Tears, Treks and Tattoo’s in Borneo


Advertisement
Malaysia's flag
Asia » Malaysia » Sarawak
May 20th 2008
Published: June 6th 2008
Edit Blog Post

Tears, Treks and Tattoo’s



Moonshine sings me to sleep, and sunshine calls me to wake. I get up on our final full day in the jungle. We´re off trekking for the last time, and our numbers are seriously depleted. Some people have lost control of their bowels, and jungle fever is rife. I´m still holding out for a hero, so doubt there´ll be any problems ahead, and even if the unexpected occurs, I´ll just find me a bush, like always.

Today, we are virtually cut in half - Amy, Toby, Tom, Anita and Charlotte all have some kind of ailment that prevents them from making the hike. Those that are fit (up to a point) are Max, Sandra, Lisa, Jenny, Mandy and I. We get our shit together and head off, accompanied by Francis, Angune and Wilson. Today, we will attempt to complete the route that was aborted when the rain man had his say and chased us off the scent with violent slaps to the head.

We repeat the steep climb upwards. Everyone is in good spirits, and we follow the usual routine - walk, pause, look and listen, move onwards. About an hour into the trek, I walking at the front of the pack, just behind Francis. Suddenly, he stops in his tracks as so often. I´m thinking another nest, but as he turns and points, I see his eyes are wide and his expression one of excitment. I know what he has seen before any words are spoken, and I rush to his side as he breathlessly utters ¨Orangutan¨. I follow where his finger points, and see it straight away - up in the trees ahead, clear as day. It looks like a young adult, probably female. I turn and call Jenny over. She sees it too, before it swings away through the canopies.

I try hard to be a man and keep it together, but tears force their way into my eyes and a warm wave of adrenal energy pulsates through me. This is that moment we’re all been waiting for - that special, natural high. I’d imagined it would have come earlier. You see adverts and reality TV shows where people get to play with little baby Orangs’ and their eyes light up and glisten, and it comes across as a magical dream come true. I’ve held the baby, and seen over a dozen different Orangutans, often at close range, but the magic dust never settled until now.

The thing is, this shit right here is the real thing. Anybody can walk through the gates of a zoo or a wildlife sanctuary and get their little piece of action. Just open up your wallet and make it so. The world is one big profiteering whore, and nature is a good earner. Swim with Dolphins, take a Safari, play with cute little primates and fulfil those wistful dreams.

True feelings are spontaneous, wild and uncontrollable, and the same is true of nature. Sure, we paid our money too, but we could have trekked day after day, week after week, and still not come across a single Orangutan. Nothing was guaranteed, nothing was taken for granted or pre-ordained. We just got fucking lucky, and good luck in the jungle is a levitating head rush, full of sparkle and magic potion.

So that’s why this feels so good. It isn’t the proximity, the size or the amount of love they give you - it’s the total, natural freedom they own, and the realisation that such wild things still exist in a world full of plastic and captive public exhibitions. They really are out here, in the trees. Francis and the Iban haven’t been running around, Blair Witch-style, arranging twigs into nests and taking dumps along the side of the trail. There really is monkey love in the forest - they really do rumble in the jungle.

The others have caught up. When we tell them what just happened their faces fall and they look stunned. The realisation that the moment we’ve all been waiting for may have just passed hits them hard, but before it can all sink in like heavy moonshine on the brain, the Iban, led by Francis, are plunging through the jungle, following the Orangutan. We’re close behind, Jenny and myself again at the head. Suddenly, we come to a stop. Dead ahead, above in the trees is a second - this one definitely a male. He just sits there on the branch, staring down at us. This time, no one misses the trick and we all get a good view.

I think about trying to find my camera, but I can’t risk missing this with my own eyes while I fumble around in my bag. After a couple of minutes both the Orangutan make a run for it through the trees. We follow them for a bit, crashing through the undergrowth, becoming entangled, just desperate to keep them in sight. They move much quicker and with more grace than a bunch of stumbling westerners, and soon, we see nothing but the odd flash of orange fur. We can still hear the snapping of branches, and occasionally see the trees bend and sway. Francis says we could continue to track them, but that it would be hard work, as we’d be off the trial, making our own path. We settle for what we’ve got.

We continue with the trek, everyone now buzzing with fresh excitement. Francis tells us that no group has ever previously seen two Orangutan together. We’ve already been labelled “Team Exceptional” due to a number of our achievements, including being the first group to have members stay at the Iban Longhouse. Now, there is further evidence to back up the validity of this claim.

