Sitting on a gold mine
I’m sitting on the hard wooden seat trying to stay out of the way. The cries of the men straining at the oars of the peledang and its wild pitching make me feel like a memsaab riding a sea elephant.
I’m hoping they don’t yell ‘Baleo! Baleo!’, as they do when they see a whale spouting. I’m not sure I could handle the blood and gore. It’s too early in the day; death deserves the dignity of sunset.
The crew breaks into a chant to boost the energy needed to haul the handmade wooden boat through the choppy seas. Two men in the prow wield circular paddles. Another stands on a plank projecting from the prow with a long harpoon, ready to spring. If a whale is spotted, he will leap onto its back, slashing and cutting, unless the whale contorts itself to hurl him off or takes flight, pulling the boat towards Australia.
Whaling culture
The village of Lamalera is among the few traditional whaling villages to be given the okay by the International Whaling Commission. It sits in a scenic bay in the south of Lembata Island (also known as Lomblen), one of the Lesser Sunda Islands of Indonesia. The island is well east of the Wallace Line and its anthropological equivalent, so Malay culture gives way to Melanesian. While most speak Bahasa Indonesia, the people, particularly those in more remote villages, are happier conversing in Lamaholot, the local vernacular.
Ostensibly, the culture is patriarchal, but women are vocal in local issues, bind spirituality to life, and are central to trade – in particular, the traditional barter system. One woman offered me her husband in exchange for my rucksack. He was too short for my taste, so I demurred, but she was happy to take my hand cream in return for three mangoes.
The people of Lamalera catch about 10–15 whales a year, supplementing them with dolphins, manta rays, sharks and other smaller species. But they alone have the right to hunt whales. While many Westerners are horrified by the killing of these iconic mammals, Lamalera fishers counter that commercial fishing is extremely wasteful. ‘They throw away so much. They think that Mother Earth cannot get tired,’ says fisherman Augustus. ‘They bring humiliation and bad luck on us who take care of nature, with their greed and lack of care.’
When a whale is caught, widows and the old get the first cuts, the rest being given to the crew and then distributed around the village according to rank. Every bit of the whale is used and the residue is dried, helping the villagers to get through the long dry season and regular El Niños. The island only receives 60 millimetres of precipitation a year, so rain-fed agriculture is precarious at best.
My first visit to Lembata, in 1995, took place during an El Niño, when rainfall is even lower than usual. The islanders and I subsisted on papaya leaves and flowers, bamboo tubes filled with seeds, and dried whale meat. All taste hideous, but they’re better than going hungry.
Seafaring superstitions
The Peraso Sapang, the sacred boat in which I travelled, leads the fleet back into the water in April, after the annual blessings that mark the beginning of the whaling season. All of the boats are owned by one of the ten clans; ‘mine’ by the clan that can date its history longest into Lamalera lore. Lamalera’s people, the elders say, came from Sulawesi during the 14th century. While some hold with Islam, others, along with most of Lembata’s inhabitants, were converted to Christianity by the Portuguese.
Lamalera’s activities as a whaling and fishing village are strictly governed by 500-year-old traditions and consultations with long-dead ancestors. There are strict taboos that regulate the hunt. For example, only toothed whales can be hunted. It’s said that when the pioneering Ebaona clan were lost in a storm, a passing baleen whale rescued them, and they have been sacred ever since.
No jonsens (outboards) are allowed. They are sometimes used to haul the peledang out in rough weather, but are barred from the hunt itself. Special rituals and prayers accompany every step of the journey. It’s forbidden to eat or to take food to sea, so the men have to push the boat, weighing nigh on half a tonne, over rocks and coral debris and through the waves on an empty stomach. Some say that hunger heightens the thirst for conquest.
Accidents are attributed to disharmony at home, so before they go to sea, the crew must clear their heads of negative thoughts and make peace with their families. While at sea, the families back in the village must be tenang (peaceful, calm), so that the spirits won’t disrupt the hunt. Making peace with the spirits of those who died in previous hunts and forgiving each other for mistakes made is integral to ensuring safety and a successful hunt.
The handmade boats are constructed to an ancient form, the blueprints of which lie in the old men’s heads. ‘My son is not good at boat building,’ the village head, Hendrikus Keraf, brother of retired national environment minister Sonny Keraf, tells me sadly. ‘But being the eldest, he has to touch all the tools before a new boat is made.’
The pandanus sails are made by men, as are the tale leo, the sacred ropes attached to the harpoons. While the women spin the kapok, the men splice it together to make the rope.
