58 - Kerinci National Park (Sumatra, Indonesia)
“Off to see the wizard. Just being in the jungle was enough to dampen my loins, but part of me hoped against hope for a peek at the elusive Tigger the Sumatran Tiger. Chances? One in a kazillion… or not. I had reason for optimism. My intrepid team spotted an orange furball during their reconnaissance the week before. Could lightning strike twice? I crossed my testicles for good luck.”
by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac
FIVE DAYS IN THE TANGLE. FIVE… NOT THREE. Excellente. Mo time meant mo money, but I didn’t give a cat’s pajamas. I can’t recall the price. Didn’t fucking matter. Just tell me where to sign, I thought. Buckle up. Buckle in. Let me begin.
En (my guide) enlisted reinforcements, a friend who’d spent the last twenty years hunting in the forest we were about to enter. Can’t go wrong with local expertise, but En had an ulterior motive—an alternative income source for his pal. This was a good thing. Less economic pressure meant less killing shit in the national park. Give folks a reason to preserve the forest, and they’ll do the conservation work themselves. Also, we needed a third to help carry supplies. Might as well be a knowledgeable one, eh?
I had the sense En wasn’t a stranger to elicit acts in the park either. I could be wrong, but I doubt it. People do what they must to get by. Walk a mile… One reason he spent so much time and energy underwriting this trip? He hoped to make it a regular gig. One more reason it was so easy to part with the cash. Help the economy. Help the jungle. Satisfy curiosity. Win, win, and win.
Off to see the wizard. Just being in the jungle was enough to dampen my loins, but part of me hoped against hope for a peek at the elusive Tigger the Sumatran Tiger. Chances? One in a kazillion… or not. I had reason for optimism. My intrepid team spotted an orange furball during their reconnaissance the week before. Could lightning strike twice? I crossed my testicles for good luck.
The hour-long walk from the porter’s home to the jungle’s edge was a light stroll across farmland, farmland à la slash and burn. And the encroachment continues. The terraformed landscape is beautiful in its own right, but it’s difficult to ignore the destruction or the implications. Shit ain't pretty in a pretty sort of way.
Broccoli. Clumps and clumps of broccoli. That’s what the forest resembled from afar. I whispered, “Here we go” as we abandoned open terrain for the dim interior of the broccoli-verse. Be careful what you wish for… asshead. For the first couple days, the ground was even, the trail fairly defined. I was grateful for the slow introduction. Two hours in, the increasingly dense jungle gave way. An extinct sulfur vent had corroded a wide swath. Volcanic activity prevented growth and initiated small landslides, an anti-oasis. You could sniff the natural demolition.
The enclave attracted previous visitors, human and feline alike. Tiger tracks crisscrossed the glen, coming and going from every corner. Fresh tracks. You could almost smell the newly baked footprints. But wait, there was more. A “crime” scene. Yes, yes it was. (CSI: Sumatra?) Bones of the vanquished (a deer, I believe) littered the site. Kitty made a kill, then kitty had a snack. This was a full-service glen. Playtime succeeded snack time or vice versa. A log for rubbing. A branch for scratching. Mud for scuffing. A whiff of cat piss, perhaps? The message was clear: Mine! My glen! Me, my, and mine! Kitties better step off… or I’ll cut ya ese! A lingering presence hung in the air. Garfield was near. Heeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty.
Although this wasn’t our intended camp, it was made so after a short discussion. En knew what I wanted, and he was dead set on making it happen. We would loiter for a night. He’d been here before and recognized the potential. On an earlier trip, he cleared an area on a small hill overlooking the expanse. (Tourism or hunting? Ummm…) Ideal spot for a vigil. Also, not far from the area where they spotted Stripey a week before. All this made me tingle in the tingle parts.
My crew set up shop on the hill. Richie idled in the open. I wasn’t comfortable being waited on hand and foot, but resistance was futile. No matter how many times I asked, En never needed my help. Never. I gave up trying. I truly wanted to part of the team, not a mobile luggage unit, but forcing the issue would’ve made En uncomfortable. So, I capitulated in the best way possible—by soaking up the ambiance.
It was still early afternoon, so I let my mud-soaked shoes and socks dry on a rock in the sun while I bathed in the glory of seclusion. My moment with nature. Truly sublime. I stood motionless for long intervals letting the primordial energy pervading the Sumatran wilderness absorb me. Stand. Listen. Imagine. Pulsate gratitude. That was my job.
