The antics of one great character kept us amused. He swung from a vine high up, launching himself off the platform, playing human skittles with his spectators. He then hung upside down on a flexible small tree, taking pleasure in showing us his half-regurgitated banana, then letting the tree flip up. This cheeky character proceeded to steal anything we had left on the bench. Then he grabbed Noel’s shirt and fully inspected his chest. The hairy orangutan and the hairy man with their heads just millimetres apart, a kindred spirit, was a priceless moment in time. Before he took his leave, he lay down amongst us, letting us all inspect him fully, his tummy, feet, nails, hands and head. These beautiful orangutans had long red, patchy coats. They had gentle, unassuming faces, tyre-rubber lips, and innocently round, brown eyes. Their long, slim hands and feet were identical, both with effective prehensile digits, which were incredibly soft. They were powerful, gentle creatures. He held my hand; he was so strong.
I had a vast appetite, so we ate lunch at 10:30 am, all the walking and oppressive heat making us hungry. With a new spring in our step we set off for the next camp, where we could apparently swim. As the group gathered, we peeled away t-shirts that felt like wool-blankets. The black-tea coloured river ambled along next to us between dramatic emeralds of jungle plants that hid the hooting birds. On the grassy banks, a small, dark woman crouched, scrubbing her laundry. With a wry smile she offered us her soap; a communal wash ensued (in swimming gear I might add). It is not usually a habit of mine to bathe with so many men. Many of the women did not want to venture into the dark water where crocodiles lurked. The cool, fresh water washed the sweat and jungle off our tired bodies. There were no showers at our anchorage. Water could only be purchased in small bottles; it was expensive and scarce. We washed clothes and ourselves in the dubious, soup like river and prayed that we would not catch some diabolical disease. We had to conserve our precious drinking water. This surplus of tannin-stained but clean water, with the added bonus of soap, was a much appreciated treat.
Without towels, we dressed while wet. Within minutes, our clothes were completely dry. We arrived early at the next feeding site, so a guide took us for a trek further into the jungle. At this camp, we were warned that the king was nearby (the male orangutan leader) and some decidedly aggressive females that could, and would, bite if in the mood. It was extremely hot, but the plethora of information on the vivid flora and fauna from our guide held all our interest. Stepping over toe-sized ants and concentrating on avoiding wet leaves to dodge the alien like leeches, the group suddenly came to a halt. Saucer-eyed, we all watched in horror as our guide turned on his heels and sprinted back past us! With somewhat puzzled and worried faces, it didn’t take us too long to follow; comically, we all politely kept our order in the queue. The king was coming in our direction along the same path. After catching up with our guide and convincing him to stop for a moment, we suggested that maybe we could stand aside, off the track, and let him pass. Our guide was horrified and made it clear he thought that we were complete imbeciles. He then showed us his scars from previous attacks.
We followed the guide’s advice; he knew the orangutans and the terrain, and he was clearly worried. We soon saw why. From around the corner, he appeared. The king presented himself to an awestruck audience. He paused and stared at the clutter of pale aliens that stared back at him. The air disappeared as we all collectively gasped. He turned left to look at Princess, his current mate, who was close by. Another female lurked nearby carrying a baby, and she was reportedly aggressive. Air became available as a few of us let out a breath; the king had been diverted. Forgetting our fear and the odd predicament we were in, tentatively and rather stupidly, in a tiny cartoon like huddle, we all scuttled closer peering through the trees to have a good look. The king was enormous with tremendously long, thick, strong arms. We did
not
want to mess with this guy; we were in his territory, on his terrain – this was
his
home. We were all in fearful reverence of this magnificent creature.
The king stood at about one-and-a-half metres tall, but that was with his legs bent; with his arms and legs out-stretched, he would easily be twice as tall. He weighed 150 kilograms and was about thirty-four years old. He was one of the first to arrive at the camp at the tender age of four. His head was at least three times the size of a human’s head, and his arms were almost twice as long as his legs. He could scratch his bottom from reaching over the top his shoulder. He was simply amazing.
