Chapter 14
“In the end, we will conserve only what we love, we will love only what we understand, and we will understand only what we are taught.”
Baba Dioum, a Senegalese forest ranger (1968)
Acceptance
The distinctive green and rust coloured logo of the OIT on the envelope was visible through the peephole on the aluminum door of the post office box. Mark fumbled with his keys and practically ripped the door off its hinges in his impatience and eagerness to get at the letter. He scanned the letter to get to the relevant parts, “... we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted by the Orangutan International Trust to assist with the ’Orangutan Orphans Rehabilitation Program and to conduct research at Camp Fossey in Tanjung Puting Reserve, Borneo...”
Acceptance to a practicum research term in Borneo was a big honour and a major shift in his plans. It was a dream come true for Mark and a way to conduct primary research for his thesis, which focused on Orangutans, their evolutionary development, and their proximity to man on the evolutionary scale. He had completed much of the preliminary research while completing his honours thesis on “Living in a Fragmented Forest Environment: Orangutan Adaptability and Survival in Human-Modified Landscapes.” Mark was aware that habitat reduction was a modern reality and a definite threat to the very survival of orangutans and other species. At Camp Fossey, the orangutans could be observed firsthand, unlike in the artificial zoo environment he had previously experienced. This was the real thing, and Mark was thrilled.
Camp Fossey was established by none other than his own thesis advisor, then a young anthropology student himself, Dr. Mathias Gunther, who, like Mark, had developed an early love for primates. For Dr. Gunther the love grew from reading Curious George as a child and later, just as importantly, “Coming of Age in Samoa” by Margaret Mead; for Mark, The 1933 novel “Lost Horizon” by James Hilton, his love grew further when his dad took him regularly to the Toronto Zoo, for each the result was the same, a passion for the study and welfare of primates and Indigenous societies.
Dr. Gunther first visited the Tanjung Puting Reserve in Indonesian Borneo in 1971, roughly a decade before Mark had begun his anthropology degree. Mark greatly admired and respected Dr. Gunther's achievements, unlike his critics, who asserted that orangutans could not be observed in their natural environment because of their solitary nature. Other anthropologists maintained that his goals were too ambitious and unachievable. It was considered too dangerous to live in the swampy, remote areas of equatorial Borneo, where there were no roads, electricity or other modern conveniences. With willful determination, Dr. Gunther proved his detractors wrong; his status moved from being called “monkey-man” to being held in the highest esteem as one of the holy trinity of research scientists in the field conducting primate research. The other two were Jane Goodall, who studied chimpanzees, and Dian Fossey, who studied mountain gorillas. Initially, all were indirectly funded through grants made available by their mentor, Dr Louis Leakey.
Leakey, a paleoanthropologist, studied early man, successfully tracing fossil finds from as far back as 1.9 million years ago. Olduvai Gorge, in Tanzania, on the eastern Serengeti Plain, where Leakey made his finds, is considered the cradle of mankind. Leakey was interested in promoting additional research to help establish the link between the primate world and the human world; thus, Camp Fossey was founded by Gunther for the study of Orangutans, one of man’s closest relatives.
Mark was charged to go; nothing had more allure for him than to be involved in significant groundbreaking research with a professor whom he revered.
Chapter 15
…”where the sheer number of people and activity creates a dynamic sometimes making the environment unrecognizable…”
anonymous
Jakarta: Dancing Monkeys
The Pan Am 747 was visible through the windows of gate 37 at Idlewild International Airport in New York. Mark examined the plane from his naive, sheltered perspective, “The size is staggering. How does something so large take off, or even stay in the sky?” All rhetorical questions, as Mark understood the physics of flight. He was temporarily awed by the reality in the moment. His last flight had been with Icelandair to Europe as a student on a Mennonite exchange program. A few years later, to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with some university buddies over Easter Break.
To get to Borneo and Camp Fossey, his itinerary included an overnight in Hong Kong. He was about to travel a mind-boggling 32 hours.
Yet, he reluctantly acknowledged a gnawing feeling of uncertainty, whispering and whirring in his mind. Leaving Canada for the other side of the world, a wild and remote frontier, from his superstitious side, he thought of where cannibals had existed, and possibly remained to date. With great clarity, he understood that this trip he was about to undertake was daunting.
Once packed and their suitcases stowed in the back of the taxi, while en route to the airport, Mark had felt the weightlessness in his pockets. He had no house or apartment key, no car key, no office key.
A sign of homelessness?
Or a sign of transition?
Mark sat rigid in the departure lounge, passport tucked tightly in his hand as though it might vanish if he loosened his grip. The announcement boards flickered with unfamiliar city names, each one a reminder that he was stepping into a world far larger, far wider, than the narrow hallways of his sheltered anthropology department.
