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| Day 101 |
16 July 2000 |
| Amamapere West Irian |
| "The Quest for Fuel in Amamapere" |
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Captain's Journal
Decision time. We have fuel on board to last less than five days
of motoring and I estimate we need about six to get us to Gove.
We have three fuel filters left and we are clogging up about one
a day. We have an unknown amount of gas for possibly the next
two weeks. It could run out any time. These are the good reasons
to call in at Amamapare.
There are some good reasons not to call in as well. We don't
know if we can get any of these things here. We have no
clearance, nor the special permit needed to land in West Irian.
I am also worried about negotiating the harbour entrance as the
bar looks as if it might be tricky in this swell. There are some
buoys marked on the chart, but with this reassuring note:
'...all navaids in the approaches to Amamapare are incorrectly
positioned on this plan. Mariners are advised to proceed with
extreme caution...' Thanks, British Admiralty, for this sober
advice.
I make a call on the radio and get a pleasant surprise: someone
replies. The radio operator gives us some guidance about
entering. Decision made.
I can see the breakers on the seaward side of the channel, and
on the landward side is a wrecked perahu, obviously placed there
by some benign deity to sooth my nerves. I wonder when the fuel
filters will clog up again, killing the engines and leaving
Duyfken drifting at the mercy of the swells. Gary prepares the
port anchor for letting go, just in case.
Amamapare is the port servicing the huge Freeport mine further
inland. We are not permitted into the port area, so when we are
half way in through the entrance the radio operator gives us
directions to leave the channel. We are to take the river
entrance to the west. With the wrecked perahu now fine on her
port bow, Duyfken leaves the safety of the marked channel and
noses slowly across a mud-bank into an inlet in the mangroves.
Niko turns to me and utters two words that echo my own thoughts
perfectly: 'Conrad country'.
We come into a wide harbour with jungle and tall mangrove trees
right to the water's edge on all sides. A small village spreads
across a tiny beach near the entrance, and their boats are
pulled up on the grey mud. We drop anchor nearby. At our
approach some big dugouts come paddling out to greet us. One of
them has a pelican perched on the side, un unhappy looking bird
with a string tied around one leg. The people in the canoe are
contrastingly cheerful and just want to say 'selamat siang'
(hello).
A police boat roars up alongside and a muscular youth in
uniform, automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, climbs aboard,
along with the harbour master, and assorted people who seem to
be along for the ride. The surly expression of the young
policeman soon disappears and he can't seem to help us enough.
He offers us a lift in to Amamapare to sort out our fuel needs.
The boat ride through the mangrove creeks to the port is a
surreal journey through time. Conrad country dissolves into an
enormous industrial complex over the space of a mile. Amamapare
is bustling with all sorts of water craft. Workers' ferries come
and go, lighters are filled with ore, a big bulk carrier waits
anchored in the harbour and among all this the local villagers
paddle their elegant canoes with even strokes of their long
paddles as if engines were centuries away.
We discover that fuel is hard to get in these parts. The tanker
that delivers it is being repaired somewhere and everyone is
short. Except for Freeport that is, but they are not allowed to
sell fuel to anyone. Gas is a problem too. Some people say we
can get some, some say we cannot. Filters might be available
too. Then again they might not.
After five hours of talking and waiting, talking and waiting, we
have arranged for six drums of fuel to be delivered to the ship
sometime between now and tomorrow morning. One of our new
friends has taken our gas bottle and a fist full of Rupiah and
gone in search of gas and filters. He will contact us tomorrow
morning. All we can do now is wait.
Duyfken lies completely still on the glassy blackness of the
river. The swift tidal flow is betrayed only by our rippling
wake and the gently vibrating weight on the anchor cable. The
jungle is quiet except for the occasional outrageous cadence of
a bird call. Voices drift across the water from the village.
Peace.
Sleep.
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Peter Manthorpe
Master
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