A battered fisherman beckons and I sit in the red afternoon, listening to his story. I’m drawn to the rather scabrous bandage on his little finger. He was a harpooner on a whale boat, he tells me. The tale leo wrapped around his finger just as he leapt off the prow to sink the harpoon into a small whale. The whale took off, pulling the tale leo like a noose. The partially severed tip, peeking from a yellowed dressing, looks decidedly black. But the injury didn’t stop him bringing the whale back, he tells me proudly.
Mining and money
Lembata is a parched island, and like many of its neighbours, it offers little opportunity for more than subsistence livelihoods. Its major sources of income are copra, candlenut, cashews, seaweed, pearls and clams. Tourism is one potential alternative source of income, but currently only 200–300 people visit the island each year.
Bapak Hendrikus is sure that the village’s traditions can stand the test of increasing tourism. ‘Our tradition is strong,’ he says. ‘It’s all we have. Our pride is our traditions. We cannot live without that.’
His people want tourism, but with provisos. ‘It’s not good that people swim with their bodies uncovered,’ he says. ‘Women walk in the village showing their legs; it’s not polite. Men do not wear shirts. Maybe they are too poor to buy them, but I don’t think so. And they are stingy. We take them to sea and they don’t want to pay. How can we live through the dry season and to fix the boats without money?’
But there’s another issue. Jakarta-based mining companies PT Pukuafu Indah and PT Merukh Lembata Copper claim to have found enough gold to justify mining up to three quarters of the island’s landmass, although there are questions over the claims’ veracity. ‘There are no proven minerals in Lembata,’ Mr Sembiring, the recently retired head of the Department of Minerals in Bandung, tells me. ‘Mr [Yusuf] Merukh [the companies’ owner] has a bad reputation in mining circles, so I do not care what he says. The mine won’t go ahead.’
However, the locals place no faith in edicts from the distant capital. And with good reason. In the past few years, bribery, death threats and even murder have upped the ante. A kepala adat (keeper of traditions), Bapak Abu, shows me an envelope full of 100,000 rupiah (about £7.50) notes. The envelope is embossed with the name of the island’s ‘regent’ and his business card is inside. Bapak Abu was told that it would be followed by ten million rupiah more if he agreed to the mine.
‘I am protected by Allah, the ancestors and Mother Nature,’ he tells me. ‘Even if they offer me three million dollars, I will not agree.’ Several weeks earlier, two young would-be assassins had confessed their mission to kill Bapak Abu over his resistance to the mine. Their fee: a paltry 250,000 rupiah each. ‘I do not know who asked them to kill me, nor do I care,’ Bapak Abu says, before telling me that a neighbour who refused to sign his land over was recently found dead in his bed.
Pushing for protection
WWF and a number of other environmental NGOs are pushing for a marine park to embrace Lembata. The area is a globally important breeding ground for migratory whales and has some of Indonesia’s last remaining intact coral reefs. The location and extent of the proposed mine would make it difficult to build containment walls to prevent the tailings from polluting the clear blue waters, and the noise and debris could spell an end to whales visiting the area, and to the culture of traditional whaling in Lamalera.
If Merukh presses ahead, and the local government refuses to acknowledge the protesters’ demands, some fear that the situation could escalate towards increasing violence. Villages are already invoking their deceased ancestors to protect them from the mine, reviving traditional rituals and ceremonies not performed for years.
‘Lembata is a small island. A mine would cause a lot of damage not only to the environment, but to the lives of the people,’ says former environment minister Sonny Keraf, who was born in Lamalera. ‘Mining as it is practised in Indonesia has no benefit for the people. It’s all bad.’
Asked whether environmental impact studies (AMDAL), which are legally required, had been carried out on Lembata, he replies: ‘No. I have sent many requests to the current minister to ensure that an AMDAL is done. But sometimes the committee members try to follow the wishes of the investor and are not always objective.
‘The investors promise good things for the people: housing, wealth and so on. But usually this does not happen,’ he continues. ‘I know there is still a big question about whether there are minerals in Lembata. I think he [Merukh] says this just to get investment.’
Towards the end of last year, Merukh told the Indonesian media that he had secured investment from Goldman Sachs. A phone call to the bank’s Hong Kong office indicated that this was the latest in a line of misrepresentations.
Golden view
One day, I visited one of the beaches on the island’s north and stood captivated by one of the longest uninterrupted shore breaks I’ve ever seen. There wasn’t another soul on the three kilometres of coarse sand that spread out before me. At my back was an ochre headland that was slated for mining, according to the local priest.
