Indonesia (Part 2b)

Dec 2000

Lombok is the first port of call on a long curve of islands known collectively as Nusa Teggara. It is only 35km east of Bali at its closest point, but physically, culturally, linguistically and historically, it is different in all respects. Measuring about 80km by 70km, it has a population of 2.5 million people. The mountains of the north are dominated by Gurung Rinjani (3726m), the third highest volcano in Indonesia. The central plains south of the hills are agricultural areas while the south has many beaches. But, tourist wise, Lombok is known most for the ‘Gili Isles’ which lie just off its north western edge.

Rather than take a tourist ‘shuttle bus’, Vicky and I decided to rough it out on public transport. It took 4 bemos to escape Denpasar over to Padang Bai on the east coast to catch a 5 hour ferry to Lombok.

There were fine views as we entered Lembar harbour. Touts were pretty aggressive and tried excessive overcharging for public bemos. It took 3 more bemos to get to Mataram, the ugly capital (and seemingly Denpasar’s twin identical city), up to Senggigi, a tourist resort on the west coast. It was deserted and we were the only tourists. It was as far as we could go before transport shut down at dusk.

The following morning, we haggled for a bemo to take us up to Bangsar about 25km north to catch the ferry to the Gilis. Horse drawn carriages plied the kilometre walk from the bemo stop to the beach. Ferry is a generous word. The ‘outrigger’ was a long wooden boat with outboard motor, supported by long beams on either side to ride the waves. You took off your shoes, waded through the water up to your thighs and climbed aboard along with the locals and everything they owned.

There are 3 islands which the Rough Guide describes as “strikingly beautiful with glorious white sand beaches lapped by warm brilliant blue water”. After visiting them, I’d rate them as some of the nicest and most peaceful islands in the world. Gili Trawangan is the largest and ‘party’ island (i.e. has more tourist facilities than the others do). Gili Meno is the quiet deserted island in the middle (only 2km x 1km long with a 350 people), and Gili Air, a sort of in-between (1.5km x 1.5km with 1000 people) – it had the tourist infrastructure, dive schools etc, but was still very quiet.

I let Vicky choose and she opted for Gili Meno in the middle. We figured that we could sail to the others if we fancied a look. There was no traffic on Gili Meno/Air – not even mopeds. Horses and carts were the only transport along the sandy lanes. Gili Meno was the quietest place I’d visited in months. A real haven of tranquillity and beautiful ocean vistas. Noone bothered us as we checked into a basic losmen with no electricity (we got an oil lamp at night) right next to the beach. I counted less than a dozen tourists. On that first day we walked/jogged around the island (all 6km of it), relaxed, sunbathed, stuffed our faces and had the occasional dip. It was nice to have good company with no romantic ties and just spend hours chatting about anything.

Vicky was a hyperactive fitness fanatic. One of those people who gets restless if they don’t exercise. I’m the same. She had spent days cooped up in the jeep and decided on our second day (Dec 6th) that we should have a lengthy swim around part of the island (which is surrounded by a shallow coral shelf). We waded out over the coral to the deeper water around 1pm and started swimming against the current which at that point was pretty tranquil. She was a good strong swimmer. After 45 minutes, we realised that the current had got stronger and had taken us out towards the middle of the channel between Gili Meno and Gili Air (about a mile away). We attempted to head back, but the current had changed direction and had picked up considerably in strength. So we let the current take us back down past the island and drifted around and tried again. It was like swimming up against a brick wall. The only way to crack it was full out front crawl, which Vicky couldn’t do in those conditions. Waves would crash over our heads. I suppose we spent two hours trying to swim inland at two different places, but the current was going around the island, not towards it.

By now we had been in the water for 3 hours (which fortunately was warm), but it must have been 4pm (obviously we did not have watches on) and the sun was starting to descend. We had seen no boats on the water anywhere. Vicky felt that she was not going to make any more progress against the current and her energy would just get sapped. She begged me to swim ashore and get help, while she’d tread water, conserve energy and keep pushing on in her own time and stay on an agreed bearing (we were swimming in line with a tall tree which you couldn’t miss).

I refused to leave her saying we should just drift with the current and see where we ended up, but she was worried about the sun setting. Ironically, we could clearly see the beach less than a mile away. We just couldn’t get near it. When I left her, she was ok, positive and just prepared to keep going on towards that tree.

