We´ve Got Fun and Games

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We´ve Got Fun and Games

25/04 - 26/04/08

Morning breaks. We´re up early, ready for our first trek into the jungle. During the coming week, we will undetake three treks, in search of wild Orangutan. Francis explains that he will be on the look out for signs of ape life, such as nests, which the Orang build in trees. They never sleep in the same nest twice, moving on each morning. This is one reason why it is very hard to spot Orangutan. Francis tells us that only two groups out of fourteen have previously managed to see one, so the odds are against us having any success.

We strap on our gear and make ready. Francis will be our guide, and Angune will accompany us as the main tracker, staying ahead of the group. We´re also joined by Indai, Angune´s mother, who helps Francis with the cooking in the evenings.

We head off around the back of our longhouse, up the hill and into the jungle. We´re instructed to walk as quietly as possible, in single file. Orangutan, and any other animals that might be out there, will most likely hear us long before we cross their path, and if we´re too noisy, they will make themselves scarce.

The humidity is high, and sweat fills out my clothes, running in long dark stains. The walk isn´t too hard, and my new boots, which I bought from some cheap Chinese store in Kuching for 40ringits, seem to be holding up well. I was worried they´d fall apart after a few paces, and leave me barefoot and bleeding. We make frequent stops, partly so people can rest, and partly so Francis can scan the trees for tell tale signs.

It isn´t long before we see our first nest, high up among the branches of a tall tree. Francis tells us it´s around a month old. Later, we come across something even more exciting - a fresh pile of Organutan shit. This is only around a day old, and I study it closely.

Further up the track, we stop again. Francis picks up a log, and cuts it open, revealing a collection of fat, pulsing jungle grubs. He holds them up, explaining how you bite off the head and then swallow. He asks if anyone would care to try. No one seems overly keen. I consider for a minute. It´s a bit of a travelling cliché for white folk, touched by the sun, to push the culinary boat out and sample some disgusting local delicacy. I´ve been as original as I can up til now, and a little same-same won´t hurt. I raise my hand and prepare to man up. Everyone gathers round, cameras ready, and I know I can´t disappoint. I hold the grub between my fingers. It looks like a huge maggot, or a shrivelled, albino penis - not in the least bit appetising. As I clasp it between finger and thumb, its innards seen to move independently to the outer, creating a strange vibration.

I lift it to my lips, and the fucker gives me a painful kiss, locking its black pinchers around my lower lip. I cry out like a girl, and drop it to the ground. Okay, so now I have a reason to eat this little bastard. Things have become personal. I pick it up and go for round two. This time, I have to be quicker. I place the head between my teeth, and tear, decapitating the grub, and unleashing a torrent of bitter tasting puss. I swallow the body and the filthy juices in one. I wipe my lips and take a moment to come to terms with the taste. Ultimately, it wasn´t too bad - like a sour fruit juice. A few moments later, Francis eats his as well, and then we move on, in search of larger quarry.

The trial leads up a steep hill, and at the summit, we stop to rest. The altitude has got to Amy, and her head is spinning, so she decides to wait for us here with Indai and weave jewellery out of strands of plant while we carry on a little further. We move on, and Francis points out more nests. We see five or six in total, but no animals. I expected the jungle to be full of wildlife, but apart from huge wasps and weaving caravans of ants, we see little. Even the birds are shy to put in an appearance. We return to the top of the hill and pick up Amy, who is now hung with bracelets and rings, and hands them out to the rest of the group.

The track takes us back down, and out by a bend in the river. This is where the trek ends. A few of us go for a swim. The water is clear, and the current strong, picking you up and depositing you downstream. Toby and I swim over to the far bank, and climb up, edging along one of the trees that overhangs the water. We reach for a vine, and swing like Tarzan into the water. Toby has a bad landing, and comes up clutching his back, which is red and sore.

We get picked up in longboats, and driven back home, passing by the Iban´s longhouse on the way, which is a hundred yards or so down river from ours. We shower and spend the afternoon playing cards and sitting around.

That evening, the Iban come a calling. Angune brings along three brothers; Mail (18), Raymond (15) and Wilson (12). More importantly, he brings the booze. We get two different kinds of rice wine - the first is yellow in colour, kinda like cider, and is only around 5% proof. The second kind the Iban call Moonshine. This is clear, and is the distilled version of the rice wine, with an alcohol content of 30%. We sit around the table, and the Iban pour us out shots, each taking it in turn to down them with a shout of "Ooooo-haaaaa!".

