Another day, another COVID PCR test. 

 I have looped back from the island of Buru on the overnight ferry to the city of Ambon to catch yet another ferry to my next destination, Seram, the second largest island in the Moluccas. 

 Indonesian regulations require that I test negative to the pesky virus before stepping aboard the inter-island ferry, so a brief stop at the sprawling hospital in the city is required for the regulation nose and throat twirl. 

 Test done and, with a negative result clutched to my breast; it's a dash to the Tuleha port where my transport awaits, a hulking beast taking on the last of the cars, trucks, motorcycles and a few hundred walk-on passengers.

 Public ferries in Indonesia are a vital part of the collective tissue that keeps this diverse country together, connecting 17,000 islands where religious and ethnic tensions seem to have no place on board. My fellow passengers are almost all local, heading to the 'mother island' to conduct business, visit relatives, or simply return home. 

 At the front of the boat, the captain emerges from the bridge and greets me warmly; behind him, two or three ornate cages house several colourful songbirds chirping loudly, weaving their sounds into those of the slap of waves against the hull and the throaty rumble of the craft's giant diesel engines below. 

 Within the first hour, passengers settle in for the relatively short 159 km journey; some drift towards the hard plastic benches, arrange themselves in a tangle of limbs, and drift towards sleep while others drink heavily sugared coffee or slurp from oversized cups of instant noodles. The canteen attendant juggles orders and monitors the obligatory sound system that spews out jaunty tunes at full volume.

 Finding a spot on deck, I desperately try to update my neglected journal. Lately, I seem to lose track of time, and I put this down to being in a pandemic blur where the places I visit and the time I spend there bend, twist and fold over each other, confusing my memory. These past two years, daily life has become somewhat distorted where 'normal' life is almost unrecognizable although, here, on a ferry sailing the Banda Sea, life is perhaps as it has always been.

 The sun emerges from behind the rapidly disappearing clouds and, with it, the promise of a beautiful day ahead. The sky is impossibly blue, adding colour to an azure sea so calm it is as if we are drifting across a giant lake. To make the scene even more magical, a pod of dolphins appear and frolic playfully for a while in the ferry's wake.

 To our left, we sail past the sparsely populated south coast of Seram, one of the islands you've never heard of. Yet, according to local beliefs, all Maluku's people originated from Seram, referred to as Nusa Ina or Mother Island, which is an improvement on its official name, which when translated means, "Scary Island!!".

 The island is traversed by a vast central mountain range, a winding swathe of jagged peaks perpetually shrouded in thick mist from which Mount Binaiya, at 3019 meters, rises majestically from the mountain's spine. 

 Seram has remarkably complex geology given its location at the meeting point of several tectonic plates, making it one of the most volatile tectonic areas on earth prone to hundreds of earthquakes each year. I hope there might be a lull in the shakes during my stay! Seram is a wild, rugged and relatively unexplored part of the word, sitting right in the middle of the broad and blurry Wallace Line with West Papua to the north and East Timor to the east.

 This should be an exciting trip!

 We dock at the small port of Amahai, where our driver and guide await and immediately whisk us off to the capital Mosohi to yet another rather nondescript hotel. However, as this was merely an overnight stop, the sub-standard accommodation was not too painful.

 The following morning we set off for the village of Hatumete with the prospect of an all-day hike to one of the more remote villages on the island. Just a few towns are scattered along our route and, apart from a few motorcycles and the occasional truck, the roads are largely deserted. Only the jungle on either side of us seemed active, determined to try to devour the thin slither of bitumen that we were travelling along. 

 It is no wonder the intrepid explorer Alfred Wallace set his sights on this island for, as a botanist, Seram is akin to finding Aladdin's Cave. However, 150 years have passed since Wallace explored the island's interior, and, on the surface, nothing seems to have changed. Hunter-gatherers, armed with bows and arrows and small pellet guns, still roam the slopes of the mountains foraging in the thick rainforests for their daily needs. 

