Under the Canopy chapter 18

 Chapter 18

Camp Fossey: Orientation

     The touchdown was routine. The pilot expertly avoided the small herd of hardy Kambing goats, oblivious to their near-death experience, as they nonchalantly grazed at the edge of the runway, keeping the grass short.  It was still morning, yet the temperature was already rising with the humidity, something all newcomers had to get used to and one of the greatest barriers to physical comfort. Living just under the equator did have its consequences.  The pilot, along with Albrecht, Mark, and their driver, quickly unloaded their gear and piled it somewhat orderly into a waiting Land Rover sent to fetch them under instructions from Dr. G and bring them to the old port city of Kumai. It was approximately a ten-mile drive between the airport in Pangkalan Bun and Kumai, where they were to board a riverboat for their final journey into the interior of Tanjung Puting National Park and Camp Fossey.  

     It had rained recently, and the dirt road had turned to a muddy quagmire.  The otherwise short drive took four hours. The road to Camp Fossey was a road only by reputation.  What passed for passage had been crudely carved from the jungle, revealing jungle clay, and when left to the mercies of monsoon rains, lay broken and slick, a scar of ochre mud gleaming under the canopy. This proved to be an early introductory lesson to the rigours of the rainforest, simple lessons in daily survival.  The Land Rover pushed forward stubbornly, then dropped -axle deep- into a rut that swallowed the wheels with a sound like a breath being exhaled.  The engine laboured.  Tires spun uselessly.  Mud only crept higher.

     The driver killed the engine and climbed out, boots vanishing instantly into the mire.  Albrecht followed, testing the ground with each step, but the earth gave way all the same.  Mark stepped out last and slid immediately, catching the door handle just in time to avoid going flat out into the mud.  He laughed once, sharply, more from disbelief than humour.

     “Palm fronds,” the driver directed, “as many as we can find. Use the machetes in the back.”

     Mark looked at the roadside. “Plenty of those.  The jungle is generous when it wants to be.”

     They hacked and pulled, their first experience with a machete.  They were awkward but ultimately successful as they wrestled fronds free.  They were much heavier than they appeared.

     “Careful with your fingers,” the driver called, “those edges will cut you open.”

Mark grunted as he dragged a bundle of fronds toward the back wheels.  Albrecht bent low, frantically pushing fronds deep beneath the drowning wheels. “Slow and steady,” he indicated to the driver, “No spinning.”

     “Easy for you to say this mud is like glue,” Mark said, losing his footing and dropping in the mud onto one knee.

     The driver climbed back in behind the wheel.  “Ready?”

     “Go,” Albrecht said, “Very gently.”

     The engine turned over.  The tires spun once, the vehicle slid sideways, and sank again.

     “Stop!” Mark shouted. “Stop, stop- worse than before.” For Mark, this was like an exercise he had played out in Canada many times, only using sand instead of battling snow. That was a far-distant experience now.

     The engine quickly died.  Mark straightened, covered in mud up to his thighs. He wiped mud from his face as he paused and noticed the girls were still inside the Land Rover, enjoying the show from the perspective of relative comfort.  Playfully, with no thought of malice, after wiping his face, he looked at the mud in his hand.  He looked over at the girls.  Without further thought, he flicked some mud in their general direction. 

“Hey, where did that come from?” They said in unison.

     Albrecht, at about the same time, was wiping his hands on his trousers, which only made things worse.  He saw Mark flick mud at the girls, and he immediately did the same.  Mud was coming at the girls now from two directions.

     Mark bent down and picked up a wad of mud. Albrecht saw what was happening and got his cue from Mark.  Together, they launched a coordinated mud attack on the girls.  The driver, a Dayak native, thought these Westerners had lost their minds.  He stood and watched helplessly, completely dumbfounded, saying not a word, not getting involved. 

