Sea Hunters of Lamalera

Natural History, Oct, 2001 by Fred Bruemmer

Suddenly, a few miles from shore, they stop while the harpooner sharpens his kafes. The men remove their hats and pray, first a paternoster in Lamaholot (the language of Lamalera, Lamaholot is one of many languages of eastern Indonesia), then a final plea: "Lord bless our hunt and let us return alive." With this ritual, the hunt becomes holy. The mast is raised, the great golden sail is unfurled, and the boat sails farther out into the Sawu Sea--often up to eight miles. There the crew tacks and jibes, ever alert for the telltale spout of a distant whale, the curled tip of a manta ray's wing, the sheen of a shark near the surface.

Out there, with nothing to distract from the lazy roll of oily swells, the boat's dull creaking, the flint flapping of the sail, the burning sun, I learned what Samuel Taylor Coleridge meant by "As idle as a painted ship/Upon a painted ocean." Then, at a sudden cry, the crew swings into action, rowing and paddling to the rapid cadence of time-honored chants. On his perch the harpooner is at ease, even when the boat pitches, slews, and yaws in stormy weather. Finally he tenses and, in a great leap, flings himself on the prey and drives in the harpoon. Yes, the harpooner always jumps onto the back of the whale, shark, or ray--such leaping greatly increases his accuracy and killing power. Although pulled along by the frantic animal, he swiftly grabs an outrigger and slides smoothly back on board.

I watched once as a wounded manta ray dived rapidly, the wrist-thick palm-fiber rope attached to the harpoon pole flying overboard in spinning coils, lethal to anyone who might get caught in them. At last the rope went slack, and as the men strained to haul up the struggling fish that must literally have weighed a ton, they sang a loud song that they believe is heard by a ray's spirit. "We do not hunt for fun," they sang. "We desperately need your meat to live, to feed our hungry children." Part incantation, part plea, such a song must appease the ray's spirit before the fish can be killed. When the ray was near the surface, several men jumped overboard. Looking for a quick kill--a ray's thrashing wings can span twenty-five feet and break both men and boat--they dived beneath the massive fish and stabbed it with long-bladed, bamboo-handled knives. The fish was cut into chunks at sea; the rest of the butchering would be done on dry land. When a whale or shark is caught, it's lashed alongside the boat and hauled slowly to shore.

In Lamalera, life is lived on the seashore. Children play in the surf old men sit in the shade, smoking thin cigarettes rolled with strips of lontar palm leaf, talking about long-ago hunts, weaving new sails, or braiding new ropes. But the instant a boat rides in on a soaring swell, all the males, from tots to aged men, rush to help haul the boat up onto the beach. Then the kill is cut up and divided among members of the boat clan, as well as the sail-makers and boatbuilders. Shares are determined by custom, with the biggest portion going to the harpooner. His share is called lei nake, "the wages of his feet" in tribute to his balance on the narrow platform; he in turn is obliged to present his share to the oldest male in his direct paternal line.