by Jackie Parry
Our unbidden hosts tossed out a local family from the best seats near the stage and indicated that this was where we must sit, as honoured guests.
‘Everyone is watching us,’ I said to Noel with a broad smile, hiding my embarrassment.
Noel and I sat and took the first tentative steps of trying the unidentifiable food. Noel smiled at me reassuringly.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘my goodness, try some of this, it’s delicious.’
It wasn’t long before we were spooning it in with gusto. The flavours were incredible. New spices assaulted our taste buds, sending them into a frenzy of wanting more. All washed down with the sweetest lychees and plenty of water.
Eventually, the performers on the stage insisted that we joined them for a dance. We put them off for a while by slowing our eating and resisting eye contact, but it was inevitable. Still nervous of doing the wrong thing in this fresh experience and novel culture, we tentatively stepped onto the makeshift stage. The groovy music pumped around the band, vibrating the stage; we sedately boogied on down, trying to mimic our hosts’ dance moves. I didn’t feel like dancing like a westerner, because I wasn’t sure how hip swinging would be received and all the guests were watching our every move. The laughter was infectious: from the pleasure of their guests dancing and enjoying themselves, from the men who could tell I was nervous, from the jokes at our expense from the stunningly dressed girls; there was no stopping it.
Fine fabrics in an array of different colours beaded with sparkling rainbows, flitted around the party, pointing and staring at the plainly dressed visitors.
After a couple of songs, we were thanked profusely and settled back into our prime seats. Several guests joined us to talk. We didn’t understand a word anyone said! It was enormous fun speaking in our own, unprofessional, sign language.
Noel and I were both handed a gold painted, heart-shaped photo frame as a gift, and we thought it might be appropriate to present one in return to the bride and groom. I always carried a few handfuls of sweets for kids and some small koala bear figurines that donned cork hats and ‘I Love Australia’ t-shirts – a bit tacky maybe, but it was all we had, and we liked to think it was the thought that counted. Once our hosts realised what we wanted to do we were promptly pulled up and gently shoved to where a photo session was taking place. We were reluctant to interrupt, but were literally pushed over to the supposedly happy couple and made to stand with the rather stiff and sombre bride and groom – the photo session merrily continued. Some years later they must have wondered who on earth these strange people were in their wedding photos, handing over koala toys!
Sadly, bureaucracy nipped at our conscience, as we had to get our entry paperwork photocopied before the shops closed, so we took our leave. The families didn’t want us to go; handshakes were long and firm, and we had to wrench our hands free from theirs. We received requests for our return and thanks from everyone around us. Far more attention had been lavished on us than the bride and groom. We would learn that these unique opportunities just happened. Events that were spontaneous and unplanned were the cherished moments we could never repeat.
Eventually, we headed back to the dinghies and found other cruisers ashore.
‘We need another couple to make up numbers,’ a smooth Irish tone emanated from the huddled group, ‘why don’t you join us?
‘That’d be great,’ Noel and I answered together. ‘Where’re we going?’
‘We’re hopefully going to see the orangutans in the jungle,’ another cruiser from New Zealand explained, ‘pack a lunch.’
The tour guide’s office was a timber shack that sported more holes than timber. On the pitted desk, up to the minute stereo, TV and DVDs lay incongruously. Some of the gear was so new we had never heard of it, let alone seen it before. The array of cruising foreigners congregated within the mishmash of old and new surroundings, and we all cast fearful glances at the drum in the corner of the office. As our guides organised the rabble, they chain-smoked. I became mesmerised by the blue whorl of smoke that spiralled into the gaps in the rafters. In the corner, just an arms stretch away from the stained fingers holding the cigarette, quietly sat an enormous drum of diesel. We all knew it was diesel for the drum had no lid. It didn’t seem to worry our guides at all, but the cruisers from every corner of the world, all felt uncomfortable with the potential bomb just a few feet away.
So far the assembly of boat people consisted of Americans, Swedes, Kiwis, French, Irish, Brits, Hungarians, and Aussies. This, to me, was what life was all about: not luxury hotels (although sometimes it would have been nice to have had running hot water), but rather mixing with the locals; stuff that just wouldn’t happen on package tours. I was having the time of my life.
The next day we were collected by our chauffeured speedboat from our yacht at 6 am, and we soon felt like extras in a James Bond movie. Speeding up narrow creeks, caged in by thick, tangled jungle. After sailing for thousands of miles at five knots it was great to feel the wind in our hair at a supersonic thirty knots.
The resplendent green forest was bewitching, the smooth mirror-like river, cool, flat, and inviting. Indolent fresh water crocodiles peered over the horizon of water waiting for their prey; small monkeys swung aerobically from tree to tree, unaware of the splendid tableau that was their beautifully menacing home. We visually devoured the terrain, one of Mother Nature’s truly remarkable gifts, absurdly protected by humans, from humans. It was magnificent.
The Park was one of the few protected areas of tropical jungle. We arrived at the first camp, covered in extra strong bug repellent and sun cream, armed with hats, sunnies, socks, long pants, long-sleeved shirts, and enough lunch for about sixteen people!
