52 - Bukit Barisan Selatan National Park (Sumatra, Indonesia)
“I do not regret the things I've done, but those I did not do”
— Rory Cochrane
Krui in the rear. The jungle in my ear. The treasures of BBSNP ain’t so easy to see. And yet, just being there was more than fair and filled my heart with glee. And in the town I could not frown, for the ladies fancied me.
by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac
WOKE UP THAT MORNING, FEELING FINE. Had Bukit Barisan Selatan National Park (BBSNP) on my mind. I went east with the morning. (Or would that be against the morning?) Destination: Liwa. Though only thirty-two kilometers from Krui, I was determined to make it longer. So, I missed a turn and stretched the experience another twenty minutes. Way to go, Magellan. Though parts of the road were dinged up somewhat, for the most part it was a motorcyclist’s delight. Meandering curves and the cool air of elevation made for a pleasant drive. I cranked it up to 45 mph, nearly blowing my face off.
Liwa was certainly out of my way, but I’d have to be an asshole to drive past BBSNP. The national park that lies directly on its southern border is ranked by the World Wildlife Fund as one of the planet’s most biologically outstanding habitats. A biologically outstanding habitat for a biologically outstanding dipshit. Couldn’t miss it. To the jungle, Bubba!
The Lonely Planet contained scant details and recommended entering from the village of Kota Agung in the south. I’d blown by there days earlier with the tentative understanding one could enter from Liwa. The LP had nothing on Liwa, so I was going in blind. Going to a town not outlined in the guidebook? Fucking lunacy. I was only one step removed from hunting bush meat in a loincloth. Dr. Livingstone, I presume?
In town, I entered a restaurant for information and lunch. On the topic of park exploration, I received the Indonesian equivalent of No way, Jose. The owner said it wasn’t possible. If I wanted in, I’d have to enter from Kota Agung. Fooey. I asked around. Same answer… repeatedly. Not possible. I sulked over a bowl of chicken and rice, and then I asked again. (As in, “Are ya sure, sure?”) Still no. Fiddlesticks.
I straddled the Phantom and began my dejection tour back to Krui. I mentally flagellated myself for the defeat but wasn’t so self-absorbed in pity that I missed the park entrance I’d failed to notice on the way in. So much for situational awareness, eh gov’nah? Across the road was a ranger station. Clearly, this should have been my first stop. I ignant. I very ignant.
I drove up the little hill to the station and had a nice chat with the rangers. By “rangers” I mean Indonesian males dressed in jeans, t-shirts, and flip-flops, and by “chat” I mean an exchange of grunting sounds in broken Indonesian and English. This wasn’t a hot tourist haunt, and I got the sense random idiots on motorcycles rarely popped in for a look-see. Nonetheless, they were all smiles. The grunting produced fruit. The rangers agreed to take me on a trek the following morning. I suspected it wasn’t to be a “balls to the wall” jungle crucible, but it was better than nothing. Score one for fruitful grunting.
Confused? So was I. The restaurant owner didn’t know there was an official park entrance fifteen minutes from his door, or that you could hire rangers to take you inside? Um, kay. This seems implausible, I know, but I detected zero deception on the owner’s part or the half-dozen other folks I questioned. And I’d come across this brand of information dissonance in the past. Once again, I violated my own rule of adventure travel (henceforth referred to as “The Rule of Ignance”): Never believe anything anybody says, ever. Seek confirmation. Don’t be ignant. People make mistakes. Oftentimes, they don’t know what they don’t know. If my astute powers of perception hadn’t red-flagged the entrance on my way out, I would’ve missed a golden opportunity.
Case in point? I bid farewell till the morrow and returned to town for lodging. With a room secured, I searched for internet. I asked questions. People gave me answers. None of the answers were right, but they did their best, I think. Either that or the whole town was in on a game of “Fuck With The Bule (white dude).” Maybe there was a team of walking-talkie toting miscreants cueing the disinformation campaign as I progressed. If so, that makes sense. Also, I’m impressed. When I finally found the internet café, the power went out minutes after arrival. Conspiracy?
