Smooth Sailing: An Indonesian Pinisi Cruise

Somewhere in the waters of eastern Indonesia’s Komodo National Park, I tried to steady my camera while bouncing over the waves on a motorized rubber boat making circles around the Ayana Lako di’a, the early morning sunlight reflecting off its gleaming whitewashed hull. It was May 2019 and a last-minute work assignment had brought me an overnight cruise aboard this nine-cabin ship by the local Ayana hotel brand. The name Lako di’a means “safe journey” in the Manggarai language of nearby Flores — a long, thin, and mountainous island slightly larger than Connecticut (or about the size of Montenegro).

I’d first come here with Bama at the end of an overland trip through Flores a decade ago this month. Both of us have fond memories of that time spent on a humble boat called the Fammasena, which set out from the charming if somewhat ramshackle port town of Labuan Bajo (“Bajau Harbor”). We encountered Komodo dragons in the wild during a hike, then learned to snorkel in the waters off Komodo Island’s Pink Beach, where the colorful soft corals and anemones seemed to dance in the current. The next morning, Bama and I witnessed the first rays of sun peeking out over the primeval landscape while anchored in a sheltered bay. We relished every hot meal served on board — even if they were nothing special to write home about — and felt content with the narrow beds in the tiny cabins below deck. I was especially thankful for the functional bathroom at the stern. The closest things we had to luxury, if you could call them that, were the makeshift daybeds in a shaded area at the bow and the deck chairs atop the Fammasena’s flat roof.

So, I had to pinch myself when, less than two months after reporting on the five-star Ayana Komodo resort, I was invited back to try out its new 54-meter (177-foot) luxury pinisi schooner. These two-masted Indonesian sailing vessels are a specialty of South Sulawesi’s Konjo shipbuilders, who use precious knowledge and skills passed down through the generations to create and assemble the sturdy craft on the beaches of their home island. Lako di’a, of course, is not the standard pinisi used for transporting all kinds of cargo between the Indonesian islands. It was custom-built to be about 50 percent longer, and kitted out with creature comforts that were entirely absent on the Fammasena.

My twin cabin aboard the Ayana Lako di’a

Seating outside the main lounge on the ship’s upper deck

The tiny isle of Pulau Kelor

An interesting plant growing beside the trail

Looking back toward mainland Flores from the top of Pulau Kelor

The Ayana Lako di’a with her sails furled

The Lako di’a felt much more like a wealthy friend’s private yacht than a floating hotel. I settled into my snug but high-ceilinged cabin as the ship’s engines hummed to life, the large windows framing the greenery of the conical island opposite the Ayana resort. A flatscreen TV — not that one would ever need it — faced the twin beds, and a sliding glass door opened out to a private balcony with an armchair and cushioned seating nook. I gaped at the features of the wood-clad ensuite bathroom off to the side: a Japanese toilet, lighted mirrors above the patterned brass sink, fluffy towels, and a rain shower in a separate booth by the window.

I soon left my quarters to explore the rest of the Lako di’a. On the upper deck, the door to the bridge was wide open and I gingerly stepped inside to take stock of the various screens, knobs, dials, keyboards, and charts arranged around the ship’s wheel. Captain Nasrul, a serious-faced but friendly man, invited me to sit down and have a go at the controls. “Oh, there’s no need, Captain,” I politely replied, “I’m too rough.” Behind the bridge lay a well-furnished dining room and lounge with sofas and padded armchairs. At the back of the space, a spiral staircase topped by a hatch led to an astroturfed roof deck, where soft loungers and a six-seater dining table had been laid out.

I wasn’t traveling alone. Joining me aboard the ship was Tama, one of our in-house photographers, and three Ayana employees including Beauty, a Jakarta transplant based full-time at the resort. The other two had flown in from the group’s main office in Bali: a Taiwanese marketing and events person by the name of Caroline, and graphic designer Yudie, who’d brought along a drone to capture aerial stills and video footage of the vessel. We all happened to be of similar ages and quickly bonded through relaxed conversations and communal meals.

On the pier leading to Manjarite Beach

Alfresco seating on the upper deck of Ayana Lako di’a

The fading light of day

A dramatic sunset in Komodo National Park

A smaller pinisi schooner in front of low-lying Koaba Island

The spacious roof deck aboard the Lako di’a

Inside the ship’s plush indoor lounge and dining room

I also spent some time talking to Ferdinandus, the cheerful cruise officer from Ruteng, a highland town about four hours up the road from Labuan Bajo. While crew members prepared for a three-course lunch on the teakwood foredeck, he pointed out the humped shape of Pulau Kukusan, which shares its name with the small, jungled isle in front of the Ayana resort. Kukusan, I learned, are the conical woven bamboo baskets traditionally used to steam rice in Indonesia. “These islands were given their names by fishermen like the Bugis and Bajau,” Ferdinandus added. “We Manggarai prefer growing crops as we are people of the mountains.”

The folks at Ayana’s Bali office had initially planned for a two-night sojourn, but a last-minute booking by a group of actual guests meant it had to be cut short. That turned out to be a blessing in disguise: we were compensated for the lost night with an unforgettable day trip into the mountains ahead of the cruise, taking in traditional Manggarai villages and spiderweb-shaped paddy fields. Though our abbreviated itinerary aboard the Lako di’a covered much less ground than I did in 2014, it still offered a small glimpse of the area’s natural wonders.