It didn’t take long for my imagination to indulge wild cinematic fantasies… A lone stranger. The quasi-mystical true king of the jungle’s domain. Would his/her highness deem the interloper worthy of a visit… or a punishment? The stranger freezes, incapable of motion. A low drumbeat accompanies an eerie hum. Real or imagined? His heartbeat quickens. A phantom nearby. An “other” hiding in the gloom. Listening. Watching. Deciding. Somewheres… but where? The stranger searches but cannot see, listens but cannot hear. Neck hair snaps to attention. A compulsion, a magnetism, forces him to about-face with a fluency of motion that astounds him. Who goes there? A striped marauder glowering through yellow-green stands of grass? Sure is. Who’s the predator? And the prey? Who’s your daddy?
I snapped out of it. Just some yahoo watching muddy socks dry, Dr. Jones. That was my afternoon. Perched within our makeshift hide, I spent another two hours waiting silently for Khan’s appearance, to no avail. Dinner followed and then bedtime. Tiger: 1, Richie: 0.
The next morning we moved on. We found more evidence of Panthera tigris activity just past the glen. Someone had been hunting, as distortions in the foliage and paw prints would attest. A fast-moving feline making haste. Tony had darted in and out of the bush attempting to head off a tapir, if tracks in the mud were any indication. Successful? No way to be sure, but it didn’t appear so. Tony: 0, Mr. Tapir: 1. But wait, there was more. In total, we found tracks from three distinct kitties, two of which appeared to belong to a mother and cub. Heeeeere… kitty, kitty, kitty. Come here pretty kitty.
After an hour and a half walk, we reached the campsite we were supposed to be at the night before. Another high-level discussion ensued. I voiced my reservations about moving on with the recent tiger to-ing and fro-ing. The guides agreed, telling me they’d seen little evidence of furballs farther along the route. Though it would be a long hike come the morrow, En suggested we linger for another day. We set up camp. The quest resumed.
Animals, like humans, would much prefer following a trail as opposed to crashing their way through the bush. So, they often forge their own. Before lunch, we followed the footprints and poo-poo of a large tapir. It led us to the edge of vast swampland. We tarried for a spell, enjoying the view. Why were we following Tidsdale the Tapir? Well, ya never know, right? All one big crap shoot anyhoo. Tapirs are as elusive as tigers and more bizarre looking. I wasn’t against catching a glimpse. They make excellent chow for our friend, so maybe we’d hit the jackpot. (Insensitive much?) Didn’t happen on that jaunt. Tapir: 1, Richie: 0.
That afternoon the “hunt” continued. Watch out Tony, here we come… again. Come out, come out wherever you is! We followed the trail back toward the sulfur deposit and discovered something we missed on the first pass—another tiger frolic/kill spot. The victim? Porky Pig (a.k.a wild boar). We discovered bones and both halves of a skull. Unfortunately, this murder wasn’t recent. Unlike the deer remains, there was zero meat on the bones. Fiddlesticks. We patrolled the area for the rest of day two but came up empty. Tony and family: 2, Richie: 0.
En had a knack for the lyrical. After leaving the second “crime” scene, we encountered flower blossoms “snowing” in the jungle. White flower petals fell to the ground in sputtering gasps, taking on the aura of large snowflakes. En pointed to this and said he’d only seen it once before under similar circumstances (i.e. in the presence of slain tiger prey). He compared the blossoms to jungle tears, a land mourning the loss of life. Simple. Evocative. Profound. Well done, En. Well done.
Less poetic were the leeches relentlessly assaulting our ankles, an assault that would continue for the duration. Anticoagulant-secreting bastards with an insatiable appetite for blood. Not a fan. Tear ‘em off and bleed. And bleed some more. And then keep bleeding. Delicious.
To dry my sopping-wet footwear, I placed my shoes close to the fire. Never guess what happened? Melted soles to accompany my melted soul. Stupid. Luckily, they were still functional. Disaster? Averted. But still stupid… stupid.
