The Final Word - 'Thanks'

The enormity of what Alaina and I have achieved this year is still slowly sinking in. Thousands of kilometres of paddling in extremely remote and dangerous waters, much of the time with little or no information about the local conditions, limited water and food, and just our own paddles to propel us forward.

We have had a truly incredible, life-changing experience. We've been attacked by sharks, and up close with massive crocodiles, dugongs, blue whales, manta rays, Komodo dragons, dolphins and thousands of turtles. We've eaten a spartan meal on the kitchen floor with the family of a fisherman and we've been served up fresh red emporer, and even cold beer, on remote and inaccessible islands. We have paddled through some of the world's most amazing waterways, over so many thousands of hectares of tropical reef, and through regions of indescribable beauty.

The support we have had from the readers of this blog has been fantastic, and it has encouraged us on the hardest days to know that so many people are following along, as part of this adventure, from all over the world. We have met beautiful and incredible people from so many different backgrounds, from betel nut chewing grannies, vegetable farmers, goat herders and so many fishermen, to the quirky characters of north Queensland, and our beautiful saviours, the Angels of Cooktown (Margs and Mausey).

None of this adventure would have been able to take place without the generous support of our sponsors and so it is with humble gratitude that I'd like to say thanks to the following organisations, who took a gamble to support our bold plans.

The Australian Geographic Society - Thanks for your financial support and for giving so many others the opportunity to know that tis adventure is taking place. We were honoured and proud to be associated with such a prestigious organisation during the Archipaddlo Expedition and we are so thankful for the way you unquestioningly offered your support, and your concern for our safety, even when our plans changed so drastically during the trip.

Sea To Summit - Thanks for generously supplying so much of the equipment for this expedition. On so many occasions we were amazed at how well the equipment performed, and lasted, when exposed to such extreme conditions for such an extended period of time. Of particular note were the Solution Gear Helion paddles which are beautifully designed, lightweight and even after being used so many times as gondola poles in shallow reefs, they proved to be tough, durable and reliable. Thanks for making and supplying gear that is built to last.

GME - It was your safety equipment that gave us the confidence to venture into remote and wild areas of QLD and Indonesia. We kept our GME Personal Locator Beacons attached to ourselves (via a lanyard to an 'emergency bag') at all times we were on the water, like a seatbelt in a car. Fortunately we never had to use this equipment but we would not have attempted such a bold challenge without the peace of mind of knowing that should we need it, we'd be able to call for a rescue.

Pacific Action Sails - One of the finest and most valuable pieces of equipment that came along for the ride was the beautiful red sails that were strapped to the bow of our boats. On the days when the wind blew in the right direction (not so often in Indonesia!) the sails gave us that extra bit of propulsion needed to relieve our desperately tired muscles. The Pacific Action Sails are beautifully designed, they showed almost no signs of wear even after 8 months in the beating tropical sun, and I find it hard to imagine ever getting in my kayak again without this beautiful sail strapped to the deck.

Cooper Anchors - Thanks for supplying such a practical anchor, purpose built for kayaks. The plastic anchor not only holds firm into the sea bed, it did not damage our boats or other gear in any way which was a huge bonus. Minimising the metal in our boats was very important as everything rusts and corrodes in such harsh conditions so this anchor was the perfect solution.

Buff Headgear - Trying to tame a wild head of dreadlocks in a 30 knot wind, while hanging onto a paddle would have been impossible without wearing my Buff Headwear. This innovative headwear kept us protected from the sun, the wind, and so many bad hair days. Such a simple article should be an essential ingredient in any serious adventure.

I know there are so many others who have helped to get us through this adventure. Villagers who helped haul our heavy kayaks up a steep beach, fisherman who offered us their catch, people who cooked us a meal and pointed us in the right direction. Thank you to everyone who helped us and encouraged us to make this adventure a success.

Lastly, it is our families that have been the foundation of support for our adventure and we simply could not have achieved any of this crazy dream without your unwavering support. Thanks especially to Ma and Pa for sharing a beautiful part of this adventure with us, and for accepting two stowaways onto Trivial Pursuit for a couple of weeks. Thanks Rob for all of your technical genius - there simply would not have been a blog, and most likely no adventure, without your patient help. Thanks Jan for looking after the puppies (and all the rest of our gear) and for preventing Rob from chopping them into little pieces. Thanks Dad for so many emails and blog comments along the way. And to Honi, Lucy, Mum, Adam and Iron, thanks for keeping us motivated when we needed to hear a happy voice from home.

Archipaddlo has been such an incredible journey but we are not sad it is finished. We have learnt so much about ourselves and the world around us and we will take this adventure with us, applying the lessons and carrying the memories for the rest of our lives.

I'm madly tapping away at a keyboard to organise many of the stories from this adventure into a book that will hopefully be available some time in mid 2012. I'll keep you posted…

Archipaddl-over

Two hundred and forty three days after we paddled away from Trinity Beach in Cairns, we waved goodbye to our kayaks from the dusty, hot tarmac of a deserted jetty at Benoa Harbour in Bali. The boats are on their way back to Australia, and the Archipaddlo journey has come to an end.

Five days on a big boat would seem to be a breeze after spending so many days in a kayak but at each stop along the way, and usually in the middle of the night, the crowd of passengers swelled. Every conceivable space on the boat was taken up with mattresses, sheets of cardboard and anything else people could sleep on. Limbs (hopefully still attached) could be seen hanging over the gunnels of the lifeboats while corridors and stairways were impassable. Crossing from our cabin to the dining hall, a distance of about 10 metres, was like walking through a minefield, and we did our best not to step on the pile of sleeping bodies, babies, bags of fruit, and everything else that had been piled in our way. Of course, being a foreigner meant that every eye was glued to us at all times and our every move was scrutinised in detail so we tucked ourselves away into our tiny cabin and hibernated for 5 days.

Overcrowded to the point of bursting, the hulking vessel Awu lived up to our expectations by arriving in Bali at 3am, 11 hours late, leaving us to wait on a shadeless bitumen at a deserted dock in the sprawling harbour for 7 hours until the freight company arrived to collect our kayaks. We waved off Trinity and Birubi in the back of a truck and hope that they somehow find their way back home.

Archipaddlo has been an incredible adventure. Lain and I began with a big dream and although we ended up on a slightly different track to the one we started on, we are so thrilled and proud to have achieved such a grand goal. This has been an unbelievable opportunity for the two of us to explore some incredible parts of the world, places that travellers normally don't visit, and to get there exactly as we wanted to. We have met so many beautiful people, seen, paddled and swum with so much incredible wildlife, explored untouched beaches, reefs and islands and learnt so much about ourselves in the process.

I would really like to thank you all for following the blog, it has been a lot of fun and a great experience for me to distill down some of our experiences into these short snippets along the way. I also enjoyed an excuse to play with expensive gadgets during the trip! Of course through the blog I have only been able to tell a few brief stories, and I feel that there is so much more to this story that I haven't been able to squeeze into the blogs.

My next adventure, therefore, is to take on a challenge that is just as daunting and as big a step outside my comfort zone as the adventure itself, to write a book about our travels. We still have a few months of travelling to go before there's Aussie soil between these toes again so a book won't be on the shelves before Christmas but I hope that some time during 2012 you'll be able to read the rest of the story and see what really went on in making Archipaddlo such a success.

Sometime later on I'll post again with more details of the release of this #1 Bestseller (well, here's hoping!).

Lain and I have now swapped kayaks for backpacks. There's volcanoes to climb, reefs to freedive, busses to catch, borders to cross and who knows what other adventures we'll have. Our kayaks may have left but that is no reason for us to slow down - the adventure of life continues…

Photos: 1. Juz and Lain, team Archipaddlo; 2. The deck of the Awu, just outside our cabin; 3. Our kayaks 'safely' stored on the deck of the Awu; 4. Two small kayaks, one big boat - the Awu at Benoa Harbour, Bali; 5. Swapping kayaks for backpacks, one adventure finishes while another begins.

