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--An American Living Abroad
Exchange rate: $1 = about 9,000 Rupiahs
May 12, 2003
I last left you in the city of Melak in the Indonesian region of Borneo. At the end of my
fourth day in East Kalimantan I was ready to head back down the Sungai Mahakam, the lengthy river system I’d ventured
up via narrow motorized canoes. I’d be returning to coastal Samarinda by riverboat, an overnight journey of fifteen
hours. My fare: 55,000R.
These riverboats are sizable ships with two levels for transporting passengers, the upper level specifically designed
for sleeping. Running along most of its length are two elevated platforms, separated by a narrow aisle. Once you
find your assigned, numbered spot, there’s a cushion to lie on and a hatch below your feet for stowing your gear.
I secured a place by a porthole with a good view outside. In the stern was a primitive kitchen area for drinks
and simple meals, plus three W.C.s: enclosed compartments with diamond-shaped holes in the floor and a hose for
washing yourself.
As our boat pulled away from the dock around 4:30 pm, I immediately heard a splash and a huge commotion. I peered
out of my porthole and spotted a young lad flailing around in the water where he’d fallen in. My immediate thought
was that most Indonesians cannot swim, and as I watched him floundering away, and heard hysterical screaming coming
from below, I knew I might be obligated to dive in and save him since I just might be the only bloke on the boat
who could swim. Never mind that I’ve never had training for such a task!
I was pulling out my wallet to stash it in a dry place and thinking of where to put my glasses, when another man
scrambled out and hung from the side of the boat. While clinging with one hand, he reached a long arm out and was
able to grasp the desperate, outreached hand of the terrified, choking boy and pull him to safety. I was not to
be the hero of the day that day, which suited me just fine, thank you very much!
Things quickly settled down, so I relaxed and did some sightseeing. After dark, I read, wrote in my journal, and
chatted with my neighbors, mostly businessmen, though there were a few students and a couple of families making
the journey down river. A few Muslims prayed, the women donning their special shawls. Here and there lights dotted
the shoreline – it was peaceful and most enjoyable, and I thought of how infinitely better traveling by boat and
train are to bouncing along the highway in a bus or being cramped up in an airplane.
Dawn brought the boat’s occupants to life, and after my morning’s ablutions, I witnessed nature’s awakening. This
stretch of the Mahakam near Tenggarang is slightly hilly, and as the sun rose, streams of light burst through the
striated clouds that hovered over them. Mist lay over the thick jungle, and out of this shroud of pastel hues raced
seabirds, chattering and squawking, darting every which way or skimming over the murky surface. A few boats floated
by. Here and there along the shoreline were perched rustic buildings and overhanging trees that dared to resist
plunging into the rapidly flowing water. It was a scene bursting with tropical ambiance and I felt fully part of
it, as if I were living in a Joseph Conrad novel.
The closer we got to the vast delta of Samarinda, the more I saw ponderous barges and bustling sawmills, evidence
of the logging industry that thrives here. At 9 am we docked, and I managed to quickly find a taxi containing the
most shamelessly crooked taxi driver I’ve ever met. (I do seem to have a knack for this!) I wanted to head north
to Bontang, and to get there I needed to get to the Lempake bus terminal north of the city. My Lonely Planet Guide
was pretty vague on just how far it was, and when I was quoted 6,000R for the ride I reckoned it might be a little
steep. But I didn’t really know, so after confirming the cost I climbed in. I was to discover much later in my
trip that I should have paid 1,200R, but wait – the story gets far better than that!
When we got to Lempake about twenty minutes later, I was told to pay not 6,000R, but rather 60,000R! It seems that
no matter how hard one tries, this type of “misunderstanding” happens far too often, and it doesn’t seem to matter
what one does to clarify the cost. It’s all about screwing the tourist! What I normally do in this situation is
1) try to reason with these scumbags, and failing that, 2) just give them what’s fair and tell them to fuck off!
But here I was smack dab in the middle of a crowded bus station in a very sticky situation. Thanks to the war then
raging in Iraq, no doubt there was plenty of anti-Western sentiment present, and as we discussed the matter he
displayed what appeared to me to be an usually high degree of agitation, attracting extra attention to us. I noticed
quite a few of the locals intensely staring at me. This guy knew exactly what he was doing - he had me by the short
and curlies! I paid the 60,000R, choosing to not risk having the locals crawling on me like ants on a discarded
jelly donut.