He felt the knot in his stomach tighten. He thought with alarm, what if I don’t have what it takes? He imagined himself in the heavy green lushness of Borneo’s forests, notebook in hand, but unable to see the patterns, unable to make sense of the lives of animals he had dreamed about since boyhood with his dad at the zoo. What if I can’t collect worthwhile data? What if I fail before I even begin? His Mennonite insecurities seem to gnaw at his confidence at this critical moment of departure.
He tried to breathe deeply. He pictured the orangutans he would be studying, slow, deliberate, beautiful creatures that seem to carry entire forests in the depths of their eyes. Maybe he could move with deliberation, do his academic job as a professional should, and observe what others miss. I can do this. His thoughts wandered from negative to positive in waves of anxiety.
He worried about the heat, humidity, mosquitoes, and getting lost in the endless canopy. He worried about loneliness. He worried most of all about not measuring up to the field scientist he most wanted to be. But this is it. The great opportunity. His academic life preceding had merely been the rehearsal for the main event about to unfold. He could do this!
Mark tightened his grip on his bag. He could feel the weight of his notebooks inside, crisp pages still untouched. In a matter of a few short days, they would be filled with traces of a new life, with scribbles of data, fragments of thought, and field sketches. And perhaps in his finest moments, when he managed to quiet the voices of doubt, a few lines of pure discovery.
The boarding call came. He rose, his knees unsteady, his mind a swirl of trepidation and exhilaration. Whatever happens, this is where the story begins.
Giving up the familiar, comfortable patterns and plunging into the unknown was both exhilarating and frightening. He smiled. He would be fine.
On the way to his economy seat, J 27, Mark noted the airline’s odd practice of having passengers, for strategic reasons or as a form of shaming, ‘forced march’ through the first-class cabin. Perhaps merely as a humbling experience for the economy class, or a form of in-flight entertainment for the first-class passengers who were already situated and sitting comfortably, with newspapers and drinks. From an anthropological point of view, it was quite odd, but for whatever reason, the economy-class refugees shuffled along to their own tight, crowded seats somewhere in the distant rear of the gigantic plane, where no drinks, newspapers, or other creature comforts awaited them.
For all the hype and grandeur of the 747, after many hours of flight, it felt more like travelling on a city bus. Any nervousness Mark had about flying had morphed into bored hours as he settled into the flight, though he felt uneasy when the captain announced the start of the portion over the Pacific Ocean. He gazed out the window at the vast, boundless emptiness of the water. His imagination kicked into overdrive as his thoughts turned to the realization that only a thin veneer of aluminum separated the passengers from the cold ocean depths 39 000 feet below. To block out any other disturbing thoughts, Mark took his Philips compact cassette player out of his carry-on, put on his headphones, and listened to opera, Mozart, ‘The Marriage of Figaro.‘
On the final leg of the journey from Hong Kong, he could see the vastness of the South China Sea. Glancing west, there was a hazy green mass of land, likely Malaysia. As they approached the sprawling metropolis of Jakarta, the capital city of Indonesia, thousands of feet below, he could see from the comfort of his cabin the feather-like wakes made by freighters plying their cargo between crowded Asian ports.
Stirred from his revery, Mark heard the distinctive, powerful clunk as the landing gear struts locked into place, preparing to take on the massive weight of the flying juggernaut at landing. The Boeing 747 made a relatively smooth landing as the wheels kissed the tarmac at the Soekarno-Hatta International Airport. The flight, which routed from Toronto to New York and San Francisco, with an overnight in Hong Kong spent in the airport terminal and early-morning connections to Jakarta, was now complete.
The cabin lights had been dimmed for hours, and the pilot’s voice came on over the intercom, practiced and calm, announcing descent into Soekarno-Hatta International Airport. The words were muffled, almost distant, but they carried the weight of arrival. After hours suspended in transit, the journey was over; the ground was there, waiting.
Jakarta from above did not glitter with the cold geometry of Western skylines. Its lights flickered unevenly, villages merged to highways, towers rose like jagged teeth, and the endless urban sprawl seemed both chaotic and deliberate. In the distance, thunder clouds gathered, their dark underbellies pulsing faintly with lightning, as if the tropics themselves were staging a welcome.
Mark was exhausted from his long flight, yet the next day still had him make the connecting flight from the island of Java to Borneo and the port city of Kumai on the edge of the Tanjung Puting National Park. There, he would be picked up by staff from Camp Fossey and begin the arduous overland drive, by Land Rover, over crude, muddy or dusty roads, depending on the season, finally followed by a long klotok sojourn upriver to Camp Fossey.
