Chapter 19
Borneo is one of the more absurdly isolated places in the world, and connectivity was not by road, but by river. Kumai, a traditional Melayu tribal and Muslim port city, was a focal point for commerce and transportation for the region. Its significance lay in its location facing the Java Sea and its proximity to access into the interior via the Sekonyer River system. Westerners were uncommon here, and their presence tended to draw curious crowds who would stand and stare harmlessly. The curiosities were not the mud-covered men from the Fossey troop, but rather the western women in all their stereotypical mystical decadence. The muslim men were intrigued.
Upon reaching Kumai, their intrepid driver parked dockside next to a series of look-alike diesel-powered river boats called klotoks, which drew an almost exact likeness to the ‘African Queen’ with the addition of a roof and looked just about as seaworthy. The group stood dockside staring at their new ride, almost expecting to see Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn walk on deck at any moment. Instead, they were greeted by Captain Sinaga, who bore not even a remote resemblance to Bogart.
It is a four-hour trip from Kumai up the Sekonyer River by slow klotok to Camp Fossey. Everyone was thoroughly worn out from the flight from Jakarta, followed by the arduous drive over the treacherous, painfully slow, muddy road to Kumai, of course, broken up by some comic relief in the form of a mud fight. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Mark said, turning to the group, “We have to find something to eat.”
Fortunately, their driver spoke enough English to direct them to a warong, a stall-like restaurant, and help them order local food. They feasted on canned sardines, salted fish, rice with vegetables of ill-defined origin, followed by copious quantities of sweet tea. It was all that was available, and it tasted gourmet.
After eating, Mark gazed up and down the quiet, narrow street where their restaurant was situated and commented, “I think we have finally left civilization as we know it, behind us. I can’t see a Coca-Cola, registered trademark pending, sign anywhere.” The others gave a tired smile in agreement.
Jakarta had been riddled and stamped with all the markings of Western globalism, yet here, a few hours across the Java Sea, all of that had fallen behind them, and they had yet to enter the jungle.
Back at the klotok, Captain Sinaga gauged his weary, travel-worn passengers and said, “It is better to delay departure and stay the night. We will spend the night on board and in the harbour, and get an early morning start. Otherwise, our arrival time at Fossey will be after sunset, and I do not cherish being on the river after the sun goes down. There were too many problem situations which could readily arise, all of which are better dealt with in daylight.”
Everyone was fine with the plans and sleeping arrangements. Their collective mental and physical processes moved in slow motion. No one had the acuity or energy to discuss alternatives in the humid equatorial heat. After the long travel day, sleep was a cherished necessity. Hammocks were slung, and mosquito nets hung on hooks set up for that purpose. The gentle rocking of the boat had the young anthropologists asleep on the threshold of their great tropical adventure before anyone could say Australopithecine Zinjanthropus Boisei.
In addition to the captain on board, there was also a galley cook and ‘boat boy’ who tended to the needs of the passengers and crew, which, as the klotok pushed away from the dock and into midstream the following morning, included breakfast.
The captain had his eye out for the larger rusty junk-freighters approaching from the north out of the Java Sea. From years of river experience, Captain Sinaga did not depend on the traditional white poles and green triangular buoys and markers to guide him. Most were poorly visible, not well-maintained or completely missing. Sinaga relied on a more reliable mental map for the stream bed's constantly changing characteristics as sandbars were deposited and map, which acco redeposited over time. Each trip was unique, and a good captain noticed the subtle changes.
The initial trip involved motoring south downstream to the Java Sea, where the captain picked up the mouth of the Sekonyer River, hidden amongst Nipa Palms on the port side. The klotok's lethargic motion created a slight breeze, which helped cool those standing on deck. Folding wooden deck chairs were arranged on the bow deck and on the roof. The deck space between bow and stern was only wide enough for one person to walk. Mark and some of the others sat on the roof watching the slow progression of the palms as they slid past the boat. Sometimes, as the channel narrowed, the palm fronds brushed the sides of the boat with a rasping, scratching sound.
Mark and the others sat on the ancient deck chairs. Mark commented, “Leaving Kumai behind is our goodbye to civilization. This is almost like a journey back in time. We will see animals, insects, birds, crocodiles, orangutans, and other primates that have been here long before man ever appeared. This is the Garden of Eden.”
“How many goodbyes to civilizations are you going to give us, Mark? And do you have to be scientific about everything?” Celine said with an audible sigh. “Let’s just enjoy the scenery for what it is. Lots of plants, full of bugs, with a dirty brown river that goes on forever. If this is nature at its best, why is this river so polluted? Look at the water. It's brown.”
Mark, surprised at Celine’s aggressive approach, explained, “At the risk of sounding too scientific, Celine, it's not quite as bad as it looks. Some of that brown you see comes from natural tannins in the water. It’s like the river were one giant teapot, and everything in it is steeping to produce this tepid brown colour. Where you see a different colour of brown, either lighter or darker than the river, that is runoff from erosion caused by logging or stripped land from hydro mining. They use water under high pressure to strip topsoil to get at gold and gemstones, especially diamonds.”
“Diamonds, now you have my attention. Do you think we’ll find any?”
“I hope so, but my sights will be on orangutans, which may be just as rare.”
“Notice here, Celine, how the vegetation is changing. The Nepa Palms are gone.” Mark sounded like a parent rattling off ‘interesting facts’ to disinterested children sitting bored in the back seat during a long road trip. Celine tended to tune him out.
