The Indonesia Blog Part 3: Borneo and Orangs

Orang

A village on the Sekonyer river

A Klotok 

Proboscis Monkeys

Enough of books and book prizes and the stresses and strains of publishing. It's time for another blog from Indonesia. This will be the final posting of our vacation blog. It's the story of Borneo and the Sekonyer River and Tanjung Puting, and orang utans. 

This was the most conventional episode of our trip. Way Kambas park had been curiously empty of tourists. There were two bird watchers, and there were the two of us (and in a future blog I'll relate the strange coincidence that attends this story - but not right now.) In Ujung Kulon there was us and a researcher. That's all. But in Tanjung Puting there were dozens of tourists - well twenty at least. Possibly thirty. It felt like the Masai Mara.

You fly to a little town called Pangkalan Bun. Your tour guide meets you and takes you to your boat, and within an hour of landing you're on the river. You're on your own on a Klotok - a traditional wooden boat - with your own crew - a captain, his mate, a guide and a cook. It's really quite surreal. You sail down the mile-wide Kumai river and up the Sekonyer, and already it's wild. This is Tanjung Puting, a sprawling jungle wilderness, and you're on a three day / two night voyage. It's the African Queen (except, of course, that it's Borneo.) When night falls, the crew make up your bed on the deck - a thin mattress and a mozzie net - and you lie under the stars, listening to the noises of the forest. The call of gibbons The distant cry of an orang utan. Unfamiliar, exotic noises. And it's wonderful.

You do encounter the other tourists though. That happens when you stop at a range of field stations and you trek out to see the orangs. But it's okay. There is a jolly cameraderie. The orangs are semi wild. Some of them are domesticated apes that have been returned to the wild. Others are the offspring of the rehabilitated orangs. And others still, are truly wild. It doesn't seem to matter. Once a day each field station puts out food (bananas and sugar cane). Some orangs come and feed. Others don't. But it's still an experience. A good one.

At dusk you're on your own again on the boat. We played cards and ate well. There's no alcohol - of course. Our cook was excellent, and our guide, Hani, was good company. She's one of only four female guides in the park. There are fifty six men. Sue and Hani talked about feminism and Islam and marriage and divorce. These aren't the conversations you usually have with a guide.

At dusk proboscis monkeys climb into the trees overhanging the river. This is the safest place for them. If a clouded leopard should prowl, the monkeys can drop into the river to escape. There are thousands of proboscis monkeys, but they're endlessly fascinating.  

And that's it really. If ever you're looking for a relaxing encounter with wildlife, I would recommend a Klotok trip up the Sekonyer river. It's wild. 
  

My 'Not the Booker Prize' Blog

I hadn’t even heard of the Guardian’s ‘Not The Booker Prize’ before the email arrived from my editor.  I was still getting over the disappointment of failing to make the Man Booker Prize last month, so any email with ‘Booker’ in the title line looked promising.  And so the whole thing started.

The idea is pretty simple. The Man Booker Prize (so the argument goes) is a sclerotic institution with its head up its own fundament and prizes like this should be put back into the hands of the people. Democracy should reign. (This overlooks the unfortunate point that democracy has plenty of say in book sales, and if it were to be equitably applied, then Shades of Grey would win every prize going. But moving swiftly on … ).  First someone has to go online to nominate your book. That’s easy enough (actually it was fiendishly complex – but the principle is easy). Then the great reading public are invited to vote. But here’s the twist; they have to accompany their vote with a 100 word review of the book. This will prove that the voting is honest, and weed out all but the most determined sock puppets. This process resulted in a couple of hundred titles, many much more likely to attract widespread public attention than Max Ponder could hope to do. And now a serious flaw in the democratic process became apparent. With only a few dozen votes separating the winners from the also-rans, the winner wasn’t really going to be selected by public vote at all. There would be some genuine votes cast, but the balance that would swing the day would be determined by the friends and family of the authors, their facebook contacts, and the employees of the publishing house. Oh dear.