A little further ahead we take a break. We talk about what we just saw, and our minds quickly turn to the invalids back at base camp. How to break the news to them? How best to deal with our excitement? Their guts will be aching bad enough, and when they hear that they’ve missed Orangutan, their stomachs could open up and the contents spill freely to the floor. We discuss for a while, and decide that the best thing to do is to have Francis tell them immediately, without fuss. We don’t want to feel guilty or to hide our excitement, but at the same time it would be unfair to go overboard and ride back into camp whooping and a’ hollering.

The jungle applauds as we walk on, stepping carefully, the path winding downhill - steep and treacherous. This has been my favourite trek so far, not counting the obvious bonus ball of seeing wild Orangs’. Francis points out the longhouse far down below the trees, and also the point at which we began - we’ve come a long way baby. So many places, so many new faces.

We pass through a tunnel of thick bushes, having to duck down low and utilise hard core limbo skills, and then a while later, we emerge from the forest at the back of the longhouse. We take off our hiking boots, and then walk through, passing an elderly Iban woman, breast exposed, carrying lines like the trunk of a great tree. We’re back into the boast, and back at the guesthouse.

Things feel a little tense for a while. The news sinks in, and people are downhearted. Everyone takes it differently, with themes and variations, but the mood is pretty much the same. In the evening, we have been invited over to the longhouse to eat dinner with the Iban. However, the rain comes down hard, and we have to rethink. We eat at home, and then, as the rain dies down a bit, we load into the boast. Not everyone makes it, the sickness taking its toll.

I tuck a couple of cans of Stella into my raincoat, and prepare myself for the final night of drinking and debauchery. Things start fairly quietly, with the handing over of gifts. A few shots of moonshine go around, and I drink my beers. All week there has been talk of people getting tattoos done. For some reason, and without being drunk, I am giving it serious thought, thumbing through a book of designs. The others in contention are Amy and Lisa. Eventually, Amy steps up first.

Things are going on all around me. I’m sat down, having selected a design, and Mandy is busy copying it onto my right arm. Amy is lying on her front, letting out cries of pain as Angune, sporting a headtorch and with a shot of moonshine at his side, begins to tattoo her wrist. Some of the girls are in the other room, doing karaoke with the Iban. Max seems to be rushing around handing out shots of moonshine and conversing with the tribal elders.

Before long, Amy is finished. I’m not inspired by the bloody mess I see but Mandy has gone to a lot of trouble to copy my design, so it would be rude not to plunge forward. Jenny promised to stick around to hold my hand, but she’s nowhere in sight, so Lisa takes on nursing duties. Fuck me, I need it too, because as the needle teases its way through my delicate skin, pain opens up its long dark coat and flashes me its filthy wares.

The first question most people ask about tattoos is “Did it hurt?” Usually, the response is tepid - yeah, kinda, but not so much. Either those people are all liars, or the jungle has a different set of rules. It feels exactly as it is - a sharp needle being scraped through my flesh. At times, I think I’m used to it. Then, Angune digs his heels in and I down another shot of rice wine and grit my teeth.

I won’t complain, though. Not out loud. Lisa knows I’m not enjoying it, but I’m not gonna wail and howl - we need to show the natives white men are made of sterner stuff. After less than an hour, I’m done. For some reason, Lisa feels inspired to join in, and settles down for her dose of vicious punishment.

People inspect the damage. The results don’t look so great, a far cry from the design on paper, though it’s hard to tell with all the black, inky blood. I take a picture of the page in the tattoo book, just in case. Now I’m off the hook, I get on with drinking. People are dispersed around the longhouse - some in the karaoke lounge, others sitting on the floor in small groups. Raymond hands out the shots, and the hood pops up and lets out all the crazies.

Then, suddenly, it all seems to come to a halt. Max is telling me the moonshine has run out. This cannot be - not on our last night, not in our moment of exceptional triumph. We do a little investigating, and find out we can buy some more bottles, for a small cost. Moments later, six 1.5litre bottles are in our possession.
Rice wine. Moonshine. The shit has an incredible affect. In what seems to me like minutes, the evening is screwed up in a ball and comes to a close. I have no idea how much I’ve drunk. It seems like a lot less than on other nights, but things are slowly falling apart. Several things happen, in what can only loosely be described as some kind of order.

