Larry Smith the famed diver, is not on Biak. I went down to his ship. It seems out of commission with only a Javanese mate on board. Andi explained that the engine had crapped out and Larry and his wife had flown to Surabaya for some parts.

“When are they back.”

And I shrugged and sucked on his Kretek cigarette, content to be alone. I left him thus, understanding the beauty of aloneness after working thirty days straight on West 47th Street selling jewelry for my boss, Manny.

Surabaya is a famed seaport on the eastern tip of Java. Last year I had thought about stopping there on my way from Mount Bromo to visit the harbor filled with Bugis prahus and the infamous Gang Dolly, reputed to be Southeast Asia’s largest red-light district, a 200 meter-long street offering wickedness with snake aphrodisiacs and magic sex workers from Madura, but decided to stay on the train to Yogjakarta.

I walked away from the boat and stopped at a small restaurant for nasi goreng, a popular Indonesian dish of stir-fried brown rice spiced with kecap manis (sweet soy sauce), shallot, garlic, ground shrimp paste, tamarind and chili topped by a fried egg. Siting there I read my Rough Guide about trekking through Irian Jaya. I feel like flying to Jayapura, the province largest city, on the main island and heading up to the Baliem valley for a hike through the Highlands, inspired by the book FIRST CONTACT. Rough Guide suggests a flight up into the mountains, then hiring a guide to wander through the Stone Age culture. It’s dangerous since most villages don’t like the village nearest them. Land encroachments and women instigate deadly conflicts with them eating the dead without anyone ever telling the Javanese police. What happens in the Baliem Valley stays in the Baliem Valley. A flight to Jayapura is only $50 round trip. I hankered it to see them, since I’ve always been haunted the Michael C Rockefeller wing at the Metropolitan Museum featuring Asmat sculptures from this land of islands beyond the Modern Age. My only contact with the people here are seeing them walking by naked men with a gourd over their penis. They are completely comfortable in their skin. No shame about offending civilized foreigners; Javanese or missionaries. Like this is us. We cool with it.

They don’t even bother with flip flops are feet walking on the shoulder of the road rather than the sun-baked pavement. I can’t walk barefoot on stones.

After this late breakfast I returned to the hotel and walk down to the sea with my snorkel, fins, and diving mask. There is no real beach, but a shallow coral ledge leading out to an underwater cliff. I wear a teeshirt against the sun even though it’s cloudy. The sun is very strong here and I don’t like suntan lotion. I slip on my diving gear and stash my sneakers under a rock, so they don’t drift Away. I walk backwards and plunge over the cliff, and dive down twenty feet into an explosion of parrot fish nibbling at the coral, spitting out the rocks. Scores of other fish, small and large, which I can identify swarm the coral face. I swim against the drift current to maintain my place, suddenly realizing that if I get back on the the Reef I’ll have no idea where my shoes are. After a minute I break the surface. The sea is smooth. I can see the islands in the distance. It’s not a sunny day and the sea, the islands in the sky, and the clouds all seem to be varying shades of blue gray. I can’t even define the colors. Shoreward coconut trees lift over the land and buildings mark the main road leading to town. I I orient my position and be one with the sea. A half hour later, I find my sneakers. No one would steal them. My foot is too large for the Javanese and the locals don’t wear shoes.

This is the life.

I’m glad I asked John from Panda Express Travel a year ago when looking at the itinerary, “What’s Biak?”

Now I know.

Geadig back to the hotel nce again I ask myself, “Why did I ever go to Europe when this was waiting?”