Welcome to the Jungle (Part two)

 

The Cast

 

So the deal had been struck and four of us would be spending four nights and five days hiking in the jungle. There was Calvin, he of the broken arm, Busan who was both a guide and porter and Mahliam, a porter who became ‘Mary’ in my journal as I could only ever remember the first two letters of his name.

 

 

Busan is a small and wiry man who sometimes makes his money by trekking deep into the jungle and across the border into the semi-autonomous region of Aceh where he is able to legally purchase marijuana and then bring it back into North Sumatra to sell on the black market. Resembling Errol Brown from Hot Chocolate but with hair, Mary is tall and incredibly strong; he somehow supports his wife and four children by walking for days into the jungle to fish in quiet rivers and sell his catch on the market. Mary is my hero.

 

 

We often forget when we watch the intrepid celebrity adventurers on our TV’s, who are thrown into dangerous and frightening predicaments for our entertainment, that there is a support crew peforming even more dangerous acts in order to feed, clothe, shelter and film our beloved stars. So before I begin to whinge and moan about the trials and tribulations of spending five days in the jungle I should tell you about the porters and guides who did everything that I did but with all of the equipment and none of the fuss.

 

 

Busan and Mary both had huge sugar sacks containing everything that we would need for the trek; they had tied various bits of material and wire through these bags and fashioned them into rucksacks. On the first day, I attempted to lift Mary’s burden and was unable to do so; it must have weighed as much as a standard domestic cooker. Busan’s was not much lighter.

 

 

Each evening, after carrying these enormous weights up and down near-vertical slopes, across rivers and through thick jungle, Busan and Mary would set about chopping wood and bamboo for shelters and fires, make tea and coffee and then rustle up tasty feasts. Meanwhile I would shuffle about redundantly, attempting to be useful until I was ushered into a spot in the shelter and told to relax; a poorman’s Thessinger or Burton, making notes and reading while the servants got on with preparing my dinner. I wonder if any of those colonial explorers ever did feel guilty about letting their guides do all the work? Each morning I was awoken with fresh coffee, followed by a hearty breakfast and would then go down to the river to wash while the camp was broken, and everything repacked for the day’s hiking.

 

 

Calvin, brother of Nora’s self-named home-stay that I frequently stayed at in Bukit Lawan, took no part in any of these preparations either, as he was nursing a healing arm. I had chosen Calvin above all of the other jungle guides in the area because of his apparent honesty and reluctance to sell himself. At times he almost seemed to be putting me off, and would regale me with previous misadventures in the jungle or how some of his friends thought he was crazy to attempt the trek he was putting together for me. Despite the many reasons to not pick Calvin, including the crazy glint in his eye, I trusted him; and a little part of me knew that I was going to have an adventure.

 

 

 

The Horrors

 

I couldn’t put up with the tingling in my balls any longer. Abandoning any pretence at safety, I slithered the last few meters down the steep, sodden bank; my fingers clawing at the wet leaves and mud to slow my descent. Jumped down on to a slippery rock, slid into the river, splashed hurriedly past Busan, reached the safety of the pebble beach on the other side, dropped my trousers and tugged at my scrotum.

 

I had known that the chances of seeing a tiger were slim and so any danger that we might face in the jungle would not come from the orange and black striped variety. I had thought about poisonous snakes and spiders, the possibility of contracting malaria or dengue fever, or even breaking a limb. I was also aware of the irritations that we would face in the form of rain, mosquitoes, biting flies and poisoned ivy. What I hadn’t really thought too much about, were the leeches.

 

Gnatbobdellida or jawed leeches are sensitive to light intensity, temperature and vibration and live in wet forested areas. Whenever I had previously thought of leeches, I had thought of them as fat, slug-like creatures but that is only after they’ve been feeding on one’s blood, of which they can ingest several times their own weight. In pre-fed, predatory mode they resemble thin, short earthworms to whom they are related. In the foliage of the jungle, they stand erect on their rear-end, waving slightly and detecting the slightest change in their environment. Once alerted to a victim they move at an alarmingly rapid rate; their three-jawed head falls to the ground so that they briefly form a letter ‘n’ before their tail flips up into the reverse of its original position and then back to the ground to form another ‘n’. This it repeats over and over until it reaches its prey. Once clamped on, their hundreds of teeth literally sawing into your skin, they secrete a mucous with which to help sucker on to your flesh and then flood the wound with anti-coagulant and histamine before relaxing and enjoying their meal.