Day three was a bitch. No other way to put it. A long day along an arduous way. One of the most challenging aspects? Summoning the mental constitution required to keep slogging. It’s no picnic physically, but you also have to concentrate and focus with each step and each grasp. A third of everything you touch has thorns or needles. Another third is slicker than a greased pig’s ass or deceptively unstable. Putting your faith in the wrong branch, root, or rock, can send you for a ride. Throw in steep inclines, declines, an assload of mud and, Welcome to the carnival. I turned pooper sliding into an art form. Profanity was my paintbrush. Many a time, frustration got the better of me and I threw, kicked, or punched offending protrusions. More profanity ensued. My attitude oscillated from “The jungle rocks!” to “Mommy, Richie wanna get off the jungle, now!”
When En said this section would involve “a little bit down,” as he put it, I assumed it was a fairly innocuous jungle hillside. Nuh-uh. What he actually meant? Get ready for a mini-crucible… beeeeotch. He’d voiced his concern more than once, but I’d brushed it off. Guides often err on the side of caution, so I figured this was no different. I didn’t realize how scared he was I’d be angry when we started tumbling through the vegetation. “I think you would be mad with me,” was his disclaimer.
Clearly, he don’t know me very well, do he? But I understood why he was worried. First off, no trail. None. Those poor bastards hacked a new channel through the density down what basically amounted to a cliff. I dare say had there not been so much vegetation to act as a tenuous ladder, you might well need repelling equipment. Remember, En cleared this path in anticipation of my return. Imagine if I’d decided not to return? Jeeee-sus. They spent four days blazing a trail through the Sumatran jungle so that I could play Dr. Livingston. Had I understood the true extent of their labors, my decision would’ve been easy. Holy sugarshit nuggets.
At one particularly hairy interlude, En and I burst into borderline maniacal laughter. I was thinking, I paid to do this? His face read, This asshole paid to do this? Pictures were out of the question, as pulling out my camera was on par with chucking it into the underbrush. A misstep could send a hapless wanderer down a precipitous drop, ass over teakettle. Luckily, I managed to avoid this… somehow.
One reason my guide and his faithful sidekick surveyed the route before my arrival? To see if they could locate hot springs nestled deep inside the forest. They did. En knew the approximate location from the sulfur smoke he saw escaping from vents while atop Mt. Kerinci. A jungle hot spring retreat? Yes, please. But I didn’t get my hopes up.
As our descent leveled out, we heard something in the distance. Shhhhhhhh… A shushing. A light shushing. Jungle quiet hours? Nope. Just full steam ahead. Gas/steam escaping volcanic vents. We drew closer. It grew louder. I grew tingly. Anticipation bubbled inside me. Gas bubbled from the earth. The shushing turned to chaotic chatter from the masses. Volcanic vent or the slowly climaxing roar of a crowd? Only the context confirmed the answer. Otherwise, I could swear we would emerge to discover a soccer stadium packed with fans on the brink of eruption. A building crescendo of excitement on the verge of kinetic explosion… “LET’S GO IN-DO! Clap, clap, cla-cla-cla-clap!” The jungle wasn’t on fire, but one could be forgiven for thinking so. Smoke and heat. What else could it be? Plumes of steam and sulfur gas shrouded the setting in mystery—Mother Nature’s prehistoric theme park.
Travel is like heroin. Only those bit by the bug can understand the addiction. The more you see, the less you’ve seen. There’s always more. Around that corner. Near that village. Atop that mountain. You’re almost there… but you never arrive. Like any drug, tolerance builds. Easy to please. Hard to impress. I’m a child. Amaze me, universe. The child grows up. Been there, done that. Seen this movie before.
I was acutely aware of this phenomenon. I hated it. I tried to fight it. Bored with the world? Fuck off. Well, the world wasn’t the problem. I was, but that’s beside the point. Sometimes it doesn’t matter where you’ve been or what you’ve seen. Some places refuse to be outdone, even by unrealistic expectations. This was such a place.
Magnificent. That’s the word. We emerged amid the din of sulfur-spewing vents, gurgling pools of boiling clay stew, steam-veiled stream water, and a monkey troupe vociferously protesting our trespass. Just one of those times. One of those times when you’re so overwhelmed, so inundated by nature’s grandeur, you feel you might burst from the overload. (Drug overdose?) I know, I know… take another bong hit, Billy. But it really was something. (Insert “You just had to be there” cliché.)
