The call to evening prayer reverberated among the hills of Sendang Biru, on the southern coast of Malang district, East Java. On one of the area’s mangrove bays, boats of various sizes surrounded a wooden stilt house that stood above the water’s surface. Young fishermen were either repainting the hulls or fixing the engines while chattering in a language completely unfamiliar to me.
“Many of us are Bugis from Sinjai, South Sulawesi,” said Raju, one of the older fishermen. “I have been in Sendang Biru for seven [fishing] seasons.”
As soon as he finished speaking I realized that here, time is determined not by the ticking of a clock, but by the rhythm of their profession. A pattern seared into their mahogany skin and chiseled into their lean muscles.
The boats on the cove, called Pantai Barat, or Western Beach, included ones from Madura and Manado, their distinctive shapes and colors giving them away. So finding a range of local languages here was not so surprising. What was quite peculiar was Simson, an 11-year-old boy who had the facial features of a Papuan, yet spoke in a thick Javanese accent. His father, a soft-spoken man by the name of Yusak Morin, owns the stilt house. He married an East Javanese woman years after leaving his hometown in Biak, Papua.
Two friends and I stayed at their home for three days. The family is used to having guests.
“Most are from adventure groups, but sometimes we get families too. There was a family from the Philippines who stayed here for weeks. I was once told that I had become very famous,” Pak Morin said with a laugh.
As much as they are open to guests, Morin and his family have limited space. When there are too many people, some are invited to sleep in the family room, where six dogs roam about freely during the day. I was glad to find out that there was fresh water available, yet was somewhat alarmed upon discovering that all outlets in the bathroom led directly down to the sea.
For all the things the Morins share with their guests in the house they built themselves, they never charge a specific amount of money.
“At the end of their stay, guests usually just pay for the electricity and water they have used,” said Nakula, one my two traveling companions.
As the sky darkened, the orchestra of nocturnal insects and the howls of dogs accompanied the sound of the waves. A light rain added to the sense of melancholy in the air. As the clock moved past midnight, I quietly welcomed another year. It was the main reason I had come here in the first place: to celebrate my birthday in a different way with a small group of friends. Soon we would go to Sempu Island and spend time on its pristine lagoon.
Sempu Island is not a tourist destination. Located a couple of kilometers across from Sendang Biru, the 877-hectare isle was turned into a conservation area by the Dutch East Indies government in 1928. It is, however, open to adventure groups and researchers.
“Representatives from the Netherlands still visit the island at least once a year to see how it’s faring,” Ardiyanto, who works for Balai Konservasi Sumber Daya Alam (Natural Resources Conservation Agency), said at his office in Sendang Biru that handles visitors to Sempu. “Sempu Island was declared a conservation area because it was seen as unique. It has two lakes, one having salt water [the aforementioned lagoon] and the other fresh [a pond called Telogo Lele]. It is also home to protected birds, snakes and jaguars.”
Only 20 people are allowed on the island at a time. Visitors must bring a permit that can be obtained from the East Java BKSDA office in the province’s capital, Surabaya, around 150 kilometers north.
Upon hearing that all visitors entering the island must be accompanied by a Sempu post staff member, I could not help but suspect that this rule has been violated many times. “Some do not even bother to get a permit. They just hire a boat across, taking routes where they will not be seen,” said Nakula, who is also a photographer.
Morning came. Using a small motorboat, Pak Morin and Simson took us across from the western bay to one of Sempu Island’s entry points on its northern shore. We came at an unfortunate time. The rain from the previous night had turned the main path, about 1.5 kilometers long from the entry point to our destination on the southwestern side of the island, into a series of mud holes amid sharp rocks and unruly webs of roots. We left our sandals somewhere along the path, planning to get them on our way out — not even rubber boots could escape one of those knee-high mud traps, we thought. True enough, we found over 10 pairs of shoes or sandals abandoned along the way.
Striding barefooted down the slippery trail, we discovered that taking the less trodden ground on the sides of the path was our best bet to avoid a sprained ankle. Sounds of insects, birds and monkeys set a sinister mood all around us. No jaguars or snakes were in sight. We did, however, come across debris such as water bottles and plastic bags, as well as spray-painted doodles on tree trunks — a disappointment as all visitors should have learned what a conservation area meant before they entered the island’s tropical jungle.
One and a half hour later, bruised and exhausted, with legs covered in mud and clothes drenched in sweat, we arrived at the breathtaking Segara Anakan, Javanese for “Little Sea.” Barricaded from the sea by a great circle of rocky yet verdant hills, the lagoon receives its water from a visible opening on the western barrier.
Running gleefully on the white sand and swimming in the crystal-clear water, we were soon joined by a group of six young men from a high school adventure group. Before we knew it, thick clouds began to hover overhead. A light drizzle began to fall, but it did not stop the young men from playing football. The three of us sat near them, soaking in the soothing ambience of this little slice of paradise.