The last paddle.

Tempted as Lain and I were to stay in the Alor region for the rest of time, it is a truly spectacular place, we paddled in to Kalabahi to meet the huge boat that was destined to carry us and our kayaks back to Bali. We both felt a huge sense of accomplishment and pride knowing that the Archipaddlo adventure was drawing to a close and we chatted along happily for the final paddle of our journey.

Having to spend three weeks in any one spot is normally a nightmare for Lain and I but we somehow managed to put up with the trauma inflicted upon us upon Pulau Kepa. Lovingly operated by a beautiful French family, La Petite Kepa is a friendly, extremely relaxed and welcoming 'homestay' on a tiny island dropped into some of the most rich and abundant coral reef systems on the planet. Anne, Cedric, Lila the eight year old, energetic bundle of joy as well as Anuk and all the beautiful locals who keep the place going made us so welcome and comfortable that we really found it hard to leave. Thanks to you all, I am pretty sure you will see these two adventurers again.

Expecting a certain level of inefficiency from Pelni, the boat company (it is operated by the government), given that the last boat was cancelled without warning, it was not a surprise to discover that our 7pm departure had been delayed. We arrived at the port just before sunset and the crowd of people to swarm our arrival had grown to easily 50 by the time we had slipped out kayaks up onto the boat ramp. We have learnt to work the crowd a little, answer the few key questions to a key member of the swarm and then let him retell the story to every newcomer who joins the zoo.

Seven o'clock slipped past, as did the next estimate of a 10pm departure. Even though we had previously paid for a ticket and the freight of our kayaks, we still did not actually have the required ticket, a situation that you would not see as normal unless you has spent many months travelling in Asia. When the boat finally appeared, some time after 11pm and we still had no way of proving our expensive purchase we wondered if we should have been worried. Nope, just as the last rope was thrown from the enormous vessel to the jetty a voice called to us from the crowd, and our tickets appeared - things always seem to work, they just don't work with logic.

A huge crane was lowered from the front deck, which itself is about 4 stories off the water and our kayaks were hoisted aloft, with not a care in the world for occupational health and safety. They will weather the four day journey to Bali nestled amongst fuel cans and other greasy containers strewn around the front of the deck.

Watching the flood of passengers and freight surge on and off the boat, a passenger liner of vast proportions, all at the same time up just one tiny gangway could only have been more exciting if there had been a herd of wild elephants involved. In true Indonesian style it seems that the sharper your elbows the faster you get to the front, and there is no concept of an orderly queue. For nearly two hours the fracas continued until an unfathomable number of people were crammed into the expansive, cockroach infested third class cabins. For once we have splurged on 'first class' accommodation, our own cosy cabin with a greatly reduced number of cockroaches.

Five weeks ago we left a backpack full of gear in Larantuka, our first stop on the voyage back to Bali. Even though I was the first person off the boat and I deftly manoeuvred my way through the swarm at the dock, I had to travel nearly 20 minutes on a motorbike to collect our bag. Despite the speeding motorbike, when my return journey to the port was coming to an end I heard three loud blasts from the boat, the signal that the liner was sailing. I ran for all I was worth and almost had to leap to catch the gangway before the boat peeled off the dock, much to the joy of my very relieved wife.

We may have finished the paddling but until our kayaks are safely on their way back to Australia, this adventure is far from over.

Pictures: 1. Lain and Lila at La Petite Kepa; 2. The last pack-up; 3. The final paddle; 4. Two small boats are lifted onto one big boat.

Mola Mola

When I was a nipper one of the great joys of my life was being taken with wide eyes and an open mind to explore the dark and towering exhibits of the Queensland Museum. Nowadays housed in an appropriately huge and spacious gallery, the old museum of my youth was the slightly eerie and mysterious (to a five year old) grand, colourful brick building still nestled into Brisbane's inner suburbs. Hanging low from the ceiling (not far off the ground), about half way along the main hall, beside a giant globe of the earth that showed the rough topography of the main mountain ranges, hung the one exhibit that intrigued me more than any other, and the only one that I now have firm memories of. The creature was so strange, so obscure that it could easily have been an alien, or a cruel trick of taxidermy.

The Mola Mola (whose scientific name is also Mola mola) is perhaps more commonly known as it was in the QLD Museum, as the Sun Fish. This giant and very strange fish is the largest and heaviest of the world's bony fish, measuring in at up to 4.5m tip to tip and from 1000 to 2300kg and it is this very fish that Lain and I have been hoping to catch a glimpse of during our travels in Indonesia. 

It was with a great sense of joy, and a little childhood reminiscing,  that today I finally managed to tick this species off the painfully long 'list of things to see before I die'. What caught me by surprise was that this huge, flat, ungainly creature was not only capable of swimming in a straight line (it doesn't appear possible), but with enough speed to launch itself out of the water and breach as though it was giving us its best humpback impression. Over the months of paddling we have seen quite a few USO's (unidentified splashing objects) and after witnessing the splash of the sunfish from close range we realised that they have probably been swimming and splashing around us for much of the way. 

Our days have been recently spent paddling light, unloaded boats through the roaring currents of the Pantar Strait, circumnavigating islands, snorkelling steep coral walls, and just lapping up the incredible environment in this remote and beautiful place. 

There may now be a tick in the Mola Mola box but there are so many other unique and beautiful animals to track down - I suspect we might need another crazy adventure to some other far flung corner of the world to find even more wonders of this awe-inspiring planet. Mmmm…where to next?

Picture: The elusive Mola Mola or Sun Fish. (Not my piccy - cheers Google)

Thank You For The Music

Indonesian people love music and we often hear tunes from distant fishing boats or villages as the sound waves ripple out to us over the ocean. The problem is that there appears to be only one measurement of the quality of music in this culture, that being the decibel.

The adjective 'loud' cannot accurately describe the assault on the ears that is perpetrated by the enormous sound systems and huge blocks of speakers that each and every town uses to blare out ghastly tunes at inappropriate times. Generally the speakers belong to the mosques, and are used for the regular 'call to prayer', that starts as an alarm clock at 4:30am every day. While there is considerable religious significance to calling the prayer, to the untrained ear it sounds somewhat akin to a drunken yobbo slurring loudly into a karaoke microphone after having three teeth knocked out by a bouncer - the perfect alarm clock! For various (and regular) ceremonies the thunderously powerful mosque speakers continue after the call to prayer, to belt out a constant stream of 'music' at deafening volume and for hours on end.

At one point, our last camp on Flores before arriving in Larantuka, we snuck into a quiet and secluded beach about 1km away from the closest town for what we had hoped would be a restful sleep after a very long paddling day. As if to thwart our intentions however, shortly after we crawled into the tent, around about sunset, the music began. When I say 'music', imagine taking the most annoying pre-programmed beats from an old Casio keyboard (eg. the 'Samba' or the 'Waltz') and mixing them into hard-core techno, with some wailing voices in the background, or badly remixed snippets of crappy popular songs - Britney, Bieber and some J-Lo are the standards. This deafening disco continued in an unbroken stream, barely filtered by the surrounding mangroves, ALL night at top volume. We were already eating breakfast at 4:30am when the call to prayer finally put a stop to the din. Ah, the serenity.

To get around many towns the best value transportation is in a 'bemo'. These heavily panel beaten minivans, with uncomfortable 'troop-cartrier' style bench seats in the back are always driven by cool young guys who proudly attempt to blare out music that is no longer measured in decibels, but rather on the Richter scale! Inevitably, when we 'Buleh' (foreigners) board their dangerous, box-shaped, overcrowded missiles, the music is turned up to maximum, perhaps in an attempt to impress these two weary travellers. We are never impressed.