 

I remember feeling slightly proud when Mary pointed out my first leech and pulled it off; I was in the jungle, I was trekking through the wilderness, I was pulling leeches from my body like a hardened marine, I was a MAN! Where was my cigar with which to burn the parasites off with?! The novelty quickly wore off; every few minutes we would stop briefly to remove the dozen or so leeches that had collected on various parts of our bodies, usually our legs. On the first day I couldn’t understand why the others were wearing shorts, and not long trousers tucked into their socks as I had elected to do in order to prevent the little blighters from latching on. But it soon became apparent that not only could they feed through your thick cotton trousers, but they could also wriggle their way through onto your flesh anyway; wearing shorts meant that you could at least spot them and remove them more easily.

 

After a brief inspection I found the offending blood-sucker tucking in to the underside of my scrotum and he’d obviously been there a while; they’re tenacious little bastards and this one was no exception. I would not be bringing a cigar into such a sensitive area, even if I had one. I dug my fingers in under its bloated body as it squirmed and writhed; desperate to not be interrupted from such a tasty feast. Clinging on now just by its plethora of teeth I finally pulled it free from my balls at which point it attached itself to my finger; disposing of a leech is a little like ridding yourself of a very sticky bogey. Pulling it from my finger it chomped onto the finger of my other hand; trying to flick it, it adhered to my thumb. Eventually, after much waving of hands and arms, the offending diner was cast mercilessly into the river. With a beaming grin of satisfaction, and my shorts around my knees, I turned my attention to the three other gentleman in my vicinity, all of whom had their hands in their shorts, wearing either painful grimaces or contented relief upon their features. I hoped Attenborough wasn’t about.

 

 

Day 1

 

 

The female orang-utan turned her attention from us, to the approaching male; this bearded hulk was bending trees, swinging on vines and making a singular assault on the jungle between him and the now alarmed female. She quickly did her best impression of playing hard-to-get and bolted off to our right, closely followed by her suitor; I didn’t need Attenborough around to inform me of his intentions towards her. Our view was temporarily obscured, but the furious thrashing of the foliage meant that we were able to follow their progress and sure enough we found them no more than a few feet from the path, just a little further on. A ginger-haired tangle of elongated limbs rustled in a tree, just a few feet from our heads; the only discernible parts of the amorous couple being the glazed and intent expression of the male at the top of the vibrating mass and, upside down and hanging from the bottom of this pornographic spectacle was the female’s head. It’s difficult to know entirely, whether her bland and contemplative expression was the result of her partner’s very clinical handiwork, or the dozen or so tourists with their respective guides gawping back in whispered awe at this very public affair; their cameras whirring, clicking and flashing in a huddled and shoving paparazzi scrum.

 

Bukit Lawan is famous for its orang-utan rehabilitation centre where these animals have been rescued from captivity. Many of these apes’ mothers were shot before being abducted and sold to bored rich people who wished to impress their friends with their exotic new playthings. The centre attempts, usually successfully, to introduce them back into the wild. After caring for them for a while, the apes are released into the jungle and fed twice a day on a bland diet of bananas until they realise that they can get much tastier food from their natural habitat and cease to come to the feedings. The result is that the jungle within the vicinity of the centre is populated with rehabilitated orang-utans who have little fear of humans and few sexual inhibitions.

 

 

Many tourists come to Bukit Lawan to watch these feedings within the grounds of the rehabilitation centre and some take day-long guided hikes into the jungle. The consequence of this, is that there is a well-trodden circuit around the area in which you invariably bump into camera-toting Western tourists, all of whom have the same look on their faces; one which displays their frustration at being unable to fully appreciate the jungle without bumping into camera-toting Western tourists. On my first day’s hike I saw more American English teachers than I have seen in my entire time in Medan.

 

 

However it was a very pleasant first day. Calvin and I set out from Nora’s Home-stay bright and early, accompanied by Calvin’s uncle who was coming along for the morning. We would walk to a pre-designated spot to meet up with Busan and Mary who would, hopefully, have set up camp for us. Compared to the rest of the week, the day was fairly easy-going but I remember feeling very exhausted at times, as we climbed steep hills, plunged down slippery slopes and hopped across streams on moss-covered rocks. We were lucky enough to see the afore-mentioned copulating orang-utans, some incredibly fleet gibbons that are a rarity to see, as was the Hornbill, a massive bird whose wings sound like the slapping in the wind of bed sheets on a washing-line.

