When the first thing you see in the half-light of morning is the glowing lava and rising ash of a volcano, that would seem to be the only logical response. Or at least to me. But in this corner of the Pacific’s so-called ‘ring of fire,’ there are more than 120 active volcanoes, and the crew on board — all locals — are far less startled by the gentle puffs of Mount Ile Lewotolok as we slip off in a tender for some dawn fishing. As the sun rises, with birdsong drifting from the jungles of Lembata and the rumbling volcano spurting a few more ash clouds skyward, my view of the volcano changes: as a natural spectacle, it’s hard to top.
A couple of days earlier, I’d boarded this six-night Silolona Sojourns charter navigating the Flores Sea westwards from Alor to the island of Flores itself. Sailing in tandem are two palatial wooden phinisi boats, the likes of which have been used on these spice routes for centuries. Taking the lead is the 164 ft, five-cabin Silolona, while her slightly smaller sister, and my home for the week, the three-cabin Si Datu Bua, follows just behind. And these boats come with backstories.
Here’s the gist. Patti Seery fell deeply in love with Indonesia when she and her husband relocated there from the US. She spent years exploring its remote corners, chartering boats, leading expeditions, and befriending villagers. She even switched her son’s planned name, Trent, to ‘Tresno,’ the Javanese for ‘love.’ The family moved back to the States in 1990 but after frequent return visits, Seery decided to build her own phinisi boat to enable others to explore the region that meant so much to her.
To do so, she turned to the Konjo boat builders of Ara in south Sulawesi where these traditional Indonesian sailing boats are crafted by hand on the edge of a mangrove. Individual ironwood trees are selected from the dense jungle before timbers are bent and boats assembled almost entirely by sight (yet still, in this case, to strict German Lloyd’s standards). And so Silolona was born, named after a Tanimbar island legend where a man named Atuf built a boat to sail to the sun in memory of his beloved wife, Silolona. Si Datu Bua (‘beloved princess’) followed in 2012, its construction overseen by Tresno.
They remain the finest phinisi on these waters. My cabin alone — porthole windows lined with polished teak; vast bed; exquisite pottery and tactile fabrics; a shapely staircase leading to deck — would shame your average boutique hotel. Patti died in 2020 but Tresno, who was employee number two, trip leader Goris, as well as employee number three, boat builder and all-round force-of-nature Nasir, are part of the 30-man crew on board with us, and her spirit is keenly felt. “My vision of Indonesia was like this,” explains Goris, mimicking a set of blinkers. “Now it’s like this, because of Patti,” he says, throwing his arms out wide.
Not long after we’d first set sail, I’d spotted a couple of whales surfacing at the height of golden hour, and now I’ve seen an active volcano before breakfast. It’s fair to say my own vision of Indonesia is widening by the day.
That afternoon, I get further beneath its surface, as we snorkel close to the shoreline, looking down on a sprawling unspoilt reef. I linger over a starfish so turquoise it’s almost luminous until I catch sight of something slender out of the corner of my eye. “An eel?” I think, until I get a full view and realize it’s the spear of a freediving Bajau fisherman, resplendent in his wooden goggles.
Diving is one of the major draws to the islands all along this archipelago. Bali, Java and Lombok need little introduction, of course, but Silolona was one of the first boats that ventured off the beaten path to Raja Ampat and Komodo. While they too have grown in popularity over the past few years, our Alor to Flores route remains blissfully free of traffic aside from the occasional jukung fishing vessel. From scuba obsessives and curious first-timers to those happiest with just flippers and a mask, charter guests of all abilities can enjoy this indigo expanse in the company of turtles, sharks, blue whales, dolphins, rays and countless fish, including the flying ones that we spot regularly from the boat.
But our trips ashore are what give a greater context to the passing paradise. On Alor, we visit Kalabahi market where the spoils of the jungle and the sea are laid out for purchase: spices, fruits, vegetables, and fish of every size (at one stall, the lid of an ice box is proudly removed to reveal a hefty tuna). We head high into the hills to join a traditional house-building ceremony in a remote village, where residents show us how they fashion their ceremonial clothing from tree bark and lead us in a dance of unity. Laughter at my footwork is politely hidden.
One afternoon is spent on a tiny spit of white sand, saved to memory when Patti and Goris first sailed this route in the late 1990s. We swim in its surrounding pristine waters, wakeboard badly, and seek out shells on its shores. For sunset, we head in the opposite direction to a shallow mangrove for cocktails beneath an endless stream of fruit bats heading out to feed — before returning to our desert island now transformed into a lantern-lit beach barbecue where we feast on freshly grilled fish and watch the moon slip beyond the horizon. “They’re like family,” Tresno says warmly of his crew as they serenade us with traditional songs (plus a rousing version of Hotel California).
After an almost exclusively shoe-less week, we visit terra firma just twice more. One sweltering late afternoon, we stroll up through the jungle to a small village, just in time for the big volleyball game. Our greeting is as warm as the weather — delighted children pose for selfies; elders smile, wave and offer sips of home-brewed arak.
With Flores now firmly in sight, we mark our last full day on board with an excursion of particular significance. “This is where I first learnt to dive,” says Goris as we come ashore at a now-abandoned dive centre on the island’s eastern coast. But the connection runs deeper than that.
We drive up steep hairpin roads into the clouds, and are led into the jungle by village guides who pause to harvest coconuts, nutmeg and the roots of a morinda tree. With a few swift machete chops, the coconuts are served as refreshment when we reach a clearing. A little further up the hill, we see how those red morinda roots are used: pulped by hand as part of the dye-making process. Nearby, three women mix lime, indigo, and ash to make blue dyes. The ikat technique that utilizes these hues has been carried out here for thousands of years, the fabrics traded with merchants from all over the globe. Goris explains that the gecko motif present on a few of the women’s sarongs is a symbol of protection and success.
I’m presented with an ikat sash of my own (I gratefully count four geckos). We’re danced into a courtyard and invited to observe a ceremony to remember the village ancestors. And there, at the front, is a framed picture of Patti dressed in ikat and blessed as one of their own. “Occasionally, a few other tourists might find their way here but this true connection all comes from Patti,” explains Goris fondly.
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After the passing of some ceremonial tobacco, arak, and betel nut, things turn celebratory as the music strikes up, a fusion of the percussive gamelan of Bali and Java, and the strummed strings of Pacific island folk music. We’re treated to a traditional pre-marriage dance where a banana tree is symbolically felled, and a warrior dance where the village’s most fearsome fighter clambers a bamboo pole wielding a bow and arrow. Soon we’re all joining in — it feels perfectly genuine, joyous, and welcoming, rather than some kind of performative tourist entertainment. We dance, it’s fair to say, with abandon.
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