After the failed attempt at internetting, it was time for din-din. From the moment I entered a small establishment, it was clear they didn’t get many honkies in those parts. I must say the initial reception was cool at best. I had the feeling they (and by “they” I mean what seemed the like the entire extended family) were hoping I’d get it to go and skedaddle. I resisted, politely asking for a plate. I was presented with chicken, fish, and something unidentified. It could’ve been stomach. It could’ve been asshole. I really don’t know. As I swallowed the mystery, the man of the house came out and seemingly tried to kill me with his mind. The rest of the family watched me eat with rapt attention. Every bit as awkward as it sounds.
But then the ice melted. The patriarch disengaged his mental kill switch long enough to point to the five younger women sitting around the table. I can’t be sure, but the implication was I should choose. Um, kay. Actually, I can be sure. Why? Because this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. The consensus seemed to be that I was handsome. Keep in mind I hadn’t showered in days and could’ve used my hair to lubricate the motorcycle chain. Full of myself? Probably. But how do you explain one woman proclaiming, “I want to kiss you” in English. You can’t, can you? Well, simple. I was there. On a shiny motorcycle. Ergo, I was cash positive. Even with a hunched back and an eye patch, the reaction might’ve been the same. I blushed like a schoolgirl and smiled. Not sure of the proper protocol. As I was leaving, half the gang came outside to wave goodbye. Again, ya gotta love Indo.
Rhinos and tigers and elephants, oh my! I some none of them. No Tigger the Tiger for me… frown. Surprising? Nope. Probably requires more than a leisurely morning nature walk to sniff them out. The statistics don’t help. The park contains 882,000 acres of land for the fauna to hide. All that with approximately forty tigers, twenty rhinos, and five hundred elephants. Indeed, my chances of hitting a jackpot in Vegas were far better.
Wildlife eluded me but all was not lost. The trip was worthwhile as just being in the jungle is a rewarding experience. Heard, but not seen. (Maybe the jungle was in on the conspiracy.) Monkeys, birds, and a myriad of insects made their presence known. The insect trill sounded remarkably mechanical. A few times I thought someone was running a small drill nearby. No elephants, but we did find elephant shit—vintage elephant shit (i.e. two weeks old).
No megafauna but plenty of leeches. The little fuckers were everywhere. And aggressive. You can stand and watch as they inchworm closer in the dirt. I evaded capture but was awestruck as they beelined for me. What they lack in size they clearly compensate for with ambition. The guides understood all too well. They were pulling them off their necks and from underneath their pants. Delicious.
At a shelter along the trail, we did see a snake nestled in the rafters. Species unknown, but dangerous as hell (or so I was told). I also saw something on the ground that resembled orangutan fur. At first, I thought they were trying to tell me it was primate fur. Confused? And so was I. Why would a monkey leave well-groomed fur pods on the ground? It doesn’t. (Or does it?) I think they were telling me it’s a type of plant with what looks like fur on its stalk. Or not. I’m still not sure and some light Google research has revealed nothing. So, how about if I make up an explanation?
Adult female orangutans rip fur clumps from their asses and place them strategically throughout the forest. This serves two purposes: 1) delineates territory and warns others to her presence; 2) provides an invitation for mature males. If a male finds the scent of asshole fur acceptable, he proceeds onward in hopes of successful mating. Orangutan asshole fur is considered a delicacy in Indonesia and believed to boost fertility for both males and females.
A picturesque waterfall awaited at trail’s end. We enjoyed the mist for about an hour, then returned to base. No, it wasn’t the magic of NatGeo film studios, but it was still magic. The jungle is the jungle.
Patience is a virtue, but I wasn’t feeling very virtuous. Viewing this as a light introduction to the Sumatran jungle, I decided to move on the next morning. Dumb, dumb, and dumb. I should’ve stuck around for at least another day. A few more awkward conversations might have led somewhere, possibly a more adventurous interlude. But the scourge of traveler’s restlessness dug in. I had to obey. And so, to the north, Charlemagne!
