Of Foreign Build (5 page)

Sleeping in calm waters sometimes felt like we were sleeping on land. The salty air and fresh breezes were a good bet for a deep sleep. Well rested, just before the sun broke over the horizon, we hauled anchor. The bay was as smooth as glass, not a breath of wind ruffled the surface. The tangy smell of the salt laden breeze was diluted by the fresh river water and moist foliage. Relying on our faithful Yanmar engine, by lunchtime we arrived at the mouth of the Kumai River. Usually we would have charts or Pilot books, but due to our unplanned diversion, we were ill equipped (or so we thought). Using our VHF radio (short range), we tried to call up another boat already anchored near the town of Kumai. Cindy and Faith, two American cruisers on board
Carmen Miranda
answered our call and relayed all the information we needed to wind our way up the river to the anchorage. Moving through the water dragging a one-and-a-half metre keel below us and running aground is severely dull and can be dangerous to crew and boat alike, so knowledge is imperative. The Kumai River was like puttering through beef soup.

‘Does anything live in here?’ I wondered aloud. The rainforest on our starboard was a stunning lush green; on our port was sand, palm trees, and grass huts. ‘Blimey we’re sailing into Borneo!’

Noel laughed at my British accent coming to the fore through my wonder.

Navigating up a river is quite different to traversing an ocean. To start, there are more things to hit. The traffic was thick with many small boats towing what seemed like mile-long lengths of naked trees that were barely visible above the water. There were leads (two markers at different heights; once aligned you are on the right course) to help. We both had to be alert to check our position and depth; we worked like a well-lubricated team and safely worked our way up the snaking, dirty river. Reaching the other boats that were already comfortably anchored, we slowed down to search for a space. Theoretically, on anchor, all boats should swing the same way, but you still have to leave enough room for different shaped boats that might react slightly different in a breeze or tidal stream. We agreed on a spot, and Noel deftly turned
Mariah
as I stepped up to the bow to organise the anchor ready for deploying.

As we did this, a catamaran came racing up from behind, turned in front of
Mariah’s
bow, and dropped his anchor in the spot we had chosen. Now, there is a certain anchoring-etiquette. Clearly, common courtesy dictates that we were there first, however, the space wasn’t that great, so we just shrugged our shoulders and puttered on down to the next available space. Later, as we relaxed, swinging on anchor amongst twelve or so other boats, we revelled in our self-satisfaction of anchoring properly and enjoyed watching the catamaran having to re-anchor – he was too close to other boats.

I had become the expert anchor person. Handling the heavy loads and forces of the equipment is a skill. Arranging the equipment for a smooth anchor became my forte.

As our minds relaxed, we tried to absorb the fascinating scenery and sounds of small thatched huts, jungle and concealed screeching from within. As we unwound, we remembered that we did in fact have Pilot details for the river stored on a floppy disk! We chinked our glasses and with big grins said, ‘Cheers.’

This was typical of us. It wasn’t that we were a bit forgetful, though we were, but we found humour in our foibles. Noel had shown me how to enjoy laughing at myself. Not having to perform expertly all the time, or wonder if I was viewed as stupid when I did something a bit daft was a blessed relief. It felt like a lead weight had been lifted. I felt lucky to have found someone so lacking in judgmental traits and seemed to love me more as I let myself just be me. At school I had been shy. I had thought that I was not very smart and this shredded any confidence I may have had. Given the freedom to be me, completely, revealed my clever side.

There was so much to see at Kumai, such as Tanjung Puting, an orangutan rehabilitation centre. Dr Birute Galdikas had, for twenty years, been reintroducing orangutans to their natural habitat and rescuing them from captivity. The animals were taught how to live wild within the forest of Borneo. The Tanjung Puting National Park was one of the few protected tropical jungles. It was unique in its diversity of ecological zones: wetlands, lowlands, swamp forest, hardwood rain forest, and mature tropical heath. The park had been the site of the longest running studies of orangutan behaviour. The animals that were at the rehabilitation centre were confiscated pets destined for the lucrative black market. We were told that nowhere else on earth could we see so many orangutans in their natural habitat.