I started a strong front crawl into shore, but the wind and waves picked up, the current got stronger and I was pulled further around the island. I had estimated the beach was 1mile away, but it took me all of my energy to crash through the waves and I had to ‘tack’ back to compensate the current. I finally arrived on the beach at 6.30pm just as the sun was setting. Even as one of the strongest swimmers you’ll ever meet, it had taken me well over 2 hours to do it and was the strongest sea, I’d ever swum in, waves crashing over my head. I had also been in the water for nearly 6 hours. These turned out to be freak conditions that had appeared out of the blue. I discovered later that there were 3 tides today.

I jogged to our losmen just a few hundred feet away to raise the alarm. They told me to run to the first restaurant where boats were moored. One was mobilised and we were out on the water by 7pm. We motored around to the agreed bearing and started heading out, yelling her name every 30 seconds. We had no spotlights, and poor torches. The waves were pretty choppy. It was dark, but a ¾ moonlit the night and you could still see that tree.

After an hour, the captain said we should go back and mobilise every available boat in the area. We returned and it took an hour to get a larger boat with better torches, walkie-talkies etc. Two dive school boats from Gili Air, the next island, had already been alerted and were already searching in their boats. The seas were rough. The navy and coastguard boats had been called out. There were 7 boats searching a wide area. We searched until 1am and returned back to Gili Meno. I was devastated. One of the Dive Schools – the ‘Blue Marlin’ sent over Chris, an Irish girl to make sure I was ok. I spent the night on the beach by the large tree worried senseless and guilt stricken. The navy/coastguard boats searched all night.

Chris returned at 6am (Thursday) on one of their boat to come and get me. She insisted that it would be better for me to come to Gili Air, where they could co-ordinate the search with the authorities and I’d have some western company – since Gili Meno was pretty empty of tourists. I took Vicky’s gear with me. Their boat and another from the ‘Reefseekers’ dive school had started searching again at 5am at first light. I was back out on a boat searching with others all morning. It was sunny, the sea was tranquil, just the same as we had started our swim yesterday. Dolphins played in the sea. I couldn’t believe the difference in conditions.

Around 1pm, I met with Ernest, who ran the ‘Reefseekers’ dive school. He had got the head of the island, the navel commander, and the police chief together to go back over the saga and try to plan a comprehensive search. The currents had been so strong, it was possible that she could have been dragged all the way back to Bali. They were adamant that we had done the right thing. That the strongest swimmer should head for shore to get help. The fact that it had been a joint decision made me feel no better. They also told me that people had been dragged by the current and still survived 2-5 days later, finally washing ashore somewhere. Everyone was very supportive and they were still optimistic, but I wasn’t. I had seen the waves last night.

They said I’d done what I could and without being callous, it was better that I had survived rather than have 2 deaths on their hands which everyone thought would have been the inevitable outcome. Personally, I still think I should have stayed with Vicky but as I replayed the events constantly through my mind, I could also see us just drifting for hours getting weaker and weaker.

Earnest translated English/Indonesian while I completed a ‘missing persons’ report with the police. The enormous search area was divided up between boats and I spent the afternoon on a fast navy vessel covering a vast area. Still no luck. Boats continued to search through the night. I managed to fall asleep after nearly 40 hours on the go.

I can’t praise Alena at the ‘Blue Marlin’ and Ernest at ‘Reefseekers’ Dive schools enough for their help and co-operation. They suspended all diving for 24 hours and used all their resources on the search and co-ordinated with all the authorities. We were not exactly in the heart of civilisation. We were marooned on tiny islands where noone spoke English. I was totally reliant on their wonderful response to a desperate situation.

By Friday morning (Dec 8th), everyone was starting to think that Vicky had drowned. But the navy was still out there searching. There had been no sightings anywhere and no body washed ashore on any of the islands which had been alerted. There was nothing else we could do but wait for the body to resurface after a few days. Alena at the ‘Blue Marlin’ got me out on a boat to go scuba diving, just to get my mind off the whole tragedy and get me back into the water.

I did two dives. The first was off Halik Reef. We fell off the boat backwards and descended to 25m. The coral was colourful, plenty of fish, but nothing new. I saw a black/white spotted Moray eel with its mouth open and teeth showing. The second dive off Sunset Reef was much more dramatic. We descended to 20m and had to battle against a strong undertow. We saw 16 massive bumphead parrotfish (known as the ‘bison’ of the ocean – they congregate for full moons), a few turtles and superb tabletop coral. I checked my air and saw it was half full. When I looked again a minute later, it was down to 0. The gauge would rise and fall between 0-50 bar as I breathed. I indicated this to Claudia, my German ‘buddy’ on the dive, who indicated that she had the same problem. Her gauge also read 0. We alerted Anthony, our Divemaster, but indicated it was ok. We knew we had air in our tanks. The gauges were faulty. We continued the dive and rose to the surface after 45 minutes. I was starting to think that I was doomed everytime I got in the water at these islands.

