With hearts thumping, we splashed into the water. We were a clumsy trio, awkward in our snorkels, fins, and clunky cameras, finning like possessed souls. We were in pursuit of Sangalaki's streamlined stealth bombers, manta rays that moved effortlessly with a flick of their giant wings. As we closed in on one, wingspan measuring 3m, Matthew Liew decided to dive down to get a photo of its snow-white underbelly. At precisely that moment, the manta turned to face us, swooping down and then up as Matthew had done. With mere centimetres between the two, Manta and Matthew executed a ballet that took both to the sparkling sunlit surface. Such electric encounters with marine life are the staple of Sangalaki, a tiny Indonesian island four hours from Tarakan on mainland Borneo. With its remote, peaceful location and clear waters that are home to over 500 marine species, the low-key national park has etched fame for itself as a scuba-diving and snorkelling destination. While its chief attractions are the mantas and the stingless jellyfish lake at nearby Kakaban (see: Evolution changes the jellyfish), Sangalaki also offers divers world-class wall diving, drift-diving and sandy bottom experiences in 8–30m visibility. But it was on the surface that we had our most delicious trysts with the mantas. Each time a sliver of pectoral fin was spotted slicing the water, into the water we would dive. Once, we were dropped in the middle of a feeding frenzy of an enormous school of blue Fusiliers. The current was strong. Suddenly, the whole shoal dived and before us, needing only the theme song from 2001: A Space Odyssey, the mantas approached. Gracefully, they swept past from all directions – one, two, three, four, then a solitary one and another, and yet another until we lost count. One headed straight towards me, the cephalic fins that extended from its eyes, funnelling water and food into its mouth. Suddenly, it noticed me, seemed startled, snapped its mouth shut with a gulp, and dived underneath me. Admittedly, when it comes at you like that, it is difficult to suppress visions of a Roald Dahl scenario of being swallowed by that massive black tunnel. While generally dark brown or black on top, each manta is patterned with white or gray splotches and patches. Apparently, these are as unique as human fingerprints. In between manta appearances, we drifted over the rainbow reef where a community of green turtles swam off in different directions, where schools of black and white Unicornfish nosed about, and where a diver was wedged with his camera, capturing the action from below. While diving in Sangalaki's shallow lagoon is relatively easy, averaging depths of 20m, more challenging conditions can be found at the Samama, Kakaban and Maratua islands. At Maratua, for instance, we could even see the four-knot currents being sucked into the channel from the surface. Below were swirling Barracudas, Hammerhead and Black and White-tip sharks, and Eagle rays. At 30m down, it was rib-tickling to see a Banded sea krait sweep out of the channel at the same time a diver, who had run out of air, swept into the channel. Generally, macro life was as prolific – among them, strikingly-hued nudibranches and flatworms by the dozen in virtually every dive, microscopic yellow Pygmy seahorses, ornate ghost pipefish and curious jawfish. The sandy ridge was littered with hundreds of Hammerhead nudibranches, and we successfully spotted the amazingly-camouflaged and weird crawling Seamoths. A Japanese diver actually got a photo of cuttlefish laying eggs but all we saw was one large bulb-like egg which had got detached from the cluster. Almost every day, the sky was a brilliant blue that cried freedom. At midday, the water rushes out from the lagoon, which makes it a 800m trudge to the island from the boat. However, the spiny carpet of brown coral, revealed only during low tide, is also a treasure-trove of life: pools of anemone and attendant fish, barely visible Blue-spotted stingrays, and lazy starfish. Safety is also a key concern of the Sangalaki Dive Lodge, and is obvious in the oxygen tanks on boats and a twin-lock, two-person hyperbaric chamber. The resort also pays strong environmental lip service to the fact that the isle is home to Indonesia's largest nesting Green turtle population. The 12 twin chalets and dining hall are on stilts to maximise the nesting area. They sit well back from the surfline and are hidden behind bushes, to minimise the effect of lights on the sensitive mothers that drag their up-to-50kg bodies up the beach to lay their eggs. Resort rules include turning on porch lights only to find keyholes and no nighttime wandering unless accompanied by a conservation officer. | | Manta ray There is now a permanent turtle monitoring station on the island with the government's recent decision to ban turtle egg collection from the island, once the trade's most lucrative source. Indeed, July saw an average of 36 turtle landings a night. On our very first night, we had just stepped out of our room when we froze at the sound of some scratching in front of our chalet. I thought, "Nesting turtle!" Jen, fresh from watching The Mummy thought, "Bugs!" We were both wrong. Instead, they were turtle hatchlings, the most darling of creatures, which had broken through their eggshells, gone up layers of sand and driven by instinct were heading towards the bright white breakers of the ocean and survival. Elated, we followed them, gently pushing them over debris. And bathed in the moonlight, we saw a mother in the distance, pulling herself up. Later that night, conservation officers unearthed even more turtles from "our" nest, counting 70-odd hatched and – unfortunately – unhatched eggs. The next day, after returning from a dive at midday, we again heard that familiar scratching sound. More hatchlings! However, the daytime experience was far sadder as it showed why hatching generally occurs at night. The beach was covered with a row of dead babies scorched by the sand that was too hot for even us bipeds to stand on. Tender-hearted Chan, his first ever experience of live hatchlings, did his 911 bit by rushing the weak survivors to the ocean. That night, he and Matthew stayed up till 2am following the conservation officers on their rounds, learning about in-situ conservation and capturing the egg-laying process on film. It is always great to be part of a venture where tourism supports conservation. Established and run by Sipadan pioneer Ron Holland, formerly of Borneo Divers, the resort has written to the Indonesian government to request a 3km no-fishing zone. There are also plans to put buoys in every dive site to prevent destructive anchoring on reefs, and rotate closing down part of the reef to divers for three months in a year to give the reefs a chance to regenerate. For the treasure of Sangalaki is its marine life, whether tiny turtles paddling furiously towards their future, dolphins gleefully leaping in the air, or mantas swooping around you. Sweet memories are made of these. by S. L. WONG EVOLUTION CHANGES THE JELLYFISH | THE Kakaban jellyfish lake near Sangalaki is a wonder of evolution. Scientists reckon that about 19,000 years ago, the islands' ridges rose and trapped a lake of seawater and its denizens. Among the creatures to thrive from the lack of predators here are four species of jellyfish, which have not only multiplied, but lost their sting. Only in Palau has this phenomenon also happened. Snorkelling among this soft, bobbing mass is otherworldy. In the silent milkiness streaked by ruler-straight beams of sunlight, baby jellyfish propel along at twice the pace of the adults, while at the bottom, an anemone feasts on unwary jellyfish. The lake's fringes are another world, where mangrove roots host bursts of colour in the form of flatworms, tunicates and sponges. Meanwhile long, brown tubeworms plaster the light green of seaweed and seagrass. Inspiration indeed for science fiction writer Isaac Asimov. |
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