Komodo Island, Indonesia
Chasing the Dragon
S
Steve Evans1982
"Take me to your leader." I'd always wanted to say that. Now was the perfect time. I'd woken up on a boat, an outrigger, moored on a beach on the island of Komodo.
November 1982. "Take me to your leader." I'd always wanted to say that. Now was the perfect time. I'd woken up on a boat, an outrigger, moored on a beach on the island of Komodo. A Komodan man was sitting on his haunches waiting for someone on the boat to wake up. We'd arrived in the middle of the night. We being the captain, his deckhand and me. I'd found the captain in a bar in Labuhanbajo, a port on the island of Flores the night before. He was heading from Flores to the next big island, Sumbawa, and for a fee, would stop off at Komodo.
We left late afternoon and stopped early evening at a very small island and moored on the stilts of a hut by the coast. A friend or relative of the captain lived there. We dined with him — him and us eating rice with boiled eggs and warm boiled water, a pack of kids sat in front of us giggling and all the women in the separate kitchen at the back of the hut. This was a Muslim island close to Catholic Flores. As the special guest I got two eggs instead of one.
The man on the beach took me through the one street of houses on stilts, animals and waste underneath, to the head man's hut. Here I was charged £20 for a young, live goat to be taken to the Komodo dragons as bait. It was explained, by an English-speaking assistant, that I also needed to pay for someone to slaughter the goat, then someone to carry it. Plus a guide. And a protection person to ward off any aggressive dragons. The people of Komodo are descended from the original convicts who were exiled here.
Off we went along the beach, goat hanging upside down from a stick between two carriers. I felt like a great white hunter with his entourage. Reaching a wooded area inland we came to a hut where the solitary park warden lived. He had to be paid too. We were heading for a natural pit from where it was safe (ish) to watch the dragons. Halfway there one of the dragons ran across the path in front of us. Not a big one but it was…. FAST! They normally hunt water buffalo and deer but in the last 40 years there have been 24 attacks on humans and 5 fatalities.
At the pit there were already a couple of dragons waiting around. The goat was quietly dispatched and two villagers threw rocks at the dragons to drive them away so they could hang the dripping goat up. They soon came. Six of them, some big, some massive, fighting to tear the goat apart. They looked like scarred land versions of great white sharks. Lizards acting like a pack of wolves. There was nothing left of the goat. The biggest dragon ate the head. I took countless pictures, some from only a few feet. Priceless.
Back on the boat expecting to arrive at our destination at 3pm — it turned out to be 7pm. More rice and shady brown water which I drank anyway. In the moonlight we hit the waves and got very wet. I was soon roused from sleep when the boat began to sink. Frantically the captain took over the bailing from the boy. I noticed the outriggers were two feet below the water. I wondered whether I should take my valuables and attempt to swim to shore. The nearest land was miles away. The boy went past me and threw all the firewood overboard then jettisoned cargo from the bottom of the boat. We made it, but only just.
Arriving at another stilted seaside village, I paid the captain as he relieved himself into the water below a hut. Grumpy and damp I walked from port to the small town of Sape, reflecting on the experience. I hadn't been afraid. It was like being in a film scene. Not unhappy that they'd worked hard for the inflated price they'd charged me — it had been a priceless experience.
Sumbawa had a very different, Indian-like, Muslim feel to it. Especially in the grey moonlight with Islamic music and calls to prayer coming from several sources. I found a losmen to stay but needed a beer. I asked a group on the verandah where they'd got their beers. "Closed," they said, "have some of ours." I did. Lots. They were a ferry crew from Northern Sulawesi. The captain sent a jeep for more beer. It was warm but welcome. Not so much the next morning.
We left late afternoon and stopped early evening at a very small island and moored on the stilts of a hut by the coast. A friend or relative of the captain lived there. We dined with him — him and us eating rice with boiled eggs and warm boiled water, a pack of kids sat in front of us giggling and all the women in the separate kitchen at the back of the hut. This was a Muslim island close to Catholic Flores. As the special guest I got two eggs instead of one.
The man on the beach took me through the one street of houses on stilts, animals and waste underneath, to the head man's hut. Here I was charged £20 for a young, live goat to be taken to the Komodo dragons as bait. It was explained, by an English-speaking assistant, that I also needed to pay for someone to slaughter the goat, then someone to carry it. Plus a guide. And a protection person to ward off any aggressive dragons. The people of Komodo are descended from the original convicts who were exiled here.
Off we went along the beach, goat hanging upside down from a stick between two carriers. I felt like a great white hunter with his entourage. Reaching a wooded area inland we came to a hut where the solitary park warden lived. He had to be paid too. We were heading for a natural pit from where it was safe (ish) to watch the dragons. Halfway there one of the dragons ran across the path in front of us. Not a big one but it was…. FAST! They normally hunt water buffalo and deer but in the last 40 years there have been 24 attacks on humans and 5 fatalities.
At the pit there were already a couple of dragons waiting around. The goat was quietly dispatched and two villagers threw rocks at the dragons to drive them away so they could hang the dripping goat up. They soon came. Six of them, some big, some massive, fighting to tear the goat apart. They looked like scarred land versions of great white sharks. Lizards acting like a pack of wolves. There was nothing left of the goat. The biggest dragon ate the head. I took countless pictures, some from only a few feet. Priceless.
Back on the boat expecting to arrive at our destination at 3pm — it turned out to be 7pm. More rice and shady brown water which I drank anyway. In the moonlight we hit the waves and got very wet. I was soon roused from sleep when the boat began to sink. Frantically the captain took over the bailing from the boy. I noticed the outriggers were two feet below the water. I wondered whether I should take my valuables and attempt to swim to shore. The nearest land was miles away. The boy went past me and threw all the firewood overboard then jettisoned cargo from the bottom of the boat. We made it, but only just.
Arriving at another stilted seaside village, I paid the captain as he relieved himself into the water below a hut. Grumpy and damp I walked from port to the small town of Sape, reflecting on the experience. I hadn't been afraid. It was like being in a film scene. Not unhappy that they'd worked hard for the inflated price they'd charged me — it had been a priceless experience.
Sumbawa had a very different, Indian-like, Muslim feel to it. Especially in the grey moonlight with Islamic music and calls to prayer coming from several sources. I found a losmen to stay but needed a beer. I asked a group on the verandah where they'd got their beers. "Closed," they said, "have some of ours." I did. Lots. They were a ferry crew from Northern Sulawesi. The captain sent a jeep for more beer. It was warm but welcome. Not so much the next morning.
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