Under the Canopy Chapter 17

 

Chapter # 17

I feel more comfortable with gorillas than people. I can anticipate what a gorilla's going to do, and they're purely motivated. 

Dian Fossey

Borneo

    Morning came too early after a very restless sleep in the hot, humid hotel room. The street outside his window was already pulsing with activity.  Mark awoke with a headache and in a state of agitation, still brooding over the scene with the costumed performing macaques he had seen on the streets of Jakarta the previous evening.  He couldn’t get the street performance out of his mind. From the perspective of a primatologist, it was nothing short of a sacrilege.

    He knew again he had to start facing the reality of this place. He understood he would be the odd man out and that not everyone cares, like he does, about primates; that’s just how it is here.

     Mark was eager to get to the airport and catch his flight.  Traffic was already thick. It was a city that never slept.  Another hour of lane diving and weaving brought them to a regional airport in Tangerang, about 35 km south of the international airport where they had disembarked the day before.

     Expecting a somewhat larger plane, some of Mark’s early flight anxiety returned as he watched his luggage stowed in the undercarriage of the 6-passenger Cessna Golden Eagle. Their ride to Borneo.  

     Bart, their Dutch pilot, with strong coffee in hand, was jovial, which was hard to take so early in the morning. He gave off an aura of experience with his bleached-blond hair, tanned face, tattooed forearms, engaging smile, and obvious familiarity with the aircraft.  “I have to take her through the checklist and prep for takeoff. We’ll be ready to go in about ten minutes. So you know, there will be four other passengers joining us to Borneo and Camp Fossey.”  

     As if on cue, a taxi pulled up, letting out four worn-looking travellers.  They paid their driver, picked up their gear and walked toward the plane.  “Guten Morgen... good morning.  Is this the plane for Pangkalan Bun?”  The question was directed toward our pilot. 

     “It is. Bring your equipment over, and we’ll start loading.  The quicker we load, the sooner we can take off.”

     The spokesman for the three German students and one from Canada completed the introductions.  “Hello, I am Albrecht Ackerman. This is Liesel Krause and Gloria Bader.” 

     “And I’m Celine Armand from Montreal.”

     From that one sentence, Mark was immediately taken by Celine, clearly a unique individual and in no way part of the German contingent.  His world stood still for a moment as he noticed her beyond the scope of scientific observation.  She stood apart from the small knot of Germans, coat slung over her arm, no longer necessary in this climate.  She seemed to belong to a schedule of her own.  Her name seemed to fit the quiet confidence in the way she shifted her weight, the way she gazed outward and at those gathered before her.  Her slight French-Canadian accent as she said her name softened the air around her.  She was beautiful, yes, but more noticeable was her confidence.  A young woman travelling alone in a foreign land, unbothered, unafraid. Mark felt himself pulled off course, as if his thoughts had missed a step and now were circling her instead. 

      He hoped she wouldn’t notice the pauses in his speech, the careful way he chose his words.  He feared his manners would come off as backward.  His inexperience as disinterest. Mark told himself to be steady.  He knew he would measure the day by whether or not he found a reason, any reason, to speak to her again.

     Mark approached Celine, hand extended and was about to introduce himself when Albrecht swooped in from the flank.  “Welcomen, I’m Albrecht from Heidelberg, so pleased to meet you.  Allow me to help you with those things.  He surrounded her with attention and escorted her to the plane with the rest of the group.

      Introductions completed in all directions, it was discovered that the three Germans had flown in via Singapore, had arrived that morning, and had taxied over to the regional airport here in Tangerang.  They were anthropology students from Heidelberg University working as interns with the Frankfurt Zoo.  They were going to Camp Fossey for primary research towards completion of their Master’s degree programs.  Albrecht, however, was also a PhD candidate like Mark.  Mark had been expecting the three German students, but the fourth passenger, Celine, was a bonus mystery and surprise. He was immediately intrigued by her presence.

     Their pilot lowered a small aluminum ladder from the side door and assisted the two young German ladies to the cramped back seats.  “Sorry, there’s not much room back there, but it is a short flight.”

Mark acted fast enough to grab a seat across the narrow aisle from Celine, and Albrecht sat up front with Bart, their pilot.

     The engines coughed several times, turned over, allowing Bart to begin an immediate taxi out to the main runway.  With clearance from the tower, he revved the twin engines and made an aggressive charge down the runway.  Lift-off was almost instantaneous, with a brief view of the clogged, desperate streets, the congested slums and high-rises of Jakarta in the distance, then swiftly over the vastness of the Java Sea.  