The peace and quiet of the most serene landscape can be broken at all hours by bad house music from any number of mobile phones. Busses should only be boarded by passengers wearing earplugs (I'm not kidding) and if there is a wedding in town be prepared to put up with the cacophony for at least three days on end.

I am sure that any music that is not to your own taste can grate on the ears, especially when played loud. When it is impossible to avoid such an intrusion it is hard not to get annoyed. But then, to find the roads less travelled and to experience the 'real' Indonesia is part of the reason we are here. If everything here was like it was back home there would be no reason to travel, and no new experiences to have. So, Indonesia, we can't hear you - turn it up!

Picture: Juz 'enjoying' the thumping tunes in the back of a pimped up Bemo.

Exp-Alor-ing

'Paradise' is a word that is all too often tossed around, I myself being guilty of using it as a somewhat simplified noun for attempting to describe some of the places we have visited during this Archipaddlo adventure. Perhaps the fantasy tropical island, dripping with lush rainforest and surrounded by a crystal ocean bursting with colourful life, does not really exist, but here in the Alor Islands it is hard to imagine much better. The pace of the Archipaddlo expedition has slowed just a little over the last week, allowing us a little time to make the most of one of the most amazing places we have ever had the good fortune to visit.

After a last minute change of plans we decided that instead of paddling a lap of the Alor and Solor archipelagoes we would instead head east on a one-way trip, finishing at the small port of Kalabahi on Alor Island. From there a large boat was scheduled to ferry us and our scratched and worn-out kayaks back to Bali in time for the kayaks' return trip to Oz. In true Indonesian style though, when we arrived in Kalabahi to book our tickets for the journey, we were informed that our boat was 'resting' and would not be sailing on its scheduled day, or any other day for the next two weeks. Although not quite prisoners, we have few options to escape this area and so we wait.

Having done our time waiting many hours in dusty airport terminals, smoky offices, cramped bus stations and smoggy hotel rooms it is perhaps a just reward for all our efforts that we can enjoy such an incredible playground with which to wait out our days, slowly crossing off the calendar until our boat arrives. Our two hammocks swing in the cooling breeze beneath the native-style grass hut with a commanding view over the rich coral shelf to the surging currents and volcanic islands of the Pantar Strait. If one must wait then one may as well do it in style.

Stripping our kayaks down to bare bones and paddling day trips rather than exhausting journeys with heavily loaded boats has been a refreshing change. We have leapt from our kayaks to swim within huge pods of inquisitive dolphins that dance and play with our silent kayaks. The almost electric pulses of the dolphins' chatter was so loud in the water that it felt like we had plugged a set of headphones into some wild underwater telephone exchange and turned up the volume. Vertical coral walls and wide shallow shelves drip with hundreds of life forms seemingly competing for space upon the rocks, corals and what ever other surface is available to grow on. Fish explode around us in schools so huge and numerous that it is impossible to see far in the crystal clear water. Armies of tuna and other pelagics froth the surface in energetic attacks on their fast-swimming prey. The water is literally teeming with colourful life - perhaps this is paradise after all.

Having had the opportunity to carefully appraise the identifying features of the various cetaceans currently singing away beneath the world's oceans I must admit to an error that I have previously posted on a blog. I wrongly suspected the enormous whale with which we had a close encounter recently to be a fin whale. After careful consideration I have revised this observation and will happily announce that it was in fact a blue whale with which we were sharing the water. There are several sub species of the blue whale (the largest animal ever to have lived on this planet) and the one we have now witnessed on several occasions (and tried to swim with once) is called a 'pygmy blue whale'. Just how a mammal that is over 20m in length can be considered a pygmy I have no idea but the sight of such a giant at close range is a joy that can only fuel our appreciation for the many beautiful wonders of nature.

And so we wait, our days spent somewhere between the hammocks and the coral wall. In some ways I would not be too disappointed if the next boat out of here is cancelled as well. This place is truly paradise.

Pictures: 1. Lain paddling with a pod of hundreds of dolphins; 2. Our 'native' hut on Kepa Island; 3. Lain snorkelling on one of the many coral drop-offs in this incredible paradise.

Risk and Reward

Getting off the couch, as Lain and I started planning Archipaddlo all those many months ago, we knew we were taking many risks, and the outcome, let alone the rewards, was uncertain. During our paddles in Indonesia we have had to take quite a few leaps of faith, big risks with uncertain outcomes, and in basically every case we have been rewarded handsomely.

Paddling close to a coastline is usually not so risky. If everything goes wrong you can just paddle (or swim) to the beach and even if you get smashed into shore by beating surf, the outcome would hopefully be positive. Indonesia, however, is an archipelago, and the coastlines don't all match up. Deep water, often over 1km deep within a few hundred metres of the shore, surges and swirls around causing roaring currents in often the most unpredictable places. Crossing between islands, or jumping across wide bays, where currents are at their strongest, places weary paddlers in the very real risk of being swept out to sea never to be seen or heard of again (well, we do have personal locator beacons so we should get found).

After a long day paddling along Gili Moyo off the coast of Sumbabwa we searched for a campsite but could find not a single decent tent site. It was late in the day and we were already tired but we took the risk to paddle an extra 10km to Pulau Satonda, across a wide strait. We paddled hard through the current for just under two hours, to slide up, exhausted, onto a rocky beach just as the sun set. To our surprise a few minutes later a brawny, bronzed Mexican paddled up to us on a stand-up paddle board. Ramon was a divemaster on a live-aboard dive boat anchored in the next bay and when he asked if we needed anything we politely declined. Ten minutes later however, Ramon returned in a dingy with an icy cold six pack of beer for us. We gladly accepted Ramon's kindness and enjoyed our reward as we watched the sun set over the rippling strait.

On a hot day in Flores we set ourselves a bold goal of paddling 50km or so to find the small town of Wodong that apparently had some tourist infrastructure. Desperate for supplies and food we paddled well out to sea past many towns including sprawling Maumere and another town which had a bustling market right on the waterfront. Headwinds rattled us, the heat was exhausting and we paddled past beach after beach of perfect campsites but we took the risk and pressed on. Turning into the tiny bay that according to our map, was supposed to be Wodong, we saw nothing but mangroves and collapsed on the beach, dejected that our efforts were not rewarded. Shortly afterwards I walked down the beach to discover that we had landed about 100m away from a perfect little resort with comfy cabins overlooking the water. Our risk was again rewarded and we spent an extra day recuperating in the comparative luxury of our cabin.

The Alor Strait, separating the islands of Lembata and Pantar is about as risky as any paddling we could hope to achieve in Indonesia. Roaring currents surge unpredictably through the straight and many local fishermen die here being swept north into an endless expanse of warm ocean. Crocodiles thrive in the mangroves and sharks teem in the rich, deep water where whales are unfortunately still hunted. Our first attempt crossing the strait, a 14km crossing to Pulau Lapang, resulted after just 15 minutes, in us being swept so far out to sea that it took nearly an hour to crawl back to the windswept coast of Pulau Lembata. It would have been easier to just aim for the coast of Pulau Pantar but we were determined to make our way to the smaller and more remote islands in the strait. We watched the currents for 24 hours until we felt we had a window of opportunity, and we raced across the strait in the nick of time. Pulau Lapang was an almost treeless and totally flat expanse of coarse, sharp, rocky limestone. One tiny beach hid beneath the shade of some fig and tamarind trees and we took the opportunity to rest here for a day. The real reward for our risky crossing was the treat that lay waiting for us underwater. The snorkelling here was not just the best we have seen in Indonesia, it was by far the best snorkelling either of us had ever seen. A vertical wall of coral, rich with colourful sponges, iridescent gorgonian fans and huge fish dropped into a deep blue abyss. Huge numbers of fish schooled around us as we duck dived repeatedly down into the depths. It was simply breathtaking. No wonder this area is renowned as having some of the best diving in the world.

