It sure looks beautiful here. Picture: Jenny Hewett
I’M STANDING on a nutmeg farm in Indonesia’s idyllic Banda Islands, staring into the gentle eyes of a man who has experienced horrors no one should.
An underwater world rich with pristine coral and marine life is all that separates us from the conical backdrop beyond. Gunung Api, which translates to ‘fire mountain’ in Bahasa, looks poised for a performance, but the show won’t go on today.
It’s hard to fathom that in this small village 17 years ago, during the religiously-motivated Indonesian uprising of 1999, 13th-generation Dutch descendant and heir to the country’s largest nutmeg plot Ponky van den Broecke returned to his home to find a bloodbath.
Then a Christian, his wife and young children had been brutally hacked to death at the hands of Muslim neighbours. Sitting on a goldmine of spices, an unheard of 4000 trees compared to the standard 40 or 50, and of a minority faith, Ponky was an easy target.
Because here, on Australia’s doorstep, money really does “grow on trees”.
Ponky van den Broecke. Picture: Sue Hewett
It’s far from the first time violence has struck this fertile volcanic paradise known as the Spice Islands. A source of murder, mayhem and greed since the early 1500s, its history is marred in tragedy.
The Banda Islands belong to what’s known locally as the Malukus, a remote archipelago forming the historic Spice Route, one of the world’s oldest trading destinations and the birthplace of nutmeg, cloves and mace.
Gunung Api. Picture: Jenny Hewett
Plenty of blood has been shed over the centuries here as the Portuguese, Dutch, Spanish, British and Arabs all fought over the islands for control of the lucrative spice trade. Columbus was in fact looking for these islands when he stumbled upon the Americas.
Portuguese explorer Magellan never found glory either, killed in battle in the Philippines before his fleet landed here in 1521 without their captain.
A ruthless fight for control of land that played out like Game of Thrones over centuries, and the Spice Islands are dotted with remnants of colonial-era forts, canons and stories of murder, war and human cruelty.
Between 1999 and 2002, conflict in the region killed thousands and displaced tens of thousands of people.
A lot of blood was shed here. Picture: Jenny Hewett
The atmosphere is no doubt less hostile these days, with most locals turning their attention to farming of what’s left of the spices, their cloves and nutmeg harvests often seen drying in the sun.
Fast forward almost 500 years since the colonisation of this area and Coca Cola are now the biggest buyers of nutmeg in the world. And there you have one of the many mystery ingredients inside a can of coke.
Yep, that’s nutmeg. Picture: Jenny Hewett
I had sailed into the Bandas a day earlier on-board the Ombak Putih, a 42m, 12-cabin, pimped-up traditional wooden phinisi, or boat, commandeered by ocean adventurers SeaTrek. Based out of Bali and equipped with a 14-man crew, they journey to some of the archipelago’s most remote corners.
There’s a fascinating history here. Picture: Jenny Hewett
Over 12 days, we planned to retrace the Spice Route, sailing from Ambon in the east, via the Banda Islands in the south and up to Tidore and Ternate, which sit between Sulawesi and west Papua. And despite the horrific history, there’s beauty everywhere.
We departed from Ambon in the afternoon and sailed through the night, but a solid 12 hours of nausea on rough seas had me seriously questioning my judgment to abandon land. The cook served up steak frites to the few remaining upright. I managed to sink a few bites before knocking myself out with the seasickness drugs provided.
Happier above deck. Picture: Jenny Hewett
Unable to face the rollercoaster-like situation in our cabins below (where I soon discovered that stepping into the bathroom is like walking into a bad acid trip), many of us slept above deck until we were lulled into the calmer waters the next morning.
The next afternoon we set sail for the nearby island of Run, a narrow sliver of land which the Brits famously traded with the Dutch for Manhattan in the 1600s. Our welcome party was excited to see us bule (or foreigners) and lined the pier in anticipation, their modest candy-coloured homes reminiscent of parts of the Portuguese coast.
But we didn’t stay long. We had places to see and islands to be. While most mornings involved a visit to a village, something that loses its novelty quite quickly, the afternoons were a highlight, with options to snorkel from one of the tenders or laze about on board. Following a buffet of fish, salad and Indonesian jackfruit curry, we suited up.
Like clockwork, Ombak Putih’s wing men — two inflatable speed boats — were hoisted down and we piled in, leaving a wake behind us as we zipped off into the distance in search of underwater worlds more beautiful than our own.
It was all very James Bond and the irony wasn’t lost on me. Snorkelling up to the beach, I took the opportunity to emerge from the shallows in my bikini for a photo, snorkel in hand, flicking my hair with all the false bravado of a Bond girl while our elegant ship bobbed off in the distance. We were the only souls here (or should I say spies), so it’s unlikely I’d blow my cover.
A Bond girl. Picture: Jenny Hewett
My feet found Molana Island, a particularly breathtaking slice of deserted white sand sprinkled with trees and partially submerged in an effervescent, salty, aquamarine-hued cocktail. I lingered in the moment and the sheer remoteness of our location until it was time to reboard the ship and sail on into the night.
With a glass of white wine in hand as the sun set on the upper deck, we cruised on, ending our journey with tours of Tidore and Ternate, a cluster of volcanic islands in the north east of Indonesia, the last stop on the Spice Route. But before we got there, there was one thing I had been meaning to do.
It was morning and the Ombak Putih was due to sail across the equator in two minutes. The crew were counting down to something big. As the boat slowed to a snail pace, creaking softly, we all took our positions.
The captain was first off. We followed his cue, jumping overboard in unison, our shrieks dissipating into a muffle as we plunged into the soupy sea below and resurfaced in fits of laughter.
Taking a leap of faith. Picture: Jenny Hewett
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