     The powerful twin engines did not allow for easy conversation.  The pilot wore headphones and was out of communication with his passengers.  He reached an altitude of 14,000 feet at a cruising speed of 250 miles per hour. There were no significant headwinds; they would cover the approximate 400 miles over water in about an hour and a half.  Mark did the mental math.

     Borneo grew larger in the front windshield of the Cessna as they neared land.  Visibility was almost perfect, with only a few cumulus clouds along the coast caused by local land-sea breezes. Their pilot, Bart, had taken off his headphones and served as tour guide, noticing his passengers trying to get a view of what lay ahead. He gave his ‘students’ a brief introduction as they approached Borneo, the world’s third-largest island.

     “Look in the far distance; those in the back strained to see. Only Mark had a clear view. Those cloud-covered mountains on the horizon are part of the Central Highlands; they contain many of the major peaks, such as Mt Poteng, Raya, and Menyapa, all over 2000 m in height.  The highest peak in SE Asia is in this range. Oddly, there is only one extinct volcano in the entire range, not what you would expect in a country riddled with fault lines which criss-cross the island north to south and east to west.  Just be aware, my friends, that the chances of experiencing an earthquake while visiting Borneo are high, yet safer than Jakarta, from where we recently departed.  They are doomed.” 

      Bart gave a smile as he banked the plane so those in the rear could get a better view and so he could also get the optimum approach for landing. Sounding somewhat like an elementary school teacher, he continued his geographic seminar, “The island itself is made up of three countries, Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei.  Indonesia controls about three-quarters of the land, with its territory known as Kalimantan.  Malaysia has almost a quarter of the land with their states of Sabah and Sarawak, and then there is the tiny sovereign state of Brunei, very wealthy, with about 1 percent of the land.”

      Albrecht, sitting next to the pilot, craned his head forward to get a better look, his view slightly blurred by the whirling prop. He asked, “What are all those barren spots south of the mountains and near the coast?”  He tried to point for the benefit of the pilot.

Bart cut the engine revs so he could be heard above the engine before answering the question.”

     “Deforestation.  Much of the natural growth of the equatorial rain forest, home to your beloved orangutans and thousands of plant species, amphibians, birds, and reptiles, is under attack by poachers and loggers. They kill and trap animals for profit and cut down forests for valuable hardwood trees; a single hardwood tree is worth up to one hundred thousand American dollars, and they are rapidly being replaced by hundreds of square miles of oil palm plantations.  Those neat rows of trees you see close to the coast,” now Bart indicated by pointing, “those are palm oil plantations, but I’m sure the famous  Dr. G will tell you all about it and more when you meet.  Now make sure you’re buckled in. We’ll be landing soon.”  With that, the Q&A session ended as Bart concentrated on his approach to Pangkalan Bun, the Gateway to Camp Fossey.

     Mark, slightly cursing, was angry with himself for not speaking to Celine the entire flight.  The best he accomplished was stealing a few furtive glances her way, trying to summon the courage and opportunity.

Turks and Caicos August 2026

 

Under the Canopy Chapter 16 Up-River

 Chapter 16

“For hundreds of miles in every direction, a magnificent forest extended over plains and mountains, rock and morass.”

Alfred Russel Wallace (1823-1913)

Up-River

     

Thambi’s and Ernest’s journey upriver along the Baram River was long and arduous. If viewed from the flight of an eagle, the river appears as a long, sinuous snake with multiple curves, twists, and turns, surrounded by thick, dense, and seemingly impenetrable rainforest.  Of all of the world’s equatorial forests, Borneo’s are likely the most spectacular and oldest.  The number of species is beyond human ability to count.  Having seen this magnificence once requires those few who set foot to return at least once more in their lifetime to relive the spectacle.  

    

The dipterocarpacean trees making up the canopy grow so dense and close together that the light that penetrates to the forest floor resembles permanent twilight.  One cannot reliably navigate by the sun as the sun, or even the rays of the sun, rarely filter through the obstacle course of vegetation barring its way to the tangled net of the forest floor.  

    

The forest at any level is not a silent place at any time.  At various times and places, from before dawn to the night, the forest does not sleep. There is the wild, layered orchestra of continuous sound: the courtship calls of wild peacocks, a whoop of gibbons, the loud, guttural croaking of rhinoceros hornbills, the long call of male orangutans, and insects add their tones, especially the constant, electric-like buzz rising to a crescendo of the ubiquitous cicadas. From high above, a crack of a branch might signal the presence of a proboscis monkey or a group of long-tailed macaques.  

