Cruising Indonesia

The coral had the shape and artistry of a Japanese flower arrangement. The muted reds and golds were perfectly contrasted with flashes of blue—as little clouds of reef fish darted between the fronds of the fan coral. On the other side of the coral I caught sight of a larger shadowy shape; turtle, wrasse? Just as I set off to see, something grabbed at my snorkel.

gorgeous healthy reef

 

Whipping around, sputtering and startled I discovered I’d been attacked by a floating grocery bag. Freeing my snorkel, I swam through a tide line of garbage and toward a new section of coral. This part looked like a bomb had gone off. The coral was broken off in big gray chunks and the only contrast came from the red lion fish and spiny black sea urchins—invasive creatures thriving in the moonscape.

garbage on a reef

rafts of garbage become beaches of garbage

 

Dynamite or blast fishing was introduced to Indonesia sometime after WWII, when there was lots of surplus dynamite around. Modern bombs are made from kerosene and ammonium nitrate and when ignited the explosion’s underwater shock wave stuns the fish and causes their swim bladders to rupture. Some of the fish float to the surface where ‘fishing’ is a matter of scooping them up (many sink). From a fisherman’s perspective the illegal technique easier and more productive than traditional methods—providing you don’t run out of coral reefs.

But as we’ve dove reefs that all show some level of damage it’s clear that not only is Indonesia running out of reefs, the reduction of habitat means that the coral that still exists is dangerously overfished. Add the endless flow of garbage that finds its way into the seas and Indonesia is an environmental tragedy on the brink of self-destruction.

 

joyful hardworking people

We’d been warned about the state of Indonesia before we visited. Friends, who’d traveled with kids who had been brought up on reduce, reuse, recycle and who’d no more toss a water bottle into the ocean than kick a puppy, counselled us to tell Maia to ignore the destruction or it would overwhelm her. Sailing past rafts of garbage or swimming through a gray rubble seascape where there should be colour and life is difficult to ignore though.

Years ago I was working on a high-stakes environmental campaign. A couple of rock-star environmentalists were there and someone asked how they managed to maintain hope when it seemed like saving the world was already a long lost battle.

“Look for the beauty.”

“Look for the successes.”

 “See the threat, but don’t stop seeing the hope,” we’re some of the answers. As was, “I’ve already given up, but what the hell, something could still surprise me…”

wild boar and Timor deer in Komodo National Park

 

If ever there was a place that appears to be lost, it’s Indonesia. But it also has some of the rawest, most profound beauty I’ve encountered. So we’ve cruised through Indonesia looking for the hope. We’ve visited a village where their reef was bombed so now they harvest seaweed while their reef regenerates. We visited another village that has a plan for garbage disposal and where the ladies in the market were intrigued by our reusable net produce bags rather than puzzled by why we didn’t want plastic. And we visit the parks where the local people can see for themselves that conservation just might sustain them.

Tourism is one hope of Indonesia--but getting people out of Bali and into the parks is the challenge. Especially when the path is strewn with garbage.

Down on the reef Maia and I swam past the rubble toward the healthy coral. A big anemone caught my eye. Swimming toward it Maia asked a passing fish if he’s seen Nemo. Giggling as we reached the anemone we watched as a couple of little orange clown fish popped out at us then darted away. The exuberant little fish made us laugh and briefly forget the rubble. Then a few nights later a beach full of Timor deer made us sigh with wonder. And the next morning when a mama boar brought her babies to swim near the boat we squealed with glee.

The reality of Indonesia is over 238 million very poor people are trying to survive off 17,500 islands. Traveling here is like a glimpse into the beginning of a dystopian future—one with too many people and too few resources. If you focus on the destruction it really does seem hopeless. But the beauty is there, and what the hell, something could still surprise us. 

Watch Out, That Can Kill You

Most people know a few things about Australia, even if they’ve never been. They know it’s a big island/continent somewhere Down Under, they assume it’s hot and sunny (all the bloody rain doesn’t make for good tourism campaigns so the tourism board kept that bit hush-hush), they think everyone says ‘g’day mate’ and they’re positive that just about everything here can kill you.

People ask us about it all the time: ‘how often do we encounter deadly snakes, venomous platypus, lethal spiders, fierce sharks, trees with neurotoxins, poisonous jellyfish, killer octopi or hungry salt water crocodiles?’

The answer is, mostly we don’t. The danger in modern Australia is largely theoretical. For example the deadliest spider, the funnel web, hasn’t killed anyone in over 30 years. And the redback spider hasn’t managed to off anyone since 1955. Even the snakes are doing it tough—Australia doesn’t even rank in the top ten for snake bite deaths world wide. Consider the fact that the actual body count — even when you combine all the deaths attributed to homicidal animals— comes in below deaths caused by lightning strikes (5 to 10 deaths and 45 serious injuries each year from lightning).