After lunch, the ship’s tender took the five of us to the tiny island of Pulau Kelor. We scrambled up its small hill via a deeply eroded trail and surveyed the views in all directions. Immediately to the west was Pulau Kukusan and its sole fishing village; to the east and south rose the scrubby hills of mainland Flores, among them a striking pyramidal mount that loomed above our next destination, Manjarite Beach. There, none of us were tempted to walk down the 200-meter pier to the sand — instead we donned our snorkels and swam over a healthy reef of staghorn corals in vibrant shades of blue, purple, and even lime green. A chocolate chip sea star lay in the shallows as Moorish idols and striped surgeonfish darted by.

Back on the Lako di’a, we retreated to our cabins for a shower before gathering on the rooftop deck at sundown. The vessel had dropped anchor near mangrove-shrouded Koaba Island, and with fruit punch and canapés in hand, our group watched clouds of flying foxes departing their roosts in search of prey. That night, the mizzen mast was floodlit in changing colors. Crew members had also strung up fairy lights around the table where we’d enjoy a candlelit alfresco dinner. An episode of pure, unscripted magic followed the meal: Tama and Yudie were both musically gifted, and they took turns strumming on the ship’s guitar as we sang Indonesian pop-rock ballads and international hits. I’ll always remember how blissful it was to make music beneath the stars with new friends at sea.

Ferdinandus, the ship’s cruise officer; the Ayana Lako di’a in the early morning

Breakfast time; Captain Nasrul (standing) and the first mate tending to the anchor

A cloudy morning at Pulau Messah

Salted fish being air-dried beside the wharf

Local kids waved goodbye as we departed Pulau Messah

Another view of the Lako di’a in the waters of Komodo National Park

Breakfast the next morning consisted of fresh tropical fruit and cereal, poached eggs and bite-sized pastries. Then it was time for an excursion to Pulau Messah — a densely populated speck of land home to about 700 families with 1,500 residents of voting age, all crammed into one predominantly Bajau settlement named Desa Pasir Putih (“White Sand Village”). Arriving on a wharf at the island’s southern end, we saw freshly caught fish being gutted, butterflied, and salted by the local men, who laid out their catch on bamboo planks to dry in the salty sea air. Deni, a young crew member aboard the Lako di’a, grew up here, and he guided us along unpaved lanes with free-roaming Muscovy ducks, stopping briefly outside his family home to share more details about daily life on Pulau Messah. Like most other houses in the village, it was raised on stilts to anticipate freak high tides during the wet season from December to early April, when floodwaters can reach just below the knee.

From a vantage point up on the island’s sole patch of high ground, we spotted boatbuilders at work and heard the thump of their wooden mallets. Pulau Messah’s hardy residents make their living from the sea: many are fishermen, pearl hunters, or aquaculture farmers (some supply lobsters to the Ayana resort). We soon learned about the sobering lack of public services: there is no health clinic and just one elementary school. Deni told us he had no choice but to attend junior high and high school in Labuan Bajo, an hour’s boat ride away. Other basic needs were lacking too. “There isn’t a freshwater spring,” Deni continued. “This island is all sand. We have to bring in drinkable water from Menjaga [a mainland village near Manjarite Beach].” Nor did Pulau Messah have a stable source of electricity. When we visited, Indonesia’s national power company was about to install a small-scale solar farm on the hill.

A pod of dolphins swam alongside our rubber boat for part of the journey back to the Lako di’a. I had already packed my bags, for the Ayana resort’s glass-bottomed vessel was now on its way to pick us up. All too soon it was time to bid farewell to Captain Nasrul, Ferdinandus, Deni, and the rest of the smiling crew. (If only the cruise could have lasted just a few hours longer…) That afternoon, following a light lunch ashore, Tama and I reunited with Yanus, the same driver who had taken us into the mountains. This time we sped along Flores’ northern coast to Tanjung Boleng village, where a boatman ferried the three of us to a jungled peninsula on the same bay. From the wooden pier, a short, signposted trail led to the not-so-secret sea cave and swimming hole known as Gua Rangko. We descended the bamboo ladder at Gua Rangko’s mouth and stopped in our tracks: at that hour, the sun reached so deep into the cave it illuminated a patch of the clear turquoise water and the sandy bottom. Reflected daylight danced across the stalactites on the ceiling. Tama clambered down the steep, rocky slope, picking his way around stalagmites to reach the pool’s edge for a relaxing swim. It was a final treat before our flight home the next morning.

Five years on, remembering that short but sweet cruise aboard the Ayana Lako di’a feels especially poignant. A similar trip could never happen again with the same group of people. Beauty, Caroline, and Yudie have since moved on to greener pastures. Just a few months later, Tama lost his life in a freak traffic accident while riding his scooter to work. He was a kind-hearted man and I’m thankful I had the chance to get to know him a bit better outside the office. No matter how far we go or how magical the destination, it is oftentimes the people we travel with who make all the difference. ◊

Aboard the small boat that took us to the swimming cave of Gua Rangko

The rather beautiful landing pier for Gua Rangko

A chill-out pavilion by the rocks

Pointing the way; swimmers at Gua Rangko

A bamboo ladder leads down from the cave entrance

Gua Rangko is a hidden wonderland carved out by water

One last look at the swimming hole

Stopping on a sandbank in the bay outside the village of Tanjung Boleng