To approach Kupang, we have to travel down an ever narrowing channel, as usual, the sun is out, and the side of the channel shelter us from the strong breeze we have had the last few weeks; the result is the temperature out on deck skyrockets. As the jobs that are needed to be done are finished before we get to port are completed, more and more of the crew come out on deck to watch the approach of civilisation. Into the rising sun, a chemical plant can be seen, throwing thick black fumes into the azure sky. Small fishing boats head out at the start of another day, whilst on shore as we pass small villages, the cooking fires are already sending thin wisps of smoke into the heavens. Kupang is the main port in West Timor, the Indonesian part, and once was a haven for back-packers from Australia and New Zealand on their way to Asia and beyond. Since the was in ’99, few tourists now come here, although there are bars, hotels and all the things needed to have a great holiday. The only thing really giving the game away is the faded colours and the peeling paint. The locals are so friendly, and so welcoming, and they just would love to have more visitors, but they know it is unlikely to happen.
The arrival of a ship, especially one registered in Europe attracts a small crowd, lines are thrown as we near the dock, ropes are attached, and slowly we inch to the dockside. Customs officials and Naval officers come aboard and check that we have been where we said we have, and then the usual jobs of a port call swing into action; refuelling; re-supplies and crew change. Street vendors come down, laden with fresh food, newspapers and sweet tea. Others come down with shoulders full of carpets and rugs, these people walk the length of the town trailing the trickle of tourists that still come here. These are a sad bunch of people, right at the bottom of the pile; one has some strange mouth infection that makes his gums appear orange: we see him everywhere we go. Of this I promise, if I see him at next port call, I will buy something from him; his eyes haunt me even now. As we wait to OK to be allowed some shore leave, a ferry arrives in the next dock. Large crowds await it’s arrival, and all on the side facing the shore, the passengers eagerly look out for friends and family, sometimes four or five people deep. The ferry slightly lists to one side due to the passengers. At least form a distance this ferry looks in quite good shape, and seems to have plenty of life rafts; it is not always the case around here, as sadly we know.
At last we are allowed off, a quick walk past the locals and out onto the main road out of the port, and we wait the arrival of one of the thousands of small taxi vans that get the people in Indonesia around. One pulls up, a teenager hanging out of the open door agrees a fee of 5,000 rupiah to take us the Teddy’s Bar on the beach near the centre of town. Each taxi ahs room for maybe 8 small people, it is usual to see sometimes nearly double that, with others hanging out the door.
The drive into the town takes us up the hill overlooking the port, past the chemical factory, past shacks erected in groves of trees, and past more permanent houses. Every mile or so, the taxi stops to let more people on, or some off. At first we thought we were sitting on seats, but as Bob Marley is pumped out, we realise they are bass speakers. The driver turns round and gives us a grin and with the universal sign two thumbs up, asking if we liked the music. Each taxi is decorated differently, many with western women in various states of partial undress; some with names of leading western brands, many with un-necessary spoilers, go-faster stripes and super wide wheels. We pass many more houses, and small shops, each selling small bottles of cooking oil and cigarettes, some with larger colourful banners showing westernised Indonesians with the branded product; whilst underneath, the truth is what the product is being sold from is akin to a garden shed. We all aspire to something, I guess. As the hill flattens out, we head down to the beach, more houses and shacks are there, in-between the coconut palms and other tropical trees. A small bridge carries us over the river, littered with small fishing boats and huge amounts of trash that is just thrown there. Just in case, we hold our breath too. Over the bridge we pass down a one way street, lined with small shops selling phone cards, jewellery and hundreds of other gaudy and bright things. Walking along the side of the road, you have to be careful of taxis pulling up and nearly running you over. The taxi stops at one end of an alley, at the other end you can see a square open up, and on the other side, palm trees and bright banners advertising the local beer, Bintang. Bintang is a beer, it’s served cold, sometimes, and has an odd taste; but when you’ve been at sea for four weeks, the first hit of that beer is something else. It also comes in family sized one and a half pint bottles, which don’t seem to last as long as they should.