Jakarta airport was a surreal vision of confusion, much like trying to rationalize a Salvador Dalà painting. Noise and pandemonium ruled as porters jostled each other for position, wearing their baggy blue coveralls, distinguishing them as porters in an effort to abduct passengers’ suitcases for a small fee and safely transport them from the baggage area to the taxi departure area. Where other land-pirates would transport weary passengers to their hotels. Noise and random shouts punctuated and echoed through the cavernous baggage claims area. Mark was soon overwhelmed by the noise, the heat, and the wall of humidity.
He had taken the precaution of tying blue ribbon to the handle of each of his suitcases and backpacks to distinguish them from the thousands of other black clone-like bags disgorged at baggage pickup. Dazed in the crowds all trying to achieve a similar goal, of liberating their luggage, he found his own and snaked his way through the various bureaucratic stops: immigration, disease control and customs checks. Before being disgorged to the insanely bustling street. At street level, there was a singular disinterest in his reason for being in Indonesia, and perhaps, he felt, at that moment, his very existence.
Out on the street, scores of taxis were parked indiscriminately at any angle that would best afford a strategic position for attracting a fare from any emerging passenger. The honking and shouting were incessant. The heat and humidity were like none he had ever experienced.
His orientation package, mailed to him in Canada, had given the name of a hotel where a reservation for one night was waiting for him. He had also been strictly warned not to accept rides from any of the unauthorized roaming taxi drivers who plied the airport concourse, preying on tired, lost tourists overburdened with suitcases, offering them overpriced fares.
Finding a legitimate metered taxi was virtually impossible. Mark had been provided with a number to call for a contact and transportation. To make the call, he went to a kiosk in the terminal where he exchanged some of his Canadian dollars for Indonesian rupiahs, including the correct change for the derelict pay phone. All very time-consuming and confusing to the jet-lagged mind. He then sat on the floor in the terminal against a wall using his backpack as a makeshift pillow. His overwhelming and jet-lagged exhaustion clashed with his newly aroused anxiety, sweat and overwhelming feelings of discomfort. The fusion of his emotions churned, resulting in a ball of hyped-up, bursting energy. Mark began pacing around his bags, sadly identified with the tired blue crushed ribbons, as he waited for his ride.
Mark scrutinized his new foreign surroundings, struck by the overwhelming swarms of dark-skinned people in tight surroundings. He had never seen so many brown people and so few white. He had never thought of himself as a racist, and being an anthropologist, his thoughts alarmed him. He truly was in a strange new world and knew he had to quickly start making some mental adjustments.
As he sat on his backpack, he calmed himself and systematically surveyed the crowd. Eventually, he was able to differentiate between families waiting to pick up another beloved family member and drivers waiting for their fare. The drivers waved placards with names. Mark scanned the placards and read his name, Penner, written in dark childish script.
When Mark saw a sign with his name written on it, he thought, " That must be my driver, " as he swung his backpack onto his left shoulder, looking over towards the driver, waving his hand. He grabbed the remainder of his baggage and headed towards the driver, weaving his way through the crowd.
The taxi driver smiled, bobbing his head up and down in affirmation that he was to pick up a ‘Mr. Penner,’ as Mark motioned, pointing to himself that he was Mark Penner. The driver pointed to himself and said, “Budi. Budi! Mark mimicked driving, pretending he had his hands on a steering wheel. Budi nodded and said, “Yes.” He continued smiling and nodding and saying, “Yes.” It became clear that “yes” was likely the extent of his English vocabulary.
Mark handed him the folded card with the address of the hotel in which he was booked. Again, the driver nodded and said, ”Yes!” “Yes!”
The driver had straight black hair, small dark eyes and fine features. He was quick to smile, trying no doubt to reassure Mark in this strange new land. People were burdened with luggage, seeking taxis, surrounded by blaring horns and brown, polluted air. The traffic was thick, noisy, and constant. It was an overwhelming combination of sights, sounds and smells. The neighbourhoods he passed through en route to his hotel were alive with a kaleidoscope of colours, and smells simultaneously assaulted his senses from every direction. It was intoxicatingly overwhelming.
The streets were an indescribable labyrinth filled with cars, lorries, crowded TAKA buses, pedicabs, and three-wheeled motorcycle cabs, along with a thousand varieties of motor scooters converging at each intersection, all slowly yet miraculously progressing toward their destinations. Scooters were used as family cars, or as small trucks would be in Canada. Mark thought, " This is incredible as he viewed a scooter with a family of five, the baby in a basket over the handlebars. How in hell do they balance?
Other scooters carried cargoes of caged chickens, pigs, baskets of mangoes, or other unidentifiable goods for exotic distant markets. On another scooter, two gigantic boxes, each containing a JVC TV set, twenty-foot lengths of pipe balanced on either side of the driver on an old Honda scooter, egg cartons piled higher than the driver on the next 55cc Yamaha.