We edged forward in our comic human cluster. The king must have smelt the fear and intrigue. We paused and watched; the king moved and we all turned and ran. This little skit occurred several times, when suddenly he bellowed an eardrum-rattling cry. Rather startled, we soon learned that it was his mating call, and us girls hoped he wasn’t calling to us (there were plenty of horror stories along those lines). We bravely hid in the bush and watched this almighty male and a female copulate; it was an incredible sight, and the group was somewhat relieved that his mind was on other things aside from us.
On the walk back, we were all glad to have been completely ignored by our hairy cousins. The usual jokes were told after seeing something sexual, but it didn’t take away, from any of us, the honour we all felt to witness such a unique sight. The king only appears every few weeks for just a couple of days, we’d seen him at his most personal – even the guides were astonished.
At feeding time in the afternoon, we were blessed with seeing youngsters cradled by their mums and the mighty king again. He nimbly climbed onto the platform and viewed his spectators with their clicking cameras and flashing lights. He could reach any one of us in a split second, so we were content in the knowledge that he was quite used to watching clumsy humans. Even so, we all kept quiet and tried not to attract personal attention. Unlike the other feeding sites, none of the orangutans initiated contact. We were glad, as none of us wanted to be dragged over to the platform to be introduced to the king. The orangutans seemed to be different in the king’s group; they were less willing to cross the border and make contact.
Dusk was falling and the mozzies were singing their incessant chorus, so after one more quick dip, we headed back home to the boats. Near the river, Noel climbed a decrepit tower to gain a better view for one last picture of this unique day. He stepped up to the first platform, and a shy, but aggressive, female orangutan took this opportunity to follow Noel and his tantalising, swinging camera, up the tower. With gasps and exclamations of, ‘Boy, he’s in big trouble,’ Noel did a quick recce of his prison for an escape route: either up the rickety tower, where he might be followed or straight down to hopefully hit the water. With breaths held, at the last minute the orangutan jumped off of the ladder onto the side of the tower. Noel took his moment, and with lightning speed that I had never witnessed before, he shot down the ladder to the safety of his fellow humans.
Visiting our cousins in the wild was exhilarating. To have their trust – a trust in a race that is persistently trying to destroy their race and their natural habitat – was something I will never forget. To hold hands with an animal from which we descend, to study their soft palms, experience their powerful grip, their human nails, and their clandestine power was a privilege. The memories of those beautiful beasts, our relatives will never leave me. We may never get the chance to meet again.
The next day, we caught a Bemo (local taxi-bus) to the main town. The Bemo had seating for a maximum of eight. At last count before we left, there were fourteen of us crammed in, in thirty-degree heat and ninety-nine percent humidity. Astonishingly, some of the passengers were wearing jeans and jumpers! Once we managed to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of sweat literally pouring out of every single pore of our bodies and pooling around our thighs, we could enjoy the surroundings. There was no air conditioning in the Bemo, in fact, there was no anything; it was the most basic transport (and I use that term lightly) you could find. I was sitting next to and on top of a girl who was mute, she signed that she could hear but could not speak. All in all, I had one of the best conversations with this girl than any other non-English speaking Indonesian.
In town, we were pleasantly surprised with the lack of tourism. I relish in the fresh feeling a new town holds, the weird smells, alien language, unidentifiable foods, and new customs.
Once again, we were the stars of the town: strange white people with brown hair with colourful, relatively scant clothing that caused quite a stir. We needed to find a bank and located young locals with some basic English to help. Once they realised what we wanted, they whistled to a couple of passing motorbikes. The bikes stopped next to us with two young lads sitting astride. We were motioned to hop on board. I sat side-saddle, as I’d seen the local woman and girls doing it this way. The journey was only five minutes, but everyone in town jeered, shouted, and waved as we sped past. My driver explained that I should have gone astride the seat, which was impossible in a long sarong. I think it had something to do with riding that way if the driver was your partner! We had learned to take the constant attention with a smile and laugh. Though, sometimes it was exhausting, we were gaining a small insight of what being in the limelight meant.
