by Di Morrissey
Quickly the apes in the trees above them were spotted, and there was much talk, exclamations and activity with video cameras. Julie was annoyed at the intrusive banter and what she considered to be banal remarks.
‘We saw them eating at the feeding platform. Much closer than this,’ said one man.
‘But this is how they do it in the wild,’ replied a woman.
‘Get the baby to turn around so we can see its face. Do something, George.’
George clicked his tongue, hissed and made kissing noises before clapping his hands, with a commanding, ‘Hey!’
A Japanese tourist, who hadn’t taken his eye away from his camera screen, spoke rapidly to his wife and it was apparent he didn’t approve of George’s antics either. Nor, apparently, did the orangutans, and they rapidly swung away from sight.
George looked around and addressed the tour guide. ‘Is that it? They coming back or what? Where are the rest of them? We were told there must be thirty or forty in here.’
‘If the trees are in fruit, they’ll be high up, looking for it. Look, there’s a macaque,’ said the guide, relieved to be able to point out the quick, pretty-faced grey monkey.
The tour group stood around, mopping dripping brows, then, as several people began to head back along the path towards the headquarters, a new female appeared. Like a trapeze artist she swiftly launched herself from highwire to tree branch, as if deliberately showing off. The tourists were delighted.
‘That’s Amber,’ said the guide.
Angie, looking elsewhere, nudged Julie and then said something in Malay to the tour guide.
There was new movement in the treetops. Amber gave a shriek, and, swinging into a tree opposite the group, gave them all an excellent view.
‘Ritchie is coming,’ said Angie.
‘Who’s that? One of the males?’ said Julie in a low voice.
‘He’s the oldest dominant male,’ said Angie. ‘He’s chasing Amber to try and mate with her. But I don’t think she’s interested.’
The group had fallen silent, surprised by the apparent strength of the approaching male. Then there was a collective gasp as the huge male lazily heaved himself onto a nearby branch and sat, staring at the tourists. Everyone shrank back slightly as the orangutan contemplated them with keen and intelligent eyes.
‘Looks like my mother’s shag carpet,’ joked George. ‘Or Marge Simpson on a bad hair day.’
Amber was not amused, and she took flight, scurrying along tree branches and then suddenly landing directly above the group.
The tour guide signalled everyone to move back. ‘Go slowly, just keep away. Ritchie will be coming after her.’
And sure enough the massive male reached for a branch that didn’t look capable of carrying his weight, and then lumbered to the ground. He was close to the size of a very large man.
There were squeals and the crowd stumbled over each other as they retreated.
‘Don’t panic. He’s only interested in the female. Remember you are in his territory. This isn’t a zoo, it’s the jungle,’ said the guide.
Angie took Julie’s hand and pulled her forward, pointing at a tree stump. ‘Sit there. Just be still. He’s not interested in us.’ Angie stood beside her as Julie sat on the stump, her eyes glued to Ritchie. He was standing, gazing up at the female orangutan who was also sitting still, but looking around, obviously plotting her next move. In an instant, Ritchie moved, so quickly that Julie was amazed and the rest of the tourists hurried even further away.
Despite his great size, the male orangutan leapt into a tree and seemed to walk swiftly and easily from branch to branch until he was just below the female. She shrieked and scrambled further upwards into the flimsy branches, scattering leaves and twigs as she went.
Ritchie squatted on an impossibly slim branch and looked annoyed. He waited, and then Amber made her move. Leaping through the air, arms, legs and tail spread wide, clutching at tree branches, Amber was away and out of sight in seconds.
‘What’s he going to do now?’ asked Julie.
‘Eat, probably,’ said Angie. ‘There’s fruit over there.’
They all watched Ritchie unhurriedly lumber away, then stop and daintily pick up a small fruit. Turning his back to them he ate it nonchalantly. The tourist guide rounded up his charges and moved them all towards the carpark.
Angie stood up. ‘Come on, Julie, I’ll show you a little more of the sanctuary.’
