A Different Angle

In Search of Fish, Dragons and Local Legends on Sulawesi

By Andrew Tarica

My fly-fishing mission to the Indonesian island of Sulawesi began with a letter postmarked from a town called Tomohon.

I received this letter from Scott DeSimone, an old college friend of mine who had just spent his honeymoon on a 1,200-mile motorcycle ride across the recently completed Trans Sulawesi Highway.

“The reason for this letter,” DeSimone wrote on thin blue Air Mail stationary, “is to tell you about some of the more interesting rivers we saw.”

Prior to his trip, I had asked Scott to scout some of the fishing locations and send me first-hand reports, knowing that a few months later I’d be traveling along some of the same paths withmy fly rod.

“Several rivers looked fishable,” he continued, “and I have a feeling they are not yet overfished, mainly because most of the island is close to the ocean, and that is the people’s main source of fish.”

His letter included hand-drawn maps and focused on three main areas of Sulawesi -- the Sadan River near Rantepao, the Poso River north of Poso Lake and “several good looking rivers” along the island’s Northern Neck toward the city of Manado. 

I was hooked by his journey and a few months later, with my fly rod strapped to my backpack and my kneecaps plastered against my chin, I sat in a jam-packed bus heading from Ujung Pandang, the main city on Sulawesi, to the wild mountains of the island’s interior.

 During the next few weeks, I found some of the places Scott had written about – and discovered a few new spots. I fished alongside massive water buffaloes bathing in the Sadan River; off white sandy beaches in the enchanting Lake Poso; and among the swampy cattails of the remote Morowali Nature Reserve, the traditional fishing grounds of the Wana tribe.

My first stop on this Far Eastern fly-fishing odyssey: the town of Rantepao.

******
 

The Sadan River runs north from the heart of Sulawesi’s rugged-and-remote coffee highlands to the area around Rantepao.

This lush, mountainous region is known as Torajaland, home to the ethnic-minority Tana Toraja people. Local legends point out that the Torajans are originally from Southeast Asia, and that they arrived on Sulawesi during a sea storm centuries ago.

Their traditional homes, called tongkonan, are shaped like the canoes that brought them to the Indonesian archipelago, and these architectural marvels dot the perfectly terraced jade rice fields that surround the sprawling town of Rantepao. Life for the Torajans is based around the harvesting of rice and a series of ornate rituals celebrating birth, marriage, fertility and, most famous of all, death.

“Ceremonies play a major part in our culture,” said Markus Nurun, a Torajan who managed the small hotel where I was staying on the edge of town. “Our funerals, which may last more than three days, are especially spectacular.

“In the traditional Torajan custom, it is good luck to sacrifice many animals – chickens, pigs and water buffaloes – when a person dies. This is so that the soul of the deceased can ride the backs of the animals to the puya, which is the ‘life hereafter.’”

Another tradition of Torajaland, though far less of an interest to the many camera-toting western tourists who flock to Rantepao, is fishing in the Sadan. Every morning and afternoon, the banks of this shallow, fast-running river are patrolled by anglers of all ages, hoping to catch trout-sized ikan mas, or yellow carp, from the Sadan’s deep pools.

“The locals fish the Sadan successfully with bread on long bamboo poles (about 15 feet),” my friend Scott had written in his letter from Sulawesi. “Their method is interesting: Instead of just using lots of line, they use only about 9 feet, and they dangle the hook and line quickly in and out of the water. It’s almost as if they are fly-fishing.”

On a hot afternoon, with the threat of rain looming in the black clouds above, I gave the Sadan my best shot, picking a quiet spot on the river, down a dirt road on the west side of town. I was joined by my new friend, Markus.

Within minutes an entourage of curious Indonesian onlookers surrounded us, starting wide-eyed at my every expression and move. “Hello Meester. What is your nem? Where you go?” And then…. as I broke out my box of fishing flies…I heard, “Hello Meester. What are those, Meester?”

I explained in basic Bahasa Indonesia, that my little box contained fake flies, meant to replicate the many black bugs floating on the surface of the river. An elderly woman, who was nearly toothless and must have been close to 80, edged her way into the center of the circle.

“She likes your bugs,” Markus told me, referring to my flies. “She wants one.” I gave her a tiny, black-colored nymph – a fly that I had tied myself and thought would be perfect for the Sadan.

Later in the day, the old lady and I fished alongside each other, off a steep bank overlooking the river and a series of limestone peaks looming in the distance. I was wearing my tattered 1970s Seattle Mariners’ baseball cap, while she wore a colorful sarong around her head.

As this was the rainy season, the river was extremely high and the fishing wasn’t all that great (the best months to fish the Sadan, according to the locals, are July and August). But I noticed that at the end of the woman’s line, which was tied to her long bamboo pole, she had tied on her new fly.

And I felt a tinge of satisfaction, that maybe, just maybe, I had introduced a new tradition to Torajaland.