First, everyone seems to be dancing. I look around, and even the elders, men and women, some in their eighties or nineties, are getting down and busting shapes. Then, people begin to fall by the wayside. Jenny is standing in front of me. She says she has just been sick on her boob, and then seems to melt away in the crowd. Then, Sandra is organising to have her taken back to the house.
Seconds later, and in a flash of light everything changes. I feel as though I have just awoken from a deep coma, or leapt quantum’s into another new body. A minute ago, there was dancing and darkness. Now, everything is bathed in a white glow. Bodies are lying discarded on the sidelines, and I’m choking on the smell of hot blood and ash.

Toby is lying under one blanket on the floor. Despite severe illness, he made the trip and took the drink, and now he is paying the price, twitching, glowing like a bush fire. Amy is under another blanket, possibly with one of the Iban. Jenny has been whisked away by the current, and Mandy, Anita and Sandra are all ghosts. I look down, and see Max, lying on his belly. He tells anyone who comes too close not to touch him.

I spin around in circles, wandering where the night has gone. Surely we’ve only been here a couple of hours? Surely, we haven’t had that much to drink. I don’t really remember starting on those six bottles, let alone finishing. What happened to dancing? What happened to moonshine and romance? All concepts of time and space are eluding me. I’m dazed, confused, and staring at the black, child-like scrawl across my right arm. I remember that alright. No need to pinch myself just yet.

It seems as though I’m the only one in the room. If I squint hard enough, I can just about make out other figures, shrouded and cloaked, huddled like nomadic shepherds sheltering from a cruel night sky. Out of the gloom I spot a few of Jenny’s things, lying on the ground - her camera, and raincoat. The night seems to have ended, though no one asked my permission. I decide the thing to do is to take Jenny’s things back, and see if anything is going on back at the ranch.

I find Francis, and he arranges for Mail’s father to take me back in the boat. We walk down to the river bank, and again, I’m faced with the challenge of composing myself. The engine ignites, and we cruise across the oily slick of the dark, empty river. We arrive, and I climb out of the boat ok, embrace my Iban host and say goodbye.

At the top of the steps, everything is still and quiet. Nothing moves, and no one speaks. I open the door to the girl’s room, and step inside. The room is dark, but gently bathed in a faint, yellow light that comes from somewhere. I still can’t see anybody, though. I don’t know which bed is Jenny’s. I stand in the middle of the room, slowly turning, peering into the gloom. I am aware that anyone awake and watching must find this behaviour odd. What the fuck am I doing? Am I so drunk that I’ve wandered into the wrong bedroom - perhaps even forgotten what sex I am? Can they see that it’s me? Do they suspect some kind of foul play? Right now they could be shaking up the mace can, and any second I could be blinded and beaten, tossed back into the river by screaming, outraged females.

I remember Amy being in the top bunk next to the door, and reason that Jenny would have taken the one underneath. I place the camera and coat at the foot (or head, who really knows?) of the bed, and tiptoe out. I sit myself down on the bench, and stare up at the jungle. I drink one more beer out of the cool box. I try to come to terms with what has happened, knowing that by morning, when the alcohol has soaked deeper into the entrails of my mind, things will be even harder to piece together.

After a while, I get up go into the bedroom. Toby, whom I was sure was still at the longhouse when I left, has somehow arrived home before me and is in bed. I talk drunkenly to him for a while. The hard copies of that conversation have long since been destroyed, and I drift to sleep none the wiser.

And so it comes to an end. The show is over, and we have to leave. When I open my eyes in the morning, maybe only few hours after going to bed, I am not surprised to find I am still fucked up and in poor condition. No hangover to speak of, just a head full of booze and eyes full of dangerous blood clots. We finish packing, and load up the boats.

I get into one with Jenny and Amy, and in the glorious sunshine of the morning, swim back to the mouth of the river. I sit facing back into the jungle, watching it all disappear before me. I press down hard on the Magic Man hat on top of my head, in case the wind snatches it away. I chew on a toothpick, and wander how many more hours I will be drunk for today.

I scan the trees as we travel, searching for lost friends and close relatives. Are they out there now, watching and waving, thanking us for our timely visit? I look back down into the water. There must be some pieces of me in there somewhere. Memories, perhaps best left behind. If someone should come across them, just bury them in a time capsule, and wait for the world to end.

