In Kalimantan

Like Sulawesi, Kalimantan was a destination we had to forgo on our first visit to Indonesia back in 2009. At the time, the lure of orangutans in an exotic and little visited part of Borneo was strong, but fate had other ideas and multiple flight cancellations ruined our plans. Nowadays access to the Tanjung Puting National Park to see the apes is a lot easier, however tourist numbers along with prices have shot up and sightings are now confined to feeding platforms and organised seating. Not quite so exotic, rather expensive and unlikely to ever eclipse our Sumatra experiences. Still, we felt compelled to come to Kalimantan in any event. We ended up doing something completely different, but it somehow felt like we had unfinished business to resolve.

So we swapped orangutans for sun bears. Rescued sun-bears to be precise and easily found in a small reserve outside the city of Balikpapan. We timed our visit for early morning feeding, where rangers placed quantities of fruit under piles of logs for the bears to sniff out and retrieve. There are only 6 bears at the sanctuary and each had its own personal trauma to overcome, from being caught in traps, to having their teeth filed down (many were kept as children’s pets) to being confined in tiny cages 24 hours a day. One of the female bears, ‘Chand’, was the most inquisitive and evidently the most hungry. Finding the fruit and chasing off equally peckish squirrels was the easy part. Eating it was not so easy – Chand’s left paw was a mangled mess from her struggle to escape a wire snare. Parts had already been amputated and the rangers informed us that she’d probably need to have all of it removed in the near future. She managed to position her paws adequately enough to snaffle away at the meal, but it was pitiful to watch. Other bears at least, seemed to be fairing a little better. We found a character named Batik splayed out on a platform, tongue lolling out of his mouth and moaning contentedly in the early morning sunshine, apparently without a care in the world.

Harris the sun bear

Chand with her mangled paw

Batik takes it easy

There were a few other encounters we were keen to experience here, but some were proving difficult to organise and inconveniently spread far and wide. After a little research we found a local guide, Joe, who agreed to drive us around to visit a group of buffalo cowboys near the village of Nagara and to see the diamond mining operations and floating markets outside the city of Banjarmasin. He also suggested an additional mountain jungle trek in the south of the province.

We met Joe unexpectedly at Banjarmasin airport. He’d dropped someone off and decided to wait a couple of hours to give us a lift into town, enthusiastically greeting us as if we were long lost friends, though he’d never seen us before. We were the only Westerners around though, so he probably thought it was a safe bet. Joe had brought his family along too – we met his wife and his youngest daugher Shakila, whose command of English bordered on the precocious.

He dropped us at the Summer BnB, which turned out to be a rather grubby, insalubrious hotel with a smoke filled restaurant that gave us both a serious dose of the runs for 24 hours. Up at 4am the next day, we met up again, plodded out to a nearby jetty to board a multi-coloured motorboat and chugged noisily down the Maratapura River for an hour. We were accompanied by bats flitting past the boat and across the waters, just about visible in the gloom. As the sky lightened into a deep orange glow we saw the first boats of the Lokbaintan floating market silhouetted against the opposite banks of the river. In one of the most ancient and authentic markets in South East Asia, Banjarese women traders were already paddling amongst themselves in small wooden canoes (kelotok), stopping each time to exchange a greeting or buy or sell their produce, like a little colony of water-borne ants. As the sky brightened further the women came more into focus. Almost all were traditionally dressed and some sported rather peculiar mushroom-shaped hats. Most were trading an assortment of fruit & vegetables stacked on piles of glistening banana leaves, though some brought a touch of glamour to proceedings with canoes full of black beaded handbags. Money was changing hands, but bartering is still common here and we saw many negotiated swaps being conducted though a somewhat opaque system of exchange.

A few attempted to sell us fruit, but we were mainly ignored as they went about their business. Business gathered pace considerably however, when Indonesian domestic tourists turned up in larger, though equally charismatic, motor launches and were swamped with sellers. Almost all of the other tourists were parties of young girls, perched precariously on the roofs of their boats and keen, as you’d imagine, on taking as many posed selfies as possible, using the market as a scenic backdrop. Disappointingly no-one fell off.