By now, Alena, had contacted the British Consulate in Jakarta who contacted Vicky’s parents in England. Peter, the official was also very supportive, saying I had done the right thing. It was now just a waiting game. I might as well go back to Kuta and pick up my new passport and come back. The police were unhappy about me leaving. I was the only person who could identify the body, though we had her passport.

A policeman sailed over from Lombok late in the afternoon with the ‘missing persons’ reports (6 copies) for me to sign (arriving on horse and cart). They were badly typed. Even my name was spelt wrong. He asked for about £1.50 to cover his costs. He then visited Ernest to discuss the investigation. The Indonesian police are not financed to investigate. The ‘victim’ pays for this. He asked that I pay £15 so that he could interview everyone involved with the incident on Gili Meno and remove any ‘foul play’. It was the only way I’d be allowed to leave the scene and which I paid with no questions asked. Ernest told me that even he was impressed how quickly the Indonesian authorities had reacted. “They can take days to do anything. If at all”.

On Sat morning, I got up early, caught the first boat to the mainland and made my way back to Kuta, Bali. Another 7 bemos and a ferry ride. Another beautiful sunny day. About 13 hours later I was back at my losmen. Jana had gone to tour some of Java. I had said that I would pick up the gear that Vicky had left in Kuta. She had told me the name of her hostel, but I never visited it, and she wasn’t even sure of the name, since she was only there one night before we left for Lombok. There are a million places in Kuta to stay. I spent two hours on the Sunday morning trawling the backstreets trying to find it. The name she had given me did not exist. Nothing even close. I spent another hour at a police station going through ‘tourist registration forms’ (which you are supposed to fill out at every accommodation, but often the cheaper losmens don’t bother). I couldn’t even find Kate or Steve’s name, whom I thought would have stayed in Kuta over the previous week. It sounds strange to have so little to go on, but we had only intended to be away 4 days, meeting up for a final farewell with the gang. Suddenly you realise how much you tend to ‘wing it’ when travelling, which is fine until something like this happens.

While I did all this, there was a massive religious ceremony going on in Kuta. Hundreds of locals congregated in their traditional costumes (men in white headbands, white shirts, black/white square saris, women in yellow saris carrying offerings) at small traffic junctions. A dragon (2 men under a costume) roared around. People would offer themselves as ‘sacrifices’ – almost in a trance. Other men pretended to commit hara-kiri with long knives, teasing the dragon. Cockfighting was all the rage today. You see men carrying cocks around all the time in Bali. Maybe I should rephrase that.

I saw half a dozen cockfights. A sharp long needle is tied to a claw on both cocks and the pair would commence battle while the audience roared with appreciation at the attempted stabbings. Eventually, after a lot of noise and misdirected plunges, one cockerel would wound the other. Then mount it and plunge the needle into its neck, killing it. The owner of the dead cockerel would retrieve his bird as the audience heckled him. He would slowly untie the needle looking very embarrassed. Someone would grab the dead cockerel and start sprinkling the blood around an altar, in a bloodthirsty ritual. It was amazing to see this happen in the middle of ‘tourist town’. Not that many tourists watched. They were all down on the beach. The various ceremonies, all converged for a massive parade down the streets, literally thousands of people with bands, banners, umbrellas etc.

I emailed my parents with the full story. It was strange. I had dramatic news but I didn’t feel like telling anyone. It’s not something you can take lightly and just write off as another episode. There are major consequences, grief, and still an inability to understand why it happened. I felt as if my entire trip had just ground to a halt. What the hell do I do next?

I still had to function and picked up my new passport. I spent the afternoon typing up the ‘Java’ update just to keep myself occupied. I also called Alena who told me that Vicky’s parents were flying in on Tuesday. I said I’d get back to Gili Air to meet them. I had already written a long letter to her parents with a full account, but now I could tell them personally. Not the greatest thing to look forward too.

I had retired to my usual ‘happy hour’ bar to catch up with the diary when a pair of hands closed over my eyes. It was Jana. She had just returned from Java (having met an Indonesian guy who took her to Yogyakarta). I had to use the phrasebook to explain the story which was very slow and painful. Jana had Steve and Kate’s email so at least we could track down Vicky’s gear even if they had left for Australia.