The driver sensed Mark’s internal game and pointed out some form of mutant-like, grey coloured, slimy, flat fish, a cross between a stingray and a halibut, about 8 feet in length, tied to the rear of a scooter spanning two side baskets, still flopping as if alive. There was no end to the imaginative ways Jakarta carried their “scootered cargoes”, not one would be legal in Canada.
It was about a 45-minute ride from the airport to the Ciputra Hotel. Mark paid the 50,000 rupiahs, which included the tip. Although the taxi had been sent by his organization, he was cautious. He had been warned about many of the scams perpetrated against tourists, including being left standing in the street as the driver takes off with both your fare and your luggage.
Mark checked in and was shown to his Spartan yet clean room, which lacked air conditioning. Quickly, he showered and lay naked on the bed, in a useless attempt to dry in the extreme humidity. Too hot and nervous to sleep, he decided to go for a short walk before trying to get some sleep prior to catching his early morning flight across the Java Sea to Borneo. If back in Canada, he would still be wearing warm jackets and blue jeans. Here in Jakarta, he had the luxury of putting on shorts, T-shirts and sandals. Mark dressed, grabbed a backpack with water bottles, a camera and headed for the bustling, crazy streets.
A few blocks away from the hotel, he was again immersed in culture shock. He saw young kids sleeping and begging in the streets, modern high-rise buildings next to squalor and poverty. Japanese products seemed to dominate, with large Sony and Toshiba signs; Coca-Cola, the omnipresent beverage, was in abundance; graffiti was everywhere; mosques, prostitutes, and street vendors abounded. Jakarta was a bewildering study in juxtaposition.
Mark made an unnerving observation as he looked out on the overwhelming urban jungle that was Jakarta, throbbing with the pulse of ten million souls. The air was thick with exhaust and ambition, a grey veil that turned sunsets into dull smears of orange over the skyline’s glass and steel. The city roared, horns, engines, the ceaseless chatter of humanity packed shoulder to shoulder in unrelenting poverty, contrasted with incredible wealth. Towering billboards screamed promises of progress and luxury while beneath them, the ever-present scooters darted like insects through a congested maze of concrete. Every inch of space was spoken for, streets choked with traffic and desperation, alleys tangled in a confusion of senseless wires, rooftops sprouting satellite dishes like weeds out of control. Even the sky felt domesticated, confined and controlled in its urban framework as if it had been winded in an urban brawl and left gasping for breath. The sky blue traded for the metallic haze of industry.
Yet, beyond the sprawl and smog, past the edge of the city’s smothered dreams, lay another world, the wild, breathing heart of Borneo. There, according to Mathias Gunther’s descriptions, the air was not a burden as in Jakarta, but a balm, rich, wet, a green to the bone. Mist curls between towering hardwood trees, their crowns vanishing into a cathedral of thick leaves. The chorus not of cars, trucks and scooters but of life itself. The haunting calls of gibbons, echoing through dawn’s silence, the slow drip of rain on fern fronds after a monsoon deluge, the secret rustle of something unseen but alive in the undergrowth. The ground itself is soft underfoot, rich with decay and renewal, a thousand generations of fallen leaves reborn into soil, part of the continuous cycle of life. Time slowed, the air shimmered with the scent of rain and orchids, and the great orangutan swung through its ancient dominion, its copper fur glowing like fire in the dim canopy light. No billboards, no engines, no walls, only the endless green, breathing and dreaming as it had for millennia
Between Jakarta’s restless hunger and Borneo’s primeval calm stretched the whole story of humankind, one half clawing its way upward through smoke and steel, the other rooted deep into the timeless pulse of the earth itself. This Mark imagined would soon be part of his story about to unfold and one he would recount later.
Mark broke from his reverie with the images of Borneo fixed in his mind from his mentor, Mathias Gunther. He focused again on the disturbing Jakarta street scene he had witnessed earlier: the performing chained street Macaques wearing hideous masks and military uniforms, like deranged Sergeant Pepper marionettes neurotically pulling on their chains, dancing and performing for anyone who would care to look and be entertained by such a perversion of nature. Later, he was told that this version of macabre street performance was epidemic in Jakarta; in Bahasa, it was called Topeng Monyet, or “dancing monkey”. People loved it. A primatologist’s worst nightmare.
Mark didn’t like the cruelty, but also knew it wasn’t his place to do anything about it. This was not his world. He had to remind himself that, as a scientist, he had come to this country to observe. He decided to go back to the hotel and get some sleep. “Tomorrow I will be out of here.”
