Life should not be water under the bridge. Life should be mud between the toes.
-Lauri G.-
DIRECTION ISLAND
There are eight other yachts in the anchorage. Pangaea and Captain's Fansea join us the next day. There is an atmosphere of departure. We are late in the season and most other yachts spend their days onboard, preparing for departure. All but one are aiming across the big puddle, 2500 miles to Rodriques or Mauritius. Three days later only four yachts remain.
We decide to stay at least a week, maybe 10 days. Pangaea is heading to Chagos, 1500 miles away, 5 degrees south of the line. Captain's Fansea are heading to Rodrigues. We are the only yacht with the short dash straight north, shortest distance out of the southern cyclone area and "only" 1400 miles to Thailand.
John or George? The old ruling family of Cocos, Clunies-Ross, is represented mostly by old gravestones. No matter who you are, once a few generations go by, it's like you never lived...
Direction Island is a well developed yachtie haven. It has nothing on it. Well, it has the good things on it. Hundreds of palm trees, a white sandy beach, some coral (not too flash) for snorkelling, a hammock, a shady picnic area, several fire places, plenty of fire wood, no population, a rainwater tank and a telephone.
A telephone? Yes, a small plastic thing with a number pad and a handset to talk. It's screwed onto a plywood box and connected to a solarpanel and perhaps some other electronics, just under the tin roofed picnic shed next to a palm tree.. I picked up the phone and dialled the free call number of Great Northern Hotel. Michael answered the phone. This is great! I can be in the middle of nowhere - 5000 km from Cairns - and still call my friends.
I wish I had a polarizing filter for my camera. The most fantastic images of paradise are here. Yet, for me the true paradise is always somewhere else...
A thirty minute drive on the Zodiac takes us to Home Island, where we find a shop and a post office. The population is mostly Malay. The history of Cocos is still visible even though the days of the Clunies-Ross, the King of Cocos, are now gone. A ferry service from Home Island takes us to West Island, where most of the Aussies live. Only a handful. Some tourists, one restaurant, internet cafe and the only international airport in the world with a golf-course across the runway.
An australian air-force plane is due to land. I'm standing by the runway to take a photo. Peter (customs, immigration, quarantine and police) parks his ute next to me. "You should really be behind the fence Lauri" -he says, "but if you stay off the tarmac, you should be allright". I stay off the tarmac and the plane lands. Peter goes to clear in the boys. I walk back to Cocos Club for a game of pool with Paula. We catch the 4pm ferry back to Home Island and take the 30 minute trip on the Zodiac back to the yacht. It's all a paradise, but how much can you take it?
THE COCOS KINGDOM
For almost a hundred years the family of a Scottish merchant has ruled and owned the tiny Indian Ocean atoll, making wealth from Coconuts and cheap labour. The first Clunies-Ross, John I think, also established the first settlement in Christmas Island. Today the cemetary in Home island has a collection of gravestones, many of them lying flat on the ground and covered in weeds. Under every stone is a John or a George. The last king - John, I think - was finally "ousted" by the Australian government who purchased the land from the Brittish in 1955. John refused to recognise the deal, after all the Queen had granted his family perpetual rights to the islands as far back as 1886. Old John now lives in Perth Australia. He visited only a few weeks before we got there but that's unfortunately as close as got to him. He flew in for an interview and the filming of a Cocos documentary. I would have loved to get an interview too. Unfortunately BBC offered a better deal. Check your local TV guide.
A golf course runs through the Cocos international airport runway. Locals play every Wednesday. There are flashing lights and a warning signal every time a plane is about to land. Not too often.
In 1984 the local population elected to merge with Australia and the era of Clunies-Ross Kingdom - with their own plastic money and all - came to an end. Old George - I think - was still holding on to the dream of his own Kingdom, but times were changing.
Nice guy, they say. Looking at the newspaper clippings from early eighties in the tourist office showed that many Malays were happy to see him go. Bloody slave master. Yet many people, including many Malays, were crying at his departure. Who knows. The Cocos history lives mostly in the history books now. Most of the population does no longer dwell on the Clunies-Ross issues. They are Aussies now. A lot of them are too young to remember the old slavery days, a lot of them too young to know. They get health care, unemployment benefits and air-conditioned housing. Who cares about some John, or was it George, when you can claim the good Aussie benefits and go fishing every day?
There is much more to the story of course but unfortunately I don't have the facts. In my two weeks in Cocos I try to talk to people about the past and get some clue of the amazing story. I am fascinated by the unique history of this beautiful place, but I fail in my efforts to get a clear picture. Many malays in Home Island seem distant or don't speak english. Most westerners have only lived here for a few years, doing government contracts.
The youngest Clunies-Ross, John I think, collects aquarium fish and lives in West Island. The Cocos Angel fish (Centropyge Joculator) fetches a good price and one dive a month is enough to keep him going. Well, I suppose his old man must have some cash after selling the whole Cocos Islands to the Aussies. The Oceania House, the Clunies-Ross mansion in Home Island, is also sold and some old car-hire tycoon from Perth is putting new furniture in. Someone tells me that young (40) John Clunies-Ross (or was it George?) is a bit of a punk rocker and if you feed him whiskey all night, he'll tell you a million tall stories from the past. My mind is on the yacht, the next voyage and my ailing relationship with Paula. I give up on the story.
Paula and I have beach BBQ's and make do with the little selection of stuff in the local shop. Frozen chicken and garlic bread. The weather is beautiful. The islands are stunning. Our relationship is strained and the fridge is not working. Fridge? Yes, I have a fridge onboard. I've had it working for six years and it is the only luxury to keep a woman happy. Paula has done such a great job adapting to a life of nothing but discomfort. Now we're relying on boring tin food. All yachts are gone. We need to go too. I don't want to go. I'm getting used to wrapping stuff in alufoil and throwing it in the fire on the beach. That's good cooking, you know.
Beach BBQ's became the favourite nightlife. Wrap everything in alufoil and throw it in. No mosquitos either.
Cocos, for us, is a stop in a paradise. It is also the last Australian territory. The 2000 miles from Darwin seem short because you always arrive to another Australia. The upcoming 1400 miles is not only the longest non-stop voyage so far, but also a step across the equator, a step from one part of the world to another, a step to a different world. Leaving Darwin seems like a daytrip now. Next arrival will be in a place where people look funny and talk garble that I can't understand. Hand signals and smiles. That's what travelling is all about.
I feel nervous about voyage. I turns out to be a difficult one.