 

 

Our camp was almost ready when we arrived, Busan and Mary already having erected the bamboo-skeleton of our shelter. It was a beautiful spot next to a river and we were safely under cover, with a feast in preparation before the rain came down; as it would every evening. To my dismay, I found that we were sharing our campsite with another group, consisting of three young Americans and their guides. My decision to choose Calvin as my guide was, at this point, proved a good one; he informed me that these Americans had a charlatan guide who was leading them no further than a few kilometres from Bukit Lawan each day. They were basically going around in circles.

 

 

We had a fantastic meal of marinated fried-chicken, spicy tomato soya, mixed vegetables, rice and freshly fried prawn-crackers; I was amazed that they were able to conjure up such a culinary delight with just a wok and a campfire. Later I lay back and listened to the nocturnal sounds of the jungle: three drunken Americans playing drinking games and singing badly. I lay awake plotting their misfortunes when I realised their guide was already taking care of it; sleep came soon after.

 

Day 2

 

I awoke at dawn to whispered voices and the unmistakable sound of a crackling fire and boiling water. Raising my head above my makeshift pillow I was immediately offered coffee by the three whispering figures sat around the fire who were silhouetted against the first rays of sunshine. I sat drinking my steaming mug of coffee and watched the mist rise up the steep green bank on the other side of the river before heading off downstream to wash. I bathed standing above a waterfall which plunged five or six metres down into a bright and misty valley; the water was refreshing but not cold and I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction into my first full day in the jungle.

 

Breakfast was waiting for me when I returned: fresh pineapple pancake which I had to defend from a hungry orang-utan and her baby and who had to be shooed away by the guides. The Americans were still sleeping when we hoisted our belongings onto our backs; me with more ease than my companions, and we set off. I was amazed to see that Mary was wearing nothing upon his feet, although less so when I saw the thickness of the skin on his soles.

 

If I had expected a gentle introduction to the day’s trek then I was shockingly mistaken; we crossed the river and headed straight up the steep opposing bank. It was a heart-pumping ascent for about half an hour; ducking under branches, gripping tenaciously onto thin but incredibly strong tree roots, and sweating profusely. We stopped to rest approximately halfway and, gasping and panting, I gazed around at my comrades in exhausted solidarity at the feat we had just performed. To my dismay however, all three were sitting calmly without a bead of sweat or a troubled breath, waiting for me to recover from my dramas. I looked at the massive packs that they had manoeuvred without trouble through the thick foliage while I had snagged, snapped and scrambled up the same route, and I took a long deep breath.

 

“You all ready?” I said, pulling myself to my feet as if I had been waiting for them all along. “Let’s go!”

 

The first part of the day was spent in much the same manner;  long arduous climbs up  steep hills, clinging to tree roots, followed by semi-controlled slides downwards using branches to slow our descent. Eventually we reached the river that we would be following to our first camp. This was a different kind of locomotion altogether and involved zigzagging across the meandering river in depths which occasionally reached my knees. This immersion made a mockery of my trusty waterproof walking shoes of course, and their soles had never been designed to gain purchase on wet, mossy rocks and stones. Amazingly, whenever I slipped or stumbled, Mary was always there to catch my arm; it seemed that it didn’t matter how far ahead of him I may be, he would always be there to prevent me from falling.

 

 

Eventually we reached our destination: a pebbly beach on the bend of the river. I attempted, at first, to make myself useful as the guides set about chopping bamboo and erecting the shelter but it soon became apparent that I was superfluous to requirements. So, guiltily reminding myself that I was paying them for this privilege, I slipped my trunks on and immersed myself in a deep, clear-blue pool within the river and swam leisurely against the current. Refreshed, I dried out in the sun and read until the inevitable rain began and I sat in the shelter awaiting my dinner.

 

 

It was another incredible feast which I would have been happy to eat in a restaurant let alone in the middle of the jungle, and we sat silently watching the torrential rain in the fading light. I lay back afterwards, contentedly full and read by torchlight. The rain continued to thunder down, drowning out the chattering of the guides, and moths battered around the shelter in a frantic escape from the deluge. After a couple of hours contented reading I sat up to see how the rain had affected the river level. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realised that the river was swirling no more than two metres from the edge of the shelter; much closer than before. I interrupted the jabbering conversation to point this fact out. A silence ensued as we contemplated the gushing, rising flow before us. After a couple of unconvincing reassurances from Calvin they resumed their conversation while I continued to monitor the water level. Soon the river was thundering past, no more than a meter from us and the rain had not abated. Trying to sound fairly nonchalant about the whole matter, I drew their attention once again to the proximity of the river’s edge. Once again we all sat and stared; using a rock as a marker I illustrated how quickly the level was rising. This time there was an insouciant gathering of belongings and a casual donning of clothes followed by some vigilant and silent observation of the growing threat. Eventually the rain eased off but the river continued to rise until it was no more than fifty centimetres from our abode.

