Indonesia's Coral Reefs on the Line.

• Author: Ryan, John C.

From Wallace's Line to the Front Lines of the Explosive Struggle for the World's Richest Underwater Treasures

Nusa Dua, Bali, Indonesia Here on the eastern shore of Bali, as I look past the thin, white line of surf breaking over an offshore reef to the sparkling seas of the Lombok Strait, I'm not just looking toward another Indonesian island, I'm also looking past an invisible line to the edge of another world.

That invisible line running between the islands of Bali and Loinbok--Wallace's Line--divides the living worlds of Asia and Australia, with elephants, pheasants, and towering Dipterocarp trees found on one side and marsupials, cockatoos, and Eucalyptus on the other. Named for the 19th century explorer-naturalist Alfred Wallace, Wallace's Line is at the heart of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago, one of the world's richest storehouses of biological diversity--both on land and under water.

Turning away from Wallace's Line, I see another dividing line. On the beach above me are the swimming pools, manicured grounds, and pampered guests of the Sheraton Nusa Indah, walled off from the real Indonesia of rice fields, crowded streets, and, well, Indonesians.

This exclusive and isolated resort (incredibly, it's more than half a mile's drive from the hotel's front door to the outside gate) is the setting for the Ninth International Coral Reef Symposium, the largest gathering ever of coral reef scientists. Some of the 1,500 experts gathered here grasp the irony of discussing community-based conservation at a conference far too expensive for anyone from an Indonesian coastal community to attend. Some apparently don't grasp it. But for better or worse, Nusa Dua is one of the only places in Indonesia where it is possible to hold such an enormous meeting.

If you're going to talk about coral, Indonesia is the place to be. With the world's richest and most extensive coral reefs, Indonesia probably harbors more underwater species than any other nation. This archipelago of 17,000 islands is also where the stakes are highest for ocean conservation: more people live closer to reefs here, in the fourth-most populous nation on Earth, than anywhere else. So the discussions at Nusa Dua--on the latest updates on reefs worldwide, the devastating implications of El Nino and climate change for corals, and ways to stop reef-killing fishing practices and the spread of coral disease--are tremendously important for this nation of coastal dwellers and fish eaters.

Yet, just a day into the conference, still jet-lagged, I'm already itching to cross the line to the other Indonesia: the Indonesia where putt-putting wooden fishing boats and outrigger canoes, not jet skis and "ocean adventure rafts," dot the waters. Where gravity-defying geckos, not hotel landscapers on a chemical quest for a pest-free paradise, hunt for insects. Where comfort comes from ocean breezes or wobbly fans, and discomfort means serious sweating in the equatorial heat.

But here at Nusa Dua, my discomfort--even my difficulty typing--comes from turbo-charged air-conditioners apparently set on "Stun" (or perhaps "permafrost"), running so hard they rattle the furniture.

The hotel tries so hard to be Western that it's almost colder than the U.S. Northwest in winter.

Every day while I sit here in the Bali Freezerdome taking notes and doing interviews, I know that bombs are going off in the real Indonesia.

Not in the war zones like Timor or Aceh, but in some of the quietest, most idyllic settings imaginable. From palm tree-dotted islands across the archipelago, millions of Indonesians head out each day in their wooden boats of all shapes and sizes. Most of them wield simple hand-made nets or hand-held lines to bring home food or to earn a few thousand rupiahs to support their families. But a fraction of these seafarers, mostly young men and teen-aged boys, carry explosives. Once out of earshot of the nearest village, each bomber looks into crystal-clear waters for the flash of a school of fish above the coral forest of branches, tables, domes, and fans. When he sees a good-sized school, he takes one of the day's stash of homemade bombs--a beer or water bottle filled with a mix of fertilizer and kerosene and a cheap underwater fuse--and hurls it into the water. A few seconds later, a white plume erupts 15 feet into the air and disappears just as quickly. Above the surface, the bomb has left no trace, but underw ater, each bomb has killed or stunned hundreds of fish, easily scooped up by divers. It has also left perhaps a car-sized crater of coral rubble (see small photo, back cover) and, farther away, snapped and cracked coral branches and domes, the ruined products of decades or centuries of achingly slow growth.

This ragtag fleet of bombers collectively poses the greatest threat to the world's richest underwater habitats. Nationwide, blast fishing does about $500,000 a day in damage, if you believe the economists who try to quantify such things; in some spots, 20 to 30 explosions can be heard daily. Bombs have at least moderately affected three-fourths of Indonesia's reefs. Much of the shallow Indonesian seafloor is now occupied by flattened dead zones, spreading as far as the snorkeler's eye can see. Damage from bombs and other disruptions, like sedimentation, cyanide fishing, and coral mining, has severely degraded 70 percent of the nation's reefs and left only six percent in excellent condition. Though corals and...