It wasn’t just the context, but the totality of circumstances. An adventure that almost wasn’t. Driving eight hours “the wrong way” back to Kerinci. The kindness and curiosity of my guides. The trial-by-jungle that stood between us and paradise. The solitude. Few, if any, tourists had visited, at least not lately. This wilderness was ours. Just ours. For a little while, anyway. I was so goddamn grateful. And I still am… goddamnit.
While En organized camp, he suggested I venture downstream for some smoke and a soak. Go until the water temp dropped below testicle-boiling, he suggested. (I’m paraphrasing.) I had an appointment at the Kerinci Day Spa I wasn’t going to miss. I disrobed to my skivvies and abandoned all but my towel and camera. Traversing to cooler climes was a tad daunting. Slick rocks. Scorching water. One hand free. I could see the State Department dispatch: Nude dipshit boiled alive Sumatran sous-vide style. Thankfully, the water approached hot tub perfection approximately two hundred feet down.
And… ahhhhhhhhh! Steamy jungle stream. Chirping birds. Naked and unafraid goofball. Me in the Sumatran jungle wearing my birthday suit. Alone. Adam in the garden of Eden? Felt like it, but there ain’t no Adam without Eve… frown. After bath time, it was back to camp for din-din, a cup of coffee, and a peaceful slumber. There’s something so utterly satisfying about sipping copious amounts of Sumatran coffee in Sumatra. Juan Valdez can kiss my ass. With the benefit of hindsight, I’m thinking caffeine was an excellent way to fug up my sleep. Silly rabbit.
A paparazzo on amphetamines. That was me in the morning. So many shots, so little time. Yes, I got carried away and had to remind myself nature is best viewed through thine own eyes, not a viewfinder. Deep. Very deep… duh. I rewarded my efforts with another stint in the hot tub, because I’m worth it.
After basting myself again, we were off. Day four was less grueling than day three, but only just. More incline/decline spiced up with a sustained torrential downpour. Mud, crud, and my ass’s thud (upon the ground that is). And FYI, hypnotizing every muscle in your body by soaking in a hot spring pre-strenuous hike is plain ignant. It was a struggle. Not only that, our pace slowed to snail proportions. En hacked at every potential twig or protuberance that might brush my person. He seemed to take every inconvenience I encountered as a personal failure. It might’ve had something to do with all the swearing I did the day before. (If I was a bettin’ man.) I was too tired to protest and assumed (conveniently) he was maintaining the trail for future masochists.
I will beat my dead horse now. En’s continued accommodations reached absurd proportions. For example, after my morning photo shoot, I found coffee and a snack waiting on the path leading to camp. Why? So I wouldn’t suffer the indignity of having to walk a hundred feet. And he repeatedly offered to shoulder some of my load. I declined, but he was undeterred. When I wasn’t looking, he added a few things to his bag. Scallywag. He was always worried if I had enough food, enough coffee, enough whatever. And, yes, I suppose I could’ve bolstered my resistance, but the effort grew as tiresome as the trekking. I relented. Also, I deserve to be pampered on account of my tulip-like fragility.
A note on the porter. He spent most of his time forging ahead either negotiating jungle obstacles with pixie-esque agility or hacking his way through with brute force—a literal trailblazer. His enthusiasm never waned one iota. A real trooper. Super trooper. Super duper trooper. Couldn’t ask for a better crew.
As we waited out a particularly harsh jungle piss-pounding under the canopy, En shared a local legend. He said many village elders warned against walking inside the jungle when the sun shines on wet foliage. This is a tiger’s favorite time to hunt. Why? Wet leaves provide a reflective surface to assist spying prey. He told me this when a glint of sunlight penetrated the roof for a brief moment. It was soon pissing down again, so I guess we were safe.
For the finale, we camped near a small river a few hours from our endpoint. A warm fire helped dry our spirits and our soaked clothing. My crew was very fond of the fire and spent their nights huddled close by. They didn’t have sleeping bags, so this was their warming strategy. Like I said, troopers.
The last day involved light trekking, and we moved easily through the remaining leg of our journey. We also found more tiger tracks, and I hoped we might catch a glimpse after all. Negative. It was not to be. Something I saw at the jungle’s edge made my heart contract—animal traps set along trails blazed by local fauna. We came upon two snares aimed at deer or the wandering boar. The problem is, these traps don’t discriminate. They’re equal opportunity and a tiger stands a solid chance of ensnarement. I wanted to destroy them, to rip them to bits, but En wasn’t receptive. I would’ve taken matters into my own hands, but I feared creating animus between me and my new friends. I saw a potential tiger killer. They saw a farmer trying to eat. We were both right and both wrong. Such is the nuance of reality. Although overcome with ambivalence, I moved on. Was I trying to help tigers or make myself feel better? The traps would be replaced, and I would’ve accomplished nothing concrete.
