A liveaboard adventure around the Komodo Islands
We set off from Flores early in the morning on a modest live aboard with a small, friendly crew and two groups of tourists - an Indonesian group who gather in the shade of the lower deck, and a group of Westerners who lounge on the top deck burning to a crisp under the hot midday sun.
There’s a similar separation between the sleeping arrangements. Many of the domestic travellers sleep in cabins downstairs. Us young, western backpackers are shown to stained, smelly mattresses arranged in rows on the top deck. There are no curtains or separators of any kind, but by the next morning, none of us care.
In the cooler months, these islands are lush and green, but in July, they’re golden and blanketed in tall, sun-baked grass. Every so often, a wildfire rushes through and paints them black. The parched, undulating hills against the cerulean water and sky forge a stunning landscape and an appropriately striking terrain for the prehistoric beasts they’re famous for.
As we’re ferried onto Rinca Island, one of the islands where most of the Komodo dragons are found, the energy in the group shifts. We’re all a little jittery as we’re led away from the water, keeping close to our guide’s heels and casting nervous glances over our shoulders as we travel deeper and deeper into spindly, grey woodland. Komodo dragons have sharp teeth and venomous saliva that prevents the blood from clotting and induces shock. Most humans who are bitten require amputation of the injured area. But when we arrive at the checkpoint, the guard who greets us is friendly and laid back. In one hand, he holds a long stick twisted into a fork at the end. This, we learn, is our only protection. Then he walks us right up to one of the smaller female dragons, asleep in the shade of one of the stilted wooden houses. We begin to think, aha! Maybe they don’t attack unless provoked or aren’t all that interested in humans. Not so. Before setting off the guard warns us that getting separated from the group is a fatal mistake. One woman who didn’t tell anyone she was going to the restroom was followed in and bitten. Another tourist was attacked after wandering off alone – he died after refusing to have the injured leg amputated at the nearest hospital. All of us inch closer together, eyeing the many sleeping dragons camouflaged against the shadowy ground around us.
We’re told as we set off that we won’t be seeing much because it’s mating season, and it’s hot, so the females will be tucked away in cool corners away from view. But everywhere we look there are dragons. Their long, craggy bodies lumbering along on wide-set, muscular legs. Their forked tongues lazily grazing the dry leaves. Before we leave, we’re invited to crouch in front of one of the large females, close enough to reach back and touch her, one at a time, while our guide takes a photo. (An admittedly awesome photo were it not for the unmistakable terror in our eyes.)
The next morning we wake on the waves with a warm, salty breeze blowing off the sea. After breakfast, we’re ferried to an island for a short viewpoint hike. Then we return to the boat and head to Komodo Island.
On Komodo Island, we come across our first male Komodo Dragon. He’s draped over a large hunk of cement, snoozing peacefully near a couple of females. Our guard, even more relaxed than the previous one, beckons us to come closer and closer until we’re in the circle of them. We hear a rustling in the trees and another huge male waddles out of the shadows, stomping towards us with a menacing glare. We draw back behind a scrappy tree and wait as the two males size each other up, getting closer and closer until their tongues are practically touching and then, after a moment of quiet hissing, they lunge at each other, jerking back on their hind legs and throwing their huge bodies together belly-first, their arms flailing. (It’s actually a pretty awkward-looking fight for a couple of vicious beasts.) The guard waves at us to get closer, and we creep reluctantly forward. The battle rages on for a few minutes, and then one of them sprints off with the larger one running behind, their boxy legs careening across the dry grass at an impressive speed. Our guide lets out a maniacal whoop and beckons for us to run along behind them, cameras and phones held aloft. After a short-lived chase, the first one scampers off and the larger one huffs triumphantly, and lumbers back to his hard-earned cement stoop among his harem, lying unperturbed in the dust alongside him.
We return to our boat for dinner, drawing into a secluded bay as the sun sets behind it. Despite the tiny open kitchen on the back of the boat, the dinners are generous and tasty and enjoyed family style. We sit on the bow of the ship enjoying the sunset, and then climb up to the top deck with cold beers, cracking them open under a cotton-candy sky, watching as the the first of the night’s stars glimmer through. Later in the night, there’s a commotion on the lower deck. We clamber down the steps to find some of the crew hung over the side of the boat with fishing rods and flashlights. One after another, they begin to pull the ghostly, gelatin bodies of large squid into the air. We cheer and squeal as they’re swung expertly into a bucket, convulsing and spurting black oily liquid across the deck. But then, the group goes quiet as their wriggling slows, their colour flickering and fading out until they’re just floppy white ghosts. And the plate of fried calamari served with lunch the following day goes virtually untouched.
warm breezy night, dry and calm, and it didn’t take long to fall asleep under the sea of stars that twinkled above us. When we woke it was still dark, monstrous clouds has drawn in over us and the engine was rumbling. We were rocked back to sleep by the waves and woke again when the engine was silent again and our guide stood at the foot of our mattress. “Padar” he mumbled, and moved on to wake our neighbors. We stumbled around in search of clothing, changed under our thin blankets, and clambored down to the dingy that would shuttle us ashore.
It was too dark at first to appreciate Padar Island’s beauty. We climbed breathlessly after our guide, still yawning and rubbing sleep from our eyes, watching the horizon as it cast a pink glow up into the clouds. It wasn’t until we reached the first viewpoint that the water went a gorgeous dusky blue, and the grass went a shadowy amber. We continued our climb as the light continued to change, the water reflected the tangerine sky and the clouds went from slate grey to soft and peachy.
Our path meandered upward, and the island spread out behind us, it’s three beaches becoming visible as we climbed, each with a different shade of sand - one grey, one white, one pink. Once we reached the top the whole island was below us, a many legged monster covered in soft amber fur, vast and shadowy and impressive. The sun had risen in all its glory over the sea, and we sat and gazed out in awe until it seemed the rest of our group had all but left us. As we descended again, other boats began to crowd the bay - we had arrived and were leaving at just the right time thanks to our shy and mumbly but really sweet guide.
We spent the rest of the morning hopping between beaches and snorkling, at one point we found a small strip of sand - the perfect little castaway island with a rosey beach in a ring of turquoise water, and we spent a happy half hour frolicking on it. When we arrived back to the pier in Flores, we were sunburnt, exhausted, in desperate need of a shower, but not wanting to leave. In just two days we had seen and experienced more than we could have ever dreamt of, and we were grieving our brief maritime existence. But Adam and I had a flight to Sulawesi the next morning, so sad as we were to disembark, the next chapter of our journey pushed us onward.