We reach the jetty. Time to say more goodbyes. Jem is on the verge of tears, hugging us all. I pose for pictures with the three brothers. Mail, Raymond and crazy fucking Wilson. Who knows what kind of men they will grow up to be? If I could control such things, I’d return years from now, and they and everything else would be the same. Fuck knows what fresh, modern horrors the future might hold for the Iban and their way of life. No one would begrudge them their karaoke, but I hope that consumer culture won’t go sticking its fucking oar in too deep. Let them keep the jungle. Let them stay fishermen and trackers. Let them stay drunk, delirious and happy.

For the Orangutan, things could be much bleaker. If we all came back ten or twenty years from now, how many treks would it take before we stumbled across their path? If the World had any fucking sense left in its muddled, drug-sniffing head, it would stop wasting time on money, genocide and rape, and divert those feverish energies into taking care of the things that really matter. I’m no tree hugger, but there are a million things out there worth saving; not least among them, our fucking dignity.

The journey home is sad and sleepy. Francis picks up his microphone, and gives us a farewell speech. We are hailed once again as “Team Exceptional”, and he calls out a long list of reasons why. As we near the hotel, Francis sings us a song - “Sealed with a Kiss”. Generally, something like that would be cause for out-loud laughter, but Francis is a man so overflowing with genuine grace and good humour, so full of kindness and positive thoughts, that I find it impossible not to be moved. He is a real human being, and he will be missed.

We get him to agree to come to dinner in the evening with Leo. Angune has also come to Kuching, and as we all hug and say goodbye, he bursts into tears. He could just be feeling guilty about our tattoos, but it’s another moment where I find myself clinging on, fighting back the urge just break down and gush like rainwater into the gutter. Angune is my favourite of the Iban. Like Francis, he is a proper man - schooled on the hard corners of the jungle, but with soft edges that round him out and make him whole.

The last night in Borneo. We go for dinner, telling Leo our jungle tales. He seems keen to make out he’s done it all himself, but that’s just a man making his own myth. The girls are a little worried about their tattoos. Amy’s wrist is red and swollen, and Lisa can’t even walk on her ankle, and has to be supported and carried along. In timely fashion, my guts are playing up. After holding out on me for days, they have cut loose, and I excuse myself early from dinner to rush back to the hotel.

Issues having been addressed, I wait for the others outside. We say our final goodbye, watching as Angune turns to wave, not stopping until he has completely disappeared from sight. Today is Max and Sandra’s wedding anniversary, but things are quiet - we’ve had our last “Ooo-haah” for now.
The next day, I fly back to KL. People leave one by one, most of us having different flights. There are lots of tears and embraces. When my turn comes, I share taxis with Jenny, Tom and Toby, and the others see us off.

Back in KL, I arrive in the evening, and find the others in bed. Tom is flying out at 1am, and so has gone to the airport. Toby and Amy are still ill, so Jenny and I are the only ones just about fit enough to make it out for a final night of drinks. We go to a bar and drink cocktails, reflecting on the month, and especially the last week, gone by.

On the last day in Malaysia, we leave Toby at the hotel to sleep off his fever, and I loiter around while the girls try on underwear. Then, armed with a fresh set of bras, Amy makes a dash back to catch her taxi to the airport. Jenny and I do a bus tour of the sights of KL, though without much time to get off and look around, it doesn’t seem to amount to much. We speculate as to what certain buildings might be - And to our left, ladies and gentlemen, we have the testicular cancer research facility - don’t take it from me, but it’s just a load of old balls.

We get soaked in the rain, and almost miss the bus back as I am forced to dash for the toilet once more. My flight is at 9.15pm, so I need to be back at the hostel before 6pm if possible. Traffic in KL is a nightmare, and 6pm comes and goes. We ask for a cab to be called when we get back, and I stand and wait under the porch with Toby and Jenny. The rain is relentless, reflecting the mood like a circus mirror - twisted, wobbly, not knowing quite what to make of it.

Eventually, the taxi arrives. There is no time for lengthy goodbyes - the weather and my flight schedule hurry everything along, and before I know it I’m inside the cab. The engine starts and the wheels turn, and we slowly roll away. Thunder cackles and peering through the sheets of rain, behind the surface of things, underneath the black night, my senses tell me - with so many good things left behind; there may be trouble ahead.


















Advertisement



7th June 2008

Bless
Bless you for sharing such emotion. I think i'll save your trouble ahead for tomorrow!

Tot: 0.101s; Tpl: 0.015s; cc: 6; qc: 48; dbt: 0.0579s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1; ; mem: 1.2mb