Risk and reward. These are just a few of the so many rewards we have been fortunate to receive during our travels. The greatest reward though is simply being here and completing this adventure, a reward we could never have found had we not taken the risk to leave in the first place. Your rewards are there waiting, what are you willing to risk to get them?

Photo: Juz enjoying the rewards on offer on Pulau Lapang.

Some Like It Hot.

In Indonesian there are two words for hot - panas and pedas, which better represent the difference between the English words hot (temperature) and hot (spicy). Out here in the Alor islands the two feel like they have been mixed together with a mortar and pestle, creating the sort of heat that makes you feel like your whole body is being smeared with freshly blended chillies while being roasted in an oven.

There is no escape from the heat either, don't think that just because we are bobbing around in kayaks on the ocean we can just jump in for a refreshing dip. We have no qualms about launching into the deep for the occasional splash around, a snorkel over some brilliant reef, or even to release some internal alimentary pressure, but none of these activities could be considered to be refreshing in water that is, we predict, well over 30˚C.

The searing rays of the sun, and a lack of much wind helped to sway our decision to get off the water today earlier than we had planned. We literally felt like we were being deep fried. Fortunately we were able to persuade a small herd of goats to relinquish their shady spot at the back of a rocky beach and we settled in for a day of limited movement, reading books and playing cards, as any form of activity caused our bodies to leak valuable fluids profusely from every pore.

What we failed to notice, stupidly considering we have spent the last 6 months living on tropical beaches, was that the tree above us was not a complete canopy, and small rays of sunshine must have been getting through to us. We both felt the glow of sunburn at about the same time, too late to apply sunscreen but too early in the day not to. A quick dip did nothing to cool us and we rapidly covered up in sunsmart gear for the remainder of the afternoon. As I write, in the 'cool' of the evening, a pool of sweat sits below each of my elbows. Oh, what I would give for a fan.

Despite the heat the paddling has been beautiful. Towering volcanoes jut from the sea like the huge pyramids of some ancient and forgotten race (perhaps it was the hobbits from Flores) while the vertical walls of coral that form the edge of the volcanic massifs plunge away into a bottomless abyss. Water that is so clear we can see every detail of the fish 10m below from our kayaks, teems with life and everything from turtles to whales have surfaced to say hello. Lain has the uncanny ability to be hit with flying fish, jumping fish, just about any fish, to the point where if we were keeping score Lain would have retired not out many innings ago.

After several thousand kilometres, we actually feel like we are finally qualified to paddle in Indonesia. We have worked out our food to the point where every day now we have been eating hearty and fulfilling meals (and some instant noodles) and despite the heat we have had no problem sourcing enough water. We even managed to procure a six-pack of cold beer from Seven Seas, a dive boat we had previously bumped into in the Komodo region. Mark the Aussie captain treated us with a care package of cold goodies and, at 10am, the beers went down a treat (Cheers Mark!).

We don't have too far to go and we have plenty of time to get there so fortunately at this stage we are not in a great hurry. We are still not sure which route we are taking, which beaches we will sleep on or even exactly where we are going. We just hope that we haven't been melted, boiled, fried or baked by the time we get there.

Picture: Attempting to cool off in the evening, and enjoying a yummy dinner on another perfect beach.

A day in the life of Archipaddlo...

Lain here…

Even after all these months of being on the water, you may start to think that the days begin to blend or become a little routine... well somedays they do seem to feel like they are slightly on repeat but somedays are just so unique they once again for the 208th time (or somewhere around there, I have lost track) they feel like a completely new experience. Enter Sunday 23rd October 2011...

We awoke on our sand cay... yes afloat on a sea of sand (or so it felt) with only a small area of sand protecting us from a very (potentially) wet nights sleep. As it is getting close to a new moon we calculated that in fact we are probably just okay to stay on this incredible and isolated sand cay off the coast from a group of islands. Behind the sand cay towards the east on the main land lay an active volcano which we had been watching smoking away over the past couple of days as we paddled towards it. Anyway we awoke to the sun rising up directly behind a smoking volcano on our sand cay... BEAUTIFUL!

We paddled for about an hour and a half and decided to pul up on a distinctly Australian looking beach. For the first time on this trip we found a beach that was surrounded by gum trees with that incredible bush smell of fresh eucalyptus after a rain storm... We couldn't resist so pulled up for a coffee and enjoyed a brief feeling of home, back in the bush.

After coffee we set off again to paddle past our smoking volcano this time to see it from behind. The entire back section of this volcano is actually seeping out yellow gas and smoke and to cruise around the base of this looking directly up 1400m of smoking volcano was a powerful image to behold.

We set off again, this time our destination was a cliff section approx 8km away which we had decided may offer a remote camp for the night. Not long after leaving the beach we paddled across a turtle tied up to a piece of rope attached to a coral bommie. We immediately cut him loose and watched the little guy make his way to (hopefully) a long life of freedom. We continued again and about half way across this bay on route to the cliffs approx 10m away on my left a colossal breath followed by volumous mound on the surface revealed a fin whale! I nearly jumped out of my skin with excitement as this mammal approx 20 -25 m long continued around next to me and then directly in front of us (literally just off our bows) just cruising along on the surface. It was the last thing I expected to see in a bay crossing on the northern side of the Alor Islands (although there is a traditional whale hunting village over on the south side!) This whale was one of the highlights of this trip as we watched it swim around popping up and disappearing for the next hour or so. I felt like this was just an incredibly special treat and one that will never be forgotten.

After all this excitement we made it to a gorgeous white sandy beach on the edge of a beautiful reef and set up camp. To top off this spectacular day we got a rain storm pass briefly over us just before dusk so were also afforded the pleasure of a fresh water shower before climbing into the tent for yet another night. Aaaaahhhhhh life...

Just another day in the life of Archipaddlo...

Photo: Dawn on the sand cay, smouldering volcano in the background.

Enough comfort.

Dust forms a layer on pretty much everything in the tax office in Larantuka, and the thick layer that covered our kayaks at least suggested that they had been left alone in their storage room for the last couple of weeks.

Larantuka is not a town accustomed to tourists and it is a challenging place to visit - a test for all of our senses. Indonesian social life seems to revolve around the road so whenever we are walking anywhere we are yelled at from every direction - 'Halo Mister', 'Buleh' (foreigner), 'and touts for all sorts of transport and other services. "Mau ke mana?" (where are you going?) is screamed from every passing vehicle and every stationary individual.

Jumping into a 'bemo' here, the standard form of transport around town, involves cramping into the back of a tiny minivan with several people who are smoking clove cigarettes and a stereo pumping out bad techno with enough base to register on the Richter Scale, while the teenage driver does his best to break the land speed record, dodging chickens all the way. The olfactory senses are treated to a wondrous feast of stimulation when walking through the main 'pasar' (market) where huge fish are being chopped to pieces with machetes in the baking heat of the tropical sun, the stinky fish blood running in thick sheets down the streets and gutters.

All this is assisting us with the motivation to get back out of our comfort zone and back into our kayaks. We have had a couple of weeks out of the boats to zoom around some of the areas of Indonesia more frequently visited by tourists. We snorkelled with turtles, sat in hot springs and under cool waterfalls, paid off the police (what 'international licence'?), swam through a shipwreck, walked on a volcano and in rice fields, fed monkeys, drank too much beer and ate delicious food - sounds like the makings of a comfort zone to me.

Talking about the Richter Scale though, we were fortunate enough to be in Bali when an earthquake rattled the buildings around us - something we have both been hoping to experience in this volcanic country. It was a bizarre and exciting experience to feel the ground beneath our feet that has always felt so solid, move with a strange liquid shaking. For once we were a long way above sea level though, so tsunamis were low on the list for these happy paddlers.

