Old Man Dragon

Travel Story by Stephane Jones

Flores, Indonesia

At the Loseman El Amin on the island of Flores, I met a tall, craggy Dutch man, slightly stooped with hooded reptilian eyes. 'Boodiman'- as the locals called him - was an amiable old gent, who spoke fluent bahasa malay (Indonesian) having spent much of his youth in the region of Nusa Tenggara.

I was recuperating after climbing up to the lakes at Kelimutu and I'd contracted an unpleasant eye infection. Boodiman fed me on 'booba-ayam', rice porridge laced with ginger, and tales of old Indonesia. His father had once been a bank manager on Sumbawa, and later the family had been interned by the Japanese. He'd been back in Indonesia for the last 18 months trying to piece together his early life and come to terms with some unsavory memories.

Since childhood, Boodiman had been captivated by the mystic of dragons. In his late teens he'd even had one tattooed across his chest; but now he laughed and scoffed at it saying, 'we do such silly things in our youth,” though the fascination evidently continued. When I was on my feet again Boodiman insisted that I accompany him on a boat trip to Komodo Island, the home of some real life dragons. He knew many locals, so with relative ease he arranged a boat.

When we arrived at the island the sun was already high, and it was intensely hot that day. We joined a group of 20 visitors and a park guide armed with a large stick was allocated to a group of four.

The terrain was stark and dry, with little respite from the heat. We started out up the hill towards 'the feeding'; Boodiman breathing heavily, pacing himself, as I went ahead.

In the bush to the side of the broad trail, dragons lumbered lazily, lapping up the early sun, which gives their cold-blooded bodies a kick start. The local guides were well aware of the guile of these the largest of reptiles, they'd been dealing with them for centuries and when venturing outdoors, the natives could never afford to put them out of mind. It's often claimed that the dragons are dinosaurs, though in fact they are distant relatives going back a mere million years.

I paced along, keeping time with some of the more sprightly gung-ho travelers, though with the guide still comfortably in sight. Suddenly one of the sun bathing monsters blinked and waddled forward onto the trail. The group split and I was precariously stuck in the middle, nearest to the invigorated dragon, a large specimen about 2.5 meters long. I broke into a trot across the sandy scrub, glancing back fearfully, with the dragon in hungry pursuit. A bottleneck of squealing visitors just ahead blocked my path. How was I going to fend off this monster?

I had my back up against the other travelers - bush and potential danger to either side - when the perplexed monster faltered less than 2 meters away. I wasn't feeling at all like Harrison Ford. Blinking he drooled and flicked out his tongue, eyeing me as a tasty treat. Then as I breathed my last, a young guide skidded to a halt behind the beast and with a thick baton he whacked the monster heavily across the cranium. The beast shuddered and turned disorientated. I froze momentarily, and felt a bead of sweat run down my nose. Several guides arrived and to my relief, used forked canes to push the disgruntled reptile back into the bush.

We advanced, a little less hung-ho now, to the feeding pit where 20 dragons fought over a dangling goat. Within minutes the goat was devoured, bones and skin digested— It was quite a shocking sight witnessing how efficiently these monsters clean up.

In the wild, carrion is their preferred delicacy. Often they hunt in groups. Dragons are powerful and intelligent, stealth plays a major part. With teeth like daggers they inflict a tremendous bite, venom lowers the victim's blood pressure and an anti coagulant ensures profuse bleeding; and with the bacteria in the dragon's saliva a rapid infection sets in. The animal totters around for several days, before becoming dragon fodder.

Encouraged by Boodiman, 4 of us – 3 men and a young German girl - hired an oarsman and headed to Rincha where the dragons were said to be untamed and extremely hungry for flesh. The boatman agreed to take us over to Rincha and then back to Flores: at sundown the current would be favorable for the return.

It was mid afternoon when we arrived and were unbearably hot. Boodiman was tired and exhausted due to the heat. Another older man was also feeling out of sorts.

The guide refused to take just two of us into the forest, saying it was too risky. We heard that an old lady had recently lost a limb fending off a group of dragons who had attacked a child.

In a makeshift thatched restaurant, I shared a dubious oily-fish-curry with the young German girl, whilst the two older men dozed. The air was heavy and stagnant. Large flies buzzed around. Roaming outside was simply out of the question.

Darkness invaded the perimeter of the forest; our quest for wild dragons was coming to a close. My stomach rumbled as the boatman demanded that we get going, and I realized that this particular adventure was now terminated. I reluctantly got back into the boat. Boodiman looked wiped out. It had been a long day.

The boat man rowed, moving obliquely across oily dark waters; the air stilled, and my sweating skin cried out for a breeze - little did I realize what that might entail.

We hung our heads silently, and then looking back at the foreboding peninsular, the sky a resplendent kaleidoscope of red and purple shades. The wind got up, and we all sang its praise; except the boatman who looked skittish.

The region of Nusa Tenggara is not only infamous for the carrion eating dragons, but also sharks and whirling oceans. Within 20 minutes a squall blew up, and I wondered whether the slightly built oarsman was up to the task.

The sky turned an ominous black. There was a violent exchange between Boodiman and the oarsman. A barrage of choppy waves soaked our day packs. Boodiman raised himself, but the boatman gestured for him to sit calm. There was no land in sight. I was feeling nauseous, but the thought of shark infested waters kept me alert. Do sharks feed at night? I mused.

Perspiration dripped from the passengers' faces. Nobody spoke, we held our breath— After half an hour the air stilled again, but the sky remained dark. Mist-like rain fell intermittently, but nobody bothered to cover up.

I assumed we were off route and hoped the wiry old boat-hand knew this stretch of ocean with great familiarity. Painstakingly he rowed, with a patient rhythmic action; a quiet determination in his eye. Thankfully, after more than 4 nerve-racking hours, we finally reached Flores. We had a celebration of sorts - the boatman quaffed a large quantity of iced beer, and I wasn't far behind, washing down the oily fish curry.

Illustration by Bob Veon
(Bob Veon's Website)

Read more about the author of this story:
Stephane Jones

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