Jana had checked into a losmen, but couldn’t remember what it was called or where it was. Doh! I left her to find her Indonesian to find out where she was staying. She said she’d be back soon.

She turned up at my room at 5am the next morning while I was packing. She had bumped into her Czech friends again and stayed up all night with them. She’d had enough of Indonesia, travelling and the constant cock-ups. She was returning home early for Xmas. She had provided me with a constant source of amusement with her antics and tales of how her Prague boyfriend had dumped her because she had decided to go travelling and then begged her to return. This went on via her mobile phone for days on end. No matter how many times I preached that she had to be organised to travel, she shrugged it off. “I like surprises” she concluded. “Yeah, but a guidebook would be a start” I translated via phrasebook. She saw me off at the tourist shuttle bus stop at 6am. I couldn’t be bothered to tackle all the bemo changes again.

Same old trip back to Lombok. I was dumped at Mataram and caught a bemo to Bangsar, past hundreds of monkeys lining the road through the forests, and caught the last boat to Gili Air as the sun set. Alena and Chris welcomed me back. The family had arrived and checked into the best hotel (well the only one with a swimming pool).

Gili Air looked spectacular the next morning. Sunshine over beautiful tranquil blue seas. Stunning. But at the back of your mind, you are revisiting hell.

I met David and Di Mussell at their hotel the next morning. What do you say to parents who have lost their only daughter, aged 24. I went through the whole story of meeting Vicky in Ubud and everything that had happened since. They had brought Andy, their son (26) and Mike, an old family friend with them. Everyone back in England was devastated. Irish friends had flown in from Dublin, another from Paris just to be with the family. Vicky was a popular woman and no one could believe what had happened. Her stories of mountain climbing in Nepal up to 6600m had made her sound indestructible. Now she was gone, in an idyllic place where no one is supposed to lose their life.

David and Di were obviously distraught but putting on a brave face (as we all were), and slowly coming to terms with the loss. They bore no malice. They just wanted to see where it had all happened and to hopefully find Vicky. I think it will take us all months to finally accept the fact that she is gone.

We spent 3 days together. That afternoon, I took them over to Gili Meno with Alena and Chris to go through the whole ordeal – where we had stayed, eaten and the events of Dec 6th. We all stared out at sea wondering where she could be. Ironically, the sea was tranquil through most of the week, though it picked up at times. I was privileged to be taken in as part of the family and I can never thank them enough for it. We were all in this together. It was something that none of us had ever gone through before.

They were amazed at how much I knew about their family. Vicky had told me endless stories as we travelled and walked around. She thought her parents were the “coolest” in the world. Mike (a real Sid James lookalike) said “Sounds like you didn’t get a word in edgeways for days mate, with her yapping all the time. Typical Vicky”. There were tears and laughter as they recounted many episodes from Vicky’s life. Many of which I knew.

I suppose, in retrospect, it must have been strange to suddenly have your world turned upside down. You have to put your life on hold, leave your jobs, organise the trip in hours and fly in from freezing, wet England in December to temps of 35”C, to a third world country and not even a city. Just a tiny island off another island. I’d been on the move for 13 months and I’d been in Indonesia for weeks and was used to whatever I found. “At least its not as bad as…”, I’d think to myself wherever I ended up. I thought Gili Air was one of the most civilised places in Indonesia that I had stayed in. I had a cheap bungalow with fan, western toilet! and cold shower. But they had to fly straight into the culture shock. Mike, a lovely man, said to me on the second morning, “Our bathroom has no roof”. “What do you mean? You’re staying in the best place on the island”. “Come and have a look”. I inspected the bathroom to reply. ”All Indonesian bathrooms are like this. They only have a third of a roof to let the smell out”. Mike looked shocked. “The sooner I get back to the Hilton and a Little Chef, the better”.

Di once said “its like a soap opera. We took off in a big plane at Heathrow. Then a smaller one at Singapore. Then still smaller at Bali to Lombok. Then a taxi. Then a decrepit boat and finally a horse and cart to get here. Noone would believe us at home.”