Later, as the sun set in a blaze of colour, I made my way back to the village with two old kepala adats. ‘Why don’t you build a cottage here?’ one asked. If only, I thought.
August 2010
I’m hoping they don’t yell ‘Baleo! Baleo!’, as they do when they see a whale spouting. I’m not sure I could handle the blood and gore. It’s too early in the day; death deserves the dignity of sunset.
The crew breaks into a chant to boost the energy needed to haul the handmade wooden boat through the choppy seas. Two men in the prow wield circular paddles. Another stands on a plank projecting from the prow with a long harpoon, ready to spring. If a whale is spotted, he will leap onto its back, slashing and cutting, unless the whale contorts itself to hurl him off or takes flight, pulling the boat towards Australia.
Whaling culture
The village of Lamalera is among the few traditional whaling villages to be given the okay by the International Whaling Commission. It sits in a scenic bay in the south of Lembata Island (also known as Lomblen), one of the Lesser Sunda Islands of Indonesia. The island is well east of the Wallace Line and its anthropological equivalent, so Malay culture gives way to Melanesian. While most speak Bahasa Indonesia, the people, particularly those in more remote villages, are happier conversing in Lamaholot, the local vernacular.
Ostensibly, the culture is patriarchal, but women are vocal in local issues, bind spirituality to life, and are central to trade – in particular, the traditional barter system. One woman offered me her husband in exchange for my rucksack. He was too short for my taste, so I demurred, but she was happy to take my hand cream in return for three mangoes.
The people of Lamalera catch about 10–15 whales a year, supplementing them with dolphins, manta rays, sharks and other smaller species. But they alone have the right to hunt whales. While many Westerners are horrified by the killing of these iconic mammals, Lamalera fishers counter that commercial fishing is extremely wasteful. ‘They throw away so much. They think that Mother Earth cannot get tired,’ says fisherman Augustus. ‘They bring humiliation and bad luck on us who take care of nature, with their greed and lack of care.’
When a whale is caught, widows and the old get the first cuts, the rest being given to the crew and then distributed around the village according to rank. Every bit of the whale is used and the residue is dried, helping the villagers to get through the long dry season and regular El Niños. The island only receives 60 millimetres of precipitation a year, so rain-fed agriculture is precarious at best.
My first visit to Lembata, in 1995, took place during an El Niño, when rainfall is even lower than usual. The islanders and I subsisted on papaya leaves and flowers, bamboo tubes filled with seeds, and dried whale meat. All taste hideous, but they’re better than going hungry.
Seafaring superstitions
The Peraso Sapang, the sacred boat in which I travelled, leads the fleet back into the water in April, after the annual blessings that mark the beginning of the whaling season. All of the boats are owned by one of the ten clans; ‘mine’ by the clan that can date its history longest into Lamalera lore. Lamalera’s people, the elders say, came from Sulawesi during the 14th century. While some hold with Islam, others, along with most of Lembata’s inhabitants, were converted to Christianity by the Portuguese.
Lamalera’s activities as a whaling and fishing village are strictly governed by 500-year-old traditions and consultations with long-dead ancestors. There are strict taboos that regulate the hunt. For example, only toothed whales can be hunted. It’s said that when the pioneering Ebaona clan were lost in a storm, a passing baleen whale rescued them, and they have been sacred ever since.
No jonsens (outboards) are allowed. They are sometimes used to haul the peledang out in rough weather, but are barred from the hunt itself. Special rituals and prayers accompany every step of the journey. It’s forbidden to eat or to take food to sea, so the men have to push the boat, weighing nigh on half a tonne, over rocks and coral debris and through the waves on an empty stomach. Some say that hunger heightens the thirst for conquest.
Accidents are attributed to disharmony at home, so before they go to sea, the crew must clear their heads of negative thoughts and make peace with their families. While at sea, the families back in the village must be tenang (peaceful, calm), so that the spirits won’t disrupt the hunt. Making peace with the spirits of those who died in previous hunts and forgiving each other for mistakes made is integral to ensuring safety and a successful hunt.
The handmade boats are constructed to an ancient form, the blueprints of which lie in the old men’s heads. ‘My son is not good at boat building,’ the village head, Hendrikus Keraf, brother of retired national environment minister Sonny Keraf, tells me sadly. ‘But being the eldest, he has to touch all the tools before a new boat is made.’
The pandanus sails are made by men, as are the tale leo, the sacred ropes attached to the harpoons. While the women spin the kapok, the men splice it together to make the rope.