My confession, dear reader, is that I willing and complicity engaged in this scam. I whipped up my friends, I tweeted, I posted on LinkedIn, and through the enormous generosity of a whole set of friends, I earned myself a third place. Which I’m happy with. But in the process I learned some things. First I learned not to do this again. If I enter another book prize I’ll be more than happy to leave it to judges to tell me how good or how bad my book is. But I also learned what a great set of friends I have. The 100 word reviews they posted were so full of warmth, I was genuinely touched. I didn’t know everyone who voted – of the fifty or so votes that got me on the shortlist, I think I know around half of the people. Finishing in third place makes me feel that I let them down. But I still feel very blessed that I know so many wonderful people, and that so many of them liked my book.

In the end I’m not really critical of the format of NTBP. It is what it is. If you enter, you have to recognise the way it works. I don’t think it is a prize that suits a debut novelist … because the more established writers have a loyal readership that they can mine for votes. But I’m not sorry that I entered. Sam Jordison wrote a very moving Guardian review (I happen to think that his review of Max Ponder was the best review of any of the seven shortlisted books). And the exposure was helpful. All exposure is.

As I write this I’m still not sure who won. It was either Ewan Morrison (Tales from the Mall) or Ben Myers (Pig Iron). Well done guys. And well done mobilising your vote. I will read the winning book. I hope you read mine. The Notable Brain of Maximilian Ponder will be out in Paperback on 3^rd January. That’s a plug. Thank you.

Indonesia Blog Part Two: Krakatoa (1st October 2012)

Lava flowing into the sea

I really should have consulted a map. But I'll blame the guidebooks all the same. They all say that Krakatoa Island lies just off the Western coast of Java. They give the impression that it is really very close. You can easily charter a boat, they say. Some guidebooks imply that you can see Krakatoa from the holiday town of Carita. Well, let me correct them. You can't. Krakatoa is thirty five miles from the coast of Java which is almost like crossing the English Channel twice. You need to hire a power-boat with a deafeningly noisy engine, and you have to pound remorselessly for two hours across rough seas to reach it.

But when you get there ... it's amazing.

Here are the facts. Krakatoa Island blew itself apart on 27th August 1883 in a volcanic explosion that was thirteen thousand times more powerful than the bomb at Hiroshima. The explosion threw more than five cubic miles of rock and ash into the atmosphere, and it made a bang that was heard five thousand miles away. Most of the island was destroyed. But in 1927 a new island volcano appeared above the waterline. They called it 'Anakrakatoa' - or 'the son of Krakatoa.' And since the 1950s this island has been growing in height by nearly 20 feet a year. It is already half a mile high.

Heavy fall of ash on the slopes 

A lava bomb

A lava bomb

A lava flow 1 week old

We left Carita in our power-boat at 5am. The waves are calmer at this time of day. So we saw the sunrise over Java. The first sight of Krakatoa was a distant plume of smoke and steam and a menacing cone emerging from the sea mists like a grey cloaked demon. There had been a massive eruption just a week before our visit. As we drew closer we could see its impact. The slopes of the volcano were burning with a thousand fires - the remnants of bushes and trees that had been consumed. Huge new lava flows ran all the way down the mountain to the sea. This was a very active volcano indeed. 

One small coastal strip of the island survives. It has been colonised by trees and shrubs, and there is now a permanent ranger station there. We waded ashore and gave our details to the ranger. 'If you feel any activity,' he told us, 'run like mad back to your boat.' He pointed to his own boat. 'We'll already be gone,' he said.

It was a very hot day. As we walked clear of the woodland and started up the slope it was clear that we could never climb this mountain - even if it was only eighty years old. A deep layer of new, soft, ash made every footstep tortuously difficult - like trying to climb a mound of icing sugar. Our guide pointed out a debris field of lava bombs. None of these had been here a week ago. They had rained down along with the ash and a grainy layer of pumice just days before. We came across a lava bomb as big as a washing machine. It was still hot to the touch.

We tried to climb, but not only was the terrain impossible, the smell of sulphur was starting to choke us. Sue's eyes were streaming. We turned back and had a surreal breakfast back at the ranger station. Then we walked a mile or so along the black beach to a fresh lava-flow. It felt like standing close to a smouldering bonfire.

I've noticed that they don't use the name 'Anakrakatoa' quite so much any more. I can see why. This isn't the son of Krakatoa. This is Krakatoa. It is back from the dead and planning its next big number. We may not be around when that happens, but it will happen, and nothing we can do will ever stop it. You can sense the volcano summoning up all its subterranean energies, and those energies are colossal. And when it comes you might even hear it where you are.

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