mosque was the only structure to have electricity, which came from a generator. He took it upon himself to climb up from the porch of the mosque, to a scaffold which enabled him to access the wire connecting their home to the mosque. Fearing some danger, my companion ran over to him and as he did so, a great spark came from where the son was working on the wires. He was ok and preceded, undaunted, to climb a tree next to the house and play with the wires from there. He found the problem and there was electric light.

We were standing in the road. The lights in the mosque and the Bapak Raja's house went on. The lights in the sky went off. A few moments before we were able to see a milky way that was almost solid white with stars in an indigo sky. We told him we liked it better the other way and after a few minutes we went back into the house. It too was different. The charm was gone. The electric light bulbs were harsh and lit up all the faults; the dirty walls, the dusty floors, the bleakness of the place, whereas the lanterns and their flickering, warm light left room for imagination.

There is something about lamplight. It is so forgiving. It's flickering warmth spreads in conversations. It has to be tended to and watched over. Time must be spent with it. It must be dealt with and just like the people in the room, it becomes a presence.

It was Sunday and the day to leave. We got up early to wash, pack and eat breakfast. We waited for the breakfast, waited for Francine to get ready and packed, because she was going to visit her brother in Ambon and would take the same boat. It was 10:00 and Francine and I went to the beach to wait for the pok-pok to arrive. We waited and waited and waited until I realized that leaving wasn’t going to happen today, which was alright with me, it actually made me happy. While waiting, I kept thinking of the song played in a three part television series called "Ring of Fire". This song was played when everyone had to realize that they were living in "jam keret", or "rubber time".

The next day we did get a pok-pok to the other side of the bay and waited for four hours for a bus. After it arrived, it sat in the sun for a few more hours. A passenger's produce wilted in the sun and later was nibbled at by goats. The bus finally left, only to circle the town searching for more passengers and return to the terminal for a while longer. A bus must fill up here. A bus must fill up beyond capacity in order for the employees to get more money. The bus made it just fine to the port but the ship had already left for Ambon. We stayed in the "characterless town" again for the night, very, very early departing from this place.

On the boat again to Ambon, I am standing on the rear deck and tears are welling up inside me as I watch Seram recede and her majestic mountains fade into a lifeless gray shadow beneath bright white clouds. I am thinking about the calm I see from here and the secrets held so dear, about the beauty, the terror, and the vast ambivalence held in her center between somnolent shores.

Ambon is such a quaint, quiet and friendly town. It seemed perfect for what I felt. This time we stayed in a cheaper, more pleasant place.

We had a few days on Ambon before our flight to Banda and decided to go first to a very small town called, Soya Atas. The bemo strained up a very steep climb through the small slums of Ambon. Peering into the slums is more accurate because they were situated on almost impossible inclines down to the sea. Looking down upon the roofs, it seemed as if someone had misshuffled the deck of cards and let fly numerous aluminum roofs tumble down haphazardly towards the sea. The road then led through tiny outlying villages and on up to Soya Atas which was the end of the line and near the top of the mountain. The air felt wonderfully cool compared to Ambon City's sweaty heat and humidity. We walked up a dirt path through the village. It was extraordinary and was sculpted out of the underlying clay and as it cut through small passes and on up into the town, it was a beautiful reddish yellow color and completely spotless. For some weird moment I felt like Julie Andrews singing "The Sound of Music" while she danced atop Swiss mountains. Small bungalows, half opened casement windows, quiet...quiet birds and huge mountain flowers.

Music, drumming and laughter were coming from somewhere close. Following the sound led to a church. It was a workday to do some improvments and many men had been shoveling dirt from a nearby cliff. Now they were ready for lunch and song. All the townswomen had cooked and were readying the buffet inside. We talked and joked around with them for a while, and they invited us to join in their feast, which we were move than happy to do.

At the top of this hill, a kilometer or so up from the village were several interesting spots. One was the ancient king's stone chair, another a WWII bunker, and the third a covered ceramic vessel buried in the earth which was never supposed to be dry. If a person was to open the top of this vessel, find water and take some back with them, it was to be good luck.......There was no water in the urn, it was bone dry.

