After returning our motorbike to its rightful owner in Labuanbajo, we set out the next day on the bus with the tedious task ahead of us of retracing our steps back to central Flores. Many hours and yet another night’s stay in Bajawa later, we ventured into pastures new, heading towards the east, again on the local bus with the chickens tied on the back, the goat on the roof and vegetables piled high in the aisle. Our destination was Larantuka, a port at the easternmost point of Flores, from where we hopped on a wooden ferry over to the island of Lembata (part of the Solor archipelago). Next up was a 4 hour truck ride (no buses around here) on a road which was appalling even by Indonesian standards. A highlight of this journey was crossing a river where the bridge had been washed away and never replaced (think precipitous downhill hairpin bend in ankle deep mud, then charging full throttle through the river and up the steep face of the opposite bank).
All this travelling landed us in a place called Lamalera, a tiny fishing village with a big claim to fame. It is the last village on earth whose people still regularly hunt whales by hand. They only manage to catch around 15 to 25 in an average year so have been deemed exempt from the international ban on whaling. What is really amazing though is the way that they hunt. They roam the seas in wooden boats which are usually about 10m long and equipped with a sail, a set of oars and nowadays most likely a motor too. When the whale is spotted, a frantic chase ensues and, should they get close enough, a guy who is standing poised with a harpoon on the very front of the boat attempts to LEAP ONTO THE BACK OF THE WHALE, using his body weight to drive home the harpoon. If he is successful then it becomes a free-for-all with other crew members sticking harpoons and knives in until the whale is finally dead. Unbelievable huh? For any skeptics out there, here are the pictures which accompanied an old German magazine article we saw on Lamalera:
Whaling season is May to early October so when we visited we missed the action by about a month, much to the disappointment of our adventurer selves. Our sensible selves proclaimed that it wouldn’t be wise to get unwittingly caught up in a whale hunt anyway- the harpoons are attached to the boats so, when an injured whale tries to dive, it drags the boat with it. In the nineties, a whale dragged a boat full of men almost all the way to Timor! No such dramas befell us you’ll be pleased to hear, indeed no whales were spotted during our visit, but we did get to tag along for a morning in a boat and see the infamous harpoon in action……
The house where we were staying was on a ridge overlooking the beach so when, at about 6.15am, some guys appeared and started preparing their boat for a morning’s fishing, our hostess spotted them and called down that she had 2 tourist tag-alongs. Without having had time to finish our breakfast we were scurrying down to the beach and scrambling aboard the boat. It was a beautiful hot still morning and before long we were out in the deep blue, watching literally hundreds of dolphins jumping and frolicking all around. The guys on the boat were all business though. The main man on the front had had his harpoon sharpened and loaded into its bamboo pole and was standing with the pole raised to the sky, alert and ready. The second in command directly behind him was giving basic signals to the driver of the boat (eg go left, right, fast, slow). And the others, we found out later, all had their specific jobs too, whether it be making sure that the rope attaching the harpoon to the boat didn’t get snagged or reeling in the catch or bailing out seawater/blood. As for us, we were just sitting at the back on a very uncomfortable bamboo pole, trying not to get in the way, waiting for the action to begin.
The boat forged an ever-changing path through the midst of the gathering of dolphins. They jumped in synchronised groups of 3 or 4, sometimes mere metres from the boat prompting urgent shouts from the crew and raisings of the harpoon, but they were smart enough to recognise that we were no friends of theirs and rarely surfaced close by a second time. The hunters held onto their patience though and soon enough with a lightning quick stroke the harpoon was slicing through dolphin flesh, turning the sea red as the unlucky creature thrashed and slapped its tail uselessly against the surface. That was the first of 3 dolphins to be killed that morning. One was only a baby (awww, I know) which was speared then grabbed by the tail by one of the crew who was in the water with it in his hands before we even noticed him jump in.
We sat on our bamboo pole, bums growing ever more numb, hoping we weren’t in the way during the periods of frenzied activity and wishing we could make conversation the rest of the time. There was a guy on the boat who must have been in his sixties, toothless but still agile, and he in particular looked like someone who would have had many a sea-faring whale-chasing tale to tell.
Before midday it was all over. The dolphins had fled either to cool off in deeper waters or to escape the little boat that was persecuting them. We made our way languidly back to the village with most of the crew asleep, hats pulled down low over their faces to hide from the now harsh sun.
The village of Lamalera lies in a perfectly proportioned rocky little bay with a curve of sandy beach on which stands a row of lovingly built thatched-roof boat shelters. Each boat has its own little house where it rests between outings, surrounded by hanging whale bones as a reminder of past triumphs. We helped push the boat that we had been out in up the beach and into its shelter, a task which required about 15 guys, a set of makeshift logs/rollers and a lot of heave-hoing as the beach is steep and the boat heavy. It was sweaty work and the sun-sparkled waves were calling to us so after lunch we went for a swim in the bay. Just the two of us- oh and a gang of about 10 kids following behind, hanging onto makeshift petrol-can floats and clamouring to have a go with our swimming goggles (they proved so popular that we struggled to get them back). We tried out our basic Bahasa Indonesia on our companions and asked them where they were from (Lamalera, duh), how old they all were (between 6 and 10) and what their names were (the first lad insisted he was called Batman- do you think they were taking the mickey out of us perhaps?).
As I said earlier, the house where we stayed was located in gossip’s heaven, on a ridge with a bird’s eye view of all village comings and goings. There was an open-sided kitchen and sitting area out front where we ate our meals, admiring the view of the bay whilst getting pecked at by roaming chickens. There was one in particular who was quite persistant with its attacks on my burnt leg (the motorbike exhaust injury) so I learnt to be ever vigilant. A pig pen a few metres from the dining table added to the farmyard atmosphere (and smell). Our bedroom was a concrete cell (albeit a very clean cell, with freshly laundered sheets on the bed) which during the day collected a stifling, suffocating heat despite all of our window and door opening efforts. No fan of course. It was the only place on this trip so far where we have been lying absolutely still in bed in the middle of the night with sweat literally dripping off us. And then, when the air finally began cooling at around 3am, the farmyard outside would start coming to life with no consideration for our sleep- first the roosters, then the pigs, then the dogs, then the Siamese cats which made the most hideous racket of all.
So, we did not sleep well. But it didn’t matter. We had an awesome time in Lamalera and I hope it never changes, at least not before we’ve been back for that elusive whale hunt…….