We are now working to a new schedule. There are only two boats a month capable of taking us and our kayaks from eastern Flores back to Bali. In order to send our kayaks back to Australia in time to fulfil our red tape commitments with the Indonesian Government we need to return to Bali at the end of November. In total we now have just over four weeks left of the Archipaddlo Expedition - just enough time to cut a quick 600km lap of the Alor Archipelago. The first hints of wet season are starting to show though so hopefully the odd shower will make a small dint in the 35˚C that assaults us every day.

It is hot, I am not looking forward to more noodles, and we have some challenging currents to negotiate. No more air-con, cold drinks, or restaurant meals. The short break from our kayaks has been great fun but I am looking forward to jumping out of this comfort zone and back out into the ocean. Bring it on.

Picture: Lain enjoying the last day of comfort zone - a 'padang' meal in a roadside restaurant in Larantuka.

The Zoo

It is 9:00am as a buzzing crowd of nervous parents and overexcited children queue at the gates of the zoo. At 9:04 the shutters are raised and the turnstiles start spinning. By 9:07 the first of the children have dragged their parents to their ultimate prize, the lion cage. For the next eight hours it does not matter which way the lion turns, whether he is sleeping, yawning, roaring, eating or taking a dump there will be hundreds of glaring eyes pressed in his direction, and every action will be illuminated by a paparazzi of flash bulbs…I know exactly how he feels.

With somewhere around 230 million intrigued inhabitants, and this being one of the world's most densely populated countries, it it perhaps no wonder that we have found it challenging to locate campsites that are out of the way of the hustle and bustle of daily Indonesian life. Of course one of the joys of paddling in a country like this is to be able to have interaction with so many people from such a different culture, and to appreciate the different subcultures within the country, but this can become very tiring.

Like the lion, some days it is impossible to avoid the crowd. Even when we are up before the 4:30am call to prayer that blares out from every mosque there is usually somebody waiting for us on the beach. An old man wandering the high tide line, and with apparently nothing better to do, stands and stares, a little too close. The concept of 'privacy' doesn't appear to exist in Bahasa Indonesia (indonesian language) and even the idea of personal space appears to be as foreign to many Indonesians as a meat pie and a custard tart.

We control our urges for morning ablutions - it is pretty hard to dig a hole on the beach and discreetly purge when there is an audience staring at your every move - and accept the growing crowd as part of a normal morning routine. I am not sure whether it is the brightly coloured silicone bowls, the orange plastic cutlery, the shiny mountaineering-style, petrol-burning stove, the brand of coffee we drink or the way we crush coconut biscuits into our porridge that is most intriguing to our audience, but every mouthful is scrutinised with the same intensity as though we were the lion tearing bloody flesh from a carcass.

The crowd grows, as we fold the poles and wrap up the nylon walls of our little tent, our only hope of privacy. Our change-room is simply a sarong wrapped around ourselves. We have tried to disperse the crowd on occasions telling them that we need to go to the toilet or to have a wash, but they generally simply smile and nod that they have understood, as though congratulating us on being able to use words from the Indonesian dictionary, without actually comprehending that we wish them to go away. We have given up on this technique now - they never go away.

Finally as we finish packing our boats, the crowd has reached a critical point. From a distance down the beach the bustling numbers have swollen to a point where our boats are surrounded. This then draws more and more people, keen to discover just what it is that is drawing this scrum together. Motorbikes begin to park above the beach, other boats arrive and each new entrant to the fracas asks the same questions.

Everything is poked and prodded. The rudder attracts people like a button in a science museum that would send sparks arcing across electrodes, the paddle is passed around with awe. Anything rubber is pressed and stretched and any moving parts are moved, in turn by every onlooker.

One great advantage of having so many spectators is that we usually have many hands to help push our boats into the water. Laughing and joking, the happy and smiling assistants race us down the sandy beach and our boats are shot out into the shallow water. As the rudders flip down we receive appreciative 'oohs and aahs' from the throng. Usually busting for the toilet by this stage we wave at the crowd and paddle away to find a spot of privacy somewhere in the wide blue yonder.

Waving at the crowd on the beach I think back to the lion in his cage, facing his daily crowd. We have a certain freedom as we paddle in Indonesia, but escaping the crowds is definitely a skill that we have learnt along the way. Fortunately the hours spent on the water are on our terms and this is the one place we can really find privacy, and our freedom.

Photo: Lain entertaining the crowd as we prepare for another day on the water.

Flying High

"Pelan-pelan" (slowly) is the only way to paddle past vast islands, endless reefs

and thousands of kilometres of water. What took us nearly two months to paddle shot past "cepat" (quickly) in just a couple of hours under the wings of the small plane

that zoomed us back to Bali. Massive volcanic peaks that had taken days to paddle around flicked past the small windows of the plane while the tiny white, black, pink, brown and grey beaches that have been our home for so long seemed so familiar even from 16000 feet. Bays, islands, beaches and mountains all had names in my head as I rapidly retraced our steps across this beautiful landscape. Our boats are still waiting back in Larantuka for us to return, hopefully with a few new stamps in our passports and permission to stay a little longer in Indonesia. We'll have a little time out over the next couple of weeks while we spend some time with family, exploring other parts of the archipelago. After just a few days of busses, ojeks (motorbike taxis), taxis and hotels I am missing the simplicity of the kayaks, the tent, the hammocks in the sun and I am looking forward to keeping this adventure rolling. I am however, enjoying the feeling of good food at every meal, and no instant noodles in sight! Photos:

1. The balmy calm that flattens the ocean before a headwind kicks in.

2. Beach Camp - A typical camp and a beautiful sunset on an island near Riung, Flores.

3. Lain paddling through a magical stretch of limestone coast in western Flores.

4. Happy days - On the water for another spectacular sunrise.

5. Chatting with a mangrove fisherman on his punt.

6. Paddling through the crystal water of Flores.

7. Juz, struggling to appreciate the beauty of this spot just seconds before leaping in for another 'royal flush'.

8. Kayorkelling - 'snorkelling' with no need for a mask, from a kayak.

9. The stunning coast just east of Sindeh Bay. 10. The kind of smile that comes after a couple of rest days in paradise. 11. Our cave camp, a cool and quiet spot to rest through the heat of the day, and the heat of the night.

The long trip to Larantuka.

Nothing ever quite happens the way you expect it will in Indonesia, and it is best to roll with it, and see where you end up. Perhaps this gem of wisdom might explain why our kayaks are now stacked, one on top of the other, in the regional office of the Director General of Taxation in Larantuka. Well, where else should they be?

Few stretches of coastline have been as dramatic and beautiful as the last couple of days of paddling along the north-east corner of Flores. Gigantic limestone cliffs have been ripped into the landscape by roaring currents. Dense tropical rainforest dripped from every crack and crevice in the cliffs like it had been melted into shape by the intense heat. The cauldron of swirling water beneath us concealed endless coral reefs, bright and colourful and boiling with colour. Turtles flipped, fish jumped and we paddled on by.

Indonesian red tape has ensured that the route we hope to achieve needed to be sliced up into stages as our visas can only be issued for 60 days. Our goal for this stage has been Larantuka, a bustling but small port town in eastern Flores. About ten days ago we seriously wondered whether it would be possible to achieve this goal, as the headwinds had made certain that we moved slower than we had hoped. Larantuka became a powerful motivator and we both dug deep to make the distance, and to reach the goal.