“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” I said to my friends, trying not to think that we would have to take the same path from hell to get home.
“Many of us are Bugis from Sinjai, South Sulawesi,” said Raju, one of the older fishermen. “I have been in Sendang Biru for seven [fishing] seasons.”
As soon as he finished speaking I realized that here, time is determined not by the ticking of a clock, but by the rhythm of their profession. A pattern seared into their mahogany skin and chiseled into their lean muscles.
The boats on the cove, called Pantai Barat, or Western Beach, included ones from Madura and Manado, their distinctive shapes and colors giving them away. So finding a range of local languages here was not so surprising. What was quite peculiar was Simson, an 11-year-old boy who had the facial features of a Papuan, yet spoke in a thick Javanese accent. His father, a soft-spoken man by the name of Yusak Morin, owns the stilt house. He married an East Javanese woman years after leaving his hometown in Biak, Papua.
Two friends and I stayed at their home for three days. The family is used to having guests.
“Most are from adventure groups, but sometimes we get families too. There was a family from the Philippines who stayed here for weeks. I was once told that I had become very famous,” Pak Morin said with a laugh.
As much as they are open to guests, Morin and his family have limited space. When there are too many people, some are invited to sleep in the family room, where six dogs roam about freely during the day. I was glad to find out that there was fresh water available, yet was somewhat alarmed upon discovering that all outlets in the bathroom led directly down to the sea.
For all the things the Morins share with their guests in the house they built themselves, they never charge a specific amount of money.
“At the end of their stay, guests usually just pay for the electricity and water they have used,” said Nakula, one my two traveling companions.
As the sky darkened, the orchestra of nocturnal insects and the howls of dogs accompanied the sound of the waves. A light rain added to the sense of melancholy in the air. As the clock moved past midnight, I quietly welcomed another year. It was the main reason I had come here in the first place: to celebrate my birthday in a different way with a small group of friends. Soon we would go to Sempu Island and spend time on its pristine lagoon.
Sempu Island is not a tourist destination. Located a couple of kilometers across from Sendang Biru, the 877-hectare isle was turned into a conservation area by the Dutch East Indies government in 1928. It is, however, open to adventure groups and researchers.
“Representatives from the Netherlands still visit the island at least once a year to see how it’s faring,” Ardiyanto, who works for Balai Konservasi Sumber Daya Alam (Natural Resources Conservation Agency), said at his office in Sendang Biru that handles visitors to Sempu. “Sempu Island was declared a conservation area because it was seen as unique. It has two lakes, one having salt water [the aforementioned lagoon] and the other fresh [a pond called Telogo Lele]. It is also home to protected birds, snakes and jaguars.”
Only 20 people are allowed on the island at a time. Visitors must bring a permit that can be obtained from the East Java BKSDA office in the province’s capital, Surabaya, around 150 kilometers north.
Upon hearing that all visitors entering the island must be accompanied by a Sempu post staff member, I could not help but suspect that this rule has been violated many times. “Some do not even bother to get a permit. They just hire a boat across, taking routes where they will not be seen,” said Nakula, who is also a photographer.
Morning came. Using a small motorboat, Pak Morin and Simson took us across from the western bay to one of Sempu Island’s entry points on its northern shore. We came at an unfortunate time. The rain from the previous night had turned the main path, about 1.5 kilometers long from the entry point to our destination on the southwestern side of the island, into a series of mud holes amid sharp rocks and unruly webs of roots. We left our sandals somewhere along the path, planning to get them on our way out — not even rubber boots could escape one of those knee-high mud traps, we thought. True enough, we found over 10 pairs of shoes or sandals abandoned along the way.
Striding barefooted down the slippery trail, we discovered that taking the less trodden ground on the sides of the path was our best bet to avoid a sprained ankle. Sounds of insects, birds and monkeys set a sinister mood all around us. No jaguars or snakes were in sight. We did, however, come across debris such as water bottles and plastic bags, as well as spray-painted doodles on tree trunks — a disappointment as all visitors should have learned what a conservation area meant before they entered the island’s tropical jungle.
One and a half hour later, bruised and exhausted, with legs covered in mud and clothes drenched in sweat, we arrived at the breathtaking Segara Anakan, Javanese for “Little Sea.” Barricaded from the sea by a great circle of rocky yet verdant hills, the lagoon receives its water from a visible opening on the western barrier.
Running gleefully on the white sand and swimming in the crystal-clear water, we were soon joined by a group of six young men from a high school adventure group. Before we knew it, thick clouds began to hover overhead. A light drizzle began to fall, but it did not stop the young men from playing football. The three of us sat near them, soaking in the soothing ambience of this little slice of paradise.
“This is the best birthday I’ve ever had,” I said to my friends, trying not to think that we would have to take the same path from hell to get home.
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