I then paid 12,500R for a seat on a very crowded bus to Bontang, my backpack in my lap for most of the ride. Along
the road were many banana plantations, the jungle having been ruthlessly slashed and burned to make way for Kalimantan’s
biggest cash crop. At one point we passed the equator (whoop-de-doo!). This leg of my Borneo trip was highlighted
by my meeting Nur’ainy, a delightful young lady who sat next to me, and eventually started talking with me. A twenty-five-year-old
student in Samarinda on her way home for a few days, she was Muslim and dressed accordingly: jilbab (shawl) over
her head and her arms and legs fully covered. Her English was good enough for us to have a pleasant conversation,
and before the three hour ride was over she invited me to visit her family’s home.
Soon afterwards, I was seated cross-legged on the floor of her modest but comfortable house being “watered and
fed” in grand fashion, surrounded by family. This kind of Indonesian hospitality was becoming commonplace on my
travels, highpoints I treasured dearly each time they occurred. And it got better! Soon several of us piled into
a shiny new Sports Utility Vehicle and I was given a guided tour of the town.
Home to two very successful Indonesian-owned corporations (ammonia production and natural gas), Bontang is a city
that I didn’t think could exist in this country, and clearly shows just what money can do here. First of all, Bontang
is remarkably clean! Usually in Indonesian cities, trash scattered everywhere is the norm. As in most “third world”
countries, people haven’t grasped yet what to do with non-organic materials and waste disposal is not a priority.
But this place was so pristine it was like driving through a Canadian city! We went down modern streets past huge
parks, beautifully manicured gardens, lakes, massive swimming pools, a modern football stadium, sports complexes,
golf courses, swanky hotels – it was surreal! It could have been Scottsdale, Arizona or West Palm Beach, Florida!
At the harbor there was an immaculate beach, playground and picnic area, and the bay itself had vividly blue water
and nary a piece of trash floating in it.
We paused at an impressive school to meet Nur’ainy’s sister, and later at a beauty parlor to meet her aunt. I seemed
to be on display and was wishing I’d bathed, shaved and put on a clean shirt that morning! Finally we rolled into
the office of Balai Taman Nasional Kutai, the forestry office for the park I wanted to visit – and – hopefully
see an orang-utan in the wild! Although I knew where I wanted to get to, once again Lonely Planet was virtually
worthless. But thanks to Nur’ainy and her family I was now in the right place, wading through the bureaucracy placed
in the way of getting a permit for the park.
It was at this point that I was not only tangled up in red tape, but also a lie! You may recall from part 1 how
I was telling everyone I was Canadian to keep from getting beaten up by those less than thrilled with American
foreign policy. As I was getting better acquainted with Nur’ainy, I knew it was safe to tell her the truth, but
I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet, and had consequently gotten more and more deeply immersed into my bullshit
story. “Where in Canada am I from? Uh…Toronto.” Now I needed to get a copy of my Residency Permit (showing my U.S.
citizenship) and she offered to zip off to a copy shop and get one for me, so I was exposed. But when I stuttered
into my True Confessions, she smiled and shrugged it off, “Hey...that’s ok...no problem!”
I felt like a schmuck!
Anyway, paperwork complete I needed to go farther north to Sangatta. The last thing I wanted to do there and then
was to get on another bus, but I did want to get to the park early the next morning, and Sangatta was where I needed
to be that night. So, I was forced to bid a sad farewell to my new friends far sooner that I would have liked to.
Getting to Sangatta took an hour and a quarter in a travel van (15,000R) and, once there, there was a lot of messing
around finding a hotel for a decent price (I stopped at three of them). But later that night I was finally in a
dingy room, eating veggies and rice and watching local TV, trying to figure out just what was going on in Iraq!
Up early next morning and off to Seksi Konservasi Wilayah II where I was to meet a certain Pak (Mr.) Bastar, who
I’d been told spoke English and would be there at 7:30 am. I was at the office before 8 and found the door locked
and the place empty. Of course! I found an old folding chair and some shade and by 10:30 I’d finished reading the
only book I’d brought with me. A guy from a neighboring business wandered over, and when I told him what was happening
(or not happening!), he mused, “We Indonesians are not a disciplined people!” Really? Gee, I hadn’t noticed!