     Liesal, Gloria and Celine quickly rose to the occasion, literally leapt from the Land Rover through both rear doors, grabbed handfuls of thick mud and launched a forceful counterattack on Mark and Albrecht, who were outnumbered, outflanked, outgunned and quickly defeated in a squirmish of their own making.  By the end, everyone looked like a mud-covered golem.  They were laughing and giggling like school kids, and then it suddenly all stopped as suddenly as it had started.

     “You guys are just assholes,” but at least Celine said it with a smile. 

After the whimsical attack on the girls, they continued layering fronds under the wheels, building a rough track beneath the tires.  The girls, now muddy from the earlier sport, helped with the efforts. A new bond of friendship, forged in mud and hard labour, had been formed.

     Albrecht called out, “All right, try now.”

     The Land Rover lurched.  The front wheels climbed.  The rear slipped.

     “Keep it going!” Mark yelled, “Don’t stop.”

     The engine revved.  Mud sprayed.  For a moment, it seemed helpless- then the tires caught.  The vehicle surged forward, climbing free of the flooded rut in a violent shudder.

     “Yes!” Mark shouted, slapping the side panel, “That’s it. That’s it.”

The driver eased off and stopped on firmer ground.  He leaned out the window, grinning.       “Told you she’d come through.”

     Albrecht leaned on his knees, breathing hard. “Barely.”

     They climbed back inside laughing, covered in Kalimantan mud.  You guys are still absolute assholes, and the Land Rover moved on.  Mark looked back at the churned-up section of road as it disappeared into the trees.  “Roads like that,” he said, ‘you almost feel it’s personal.” More content now that he got Celine’s attention, made her laugh, even if she did call him an asshole, which he considered to be a term of endearment.

Have Hope. Please Vote

 

Have Hope. Please Vote.

I have grown up in Waterloo. My connection to this community is not something I acquired recently by deciding to run for city council. It is woven into my life.

I went to Lincoln Heights Public School beginning in Grade 8, in the year the school first opened. From there I went to Waterloo Collegiate through its five-year technical program, including Grade 13, and eventually earned an Honours degree in Geography from Wilfrid Laurier University. I have lived, learned and grown up within a remarkably small radius of this city.

Politics has also been part of my life for a long time. I became politically engaged in my twenties and, over the years, I have voted Conservative, Liberal and NDP. I have never felt particularly comfortable being told that I must belong permanently to one political camp. My interest has always been in ideas, people and the direction in which we are taking our community.

That is probably why, after all these years, I find myself back where I started: at the municipal level.

I actually ran for office in 2006, under the banner of Smart Growth. One of my major concerns then was sustainable water supply. Twenty years later, in 2026, water sustainability is again one of the defining issues facing Waterloo.

How ironic.

Perhaps we are slow learners.

This campaign has reminded me of something else: democracy is not really about elections. Elections are simply the moment when we count the consequences of whether we have been paying attention.

On average, only about a third of eligible voters participate in municipal elections. That is daunting when you are knocking on doors. There are certainly moments when I wonder why I am doing this.

There are days when I trek through the rain, knock on a door and hear nothing. I stand there wondering whether I have made a terrible mistake. But those moments are surprisingly rare.

Most of the time, I am having the time of my life.

People are curious. They ask difficult questions. They challenge me to defend my positions. They tell me where they think I am wrong. Some have invited me into their homes and sat down with me for extended conversations about their neighbourhood, their concerns and their hopes for Waterloo.

And something unexpected has happened.

I have changed my point of view.

Not dramatically. Not on everything. But on several issues, my position has moved a few degrees because somebody took the time to explain how they see the world.

I find that fascinating and invigorating.

That, to me, is democracy.

It is not standing on a platform and telling people what they should think. It is listening, arguing respectfully, reconsidering, learning and occasionally admitting that someone else has a better point.

There is an important lesson in that for all of us.

The world seems to be standing at a cusp. We are dealing with enormous changes in technology, the economy, the environment, demographics and the way we communicate with one another. There is uncertainty everywhere.