The humidity in Borneo was exhausting, but after a good night’s sleep, we ventured ashore. True to form, we left half of the relevant paperwork we needed to check-in back on the boat (passports, boat papers, crew lists). Although we were still in Indonesia, we had to check in and check out with the officials at each port. The pain could be taken out of the rigmarole if you hired an agent, but this was expensive. You could complete all the paperwork yourself by visiting all the authorities one-by-one. In this part of the world, in order to “smooth” the pathway-of-paperwork, the officials regularly asked for bribes. It was cheaper to deal with the bribes ourselves than to hire an agent.

Taking our first steps on Kalimantan, we were assailed with the usual sounds and smells of a developing country. The faint odour of sewage, dust, and spices mixed with the noise of umpteen motorbikes and mopeds, ridden with a serious absence of road rules.

The small town of Kumai was delightfully lacking in the normal tourist trade. The locals were exceedingly friendly, and foreigners were the centre of attention. Feeling a bit like Hollywood stars, by the time we reached the end of the dusty street our faces ached with smiles and greetings. The grubby, barefoot kids flashed white smiles at us and continuously shouted ‘Hallooo Meeeeses; Hallooo Meeester.’ There was no hassling from the street peddlers selling their fake trade and invading our space. In fact, despite the obvious lack of money, Kumai was rather pleasant. It seemed that the town had found its own structure. It was littered with small retail shops, a few tailors, a market, and other such small establishments, where the locals generated their own income. The majority of Kumai was residential. The houses were mainly large sheds that were basic, unpainted, a bit dull and sad, but coloured by the remarkably bright, happy smiling locals. Instantly, we could sense that the locals were content with their lot in life.

The Indonesians were generally small in build, which made us feel cumbersome and clumsy. Many of the girls tried all sorts of tinctures and lotions to lighten their attractive dark skin. They all sported inordinately shiny, black hair. The women were slim and even though they were small, they mostly had model figures. We didn’t see many of the familiar pear-shapes prevalent in the first world. It’s here I found out a secret to the perfect bust: enormously padded bra’s (which are as attractive as two buckets and bailing twine). These industrial sized items were rife in South East Asia, but obesity here was not a problem; Asians eat rice like the Brits drink tea.

The town felt comfortable, like wearing your favourite jumper. Kumai’s main street had about four interconnecting side streets. Wandering around trying to find the officials’ office, we spotted what looked like an alfresco restaurant, with dancing and singing, all amid a brimming rainbow of colour. We should have been checking in, but we were ashore now and wanted some lunch. We meandered past, trying to covertly spy on the party.

Wafting from the stage, there was funky Arabian music played by a ragamuffin band sitting cross-legged, with homemade drums, violins, and guitars. On the other side of the stage were young men dressed in strangely plain, but beautiful, long Dish-Dashers (tunics), dancing and singing. Around the tables were the usual family members that gathered for a wedding. We were invited in. Well, not so much invited, but physically dragged in. I had worn a long sarong and a shirt with long sleeves in respect for the officials we would meet when checking in (some Indonesians are not used to seeing women’s bare legs and arms). Other cruisers passed by and were not invited in, because they were wearing shorts – Indonesians can find this offensive. At first, we were reluctant and I felt shy. We had been reading about the way of Indonesians, their culture and do’s and don’ts. I was terrified of making a huge faux pas. Taking a proffered plate, we were manhandled around the buffet, Mum and Dad ensuring that we sampled everything. It’s actually rude to turn down an invitation, or pretty much anything offered by an Indonesian, so we just went with the flow.

Our unbidden hosts tossed out a local family from the best seats near the stage and indicated that this was where we must sit, as honoured guests.

‘Everyone is watching us,’ I said to Noel with a broad smile, hiding my embarrassment.

