Going Back in Time in Raja Ampat

Sailing S/V Mir through remote Raja Ampat has been like traveling back in time to a wilder, less-peopled world.

 

I spend a lot of time imagining what this planet was like even just a few centuries ago, before people began altering Earth’s living systems on a global scale. Human beings have been leaving their mark on the lands they inhabit for millennia, even causing extinctions, but it wasn’t until recently that the long reach of mankind has begun to affect nearly every corner of this globe, including the oceans, which were once thought too vast to deplete.

When I hike near my home in coastal California I often imagine scenes of what it used to look like there: scenes of stumbling upon an entire pride of mountain lions bent over an elk kill, their golden faces wet with blood. All around the cats are bald-headed condors, shaggy in their oversized coats of black feathers, hopping and grunting and looking comically-huge as they wait with impatient eyes for a chance at the spoils. I imagine the Central Valley when it was still a vast wetland, and how the temperature must have dropped when the sky went black with migrating birds in the spring and fall. I imagine the lowland grizzlies that could get fat all year round without ever needing to hibernate in those temperate climes, lolling on their enormous woolly backs on a beach after a feast of elephant seal. Those bears must have been mythically huge.

By 1924, grizzly bears were completely eradicated from California. It’s disturbing how short a time it took people to tame this world, leaving only vapors of its original wildness. I seem to always be on the lookout for that untouched place, that glimpse into what this planet was like before our species watered it all down, and I’ve perhaps come closer than ever before to finding traces of that old world this past month as we’ve sailed Mir across remote Raja Ampat.

After leaving our friends in Mansuar, the crew aboard Mir headed towards the island of Wayag in northwestern-most Raja Ampat. Along the way we crossed the equator, and in the matter of a millimeter we sailed from summertime right on into winter.

Wayag is stunning and otherworldly — a vast and meandering mass of uplifted karst limestone islands surrounding countless bays and brilliant turquoise lagoons. The islands are green with vegetation, some are long and peninsular and steep, while many are small and stand alone, their grey bases all pocked and jagged and eroding into the shapes of mushrooms and arrowheads where they meet the ever-gnawing seas.

Wayag Island. Photo by Nadia Low (and her drone), Biosphere Foundation

On one of our first mornings in Wayag I paddled for hours through a vast shallow lagoon that was full of young black-tipped reef sharks, presumably enjoying a respite from the big, bad ocean beyond. The lagoon was also speckled with hawksbill sea turtles who would watch with calm curiosity from below as my paddleboard approached them, probably thinking it nothing but an average bit of jetsam. Once I was right above them they would rise to the surface with the utmost mellowness and poke their pointed faces above the waterline where they would momentarily gawk at me in bewilderment before darting away in a frenzied panic.

“Holy Tortuga, there’s an enormous sunburned monkey on that thing!”

Paddleboarding in Wayag. Photo by Sam Keck Scott, Biosphere Foundation

One evening, I paddled through the narrow opening of another lagoon, this one deep and emerald and surrounded on all sides by thick jungle and the eerie booms of spice imperial pigeons. It felt like I was paddling through a freshwater lake instead of saltwater until I’d get close enough to the shore to see a blue-spotted stingray zip past me, or a coral bommie haloed in reef fish. Here, a glimpse into that untouched world I’m always searching for.

Most mornings we would randomly choose one of the nearby mushroom islands to scuba dive around, and we were never let down by our picks. The reefs were pristine and fanatic with sea life. We saw corals that looked like enormous bouquets of oversized roses, and others like thick, bony bramble patches. Some were huge brains with labyrinthine channels, and others opalescent fingers. There were vast areas of reef that resembled a thousand small fists raised proudly in protest, and coral bommies that formed underwater mesas and plateaus and buttes, and others that appeared nebulous as they waved and swished with sea fans and soft corals. All of them were engulfed in a profusion of fish life of every color and size and shape, some so wildly patterned it seemed only a nonconforming second-grader could have painted them.

Titan triggerfish. Photo by Gaie Alling, Biosphere Foundation

I experienced many operatic moments where I would be skimming above a reef with the sunlight feathering down all around me while countless fish tornadoed above and baby sharks darted through nearby curtains of massive barracuda, and I would feel something that is becoming more and more elusive to me: hope. Hope that this world may actually be resilient enough to weather us humans.

