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.
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