Here Be Dragons: Komodo and Rinca

“Oh, shit,” muttered our guide, Paul, when three formerly slumbering dragons raised their heads to look directly at us. They sampled the air with their tongues, smelling to see if we were meat, mineral or vegetable. Confirming the potential for a meal they began to lumber toward us. Paul, all 5’4” nervous inches of him, and his forked stick, were all that protected us from the deadly reptiles which had recently attacked another ranger, a water buffalo and had pretty much eradicated the island of wild horses.

“Do they know what your stick is?” I asked. “I mean, will it keep them away?” The stick, which all the rangers carry, can discourage a casually inquisitive dragon we learned. But if a dragon is intent on attacking about all you can really do is run fast and climb a tree. Paul looked me over, “I’ll leave you my stick,” he said.

Paul first learned about Komodo Dragons when he was a boy living in a village on Flores Island. He saw their photo in a book and thought they’d be wonderful to see in real life. By the time he’d completed his ranger training and had worked for a couple of years as a guide on Rinca (where several rangers are attacked each year) it became clear to him that the dragons were unpredictable and dangerous; he was looking into a career change. “My parent’s don’t even know this is my job,” he told us. “They think I work in a restaurant.”

We encountered our first dragon before we even learned Paul’s name. Resting under a tree in the afternoon heat it was just off the path that ran between the dock and ranger station. The dragon was bigger but less menacing than expected. “That’s a young male,” Paul told us. It was still well under its potential of three metres and 100 kg. But Maia pointed out if it woke up, “its bite contains toxic bacteria and a protein that stops your blood from clotting.”

Despite Paul’s obvious fear of the dragons he was upbeat about our trek. He sent us into the ranger station to buy our stack of tickets (one for our boat, three for the park, three for conservation, one for the trek, one for the camera…) then explained our trekking options: short, medium or long; jungle or hills.

Deciding on a 1.5 hour hills hike we headed through the camp where the rangers lived and where the dragons like to hang out, just in case food magically falls from the kitchen. While we watched some food did fall and the dragons woke up. Sounding like a Darth Vader fan club they huffed and argued over the scrappy little snacks, and then they began flicking their forked yellow tongues out at us.

“Maybe you would like to hike now,” Paul suggested as he herded us away from the approaching dragons. Assuming the dragon drama was a bit of ranger theatrics I barely glanced back as we headed off along the trail. A few minutes later we spotted a water buffalo lounging in a pool of water. As we neared it was clear the buffalo was in distress. Paul pointed out where a dragon had wounded it and explained it would die soon.

Maia, who had been reading about Komodos explained that the dragons have an efficient way of killing large prey. Rather than fighting to the death they let bacteria from the wound do the work for them. Peering back toward the camp, checking for menacing shapes, I started to understand why Paul was so spooked by the dragons. Puff, they aren’t.

After passing a second healthier buffalo we came across a female Komodo guarding her nest. Then we started the upward climb to take in the view. “The blue posts are where the hotel is going to go,” Paul told us pointing out a half a dozen survey marks the stretched over the hill. Despite being a National Park and a World Heritage Site somehow, someone seems to have paid off the right person and a hotel is planned for a grassy ridge above the ranger station. Paul quietly outlined the problems—from no water on the island during dry season, to the impact a hotel could have on dragon nesting sites. None of the rangers could understand how the hotel had been approved.

At the top of the next crest I stopped to bandage a blister. Paul lost his relaxed look and peered at my foot anxiously, “Is there blood?” The dragons could smell blood up to five kilometres away he explained to Evan in a quiet voice. Satisfied my foot wouldn’t bring out the dragons Paul went back to pointing things out and was thrilled when we caught sight of one of the last remaining wild horses on the island.

Looping back down the hill, we encountered a pair of buffalo-less hooves on the trail. Dragons will eat every part of an animal; bones, hair and all but apparently their digestive system draws a line at feet. With another blister forming I couldn’t help but hope the foot aversion extended to humans, or at least that the hooves were a sign that the local dragons were currently all well-fed. An adult dragon only eats about once a month but it was clear as I hobbled along that if a dragon was looking to pick one of us off, my chances weren’t good.

Despite being potential dragon-fodder I was eager to do a second hike early the next day—to catch the dragons when they were more energetic and to check out a jungle hike. When we reached the dock Ramli introduced himself as our guide. He told us he’d grown up with the dragons on the island—but because his village only had school up until grade six he couldn’t finish high school and was only a volunteer guide (Park Rangers need a High School Diploma).

