64 - Lounging Lawang (Bukit Lawang, Sumatra, Indonesia)
“I lay back, stared into nothingness, and let my thoughts take me to a place of their choosing. I drifted in and out of consciousness and embraced a quasi-meditative state. I had absolutely no idea what time it was nor did I care. Maybe I’d do a jungle trek come the morrow… or the next day… or the day after that…”
by Mr. Nos T. O’manaic
LIKE THE DESERT MISSES THE FUGGIN’ RAIN. Me minus the Phantom. Bereft, incomplete, empty, and relegated to public transport. A real downer. If this had been my travel protocol throughout Indonesia, I shan’t have held out for seven months. Sure, you can mix and mingle with the locals on an intimate level, but I’m not sure this compensates for the misery and muscle stiffness… or the smoke. I never had the displeasure, but I heard stories on the hotbox nature of bus travel. (I’ve mentioned the prevalence of cigarette smoking before.) Imagine a five-hour bus ride with half the passengers puff, puff, puffin’ away. Um, no thank ya.
A fond farewell to Toba. Back to the mainland (Parapet) for a minivan north to Medan. Relatively speaking, not a bad way to go, at least on paper. Fewer passengers (about eight). Cheap. Faster than a bus. Air conditioning… allegedly. What’s not to love? Given my mutant height, I was awarded the front seat. Ideal as far as bus travel goes, but it didn’t hold a candle to the Phantom. The real upside was my ability to relinquish mental acuity in favor of zoning out the window. Can’t say I missed the constant vigilance required on a motorcycle. And yet…
Not long after departure, I found comfort in the arms of self-justification. Six months of sweating and swearing on the Phantom was a small price to pay for ambulatory freedom. I honestly don’t know how tourists navigate the country solely on public transport. God bless ‘em. My driver? Not so much. He loved the horn. Loved it. I nearly suggested he marry the goddamn thing. It was off the chiz-ain, yo.
Query: If you honk the horn 4.5 million times, does it not lose its effectiveness? Yes, yes it does, especially when everyone else does likewise. Rarely could I discern specific intent. Traffic? Life in general? Cause he was horny? Once, I thought he was honking with the music.
Ahhhh, the music. I believe it was the Indonesian equivalent of an eighties’ hair band and just as solid. (Whitesnake, Cinderella, Poison, etc.) Every bit as soothing as it sounds. Between that and the sound of a thousand cats screwing simultaneously, I’d choose the latter… grrrrr, baby.
The perpetual horn/glam metal cacophony was a nice adjunct to a four-hour nausea fest. Aircon? Sure, in theory, though hardly strong enough to prevent passengers from stewing in their own juices. Add constant acceleration, deceleration, swerving, stopping and you have one sweet ride. It didn’t help I seem to be more and more prone to motion sickness as the years wear on. I wanted to vomit… on the driver.
Spoiled pussy. That was me. Medan was a way station for my true destination: Bukit Lawang. This was only a few hours away, but I didn’t have the stomach for a follow-on that day. I wasn’t impressed with my lack of fortitude (nor should you be), but it was what it was, and I am what I am… pussy. I capitulated and sought suitable lodging.
My hotel offered free Wi-Fi and tea to guests. Nice. I entered the café to take full advantage. I ordered tea and prepared to surf the worldwide web. The Wi-Fi was down, so no-go on the interwebs. After finishing my tea, I was presented with a bill for $1.40. Um, hot water and a tea bag? Ludicrous I say! That’s rich for any city. I balked and was informed I needed a coupon to receive the free tea. I was coupon-less. I considered standing my ground but could tell from the waitress’ expression my efforts would’ve been for naught. For restitution, I had to consult a higher power. I adjourned to the front desk, tea receipt in hand. After being told, once again, I needed a coupon, I was shown an example of said coupon. Sadly, as I didn’t possess said coupon at said tea time, I was on the hook for the whole fucking shebang. Any kind of retroactive fix was unfathomable. Time is a flat circle, sooooo… I wanted to tear out my hair, present it for inspection, and scream, "blaahhgugooggaadididdydaah!" Instead, I accepted defeat and shambled away.