    

Enter this choir, the songbirds of which there are hundreds of species and subspecies, like the Bornean Bristlehead that chirps and sings complex notes and seemingly dances from branch to branch.  If that wasn’t enough, other talents found along creek and river banks include the Wallace Fling Frog with lusty, sharp chirps, almost bird-like; geckos; and fruit bats appear in the twilight skies to round out the evening’s performance. Humans in some form have been listening to variations of this daily choir for 40 000 years. 

    

Thambi and Ernest travelled alternately, trekking long forest trails and then travelling by Longboat and dugout canoe before arriving at his family village, buried deep in the rainforest.  The canoe nosed through the quiet brown waters, its prow cutting a silver line beneath the fading sun.  Ernest sat low, shoulders aching from the journey upriver, but his eyes stayed wide, taking in the shifting green walls of the jungle and the call of hornbills overhead.  Beside him, Thambi’s expression had softened into something Ernest had not yet seen, an anticipation tinged with reverence.

   

  When the boat rounded the last bend, the family’s river home came into view, a longhouse perched on tall stilts, smoke curling from cooking fires, children already darting to the water’s edge to point and wave.  Thambi lifted his hand in answer, laughter in his voice.

    

“Home,” he said simply.

    

As they drew alongside the landing, a man of broad shoulders and weathered face stepped forward.  His hair was streaked with gray, but his eyes were bright and unyielding.  Thambi leapt from the boat and clasped him in a firm embrace.

    

“Father.”

    

“Thambi, my son,” Rentap said, his voice rolling deep as the river. He held his son for a moment longer, then turned to gaze upon Ernest.  “And this is the friend you wrote of?”

   

  Ernest rose, uncertain of the customs, but Rentap’s hand reached out before he could falter.  The grip was strong, and the smile that followed carried the weight of welcome.

   

  “You have come far. In this house, you are no stranger,” Rentap said.

Ernest bowed his head, touched. “And I am honoured in return.”

    

The longhouse loomed above them, raised high on stilts, its planked walkway alive with movement.  Women came forward. Smiling shyly, children peeked from behind them, whispering and giggling.  One small boy darted forward and touched Ernest’s pale forearm as though to test whether the colour would rub off.

    

They led him up the carved notched log that served as a ladder and into the shade of the longhouse.  The air smelled of woodsmoke and pandan.  A few men sat repairing blowpipes and tools, and others hung strips of meat to dry above the hearth.  Everywhere, the pleasant, soft murmur of conversation and laughter surrounded him.

     

Thambi’s mother, a quiet woman with bright eyes, pressed a welcoming cup of sweet tea into Ernest’s hands.  Rentap gestured proudly toward the rows of mats laid out on the floor.  

     “You see,” Rentap said, “nothing has changed, except the new roof.  The last storm took half of it.”

     Thambi laughed softly. “It feels the same.  The air, the sound of the river.  I’ve missed this.”

     Ernest inclined his head, feeling the warmth of the words settle into him.  Behind Rentap, women ululated in celebration, and children clapped as the family gathered around.  The scent of roasting meat and woodsmoke drifted from the hearths, and the air buzzed with laughter.

     For the first time since he had set foot in Borneo, Ernest felt the unfamiliar landscape yield into something like belonging.

     The small village was built near the river on cleared land, enjoying fresh water and sunlight. The houses were built close to water in a helter-skelter array, not quite traditional long houses, but on stilts to stay high, away from animals, insects, snakes, leeches, and the voracious bacterial fungi that prospered on the jungle floor. The meeting with family was a time of joy.  Thambi broke into his local dialect, a mixture of Malay and local vocabulary. 

     Thambi’s father, Rentap, about a head shorter than his son, missing several teeth, wore a joyous grin and was clearly pleased to have his son back in their midst. He was occupied pouring generous servings of rice wine to celebrate the arrival of his prodigal son, who was wise in the way of the foreigners.

     The home, although sparse by Western standards, was neatly ordered with its rice pots, rattan mats and cooking paraphernalia.  In terms of furniture, there was very little. There were essential areas for daily life: sleeping platforms, a hearth for cooking, rattan mats for seating, and carved wooden objects that adorned the longhouse, some of which had ritual significance. Intricate textiles and decorative beads were used to brighten the walls. 

     The simple home was constructed from bamboo and assorted hardwood poles lashed together with rattan vines and forest creepers.  There were no walls; partitions were used only in sleeping areas for a small measure of privacy, usually constructed of palm fronds.  The central open fire pit, or hearth, was built on a platform of packed earth and stones, providing cooking and warmth.  It was central to the longhouse design, providing a source of heat, a place for food preparation, and a focal point for the family. Hammocks, or baskets woven from natural fibres, were arranged to store personal belongings on the balcony where the family now sat, running the length of the longhouse.  The balcony was especially useful for social gatherings and served as the “front door” to the home. Animal pens were located beneath the longhouse, with everything simple and in order.