And there is something else to consider: If the deadly things in Australia were really that lethal I’m pretty sure the place would be empty. Bless their hearts, but Aussies are very good at drinking and having fun, but not so competent at common sense. In the wise words of my daughter, who just this morning noted a subdued appearing young man who was carrying a huge stuffed bunny which was wearing his shoes and apparently also letting him know when it was safe to cross the street, “I’ll be kind and assume he’s not a foolish drunk idiot about to be killed by a car and just pretend he’s just really excited about Easter.”

In other words, people only stay alive here because all the murderous creatures got a bunch of hyped up bad press and because it’s a bit of a nanny state with heaps of safety measures (they keep barbed wire fences behind fences here so drunk people don’t accidentally try to climb them).

 

I bring this up because I was taking a picture of a flying fox yesterday and the people around me were seriously afraid for my safety.

I love flying foxes, or fruit bats. They are spectacular as they fly overhead—looking more bat-like than I realized a bat could ever look. They come in great flocks this time of year, and squabble like children as they perform essential work for a healthy ecosystem by moving pollen and seeds over long distances. They also, like many animals, occasionally carry a zoonotic virus which can transmit illness to other species. And in the case of our flying foxes, the tragic recent death of a young boy from lyssavirus has catapulted them to the front of the ‘most deadly’ list.

After being here for a while I can say quite comfortably that for all the air of bravado, Aussies like to be safe. They like rules and regulations that lead to fences and signs and security. And since this solitary death there has been an increased call to cull the flying foxes, some of which are already threatened with extinction. This desire to kill bats echoes the call to cull sharks, and slay crocodiles, and influences our desire to bash snakes and poison spiders.

Perhaps though we should step back, and focus on doing away with lightning.

Desert Island Days--Chesterfield Reef

We've been diving on a reef structure near the anchorage. It's not big, the walls only go to 60' or so and the windward side has some coral damage from a storm. But it's only a 5 minute dinghy ride and there are no currents--so it's perfect for all the novice divers in our group. It's also the most diverse bit of ocean I've ever seen. It has more types of sponges, coral (with colours that run through the rainbow), more species of fish (including four types of anenome 'clown' fish, eels, sharks, puffers, parrots) and more types of giant clams than I've ever seen in one place. And this is just one bommie of hundreds. It's not even the main reef.

As you can guess we haven't left. WGD felt like they needed to get to Oz. But Connect 4, Discovery and us didn't feel ready to leave our uncharted island for a known destination. The kids wanted to camp on shore again, we wanted to dive and we all want to try again to see nesting turtles.
But because we are all at the end of our provisions we've needed to pool our resources and share out what we have. We've been swapping and trading--sugar for flour, butter for popcorn, potatoes for onions, rice for beans, milk for wine, toilet paper for... Well if someone needs toilet paper you just hand it over. Beachside potlucks keep meals from getting too monotonous. And while we've all tucked away just enough food to last for the passage. We've begun to raid our ditch bag for powerbars and eased up on our definition of vegetable.

While it is isolated and ideal here, sadly it's not pristine. The hermit crab that we found housed in a plastic bottle cap wasn't the most dramatic example, that was probably the bird nesting on a Styrofoam container, but it was poignant. We've filled two black garbage bags with washed up plastic bottles, shoes, fishing gear, plastic grates and lawn chair bits and more appears at high tide.
Everyday.

We're almost 500 miles from the nearest inhabited land. We're experiencing the teeming vitality that once was found throughout the Pacific.
But what makes Chesterfield wondrous--also makes it heartbreaking. Even here we've managed to pollute.
I have never felt so enthralled or helpless.
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Tenacatita’s Mangrove River

“This is how Disney’s Jungle Cruise should be,” Evan said, as the mangroves closed in around us. Any moment we expected to be ambushed by charging hippos or attacked by an anaconda, but instead we caught sight of an ibis, nestled deep in the droopy green foilage. After an exciting surf entry over the river bar we were now floating along the meandering river: the splash of fish, and the flutter of birds and butterflies gave us a hint to what lay hidden.

Characterized by lazy brackish waters and densely growing bush-like trees, mangroves are a frontier zone between land and sea, a harbour for an unrivalled diversity of life. Over half of Mexico’s 1050 recognized bird species have been sighted in the string of mangrove lagoons scattered along Mexico’s western coast.
Under pressure from development, and seemingly a waste of good waterfront, mangrove ecosystems are disappearing at a disasterous rate. Statistics from Greenpeace Mexico and the federal Ministry of the Environment and Natural Resources say that mangrove habitat in the country's coastal zones fell from 1,041,267 hectares in 1976 to 683,881 in 2007. By 2025 the country expects to have lost an additional 40-50% of its existing mangrove cover.