Walking along the jetty, we met Michael, a small, long-tailed monkey. I was stunned as I offered him my hand and he took it. His hand was narrow, but long and unbelievably soft. Noel took his other hand, and we swung him back and forth like a child. We made our way along the sturdy, timber jetty with Michael between us; soon he let go and skipped along on at our heels, his long arms held drunkenly awry and his shorter legs peddling fast. He grabbed Noel’s rucksack strap and up he went, sitting parrot fashion on his shoulder. I felt jealous, but giddily happy, at being so close with this little creature, and perhaps a little relieved that Michael’s bare bum was not on my shoulder. Our furry friend left us and went to play with his other cousins that were clomping along the jetty.
After reading and dreaming about different places and happenings, we were finally in the middle of those places, doing the things we’d thought were fantasy. We trekked through the dense jungle with the guides puffing out their chests and expelling extraordinarily loud, deep bellows to summon the orangutans.
As we hiked under the blanket of heat and trees, we made friends with an Irish family that were travelling together on two sailboats a similar size to Mariah. Bob and Christine with their youngest son, Jamie, were on Breakaway and Kirstie (Bob and Christine’s daughter) was on Chinook with her British husband, Andy. It was an easy chat, all of us grateful for the pauses in conversation to catch our breaths in the airless heat. They were all on the home straight, having left Ireland some years before. They had already traversed the Atlantic Ocean, played in the Caribbean, piloted through the Panama Canal, and conquered the Pacific Ocean. We were beginners in comparison.
‘You’ll love the Pacific Ocean and its islands,’ they said. ‘You’re doing the hard bit now; the Pacific is easy, all downhill.’
I thought most of the sailing was pretty easy so far but this opinion would rapidly change. And I couldn’t come anywhere near to imagining that we would make it across the Atlantic and over the breadth of the almighty Pacific Ocean. Noel and I had an agreement to take the trip one destination at a time. Ultimately (and privately), our goal was to reach England, but we never really spoke about it. Thinking of the distance and lands between England and us was far too daunting. The next port, in whichever country, was our immediate goal that we focussed on
– baby steps.
Eventually, accompanied with a layer of sweat, we reached the orangutan feeding site. On a square, wooden platform sat a bucket of milk and several enormous bunches of ripe bananas, their bright yellow skin contrasted to the vivid green surrounds.
The orangutans weren’t in any hurry, because the forest was teeming with their natural food. As the small group of humans gazed around and enjoyed the peace, an orangutan suddenly appeared. Cleverly making his way about fifteen metres up in the trees, he grasped small branches and bent them so he could clasp the trunk with his huge hands and feet. The contortionism performance left us with cricks in our necks and mouths hanging limp. Their limbs bent in every direction and stretched out to seemingly impossible lengths. After large, vocal gulps of milk from the bucket, he grasped several dozen bananas, it seemed his favourite eating position was upside down. Two or three other orangutans appeared and happily sat and ate with thirty intent eyes watching. These hairy creatures listened to umpteen cameras clicking with apparent apathy.
The antics of one great character kept us amused. He swung from a vine high up, launching himself off the platform, playing human skittles with his spectators. He then hung upside down on a flexible small tree, taking pleasure in showing us his half-regurgitated banana, then letting the tree flip up. This cheeky character proceeded to steal anything we had left on the bench. Then he grabbed Noel’s shirt and fully inspected his chest. The hairy orangutan and the hairy man with their heads just millimetres apart, a kindred spirit, was a priceless moment in time. Before he took his leave, he lay down amongst us, letting us all inspect him fully, his tummy, feet, nails, hands and head. These beautiful orangutans had long red, patchy coats. They had gentle, unassuming faces, tyre-rubber lips, and innocently round, brown eyes. Their long, slim hands and feet were identical, both with effective prehensile digits, which were incredibly soft. They were powerful, gentle creatures. He held my hand; he was so strong.
I had a vast appetite, so we ate lunch at 10:30 am, all the walking and oppressive heat making us hungry. With a new spring in our step we set off for the next camp, where we could apparently swim. As the group gathered, we peeled away t-shirts that felt like wool-blankets. The black-tea coloured river ambled along next to us between dramatic emeralds of jungle plants that hid the hooting birds. On the grassy banks, a small, dark woman crouched, scrubbing her laundry. With a wry smile she offered us her soap; a communal wash ensued (in swimming gear I might add). It is not usually a habit of mine to bathe with so many men. Many of the women did not want to venture into the dark water where crocodiles lurked. The cool, fresh water washed the sweat and jungle off our tired bodies. There were no showers at our anchorage. Water could only be purchased in small bottles; it was expensive and scarce. We washed clothes and ourselves in the dubious, soup like river and prayed that we would not catch some diabolical disease. We had to conserve our precious drinking water. This surplus of tannin-stained but clean water, with the added bonus of soap, was a much appreciated treat.
