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Lasting Impressions
Forgetting OneselfNo Matter How Well You Know a Forest, It Pays to Remember Your Place in itThese days, few of us face any chance of getting eaten. My opportunity came as I was climbing down from a treetop in the Sangkulirang Mountains of Borneo. I’d spent several days in this tree hoping to photograph wildlife in the neighboring fig, staking out a personal aerie. I’d conquered the canopy with the help of Dayak climbers and a ladder of lianas. I’d taken up residence with hornbills and eerily singing gibbons. I’d spied the far edges of the forest, made up silly songs and dreamed away the midday lulls, rocked to sleep by wind. But I was jolted awake one afternoon by a terrifying roar. It filled the forest and rumbled through my heart like a subwoofer. Next came the screech, shrill and even louder. T. rex vs. Velociraptor in surround sound? Damned understory! I couldn’t see a thing. But the barks, growls and grunts finally settled it: Malayan sun bear versus bearded pig in a vicious barroom brawl. Their arena was hotly contested fig litter at the peak of a forestwide famine. It was also my route home. I had no flashlight and would be racing nightfall back to camp. The omnivorous Malayan sun bear is armed with huge canines, sicklelike claws and a big chip on its shoulder. Though not nearly as large as the average person and with a diet including only rodent-sized animals, sun bears have been known to attack humans, more frequently in recent years. Researchers around Gunung Palung National Park reported a sudden rash of attacks in 2000 and 2001, about the time that illegal logging peaked in the area. The bearded pig, like all swine, is an herbivore and a scavenger. But this boar uses its long tusks for more than rooting out truffles. In Sumatra, bearded pigs can hold their own against tigers. And in Seram I watched one, caught off-guard by a local hunter, charge instead of flee. He knocked the hunter flat like a bowling pin and removed a chunk of his calf. Inching higher in my tree, I felt an unexpected awe for these earthly creatures, like I might feel for alien invaders. A mixed sense of “we are not alone” and “we are diddly squat.” Over 10 years exploring Southeast Asian forests, I’d come to feel at home in them, safer than in most cities. The worst hazard here in this treetop, I’d figured, was insanity due to sweat bees. Clearly insanity had set in. Why had I never worried about the fearsome Malayan sun bear—a far better climber than I? Another growl, a scream, some crashing—then silence. Menacing, uncertain silence. The silence of me and a thousand forest creatures holding our breaths. A heavy blue dusk settled deeper. At last, a dove whispered “Coo,” which was echoed by a friend and contradicted by a crow, unleashing the regularly scheduled evening chorus. Taking my cue, I gripped a woody vine, leaned back and groped a foot down, down, down, down, down. Trembling and swaying, colorfully praising the Dayaks for their economy with ladder rungs, I presented a pitiful sight and prayed it wasn’t for a bear. Near the bottom, where the Dayaks had run out of rungs and the forest was running out of light, there was a scuffle, un-identified but moving away. I had no choice but to shimmy down and make a dash for it. The forest was black by the time I found my way to its edge. At dawn I’d be racing back to my aerie, but it would be less mine. In this forest island, all creatures converge and have their chance to feel precarious. —Djuna Ivereigh Djuna Ivereigh is a freelance writer and photographer based in Bali, Indonesia.
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