 Tropical mangroves capture carbon, incubate numerous aquatic species, prevent coastal erosion, provide windbreaks from storms and shelter migratory birds. But tourist development, new subdivisions, pollution and lack of understanding mean they are at risk, despite a tough new law protecting mangroves that was approved by the Mexican Congress in 2007.
One potential saving grace of mangroves is they are very cool to visit.

In the hush of still water we heard muffled surf. Our list of sighted creatures was growing: yellow-crowned night herons, snowy egrets, green herons, king fishers a roseate spoon bill, red-bellied squirrels…

 “Crocodile!”
We just caught a glimpse as it left its sunny perch and slid into the tea-coloured water. A few minutes later (after learning to scan deadfall in the sunny areas) we sighted our next crocodile, seemingly smiling in the sun. We all squealed and tried to position ourselves for a picture—but the current and the little crocodile’s reticent disposition, meant it was under water before we could snap a good shot.

 The end of the ride took us to a beach, surrounded by high fences. Just a year ago this was a popular holiday spot—with palapa restaurants, a smattering of homes and camping. Then its apparent long-time owner called in the state police and had the residents removed so he could begin development. Now it was under guard and we needed permission to visit the beach.
After our time at the beach we headed back to the dingy for the long ride back through the meandering jungle. As we left, I looked back at the fences and the traces of the buildings that had been plowed under when the army came to remove the beach-side businesses, and I couldn’t help but worry what modernization might bring to the mangroves.

 But then we caught sight of a crocodile and were carried away by the wonder of it all.

Turtle Release

 Some of our favourite cruising experiences are our encounters with wildlife. And last night’s olive ridley turtle release at the Marriott Casamagna was no exception.

The olive ridley is classified as Vulnerable according to the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN). The reason is multi-faceted: The turtles have been used for food, bait, oil, leather, and fertilizer. And while the meat is not considered tasty, the eggs are highly prized and can fetch a good price. And then there are the problems with habitat destruction and the fact that the swimming turtles often end up as a shrimp fishery bycatch.

the turtle hatchery nursery

collecting newly hatched turtles

 The olive ridley nests between about June and November. Traditionally the female turtles arrived in mass numbers. Called an arribada, thousands of turtles would congregate on a beach and lay their eggs. Historically, there were several arribadas in Mexico, yet only the one at Playa Escobilla in Oaxaca is considered to come anywhere close to the historic events…

 The Marriott in Puerto Vallarta is one of the older resorts in the area and has one of the longer, lovelier stretched of beaches. About 15-years ago the hotel realized it could play a role in turtle conservation—so they hired a biologist who teaches guests to retrieve the nests and move them to a nursery (the resort has become so well known for their role that they now get nests from all over the bay). 45 days later the hatchlings emerge and are returned to the ocean.

lining up to release the turtles

 Every evening at 6pm from August-January locals, school children, guests and passing tourists congregate on the beach for a quick lesson in turtle conservation. Then, we are each given a turtle to release.

The newly hatched babies, with sand still clinging to their half-opened eyes, are about the size of a cookie. Which is how they must look to seagulls and hungry fish. So the idea is to place them on the sand just as the sun is dipping below the horizon and their predators are grounded for the night. Then the little hatchlings follow the setting sun into the ocean. As they make their way across the sand they imprint on the beach as home—and return when mature, 10-years later.

 I always imagined the little turtles tumbling down the beach, caught by the first wave and carried out to sea. Instead the process is marathon long, and heart-wrenching to watch.

The first time the little turtles hurried down the sand they were picked up by a wave and they began to swim their little hearts out. Moments later the wave dumped them back off, further up the beach than where they started, tumbled on their backs and disoriented.

 The second and third time this happened we sighed and smiled. By the fifth and sixth time we wondered how they would ever make it into the sea. Each wave seemed to take one or two of the little creatures, but as the ones that were left behind grew more tired and less enthusiastic in their stumble seaward—we wanted to help.

 But our role was done. All we could do was hope for the little turtles who ventured seaward and make sure we share their story to support their continued recovery. And eventually the sun set on a beach empty of little turtles. And the next part of their journey began. Now they will swim for 5-days, not stopping not eating, trying to get to safe open water.

Adopted Sea Turtle

Ana Luisa being released in October

Today is my birthday—always a popular celebration in our family. And Maia made this year’s birthday even more special by choosing a gift for me that brought tears to my eyes.

She adopted a Sea of Cortez black turtle in my name through www.seaturtle.org. Maia and Evan went to a conservation lecture a week ago and learned what is being done in the Sea. They learned that there are a lot of people working very hard, with little or no money, to study and save the creatures and places we fell in love with this summer.