No tiger por moi. Was I disappointed? A little, but I got over it right quick. I was far too grateful for all that I had seen. And the more I considered it, the more I was relieved… Stay away tiger. Stay far away from me, far away from us all. Even those who mean you no harm pose a threat. Hide anywhere and everywhere you can. Leave your mark. Let us know you’re there from time to time but stay hidden. The longer, the better. Your days are numbered, your home threatened. Your brethren in Java and Bali know all too well the danger posed, for they only exist in prisons designed for the captors’ enjoyment, not the captive’s. They’re trapped. You’re not. Not yet. Run away, my friend. There’s nothing for you here. And please, forgive my intrusion. I should stay away, but your beauty compels me to seek, even against my better judgement. You’re one of a kind, and I’d be honored to make your acquaintance. But you must hide. You must flee. For that, I respect you. So, if perchance you were to meet me along your path, please find it in your heart to excuse my offense, and then run away as fast as you can. Run away. Keep running. Run as if your life depends on it…
We crossed a tea plantation en route to the village where we’d eat lunch and catch a bus to Kersik Tuo. A pleasant stroll with a picturesque backdrop. Perfect punctuation. En’s pants were disintegrating, held together only by plastic ribbon. His jungle attire consisted of rubber boots and tattered pants. And the porter’s choice of footwear? White Keds with rubber-spiked soles. Gimme a “T” for Troopers.
After lunch, the adventure continued. Next door to the restaurant was a house where a group gathered for a sneak peek of a soon-to-be-married couple. Guess what happened next. They invited me to drop in and snap a few photos. How could I refuse? So, I found myself on the porch of this couple’s house taking photos and undergoing the standard friendly inquisition. What’s your name? Where are you from? Why are you here? Are you married?… and so on. Not married? Well, they could fix that. I was offered the hand of a local maiden. It happened to be the seventeen-year-old girl sitting next to me. (I think they were kidding… mostly.) I agreed she was pretty. Half my age, but pretty. I appeared to be the only one that saw a problem with our potential union. Keep in mind I’d just spent five days traipsing through the bush and was none too clean, hot spring action notwithstanding. They didn’t seem to take notice of my derelict state. When they asked me to attend the wedding, I implored my guide to intervene and explain we had to move along. In truth, I would’ve enjoyed the hell out of it, but time and personal hygiene were factors working against me.
Yes, I’m a dumbass. This was a huge mistake. I thought, Next wedding. There was no next wedding. Where was the carpe fucking diem, asshole? I blame exhaustion. Not just from the trek, but the mental fortitude it would’ve required to crash a wedding and become the center of attention. What would the bride think about that? Answer? She would’ve loved it. I’m guessing I would’ve been the life of the party and one hell of a wedding prop. I’m stupid. Regret only the things you haven’t done… ya big fucking dummy.
And then came the mini-bus extravaganza back to Kersik Tuo. More often than not, public bus equals vomit producing sardine can. This was no exception. In the span of two hours, every qualm I had about buying a motorcycle, every reservation I had about the drawbacks of solo travel, every concern I had about missing out on the cultural experience of public transport in Indonesia was obliterated. Although I had a relatively spacious front-seat vantage point, I was engaged in a constant struggle against lunch regurgitation. Start. Stop. Swerve. Slow down. Speed up. Severe dehydration did nothing to help. And then there was the “Wow, you almost creamed that dude or squashed that woman” factor. All the excitement of a roller coaster without all the safeguards. And just to highlight the precarious nature of the journey, the driver spoke on his cell phone most of the drive. Excellent. The trip wouldn’t have been complete without a blown tire. And… check.
Along the way, I spotted a guy standing by the road holding a large snake while smiling like a lunatic. (As if to say “Hey! Look what I found!”) Not entirely sure what that was about, but it somehow felt right. Despite the drama, we returned safely to Kersik Tuo. A good trip. A very good trip.
If you wish to hire E En (highly recommended) here is his contact info:
Cell Phone: +62 852 66 266 992
Email: endatno@gmail.com