It was also raining. So we walked off into a jungle path where the leaves would provide shelter and again watched this peculiar feature of large jungle leaves. No other leaf is moving, except one, it is on stage and swivels and bops up and down to some unknown music. Really, I am sure there is a breeze which does this, but you can't see it, you can't hear it and nothing else is responding to it.

We thought we were off to Banda the next day, but found we weren't. The President's son had chartered our flight for people who were going to stay in one of two ritzy hotels he owned in Banda, knocking all who were previously listed for the flight, off. He can do that. Nobody is going to argue and even if they do, it is not going to change things in their favor. The next flight we could get was several days later.

So we took an excursion to Namalatu. A stony beach, with magnificent offshore coral. Sliding into the waters through a milky brew of fine sand and small white fishes, navigating a channel through breaking and swelling waves to the coral reef which gave way to an endless drop-off. I felt like an astronaut as I hovered directly over the end of the world. I liked to float at the exact point of that edge. Half my body was over vibrantly colored coral, clarity, warmth and innocence. The other half of me was hovering over the dark, cold uneasy feeling world out there. At times my body would feel so wonderfully warm at the same time that I would see a great swell of plankton percolate from the underworld, cloud the waters and chill my belly. I would then look out to the unknown blackness and see a school of stars pass by, transfixed by the play of light upon silver skins.

Look alike? Swim together. Fish are not individualistic. Occasionally a lone large fish could be seen, but commonly, only packs of stripes, dots, or colors of the same floating around together or moving with the same motions. There was one kind of tiny turquoise fish whose entire school was not an impressive size, but when startled they would all, at the same exact time flit vertically into the grooves of a certain kind of grayish-green coral and become jewels in it.

We left in the morning on a trishaw to the "bis gratis" (the free airline bus) to the airport.

I love this kind of plane. It was a Twin Otter, that seats about 15 and is known for it's reliability. We took off in that wonderful swing from side to side which all small planes have, then flew very low over the mountains of Ambon and out to the sea. It should have taken about one hour to get to Banda, but after about thirty minutes the engines had a different sound. My companion said, "Look at the crew, they are looking at each other and trying to do something. I think something is wrong." I began to feel a loss of engine power and the cockpit crew was still glancing right to left. Passengers became nervous. We were still over the water and my heart was racing and pounding out of my chest. I truly felt that we were going to crash when I saw a piece of land materialize as the plane descended in fluffy bumps. Cows panicked in a field and ran outwards like a wake as the plane hit the short runway and tilted up on the left wheel for half the short runway before bumping to a stop in Seram. None of us knew that the plane would be stopping here today. It does this once a week and probably only delivers mail. The rest of the trip was smooth.

Seeing the Banda Islands come into view was exactly as I had visualized it. That is scary. Nothing should ever live up to what I have dreamed. The plane took a long pass around a pointed volcanic island to the short Bandaneira airstrip and an extremely rough landing. This time the passengers weren't nervous because we knew we were supposed to be landing here. The exception was an Indonesian woman who burst into uncontrollable sobs after the plane stopped on the runway and continued sobbing until she was out of sight.

The airport was tiny. Basically just a passage to go from tarmac to parking lot. There were more bemos vying for passengers than there were passengers. The first choice of places to stay was recommended to us by a couple we had met on Ambon. A homey place that had a magnificent view across the channel to Gunung Api, the volcano. No rooms free, so we went to the bemo driver's choice, actually one of the oldest establishments on the island. In fact, the Blair brothers who produced "The Ring of Fire", mentioned earlier, had stayed here. There was an autographed copy of their book in the lobby, in which they thanked the owner for all of his help and kindness. The book was much read and beginning to mildew and fall apart.

They had recently added some very nice new rooms with white tile floors, which I bargained for and got for just a little more than the old ones. The price included three meals a day, something all places seem to offer on the island. There was an older Italian couple on the plane who had already checked in to the room next to us. The owner asked us not to tell them what we were paying. The Italian man could only speak very broken English, but his wife's was much better. He had the Italian mannerisms an American would think of and was slightly reddish from too much sun already. His wife was someone who looked like she was out of an Italian film because of the way she dressed in frilly clothes and wore gold laced sandals with tiny heels.