Happy reef. Photo by Sam Keck Scott, Biosphere Foundation
A wobbegong shark camouflaged against the seafloor and surrounded by reef fish. Wobbegongs are ambush predators, meaning they stay still and hidden until their prey swims close enough for them to strike. Photo by Gaie Alling, Biosphere Foundation
A many-spotted sweetlips resting in a coral. Photo by Sam Keck Scott, Biosphere Foundation
Hawksbill sea turtle and Captain Laser. Photo by Gaie Alling, Biosphere Foundation

We had a cookout on a small beach near our anchorage on one of our last evenings in Wayag. In the wee hours of the night I was lying on my back in the sand staring up at the stars; it looked as if the Milky Way had touched down to fill the entire channel of Wayag Bay with thick, woven starlight, so close it seemed I could reach up and swirl it with my fingertips. I paddled back to the ship that night beneath that frenzy of stars and with each paddle stroke the water around me burst with bioluminescence — that starlight of the sea — and I felt like I was rowing right through the cosmos. I finally understood how the Polynesians had been able to read the night sky like a map; a map that was not only above them, but that they were navigating straight into. Once again, even if only fleetingly, I had found another piece of that old world.

That’s not to say that this part of Indonesia is actually untouched though — far from it. At times we’ve seen what looked like flowing rivers of trash caught in narrow current lines that flow past our ship uninterrupted for hours: plastic bottles, flip-flops, bags, food wrappers, even an entire television. And though the coral is faring much better here than it is in many other parts of the tropical world, we’ve still witnessed plenty of anchor damage, signs of dynamite fishing, and corals that look unwell and stressed from disease, excessive nutrients in the water, and bleaching. Anyone who came here even thirty years ago would probably tell you it’s trashed now, as people who were anywhere thirty years ago seem obligated to do; three-hundred years ago and Wayag Bay must have been boiling up to its banks with sharks and rays and turtles.

But even now, even in the year 2018, it is still sacredly beautiful here, and the ecosystems remain intact enough to act as a much-needed nursery to repopulate other areas of our depleted seas with corals and fish and sharks and turtles, if only we could just leave it alone; if only we could just let it be the blazing technicolored wilderness that it’s always been without going and mussing it all up.

Raining fish in Raja Ampat. Photo by Sam Keck Scott, Biosphere Foundation

After leaving Wayag we slowly made our way back to the town of Waisai on the island of Waigeo, where we are currently resupplying for our voyage back to Bali. Along the way the beauty continued: late one night in the Bougainville Strait we watched bottlenose dolphins riding our bow; their torpedo-like bodies completely encapsulated in electric blue bioluminescence. And one morning at sunrise, manta rays breached off our stern through the apricot-lit water as we weighed anchor in the Dampier Strait.

But unfortunately it seems time has had its way with us — as it’s wont to do — and after all the planning, the researching, the imagining, and the effort, we’re already getting set to leave Raja Ampat. Luckily for us, we have a month to get to Bali, which means we can take our time and keep exploring along the way, as well as stopping at Moyo Island for a few days to visit the Biosphere Foundation’s “Friends of Moyo” project.

To anyone who has been keeping up with this blog and is curious, yes my back is better, and thank you for your concern — what a relief to have gotten well so I could go back in time in Raja Ampat and get a taste of a world that once was, and a world that I would like to see return.

Blue-spotted stingray hiding beside a heart-shaped Acropora coral. Photo by Sam Keck Scott, Biosphere Foundation

Please keep following along on the rest of our adventures here, and to learn more about the Biosphere Foundation, visit our website at: https://biospherefoundation.org/

Changing Planet, Human Journey, Wildlife

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Sam Keck Scott is a freelance writer of both fiction and nonfiction. His work has has appeared in Harpur Palate, The New Guard Literary Review, The Earth First! Journal, and Nautique Magazine. In addition to writing, Sam is a terrestrial and marine biologist, a conservationist, and an avid adventurer. When not living out of his truck or a hotel room for work — or exploring some far-flung land or sea — Sam lives in an airstream trailer tucked between two dilapidated chicken coops in rural Sonoma County, in Northern California. Last winter (in the northern hemisphere) Sam was working for the Biosphere Foundation as a mate on their 108-year-old sailboat, Mir, which they sailed from Bali to Raja Ampat and back, setting up small-scale coral restoration projects along the way. You can find both the Biosphere Foundation and Sam on Instagram at @biospherefdn and @samkeckscott, and on Twitter at @biospherefdn and @samkeckscott