Curious if growing up with the dragons had made him more confident than Paul; Maia asked if he was afraid of the Komodos. “Oh, yes,” he told us. Then he went on to tell the gruesome story of how one of his friends had been eaten by a dragon one day after school, “His father called him for lunch but he didn’t come. Then he heard the dragon…”

“Oh, shit,” I muttered and we headed into the bush.

The Reef at Last

Anchored on the Great Barrier Reef

We’ve been sailing north inside the Great Barrier Reef for about six weeks, but yesterday was the first time we actually saw it, dove on it and anchored beside it. Further south the reef is a bit thin and it’s well off shore. (Running a length equivalent to the US west coast, the GBR isn’t a continuous reef, but hundreds of small reefs linked together like a pearl necklace, with gaps.) Once you hit Cairns though, the reef starts to close with land, the water warms up to a more pleasant 24C and it becomes easier to visit. Easier, but not easy.

 

hanging out with a turtle

The Barrier Reef is what divides the north coast of Australia from the Coral Sea—and having sailed on the Coral Sea, I can tell you it’s a moody piece of water that alternates between calm beauty and frothing nastiness. This means when you visit the reef you need at least a few days of sustained calm to make it work. Otherwise you’ll find yourself anchored in heaving seas with invisible (but deadly) reef all around you. For context—the one place Captain Cook went aground and tore apart the Endeavour was on Endeavour Reef, two reefs over from where we woke up this morning.

Lots of sailors who pass through this area are content with anchoring behind islands and exploring the inner reefs. But I really wanted the experience of dropping our hook in what looked like the middle of the ocean, miles from land. The tour boats do it all the time, but they have speed in their favour: they head out early in the morning and return to a safe harbour by dusk. But because we’re on the move north, we didn’t want to go in and out of the same place.

So in Cairns I nervously watched as a high built in the Tasman Sea, the sign of the end to a sustained period of calm. As soon as we finished all our chores: we had our luff tape on our genoa replaced, our scuba gear serviced and new seals put in the outboard… We set off for Low Island and then Turtle Bay on Tongue Reef.

The reward was anchoring in an endless expanse of sea and then taking Maia for her first extended dives in three years. Her confidence and joy underwater were gratifying to see. The reef itself was lovely—lots of corals, though not as much colour as we saw further south. The fish life too was smaller and sparser than we hoped. Strangely, much of the reef is only a Habitat Protection Zone—which means you can fish as much as you like (no trawling) and even collect aquarium stock!

 

Despite the lack of abundance, our dives were beautiful. The night sky held a bright moon and the seas stayed calm. This morning the wind started to rise after dawn and we turned north. It’s clear the wind patterns are beginning to change and the season for travel up here is coming to an end—the time’s come to hurry ourselves on to Darwin.

Sunrise on the reef--no land in sight

Gambling With the Suck to Fun Factor

Maia's dream beach

Ever have one of those days that starts out warm and sunny, moves into a perfect sail, and then brings you humpback whales? Not spouts in the distance. But a mama resting on the surface a few hundred meters away and a curious baby who decides to come and visit?

Baby heads over to see us with mama close behind

But then the day turns—your main motor doesn’t start, so you use your outboard. And when you sort out the main motor’s problem the outboard hops off the back of the boat and falls into the ocean (thank-goodness for that safety line). And then you tip the mocha flan that you made, to soothe your sad soul, into a dirty sink and the pickle jar explodes over the floor, where you notice a trickle of saltwater from a seeping thru hull (and you just hauled out…). And none of the good—not the sail, not the whale, can make up for the fact that some days just suck.

I think cruisers must be bad gamblers at heart.

abandoned rail track

Roo prints on the beach

Those perfect days, where you wake with the plan of sailing on but a quick morning hike shows you’ve stumbled upon an abandoned resort with a perfect beach and clear warm water, are the ones that keep you sailing from country to country, endlessly searching for the combination of magical elements that feel like a row of cherries in the slot machine.

our morning turtle

But mostly we plug coins into the slots, taking the little payoffs; the turtles, the sunsets, the clear water and empty beaches. They’re our reward for the endless repairs.
Endless repairs.

abandoned train

 

The good days though? They are so good. Yesterday we planned to travel. But I wanted to see shore before leaving Brampton Island. Evan needed to finish flushing the outboard so after communing with a huge, wise-looking turtle Maia and I headed to shore on our own. We set off down an overgrown rail track the lead us past shy kangaroos and outgoing butterflies and into an empty resort.