     At one time, before the coming of the missionaries, just prior to World War ll, the Penan were much more nomadic, allowing them to move in search of food, such as sago palms used to make flour and an entire range of wild game.  In more recent times, the tribes and villages, including Thambi’s, had become more fixed in their location. Therefore, more permanent in nature, mainly due to increased logging operations in ever more remote areas of Borneo, alongside the gradual erosion of their cultural norms as Western ways slowly infiltrated their culture. 

     Thambi’s family home now mirrored a blend of traditional and Western influences, yet still rustic, standing beneath towering dipterocarp trees with the calls of gibbons in the morning mist and cicadas buzzing at dusk.  Smoke from numerous cookfires drifted lazily to the green canopy towering 100 metres above.  Rattan baskets of foraged fruit, blowpipes and other tools, necessary for daily life, with the ever-present rattan mats covering the floors.  

     The nearby river served as a constant water source for both bathing and the highway.  It was idyllic and functional, off the beaten path. Ernest thought far, far away in so many ways from his own home in Basil.  Looking out at the slow-moving river, the rising smoke from the fire-pits, and his friend Thambi enjoying his reunion with family, he felt a strange contentment he hadn’t known for many years.  He felt like he was home for the first time.

     Penan, by virtue of their former nomadic existence and present semi-nomadic lifestyles, are considered by all other inland and coastal tribes to be the experts of the jungle.  Given that they live in the shade of the giant forest trees, their skin is slightly lighter than that of other tribes who are in more contact with the light of day.  Penan, Ernest soon discovered that they had a natural propensity, as if it were built into their genetic makeup, to live amongst the trees and in the shade.  They dislike being in the sun for even a few minutes, as intense sunlight is uncomfortable. They are so used to walking on narrow forest trails that, even when visiting the town markets for trading, they often walk in single file out of sheer habit.  

     Living in their remote, isolated world, Ernest noticed that the people of Thambi’s village were extremely shy and reticent to engage with the outside world unless out of economic necessity.  Ernest had been welcomed with open arms as a friend of the family, and their level of conversation and questions was astounding.  One thing they could not understand was his interest in Borneo and why he had travelled so far, leaving his own country and family behind.  They had never met a White person who showed sensitivity and an honest interest in their lives. It stirred them and grew their hospitality even though Ernest remained an enigma.

     Rentrap exchanged a glance with his wife, Melur, who frowned thoughtfully, as though trying to decide whether anyone could be that foolish, or that honest, to travel so great a distance to Borneo.

     Melur stated, “You travel so far, but for what?  There is nothing to gain here.”

     That made Ernest laugh softly.  “Maybe not to gain, but to understand.  He hesitated, then added, “to appreciate.”

     The family fell silent, pondering their new guest and their son’s new friend.  Of course, they had met many white men before, and what they all had in common was wanting something; traders wanted resin and rattan, officials with clipboards, and missionaries with pamphlets and promises.  They all came with an agenda they defended like a shield.  But this one, he seemed to carry no shield at all.

     Thambi’s grandmother, a woman of indeterminate years, wrinkled leather-like skin and the wisdom of gods, shuffled forward, her steps slow but steady, her eyes sharp as river-glass.  She studied Ernest. Softly, she touched his cheek with the back of her hand as Ernest stood solemnly before her for a long heartbeat;  then her hardened face softened into a smile, the examination complete.  “He means what he says,” she proclaimed, as if declaring the results of a ceremony only she understood.  “This one carries no hidden fires.”

     A murmur of relief and understanding swept through the family, Melur’s shoulders relaxed, and even Rentrap’s stern expression, from earlier, shifted into something warmer.

     “Then you will eat with us and sleep under our roof in the coming days and nights.”  Hospitality, once decided, became a duty and a celebration.  Thambi informed his friend, “They don’t understand you. But they have decided that they like you anyway.”

     Ernest laughed, feeling a rare warmth bloom in his chest.  In that moment, among people who had every reason to distrust him, yet welcomed him all the same.  He felt something he had not expected to find so far from home.  A beginning.

     After the simple pansuh meal of fish, rice, and root vegetables, served with tuak, Thambi led Ernest outside toward the river where the afternoon light shimmered over the water.  Chickens wandered randomly pecking for sustenance, and beyond all that, the deep green, endless forest beckoned.

     And for a long moment, neither spoke. The jungle sang softly around them, and the river moved on as it always did.