This time, the numerous tables around Teddy’s are crowded with what looks like Europeans, but are in fact Australians. It seems a regatta is due in port today, after covering the 450 miles from Darwin, the Aussies have the same idea as us, and head straight for the bar. New friendships are quickly made, jokes made about accents and the universal sign of friendship; can I get you another beer? Last time we were here, it was dark, and so nothing could be seen outside the bright lights that illuminate the seating area; but now in daytime, we see it’s in a prime location, right on the beach, a line of palm trees mark the promenade. Whilst just off-shore, dozens of yachts and motor launches are at anchor whilst their owners, sunburnt from the journey, re-hydrate in the bar. As the sun goes down, we walk to the beach to watch the great free show, the sky turns a millions shades of reds, oranges and pinks before turning to deep blue and then black. To the left, kids jump off a cliff, as we look on, the sun sets right behind them.
After a few beers, we think about something to eat. A local ‘fixer’ named Charlie can organise private cars, taxis to wherever; would we like a massage? Sexy girls, very cheap? We say we would like something to eat; we had heard of a good fish place Moche Moche, does he know it? Yes, and he can get us there, no problems, for 50,000 he organises two 4x4s and off into the night we go. Night time brings out more street vendors; people with handcarts filled with satay and other wonderfully fragrant foods are wheeled out. Each cart has either a small generator and sets of festive lights, or a couple of hurricane lamps to illuminate for the customers. Large crowds of people wander in and out, looking at what is on sale; whilst at some of the larger stalls, seated areas are provided, and families eat together; all on the side of the street.
Moche Moche is a fantastic place, outside braziers of hot coals on which the fish are cooked, split in half in wire containers: to one side, a small, guy with a knife half as tall as he is, splits the fresh snapper and quickly guts them. We select a fish each, and a dozen or two huge shrimp, and find a table. The owners wife comes out and takes our order for rice and drink. Not surprisingly, more Bintang is required. In the corner, an ever-present karaoke machine is powered up, and the owner gets up to sing some Frank Sinatra songs. One time, I look up, and he is looking at me and shouting Danny something, and holding out the mic. I realise, he wants me to sing Danny Boy. Not being Irish, it’s not a song I know, and I say I don’t know the words.
Once the fish is cooked, it taken behind the counter inside, and a mix of herbs and spices are put on each side of the fish, before each one is brought to our table. The snapper is wonderful, not quite sure what the herbs are, but it is just fabulous. I ask where the bathroom is, and are pointed towards the stairs down at one side of the room. Once at the bottom of the steps, I find myself in the family’s living room; children are watching cartoons on the TV; it is a normal living room, sofa, pictures on the wall, nice carpets: and at one side are the public toilets. The children don’t even look up when customers wander down the steps any more.
Charlie is waiting outside; he knows a karaoke disco bar if we would like to go; for another 50,000 more 4x4 arrive and whisk us to a ‘hotel’. Inside are more westerners, including more of our crew, and it is clear it is some kind of brothel. Girls are dancing on stage in their underwear, and we are encouraged to join them. We head to the bar; more Bintang, and just stand and watch the scene unfold. Those who had started to drink at breakneck speed were slowing down, and one has fallen asleep against one of the speakers as more Sinatra booms out, accompanied by a local singing along.
I have no idea how late it is, I know I need my bed. I ask at the door if I can get a taxi. He waves, and another 4x4 pulls up. I ask to take me to the port, and for another 50,00 he will take me. The streets now are empty, no street vendors, no food stalls; nothing. Oddly, for a port, there is no security, just during the day, and so we drive onto the dock, beside the gangplank, and I get out. Tomorrow is a new day, and we sail at midday. Another four weeks at sea, no beers, no crowds and no karaoke.
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