*****

Back on the road, I headed north from Rantepao toward Lake Poso, where local legends allude to mysterious creatures lurking in the deep blue.  

“Some people say it’s a monster,” says Sakir Zaid, who has lived along the shores of this huge, highland lake for the past 30 years and runs a small hotel where I spent a night. “But most people say it’s a dragon or big snake.

“As for me, I don’t believe it because I have never seen it. Although one time, in [the town of] Tentana, I saw a fish in the lake that looked like a water buffalo without any horns,” he added, with a straight face. “Only this one time I saw this.”

Lake Poso, set precisely in the middle of Sulawesi, is said to be the second-clearest lake in the world after Siberia’s Baikal. Poso is surrounded by rice fields and jungle, and colorful hornbills cruise through the tops of trees that overlook its azure waters.

There are three ways to travel from the quiet town of Pendolo, on the southern shore of the lake, to Tentana on the northern end – a distance of about 25 miles:

• along the Trans-Sulawesi Highway, which cuts through the eastern shore of the lake;

• on board one of the small boats that make daily trips across Poso;

• or via the local road which clings to the western shore and passes through several villages.

The latter option is subject to numerous landslides, has no public transportation and is rarely seen by foreigners. To me, it sounded the most interesting. In search of fish and dragons, I set off along Poso’s western road – alone and on foot, with only my fly rod to keep me company.

I walked about 15 miles the first day, past secluded beaches, old men riding rickety bicycles, little boys tethered to water buffaloes working in the fields; and picture-perfect rice paddies that turned to a rich gold as the blazing sun neared the horizon. Eventually I arrived in the small fishing desa, or village, of Bancea.

Since there was no guest house or hotel in town, I found the local minister, a devout fisherman named Papa Asma. He graciously offered me a room for the night and some home-cooked food (fish, of course). Later I roamed the dirt roads of this quaint, isolated village, much to the delight of the many children who followed my course, laughing and screaming in my wake.

“Hello meester!!!” they chortled. “Hello tourist!!!!” With eager eyes, I watched the locals fish along the lake shore with their handmade bamboo poles. Unlike anglers in the Sadan River, these fishermen were using real bugs – small midges, in fact – as their bait.

Tying on one of my own flies, I cast into the lake. After about two minutes, I had a catch. It was an ikan mas, about an inch long! Some of the fish in Lake Poso are bigger, however. Yellow carp can reach 40 pounds in this lake. The native sugili, or eel, are even more impressive and grow to 6 feet in length.

 ******

The following morning, after slurping down a bowl of Mama Asma’s fried noodles, I was back on the road and heading toward the north side of the lake.

It wasn’t long before I was offered a ride in a battered old pickup truck and driven to the next village along the road, a place called Tonasa.

Tonasa, like many other towns in Central Sulawesi, was a Balinese transmagrasi village. Transmagrasi is Indonesia’s controversial policy which aims to reduce overpopulation in the archipelago by relocating thousands of people from Bali and Java to sparse areas of Sulawesi, Borneo and Irian Jaya.

Walking through this rural village was like exploring a slice of Bali 30 years ago. Numerous puri, or temples, dotted the sides of the road, and the locals seemed to enjoy the bucolic lifestyle that characterized their former home before it was overrun by tourism, westernization and the population boom.

I finally reached the town of Tentana courtesy of another ride. Still, the mystery of the monster of Lake Poso weighed heavily on my mind. Thankfully the manager of my small guest house offered to help. He led me to a modest home, not far from the main market, and introduced me to an elderly woman named Maria, who was born and raised here.

According to Maria, the lake monsters are called “Imbu.” She said that there are many Imbus that lurk beneath the crystalline surface of Lake Poso. By nature, she said, the dragons are not aggressive toward humans. However, they do ask for – and receive! – two sacrifices per year.

“I saw an Imbu when I was a little girl,” Maria said. “I remember I was studying for school. It was long and skinny like a palm tree, and it had a head like a water buffalo. I’m not the only one who has seen it. Most of the old men in town have seen Imbu as well.”

Her tale seemed a bit tall, and I told her that many of the other people I’ve interviewed doubted the dragon’s existence. “Nonsense,” Maria said, laughing and waving her wrinkled hands by her face. “It’s pure nonsense if people say the dragons don’t exist…It’s Imbu.”

****** 

“I’ve been to many places in Sulawesi, but the one which most reaches my heart is the Morowali Reserve.”  This is how Morowali was first described to me by Luis Molindo, also known as “Indiana Luis,” a 22-year-old nature lover who guides eco-trips out of Tentana.

Classified by the Sulawesi provincial government as a “remote area,” the Morowali Nature Reserve is a 395,000-acre wilderness of unspoiled rainforest, swamps and savannah. Located 130 miles northeast of Tentana on the island’s middle peninsula, the reserve also contains three imposing mountains (Tokala, Tambusisi and Morowali), five major rivers and the mystic Ranu Lakes, the traditional fishing grounds of the Wana tribe.

