by John Parsons

This was to be a red-letter day in my life. I had waited nine months to land on Komodo Island, and now it was just a few miles away, across a bay. From the deck of our ship I could see the outline of a hill range, a green fringe of coconut palms, and silky blue-green tropical water teeming with fish.
We were a mixed bag of international travellers who had boarded the ship in Bali, numerous couples, gap-year backpackers and a hotchpotch of singletons such as myself. The sole reason for our being here was to see the dragons. The Komodo dragon is now an endangered species. Only 6,000 inhabit four small islands of the Indonesian archipelago.
Below, accessed from the stern, a Zodiac – an inflatable rubber dingy powered by an outboard – would shoot across the waves to the island. That would be an adventure in itself. One was being lowered onto the water and was now filling with passengers. I watched a shoal of flying fish disappear in the dazzling turquoise waters of the bay then descended a flight of stairs. An officer handed over a life-jacket. I boarded, taking a vacant seat beside an elderly Australian who was fingering his camera settings. I nodded a greeting.
The other four passengers were talking incessantly, ‘Have you got the sun cream? Did you remember the water bottle? What do we do if a dragon comes along?’ I detected a certain nervousness. No one knew how they would feel, or react, when facing an antediluvian monster.
On the previous evening a pep talk was given in the ship’s lounge, and a film was shown. ‘Despite their bad eye-sight,’ an officer said, ‘the Komodo dragon associates red with blood and is attracted to it. Women who are menstruating, or anyone with a wound, are advised to stay on board.’ In the film the dragons were chasing villagers. That was now tempering my enthusiasm: there are no medical facilities on Komodo Island if someone is bitten.
A cloud of acrid petrol fumes filled the air. The Zodiac sped away, bouncing across the choppy waters. In no time it slithered onto a sandy beach.
In the shade of coconut palms, away from the furnace-like rays of the sun, stood a man, short in stature with a weather-beaten face. Our ranger wore a pair of tattered khaki shorts and a threadbare white shirt – probably his complete wardrobe. We gathered around.
‘My name Dik. Welcome. Today we see dragon. No problem.’ He held a wooden staff, notched at the end, possibly to parry wild beasts, although a rifle would have been more appropriate. Our ranger looked from face to face. ‘If dragon is on path, stand aside. No problem. Please stay with group. No wander off. Okay. First we go to office to register.’
I felt a mix of excitement and terror.
These fearsome crocodile-like dragons have thick forked-tongues and venom glands in their lower jaw, scaly skin, serrated teeth, armour plated heads and long sharp claws. They are capable of outrunning a dog over short distances. After biting its prey – wild pig, deer, water buffalo – the creature tracks it until the toxin’s work is done, usually four days.
We filed along a dusty track flanked by roughly constructed stilted huts. I stood aside to take a photograph when I spotted a dragon – the heaviest monitor lizard in the world – coming towards me. Initially I froze, then backed away to the amusement of a gaggle of giggling half-naked kiddies. The creature was moving with a swaying motion, its tongue flicking in and out, eyes void of emotion, dripping saliva.
Seconds later my fear dissipated. The 3m (10ft) long dragon had ignored me. I ran after my colleagues, climbed wooden steps to a hut and signed the register.
‘Okay people. Follow me.’ We set off in single file. I stayed close to Dik, hoping to see any snakes that he disturbed. The trail led through a wall of greenery into another world, a jungle of giant bamboo, lofty trees with lianas hanging down, low boughs colonised by spindly leaved epiphytes. These plants attach themselves to a branch, taking their nutrients from rain water, and the air. The piercing alarm calls of unseen birds echoed from the canopy, and the sounds of power tools were probably insect noises.
The ground was covered with foetid, decomposing vegetation, and damp leaf mould furrowed by an animal rooting for food. Dik saw me staring. ‘Wild pig,’ he said. The heat and humidity were like a heavy blanket spread across the landscape. Sweat dripped from my brow. Despite the oppressive heat an Oriental woman from the ship wore a skin-tight black polo-neck sweater.