There was a Christmas tree in a window, a pool table with cues and balls, an ancient banyan tree and sailboats for guests. There were linens on the beds and furniture in the dining room. And it was empty except for two other cruisers. We learned the resort was abandoned after a 2010 cyclone. Eerie and perfect we thought Evan should see it.

So we spent the day on abandoned lawn chairs, drinking from coconuts, cooling in the blue water and exploring the resort. In the evening we joined newly arrived sailors on the broken jetty to watch the sun drop into the sea.

the only guest

what the resort lacked in bar service it made up for in ambiance.

 And today we’re sailing on, gambling that someday soon we’ll have another day as good as yesterday.

Home Schooling Fail

Sail on sailor: Maia learns to fly the spinnaker

When we were crossing the Pacific Maia had a homeschooling segment on explorers and navigators. I was really into it. While we had modern navigation tools at our disposal, Cook had a sextant, chronometer and lead line. While we had paper and electronic charts, he was making the charts. I found it fascinating to anchor where Cook anchored and explore the route he explored. To say I was impressed at his skills doesn’t begin to cover it.

Sleepy but sweet: 1770

Maia, however, was less than enthralled. By about Tahiti she was ready to move on. By Australia her reaction to Cook was similar to that of the Aboriginal people who encountered him in Botany Bay; they ignored him and told him, “Warra warra wai” (go away).

Visiting 1770 in Queensland (Cook’s first landing point in Queensland) didn’t change Maia’s disinterest. While she chuckled (halfheartedly) at the recollections of the local aboriginal people who found Cook & co a bit daft for getting themselves stung by ants and poisonous caterpillars, and for collecting up useless plants, I’m pretty sure she would have liked to have banned all talk of Cook on our ‘let’s hike where Cook hiked’ hike. Actually, she suggested we ban him.

Happily for Maia, as I was trying to rouse her interest in speculating about which 33 plants Banks may have collected on his walk, she noticed butterflies.

And then more butterflies.

Within a few minutes it was pretty clear that as cool as Cook was—thousands and thousands of blue fluttering insects beats history.

It turns out the Blue Tiger butterfly breeds up here. Come spring they’ll migrate south to Brisbane and as far as Victoria. For one enchanted walk though, they were all ours. Their wing beats sounded like a breeze blowing through the canopy—and in places it was impossible to see the tree trunks

for all the butterflies that clung to it.

I mentioned to Maia that it would have been cool if Cook had arrived during butterfly season and asked her what she thought his journals would have said.

She ignored me.

Our Wild Life

I don’t know if it was the possum in the shower or the ducks at our door that made me realize it, but despite living on the edge of a big city we’re still firmly linked to the wild world around us.

 

we don't take cameras in the shower normally (though we may start) but this is a water dragon.

For the record, possums are not normally found in our shower. Nor are water dragons…
(Though enormous freaky spiders are…) But both creatures somehow showed up in the shower stalls in recent weeks and needed to be caught and released. The water dragon was first. Looking like a squirrel (except we don’t have squirrels…) in the dim corner of the shower it scurried away (and right into Maia) when I tried to get a closer look (actually, when I screeched…).

We chased it for a bit and realized there was no way it could get back out the vent, where it had most likely come in from, without assistance. So we decided to catch it and set it free. Water dragons bite—we’ve seen them tussle with the ibis in the park and the giant birds don’t win. But this one was little and it seemed very sad about being chased around the shower so after cornering him, and promising we were there to help, I grabbed him behind his shoulders and set him back out into the wild.

 

typically this is about all we see of a possum

Possums are much bigger than water dragons. And Maia found the possum just after getting over the water dragon, when she was finally willing to go to the showers alone again. She quickly came back out and told Saskia, who told Zack (another boater). So the trio decided that the possum would be happier if he wasn’t in the shower and successfully rescued the old guy and set him free. And Maia decided she shower some other day…

But between the creatures and the fact our shower is flood-prone, and often looks like a bio-hazard, Maia doesn’t really want to bathe anymore, ever. It brings back a memory of traveling down the US west coast. Expect with more creatures…

 

our handsome neighbour

Not all our interactions with the wildlife are unsettling though—we have a huge pelican for a neighbour, and the kookaburras to wake us, and Maia has a gaggle of ducks who have been visiting her since they were ducklings. Initially they’d wait patiently outside the boat for her. But then they learned to climb aboard the dinghy so they could quack through a window for her. Most recently they’ve been climbing aboard and waddling up to the door. We’re not sure if it’s because she’s been slow to respond to their visits or if they are tired of competing with the catfish for the food Maia gives them.

