First I’d like to encourage you to double click on the
photos to see them in their full glory. This will bring them up to screen size,
where you can actually see the detail. The one's with wildlife in will be worthwhile doing so.
With only a stop for the issue of my Indonesian visa in
Tawau I caught one mode of transport after another, eventually reaching Tarakan
in little more than forty-eight hours. There was still a ferry journey and two
long bus trips before I could hope to reach Hutan Wehea, a protected tribal
area of original rain forest. It’s under the protection of one of the Dayak
tribal groups, with the financial help of Integrated Conservation, an NGO that
hosts a website holding all the information about Wehea Forest. The forest
guardians are drawn from the tribal group, they need to be quite committed as
their wages are extremely low in comparison with the mineworkers or palm oil
plantation workers. Whilst the rangers earn about 1,500,000 Rupiah, less than
£90 pm, the industrial labourers can earn up to nearly £300 pm. It’s a no
brainer really, but the small cadre of dedicated guides and guardians prefer
the peaceful life in the forest than living it up in their home village. (Photo: Hutan Wehea Central office - Nasah Liah Bing Village, Baru District, Kalimantan)
As luck would have it I stepped off one vehicle onto
another, all the way to Wahau, the nearest town to the tribal village. Considering
I do actually know a little Bahasa, I thought I could muddle through. I was
wrong, well, about the extent to which I would be able to communicate. I’ve met
very few people who can say more than, ‘hello mister’. Some of the more
attentive kids have learnt, ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘how are you?’ All they
seem to do is laugh when I give an answer, so I assume they can understand very
little. That isn’t to say I can’t communicate at all, and I’m rarely left to my
own devices. Wherever I go people want to acknowledge me, they are kind and
always interested to see me. Since Tarakan I’ve not seen another foreigner, but
I’ve been able to make my needs known. The phrases I know might be basic, but
they’re the important one’s. You know, things like, ‘Is your granny for sale?’
No, I jest, at least I hope I’ve not been asking that. The look of surprise on
some faces does make me wonder though.
Those I’ve met have looked after the stupid foreigner who
can’t even understand the simplest thing they say to me. When asked where to
drop me in Berau I insisted on the bus terminal, knowing there were no buses to
Berau they dropped me at the appropriate Kijang (4WD shared taxi) office. And I
was off again on a wild and bumpy drive towards Wahau, which turned out to be
quite an adventure in itself. Once clear of the city there was only short
corridor of green and fertile land, then it turned into a lunar landscape. The
surrounding hills were razed, leaving terraces of churned up mud and a
continuous convoy of tipper trucks serving the open caste coalmines. The
communities close by were solely to serve the mining industry, the men worked
there, the families were there to serve the men. I had a lovely welcome from
one family, who invited me to sit and drink coffee with them, while her
daughters and neighbours took photos of me with various members of the
community. All too quick we had to set off again, for a very long drive over
the most abysmal road I’ve been driven on for a long time. (Photo: Typical walk down the river - Hutan Wehea, Baru District, Kalimantan)
Nearing midnight we finally arrived at Wahau, the driver was
kind enough to ensure he dropped me at the door of my chosen hotel. The
following morning I made a very sweaty hike with full pack on to the village
itself. Don’t get illusions of primal tribes in all their glory, there are few
hints of their tribal heritage. I say one old woman with elongated ears the old
tradition of body decoration for women. Being notoriously touchy about having
photos taken I didn’t bother to even suggest it. The men used to tattoo
themselves, also piercing their penises and sewing small stones into it.
Apparently this was purely to enhance the pleasure of their women during sex,
though these are also traditions no longer practiced. Within the village it’s
as westernised as any Indonesian village, until special ceremonies occur. Then
everyone digs out their traditional costumes and seem to celebrate their
animist beliefs of days gone by rather than the catholic one’s forced on them
by the invading Spanish.