Noel and I sat and took the first tentative steps of trying the unidentifiable food. Noel smiled at me reassuringly.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘my goodness, try some of this, it’s delicious.’

It wasn’t long before we were spooning it in with gusto. The flavours were incredible. New spices assaulted our taste buds, sending them into a frenzy of wanting more. All washed down with the sweetest lychees and plenty of water.

Eventually, the performers on the stage insisted that we joined them for a dance. We put them off for a while by slowing our eating and resisting eye contact, but it was inevitable. Still nervous of doing the wrong thing in this fresh experience and novel culture, we tentatively stepped onto the makeshift stage. The groovy music pumped around the band, vibrating the stage; we sedately boogied on down, trying to mimic our hosts’ dance moves. I didn’t feel like dancing like a westerner, because I wasn’t sure how hip swinging would be received and all the guests were watching our every move. The laughter was infectious: from the pleasure of their guests dancing and enjoying themselves, from the men who could tell I was nervous, from the jokes at our expense from the stunningly dressed girls; there was no stopping it.

Fine fabrics in an array of different colours beaded with sparkling rainbows, flitted around the party, pointing and staring at the plainly dressed visitors.

After a couple of songs, we were thanked profusely and settled back into our prime seats. Several guests joined us to talk. We didn’t understand a word anyone said! It was enormous fun speaking in our own, unprofessional, sign language.

Noel and I were both handed a gold painted, heart-shaped photo frame as a gift, and we thought it might be appropriate to present one in return to the bride and groom. I always carried a few handfuls of sweets for kids and some small koala bear figurines that donned cork hats and ‘I Love Australia’ t-shirts – a bit tacky maybe, but it was all we had, and we liked to think it was the thought that counted. Once our hosts realised what we wanted to do we were promptly pulled up and gently shoved to where a photo session was taking place. We were reluctant to interrupt, but were literally pushed over to the supposedly happy couple and made to stand with the rather stiff and sombre bride and groom – the photo session merrily continued. Some years later they must have wondered who on earth these strange people were in their wedding photos, handing over koala toys!

Sadly, bureaucracy nipped at our conscience, as we had to get our entry paperwork photocopied before the shops closed, so we took our leave. The families didn’t want us to go; handshakes were long and firm, and we had to wrench our hands free from theirs. We received requests for our return and thanks from everyone around us. Far more attention had been lavished on us than the bride and groom. We would learn that these unique opportunities just happened. Events that were spontaneous and unplanned were the cherished moments we could never repeat.

Eventually, we headed back to the dinghies and found other cruisers ashore.

‘We need another couple to make up numbers,’ a smooth Irish tone emanated from the huddled group, ‘why don’t you join us?

‘That’d be great,’ Noel and I answered together. ‘Where’re we going?’

‘We’re hopefully going to see the orangutans in the jungle,’ another cruiser from New Zealand explained, ‘pack a lunch.’

The tour guide’s office was a timber shack that sported more holes than timber. On the pitted desk, up to the minute stereo, TV and DVDs lay incongruously. Some of the gear was so new we had never heard of it, let alone seen it before. The array of cruising foreigners congregated within the mishmash of old and new surroundings, and we all cast fearful glances at the drum in the corner of the office. As our guides organised the rabble, they chain-smoked. I became mesmerised by the blue whorl of smoke that spiralled into the gaps in the rafters. In the corner, just an arms stretch away from the stained fingers holding the cigarette, quietly sat an enormous drum of diesel. We all knew it was diesel for the drum had no lid. It didn’t seem to worry our guides at all, but the cruisers from every corner of the world, all felt uncomfortable with the potential bomb just a few feet away.

So far the assembly of boat people consisted of Americans, Swedes, Kiwis, French, Irish, Brits, Hungarians, and Aussies. This, to me, was what life was all about: not luxury hotels (although sometimes it would have been nice to have had running hot water), but rather mixing with the locals; stuff that just wouldn’t happen on package tours. I was having the time of my life.