‘Angie, that was just extraordinary. I can’t thank you enough,’ said Julie, glancing back at the great orange hulk sitting and eating quietly. ‘I’m so glad everyone else left. I feel like I’m on safari and way out in the wilds. I mean, could anything go wrong? Would big Ritchie attack anyone?’
‘Well, not so far. Orangutans are not known to be aggressive but as you saw today some tourists can be rather silly. People forget we are in their domain. And Ritchie is well over one hundred kilos, so it’s wise to be cautious.’
They wandered back to the information centre and Angie showed Julie the photographs and histories of all the orangutans that had been released into the sanctuary.
‘Can you believe this pathetic little thing was Ritchie?’ asked Angie, showing Julie a story and photo from a local newspaper about a baby orangutan who’d been kept in a cage by poachers.
Julie looked at the photo. ‘Oh, the poor thing! This was twenty years ago. He was rescued by a reporter?’
‘Yes, the reporter was James Ritchie. He was onto the story of some illegal wildlife poachers and he caught up with them at Nanga Sumpa Iban longhouse. Nanga means estuary in Iban. James wanted to make a citizen’s arrest but he was in the middle of nowhere and there were no police around. So he bought the poor thing for fifty ring-git, and took it back to his place. He was only about six months old. James had him dewormed and the next day the forestry officials came and brought him here. The state secretary though it would be nice to name the little orangutan after big Ritchie, so that’s how he got his name.’
‘Wow. What a great story.’
‘Come with me and we’ll see if we can find my favourite old grandmother.’
Angie led Julie away from the buildings to a separate dwelling which Julie realised was the infirmary and health clinic for the orangutans. Angie told her that any new arrivals were kept here in care till they were strong enough to be released.
‘There’s a quiet area at the back, and that’s where the grandmother is.’ Angie collected several bananas and went to a small clearing and, looking into the trees, began to call out and whistle.
‘Naaaana, naana. Come, come.’ Angie paused, listened and repeated her call.
‘What’s that? Up there, look!’ exclaimed Julie as she sighted the shiver of a tree and, there on a limb, was an orangutan holding a very small baby.
Angie went closer, holding out the banana. Julie stayed still, watching,
‘This is Booma. She’s old, a grandmother many times over. And this is her baby. Her last baby. Chick, chick, come on,’ called Angie quietly.
Julie could well imagine that the old female was a grandmother. Her fur wasn’t lustrous but looked straggly and patchy. Her expression was tired, not the bright darting eyes of the other orangutans she’d seen earlier in the forest.
‘Poor old girl,’ said Julie. ‘Her baby is very young. So tiny.’
‘I looked after this old girl once when she was sick. She’s back in the forest now, but she keeps coming back for her banana treat. So she knows that when I call, I’ll have something nice for her.’
Slowly, not with caution but at her own pace, the old orangutan climbed down from the tree, hitching her infant up onto her back where it clung, just peeping over her mother’s shoulder. Angie squatted on her haunches and held out the banana.
‘Come and crouch beside me. She won’t mind.’
Hardly daring to breathe, Julie moved slowly beside Angie. The elderly mother waddled forward, grasped the banana and carefully peeled it before eating it.
Angie handed Julie some peanuts she’d been carrying in her pocket. ‘Hold them out in the palm of your hand.’
Julie did so, and to her delight, a wrinkled leathery hand flashed out and picked up several of the nuts. Booma chewed them, spat them into her hand and held the mushy nuts over her shoulder for the baby to eat. It was a leisurely procedure and when the nuts were gone the baby climbed around to the front of its mother and stared expectantly at Julie.
‘I’d love to stroke her,’ whispered Julie.
‘Sometimes she’ll let me touch her. But Booma’s protective of her babies when they are so little.’
Slowly Angie reached forward, holding open her hand. The old mother took no notice, but the little one, obviously hoping that there might be nuts on offer, grabbed her fingers and as Angie lifted her hand the baby clung on, its small tail wrapping around her arm.