After unpacking, we went out to the main dining table to get some coffee. There were two other couples from the plane, another Italian couple (this is strange, these are the first Italians I have ever seen traveling in Indonesia), and a German couple. We talked to them for a while and found that they were going directly to Pulau Ai, another small island about 1 hour away by boat from here. These two couples were from the same hotel in Ambon. We had seen them come up the stairs with tons of baggage. The younger Italian couple were importers, this accounts for the baggage. The German couple had just been to Irian Jaya and said that it was tense there. Also very sad because there were no longer any native peoples in the marketplace in Wamena. When we had been there two years ago, that is what the marketplace was. Irians dressed in their traditional attire selling produce and handicrafts, mostly to locals. Now, the whole area had visible political problems, the "Free Irian" movement which most likely stemmed from the horrible way the "transmigrasi" from Java, treat the native peoples and the complete lack of respect the Indonesian government has for native peoples of other islands combined with lust for their land.

We had nothing planned to do for the first day here, so hooked up with the older Italian couple who had chartered a boat to take them to a tiny island, Pulau Pisang, off the coast of Banda and then to a cove off Pulau Api.

The town was extremely quiet. A couple of children playing in the street, a few bicycles coasting by, only the sound of cars when a plane came in, I imagine. Leaving our hotel, we walked down a street which somehow reminded me of Europe and Indonesia all mixed together in a way which could not be easily separated. The history of the Dutch colonial days was architecturally apparent, so was the typical Indonesian, blending with the Dutch. The market street which led us to the boat, looked Indonesian but seemed too restrained.

By the time we got to the harbor, I was so distracted by the volcano, rising directly out of the sea, that I barely remember getting on the boat. The isolated, towering cone is always startling to see. From behind a church or a house it appears as a painted stage backdrop. It is, however, very real. In 1988 it erupted, lava flowing down into the ocean and taking with it a small coastal village. We passed through through a very narrow channel between the islands before going out to the ocean where we could see where the village had been. A swath of black lava cut from the top into the sea.

The tiny island we were taken to reminded me of something I had read about when I was a child. A small white sand beach and a coral reef, elsewhere a rocky coast, a few palm trees. A place where someone had been shipwrecked. As soon as I saw it I felt very alone. Except a moment later realized that there were two other people already there. A man and woman. The man from the U.S.A. and the woman, dressed in a scanty see-through bikini, was from Sweden. His brother had just moved to Chicago. He was constantly talking into a microphone as his paramour sat in the sand by the waves and played with sea shells. Every time he looked at her it was as if we were not there. After being there for a few minutes, we began to realize that many people were on the island. There was giggling and shouting and shadows running through the palms. Maybe because it was a Sunday. Maybe because people spent their Sunday's watching scantily clad foreigners.

Something that has always struck me so odd is that boys swim in the nude and girls swim wearing blue jeans and a long sleeved shirt. I cannot imagine the feeling of entering into these warm, sensuous waters fully clothed. It is bad enough to feel that a bathing suit is necessary. Yet to feel heavy, slimy wet clothing sticking to the body and pulling it down makes me realize why women really don't like to swim here.

The coral and fish were so diverse and brightly colored, so incredibly fascinating, that I felt I could never become bored with looking! The marine life was different in the shallows from the deeper areas of the reef which either led from gradual hills or sudden plunging drop-offs into blackness. Fish in schools swimming like they were in marked out lanes of traffic, sea urchins of every shade, and strange giant sea slugs which looked like purple socks filled with sand. One of the most peculiar of fishes that I saw was a spiny pinkish Lion fish. It hovered off of a piece of coral from the time I first saw it until hours later when I found it again. It was almost as if it were dead, but I suppose that is it's ploy.