Around 11:00, a guy pulled up on a motorbike, and after fumbling around in the office for a while, drove me off
to meet Pak Bastar at another location. Then I needed to buy food, as there wouldn’t be any in the park, so I stopped
and loaded up on bottled water, fresh fruit, fried tempeh and a few packets of those noodles that you can buy anywhere
in the world, always for the same price: about thirty cents. While this was happening, Pak Bastar (how was I going
to get used to calling him that?) was lining up a boat to take me in and out of the park, which he did. But rather
than it costing 150,000R, which was what I’d been told, it was now 300,000R – a ridiculous price for two hour-long
boat rides, but since I had no hand in the negotiation, I was once again caught by the short hairs!
There was a two hundred meter walk to the river, where we joined a toothless old geezer in his flimsy and overpriced
wooden canoe, and after an uneventful hour cruising along in the midday heat, we pulled up to the dock of Camp
Kakap, the Field Research Institute for Orang-utans in Kutai National Park. It was magnificent!
Established in 1994 via a cooperative project with Tokyo University, Kakap consists of a few attractive and well
built structures “out in the middle of nowhere” - just where I wanted to be! An elevated boardwalk ran from the
dock and connected several buildings and a large covered deck, where I cooked, ate, read and hung out when I wasn’t
sleeping or off wandering around searching for critters. Surrounding all this was lush and dense vegetation, with
massive trees soaring hundreds of feet upwards. In addition to Pak Bastar, who thankfully I could now call Haji,
there was a guy named Basir who handled various and sundry duties and smiled a lot. My only cost to stay there,
besides the boat transport, was a 50,000R per day fee for my guide: Haji. Peanuts!
At about 3 pm, Haji and I headed off to see what we could see, with priority number one being, of course, the world’s
largest arboreal mammal - found only in Borneo and Sumatra, whose name means “people of the forest” and who’s also
been known in these parts as “The Wild Man of Borneo”. In both Sumatra and Borneo, there are orang-utan rehabilitation
centers where you can apparently get easy access to these animals since they’re nursed back to health and are often
half-tamed, but I was quite keen on spotting one in the wild. As far as actually seeing one, I really didn’t know
what my chances were. For all I knew we’d walk down the path and find a bunch of them skipping along the trail
like Swiss Family Robinson or something!
We walked stealthily (I love that word: stealthily!), Haji intently listening and looking for tell-tale signs of
their activity, while chain-smoking kreteks (clove cigarettes). These animals have nests high up in the trees,
which they come down from to feed on fruits, shoots and leaves. The problem is that they have several nests, and
which one they might be in at any given time is anyone’s guess. Plus they are super skittish (endangered animals
tend to get that way!), and waste no time in hightailing it if they get the slightest clue humans are nearby. By
all initial appearances, this wasn’t going to be easy.
While we stealthed (can I use it as a verb - please?) around, I did see several macques (monkeys), a few squirrels
(big deal!) and tons of butterflies (gorgeous), plus a mynah bird. It was a nice two hour walk, but the only sign
of an orang-utan was its voice. A big male was sounding off, and Haji answered back with a perfect imitation. Haji
has studied these animals extensively, and it was a pity his English wasn’t as good as I was told it would be.
Had it been, I could have learned a lot more about the jungle in general, and these animals in particular. But
my Indonesian was better than his English and we spent more time talking in his language than in mine.
Forty-two-years-old, he had a full head of jet-black hair without a trace of gray, but his teeth were all shot
to hell. Watching him put four heaping tablespoons of sugar into a cup of tea several times a day left no mystery
as to why. That, and the common habit of eating refined white rice three times a day, and it’s no wonder so many
people here have bad teeth!
The next morning we were off early, but after about an hour it started raining heavily, so we returned, as there
seemed to be little point in wandering around when all the wildlife was bedded down keeping dry. So we waited out
the storm for about four hours on the deck. Having no book to read, I pulled out my Indonesian dictionary/phrase
book and, while eating pisang goreng (fried banana) cooked up by Basir, I came up with several helpful phrases
like:
- Apakah bis ini ke Wales? (Does this bus go to Wales?)
- Apakah saya perlu resep untuk kayu bakar? (Do I need a prescription for firewood?)
- Saya dengan band - kami sedang berkeliling. (I’m with the band – we’re on tour.)
- Apakah Anda mau main ski dengan saya? (Would you like to go skiing with me?)
- Sisa buangan toksik dijual di mana? (Where can I buy toxic waste?)