The village is only the tribal centre, not in the forest
itself, that’s a number of hours away and damned difficult to get to. As it
happened one of the workers was due to make the trip to the forest lodge that
afternoon. I can’t say it came cheap, costing about £170 for a week staying at
the lodge, food and trekking included. Which seems good value when quoted in
pounds, but that’s over budget for my meagre means, my travels are normally
considerably cheaper. It sounds so much more in rupiah though, there’s 18,000
to the pound. Only having three million rupiah on me I paid for as many nights
as my money allowed. And then the fun began, the two and a half hour journey
was to be by motorbike, little 125cc trail bikes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t being
given the use of one, just having to make do with riding shotgun. I’d heard it
was quite a wild road, and I must admit to have had a few reservations
concerning the amount of luggage I had. Yatim who rode the bike also had a
backpack. (Photo: Civet cat, not so shy, and so much like a cat - Hutan Wehea, Baru District, Kalimantan)
At first he thought I could just ride behind him, with my
full load strapped back and front. I couldn’t even fit on the bike like that,
the seat was tiny. Next attempt was with the accompanying rider to carry my
small pack, so he had one back and front. But the real problem was the weight
of my big pack, I couldn’t sit on the back and lift my feet without toppling
over backwards. So it had to be perched partly on the fuel tank, extending over
the handlebars and balanced on top the clocks. Of course this meant Yatim couldn’t
carry his own pack, so once we loaded up with food I had two packs on my back,
though they were still lighter than my main pack. Not light enough for my comfort
though, by the time we’d gone a few hundred yards I could feel the strain on my
thighs pushing against the footpegs, trying to stop myself lurching backwards.
There wasn’t anywhere to hold on, and as I’m a bit too macho to hold on to
another guy round his waist I had a death grip on the tiniest plastic edging
imaginable. By exerting pressure with both arms and legs I could create an equilibrium, keep myself in a stable position, one where the threat of falling off the back was minimised. (Photo: Incy Wincy Spider, which was actually bigger than my hand. His web spread across the trail, for more than three metres. - Wehea Forest, Baru District, Kalimantan)
Within a couple of miles my thighs were begging to get off,
and I knew the ride was at least two hours. At that stage we were still on
tarmac highway, I wasn’t looking forward to going off-road. By the time we
actually turned off the highway I was gritting my teeth, my thighs were
burning, I was almost shaking with the strain of holding on. I’d passed the
reservation stage, I was convinced I couldn’t cling on any longer and we’d gone
less than halfway. Hitting the dirt road turned out to be slight relief, but only a slight one. Having
to shift my weight around to absorb the lumps and bumps helped somewhat.
Altering our centre of gravity for steep climbs, or leaning back for the
descents gave my trembling thighs the briefest of relief. When we reached a
security post I assumed we were almost there. No such luck! Although riding
along the dirt road was exciting, the discomfort was too extreme to appreciate
it. It wasn’t anything special, it was dusty and we had to contend with a host
of big tipper trucks, but Yatim rode it well, hard but undoubtably well! (Photo: The smallest of creatures can be a pleasure to view - Hutan Wehea, Baru District, Kalimantan)
Wasn’t I glad of a break. I daren’t ask how much further it
was, the answer might have been too much to bear. From then the track narrowed
slightly, and the trucks were a thing of the past. Much of the soil was dark
orange, to me it looked slippery as hell. If I’d been riding a fully loaded big
trail bike I’d be nervous, he wasn’t, if anything he thrashed it even more.
Without a shadow of doubt it was a thrilling ride, if only it hadn’t hurt so
much. Pain or not it was a hell of a ride, twisting and turning, incredibly
steep hill climbs and head spinning drops. Around us the forest crowded the
edge of the track, opening now and then to reveal the crystal clear waters of
the river down a steep embankment. We passed a lumber camp and the track
narrowed yet again, it also grew rougher, with more loose gravel and big
drop-offs with little margin of error. The forest closed in and the track wound
on, seemingly forever. It failed to slow Yatim down, would anything? (Photo: A gibbon, checking me out to see whether I posed a threat, I invariably did - Hutan Wehea, Baru District, Kalimantan)
When I saw an archway with Hutan Wehea carved in it I
realised we’d arrived at the forest, hurray! The guy on the other bike had
carried on while we’d stopped to let me stretch, very briefly. He’d pulled over
at the barrier, but not Yatim. As he roared through without even checking his
speed I realised we still hadn’t reached the lodge. And then the track got
really exciting, it was little more than a footpath. It was as rough as a
bear’s arse, felt damned near vertical, and became a quagmire of oozing orange
clay. That did actually slow him down, I’m glad to say. What a ride, I was
amazed he got through, especially with me still sat on the bike. So gobsmacked
was I, I actually forgot the discomfort and enjoyed watching an extremely
competent rider ride through an atrocious trail. Don’t get me wrong, I was
sorely glad when it finished. But as soon as the strain was released a thrilling
flush flooded through me, that was an awesome ride. I only wish my own skills
of off-road riding were a match for his. (Photo: A hornbill doing a very good job of hiding - Hutan Wehea, Baru District, Kalimantan)