Several hours later, the boat returned to take us to a reef off of Pulau Api, where the lava had entered the sea. The skipper anchored the boat in shallow water and we carefully stumbled across razor sharp pumice to a trough of lava which disappeared into the depths. We went off to the right where the table coral around the flow was only five years old and in untouched pure form. Large lacy disks in all shades of green and yellow, also rarer orangish and reddish tables all used as feeding grounds for fish who also escaped by swimming underneath them. It was an absolutely stunning contrast to glance up at the black and sullen, barren lava flow from this colorfully bright and cheery underworld.

The other side of the trough was very different. I felt ill at ease as my body passed though waters which seemed like a too hot bathtub. Many other denizens of the sea felt the same way. There were only a few starfish and small white fish which felt comfortable this close to the cauldron. I looked for the source of the heat and found vents of boiling water underneath lava boulders. Though after hours of swimming in these 85 degree waters, it was still possible to get chilled, so hovering over vents for a few minutes gave some welcome warmth.

We should go. I am cold, and the Italian man is pink as boiled lobster and won't wear a shirt.

It was lobster he bought one night when the two Italian couples hooked up. We peons ate fish while the Italians ate lobster. They were salivating and when the lobsters were presented on a plate, the older Italian man decided that he would break it up with a large cleaver on a small and delicate table. The table lost. Sweat was pouring down his brow as it usually was. He promised to replace the table. The importer woman jumped up, sprinted for their room and emerged bearing a bottle of very extra virgin olive oil which had been wrapped in tape like a mummy. There was a hush as she carefully unwrapped it and oos and awws as it was poured over the food, accompanied by Italian warmth and conversation between them.

We left for Pulau Ai, another island in the Bandas, on a ferry which included them and a women met in Ambon. The boat was launched but the motor stalled. After many more tries, there was not much success. We drifted towards the fish market and were being washed towards a group of anchored boats. There was confidence in the skipper that was not misplaced. He has been doing this for years, with the same motor, the same ship, the same hands and they have all become one. The motor finally started intimately, with knowing coaxings. Past the town, past Banda Besar with a strange influx of green stuff in her harbor, cutting by Pulau Api through the strait and out into the sea.

Midway between Pulau Bandaneira and Pulau Ai, we slowed to a stop while the captain prepared a fishing line because he had seen several flying fish. We circled there, between islands, for a while and until he realized nothing was going to be caught. I like that kind of efficiency and respect of circumstance.

Pulau Ai did not live up to it's reputation as a snorkeler's paradise. In front of the place where we stayed was the shitting beach. When we arrived, it was high tide and the morning constitutionals had already been erased so we went for a snorkel. After all, we had both already had Hepatitis A and I was accustomed to swimming in Lake Erie, the sewer of the great lakes, every summer since I was a small child. Our friend felt otherwise and was fairly upset about, what she said was swimming in turds. I think her imagination was running away with her and what she had really seen were the frequent pieces of coconut husks and bits of twigs. Though, god only knows where they do really end up.

One place we followed the Italians to was a place the importer had found about a kilo or two from the losmen and had once before visited at low tide. It was a truly beautiful walk through the rest of the town, small gardens and gigantic trees, to a sand beach. We donned our snorkel gear and entered the water only to be rushed down the beach by a burgeoning high tide that we could not begin to swim against. There was nothing but sea grass to see underwater. We walked back deciding to take a hike around the island the next day.

Our room was on the second floor and was traditionally walled with woven mats. There was a mosquito net over the bed so that the window could be left open. Out the back was one of Fort Revenge's walls, dating from the time of the wars between the Dutch and the Indonesians, now covered in moss and vines. Closer was the rest of the complex we were staying in, including the smoke house and kitchen where it would occasionally seem that a great fire had started as smoke would pour out the corrugated aluminum covered windows and smokestack.

Right below the balcony in the front was a small dirt road, a few huts, then the sea. Children played constantly. A pair of geese mated. I have never seen this before and it is something I never suspected. Birds are usually over procreating in seconds. This couple, in the middle of the road, were joined for at least ten minutes. Joined with what, I don't know.