Oblivious, he continued, “They need salt water from the Java Sea to survive. Now that we are inland about ten miles or so, we get into the forest and swamps, which need fresh water to grow. We are now entering the orangutans’ home. This area is part of the park reserve and protected land, but poachers and loggers still ignore the law. What we call a poacher, they claim is survival. It's all perspective, I guess.”
“I guess,” Celine mumbled as she watched the muddy water pass by.
About a mile past where the Nepa palms ended, around a bend in the river, at a location where the river widened, stood a small Melayu tribal village. It was nothing more than what appeared to the untrained eye as a random clustering of huts near the water. They were built on stilts to keep out the constant damp of monsoon rains and heavy dew, and to protect against flooding. Stilts also served the practical function of keeping out the wide variety of snakes that inhabited the river and jungle environments. In the previous generation, it may have offered marginal protection against Dayak head-hunting raids.
Past the village, the river branches into the Sekonyer Kiri, where locals who voluntarily moved, or were relocated by the Indonesian government from Java, pan for gold, harvest wild rubber, or survive using traditional slash-and-burn agriculture. The ever-present poachers and loggers are amongst this group. The right branch, the Sekonyer Kanan, enters the protected reserve land and along those murky waters lies Camp Fossey.
Rounding a bend into a small lake, several crocodiles basked in the sun along the shoreline. Their long, narrow snouts protruded above the waterline. Captain Sinaga gestured, “Once we pass through this lake, there will be two more like it. Your Camp is on the shores of the third.”
A long dock extended into the lake, surrounded by weeds. Several crude buildings stood, built from wood planking hewn from local trees; one structure, obviously abandoned, still had the remnants of a Nipa-thatched roof. Two canoes and a motorboat were moored to the dock. The main compound was in a clearing a few hundred yards back from the lake. Several people approached in a Rover from the clearing, moving toward the dock to pick up passengers and gear.
“I think it will take a little while for us to acclimatize here,” speaking to the three Germans and Celine. “In Northern Canada right now, there is still ice on the lakes and rivers.” Mark broke into a heavy sweat as he lifted the gear and suitcases and carried them off the deck and onto the dock.
Liesel added, “Germany is still brown and drab in April; here, everything is very hot and green. It is amazing. Wunderbar!”
Liesel unstrapped her Nikon to get a few more pictures of their arrival at the camp. As she did so, Quasimodo, a six-year-old female orangutan living near the camp, saw the group landing and was awed by the wonderful shiny camera. Before Liesel really understood what happened, the agile and very impish Quasimodo had swung down from her perch and watchtower in the tree, ambled at great speed to the dock and, like a pickpocket artist from Oliver Twist, made off with Liesel’s very expensive camera. In a flash, the troublesome orangutan was high in the trees, swinging the camera by its strap, as if preparing to do a striptease while making loud, mocking hooting sounds. Liesel struggled between surprise and annoyance, finally succumbing to a fit of giggles. Now at camp, they had made their first official orangutan sighting.
Camp Fossey was a somewhat forlorn collection of small wooden structures set in a clearing hacked out of the dense surrounding jungle foliage. In order to brighten the general atmosphere of the camp, much of the trim work of the cabins was painted in bright blue. Perhaps there had been a sale on blue paint back in Kumai for whatever reason; it did brighten the place up.
Mark felt that a single blink would allow the jungle to rapidly grow back and claim what it had lost. The small residential huts and cabins were constructed of simple wood planking, brightly coloured to contrast with the verdant greens of the forest backdrop, and circled a larger central building that housed the main clinic, labs, storage areas, classrooms, and the primate quarantine facility.
Kole, their Dayak driver, pulled up to one of the smaller auxiliary buildings that formed the perimeter of the compound. “These are your quarters. We will unload here. There will be an orientation in the main building in one hour. Dr. Gunther will be there to greet you and offer you some refreshments after your long journey. Meanwhile, pick your rooms and settle in as best you can.” Rigorously, he rammed the Rover into low gear, popped the clutch and drove to the other side of the compound.
The newcomers collectively stood fatigued, jet-lagged as they stared slightly despondently at their new home. Following hours on jets, sleepless nights, airports, and jostling on rutted roads, the Land Rover receded, and the engine sounds diminished. The five travellers from two continents became conscious of the jungle’s constant sound. To the Germans, it was music to their ears; to Celine, the bird and insect sounds, too numerous to differentiate, were loathsome, and again she wondered what she was doing coming to this equatorial hellhole.
Each grabbed their gear and climbed the few steps to the open screened porch area. Around a central kitchen, eating area, and common room were four bedrooms, with a common bathroom at the end of the hall past the last bedroom. “I guess our first order of business is to divvy up the bedrooms.” Albrecht took immediate control. Mark, why don’t you take the far room next to the washroom; Liesel and Celine, you take the one beside that; Gloria, the next; and I’ll take the one at the opposite end. I hope everyone is pleased with this decision.”
Everyone was too tired to care and simply walked to the rooms mentioned. “Let’s not get too comfortable. We have to go to our orientation soon. I’m thinking a short nap would be in order. Mark pulled aside the mosquito net and, by smell, could tell that it had been treated with an insecticide. He hated insects as much as he loved primates and, as a result, knew his stay here at Fossey would be a constant love/hate relationship with opposing forces of nature, and nature was all there was to infinity.
Celine, positive for a moment, said, “It's actually a lot better than I thought it would be. I had these images of little thatched huts in the forest surrounded by skinny cows and starving dirty kids.”
Mark smiled, “You might be thinking of India, but I agree I think we can get comfortable here over the next six months.”
“This doesn’t feel too bad.” Mark felt the mattress. He was asleep in moments.