As the sun came up the light became golden and the colours of the boats, the women, their produce and the lush greenness of the riverbanks turned rich and sumptuous. A photographer’s dream indeed and I found it difficult to stop capturing the ever shifting scenes. Pleasingly too, we were the only Westerners around.

Back up to Banjarmasin we could now see the atmospheric wooden stilted houses lining the riverbanks. Though concrete monstrosities are now an encroaching feature of the city, here somewhat ramshackle traditional buildings remain, at least for now, and we enjoyed many shouted greetings and waves from the locals who came out to see us pass. It seemed a common aspect of travelling in this part of Kalimantan. Western visitors are a fairly rare breed here and mutual curiosity still prevails.

The small town of Loksado in the Meratus Mountains was our next destination and Joe drove us up over several hours, passing through small bucolic villages and hamlets. He asked if it was OK if his family accompanied us as his wife was from the area and wanted the opportunity to visit relatives and of course we were more than happy to oblige. En route we stopped at the village of Nagara and boarded another boat, this time one with an internal space only big enough to sit in. Joe described Nagara as Banjarmasin 50 years ago and resembling the village where he’d grown up as a boy, spending most of his time happily splashing around in the river. Like Banjarmasin, locals were incredibly friendly towards us – as we passed every other stilted house we were waving or smiling, nodding or shouting ‘hello’s’ and ‘pagi pagi‘s’ (good morning) and enthusiastically exchanging thumbs-up and other welcoming hand gestures. It was quite something. We stopped at a river-side row of blacksmiths and spent a while furnace-side watching rhythmic hammering and chatting to the smith and his apprentice. We showed him photos of our knife-making efforts in Vietnam. He seemed genuinely impressed, though less keen when I suggested he take us on as his next proteges.

Back out on the river we cruised past row upon row of houses in various states of repair. Most dwellings had lavatories out front, on small rafts and covered by tiny shed-like structures that rise and fall with the river tides. The loos are unsurprisingly open to the waters and anything deposited merrily floats downstream along with other flotsam and jetsam. Villagers wash in the same waters. We saw one woman happily brushing her teeth a few metres away. “It’s fine,” Joe reassured us, “there are no nasty chemicals in there, it’s just a matter of bacteria…..”

Further downstream we turned away from the main river and up a tributary in search of the cowboys who spend their days herding water buffalo through the narrow, shallow channels that cut between huge tracts of grassland. Water buffalo are especially prized in Kalimantan for their deliciously tender meat. These are not the gigantic beasts commonly sold across the way in Sulawesi for wholesale orgiastic slaughter in funeral rites. These animals are more slender and toned altogether. But on this occasion we really didn’t get to see what we’d hoped for. We spent a good couple of hours trying to find them and when we did they were alone and disinterested. If we’d expected huge herds of marauding buffalo crashing though the waters cajoled and whooped-on by teams of horse-bound cowboys (which we did), we were somewhat disappointed. Joe called a lonesome cowboy who turned up on a motorised canoe, got out onto the riverside banks and shooed a few of the grazing and up to then quite contented animals into the river. A few swam reluctantly across to the other side. Most paddled around then got back out again. Still, it seemed churlish to be too despondent. We were alone in this wonderful place, the sun was setting and it cast a beautiful golden hue over the landscape. We’d boated down rivers and through villages that hardly any tourists get to see and been treated to the warmest welcome imaginable.

Nagara buffalo cowboy

Reluctant swimmers

Disappointed and happy in equal measure, we made our way up to the town of Loksado and caught the last servings going at a local warung (a roadside restaurant Joe recommended) and tucked into some hearty portions of tilapia and rice. It was utterly delicious. Joe had booked two rooms in the ‘resort’ at Loksado and advised us to take the standalone ‘honeymoon’ cabin, whilst he and his family occupied one of the small terraced rooms with walls thinner than paper. Travelling in Indonesia can be a particularly noisy affair, especially at weekends, and it was only now that we realised we’d arrived on a Saturday night. Domestic tourists filled the place and the guesthouses next door and made us abundantly aware of their presence. A good weekend away for the typical Indonesian tripper involves making as much noise as humanly possible and drinking to excess, whether Muslim or not (at least some do). Mainly though, it involves the ubiquitous practice of caterwalling your way through countless tracks of identikit Asian pop-songs on the karaoke machine that seems to come as standard with every room. It was still going strong at midnight when we went to bed (armed with thick earplugs thank goodness). It started up again at precisely 04:50am….