- Di mana saya bisa memakai percobaan nukir? (Where can I get access to nuclear testing?)
- Saya alergi genit sayap kanan politikus? (I’m allergic to sleazy, right-wing politicians.)
- Apakah ada orang di sini bernama Elvis? (Is there anyone here by the name of Elvis?)
- Ada telur hijau dan daging babi, Sam saya? (Do you have green eggs and ham, Sam I am?)
After lunch another fellow showed up, a young lad with a big smile and long ponytail. He joined the three of
us at the long picnic table, and I asked him his name, “Siapa nama Anda?”
“Boy,” was the response.
I couldn’t resist, “You Boy, me Tarzan!
Blank stares around the table.
Finally the rain ceased, and off we walked once again, and in a short while we stopped to observe one particular
nest in the treetops, Haji once again leaning against a tree and firing up a kretek (apparantly the oranan-utan’s
sense of smell is not that acute?). After about five minutes, we saw a hairy arm moving and I almost crapped myself
with excitement! We waited, and about forty-five minutes later a large male crawled out and slowly descended down
the trunk of the tree, about thirty meters away. He was spectacular! And I was really glad I didn’t have to fiddle
with a camera trying to line up the perfect shot – I could just take it all in.
Once he reached the ground he sauntered off into the undergrowth, and we soon followed, being ever so careful to
avoid betraying our presence. But easier said than done, and before we could get closer he must have heard us and
soon thundered off like a runaway train. The rest of the day as well as the next morning, we traipsed through the
jungle for many more hours, but that was the only good look I got of these elusive creatures. But it didn’t matter,
as I had gotten one really good look – mission accomplished!
And there was plenty else to see and hear. I’ve always been fond of monkeys, and macaques were putting on a show
everywhere. The insects were astonishing: huge and bizarre centipedes, ants and various larvae; butterflies beyond
anything I’d ever witnessed before. Bird life was aplenty – lots of smaller birds, colorful and active. One magnificent
owl perched not twenty meters away, calmly eyeing me. The sounds were a mad cacophony: insects droning, buzzing
and humming; birds warbling, hooting, chattering, whistling and squawking; the rushing of the wind, the pitter-patter
of dripping water, the groaning of branches rubbing together – a first-rate primordial concert hall.
The walk itself was stellar, the delicate shifting sunlight displaying a mind-boggling variety of plant life. For
example, in addition to all the other forms of flora in Kalimantan, there’re over 5,000 species of trees! Sometimes
our walkabout was a casual stroll down well-maintained paths, and sometimes it was a plunge and struggle through
an interwoven tangle of branches, lianas, and ferns. For this, Haji pulled out his razor sharp golok (machete)
to hack a pathway forward, wielding it with frightening proficiency. Sparkling streams meandered through the jungle,
and sometimes we crossed them, Indiana Jones style, on rickety, swinging suspension bridges, and sometimes I was
forced to tip toe across slippery fallen trees.
You don’t need to be particularly fit to do this walk as the distance isn’t far nor the terrain all that demanding.
You do need a good pair of waterproof hiking shoes (no sandals, unless you want leeches burrowing into your feet)
and clothes that dry quickly when wet. Mosquito protection (repellent and net) are essential, as is sun block.
I took anti-malaria meds (lariam) and suggest you do the same. Binoculars would probably be an asset, and if you’re
planning on bringing a camera like most people would, I recommend a telephoto lens and high speed film (absolute
minimum: 400 ASA). Oh and finally, keep in mind that conditions are primitive there and getting sweaty, dirty and
plenty muddy seem to be par for the course. After all, it IS a jungle out there! (Forgive me.)
Back at camp I had a refreshing wash with water out of a rain barrel in a little shack, and while walking back
encountered a small snake which I gave a wide berth, knowing you just never can tell. Sure enough, when I described
it to Haji, he shook his head and muttered “Hati, hati!” (be careful!). Then he beckoned me to check out a tree
about 100 meters away, informing me as he did that in it was a black hornbill. I peered intently, unable to see
it. But miraculously it took off and landed in another tree merely 30 meters away from us. The black hornbill is
the rare bird so sacred to the Dayak people that I mentioned in part 1. I really hadn’t expected to see one, but
now it was hopping from branch to branch, its long and brilliant bill glimmering in the faint afternoon light.