With my two-month Indonesia visa nearly expired, I set my course for Morowali – a place my friend Scott had not seen during his motorcycle honeymoon across the island -- and explained to Indiana Luis that my mission was to fish with the Wana people. Our adventure began with an eight-hour bus ride from Tentana to the small coastal port of Kolonodale.

Along the way, we passed through the island’s vast cattle country with its rolling plains, hills carpeted with pine trees and distant blue mountains. It was a stretch of land that reminded me of parts of Colorado or Montana.

From the largely Muslim town of Kolonodale, a two-hour ride by motorized canoe across Tomori Bay, with its many islands and fishing villages, took us through a slim canal and into Morowali. We docked the boat and hiked for another 10 miles through thick, primordial jungle before arriving at the Wana village of Kayupoli, home to about 50 tribal members.

The Wana spoke their own language, Bahasa Ta’a, and lived a basic hunting-and-gathering existence. They practiced shifting agriculture, farming food products such as cassava, sago and rice, as well as rattan and agathis resin trees. They hunted with blowpipes for deer, birds and babirusa, a rare 200-pound boar with ornately curved tusks that are found nowhere else in the world but Sulawesi. And they fished for eel and a prehistoric bottom-feeding species called ikan gabus using bamboo rods, traps and harpoons.

As Indiana Luis explained, “Nature provides everything for the Wana. They farm during the rainy season, fish and hunt during the dry season, and within their village they barter instead of using money.”

We spent the evenings in Morowali sleeping alongside two Wana families in a thatched-roof hut that was built on stilts, with a ladder to climb and enter the breezy open-air doorway, located about 30 feet from the edge of a river.

One night, after a traditional meal of dupi, or fried pancakes filled with cassava, palm sugar and honey, I got into a conversation with the man who governs this far-flung village, the venerable Chief Jima.

I was curious about the Ranu Lakes, the fishing grounds of the Wana, which are located about 5 miles from Kayupoli on the far side of a forested mountain range. As we talked, Chief Jima was chain-smoking copious amounts of hand-rolled tobacco and playing chords on his sitar-like popondo.

“The lake is surrounded by mountains, and we believe there is an invisible village there, on top of one of the peaks, on the west side of the Big Ranu Lake,” Chief Jima told me, through Luis’ translations. “Many strange things happen there.”

Strange things?

“For example, not too long, one of our fishermen saw a crocodile in the lake. The crocodile had a monkey on its back. The monkey was completely white. When the crocodile reached the far side of the lake, there were hundreds of black monkeys waiting on the shore.

“When the crocodile reached the shore, it let the white monkey off its back. This was the King Monkey, and it led the entire group of black monkeys into a trail by the forest, which suddenly appeared out of nowhere. I believe the trail led to an invisible village, but as the monkeys started walking along the path, it disappeared.”

With ghostly visions of invisible white monkeys on my mind, I accompanied Indiana Luis one morning on the trail to the Ranu Lakes. We hiked up and over the mountains, sweating the entire way, as we protected ourselves from the many malarial mosquitoes swarming along the way.

Our base at the Big Ranu Lake was an open-air, twin-tiered hut along the shore, the only sign of humanity for miles. Dark mountains, partially obscured by clouds, peered down upon the lake from all sides. Eagles and herons flew above in search of fish. Aside from their calls, the place was completely quiet, the setting purely pristine.

I spent an evening and morning fishing in the cattails along the lake’s southern shore with my fellow Wana anglers, Se’e and Papa Tei. Judging by the remoteness of this spot, I was likely the first person to ever cast a fly in the Ranu Lakes. Unfortunately I didn’t catch anything, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Once again, I found the local fishing techniques to be fascinating. Fishing from small hand-carved dugout canoes, the Wana used long bamboo poles, about 15 feet in length, yet their line was no longer than 12 inches. With a live grasshopper tied on as bait, they hunted in the steamy, swampy sections of the lake, twitching the bug along the water’s surface in hopes of a strike.

“All the men of Kayupoli fish and hunt,” Papa Tei said, through Elfide’s translation. “We take turns walking to the lake, and we spend two days and two nights here at a time.  After we catch our fish, we smoke them over a fire for two more days. And then we walk back to the village to distribute the fish among the families.”

Which led to the inevitable question: Which activity did Papa Tei enjoy more -- hunting or fishing? 

"Fishing," he said, without hesitation. "Fishing is a lot easier, so that's one reason. Sometimes when we hunt for birds, they fly too high for us to reach with our blowpipes.

"The second reason is that when we hunt, it hurts our teeth. To use the blowpipes, we must file our teeth with stones when we are young boys. Our teeth turn black, which is a symbol of pride among our people, but it hurts very much."

And the third reason: "To catch a fish," he said, about to say something I would completely agree with, "this is just paradise."