Since I couldn’t be bothered to migrate west, I settled on task management (i.e. getting a plane ticket to Bali). I entered a travel agency that doubled as a restaurant. (Or was it the other way around?) While I awaited my turn, I was served orange juice by a friendly garçon. Very friendly. He told me I looked strong. He complimented my body three or four times and verbalized his desire to have a similar build. He proceeded to touch my stomach because, I can only assume, he needed to make sure my Adonis-like physique was real and not a figment of his imagination. I contemplated explaining why this made me uncomfortable but let it slide. (Is communication fatigue a thing?)
I booked a cheap flight on Lion Air, only to relive my concerns I might need a passport to fly internally in Indonesia. My passport was sitting quietly in a safe at my visa agency in Ubud, Bali. (Why? Go here.) Of course, I had copies of all relevant documents and a letter from the agency vouching for my bona fides, but still…
I met a woman on the street professing her wish to practice English. Super. I was in. Her English was less than stellar, but that wasn’t the issue. In no time flat, she tells me America is “egotistic” and then rambles something incoherent about bombings. She may have sprinkled in 9/11 as well. I was confused and still irritated by the coupon incident, so I walked away. Buh-bye.
To Bukit Lawang, a jungle settlement lying on the edge of Gunung Leuser National Park. The main town is something of an eyesore on the Bohorok River, but once you move past the center into the jungle, things improve substantially. (At the time, anyway.) All is calm. All is right. Find a guesthouse on the river and melt away. I did. Time warped. Ambitions dwindled. Complacency set in.
The area’s biggest draw is orangutans, and for good reason. They’re spell-binding little bastards. (Actually, some are quite large.) The term “orangutan” was coined in the seventeenth century and is derived from the Malay and Indo words orang, meaning “person” and hutan, meaning “forest”. And when you meet them, you understand the appellation “person of the forest.” All in the eyes, my friend. All in the eyes.
Not far from a cove of guesthouses (including mine) lies a rehabilitation center. The surrounding area contains a mix of wild and semi-wild (rehabilitated) orangutans. Every day at 8:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m. rangers feed “attendees” and offer a public viewing. The most popular activity is a two-day, one-night shallow trek into the park to spot “wild” orangutans. I use quotes here because my research indicated these apes are so habituated to human presence, it’s a stretch to dub them wild.
I never made the trek. Four days passed before I even considered it. After consulting Google and several trekkers, I decided the experience resembled an open-air zoo. Too many trekking outfits chasing too few apes. I wanted to see these forest “people” but was unwilling to subject myself to the artificial safari atmosphere. Stories of careless guides and illegal feedings contributed to my sour puss. After my sojourn in Kerinci National Park (see here), I feared a fatal comparison. I tried and failed to mount a longer and more arduous journey into the Gunung Lesser, but could find neither a guide to lead the expedition, nor fellow adventurers to sign on.
You’ll find the usual suspects (tigers, rhinos, three types of primates, elephants, a species of crocodile, golden cats, clouded leopards, and, of course, a crapload of birds.) In truth, had my visa not been nearing expiration, I would’ve pushed harder for an expanded trek. Problem is, Lawang was my motivation kryptonite, tranquilizing me every moment of every day. Resistance was futile. I succumbed.
So, what the hell did I do? I swam in the river. Took short, relaxing walks. Watched a redhead feeding or two. Chilled. Listened. Stared. Often, I left my camera behind and watched with my built-in viewfinder. My first morning was of particular note. Though I couldn’t deign to rise for the 8:00 a.m. feeding, I still took the five-minute walk to the river crossing near the ranger station/entrance to the national park. A boat tied to a cable serves as ferry to each side. The water is shallow and narrow but deep enough (in that spot, anyway) to warrant the boat.
The cable serves a dual purpose. We’re not the only primates using it. As I stood on the riverbank staring across and through the woods, I detected movement from behind. As I turned to look up, I saw a female orangutan with a child clinging for dear life shimmy underneath the wire to the other side. From that moment on, I was bewitched. I approached and stood beneath the line, gazing at mother and child making their way across. A second redhead mounted and began his crossing. This one had a different style, which I presume resulted from not having the extra weight of a child. He dangled below using hands and feet to surmount the cable, whereas the mama had more of a “hug the wire from beneath” method. Simply put, this was outta this world fucking amazing. And me without my camera. I could only imagine appropriate ways of kicking my own arsehole.