Without towels, we dressed while wet. Within minutes, our clothes were completely dry. We arrived early at the next feeding site, so a guide took us for a trek further into the jungle. At this camp, we were warned that the king was nearby (the male orangutan leader) and some decidedly aggressive females that could, and would, bite if in the mood. It was extremely hot, but the plethora of information on the vivid flora and fauna from our guide held all our interest. Stepping over toe-sized ants and concentrating on avoiding wet leaves to dodge the alien like leeches, the group suddenly came to a halt. Saucer-eyed, we all watched in horror as our guide turned on his heels and sprinted back past us! With somewhat puzzled and worried faces, it didn’t take us too long to follow; comically, we all politely kept our order in the queue. The king was coming in our direction along the same path. After catching up with our guide and convincing him to stop for a moment, we suggested that maybe we could stand aside, off the track, and let him pass. Our guide was horrified and made it clear he thought that we were complete imbeciles. He then showed us his scars from previous attacks.
We followed the guide’s advice; he knew the orangutans and the terrain, and he was clearly worried. We soon saw why. From around the corner, he appeared. The king presented himself to an awestruck audience. He paused and stared at the clutter of pale aliens that stared back at him. The air disappeared as we all collectively gasped. He turned left to look at Princess, his current mate, who was close by. Another female lurked nearby carrying a baby, and she was reportedly aggressive. Air became available as a few of us let out a breath; the king had been diverted. Forgetting our fear and the odd predicament we were in, tentatively and rather stupidly, in a tiny cartoon like huddle, we all scuttled closer peering through the trees to have a good look. The king was enormous with tremendously long, thick, strong arms. We did not want to mess with this guy; we were in his territory, on his terrain – this was his home. We were all in fearful reverence of this magnificent creature.
The king stood at about one-and-a-half metres tall, but that was with his legs bent; with his arms and legs out-stretched, he would easily be twice as tall. He weighed 150 kilograms and was about thirty-four years old. He was one of the first to arrive at the camp at the tender age of four. His head was at least three times the size of a human’s head, and his arms were almost twice as long as his legs. He could scratch his bottom from reaching over the top his shoulder. He was simply amazing.
We edged forward in our comic human cluster. The king must have smelt the fear and intrigue. We paused and watched; the king moved and we all turned and ran. This little skit occurred several times, when suddenly he bellowed an eardrum-rattling cry. Rather startled, we soon learned that it was his mating call, and us girls hoped he wasn’t calling to us (there were plenty of horror stories along those lines). We bravely hid in the bush and watched this almighty male and a female copulate; it was an incredible sight, and the group was somewhat relieved that his mind was on other things aside from us.
On the walk back, we were all glad to have been completely ignored by our hairy cousins. The usual jokes were told after seeing something sexual, but it didn’t take away, from any of us, the honour we all felt to witness such a unique sight. The king only appears every few weeks for just a couple of days, we’d seen him at his most personal – even the guides were astonished.
At feeding time in the afternoon, we were blessed with seeing youngsters cradled by their mums and the mighty king again. He nimbly climbed onto the platform and viewed his spectators with their clicking cameras and flashing lights. He could reach any one of us in a split second, so we were content in the knowledge that he was quite used to watching clumsy humans. Even so, we all kept quiet and tried not to attract personal attention. Unlike the other feeding sites, none of the orangutans initiated contact. We were glad, as none of us wanted to be dragged over to the platform to be introduced to the king. The orangutans seemed to be different in the king’s group; they were less willing to cross the border and make contact.
Dusk was falling and the mozzies were singing their incessant chorus, so after one more quick dip, we headed back home to the boats. Near the river, Noel climbed a decrepit tower to gain a better view for one last picture of this unique day. He stepped up to the first platform, and a shy, but aggressive, female orangutan took this opportunity to follow Noel and his tantalising, swinging camera, up the tower. With gasps and exclamations of, ‘Boy, he’s in big trouble,’ Noel did a quick recce of his prison for an escape route: either up the rickety tower, where he might be followed or straight down to hopefully hit the water. With breaths held, at the last minute the orangutan jumped off of the ladder onto the side of the tower. Noel took his moment, and with lightning speed that I had never witnessed before, he shot down the ladder to the safety of his fellow humans.
Visiting our cousins in the wild was exhilarating. To have their trust – a trust in a race that is persistently trying to destroy their race and their natu
ral habitat – was something I will never forget. To hold hands with an animal from which we descend, to study their soft palms, experience their powerful grip, their human nails, and their clandestine power was a privilege. The memories of those beautiful beasts, our relatives will never leave me. We may never get the chance to meet again.
The next day, we caught a Bemo (local taxi-bus) to the main town. The Bemo had seating for a maximum of eight. At last count before we left, there were fourteen of us crammed in, in thirty-degree heat and ninety-nine percent humidity. Astonishingly, some of the passengers were wearing jeans and jumpers! Once we managed to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of sweat literally pouring out of every single pore of our bodies and pooling around our thighs, we could enjoy the surroundings. There was no air conditioning in the Bemo, in fact, there was no anything; it was the most basic transport (and I use that term lightly) you could find. I was sitting next to and on top of a girl who was mute, she signed that she could hear but could not speak. All in all, I had one of the best conversations with this girl than any other non-English speaking Indonesian.