Each night before dinner we would take a walk to watch the sunset looking out to the left of town and the sunset's effects on Pulau Api, to the right. The character of the volcano would change from minute to minute. It always dominates the sea view, but before the glows of the sunset hit, it seems a smoldering, boldly lined presence. It became a softly outlined geometric form floating in shimmering water with a rose cloud ringing its cone....at times...but when a storm was passing the weather seemed almost to portray its inner groanings and black core.

As we set out on our walk the next morning, we were puzzled by woven V shaped containers made out of palm fronds on 4 foot posts. They were chicken nests. Out of the village we walked very slowly because this was an extremely easy walk and we just wanted to appreciate the surroundings. There were only small knolls, and a fairly well marked path through small garden plots and well tended forests. There was not a lot of undergrowth here because people "own" the nutmeg trees and the towering, buttressed kenari nut trees. Villagers were combing the forest floor for nuts and would pick them up with a wooden tool having a device which, when its handle was squeezed and the tool tipped up, would catch the nut in an elongated basket.

We were trying to find the other shore and a place to snorkel, but instead found a very old man. He was in a lean-to in the middle of his garden. Smoke was pouring out the door and he invited us in to eat some of the bananas he was roasting. It was a comfortable little place with a woven bed a foot or so off the ground and an area to cook next to the door which could used while sitting on the bed. He was proud of his plot and sent us around to look at it. He also told us that there was only cliff on this side of the island. While talking to him about his crops, we mentioned taking a photo. He ran into his hut and brought out a hat and a pair of turquoise sweatpants which he draped over his shoulder.

We returned to P. Bandaneira and the next morning at about 4:00, awoke to leave for P. Api. While eating breakfast on the lanai we looked towards the mountain where a couple of moving lights halfway up could be seen. Late again.

In the emerging light, we were paddled across the strait to P. Api and were shown the trail. What an odd walk. Irregular stairs made of bamboo, dirt and stones had been built until halfway up the mountain. After that were "paths" of revolving stones. Step on them, they roll down, become deposited at the bottom of the sea and reconstituted to become the black sand on the beaches. I've imagined being in the middle of the Sea of Banda and looking out from a smoking volcano to a few other islands and then to nothing but the earth's contoured sea, I was now imagining what it would be like to become a reconstituted person. Climbing volcanos is a completely different feeling than climbing mountains. At the top of a volcano you look into the bowels of the earth and are standing on a peak which could be blown away at any time. As the view consumes the mind, the eyes in the back of the head are always active. "That seems like a lot of smoke. Why is there a fissure there which looks new. This area of earth is still very hot, hot enough to cook an egg." There's an alertness it brings to the center of your life. One is never quite relaxed while sitting in contemplation on the summit of a volcano.

The islands presented themselves like a map. The positions correct and the shapes clear. It was all so obvious. I think I would have liked to have brought enough food and water for a day or two because I don't think this is something easily understandable and I left with my mind in a disappointed puzzle. Sometimes this happens. It is when there is too much to feel, too quickly. My senses go into overload and I'm not living in the immediate present. I'll never forget the view, but it did not take my heart.

The trip down took one quarter the time. The trick was to pretend you were on a skateboard and just glide down the pebbles in a squat position, always bouncing from butt to feet with arms out for balance. In fact it was no trick, it was the only way down.

There was a strange, quiet man who I never could make any sense of. We kept seeing him from the hotel in Ambon to everywhere we went in Banda. He showed up in a bar we went to, he went to Pulau Ai on another ferry leaving at the same time as ours and returned at the same time. We saw him at the top of Gunung Api when we got there. As we were walking around the Fort on Banda, he arrived. We learned to expect this and would barely treat it with any amazement. He was German and could not speak much English but did speak excellent Indonesian. I just can't figure what his story was. He was so internalized, an odd trait for traveler in these parts. He would smile like a German elf in the Black Forest, always looking somewhat embarrassed and red-faced, sucking a laugh in and making it sound muted, as he continued to chuckle. I could never figure out whether he was laughing at my attempts at the Indonesian language, at me or if it was a nervous laugh with himself.

To be continued....too much to do right now....