 

“What’s the plan?” I asked to a silent shrugging of shoulders. There was nothing else to do, I knew, other than to wait and see. If the river continued to rise then we would have to retreat up into the steep, dark and distinctly unwelcoming jungle behind us.

 

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the water began to recede. One by one the observers fell back down on to their sleeping mats, leaving me to fret for a little while longer until I was convinced that we were high and dry. I eventually fell asleep and dreamt many an aquatic dream.

 

Day 3

 

I rested my cheek on my knee and wished I could stretch my legs. Mary silently cupped a wasp which had landed on his immense foot and crushed it between his fingers; he grinned at me through the dusk, only inches away from my face. Calvin attempted to slap at the mosquitoes without making a sound or digging his elbow into my side. Busan remained vigilant, staring out through the tiny gap in the foliage down at the river below; a caterpillar crawled across his foot. Drizzle settled on the massive leaves above us and dripped down on our necks and noses. This is how Attenborough must feel, I thought.

 

This is what we had come for, this tiny patch amongst the foliage that could uncomfortably accommodate four men, overlooking a tiny beach on the river was where we hoped to see some elephants, tigers or deer from. The day had been spent following the river and cutting into the jungle whenever it became too deep or dangerous until we reached this known watering hole for the larger wildlife. On arrival we discovered deer prints in the mud and an enormous pile of elephant shit with, absurdly, magic mushrooms growing out of it. We’d set up camp back down the river and then climbed up to this spot over-looking the watering hole in the hope of seeing something.

 

 

We sat for an hour in complete silence, barely moving our cramped limbs until it became too dark to see anything and then we returned to the shelter. We did the same thing at dawn the next morning with the same disappointing result. There had been only a very slim chance of seeing something; Calvin had been here a few times before and only once seen an elephant; if we had had more time then we could have stayed for several days and increased our chances but unfortunately I had a job to go back to.

 

Day 4

 

This was the day that it all started to go a little awry. Following our dawn observations we had breakfast and packed up. Our intention was to head up over some very high hills and back down to the Bohorok River where we would camp for the night before building a raft and taking a leisurely ride back down to Bukit Lawan.

 

We walked upstream for a while and there seemed to be some disagreement amongst the guides as to where the route up over the hills began. Eventually we stopped at the remains of an old marijuana runners’ camp where a discussion ensued in rapid Indonesian accompanied by much pointing in contradictory directions. Grudgingly a decision was made and we began to ascend a very long and steep hill for several hours. I felt as if we were going in the wrong direction and knowing that there had been some disagreement I occasionally asked if we were on the right route; Calvin gave some very unconvincing and uncomfortable nods and we continued upwards until finally we heard the sound of a river far below.

 

“It’s the river!” exclaimed Calvin and we began to hack our way downwards through the dense jungle. It was at about this time that it began to rain quite heavily, making our descent extremely precarious as we slipped and slithered on the mud and leaves, gripping branches and roots for dear life. Down we slid until we came to a stop, overlooking a bellowing waterfall; no way forward and no way down. The thought of climbing back up this steep slope was almost too much to bear but there was nothing else to do. It was extremely difficult and tiring; the rain beat down and ran down our faces and necks and soaked us to the skin while we hauled ourselves upwards using the sodden tree roots, and our feet paddled for purchase. Eventually we were able to cut across and back down, following  the massive and deep footprints of an elephant trail.

 

“Ahh, just think of that relaxing raft-trip tomorrow,” Calvin said wistfully as we spotted the river through the trees.

 

“If it’s the right river,” I replied. He laughed, I didn’t.

 

The looks on the faces of the guides said everything as we stood on the banks of the roaring river; it was the wrong one.

 

“Where are we going?” I asked as we started downstream. “Do we know where we are? How do we know we’re going the right way?” My questions went decidedly unanswered as we waded through waist deep rushing brown water and climbed back up into the jungle whenever the river became impassable. Dusk was descending and the rain had increased in intensity; I was exhausted. We stopped for a breather on a pebbly beach and I sat on a rock vacantly removing leeches while Busan went off to scout the area and see if he could find somewhere to set up camp. He came back with a wry grin on his face; he knew where we were but we were a long, long way from where we had intended. A debate began about what to do which I interrupted by suggesting that we discuss the matter once we had set up camp.

