The Island That Time Forgot.
As my flight descends towards the city of Ambon, the first of the more than 1,000 islands of the Moluccas begin to appear, nestled in the azure blue waters of the Banda Sea like scattered Pleiades, complete with blindingly white sandy beaches lined with swaying palms.
I am about to fulfil a lifelong dream; to discover The Spice Islands!
The Indonesian province of Maluku, anglicised over time as the Moluccas, comprises a collection of tiny islands that are among the most remote and least populated in Indonesia and, indeed, the world. Despite their exquisite beauty, they are certainly not on the tourist map.
For centuries, this idyllic archipelago was referred to as The Spice Islands, covering an area of 75,000 square kilometres, home to just 2.1 million people, the majority of whom reside in the province's capital, Ambon.
The Malukus, encircled by the Banda Sea, link with the Ceram Sea to the north and the Arafura and Timor Seas to the south, enfolding this idyllic paradise in its warm, tropical waters.
The beautiful, nay, idyllic area has had a turbulent history. During the 17th century, both the Dutch and the English entered the spice race, vying to plunder and monopolise the abundance of nutmeg, pepper, and cloves to satisfy the enormous demand in Europe. This lust for territory and profit proved to be a brutal period for the beleaguered islands, leaving an indelible stain evident even today. This almost-forgotten corner of Indonesia has endured numerous wars and upheavals, and now this distant province has largely been neglected by the central Government in Java.
My stay on the island of Ambon was relatively short, which was a pity as I found this city, known as the city of music, to be a charming mini-metropolis bustling with life. Most of my time was spent stocking up on supplies, as I had a ferry to catch!
Ambon has an intriguing shape, as if the landscape has twisted and turned back on itself, creating Ambon Bay, which cuts 20 km into the island, providing a safe inlet for the fleet of small fishing boats tethered along its banks.
The Amboina Port is lively and bustles with activity as the overnight ferry to the island of Buru takes on the last of the trucks, cars, and hundreds of passengers for the twelve-hour crossing.
Promptly at 8 pm, we cast off and lumber slowly into the bay before turning west, heading for our destination.
On the top deck, passengers immediately settle in for their evening meal while twin speakers next to the canteen blast out an array of raucous disco tunes that will play at full volume throughout the night. At the end of the evening repast, the majority of passengers retire to the middle deck where hundreds of bunk beds, stacked three high, will provide a night's rest, albeit a rather stuffy one, to the strains of "I Love The Night Life' blaring from the industrial-sized speakers above.
My destination, Buru, is one of the larger islands in the archipelago, 13 times larger than Singapore, but with less than 200,000 inhabitants, it bristles with tales of tragedy and inspiration and is saturated with a plethora of controversial politics.
It should be a writer’s dream.
The island lives with an unfortunate reputation as it was a place where political prisoners were exiled during the New Order era of the 1960s under the Suharto regime. Consequently, it was seen as a prison island, which was probably true twenty years ago, but over time, the island has shed that unfortunate moniker as it desperately tries to reinvent itself.
In the early light of dawn, Buru emerges from the low-lying mist, and, as we get closer, its geography comes into sharp relief. The undulating hills are covered with dense evergreen forests of pine, casuarina and wild eucalyptus, while the fertile lowlands are awash with lush mangroves.
With little fuss, but with plenty of noise, the ferry docks at the port of Namlea, the capital and the passengers, fresh from sleep, join the fleet of trucks, cars and motorcycles heading down the ramp . The diligent DJ on the top deck has changed his repertoire to softer Indonesian love songs, playing at the same decibel levels he maintained throughout the night.
This island was first mentioned in the west by the Portuguese mariners around 1365, and the moment I step ashore, I get the feeling the inhabitants would have preferred to remain anonymous, given what they had to endure for the next two hundred years. From 1658 until 1942, the Dutch East India Company held reign, followed by the Crown of the Netherlands, and, as if to add insult to injury, was occupied by the Japanese during WW2.
Namlea is an altogether pleasant town with bustling markets surrounded by gently rolling hills and abundant fertile grasslands. On one of the main streets, my nondescript hotel was situated opposite a large military camp painted in lurid shades of green. I would see several of these sprawling military installations over the next few days.
The following day, my first stop on this journey was to visit Buru's unpleasant secret.
Deep in the island's interior is one of Indonesia's most remote and infamous prison camps. During the 1965 repression of the political left, approximately 12,000 men were transported to Buru without formal charge or trial. During their detention, prisoners suffered torture, forced labour and malnourishment, as well as social isolation. Their banishment lasted for over thirteen years!
The site of the original camp adjoining the village of Savanajaya is relatively nondescript. There is virtually no visual evidence that this was the central clearinghouse for arriving prisoners, with only a small, weed-covered monument in the middle of a large field as a testament to its existence.
The local village head, a number of his staff, and the local school's English teacher were more than willing to answer my questions about what happened during those dark times. Included in the group were three rather lively octogenarians who were actual past prisoners from that time. These ageing gentlemen, separated from their families fifty years ago, were shipped by the government thousands of miles to this remote, unfamiliar landscape.
These three gentlemen had chosen, upon their release, to remain on Buru and marry local women, raise families, and become part of their new community. They seemed pretty content, but even so, this dark period of Buru's history and theirs is as forgotten as the sad monument that stands in that forlorn field.
Heading over the mountains to the village of Sanleko, our route meandered past vast rice fields tilled by farmers in conical bamboo hats that protected them from the fierce tropical sun. These very fields were created by the poor souls who were snatched from their professional lives in Java and transported here, miles from anywhere.
Arriving at the village of Sanlekoon aboard a small boat, my companions, whom I met in Ambon are met by a large welcoming committee who showered us with garlands and then performed a ceremonial welcome dance. The entire village has assembled to greet our arrival!
This ritual would be performed twice more at the next villages we visited over the following two days. The ceremony was the same, garlands bestowed upon us, children in ceremonial dress performing dance routines with copious amounts of food and drink offered.
I discreetly enquire whether our arrival is due to our being the first visitors since the COVID pandemic began. No, they tell us, we are the first ‘foreign’ visitors to visit their village ever!!
The inhabitants of this and other islands have now been encouraged and funded by various European NGOs to engage in tourism activities, such as homestays and to promote hiking and bird safaris to wean the population away from illegal gold mining and logging toward a more sustainable way to make a living.
I hope it works for people like these, who deserve a better life, but one does think it will be an uphill battle, given the remoteness and difficulty of getting to these villages, which requires a great deal of intrepidity.
Buru is a beautiful island teeming with magical birdlife, including honeyeaters, kingfishers, cockatoos, and giant hornbills. The pace is gentle, the beaches picture postcard, and the people warm and welcoming… I like to think that one day I shall return.
To be continued ….
Buru Island, Maluku Island, Indonesia. November 2025
Photography copyright of E.J Lenahan and Paul v Walters
My journey to Buru and other islands was made possible by Go Wild expeditions, a non-profit organisation based in Jakarta.
Pail v Walters is the author of six novels and an anthology of short stories. His latest offering, RITUAL, was launched at the International Ubud Writers and Readers Festival in late 2025.