As Angie held the baby under the watchful eye of its mother, Julie tenderly stroked its back and head. The baby looked at her with large round eyes and for an instant Julie felt she was looking at a human baby with its trusting eyes, clinging touch and pursed lips.
But, quickly, Booma leaned forward and retrieved her infant, holding it possessively to her chest. Then, to Julie’s joy, the old mother leaned down and tenderly kissed the top of her baby’s head, a gesture that seemed so familiar. And with that, Booma ran rapidly in a loping gait across the clearing, one arm dangling, the other holding her baby and was swiftly up a tree and gone from sight.
‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ said Julie, awestruck.
Angie straightened up. ‘I never cease to wonder at these creatures. They, and chimps, are our closest biological relatives and they have their own personalities, habits and idiosyncrasies.’
The two women headed back to the parking lot.
‘Thank you, Angie. When you actually meet orangutans, you can understand why people are so passionate about protecting them. They are the most beautiful animals. You do feel a kindred attachment to them.’
‘I’m glad it all worked out. It doesn’t always. Let me know when you’re back from your trip upriver,’ said Angie. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you into town.’
The river was wide and broad, fast flowing. The dugout canoe, a hollowed log with a few planks nailed along the sides, had a powerful outboard motor attached to its stern, propelling it through the thick water. Because the dugout was so narrow, they sat one behind the other with barely a hand span free on either side of their seats. The group had driven from Kuching at dawn, stopping in a small village where one of Rajah Brooke’s forts, now converted into the village post office, still stood above the river. They’d been met by the two boatmen, father and son, who led them down to the river where the dugout waited.
Now one of the boatmen, perched in the bow, kept a watch for floating debris, rocks and shallow channels. Ngali was a young Iban who took his role very seriously. Occasionally he flicked an arm left or right to indicate that the ripples on the surface meant shallows or rocks ahead. Ayum, the old man at the tiller in the stern, took the appropriate evasive action.
Lined up, single file, behind the bowman, sat Barry with his camera ready, then Matthew, then David and behind him their Iban interpreter, and then Julie. The Iban boatmen were from a longhouse that Matthew and David had visited before and its headman had agreed to let them return.
Julie had been surprised when she met Matthew and David’s interpreter. Chitra was a tall, elegantly beautiful Malaysian Indian in her twenties. Dressed in jeans and a pale-blue shirt, a designer belt showing off her narrow waist, a Nike cap perched over her thick dark hair, which fell in a braid over one shoulder, she looked like a Bolly-wood star on safari. Her brown eyes were huge, although frequently hidden by dark glasses, and her silky dark-skinned arms were ringed with several elaborate gold bracelets and bangles. On her feet she wore expensive soft leather hiking boots.
‘Chitra works at the Swinburne University campus in Kuching. She studied at Swinburne in Melbourne and then moved back when the university expanded here in Sarawak,’ said David as he introduced her to Julie.
‘Lovely to meet you, Julie,’ said Chitra. ‘Are you looking forward to your first visit to a longhouse?’
‘Yes, I am. You’ve been upriver many times before I assume?’
‘Yes. I’ve been studying traditional culture for some time. I speak several dialects but I am most comfortable with Iban,’ said Chitra.
‘We met Chitra in Melbourne when she was studying there, so we’ve kept in touch,’ added Matthew. ‘Okay, let’s load up.’
In the busyness of balancing their backpacks and gear in the narrow boat, Julie hadn’t had much of a chance to ask Chitra any more questions. Chitra looked graceful and languid, and totally at home in the rough-hewn dugout. Julie, however, initially clung to its sides, afraid they could all easily tip into the river. But once they were underway, the breeze in her face, the last of the river villages no longer visible and no more river traffic, she felt she was at last experiencing the real and unspoiled jungle scenery she’d previously imagined, and she began to enjoy the trip.
The jungle came straight down to both sides of the river, impossibly thick, not an inch to place a foot or even a toe.
‘Are there crocodiles in here?’ she shouted above the engine to Matthew.
‘And worse,’ he called back.
