The agony and ecstasy of sailing in Indonesia

Damaso Reyes, Contributor, Makassar, South Sulawesi

Life in the city has numerous advantages. There are amusements, opportunities and conveniences that are simply unavailable in smaller towns. Still, for every yin there's a yang. For every reason there is to love the big city, there is another reason to yearn for the pleasures of a slower, quieter sort of life. Which could explain the unbroken string of taillights leading from Jakarta to Puncak every weekend.

So when the opportunity arose to get out of Jakarta, the congested, polluted mega-city of 12 million and go sailing along tropical beaches off the coast of Sulawesi, it seemed to be a godsend. And it was.

Assuming there would be no need for an umbrella, I left it in my closet in Jakarta. Of course once we got out on the water it proceeded to rain for three days straight. And not any wimpy rain either but a hard, cold, driving rain that sent the shivering crew and passengers below decks for much of the time.

Sure there was still scuba diving but there would be no laying out on the deck to tan. The week before the weather had been hot and spectacular. The jungles of Selayar island simmered and the water was warm and clear.

Now it was almost cold above decks. The boat, which was going out for the first time, leaked like a sieve. Beds were wet, patience was running thin. I was starting to yearn for the city.

And then the clouds broke. The sun appeared for the first time in days. The forests shone and the unspoiled beaches sparkled again. The leaks stopped and the sunblock emerged from the suitcases. Fish were speared and that I built my first beach bonfire.

The full moon rose high into the sky, backlighting our boat, Marco Polo, a tradition Phinisi ship, the kind of double-masted schooner that has been built and sailed by the Bugis people of South Sulawesi for hundreds of years.

The wine flowed and the fish grilled and the breeze brought the smell of jasmine down the beach. There were no distractions -- except for the occasional call on the captain's satellite phone from his wife in Jakarta. The water was so warm and clear if prompted a moonlit swim.

As I did the backstroke in the Flores Sea, I could not help but think how far away, both physically and mentally I was from Jakarta.

At midnight, a few of us were on the deck of the Marco Polo, watching the Selayar island pass by as we headed back to Sulawesi where we would disembark and head back to the port city of Makassar, four hours away by car.

The next day found our group huddled in a Toyota Kijang on our way back to Makassar. The rains had returned in force. The roads were slick but this did not deter our driver, who navigated the curves and hills at more than 70 kilometers per hour.

What did deter him was a series of washed out roads that were flooded chest deep. Forced from our first car, we struggled on, managing to hire a huge cargo truck that could ford any submerged road. Of course there was not room enough in the cab for six people so two of us would be in the bed of the truck, which was empty.

Or so we thought.

Bags were loaded and we climbed aboard. We were crossing the first of several flooded roads when a fellow passenger asked me a fateful question.

"What is that smell?" Indeed, what was it? Ammonia wafted up from the bed of the truck as the rains pelted us from above. Before long a consensus was reached. In our rush to find transport and stay dry, our captain had managed to hire a vehicle that happened to be an empty manure truck. And by the smell of things, it hadn't been empty for very long. Torn between the freezing rain and the fumes that were accumulating under the tarp we had taken cover under to stay dry, there was no lesser of two evils. We were stuck between manure and a wet place.

For the next four hours we performed a delicate balance between the cold, driving rain and the sickening fumes of the truck. When we couldn't stand one, we switched to the other. Toes and fingers went numb. Clothes were drenched. You got the feeling that you would never truly be clean again, no matter how many baths you took. Every pause in the vehicle's progress was met with a torrent of profanity that was only obscured by the sound of the rain, which never dipped below torrential.

The sun had long set before we walked the streets of Makassar again, wet, rank, but pleased at our own ability to survive. Plans were made, rooms at the hotel were booked. Clothes were changed and within 30 minutes or so of stepping from the back of the truck, our feet were being scalded by the water of a far too hot tub at the local Japanese baths.

Massages were ordered and by the end of the night I had almost forgotten how I arrived in Makassar. As I drifted off to sleep the smell of jasmine was almost palpable and I dreamed of a beach where the fish was fresh, the water warm and the moon was as high as I had ever seen it.