Tourists emerged from the jungle beyond the ranger hut right on time to see the newly arrived redhead trio. This was fortuitous as none had appeared for the feeding. When I saw the baby holding onto the branch of a small tree while bouncing up and down as if attached to a bungee cord, I had to act. The park officials were reluctant to allow entrance. Feeding time was over, and my admission ticket would only be valid for the morning. Was I not throwing away a perfectly good two dollars? Yes, yes I was, but I was willing to absorb the loss. Actually, I was willing to pay double or triple just to get across that fucking river. They acquiesced.
Baby Orang continued its tree bungee exhibition while the mother looked on without a hint of concern or interest. (Or us for that matter.) Off to the right, the young male was busy doing somersaults and donning half a coconut shell for a hat. You’d think someone had choreographed the whole goddamned thing and squawked, “Cue the orangutans!” over the radio as I arrived. Wow, my friends. I was over-fucking-whelmed to say the least. Magnificent.
But my “forest person” experience wasn’t quite over. I returned to the restaurant where I had breakfast to find another loitering in the trees across the stream. I did the only thing I could: Bought a beer, swam across (more like waded), and sat rockside sipping beer and having a one-sided conversation with Bob. (The name just felt right.) Bob and I had a staring contest. I won. Homo sapiens: 1. Orangutan: 0. I defy you to do the same and not see a “person” behind those eyes. I double-dog dare you. A person. Thinking. Pondering. Calculating. Evaluating. What was he thinking? (I think it was a “he”.) Educated guess? What kind of a lunatic/alcoholic swims over to sit on a rock and stare at me while drinking beer at 11:00 a.m.? Fuckin’ alkie. Fair assessment.
Primate in the morning. Primate in the afternoon. I tagged along for the afternoon feeding. (Another $2 down the drain.) A preggo female showed up for a little grub, but it wasn’t exactly the stuff of NatGeo. Something so primordial about watching an orangutan drink banana milk mystery concoction out of a plastic mug. (Ya pickin’ up my sarcasm?) Wild fucking nature. Catch the fever. My fellow voyeurs were a bit piggish with the prime viewing real estate, so a decent picture was out. I hadn’t the constitution to jockey for position. But, alas, the venture wasn’t a total loss. As Preggo negotiated the trees above, she began pissing indiscriminately. It was sublime. Nothing like a primate golden shower to break up the day. Nothing.
Weeeeeeeeeeeee!
*Drone footage courtesy of Rhianna Lakin.
With all that I activity, I just had to relax. Ya know, take it down a notch? So, I rented an inflatable inner tube and settled on a lazy float through class zero rapids. To stretch out the ride, I hiked upstream for a spell. I encountered a group of fellow tubers on a paid excursion. According to the guide, it was raining upstream. He advised me to be careful as rising water might make things hairy. I heeded the advice and began my float from there, the prospect of catastrophic flooding ever present. I didn’t beat the shower, and a semi-furious downpour ensued. Dangerous? No, but I suppose deeper water could’ve precipitated a trapped foot or a clumsy fall. For lesser mortals, this might be a problem.
I love rain. I truly do. Ever since I was a rugrat, I treasured the sounds, the smells, the feel. Sure, I’d get pissed if it rained out my little league game, but the attraction was still there. I welcomed the shower. Ever float a jungle river alone in a downpour? There was something mystical about the experience. Jungle on both sides. Rain pelting the stream. I was hypnotized by the dancing droplets on the river’s surface, the minute splashes that made it appear as if the nipple-like protrusions were part of its permanent texture. Falling rain combined with fast-flowing water was symphonic and had a profound effect upon me. It sedated, tranquilized… while making my skin tingle with a subtle form of invigorating energy, the kind you only get in a natural surrounding. That’s my sanctuary, my solace from whatever thoughts may be swirling in that confused mass of over-analyzing gray matter I call a brain. Serenity. Calm. Tranquility. I find all of these in the rain, in the gurgling turbulence of a whirling stream. So, I stood there for a while… motionless and let the water rush between my knees and cascade over my skin. You don’t need mushrooms (see here) to feel the intensity of life, you just have to find the right viewing station.
The nights faded away to guitar strings on the wind (every young Sumatran male and their mother plays one) and dim wind-blown candlelight. (Electricity was unstable.) I lay back, stared into nothingness, and let my thoughts take me to a place of their choosing. I drifted in and out of consciousness and embraced a quasi-meditative state. I had absolutely no idea what time it was nor did I care. Maybe I’d do a jungle trek come the morrow… or the next day… or the day after that…