The next day we were collected by our chauffeured speedboat from our yacht at 6 am, and we soon felt like extras in a James Bond movie. Speeding up narrow creeks, caged in by thick, tangled jungle. After sailing for thousands of miles at five knots it was great to feel the wind in our hair at a supersonic thirty knots.

The resplendent green forest was bewitching, the smooth mirror-like river, cool, flat, and inviting. Indolent fresh water crocodiles peered over the horizon of water waiting for their prey; small monkeys swung aerobically from tree to tree, unaware of the splendid tableau that was their beautifully menacing home. We visually devoured the terrain, one of Mother Nature’s truly remarkable gifts, absurdly protected by humans, from humans. It was magnificent.

The Park was one of the few protected areas of tropical jungle. We arrived at the first camp, covered in extra strong bug repellent and sun cream, armed with hats, sunnies, socks, long pants, long-sleeved shirts, and enough lunch for about sixteen people!

Walking along the jetty, we met Michael, a small, long-tailed monkey. I was stunned as I offered him my hand and he took it. His hand was narrow, but long and unbelievably soft. Noel took his other hand, and we swung him back and forth like a child. We made our way along the sturdy, timber jetty with Michael between us; soon he let go and skipped along on at our heels, his long arms held drunkenly awry and his shorter legs peddling fast. He grabbed Noel’s rucksack strap and up he went, sitting parrot fashion on his shoulder. I felt jealous, but giddily happy, at being so close with this little creature, and perhaps a little relieved that Michael’s bare bum was not on my shoulder. Our furry friend left us and went to play with his other cousins that were clomping along the jetty.

After reading and dreaming about different places and happenings, we were finally in the middle of those places, doing the things we’d thought were fantasy. We trekked through the dense jungle with the guides puffing out their chests and expelling extraordinarily loud, deep bellows to summon the orangutans.

As we hiked under the blanket of heat and trees, we made friends with an Irish family that were travelling together on two sailboats a similar size to
Mariah
. Bob and Christine with their youngest son, Jamie, were on
Breakaway
and Kirstie (Bob and Christine’s daughter) was on
Chinook
with her British husband, Andy. It was an easy chat, all of us grateful for the pauses in conversation to catch our breaths in the airless heat. They were all on the home straight, having left Ireland some years before. They had already traversed the Atlantic Ocean, played in the Caribbean, piloted through the Panama Canal, and conquered the Pacific Ocean. We were beginners in comparison.

‘You’ll love the Pacific Ocean and its islands,’ they said. ‘You’re doing the hard bit now; the Pacific is easy, all downhill.’

I thought most of the sailing was pretty easy so far but this opinion would rapidly change. And I couldn’t come anywhere near to imagining that we would make it across the Atlantic and over the breadth of the almighty Pacific Ocean. Noel and I had an agreement to take the trip one destination at a time. Ultimately (and privately), our goal was to reach England, but we never really spoke about it. Thinking of the distance and lands between England and us was far too daunting. The next port, in whichever country, was our immediate goal that we focussed on – baby steps.

Eventually, accompanied with a layer of sweat, we reached the orangutan feeding site. On a square, wooden platform sat a bucket of milk and several enormous bunches of ripe bananas, their bright yellow skin contrasted to the vivid green surrounds.

The orangutans weren’t in any hurry, because the forest was teeming with their natural food. As the small group of humans gazed around and enjoyed the peace, an orangutan suddenly appeared. Cleverly making his way about fifteen metres up in the trees, he grasped small branches and bent them so he could clasp the trunk with his huge hands and feet. The contortionism performance left us with cricks in our necks and mouths hanging limp. Their limbs bent in every direction and stretched out to seemingly impossible lengths. After large, vocal gulps of milk from the bucket, he grasped several dozen bananas, it seemed his favourite eating position was upside down. Two or three other orangutans appeared and happily sat and ate with thirty intent eyes watching. These hairy creatures listened to umpteen cameras clicking with apparent apathy.