An enormous volcano towers above Larantuka and the narrow strait that divides Flores from the islands of the Solor and Alor archipelago. A dawn low tide on a new moon (tides are generally bigger around the full and new moons) ensured that we departed our final campsite in the pitch dark to avoid being trapped by the wide and very shallow seagrass shelf that surrounded our camp. Features on the silhouette of the jagged volcanic peak above Larantuka slowly appeared with the morning light, as did the extensive shallow reef below us. The scene was dramatic and spectacular, a fitting finale for this stage of Archipaddlo.

It wasn't long however before our old foe, the wind, decided that we shouldn't have things so easy on this last day, that we still needed a challenge. We pressed into a strong headwind as we entered the narrow channel where Larantuka lies. Unfortunately narrow channels in this part of the world are like funnels and water roars through them with a vengence. We first noticed a large cargo boat with engines clanking at full power that was literally going nowhere. Even within inches of the shore we could barely paddle into the force of the water, but we did manage to overtake the cargo ship.

Eventually, after expending considerably more effort than we had hoped, and after several long and tiring days of hard paddling, we slipped our kayaks onto a beach just outside Larantuka - we achieved our goal.

Just how and why our boats are stacked in a side room of the tax office is altogether another long story. We needed somewhere to safely store the boats for the next couple of weeks, and despite my personal efforts to avoid the tax department back home at all costs, this seemed like a safe, if somewhat illogical option for storing our boats. I suppose we just chatted to the right person at the right time to get what we needed done. That is the way of things here, and perhaps it is the same everywhere.

Picture: A top spot for lunch (instant noodles again) in north-east Flores.

Crazy Cartography

Recently I posted a few comments regarding the absurdity of our navigational tools, and I now have some firm evidence to prove that it is not just my potential inability to read maps, charts and the GPS, but laughable inaccuracies on the part of the map-makers.

For the duration of our paddles in Flores we have been thoroughly enjoying the challenge of locating campsites each day that are tucked away in quiet corners of the island where there are no villages, and we are unlikely to be disturbed. While it is impossible to feel like we might actually be the first visitors to any particular spot, as there is evidence of people everywhere, our selection of campsites has been fabulous and we have slipped through almost entirely unnoticed by the masses.

However, surviving on our own stores and avoiding the relative 'comforts' of visiting villages, we were running really low on food, or at least anything edible or with more nutritious value than a cardboard box. We decided to deviate from our pattern of sticking to the most remote locations and to head into Maumere Bay, risking exposure to the masses, but opening the opportunity to actually find some healthy food. And it was in Maumere Bay that the cartographers seemed to have given up their attempt for any form of accuracy on our only map.

North-east of Maumere, the bustling capital of Flores, our fabulously inaccurate map lists a location, Wodong Beach, that is marked with an umbrella, usually the symbol to show some sort of coastal resort or point of interest for tourists. This sounded promising - perhaps a restaurant serving yummy food, or even cold beer, might be there waiting for us. As we paddled past the extensive and unbroken mangrove forest where the umbrella was listed we began to scratch our heads in wonder as to what fate may have befallen this potentially sprawling development. Alas, it was at this point that Lain noticed that the town of Wodong was in fact listed, about 35km east of where we were expecting it to be. At best, that is about six hours of solid paddling.

In an attempt to find some food along the way, exhausted as were were after the wild goose chase our map had led us along, we landed on the coast exactly where our map suggested another small town, Degit, would be nestled. A fisherman in his dugout canoe laughed at our suggestion that we were looking for this particular town, and he said that it should take us about 2 hours to get there by motorbike. Lain accosted another local who drove her to a market in a large town nearby (neither was it called Degit nor was it marked on our map) to hurriedly grab some supplies and some takeaway meals, a luxury we had not experienced for over a fortnight.

After eight hours in the pressing heat we finally made it Wodong, or at least the place on the coast where the map claimed Wodong would be. In fact there really isn't a town at Wodong at all, just a slightly more populated stretch of the same road that runs across the island. We watched a bus slow down to (literally) about 30km/h to let a passenger launch off the side in front of the 'bus stop'. Fortunately Wodong had a tiny hotel on the beach with a vacant and very basic cabin we could stay in. There was one luke warm beer in the resort, and our dinner took nearly two and a half hours to be prepared. If only we hadn't been starving to death at the time!

As a final injustice, our carefree cartographers decided to place 'Babi Island' wherever they wanted to - on the island of Flores! The map shows a small island roughly in the location that Babi should be, but clearly they never bothered to edit the rough draft, perhaps assuming that nobody in their right mind would ever actually visit these places (they might be correct about my state of mind!). This area was rocked by a serious earthquake and tsunami in 1992, perhaps this was responsible for shaking up all of the place-names as well.

Our eyes are now firmly set on our current goal, Larantuka in eastern Flores. This town will signal the end of this stage of the expedition as our visas, which we have already extended to our maximum permissible stay, will expire in about a week. We'll hopefully locate a secure spot somewhere in Larantuka to leave our boats while we zoom off out of the country to repeat the ridiculous visa requirements, so that we can then continue on to the Solor and Alor Islands to the east of Larantuka. All this of course is based on the fact that Larantuka is actually where our map suggests it will be, and indeed the islands to the east of Flores actually exist at all! Thank you cartographers, you have been a great help.

Picture: This sections represents about 200km of eastern Flores on our map - the black circles are mine showing Wodong and Wodong Beach, Degit, and Babi Island (it also points to the actual island).

Royal Flush

Once in my life I believe I did have a punt on the Melbourne Cup, I have put no more than a sum total of $20 into pokie machines, and I don't adhere to a set of lotto numbers, so it is with no confidence whatsoever that I will hereby claim to know that the 'Royal Flush' is the hand which poker players dream to receive, the top of the pile which defeats all its opponents.

I do however, understand with painful accuracy that a 'Royal Flush' of a different sort can be caused by some unseen bacterial army marching into my alimentary canal, planting their flag and proceeding to defeat all of its opponents, in this case the rather flimsy defence that my rapidly weakening body can muster. Recently in Jakarta, both Lain and I succumbed to the onslaught of bacteria that teemed in the unsanitary street stalls from which we were receiving our daily repast. At the time, and up until that point our bodies being in relatively plump, good health, it took us both a full week to recover while limiting our daily output to stumbling down the hotel stairs for breakfast. Now, after several months of relying on two minute noodles to provide us with the energy we require to paddle heavy boats into headwinds for many hours, in the tropical heat, each day our bodies are somewhat depleted of their 'safety margin' and the defences within are sadly running low. 

In Indonesian houses the toilet is slightly different to that which we, in the western world, are more accustomed to. The bowl itself is the Asian style, squat toilet, or more precisely, a hole in the ground. Toilet paper is absent, along with other advances in modern technology such as a flushing cistern. A large rectangular tub, or Mandi, holding perhaps 200L of water is built-in, or in more luxurious establishments is a sawn-off plastic barrel, beside and within easy reach of the bowl or the person squatting above it. Floating in this Mandi is a small plastic scoop with a handle not unlike a large measuring cup and it is with a well-practiced slosh into the bowl with this scoop, and a deft wipe with the left hand, that any soiled areas of ones privates are wiped clean after a visit to the kamar kecil, literally, the 'little room'. The scoop is then used to pour water into the bowl several times in an attempt to wash away the remains of one's visit. 

This rather full explanation of Indonesian plumbing is included here to give the reader some appreciation for the horror we experienced recently when we learnt that the only 'fresh' water we would be able to procure at the small village from which we desperately needed a re-supply, was directly from the Mandi of the ramshackle shop that was supplying us with far from satisfactory supplies for our continuing adventure. Using the same scoop into which so many unsanitary hands had placed themselves I tentatively poured the somewhat dubious liquid into every single one of our water bags, the liquid that was to keep us alive and paddling for the next week. 