A little weary from the strong, home-made pineapple wine Joe had plied us with the night before, we boarded our transport to take us to the Meratus mountains trek trailhead. As with our first jungle trek in Sumatra this involved hanging on for dear life on the back of motorbikes as our drivers pelted hell for leather down rutted countryside tracks and over precarious wooden suspension bridges, most of which were twisted into 30 degree slopes and looking likely to collapse at any minute. We picked up our camp chef on the way, a slightly crazed but most helpful guy named Numan. About an hour into the trip he found a few much sought after grass-like shoots with thin trailing roots, carefully placed them in a small bottle of water and started gesticulating with his hands between his legs in a lurid manner. The roots, it seemed, offer extra potency when indulging in conjugal relations. “Jungle Viagra”, Joe clarified, “you can go for two hours on that”. Numan seemed especially pleased.

The trek, though less humid than our previous hikes, was tough and steep. We had many stops however – some to chop down bamboo to get at the fresh water inside, some for Numan to shin up a tall palm and lob down huge coconuts for us to drink. At our lunch stop he got a fire going and boiled water for tea and coffee in the ‘jungle kettle’ (a trio of bamboo sections filled with river water). Then the terrain got very steep indeed and I had to resort to pulling Helen up as best I could and hoping my knees would hold out. A little light relief on a swing Numan had constructed from vines suspended from a massive tree was welcome, then back on the near vertical slopes to finally reach the top of the hill on which our campsite was situated.

Numan with the ‘Jungle Viagra’

The site was small, but a truly beautiful little place, particularly as the sun started to set and the light flooded through the trees to illuminate the cooking station with its open smoking fires. This camp was very much like our leaky place in the Sarawak jungle when we went hunting with the Iban, but here we slept on empty sacks of chicken feed suspended on tree-trunks to form stretchers and had a brand new tarpaulin that we strung up over the tree frame for wind and rain shelter. Quite the cosy little affair. We had dinner – rice cooked in more bamboo and chicken legs fried in a wok on a second open fire. Joe had brought more pineapple wine too. It was the best trekking meal we’ve had on this trip and we were most content with our feed.

Sleep proved elusive however as the night was seriously cold. We were over 1,500 metres up and the temperature dropped dramatically towards 8 or 9pm. We’d been warned at least and had brought more clothes than usual. No sleeping bags available here – we slept in our liners with as many jackets, fleeces and sarongs as we’ve got and it just about did the job.

Sweat soaked hiking gear rarely dries in the jungle, but here we were pleasantly surprised to find it had, despite the cold in the night. We were further cheered by the enormous quantities of nasi goreng Numan cooked up using the left-over rice from the night before and enjoyed hot steaming tea as we warmed with the rising sun. Hornbills flew overhead, a couple of huge birds whose wing beats ominously sounded like the low, slow chugs of helicopter rotor blades.

The trek back down was almost as difficult as the ascent, with steep slippery sections that needed close concentration. Everywhere small stubby roots, ensnaring vines and other protrusions dotted the path. Falling down here would have caused some serious injuries. Halfway back we came across a little waterfall and pool, big enough for a dip if not a descent swim, then on, ever downwards through knee-crunching drops and almost perpendicular slopes. More bouncing moped mayhem to get us back to Loksado and lunch at a mini warung stall. We had deliciously cold and freshly squeezed orange juice, bowls of steaming hot Bakso soup with blue noodles & super-hot sambal and longed for an afternoon sleep.