We finish the rice wine first, and then move on to the moonshine. This tastes roughly the same as the stuff I drank in Vietnam. The sound of whirling helicopter blades echoes in my ears, and I get some vivid Jacobs Ladder-style flashbacks; my buddies, face down in the mud, clothes speckled with blood, tears and vomit. The flash of grenades, the scream of innocent women - the angry snarl of a grizzled marine psychopath. I get that vicious itch and the yearning for some good old fashioned action. Time for another tour - pass the shot glass and pour me a fat one.

The Iban are a fun loving bunch, and I warm to them immediately. The three brothers get in on the drinking - even 12 year old Wilson. He drinks like a man, but bounds about like a little kid, full of energy, with a high pitched laugh that echoes through the air like a screaming Gibbon. Angune provides entertainment via his cigarette magic trick. He opens his mouth and pops in a used butt, then opens his mouth to reveal it gone. He then reaches into his pocket produces the butt. Toby works out how he does it; he actually swallows the butt for real, and keeps another in his pocket, which explains why he is not too keen to repeat the trick that often. He also treats us to a song - a traditional Iban love song, about a girl, now long lost. We all try hard to watch and listen with solemn faces, showing respect - the three boys, meanwhile, giggle in the background.

Everyone is getting fairly wasted by now. Even Mandy, who didn´t drink at all in Kuching, is downing shot after shot to howls of Iban encouragement. We get invited to partake in some traditional leg and arm wrestling. I was schooled in hand to hand combat in ´Nam, but leg wrestling is new to me. I take on Mail, and we sit on the ground, leaning back on our hands. We lock shins and try to force the each other´s leg to the ground. This is unbelievably painful, as we are essentially pressing our bones together. We arrive at a stalemate, and I get up, and limp back to the table, a deep groove etched in the side of my calf.

The Iban have clearly underestimated our capacity to drink, and the alcohol dries up quickly. We´re disappointed, but they were just testing the waters, seeing what kinds of beasts they were dealing with. Tomorrow night will be a different story. They climb back into their boats, and disappear up the river into the darkness.


Wednesday. We visit the longhouse for the first time. The girls are taken to one side and taught the art of weaving. The four guys sit with the men of the tribe, playing connect four and idling the time away. Angune makes us all bracelets out of some kind of straw-like plant matter - mine is fucking massive, and so I wear it around my bicep instead of my puny, skinny wrist. We move through into the kitchen and are made coffee.

We return back to our home, and resume sitting around, doing sweet nothing. The boys from the tribe are due to pick us up at three and take us to a waterfall, and until then, we have nothing to do but play cards. I´m beginning to feel frustrated by these long periods of emptiness. The guest house is small and cramped, and we are essentially restricted to moving about within its confounds. I´d like to be able to go for a walk, or find small space to myself for a few hours, but this is impossible. With nothing to occupy my mind, I start to drift into negativity - all too soon another crazy trip will be over, and this time, I will leave Asia for good.

Just after three, the low chug of the boat engine signals the arrival of the brothers. We get loaded onto two boats, and driven a few short yards around the corner, to a small, secluded waterfall. Hidden under an umbrella of jungle shrubbery, the water is shy of the sun, and cold. I get in up to my waist, but I´m not man enough to stand under the jet. Wilson shows us all what a crazy little fucker he is, climbing up above the fall, and leaping down, doing backflips and somersaults. For stay for an hour or so, then return home. Some of us go for a swim in the river outside the house, and then we take our places around the table, picking up the cards once again.


The evening creeps in with the slow menace of bad things waiting on the horizon. We´re all thirsty for moonshine, and as the Iban stall, we slather and drool like fierce creatures. Eventually, we get relief. Several large bottles of the clear stuff are produced, and things turn ugly. Shot after shot is put away. I´m immune to the fiery taste, after a month of weening in Vietnam. Then, the tipping point; tomorrow we´re due to trek at 8am. However, Francis, clearly semi-delirious after taking a few shots himself, announces that we can sleep in and trek in the afternoon. "Ooooooo-haaaaaaaa!" rings out through the jungle, and the birds take to the air, fearful of a mighty storm that blows their way.