 

Over dinner we discussed the plan. Busan knew the first part of the route and Mary knew the second, all of them knew the final stage. The estimated time to get back, allowing for stoppages and my slow pace would be ten hours. I’ll believe it when it happens, I thought to myself.

 

After dinner I lay in my wet clothes under a wet poncho with rain dripping through the hastily erected shelter onto my face. Luminous insects flitted around us, moths fluttered against the roof and sizzled on the fire while leeches made themselves at home on our sodden bodies. I had the best night’s sleep I had had since we began.

 

Day 5

 

This was the hardest day of all. The river had swollen incredibly overnight; it was a thick brown churning mass and I became I liability. Busan and Mary made crossing rivers look easy, Calvin was at least competent at it but I was next to useless. I hadn’t been too bad in clear, shallow water where I could see my footing but even then Mary was continually catching my arm when I slipped which was often; my walking shoes had not been designed for traversing wet rock and I may as well have been wearing roller skates. On this river I was dangerously useless.

 

We walked for hours, criss-crossing the river and cutting into the jungle until the river became wider, deeper and more engorged. At times now, we were up to our chests in fast-flowing water, Mary and Busan man-handling me across the flow. I was continually amazed at their strength; not only were they remaining upright against the fierce flow, but they were carrying enormous packs and half-pulling, half-pushing me across with them as I slipped and stumbled in their care. We stopped at midday for a snack and according to Calvin we would be home by five. We began to fantasize about what we would eat and drink when we arrived and I allowed myself my first thought of a cold beer.

 

Soon, however, the river became too fierce for me to cross at all and it was at this point that I truly felt like a prime colonial lemon. Within Mary’s pack there were a few inner-tubes that we would have been using for our raft (ahh, that leisurely raft-trip) and one of these was duly inflated. A length of rope was attached and it was indicated that I should sit in it. I looked at their faces to see if they were joking and it seemed that they were not. I then looked at the thundering river, the huge boulders and fallen trees that it mercilessly pounded against and swallowed my pride. Mary went across first to discard his backpack and then returned; it seemed unbelievable that he could withstand such a current as he waded out, the water rising to his shoulders. But more incredible feats were to come as I was launched in my inner tube and pushed across the raging torrent. I could hear Mary’s exertions as he gasped and fought against the river and the invisible rocks beneath, to push me to the other bank. This became the pattern for the rest of the day and I couldn’t have felt more useless or more colonial if I had been wearing a pith helmet and supping on a G&T as my over-worked slaves endeavoured to get me home.

 

On one particular crossing, certainly the worst of the lot, Mary finally put a foot wrong and we suddenly took off with the current. I could see the river drop off into an incredibly fast flowing torrent and thought that we’d had it, there was no way we could survive a battering like that. Incredibly though, Mary somehow directed us to an eddy behind a massive boulder; the river parted downwards in racing channels on either side of it and we managed to hold our position there until Busan was able to wade out with a large stick. I climbed out of my little dinghy and we both fought against the current while Busan hauled us over. Even Calvin needed help on this one and I felt marginally less of a burden.

 

 

It had become very apparent that we were not going to make it home today and so, eventually, we called it a day and set up camp on the side of a very steep hill where there was a spit of levellish land. We ate plain rice and drank boiled river water as we had no more tea or coffee. I was utterly exhausted and could barely summon the strength to pull the fat leeches from my thighs before falling fast asleep.

 

Day 6

 

I have never been so glad to see people. After a further five hours of walking we began to see farm workers in the cornfield near Bukit Lawan. Calvin, who had run out of cigarettes hours before, was begging cigarettes from every person he saw. In one field sat a beautiful girl sorting maize cobs and while Calvin cadged a cigarette from her boyfriend the rest of us just stood gawping stupidly at her and dribbling; the sight of a pretty woman after days with nobody but our own smelly, male selves for company had arrested us completely and Calvin had to shoo us away once he’d lit his fag.

 

After another hour or so we reached a road and hailed a bus. There was no room inside and we climbed up on the roof where we sprawled for the thirty minute journey back to Nora’s. I felt fantastic as the wind whistled by and the sun dried the mud to my face and body. Buffalo wallowed in the fields, conical-hatted women bent low over the paddies and mist hung wispily across the hills that we had just escaped from. It had all gone wrong, it had been hard work, often dangerous and always wet but it had been an adventure and that is what I had paid for. Sort of.