In time the jungle walls parted to reveal a small area of savannah where a dragon was lying on the grass asleep. Here was the reason why I had spent a fortune and travelled halfway around the world. I could smell the dry grass, the dust rising from our footfalls and a strange odour from the reptile. Perhaps it was mating time!
Dik held up a hand, tapped his staff on the ground, his ebony eyes glistening in the diffused daylight. ‘I explain about dragon.’ He looked from face to face then continued in monotones. ‘Dragon is cold blooded. Must warm in morning.’ Several of the group went much closer than seemed safe, almost touching the beast. Did they realise that dragons had killed villagers and that their toxic bite lowers blood pressure and causes severe shock? I stood well clear of its tail which could have swung around and taken off a leg.
Dik again tapped his staff on the ground. ‘Okay people. Forward.’ We slipped past a second dragon, a juvenile, lying absolutely still. From a distance it could have been mistaken for a log. A few minutes later Dik signalled with his hand. We stopped. ‘The dragon does not attack on purpose. If it comes we stand still. Let it pass. Okay.’
Then we were off again, but not before I spotted a jungle fowl in the undergrowth, and someone shouted, ‘Sulphur-crested cockatoo.’ We were south of the Wallace Line, an imaginary boundary where in 1859 the British Naturalist Alfred Wallace noted that the Asiatic fauna gave way to the Australasian.
We stopped a third time at Dik’s command. A wooden sign partially obscured by leaves was staked into the ground. Words were burnt into the wood saying: Dangerous area. Watch out. Komodo crossing.
‘Once I have group of people,’ Dik said, flicking an ant off his arm. ‘I say go along this track and please no leave group…one man…German man… say he go to all countries of the world. He left group. We no see him again.’
A murmur rose from my colleagues.
‘Okay. Follow. Nearly there,’ Dik said high spiritedly. ‘We reach stockade, viewing site.’ Then something happened that could not have been foreseen. A rustling sound caused Dik to freeze. He turned, mouthing the words, ‘Cobra…spitting cobra.’ My blood pressure rocketed at the sight of a deadly snake just a metre away. In seconds it slithered into the undergrowth and I gave a sigh of relief. I wished to observe snakes but this was too close.
Sunshine burst through the tunnel of matted foliage, highlighting a withered bough where a delicate pink orchid had taken root. There are 20,000 species of orchid in the world and most are epiphytes.
Just ahead was a wooden fence, the stockade, from where the dragons could be studied and photographed from a safe distance. Tangled lianas gave way to sun-dried grass shaded by mature broad-leaf trees.
I was telling a colleague that the dragons have both male and female sex chromosomes when Dik’s voice broke into our small-talk. ‘You stand behind stockade.’ Dik pointed with his staff. ‘See holes in ground where dragon shelter from sun…or crawl around. Life span 30 years.’
Now in a safe position, Dik recounted an incident that emphasised one of the dangers of visiting Komodo. ‘You hear of Switzerland lady? She was bitten.’ Dik’s tone was uneasy. ‘It no kill her. Problem. No hospital. She bleed. She die.’
My colleagues attention was taken by brightly coloured butterflies flitting past, as large as medium sized birds.
It was a scene from pre-history. Across the sun-scorched biscuit coloured grass, some twenty-five paces, were maybe thirty dragons, either moving ponderously along the ground, their forked tongues testing the air, or sleeping. ‘They move slowly, unless attacking,’ Dik commented.
I recalled watching a TV programme where villagers slit the throat of a goat, and hung it from the branch of a tree. The smell of blood enticed the dragon to rush to the tree and tear off the flesh. This barbaric practice now belongs to the past.
Money couldn’t buy this experience. I would go back to England with memories that would never fade. My perception of life had changed, my horizons had been widened, and I had an incredible story to recount to my friends.