With only a stop for the issue of my Indonesian visa in
Tawau I caught one mode of transport after another, eventually reaching Tarakan
in little more than forty-eight hours. There was still a ferry journey and two
long bus trips before I could hope to reach Hutan Wehea, a protected tribal
area of original rain forest. It’s under the protection of one of the Dayak
tribal groups, with the financial help of Integrated Conservation, an NGO that
hosts a website holding all the information about Wehea Forest. The forest
guardians are drawn from the tribal group, they need to be quite committed as
their wages are extremely low in comparison with the mineworkers or palm oil
plantation workers. Whilst the rangers earn about 1,500,000 Rupiah, less than
£90 pm, the industrial labourers can earn up to nearly £300 pm. It’s a no
brainer really, but the small cadre of dedicated guides and guardians prefer
the peaceful life in the forest than living it up in their home village. (Photo: Hutan Wehea Central office - Nasah Liah Bing Village, Baru District, Kalimantan)As luck would have it I stepped off one vehicle onto
another, all the way to Wahau, the nearest town to the tribal village. Considering
I do actually know a little Bahasa, I thought I could muddle through. I was
wrong, well, about the extent to which I would be able to communicate. I’ve met
very few people who can say more than, ‘hello mister’. Some of the more
attentive kids have learnt, ‘what’s your name?’ and ‘how are you?’ All they
seem to do is laugh when I give an answer, so I assume they can understand very
little. That isn’t to say I can’t communicate at all, and I’m rarely left to my
own devices. Wherever I go people want to acknowledge me, they are kind and
always interested to see me. Since Tarakan I’ve not seen another foreigner, but
I’ve been able to make my needs known. The phrases I know might be basic, but
they’re the important one’s. You know, things like, ‘Is your granny for sale?’
No, I jest, at least I hope I’ve not been asking that. The look of surprise on
some faces does make me wonder though. Nearing midnight we finally arrived at Wahau, the driver was
kind enough to ensure he dropped me at the door of my chosen hotel. The
following morning I made a very sweaty hike with full pack on to the village
itself. Don’t get illusions of primal tribes in all their glory, there are few
hints of their tribal heritage. I say one old woman with elongated ears the old
tradition of body decoration for women. Being notoriously touchy about having
photos taken I didn’t bother to even suggest it. The men used to tattoo
themselves, also piercing their penises and sewing small stones into it.
Apparently this was purely to enhance the pleasure of their women during sex,
though these are also traditions no longer practiced. Within the village it’s
as westernised as any Indonesian village, until special ceremonies occur. Then
everyone digs out their traditional costumes and seem to celebrate their
animist beliefs of days gone by rather than the catholic one’s forced on them
by the invading Spanish. At first he thought I could just ride behind him, with my
full load strapped back and front. I couldn’t even fit on the bike like that,
the seat was tiny. Next attempt was with the accompanying rider to carry my
small pack, so he had one back and front. But the real problem was the weight
of my big pack, I couldn’t sit on the back and lift my feet without toppling
over backwards. So it had to be perched partly on the fuel tank, extending over
the handlebars and balanced on top the clocks. Of course this meant Yatim couldn’t
carry his own pack, so once we loaded up with food I had two packs on my back,
though they were still lighter than my main pack. Not light enough for my comfort
though, by the time we’d gone a few hundred yards I could feel the strain on my
thighs pushing against the footpegs, trying to stop myself lurching backwards.
There wasn’t anywhere to hold on, and as I’m a bit too macho to hold on to
another guy round his waist I had a death grip on the tiniest plastic edging
imaginable. By exerting pressure with both arms and legs I could create an equilibrium, keep myself in a stable position, one where the threat of falling off the back was minimised. (Photo: Incy Wincy Spider, which was actually bigger than my hand. His web spread across the trail, for more than three metres. - Wehea Forest, Baru District, Kalimantan)
I had a fancy for having the lodge to myself, it wasn’t to
be though, a group of scientists were on a research trip studying the insect
life. The first day or two I remained in an awed silence of my own. That first
night was incredible, the jungle chorus was so loud it took me ages to sleep.
Cheeping, chirruping, clicking, clacking, even the klaxon sound of cicadas. It
was always there, throughout the day and night. But once the sun set it
increased substantially. I was magical sitting by the river, watching the
flickering of fireflies floating through the foliage, lost in the sounds of
nature’s choral excellence. My days were spent trekking half the time, the rest
relaxing. I may not have seen some of the large jungle creatures, but the
experience more than made up for it. There’s nothing quite like traipsing
through almost impenetrable jungle, looking expectantly for its shy inhabitants.
I saw enough to satisfy myself for now, that was only my first port of call
after all.
That was an amazing week, which finished all too soon. I'm now in the filthy city of Samarinda, of course any city would seem very intense after a week in a forested wonderland. All I can say if you're ever in this part of the world, you must, and I mean MUST pay Hutan Wehea a visit!
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