The main town was dirty, busy, and hot. We preferred smaller villages, so we quickly purchased some supplies and made our way back to where the Bemo had dropped us off. We had become the butt of many a joke from the locals hanging around. After a good laugh, it wore a bit thin, especially when about ten people climbed in the Bemo before us. Being a Brit, I’m a big fan of queues. Not really in the mood to play human sandwich, Noel and I decided to hitchhike our way back to
Mariah
.
We took shelter under a large, shady tree and it was not long before we were negotiating with a couple of local guys on two motorbikes for a ride home. I re-fixed my sarong and jumped astride on to my ride.
‘See you in hospital,’ Noel laughed as he sped off on the back of his ride. It was then I realised what we had got ourselves into. A huge grin appeared on my face and I hung onto the complete stranger, trusting that he was not having ideas of a kidnapping-ransom scenario. A passing thought was given to my dad, who would have had a pink fit seeing me without a helmet.
The rules of the road here were similar to Bali, but fortunately there was far less traffic. The cool breeze tugging at my cheeks heightened the sense of freedom. The riders kept overtaking each other, and Noel and I found it amusing to pretend to beat our respective steeds with a whip!
Back on board
Mariah
, on anchor, we appreciated the calm stillness and soft sea breeze that found its way into our home. While trying to keep up with my diary on the laptop, the battery power had become low. On board, we received power via two battery banks: one for house batteries (lights, TV, GPS) and one solely for the engine. We had a solar panel, which kept our batteries charged quite well. However, if dull days persisted, we needed to run the engine to charge up. We were both busy below, preparing the boat for departure. After a week on anchor, household items were left out and had to be stowed safely away. I also wanted to charge the laptop, so I decided to run the engine for a while, during which we both continued preparing the boat down below. After ten minutes or so, we heard voices calling and knocking on the hull. Noel stuck his head out to be met by a fellow cruiser.
‘I say, old chap, do you realise you are running around in circles?’ Much to my embarrassment, I had left the throttle in gear and we were driving around our anchor. Fortunately, we didn’t sideswipe any of our neighbours, as we were far enough away from other yachts and our anchor held fast! Phew! We got away with that one.
Back home, the support for our unusual lifestyle was unsurpassed. My mum and dad, who lived in Hertfordshire, thought us a little mad and worried a lot, however, they couldn’t do enough for us – handling our UK mails. Colin and Brenda did all they could for us in Australia. You can never fully escape if you want a bank account. Mail, taxes, and credit cards have to be looked after. We could not have our mail chase us around the world and messages on the Internet from our families were our sole correspondence.
We missed friends and family deeply, but rapidly made more friends. The Irish family on
Breakaway
and
Chinook
became close to us. Other cruisers would comment that they thought Noel and I were part of the Irish family. In one sense, we were. Having friends of similar ages and interests was something we had missed a little. I especially needed a girlfriend, and Kirstie and I became friendly. We were both learning about boats and the cruising lifestyle as we went, although she had dealt with the change in life onto water a lot better than me.
We met people from every corner of the world. I was delighted with my life and the freedom I had claimed. My relationship with Noel was growing into a deep friendship, and I was starting to handle myself in this world. I was incessantly grinning and happy to chat to everyone about anything, my energy never waned.
In any situation, whether you are satisfied in your life or not, you still have to live with yourself. I believe that we all have our demons, or downsides. Sometimes, we simply get depressed, or in a bad mood for no reason at all. I was learning a new way of life, but witnessing more about humans and their eccentricities and that included me. I had everything a girl could want but there would be days when I had a mood swing and became grumpy. A tiny thing could set me off, and Noel was the same. The ability for Noel and I to talk about this after the mood had finally waned, was like a good medicine. I was extremely argumentative, and if I felt like having a good ding-dong of a row, I would do my best to get one. Noel wouldn’t argue, and this would infuriate me. But after, when he had given me ample time to calm down (safer then), he’d point out the pathetic reason I was moody and explain that arguing back would cause us both to lose our cool and say things we would only regret. We were by no means perfect, our well thought out ideas and rules for moods didn’t always work, and we did have our arguments, but it was something to work on. Soon I caught onto the idea (and even though it was nearly impossible for me), I bit my tongue and was amazed at the results.