The tiny boat bobs in the channel like a cork adrift at sea; the spray from the bow moistens the air as fish school in the clear waters to starboard and port. We are on passage from the southeast coast of Bali to the rugged island of Nusa Penida, crossing one of the world’s deepest channels, the Bali-Lombok Strait, which descends almost two thousand meters into the abyss. Our craft is one of the ubiquitous fishermen’s’ boats so familiar to this part of the world, known locally as jukung, and the hold is packed full with thousands of bamboo seedlings.
On our approach the island’s tall cliffs leap heavenward from the dark blues of the Indian Ocean, as long waves roll beneath us. A warm sea breeze floats overhead, birds glide endlessly on the wind, and the sun beats down ferociously. Towering in the distance behind us are the great volcanic peaks of Bali, now bathed in shadow like lions crouching between clouds, while before us the many barren peaks and forested valleys of Nusa Penida flex and fold like sheets of dark green and earth brown origami.
The island of Nusa Penida was once thickly forested, but now the hillsides are bare and covered in low lying and thorny shrubbery. Many years ago the island’s forests were felled for timber, except for at certain mountain peaks where ancient and highly significant Hindu temple complexes stand like forest guardians; at these places the deep greens and cool breezes of Nusa Penida’s extant tropical forests reach down the slope to the end of the temple lands, where they suddenly halt like waves that have reached a cliff.
Nusa Penida, encompassing approximately twenty-one thousand hectares at 08°42,904” S and 115°32,705”E, is the least populated and most impoverished area of Bali. Its administration falls under the Regency of Klungkung, and its population is overwhelmingly Hindu. Centuries ago, very powerful kingdoms had their palaces and courts on the island, but today little of this remains and the island is considered by many to possess certain supernatural and mystical qualities.
As we slowly inch toward the small beach front village of Toyapakeh, where we will unload our packed hold of bamboo seedlings, we reflect on the little history that we know of the island. A toothless old man squats next to us along the starboard rail. He smiles and we begin to chat. He extends a boney finger and points, saying: “And that is Pura Ped, a very important temple.” He continues to talk of the island as the boat pierces the lagoon and its prow slides smoothly up to the sand; he was born and lives here, but was visiting a son in Bali who had left the island to find more and better job prospects. He laments the sad and lonely state of his island and talks of powerful kingdoms in centuries past, and we are left with a great feeling of history and excitement.
Pak Bayu is a man of great humor and warmth, and as we shake hands he welcomes us to his nursery and explains why sea weed farming is dangerous to the ecology of the island’s northern coast. He then pauses for a moment, squints at the sun, quickly issues a few orders in rapid Balinese to the staff unloading the truck, and mentions why local men and women will farm it anyway, concluding with a deep laugh and a quick joke.
He is that most rare breed of conservationists, one who is also a realist, and he is also the head of FNPF and our lead local partner is what is quietly being recognized as a ground breaking example of corporate social responsibility.
We unload the thousands of bamboo seedlings, and the staff of the Friends of the National Parks Foundation (FNPF), our partner NGO in this project, run between the beached jukung and the small flat-bed truck with arms full of bamboo seedlings of many and diverse species: endemic Javanese ampel, Balinese petung from the cool and rain-beaten forests of Tabanan, sprightly pancing seedlings from the banks of the Ayung River, and Buddha Belly and Guadua from the Atlantic forests of Colombia. Soon, the truck is loaded and we are motoring through the small streets of the village before joining a tiny coastal road which snakes northward, twisting between coconut groves and tiny beach-side shacks of woven palm leaves, where coastal residents dry and sort the harvest from the island’s many sea weed farms.
The John Hardy Company of Bali, designers and producers of some of the most sought after hand-made luxury jewelry in the world, has long been an environmentally and socially aware company. Its founders, John and Cynthia Hardy, approach their business in an inspiring and amazingly simple way: create the most beautiful and exquisite pieces of hand-made jewelry while being respectful of Bali’s land, people, and culture. This philosophy is evident is many things that they do, from providing an organic and healthy meal to their seven hundred-plus employees every day, to the mid-wife clinic they support, the low-impact structures they build, their aspirations to preside over a carbon neutral company, and their many environmentally-friendly initiatives ranging from initiating large-scale recycling programs to using only certified responsible paper.
In 2005, John had the idea to offset the greenhouse gas emissions associated with his print advertising campaigns by planting bamboo, a very strong, quickly growing, and dynamic material that had been capturing his and many other environmentalist’s attention. The island of Nusa Penida, wreathed in legend and mystery and now almost totally deforested seemed to John an obvious challenge and a very positive place to begin. John visited to island on many occasions, and working together with Pak Bayu, they identified a unique environmental and social opportunity in planting bamboo there. Not only would the bamboo sequester carbon dioxide and serve as voluntary emissions offset from the company, the bamboo would also provide a habitat for the highly endangered Bali starling songbiard (Leucuposar rothschildi) and yield positive social and local economic returns as the planting methodology would be community-based.
The details were quickly worked out and planting began in late November 2006, with the aim to offset 451 metric tons of carbon dioxide equivalent greenhouse gas emissions, which was the emissions requirement to offset John’s print advertisements.
Frequent shipments consisting of thousands of seedlings of bamboo over the past several months has to date resulted in many thousands of bamboo plantings on the island, all of which have broad community support through John’s insistence to work with community groups directly. To date, there are five local farmers’ cooperatives participating in the plantings, and dozens of other individual farmers who come by the FNPF nursery to gather bamboo seedlings to take and plant on their own lands throughout the island. One of these men is I Nyoman Citra, the head of the Tebe Lestari farmers’ cooperative, which is based in Banjar Saren on the island’s south coast.
Pak Man Citra, as he insists we call him, chats for a while with Pak Bayu as we stroll through the nursery looking at the newly arrived seedlings. Rain is starting to fall heavily on his land in the south, good news for a typically arid island, and he wants to plant some seedlings and take advantage of the optimal soil conditions. We load a truck with a couple hundred seedlings and lurch upward into Nusa Penida’s thin mountain roads, bumping and bouncing around as the axles hit the many holes and scars which lay scattered throughout the island’s primitive road system. We turn past old temples and sullen villages, and wind through deep valleys and over barren ridges before turning at a small Hindu shrine which marks the entrance to Banjar Saren. Pak Man Citra’s brothers and cousins and other members of the Tebe Lestari farmers’ cooperative come pouring out into the street, and we all unload the seedings together. Each member of the cooperative gets a few, some more than others, and Pak Man Citra more than anybody. He hoists armfuls of seedlings and motions for us to follow him up a thin alley. After a quick glass of warm tea and a few laughs at his house, we begin a brisk hike to his land. He talks of the rain and the soil while setting an unbelievable pace. Soon we arrive in a sunken valley, green and lush, with deeply fragrant soil.
“Here.” He says, and we lay the seedlings down. He has already dug dozens of holes for the seedlings, each conical and with long sloping walls to trap water and funnel it to the thirsty seedling. We set to work, planting bamboo with Pak Man Citra in Banjar Saren on Nusa Penida.
Later in the day, as evening hangs heavy in the air, we climb above the valley and onto a dry ridge. The soil is thin and it sits loosely atop large chunks of limestone, remnants of a pre-historic reef which is now this ridge. The Indian Ocean swells and heaves into the deep southern distance, mist coming off of its waves and the deep blues turning to darker colors inseparable from the sky as the sun leans to the west and behind Bali in the distance. We have more bamboo to plant tomorrow; and after tomorrow, there will be more bamboo to plant still.
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