My mind is draped in a thick, dark fog. The music pumps out of the iPod, and there is much dancing. The shots are getting serious now - I´m presented with a glass full to the brim, and no wanting to appear rude, it goes the way of the others. The Iban, including Raymond and Wilson, are just as drunk us the rest of us. I wander around in my Magic Man hat like a witch doctor, handing out bad medicine. Somehow, I end up at the bottom of a big bundle, crushed by my inebriated compadres. I get up bloodied but not defeated.

There are arm wrestles, leg wrestles and thumb wars. Francis sits by at the top of the stairs, watching the carnage that he has unleashed with a stoned grin across his face. I have no idea what the time is. I sit on one of the benches around the table with Jenny, Max and some of the others. Word comes through on the wireless that Tom is having some difficulty in the toilets. Max goes to investigate. Apparently, there has been some vomit, and a little wanton destruction - the toilet door, made of thin corrugated iron, has been given a vicious beating, and hangs, limp and bent, in need of a shot of viagra. Francis is on the case, and fixes it so that it will lock again, but the dent, made by a mighty fist, remains.

2am comes and goes, averting its eyes with a pale look of shock. I look down at my arms. They are both covered in black biro, a mix of Iban tattoos, Vietnamese and French writing. How did this happen? What the fuck does it all mean? The moonshine runs out again. I don´t know how much we´ve all drunk, but I´d estimate I´ve had the equivalent of 25 or 30 shots. Moonshine is clever shit. It sneaks up on you like an assassin and plunges a knife into your back. For a long while, I thought everything was fine. Drink after drink went down, and I was still certain I was sober. Now, as everyone drifts off to bed, and I sit, watching a rejuvenated Tom dancing to drum and bass, I know that this is no longer the case.

3am. Pretty much everyone has called it a night. Only one or two of us remain, and the smart money says give it up and pack it in. Tom and Toby have been whisked away to the longhouse by the Iban to spend the night there. In more sober mood, I would realise I could have one of the more comfortable bunk beds, instead of the mattress on the floor (we arranged a bed rotation system, swapping each night so no one was stuck with the shit bed all week). However, such things do not occur to me and I slum it down in the galleys.


8am. I open my eyes. I am still pissed. The only question is, how pissed? I look slowly to my left. Sitting motionless on the wall, only a few inches from where I lie, is the biggest spider I´ve ever had the fucking misfortune to see in the hairy flesh. I like to think of myself as a man of steel; a bold, fearless explorer, staring death and destruction in the face like they´re chicken shit. However, spiders are different beasts. My own brand of Kryptonite, they bring on the sickness and the shakes, and the sight of one any bigger than my little finger nail will usually send me screaming to the nearest high spot from where I can shelter.

Today, things get very weird. I remain lying down, eyeing the bug-eyed fucker cautiously. Where are the screams? Where are the shudder and the flash of crippling adrenaline? Why have I not soiled myself? The answer to my previous question is now apparent - I am still very, very drunk indeed. There can be no other explanation as to why I suddenly have grown balls in the face of this vile, evil arachnid behemoth.

I get up slowly, and walk over to the bottom bunk. I´ve had three hours sleep, and I am not ready to give up on a morning lie in just yet. My eyes don´t stray from the spider. It really is very big. Fucking huge, in fact. I mull it over. I am definitely afraid of spiders, and drunk as I am, I decide it is not wise to stay in the same room any longer. I get up. I can hear the sounds of others stirring. I call out, looking for some comfort in this time of need. "Has anyone else got a fucking massive spider in their room?" I shout. A few seconds as they check, and then the reply: "No." "Ok. It´s just me, then."

I stagger out, looking for assistance. It seems I´m not the only one struggling to make sense of the world this drunken morning. Max poses a question: "Does anyone know when I was alive last night, and when I died?" It´s a mystery to us all, buddy, but we´ll do our best to help. He emerges from his room, eyes hooded and red. We both confirm that we´re still pissed, and I show everyone my spider. Indai does the decent thing, and disposes of it over the side of the balcony.

This is what happens, Francis, when you let wild savages off the leash. We have several hours to kill before we trek for the second time. I go for a cold shower, and greet the morning with a smile. With a bit of luck, come 2pm, I´ll be sober as a judge and fighting fit again. Until then, I´ll stagger around, calling out the spiders and trying to find out exactly what time it was that Max shuffled off his mortal coil. Ooooooo-haaaaaa.

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