But conversation was too difficult, so Julie sat and watched Barry film the scenery. They were going too fast to see any wildlife, though birds rose from the treetops as they passed and, at one point, the old man stopped the engine and as everyone turned back to look at him in alarm, he pointed and Barry raised his camera to his eye.
Swooping above them flew a pair of hornbills, unmistakable with their bright red casques on their long, curved beaks. Two dark silhouettes trailing long tail feathers, they hooted as they dipped and soared, suddenly breaking into what Julie thought to be wild, hysterical laughter, a dominating and arrogant sound.
She looked back at the boatman who was gesturing to the boy at the front. He waved his fingers above his head. Julie looked puzzled and she glanced at Matthew and David, but it was Chitra who explained.
‘They used to hunt hornbills for the tail feathers to put in their headdresses. One species was hunted for the casque on their beak, which was hard and a golden colour. Years ago it was carved into objects and known as gold ivory. Very highly prized as a lucky omen by the Chinese. Even more so than precious jade,’ she added.
‘You know a lot. How come you studied the Iban?’ asked Julie as the engine started up again.
‘I grew up in Sarawak. My father worked in the Civil Service. My mother trained in India as a doctor but nursed in Melbourne, and met my father there, and came back here to live. She started working as a medical officer and helped establish clinics up-country for the village people. My father still works in the state administration.’
‘And you work at the uni?’ asked Julie.
‘Yes, I’m a teacher. Translating is a sideline,’ said Chitra. ‘I enjoy the opportunity to get out into the remote parts of the country.’
The engine spluttered and restarted, and they turned their attention back to the river. By now the water was flowing faster, but it was clear and the river was narrower. Soon the water seemed to boil and boulders jutted at its surface, making sharp stepping stones across the river. At one point the bottom of the dugout crunched over rocks. Ayum cut the motor and tipped the propeller up out of the water as Ngali pulled out a long stout pole from under the seats and began poling them forward.
David and Matthew also reached down for two more poles and they stood to punt the heavy dugout forward, while Barry filmed the exercise. When the boat flopped into a deep pool, Ayum revved the engine to life and they darted forward, just passing over the rocks, which now foamed with white-tailed froth.
Two more punting attempts finally found them jammed between two rocks, unable to move. Chitra, translating Ayum’s commands, had them al
l step out of the dugout, and, stumbling and sliding, they pushed it over the slimy rocks and through the rapids. When there was smooth, deep water ahead of them, they scrambled back into their craft and surged forward once again.
‘There’s no way ahead!’ exclaimed Julie some time later as the engine stopped below a small waterfall tumbling over the rocks. ‘What now?’
‘Portage,’ sighed Matthew.
‘We carry everything around the waterfall,’ said David, hoisting his backpack.
‘And then what?’ wondered Julie.
‘There’s another dugout waiting for us to go upstream,’ said Chitra, stepping daintily into knee-deep water, mindless of her expensive boots.
‘Okay.’ Julie stepped gingerly out, too, turning back to pick up her backpack. But the old man stopped her and as Ngali dragged the bow of the dugout towards the bank, he took Julie’s arm to steady her and they inched together over the slippery stones to a large dry rock. Silently he handed her the backpack and returned to help his son manoeuvre the dugout closer to the bank.
All the gear was piled onto the large flat rock and, with Ngali leading, everyone carried their bags and the extra equipment and headed along a small track over the rise. The path was merely a foot wide, it led around a bend and back down to the river again. The sun was now beating down and Julie felt hot and sweaty. In front of her, Chitra walked easily, looking cool and comfortable, despite her waterlogged boots. As they waited at the river, the two boatmen made a return trip to the dugout and came back carrying the motor and petrol jerry can.
‘Where’s the taxi?’ joked David.
Chitra spoke to the boatmen, who nodded their heads and sat down on the grass to smoke.
‘Someone will be here soon,’ she said. ‘That could mean minutes or hours.’
Everyone opened their water bottles and shared a packet of biscuits.