It is without exception that every drop since that day has been boiled on our trusty stove, or upon a campfire along some deserted beach, but I continue to have my doubts that even after several rinses with sea water and other 'clean' supplies that our water bags still harbour small battalions of determined bacteria. Perhaps I should not have been surprised when one such force, undoubtedly trained by the SAS of the bacterial elite, snuck behind enemy lines (that of my body's sleeping defences) to mount a full scale war upon my alimentary canal. 

Again running extremely short of water and other supplies, we did not have the luxuries available to us that we found so essential when inflicted in such a way in Jakarta, and despite my body's obvious opposition, we proceeded to paddle fifty kilometres over the next day and a half to again top up on essential supplies (we were down to our last litre of water when we finally found the village that was nowhere near our map suggested it would be).

It was with utter exhaustion that we finally pulled up in a suitable place to rest, well away from the constant barrage of staring locals, for a chance to recuperate, and to give the antibiotics that I am now pumping into my system a chance to hurl a few scud missiles in the direction of the SAS. We have a couple of hundred kilometres to paddle before we'll need to race off for another visa run, and if it gives us a chance to top our bodies up with a few good meals, then it can't come soon enough. At least then Lain might stop referring to me, describing my cadaver-like appearance, as 'The Coat-hanger'.

Photo: Lain drinking in some healthy goodness, and hoping it it clean!

Rest Day

Invite your local neighbourhood olympic athlete, or other elite sportsperson to describe their rigorous training schedule and amongst the early morning cardio sessions, the endless pounding of pavements, you will discover the compulsory rest day. To gain the most from such exhaustive training, at least once a week the body must recuperate, it must relax and process the grilling that it is being served.

And so it is with paddling long distances, pushing aching muscles to just keep going, and forcing the body to burn away whatever energy it can locate in some long forgotten and fast dwindling stores (one day soon it might stop eating away at my non-existant bum and finish its job burning away the years-old layer of beer and pizza that still thinly clings to my belly). While our training schedules might render us more in line with a Kenyan long distance runner than a Hungarian hammer-thrower, we still need to rest.

A somewhat related phenomenon in this watery part of the world is the way the wind seems to know exactly what we are thinking. Careful not to jinx ourselves, we are cautious with what we say in regards to the weather conditions because it feels as though the wind can hear our every whisper. Unfortunately the wind is like a hard-nosed swimming coach (the fearsome Mr Houge of my youth) forever pushing us to work harder, do more, and get more and more exhausted. Should we begin a day hoping to achieve a long distance, the wind will tease us with a constant headwind. If we attempt a long crossing of a wide bay the wind might help us by blowing gently from our stern quarter for a little while, then stop dead, leaving us to crawl through the water as though it was sand in an endless desert. Should we settle in for a rest, after exhausting ourselves in a headwind all morning, the wind will respond by swinging 180˚ and blowing as a tailwind all afternoon, taunting us like a school bully. Rarely, if ever, is the wind on our side.

Typically during our paddles we aim to take a rest day on the seventh day, our Sabbath, regardless of the day of the week, but hopefully in a location that is suitably hidden that we can relax in peace. Occasionally our rest day is spent trekking into the closest town to restock supplies if we haven't been able to procure the essentials along the way. Solar panels come out to lap up the sunshine like a French nudist and rest days are spent drying out wet gear and fixing things that need a touch up. Our trusty hammocks get a workout, the billy is regularly boiled and the pages of well-thumbed books are slowly turned. Our rest days are sacred, and they recharge our bodies and minds like the batteries charging in the sun.

This week however, our routine was rattled, our seventh day was spent, rather than resting, paddling into the wind into an attempt to find a reasonable spot to stop. Unfortunately there were plenty of beautiful, secluded, sandy, reef-clad beaches that we passed, but all just around dawn, as we were gearing up to make some distance. After several thousand kilometres our standards have become quite firm, the bar has been raised quite high, and the island that we ended up on wasn't quite perfect for a rest day. This however, was something that we did not whisper to the wind and by the time we had decided to push on for one more day, or however many we needed to so that we could find a perfect rest-day location, the wind had set its schedule for the following day. Expecting, of course that we would not be paddling, the wind settled on a fresh nor-westerly, a wind that might actually assist us in our current south-east trajectory.

It must have come as a surprise to the forces of nature when, the following morning we were sipping coffee and packing away the tent well before dawn. Try as it might to reverse the schedule, to reinstate a headwind for the day, the valves had already been opened and the wind was with us. Making the most of the conditions, we paddled past many kilometres of unsuitable mangroves, salt marshes and the delta of Flores's mightiest river which, according to our hopelessly inaccurate map, is a watercourse that is unworthy of a name. Risking total exhaustion, and shortly after refuelling our bodies with the routine quantity of one and a half packets of instant noodles, complete with the 7 vitamins and minerals that the packet claims they contain (although I suspect these said minerals are in fact ingredients in the ink stamped on the plastic wrapper) we headed out for a long, 20km (roughly 3.5 hours) crossing of a wide and shallow bay. Even this act of defiance against the wind, a red rag waved in front of a bull, could not tempt the wind to taunt us with a headwind.

By the time we landed, on a perfect, quiet, white sandy beach under the shade of tall open trees, with a grand view of the surrounding mountains, we had paddled for over eight hours and covered fifty kilometres - not exactly the rest we had hoped for. After eight long days since our last rest day, and with roughly half of Flores behind us, we had tricked the wind, and found our perfect location for a well-deserved day of rest. Bring it on!

Photo: Juz blogging away in his hammock/office on a well-deserved rest day.

Captain Caveman

So far our paddling in Indonesia has been broken into reasonably digestible chunks, like the tinned sardines we mix into our rice for dinner. Red tape, restocking, rest days and the very occasional cheeky beer allow us to focus on small steps at a time, rather than being dwarfed by the big picture.

On our very first day of the Archipaddlo adventure, when we had paddled our dangerously overloaded boats all of about 5km from Trinity Beach, Cairns, to Double Island, we whipped out the map to see if we could make sense of the massive task we had set ourselves. We couldn't - the map showed a vast coastline with islands dotted about and vast waterways separating them. To say we were both just a little terrified may be a slight understatement. Now, quite a few months and several thousand kilometres later we are not so effected by the stress of imagining how far away the end point might be. We have learnt to deal with what is on offer at the time, and just aim for some campsite at the end of the day.

It is, however a reality of any sort of travel where similar places are visited regularly that spectacular sights can become ho-hum, the traveller blasé to the wonders they are witnessing. Many years ago, when travelling through Europe, I found that after a while it didn't matter how many grand cathedrals, ruined castles or ancient walled cities I ventured to, they all started to look the same. And so it is with tropical, white sandy, coral-fringed beaches, unfortunately they all start blending together.

Perhaps it is a symptom of Lain and I becoming a bit more proficient in existing out of kayaks in Indonesian waters. We have learnt the finer points of negotiating with little old ladies in roadside markets, to supply us with greener bananas, tomatoes and cucumbers that might last a few days longer stuffed into the hot, sweaty storage hatch of our boats. We have enough water and gas, rice and noodles to last us a week without ever visiting a town, and we have the capacity to sneak silently into the tiniest and most protected beaches that even the local dugouts struggle to reach.

Diversity is therefore the key to our predicament, the ingredient that will prevent us taking this brilliant place for granted. The coastline of north-western Flores, when spied on through Google-Earth goggles, appears to be a natural wonderland, a kayakers dream. The reality is pretty much spot on, this place is beautiful. To make sure we keep our eye on it though we have been mixing things up, and doing our best to do something different every day. In the last few days we have been pushed ashore early in the day by a strong easterly wind, meaning our daily distance is well below average, so our campsites need to be comfortable enough to absorb an afternoon of recuperating, coffee drinking and hammock swinging.