Sleep would have to wait though, as we were a little late for a rendezvous with a bamboo rafter. It’s the thing to do in Loksado – hire a man with a 5 metre long bamboo raft and have him punt you down the Amandit River for a few hours. To be honest, we weren’t so bothered about doing it, but went ahead anyway. Water levels being so low made the journey difficult and we kept having to get off and help the boatman negotiate the rocks we kept getting stuck on. Three hours later we were done, but gentle and relaxing it was not. Joe cheered us up considerably however by picking us up and driving us, along with newly reappeared wife and kid, to a cafe overlooking a bend of the river. A wonderful view made even more wonderful by the several cans of Bintang beer Joe produced from his portable cooler. We drank using large stubby holders to mask our activity and all traces of tiredness evaporated. We had a self-barbecue meal of beef and chicken which Helen and myself cooked for all of us, along with more copious amounts of Joe’s pineapple wine. A very pleasant evening indeed.

The final destination of our little trip was the area a few kilometres north of Banjarmasin where open air diamond mining occurs. This form of mining is pretty destructive but low-level and largely conducted by small teams of cooperative miners as opposed to large companies. Joe, with the help of a diamond agent, found us a couple of wooden rigs in which several sluice boxes were constructed using various grades of carpet, a little like the gold panning set-up I’d seen in Sumatra. The idea is to blast an area of ground using high pressure water pipes and pump the resulting muddy slurry up onto the wooden rig, letting gravity take the soil and pebbles down a series of carpet traps and capture any diamonds in the process.

A team of 3 men manned the hydraulics and pump. One directed water streams at the ground, others sat in a pool of foamy water just below, in which the one end of the pump-pipe was placed. A noisy generator nearby provided the power. One of the men let me have a go with a powerful hose. I told them I wanted a share in any diamonds they might find that day. They laughed, but the smile didn’t meet their eyes. At the other end of the pump-pipe, a few metres up in the sluice rig, two other men were using their hands to help brush down the soil and stones, removing the larger stuff and letting the rest of the detritus cascade down into a large vat of mud and soil. In the vat worked another guy, employed by a different firm to prepare the waste for use in the construction industry. We were not sure what ‘prepare’ meant in this case. He seemed to rake stuff about, but not do a great deal else. Only at 5pm when the team stop blasting do the carpets get any kind of inspection for diamonds. Personally I’d be wanting to check every 10 minutes.

Diamond mining, Banjarmasin

The agent showed us a few finds – uncut and dull diamonds of varying carats. He unsuccessfully tried to sell us some tiny cut examples at exorbitant cost, then a few nice pebbles that had been polished up. We asked how many diamonds they discover per day here, which triggered everyone to clam-up. That, it seems, is a closely guarded trade secret and never to be revealed to potential agents of espionage….

On our last day in Kalimantan, we took it a little easier having left Joe the day before with a promise of a meal out with the family on our last night. We saw a little more of Banjarmsin at least, venturing out to a district where dyed fabrics known as Sasirangan are the speciality and up to the oldest mosque in the province, a lovely little wooden construction painted green and blue. Inadvertently we caused a good deal of chaos here. Helen had forgotten anything to wear over her hair so hung around outside whilst I explored the interior. She was jumped on by a party of schoolgirls. Inside I was also surrounded by an unrelated group of schoolboys who made a massive amount of racket as we did the impromptu ‘photo-mob’ thing. A few policemen stuck their heads inside and told them to be quiet. We left the main chamber only for the same thing to happen again. Getting lots of dirty looks from the authorities we decided on a tactical retreat. In the streets outside though, small children kept spotting us and running across the road to touch their foreheads to the back of our hands. More chaos as motorbikes dodged screaming kids and cars honked heavily as they swerved and braked. How none of them were run down we’ll never know. A total strategic withdrawal was in order.

Banjarmasin

Mayhem at the mosque

Our night out with Joe and his family was a lovely way to finish our time in Kalimantan. We went in his car to a place called Goat And Sheep Coffee and had small goat steaks. The food was OK, but the atmosphere and conversation was great, especially as yet more pineapple wine was produced and heartily consumed. I think Joe really appreciated a few drinking partners and he found no resistance in us…..

On now to the tiny and relative new country of Timor Leste, a place whose very recent struggle for independence stretched over 24 years of chaos, torture and killing at the hands of the Indonesian army. We know how to have fun on this trip….