Yesterday when Maia fed her ducks the catfish rushed the surface, bit the duck's foot and held on. Okay, so maybe we’re not in the midst of an exotic sailing adventure but you’ve got to admit its all pretty wild.

Our resident flying foxes

The Great Aussie Road Trip

Riverfire then the roadtrip

   Okay—so as epic journeys go 2000 km (round trip) isn’t that epic. And we didn’t even get that far off the beaten path. Though when we told a few Aussies that we were headed toward the outback they seemed more than a little surprised. It seems most people go to the beach, or a city or the mountains for holidays. But Ev’s mum Gail was with us and she was keen for an adventure. So we set off with the goal of seeing (and doing) a bit of everything.

Not all 80-year-olds would have embraced the adventure (and discomfort) the way Ev's mum did)

Our first stop was the NSW surf town of Ballina (which turns out is pronounced Bal-lin-na not Bah-leen-ah, or even Bah-een-ah.) I guess the Spanish/French influence is a bit diminished here… Every time we do something new in Australia it seems like it comes with a whole new vocabulary. And as we passed turnoffs for towns like Mummelgum, Dingadee and Dirranbandi we decided on a new rule: if we couldn’t (sort of) pronounce a name without assistance, we weren’t going there.

Giraween

After a dip in the ocean we continued on, mispronouncing our way across the Great Dividing Range to Girraween National Park. Happily Girraween is easy to say because the huge granite outcroppings and lovely wineries would have been unfortunate to miss! Then it was on to Moree (go ahead, give it a go) where we soaked off the bumpy miles in the bore baths, aka hot springs.

a town along the way

I think we’ve mentioned that Australia is expensive and our disposable income is already spoken for. So our road trip wasn’t luxurious. In fact, I may have rented us the cheapest campervan in the country. And with a few hundred thousand kilometers on Big Red, a door that alternatively fell off or got stuck while open (or closed), and a sad lack of shock absorbers it was a pretty uncomfortable excuse for transportation.

But after the second long soak we crammed Gail and Maia into the way back and continued toward our goal: the opal mining town of Lighting Ridge. Honestly? I’m not sure why this was the goal. Maia wanted to go to Coober Pedy, Ev wanted to see the outback, Gail wanted to see a bit of the country and I like shiny things. So Lightning Ridge seemed the logical choice.

 

baby emus!

There are a lot of dead kangaroos between Brisbane and Lightning Ridge. Recently there was a local headline, “Kangaroo Kills Girl”. The tragic story went on to describe a kangaroo bounding across the road, through the front windscreen and then out the back window; as though it was intentional. The truth is the bitumen (fancy Aussie word for road) holds heat at night which attracts animals and if you drive at night: bamm! Big Red wasn’t insured to be on the road after dusk, and considering the slaughter (we went through sections where there were dead kangaroos, emus and foxes every few meters) this was a good thing.

Despite containing our driving to daylight hours, we eventually made it to the Ridge and secured a campsite at the Crocodile (that’s local speak). From there we headed out to explore. With thousands of miners each inhabiting 50 meter square plots, the Ridge looks a bit like a moonscape. The really fascinating bit is when you take a tour underground. We chose to visit the Walk-in Mine (there was a particularly touristy mine that had been turned into an art gallery—but it seemed a bit too weird for us…) Down in the mine the tunnel was larger than I expected, at least for an opal mine I was told was dug by hand and once entered through a drainage tube. When I brushed my fingers along the seam, where the chunky red rocks might hide gems, I joked about accidentally knocking free an opal and pocketing it. The comment brought a dirty look and a lecture from Maia, “That would make you a ratter.”  Ratter is the name of a person who steals from another miner.

After seeing the mine and learning how to identify opal we had a go at fossicking (see what I mean? It’s a whole new language…).  Noodling through the scrap heap  we kept an eye out for potch: a grey form of opal that indicates some of the colourful stuff might be near.

in the mine

fossicking for opals

Maia did a great job of searching and found a few pretty pieces and then she and Gail befriended an opal cutter who gave Maia a big bag of rough opal to polish up herself. It turns out my only opal skills occurred in the shops—where I discovered how to trade money for them.

Aussies camp differently than us. Our tent is on the right. We thought it was pretty big until we saw a proper family-sized tent. Gail slept in the van.

A miner's castle in the Ridge

After a couple of days broken up by cool interactions with locals and a wonderful night time soak in a bore bath (nothing like looking up at the stars from a hot spring while kangaroos nibble the grass around its edges) it was back into Big Red and back on the road for the return voyage.