One effort that is happening is an effort to track and monitor both sea turtles and whale sharks. Maia chose me a black sea turtle called “Ana Luisa” who was named for the woman who gave the lecture they attended.

I can track Ana Luisa-and maybe even wave when we sail past

Ana Luisa was captured as part of the turtle monitoring of the Reserva Biosfera Isla San Pedro Martír (RBISPM). Fishermen from Bahía de Kino captured her last month and after having her vitals checked by an onboard monitoring team she was released a few hours later with a satellite transmitter to better understand how juvenile black turtles use the Sea. This project is supported by CONANP, COBI, GTC, Prescott College, NOAA Fisheries and Alliance, WWF and Telcel.

Captive Dolphins and Saving Wetlands

Tetakawi seen from Estereo del Soldado

Today we continued our exploring. San Carlos is turning out to be one of those places where the more we experience, the more we like it.

there was some effort to explain natural dolphin behaviour throughout the show

 Our first stop was Delfinario Sonora. I have to admit I’m not that interested in captive dolphin shows—we’ve seen (and heard) so many amazing things in the wild that heading to see performing animals doesn’t hold much appeal. The difference here though is the Delfinario’s main purpose is Dolphin Assisted Therapy (DAT) a rather out-there (but massively popular) therapy for children with central nervous system disorders.

I’m reserving judgement on the therapy, but I have to say that watching a dolphin show with a hundred or so Mexicans who have never seen the creatures before was electrifying. The faces of the people around us made it clear that they were in awe. The show itself was fine—the dolphins seemed healthy and content, the staff was excellent and the facility was gorgeous. It’s just, well, you know—when you’ve been woken at dawn by high pitched squeals and come out on deck to witness your very own Sea World—it’s hard to go back…

I haven't actually seen this happen in the wild though

 Our next stop was Estereo del Soldado, an important migratory bird wetland that contains Mexico’s northmost mangroves. Director Mauricio Cervantes gave us a tour, and I have to admit it only took me about 10 minutes to fall in love with the soft spoken man's spirit.

 I think he warmed to me when he realized I actually care that the modest 300 hectare marsh contains three of Mexico’s four (some say five, but that’s controversial) mangrove species (red, white and black). And by the time the first three White Pelicans in several years arrived, and we both lost track of what we were talking about to gaze at them in wonder, it was clear we were kindred spirits.

Cervantes though has done something I would never have the capacity to do: he’s waded through years of bureaucracy and his legacy includes not just the preservation of Estereo del Soldado but also the recent preservation of the 200 million hectare Marismas Nacionales in Nayarit http://www.whsrn.org/site-profile/marismas-nacionales.

Saving something in Mexico though is not the same though as having the ability to protect it. It was clear after just a few minutes that Cervantes is given nothing to work with. He has a cement shell of a building that he someday hopes will be a visitor centre. His greenhouse—where he once grew native species in the hope of rehabilitating a landscape that was heavily abused by locals (Cervantes hauled 2 tons of garbage off the site when it was first protected)—blew away in a hurricane over two years ago.

His dream (after re-establishing the mangroves and letting some of the most damaged land come back) is to offer interpretive kayak tours through the estuary and have labelled pathways where visitors can learn about the unique eco-system. For now though he’s content with the thousand or so student who take workshops at the wetland each year (including the local eco-tourism students).

Cervantes and his tree

 We finished our tour at a tree he told us he likes to visit—whenever the difficulties of wetland conservation overwhelm him. It’s a very old tree and it grows in a heavily damaged area of the wetland, its entire trunk is scarred with names and initials, some of its branches were hacked off. But yet it grows.

He told me the tree is symbolic, a reminder, that despite the damage we have wrought, life continues.

And so it does. Last year there were no White Pelicans in the wetland but this year, so far, there are three.

Among Whales

This one's beside us and several more are straight ahead, and a few more are on our other side...

I think there are five whales in this shot--more than you really want in front of you.

The moment when I suggested that Maia should back away from the edge of the boat

They were hunted to near extinction and even today no one's certain just how many sperm whales are out there. They used to be known to travel in pods of up to 50 whales, with still other groups within their vocalization distancce (about 10km). But after they were hunted and their numbers diminished they were seldom seen in groups larger than twelve.

We really don't know how may we travelled through--at one point I counted 26, and that was after sailing through three distinct pods over four hours. But what we learned is sperm whales won't move out of our way. They are pretty unconcerned about where we are going and what we are doing. They seem to exist somewhere else. Maybe in an older version of the world where they ruled the seas.

We tacked through them though and did our best to keep clear. The punishment for getting too close was a strong wiff of rank whale breath. But the reward, ah, the reward...