First published in Options, The Edge Malaysia, March 26, 2018
http://www.optionstheedge.com/topic/travel/visiting-wayag
Wayag has acquired a
sort of mythical reputation, for in the remote and magnificent Raja Ampat
archipelago, it is even more remote and magnificent.
My first view of the Bird’s Head Peninsula of West Papua was
at dawn. From the aircraft window, long slanting rays of morning sunlight
reflected off puffs of mist rising from the dense forests below. The aircraft
was silent, and as it angled gently, the calm sea shimmered like a vast sheet
of gold. Two hours away by ferry from The
Bird’s Head Peninsula, was Raja Ampat.
Raja Ampat is one of the world’s top scuba-diving
destinations, a hotspot with one of the densest concentrations of marine
biodiversity in the world, relatively undesecrated by the heavy hand of
humankind. Ancient rock forms hundreds
of islands from which shaggy forests explode, the sea pounding their bases into
undercut cliffs. But there are also calm
bays where the sea laps in transparent sheets against soft white beaches, backing
up into dense rainforests with spectacular waterfalls and ancient burial sites,
and where Birds of Paradise and Coconut crabs flourish, for the fauna of the
region is Australasian, being east of the Wallace line which separates the
ecozones of Asia and Australasia.
The four main islands in Raja Ampat are Waigeo, Misool, Salawati
and Batanta. Thinly populated, largely
unexplored, this part of the world is a primitive paradise. Beneath the surface
of the sea is incredible marine wealth, where a complex and stunning ecosystem
thrives, with shoals of colourful fish, minute sea creatures specialized to
survive only in a particular niche, unlikely creatures such as the wobbegong
shark, splendidly alien Manta rays and coral gardens so rich as to defy
description.
Scuba divers from all over
the world endure long flights and basic infrastructure to experience this –
nature at its primal best, while non-scuba-divers get to live out their dreams,
abandonment on isolated tropical beaches, dense forests, clear skies and a sea
so clear and rich with coral and colourful fish that it seems surreal.
There is a tension between increased tourism and the
economic benefits it confers, and the preservation of the very thing visitors
have come to experience – the splendid isolation and spectacular beauty of nature,
untouched, untrammeled, undeveloped, for more visitors means more motor boats, noise,
pollution, traffic, infrastructure, people and waste.
We dived through the lens of the sea surface into the other
world of colour and form, shape-shifting in the light filtering from above,
surging life in endless variety, of hidden danger and stunning beauty. Not for nothing is Raja Ampat the poster
child of an underwater paradise.
On the penultimate day, we would stop diving and travel to
Wayag.
Wayag is a distant archipelago, displayed on tourist
brochures and postcards, the showpiece of Raja Ampat. Its picturesque beauty embodies unreality, as
if such a place could exist! Wayag was
more than a destination, it was a promise unfulfilled, a glimpse of an imaginary
dream world. It was a state of
anticipation.
The day for our visit dawned on perfection, with lazy swells
washing onto the sandy beach, coral gardens stretched out in the bay, limestone
islands motionless in a calm sea under a boundless sky, faintly brushed over
with clouds, and kissed by the delicate light of morning.
We were on the wooden jetty, our dive boats docked nearby,
taking on drums and drums of fuel. Wayag
is so distant that a trip there from Raja Ampat is very expensive, the equivalent
of several thousand ringgit. Private yachts undertake the journey as well as
some live-on-board dive boats. The distance only allowed for a visit and
return, as there is no accommodation at Wayag. The distance, one way, was over
100 km, and we would leave the relative shelter of the cluster of islands for a
sea crossing.
The first part of the journey was in a calm, vast bay,
connected to the open sea by a narrow passage appropriately called The Passage.
It was a narrow cleft between mangrove
forests and rainforest-shaggy limestone hills.
We could have been in the wilds of Borneo, on a green river with a
surging current, but instead of tannin-coloured river water, this was seawater
with dark patches of coral below. Aswad,
the resort owner who was undertaking the journey with us, made a motion with
his arms, joined at the elbows, to indicate there were saltwater crocodiles
here. And indeed there should be, for it
was dense, thickly forested and mysterious. The current rippled against the
banks, there was the occasional fishing boat and we passed a village, raised on
stilts high above the water mark, against the side of a hill cleared for
cultivation.
Emerging from The Passage, the island was to our right,
vast, jagged in profile, forested, to all appearances uninhabited. It was a
brilliant, windy day, the sea was a dark blue, and uncharacteristically choppy
for the time of year. The ride was
jarring, the boat plowing into one swell after another, with seawater splashing
in. The boatman would ease off every now
and then to spare us encountering a particularly heavy wave.
After about one and a half hours, we decided we could do
with a short break. To our surprise, as the boatman steered us into shallower,
lighter-green water, there was a rude wooden jetty on this remote beach. It was a small homestay, a few wooden huts
with a swept-sand compound, and a curly-haired Papuan caretaker. The rooms were simple but comfortable. The
dense jungle rose behind, humid and turgid with life, while in front was the white
sand beach and the sense of freedom that true isolation brings.
Fifteen minutes later, we chugged into a sheltered bay, the
sea suddenly still, karst formations arising around us. Nestled in an indent was Selpele village,
where a conservation fee was required to be paid before proceeding. It was a small fishing village in a corner of
paradise. While Aswad went to settle the
fees, children with curly hair crowded around the boat at the jetty for
biscuits and other tidbits.
Our journey continued, this time out to open sea, through
sections dark and wave-tossed. It felt like we were heading into parts wild,
unknown and unexplored, for the country was so untamed. Pillars of stone
mounted by a solitary plant or two stood resolutely like sentinels, white spray
exploding at their bases. There were jagged
cliffs, where vegetation had gained a foothold, thriving in the isolated
redoubt. Far ahead, we could see the
gentle curvature of the Earth, where the boatman indicated our destination lay.
Slowly, over the uneven pitch of the outboard motors, our
destination came into view, a distant mirage of an archipelago of cone-shaped,
forested hills. Except for a ranger station, Wayag is uninhabited. Once within
the archipelago, the pounding of the sea eased.
It was wildly magnificent, white spray exploding against cliffs, caves
formed from erosion, jagged islands rising high overhead dripping lush
vegetation, and a foamy, transparent green sea.
We motored to the ranger station, a straggle of huts in the
shade of trees on a spit of brilliant white sand, glad for the relief of
stepping onto solid ground again. We
left after several minutes of formalities, taking on a guide, a gnarly,
crease-faced Papuan who sat at the front of the boat, directing the captain.
Taking in the splendor of the islands, we entered a quiet,
green bay. The water was shallow and
calm. Around us rose cones of rock and
vegetation. We had truly, entered a
special place. Yet the very beauty of
the place disguised its hostility, for freshwater was scarce in the
archipelago, although there were marine lakes within the islands. The islands rose abruptly from the shallow
sea floor. We anchored beside one of
them, where a weathered patch indicated a foothold, and a steep climb upwards.
I stepped off the boat, clung onto the limestone cliff surface, and hauled
myself up, becoming sweat-drenched in mere minutes.
The clamber lasted only twenty minutes, and then I stood at
the top of the limestone hill. It was a
bright, sunny day, and the stunning beauty of Wayag hit me like a blow to the
face. The sight of those perfect cones of rock rising from a shallow,
green-blue sea, fringed by other islands, was surreal. It was a carefully composed picture, glorious,
airbrushed and colour-corrected, and it was real. I stood there soaking it in, but the real
world intruded: it was baking hot up on the summit, and voices behind me
informed me that the others were on their way up.
I paused to take some pictures, turned around, and started
to descend.
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