We went to visit Ernest, who, having worked off the North Sea Oilrigs, had seen two boats go down. He knew how everyone felt and had the right words to say. He helped David charter a helicopter from Bali, so that they could spend a few hours flying over the area in an attempt to spot Vicky’s body. “It’s the only thing we can do” said David. “Better to have tried…” They sailed to Mataram and boarded the chopper. The pilot was called Captain Bang-Bang (“The soap opera continues” – Di). They flew over the vast area for 3 hours. At once point, David thought he saw something floating in the water. When the chopper descended they realised that it was just a small boat. The realisation took hold that spotting a body was impossible. Still, they returned feeling better, having at least tried. The flight had revealed just how hard it was to search the endless waters and put into perspective the fact that Vicky may not be found for weeks.

While they were searching, I went diving again. Off Shark Reef, we descended to 27m for one of my best dives ever. I saw tons of new fish – Lionfish, Butterfly fish, huge shoals of yellow/white Angelfish, blue ringed Angelfish, Clown Triggerfish and a huge flock of bumphead parrotfish and finally 3 white tipped reef sharks. It was an amazing 40-minute dive.

Back on land, the policeman came back to go back over my story. Had we argued etc. They were still trying to eliminate ‘foul play’. It’s difficult to get across via a translator that western tourists just team up for short spells to enjoy the company. I’d done the same with many people on this trip “If we’d argued” I said, “I wouldn’t have come here with her from Bali”. They also failed to grasp accept the difference between travelling with a friend that is not your wife/girlfriend.

I sat with Andy, Vicky’s brother, late in the day and we drank a few beers and exchanged views, news and feelings. Another nice guy who was also coping with the realisation that he had lost his sister. We all ate together on the beach by their hotel. Excellent menu. I was spoilt.

On the third day, the family decided to get themselves organised. There was little point in hanging around. “We need to return to reality” David said. Flights were booked, British Consulate contacted, Indonesian authorities organised to pick up official statements before they left.

I kept out of the way and went on a final dive which was turned out to be the worst one (out of my 21 since September). There was a mixed ability group of 8. We motored to Andy’s Reef to go shark/manta ray spotting. But the current underwater was strong and the novices couldn’t keep up with Anthony (Divemaster) and me and used up their air much faster. It was a dull dive along a sandy seabed. Nothing much happening except for a flock of 40 bumphead parrotfish which were like a wall of fish, swimming slowly. People ran out of air and we all had to surface. I came to the surface with over 70 bar (You start with over 200 and don’t even start thinking about surfacing until 50 and on the previous dive I’d come up with 20 – I still had 15 mins of air in my tank).

Back on land after the dive, David and Di turned up with the policeman on a horse and carriage with new statements to sign. They found a local kid who could translate the statement to me. They were amazed to hear that he’d learnt English “on the beach and talking to tourists”. He translated the statement which slowly and painfully went through the whole episode again. I signed. David had contributed more money to the police for their help and co-operation. The family was surprised how little the local population had, but everyone seemed to be happy with what they had. Money wasn’t everything but family/community was. I certainly felt the same.

On Friday night, we had a lovely farewell meal together by the beach outside their hotel. The family would be flying out on Sunday morning and there was little reason for me to stick around. More stories. More travel tales from me. They didn’t believe the Indian ‘pig story’ in Goa. I told them that they were lucky their hotel toilet didn’t have a pig. “Please get me back to a Hilton” Mike moaned. In the hot sun, his skin had turned beetroot. He gave me a farewell present of shaving gel (“the only civilisation you’ll get for week”). I ordered a bottle of the local wine. The waiter brought it over. “You realise that this is local medicine sir?”. He didn’t see the French stuff I drank back home.

Over the past few days, we had grown very close. Di gave me the ultimate heartfelt compliment “I’m really glad we got to meet you to find out what happened. If you had both drowned, noone would have known what happened. I can see how your enthusiasm for travel rubbed off on Vicky and what it is all about”. I didn’t know what to say.

The following morning, I left my room to find all four of them waiting for me at 7am. They had had another early morning walk around the island. After my breakfast, they walked with me down the sandy road to the jetty to wait for a boat to the mainland. I was leaving some of the nicest, kindest and generous people I’d ever met in my life. They had become my temporary family and I loved them for it. I didn’t want to leave them. It was like a cocoon of comfort.

My parents had suggested that I fly back to England to have a break and get over it. But I knew I’d just mope around in freezing weather, feeling restless. Better to just get going again and stay active. It was sunny and hot and there were world famous sights to be seen. But for days after I’d always stare at the sea and think “if only Vicky could see this”.

As I waded out to the boat and waved goodbye to David, Di and Andy, Mike yelled “and watch out for any bloody pigs”. Priceless.