In such a world, local government may be more important than ever.

We need somewhere where people still know their neighbours. Somewhere where we can argue about a sidewalk, a pothole, a park, a traffic problem or a development proposal and still recognize one another the next morning.

We need community.

And we need to preserve a sense that our community belongs to all of us.

But there is a troubling side to what I am hearing as I campaign.

I have talked to many people who have simply given up.

They are cynical about government. They believe the system has failed them. Some mock the entire political process. Others tell me they will not vote because, in their minds, it makes no difference.

I don’t pretend to understand all the reasons for this apathy.

Some people are busy. Some are disengaged. Some have never developed an interest in politics. Some are frustrated. Some have been disappointed so many times that they no longer believe their participation matters.

And some have simply stopped believing that anyone is listening.

That last group concerns me the most.

Because I am beginning to see a connection between being ignored and becoming apathetic.

A person calls about a sidewalk that needs repair. Another reports a pothole. Someone wants a dangerous crosswalk made safer. Someone wants a traffic problem addressed. Another asks when an old stump will finally be removed.

These may seem like small matters to a bureaucracy.

They are not small matters to the person who lives there.

When people repeatedly make reasonable requests and receive no meaningful response, something begins to happen. Frustration becomes anger. Anger becomes cynicism. Cynicism becomes disengagement.

Eventually the person says, “Why bother?”

Then they don’t volunteer.

They don’t attend the meeting.

They don’t contact their councillor.

And eventually, they don’t vote.

That is how democracy slowly erodes—not necessarily through some dramatic event, but through thousands of small disappointments.

I am writing this as I wait for a call from my own city.

I recently contacted the City about planting trees on a popular toboggan hill in my ward. Residents have raised concerns and have made repeated efforts to get an answer. They feel they are being ignored.

The irony is not lost on me.

Here I am campaigning to become a city councillor while waiting for the very government I hope to serve to return my call.

I mention this not to embarrass anyone, but because it illustrates the problem.

Government has to listen.

It has to respond.

It will not always be able to say yes. In fact, responsible government must sometimes say no. But there should be an explanation. People deserve to know that their concerns have been heard and considered.

A responsive government may disappoint you.

An unresponsive government makes you feel invisible.

There is a difference.

I am not naïve enough to believe that electing one councillor will fix all of this. Nor do I believe that everyone who doesn’t vote is apathetic or doesn’t care. Life is complicated, and there are many legitimate reasons why people disengage.

But I do believe that participation matters.

I believe that talking to your neighbours matters.

I believe that challenging your councillor matters.

I believe that changing your mind when presented with a better argument is a strength, not a weakness.

And I believe that voting matters.

My campaign has actually strengthened my faith in democracy. Not because everyone agrees with me. Quite the opposite.

It is because so many people still care deeply about this place.

They care about their streets, their parks, their schools, their neighbours, their taxes, their water, their environment and the future of their children.

They care enough to open their doors and talk.

That gives me hope.

I have lived in Waterloo for most of my life. I have watched it change. I have participated in its politics before, and now, twenty years later, I am knocking on doors again.

I don’t expect everyone to agree with me.

I don’t even expect to get everything right.

But I do promise to listen.

And I hope that on October 26, you will do something equally important.

Please vote.

Even if you are disappointed.

Even if you are cynical.

Even if you have decided that your vote won’t make a difference.

Please reconsider.

Democracy survives because ordinary people decide that it is worth the effort.

So, after all the knocking on doors, the rain, the unanswered bells, the arguments, the conversations and the occasional change of mind, I have come to a fairly simple conclusion:

Have hope.

Stay involved.

Talk to your neighbours.

And on October 26, please vote.

Not just for me.

Vote for your community.

Vote because it is yours.

And never, ever lose that sense of belonging to something grander and more important than yourself.  

Marty Rempel

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.