 Before my arrival, looking at Seram on Google Earth, I noted that there are no roads through the protected part of the island, the Manuela National Park. However, on either side of the park's boundaries, myriads of small logging roads weave their way into the interior, snaking down to the lowlands of the Diptocarp forest where the valuable meranti timber grows.

 The Manuela National Park is home to hundreds of species of butterflies that must have put an avid collector such as Wallace into a frenzy dashing hither and thither with his flimsy butterfly net while keeping his eyes open for rare beetles. Around him, Moluccan and Palm Cockatoos, the Seram masked owl, and enormous Hornbills would have flown overhead. 

Wallace spent eight years travelling around the Malay Archipelago between 1854 to 1862 with a six-month stint on Seram, where he collected numerous species new to western science.

 In addition to the prolific bird and insects, these dense, jungle-covered mountains hide two of the county's wonderous geographic features: the 388 m deep Hatu Saka caves and the Sepalawa, the longest meandering underground river on earth.

 After several hours of travel, we reach the rather charming village of Hatumete, the starting point for the tortuous hike into the mountains where our mountain guides await. My companions, all keen birders, are eager to get going, and I frankly am not. It's hot!! The mid-morning sun is fierce, and the humidity is nudging 100% 

The first hour is tortuous, and soon enough, disaster strikes. Clambering over a fallen tree reignites an old leg injury, and I can go no further. There was much chatter amongst the guides until my partner and I turned around and headed back to the village. I am handed a piece of paper with a name and number to call when we arrive. On the track down, we meet a couple, one of which, understanding our plight, takes off at a trot bearing the hastily scribbled note.

 Our arrival back in the village seemed to be a reason for celebration, for virtually all inhabitants came out to meet us. Our accommodation for the night is a house painted in a shade of vibrant red, which turned out to be the village general store. The proprietor, Wenli, a jolly third-generation Chinese woman, invited us in and showed us to our quarters. It seemed she had given up her bedroom and then promptly sat us down to a sumptuous lunch. 

 Having loaded the exhausted hikers into our two vehicles the following morning, we set off north. Leaving the coast, we turn inwards onto the only route that traverses the island's interior. It is a marvel of engineering as the road meanders in a series of switchbacks taking us ever higher. It rains all year round at this altitude, meaning the road is constantly under maintenance. Every couple of kilometres, I see giant diggers clearing away the massive landslides that often sever this main artery, lifting vast swathes of the road then dumping it down the vertiginous slopes into the forest below.

 A brief coffee stop at a pleasant warung in the lee of Mt Binaiya, shrouded in a thick blanket of mist, suddenly clears, giving me a view of the northern coastline and my final destination, the village of Sawai. 

 Sawai is a warren of wooden houses perched on stilts above the shallow waters peppered with vibrant coral and alive with colourful schools of fish. 

 It was love at first sight. 

 Small, inter-connecting lanes and alleyways accommodate the villager's houses that sit cheek by cheerful jowl virtually on top of one another. Everyone here seems delighted to have us stay for a few days, and the accommodation, albeit basic, perched over the water is an absolute delight.

 Days are spent snorkelling the waters along the coastline and spending time at the Ora Beach Resort that is slowly succumbing to the elements after two years of having no visitors.

 Seram is difficult to capture in a brief article such as this, for it is an island full of mystery, wonder and excitement. Its people, its flora and fauna, dramatic terrain and unapparelled beauty makes me once again realize that the world really is an amazing place.

 Seram Island, Maluku Islands Indonesia. November 2021

Photography copyright Paul v Walters & E.J.Lenahan

 My journey to Seram and other islands was made possible by Go Wild expedition a, non-profit organization based in Jakarta. 

Paul v Walters is the best-selling author of several novels and short stories. In addition, when not cocooned in sloth and procrastination.

 he occasionally raises to scribble for several international travel and vox pop journals.