It was soon joined by a second hornbill and I watched them carry on for about 15 minutes before they finally flew
off, their wings making a distinct “wir, wir, wir” sound. Haji claimed that there were only about ten hornbills
now in that entire region of Kalimantan. And the next morning I saw seven rhino hornbills, also a remarkably beautiful
and exotic bird. In each case, Haji could imitate their calls perfectly and had great fun bantering back and forth
with them.
After completing my walk on the second morning, we returned to Sangatta by boat, and with some difficulty I won’t
bother going into, I managed to get to the bus station. After paying 16,000R for a ticket, I then climbed on to
another of those hunks of shit they call buses in Indonesia, and waited to leave.
Regarding destination/arrival times, you can ask about them and you may get an answer. You might even see something
posted in writing (tee hee!). But understand that all travel “timetables” in this country are based strictly on
AWAG: Anybody’s Wild Ass Guess! Buses arrive when they get there – period! And they leave when they are full –
period! And when I say full, I don’t mean when all the seats are occupied. I mean FULL! Public transport here is
an opportunity to get up close and personal, and if you have personal space issues when you come here, you’ll soon
get over them. So once you step on a bus, you might sit in it for an hour or more in the sweltering heat, just
waiting. But on the bright side, it’s a splendid chance to practice your Bahasa Indonesian, usually answering the
same questions for about the millionth time that day.
The road from Sangatta to Bontang is dreadful. At times, it seemed as though we were traveling through a war zone,
with massive potholes you could hide a small family in, or even complete sections of the highway eroded away. Whereas
on the ride north, the driver had had the good sense to slow down on occasion, this guy couldn’t be bothered. Getting
violently slammed against the windows or other passengers was just part of the fun. And the buses are in a pretty
wretched state and not all that comfortable to start with, especially for a non-Asian - which is to say someone
not little. A guy like me has a sizable challenge finding a place to put his legs. But one selling point about
the oldest and most decrepit buses is that there’s less likelihood that the radio will work!
Up and down and side to side the “road” roller coastered, twisting and turning as the bus lurched and swerved.
Throw in some stifling heat and you have all the essential ingredients for motion sickness, and soon the black
plastic bags were getting handed out and widely utilized. One well-dressed guy about thirty got up, stumbled back,
and squeezed into a spot on the rear seat between the open doorway and me. From there, he leaned out and wretched
away, nearly tumbling out on a few precipitous turns. He was in rough shape, green as Kermit the Frog. He spoke
a little English and made an effort at being sociable, despite his woeful condition.
Thinking he might fancy freshening up his mouth with a mint, I offered one, “Care to suck on a Fisherman’s Friend?”
Surely not getting the joke he weakly shook his head and gestured with his hand that if he were to consume the
mint, he might throw it back up. Really? Can’t even keep a mint down? Hmmm. In any event, soon after this the bus
stopped for a half-hour lunch break, and who do you suppose made a beeline straight for the buffet table? Good
guess. And just what do you suppose happened to the guy within five minutes after our bus departed? Right again!
I’m forever reminded that some people just don’t seem to do really well when it comes to thinking.
I had no problem with nausea. Being the road-hardened travel warrior I pretend to be, I’ve learned a thing or two:
eat lightly and keep your eyes on the road ahead.
The rest of my trip mostly amounted to a night in Samarinda (Asia Hotel – recommended) and some exploring there.
They have a nice traditional market, but there isn’t much else to say about the city. The bus ride from Samarinda
to Balikpapan was terrific - very scenic and smooth. Getting home: a plane ride and a couple of taxis – nothing
special. However there was one experience, the memory of which lingered with me a great deal throughout that last
day in Borneo and for some time afterwards. And no it wasn’t the orang-utan coming down the tree or my time at
the Dayak longhouse, although those images had and still have vividly remained.
The last morning there I was lying in bed, watching the news on local TV. At this point the war in Iraq was about
ten days old, and as the broadcast ended a video was played revealing horrific scenes of destruction and death
in Baghdad. Al Jazeera doesn’t sanitize the war or make it look like a video game, as some news channels do. In
the background was John Lennon’s “Imagine”. Soon after, I left the hotel and while strolling around was warmly
greeted by absolutely everyone, both young and old. They all had a smile and a kind word for me. I walked around
the streets for over two hours, and the more people I met, the harder it became for me to shake those images or
that song from my mind. I just couldn’t. So I decided to stop trying. I guess there are some things that just aren’t
meant to be easily forgotten.
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Peace,