A battered fisherman beckons and I sit in the red afternoon, listening to his story. I’m drawn to the rather scabrous bandage on his little finger. He was a harpooner on a whale boat, he tells me. The tale leo wrapped around his finger just as he leapt off the prow to sink the harpoon into a small whale. The whale took off, pulling the tale leo like a noose. The partially severed tip, peeking from a yellowed dressing, looks decidedly black. But the injury didn’t stop him bringing the whale back, he tells me proudly.
Mining and money
Lembata is a parched island, and like many of its neighbours, it offers little opportunity for more than subsistence livelihoods. Its major sources of income are copra, candlenut, cashews, seaweed, pearls and clams. Tourism is one potential alternative source of income, but currently only 200–300 people visit the island each year.
Bapak Hendrikus is sure that the village’s traditions can stand the test of increasing tourism. ‘Our tradition is strong,’ he says. ‘It’s all we have. Our pride is our traditions. We cannot live without that.’
His people want tourism, but with provisos. ‘It’s not good that people swim with their bodies uncovered,’ he says. ‘Women walk in the village showing their legs; it’s not polite. Men do not wear shirts. Maybe they are too poor to buy them, but I don’t think so. And they are stingy. We take them to sea and they don’t want to pay. How can we live through the dry season and to fix the boats without money?’
But there’s another issue. Jakarta-based mining companies PT Pukuafu Indah and PT Merukh Lembata Copper claim to have found enough gold to justify mining up to three quarters of the island’s landmass, although there are questions over the claims’ veracity. ‘There are no proven minerals in Lembata,’ Mr Sembiring, the recently retired head of the Department of Minerals in Bandung, tells me. ‘Mr [Yusuf] Merukh [the companies’ owner] has a bad reputation in mining circles, so I do not care what he says. The mine won’t go ahead.’
However, the locals place no faith in edicts from the distant capital. And with good reason. In the past few years, bribery, death threats and even murder have upped the ante. A kepala adat (keeper of traditions), Bapak Abu, shows me an envelope full of 100,000 rupiah (about £7.50) notes. The envelope is embossed with the name of the island’s ‘regent’ and his business card is inside. Bapak Abu was told that it would be followed by ten million rupiah more if he agreed to the mine.
‘I am protected by Allah, the ancestors and Mother Nature,’ he tells me. ‘Even if they offer me three million dollars, I will not agree.’ Several weeks earlier, two young would-be assassins had confessed their mission to kill Bapak Abu over his resistance to the mine. Their fee: a paltry 250,000 rupiah each. ‘I do not know who asked them to kill me, nor do I care,’ Bapak Abu says, before telling me that a neighbour who refused to sign his land over was recently found dead in his bed.
Pushing for protection
WWF and a number of other environmental NGOs are pushing for a marine park to embrace Lembata. The area is a globally important breeding ground for migratory whales and has some of Indonesia’s last remaining intact coral reefs. The location and extent of the proposed mine would make it difficult to build containment walls to prevent the tailings from polluting the clear blue waters, and the noise and debris could spell an end to whales visiting the area, and to the culture of traditional whaling in Lamalera.
If Merukh presses ahead, and the local government refuses to acknowledge the protesters’ demands, some fear that the situation could escalate towards increasing violence. Villages are already invoking their deceased ancestors to protect them from the mine, reviving traditional rituals and ceremonies not performed for years.
‘Lembata is a small island. A mine would cause a lot of damage not only to the environment, but to the lives of the people,’ says former environment minister Sonny Keraf, who was born in Lamalera. ‘Mining as it is practised in Indonesia has no benefit for the people. It’s all bad.’
Asked whether environmental impact studies (AMDAL), which are legally required, had been carried out on Lembata, he replies: ‘No. I have sent many requests to the current minister to ensure that an AMDAL is done. But sometimes the committee members try to follow the wishes of the investor and are not always objective.
‘The investors promise good things for the people: housing, wealth and so on. But usually this does not happen,’ he continues. ‘I know there is still a big question about whether there are minerals in Lembata. I think he [Merukh] says this just to get investment.’
Towards the end of last year, Merukh told the Indonesian media that he had secured investment from Goldman Sachs. A phone call to the bank’s Hong Kong office indicated that this was the latest in a line of misrepresentations.
Golden view
One day, I visited one of the beaches on the island’s north and stood captivated by one of the longest uninterrupted shore breaks I’ve ever seen. There wasn’t another soul on the three kilometres of coarse sand that spread out before me. At my back was an ochre headland that was slated for mining, according to the local priest.
Later, as the sun set in a blaze of colour, I made my way back to the village with two old kepala adats. ‘Why don’t you build a cottage here?’ one asked. If only, I thought.
August 2010
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