Look, monkey!
When most people book holidays, they book white-linen-sheets, feather-filled-blankets, little-chocolates-on-pillows holidays. Not me. No. I decide that I need to go back to basics, escape the city, and embark on three-day adventure. On my own, of course, because everyone I know just looks at me with a crumpled face and a scornful snigger when I bring up the idea of heading into the jungle.
So, off I go. Solo.
Just one hour away from the hustle and bustle of modern architectural masterpieces, fantastic transport systems, clean clothes, and hot showers of Singapore, I arrive at the tiny Medan airport, Kuala Namu, and wait at baggage claim. I am not used to travelling with checked luggage and usually try not to for this exact reason. Having to wait. It takes forever, even though I just got off the only plane on the tarmac. I doubt many others could fit anyway.
My duffel bag finally arrives. The oldest bag on the belt. This bag has been with me since high school and the bad hand stitching that seal its many holes is clearly visible. The bag is not worth anything, but inside, it holds happiness. I finally pick up my precious parcel and head out the glass doors. There are 4 boys are waiting for me and they know immediately it’s me they’re waiting for, as I know it is them I should be looking for. I look scruffy enough to be heading into the Sumatran rainforest. Here I meet my company for the long weekend, 2 English boys and a German, who was actually on the same flight from Singapore.
The driver works for the guiding company, and we try to make light conversation, since I’m placed in the passenger seat up front with him, so the boys can talk shop in the back. Through my flailing Bahasa Melayu and his colloquial Bahasa Indonesia, I piece together some of the details of the next few days. We will start the hike in the morning, early at 6am. There will be breaks for fruit and lunch, and then we continue until we reach our first campsite. Dinner will be served there, and then bed and then do it all over again the next day. Eat, walk, eat, walk, eat, sleep repeat. Then, back to base on the third day.
We arrive at the accommodation late, traffic is horrid. We have just enough time for a beer, dinner and to listen to some of the staff belt out Bob Marley accompanied by a guitar and a cajon. It is truly amazing how music transcends geographical and language boundaries. I go to the manager there, who speaks impeccable English and has been cracking jokes with us, and tell him about the contents of my duffel bag. Pack for a Purpose is an organization that allows the more fortunate to share with the less fortunate around the world. As the name suggests, you pack, for a purpose. To share. I empty out my bag on the table and out spills a huge grey bunny rabbit, colouring books, paint brushes, pens, erasers, a skipping rope and a frisbee. He smiles and gives me a hug. The kids will be happy, he says.
Up bright and early, the next morning, we are armed with tiny backpacks of just the essentials for the 3-day hike, except the German, who has a bag double the size of mine. I look at his North Face pants, Rolex watch and almost new, unsoiled hiking shoes and just imagine how many times he’s going to have a wardrobe change during the trip. Oh well, you carry what you want.
Starting the hike, I am not impressed. The ground is level, the grass looks kempt, and we are often in plantations of rubber or cocoa. This isn’t a jungle trek. An Orang Utan, so conveniently placed on the tree right in front of our path, confirms my rising apathy and now suspicions that this is all a hoax. The animal is unfazed, eating in plain sight, an army of people already surrounding it, their weapons their phone cameras. We too snap our first photos, all a little astounded that we are witness to this amazing creature, hanging effortlessly above us. Why do we need 3 days? I was convinced we had to go deep into the rainforest in order to see any form of wildlife, and even then, it would still be all based on chance.
We continue walking and I learn from our guide, Andi, that this ape, like many here, were once captive and had been rescued, rehabilitated, and released. They have since bred and now have wild babies, ones that we have to steer clear of if we see them in the jungle. Some of the wild ones have names, because it is so common that these individuals go chasing after people. People, who carry backpacks of food. People, who are silly enough to feed wild animals.
The trail progressively gets harder. The manicured lawns give way to a labyrinth of roots, rocks, and other obstacles, sure to break ankles. The terrain rises from flat, soft contours to steep cliff faces that I have to maneuver by lowering myself as close to ground level as possible. My knees are not what they used to be. I’m definitely in the jungle though. There are little movements through the leaves that my eyes keep catching. Grasshoppers, cicadas, and spiders disturb the peace. Ants of all shapes and sizes march in curvy lines, zigzagging across trails. Bird song is heard all around us, the orchestra of the rainforest, sonnet in B minor.
Andi calls out for us to stop. Our eyes follow his outstretched finger straight to a big male Orang Utan, high in the forest canopy. His red beard obvious, and his size, formidable. One of those could grab a full-grown man and throw him like a ragdoll. “Look, monkey!” Andi whispers. We stop, soft gasps heard as we realize where we are. This is their territory. We are in the Sumatran rainforest. We are out of our league here.
The Orang Utan, forest people, exploited for so many years, having been captured for the illegal pet trade, sold as ‘human’ sex slaves, and now continually having their habitats decimated. These creatures that grace Greenpeace advertisements and that are the poster children for countless memes, caricatures, and cartoons. It is truly a sight to see a wild one in its own home.
We close our opened mouths, readjust our craned necks, put our cameras away and continue to our first camp for the night. Every one of us feeling a little bit blessed and of lighter step after witnessing that magnificent creature. A reminder of why we came here in the first place.
The sound of water is the first beacon of the end of the day. Suddenly, tired limbs and achy spines perk up at the thought of a cold swim to wash off the sweat coming out of every orifice due to the 99% humidity, along with all the mud, leaves, and dirt we’ve lugged along with us. The sight of the camp, however, breaks my heart, just a little. Home for the night is a black tarpaulin stretched across wooden poles, providing minimal shelter to a dozen black yoga mats on the ground. I try not to think about how uncomfortable the night is going to be as I peel of sweaty garments and go straight to the river. Andi, tour guide of the century, joins us a little while later, not to swim, but to hand us a couple of the local Bintang beers, big 500ml bottles, not cold, but at this moment, who cares. It is pure bliss. Sitting in and around nature, the water is fresh, the beer is alcoholic, the muscles are starting to relax. It is incredible. All the tension of the day is gone, and everyone relaxes, now comrades in arms, having survived the treacherous forest. Andi stays a while before he has to go back and make dinner. “The trek? This is the most basic one!” he remarks.
All my bravado and feelings of accomplishment die along with this comment. Wow, I am unfit. He proceeds back to the other black tarpaulin hut, the kitchen, which houses a humongous wok, placed on top of a brick fireplace. I think to myself, that can’t be safe. But when in the jungle…
Andi and the other guides whip up a gastronomical storm. With limited utensils and supplies, we are presented with a tablecloth full of food. There are about 7 different dishes. Almost salivating, we all sit cross-legged around the feast. It is amazing how much one can do with so little.
That night, trying hard not to move so I stay centered on my yoga mat, counting all the holes in the mosquito net that are bigger than a fully grown cockroach, listening to the incessant gushing of the river, I fall asleep thinking of why I came here. We are normalizing dysfunction. What once was normal, sustainable, and good way of living, is now a paid holiday, one that was definitely worth the money. Why have we moved so far away from simple living?