A night spent in the mangroves was a stark comparison to the white sandy beaches we have become a little accustomed to. Squadrons of midges, released from their hangars in waves attacked their victims with regular raids to any exposed skin not thickly coated in Rid. Escaping the mangroves and the extensive sea grass beds at low tide was also an adventure, something different - this is good.

We snuck past several villages into a blustery headwind to find a tiny, isolated pocket of rainforest where the cool shade of the tall trees allowed us to swing in our hammocks in the cool breeze of the afternoon, undetected by the many passing fishing boats. Another camp was on a deserted beach strewn with huge grey rocks, giving the whole place the appearance of a film set for a chick flick romance film.

Tonight, however, is perhaps the winner for something different. We are sleeping in a cave! For the fifth night in a row we have landed on an isolated beach, far away from any town. When we arrived this morning after four hours of slogging into headwinds, Lain located the entrance to a low cave at the back of the beach. Cool and quiet, we spent the day relaxing in this peaceful underground cavern and tonight we are sleeping in the tent, in the cave, far away from the rest of the world, and the normal routine of more and more beaches.

We'll keep shaking things up - I wonder what is in store for tomorrow.

Photo: Captain Caveman - Juz admiring the sunset from within the tent, within our cave.

This is rubbish!

Try this: Take 220 million people, give them huge quantities of plastic packaging wrapped around every known commodity, and do not provide any form of rubbish collection or waste management. What do you reckon would happen?

Unfortunately the "do the right thing" message is struggling to gain a following in this sprawling archipelago. Children throw plastic wrappers on the ground where they have finished their sweets, shopkeepers push a mound of plastic generated by their store into the adjoining creek and families play in their yard where plastic wrappers lie on the ground as though they were leaves from a tree. Rarely is there any attempt to clean things up.

Once the little port and fishing village of Labuan Bajo, in the west of Flores, would have been a dreamy slice of tropical perfection. Cascading fresh water flowed down the steep hillside among rainforest giants to the crystal clear, shallow waters of the protected harbour where coral silently filtered their share of the nutrients and fish leapt from the water in huge schools. Now the creeks run black, their unimaginable odour that of sewerage and filth, their banks lined with compressed rubbish, awaiting the next wet season deluge. Much of the coral is gone, the fish have been eaten and the surface of the water is a sludge of plastic wrappers and other refuse. Paradise is lost.

Even in the Komodo region, a World Heritage Area, and the least populated place we have found in Indonesia, every beach is backed by a smattering of rubbish. Plastic bottles, chip packets, bits and pieces of all shape and colour lie scattered above the high tide line and blow about in the wind. Drifting through the crystal clear water where we are paddling are countless plastic bags and other scraps. Usually we'll know a town is around the next point by the rubbish in the water, drifting on the currents. Reefs catch the odd plastic trophy and store them for eternity. Mangrove forests filter the oceans and mounds of plastic build up behind them.

On several occasions the rubbish has got serious. As we set up camp on Moyo Island I collected a hypodermic needle from the beach around our camp and several small vials of some medical who-knows-what that had bobbed in on the tide. After our second day of scurrying about barefoot in our magical camp on Gili Mauan I brought my camp chair into the tent in the evening to discover the 2-inch needle of some years old hypodermic spiking into the base of the chair. Thankfully we have survived so far without any puncture wounds.

So how do we deal with our waste? This has been of concern to me since we began planning Archipaddlo. In QLD we minimised our rubbish by preparing and packaging all our meals in vacuum sealed bags. The sum total of a week's rubbish fitted into a sandwich bag. Wherever we could we took this to a town (Cooktown and TI) for disposal. In a few spots we burned our rubbish or buried it deep in a hole I was never certain of the best strategy so I mixed it up a bit.

In Indonesia we cannot avoid the excessive packaging. Every morsel of food we consume is wrapped in too much plastic. I suspect that if Indonesians worked out a way to individually package grains of rice then they would give it a go. Even if we collect every scrap and take them to the next town for disposal they would be thrown on the beach and burnt in small fires, smouldering until they have oozed their plasticky mess into the sand where the children play. So we carefully burn most of our rubbish, far away from children, and on hot fires to incinerate the remains. Then we bury the ashes. Typically this is done on a beach surrounded by hundreds of other plastic bits and pieces, but at least our own rubbish has been removed.

Is this the right thing to do? I just don't know. The problem of rubbish in this country is massive. The scars on the environment are permanent. Some plastic bottles are recycled here but this is not a solution. We try our hardest to minimise our own impact on this beautiful place. We only wish that the people who call this home would do the same.

Castaways and Manta Rays

It was probably all those re-runs of Gilligan's Island, or perhaps Tom Hanks and his volleyball, that fuelled our imagination but I suspect at one time everybody has imagined how they might feel to be shipwrecked and washed up on the white sandy beach of some remote and uninhabited island. Komodo's violent currents did their best to tear our kayaks apart and although we survived without being dashed upon the shore we certainly found a true castaway island, Gili Mauan, in the heart of this incredible World Heritage area.

Imagine pouring half an ocean's water through a narrow channel, then reversing the flow every 6 hours. Swirling and ferocious currents rip cliffs into the rocky islands and the remnants of once-proud islands lie submerged, terrorising the flow and kicking enormous and very unpredictable eddies and whirlpools into the current. That any islands have survived the torment unleashed upon them by the relentless oceans is truly a miracle, especially the tiny Gili Mauan which lies in the centre of the flow, splitting the current like a lone traffic cop in the middle of Times Square in rush hour. The massive current is so precisely split that at one point on the beach the current will tow one foot east and the other west.

Gili Mauan became our home for three days, as we took an essential break from many long days of tough paddling. Shady trees kept the beating rays at bay and their limbs held our hammocks in comfortably sagging smiles. The 'fresh' water we had collected in Komodo village came from a very suspect source but we had plenty of firewood to boil and boil our billy, and rehydrate with too many coffees.

Anemone fields harbouring thousands of 'Nemo' fish wrapped around the island's shallow coral shelves and during the short slack tide we watched the fins of manta rays cruising the deeper channel torn into the reef at the end of the tiny island. Eagles soared over head and dipped into the shallows to collect a feed while baby reef sharks patrolled the shore searching for a fish that had swum too far from the school.

It was the mantas though that really caught our attention. We calculated the tides carefully so that right at the turn of the current when we had a slight chance that we weren't going to be whisked out into an endless whirlpool, we donned our masks and jumped in for a snorkel. And we hit the jackpot. Fifty metres off the beach we swam into a massive manta ray, happily cruising the warm water for millions of microscopic morsels. Now when I say massive, a fully grown manta would have a wingspan somewhere up around the 5 metre mark - an imposing creature indeed.

Although manta rays are technically fish it doesn't feel right to tar them with the same brush. Mantas fly through the water with a grace and ease that truly is one of nature's wonders. We swam with this giant of the deep for several minutes, often passing within a metre or so of its gently flapping wings, staring into its enormous eyes and watching the tiny specs of life being vacuumed into the manta's wide open mouth. As it silently flew off into the deep we were left bobbing at the surface, dumbfounded by the spectacle. Yet that was only the beginning.

Over the next half an hour twenty or thirty mantas came cruising and swirling around us in the calm water of our deserted island. Sometimes five or six at a time would circle us, flying around us doing aerobatics like biplanes at an air-show. Everywhere we looked enormous mantas, with their black wings and white bellies, eyed us off as though they were as excited to see us as we were them. When we finally flipped back to the beach to escape the rapidly building current we were both speechless from the spectacle we had just witnessed. It was brilliant.

There are some moments in time that will be impossible to forget and swimming with a school of giant manta rays in the tropical sunshine of our own castaway island will be a moment I'll gladly carry with me for ever.

Photos: Gili Mauan, our campsite was in the trees behind the beach. Juz and Lain loving life after swimming with a school of manta rays.