It’s about 6:30 a.m. -- let’s say a quarter past dawn -- and
I’m the last one out of my bedroll. At this hour I have no problem accepting
the title of Laziest Gibbon Chaser in the Jungle.
I lift my mosquito net to see the other six occupants of
Tree House Seven – Paul, Danielle, Connor, Michelle, Jamie and Denyse -- poised
around the railing. No one is talking; hardly anyone is moving. It’s like a
mime convention, minus any actual miming. No one acknowledges me as I stumble
over to the railing, but I can read their thoughts: maybe some gibbons will
show up, now that this lazy bastard is finally out of bed.
“Anybody see anything?” I whisper to no one in particular.
Connor and Jamie look up and shake their heads. Almost a full day into The
Gibbon Experience, and the gibbon count officially stands at zero.
I yawn, rub my eyes and move to get coffee, before
remembering that the only available coffee is thick, cold, and more than twelve hours old. So here I am, then: Up at
dawn, coffee-less, standing in a jungle tree house, silently waiting for
monkeys.
Really didn’t see this one coming.
I settle for the saddest of coffee substitutes in the form
of a tin cup of warm water, squat on a wicker stool alongside my cohorts, and
join the stare into the forest. After a few minutes I hear someone coming in on
the zip line. It’s a group from another tree house, invading our space at a
ridiculously early hour.
“And I forgot to put out the good china.” Sorry, that’s the
best sarcasm I can muster at 6:30 in the morning. “What, they don’t have
gibbons on their side of the jungle?”
Of course we don’t have any gibbons on our side of the jungle either, my spiteful, non-caffeinated inner-voice starts to say, so ha-ha, the joke’s on them. Interloping, tree house-invading bastards. But my inner voice shuts up pretty quickly, because then we hear it.
Of course we don’t have any gibbons on our side of the jungle either, my spiteful, non-caffeinated inner-voice starts to say, so ha-ha, the joke’s on them. Interloping, tree house-invading bastards. But my inner voice shuts up pretty quickly, because then we hear it.
It’s a sound I can only describe as a cross between a French
ambulance siren from the 1960s, and car alarm going off in the middle of the
night in Brooklyn. Between a haunting whale mating call, and a giant cicada
stuck in your ear. It’s a noise few humans will ever get a chance to hear. And it’s
really, really loud.
I’ll be damned. The gibbons really are singing.
* * *
I liked the idea of the Gibbon Experience the first time I
read about it, although I would have been hard pressed to tell you exactly what
a gibbon was.
A non-profit organization was set up twenty years ago in the
Bokeo Province of Laos to help villagers and local authorities fight illegal
logging, animal poaching, slash-and-burn land mis-management, and other 21st
Century sins that were slowly destroying the natural habitat of rural Southeast
Asia. In 2003 the group began building tree houses in the forest, with the idea
of raising money for conservation by bringing in “low-impact tourism.” It convinced
former poachers that they could make more money as guides for tourists looking
for gibbons than they ever could hunting and killing them. Five years later the
Lao government declared part of the Bokeo Forest to be a national park, the
tree houses were connected with zip lines, and The Gibbon Experience was born.
The focus of all this attention, the black-crested gibbon (Nomacus Concolor, for those of you
playing along at home in Latin), is a long-armed, critically endangered,
monkey-like primate now only found in parts of Laos, northern Vietnam, and
southern China. The gibbons eat fruit, live exclusively in the trees, mate for
life, and in the mornings, they sing.
It’s not like Adele has anything to worry about. But yes,
they actually do sing.
At last estimate there were only 1,300 to 2,000 of these gibbons
left in the wild. Riding zip lines in the jungle to hear the singing gibbons seemed
like as good of an excuse to go to Laos as any I could think of.
* * *
Just reaching the headquarters of The Gibbon Experience,
however, is somewhat of an accomplishment itself. The office is located in Huay
Xai (also known as Ban Houayxay, Huoeisay, or Houei Sai, depending on who’s
drawing the map that day), a dusty, otherwise-nondescript river town in
northern Laos. Huay Xai does have a
small airport, so in theory you could probably fly here. But I of course have
selected an overland route from Bangkok, which involves two trains, five
buses, a couple of taxis, an international border crossing, and about
half-dozen tuk-tuk rides of varying degrees of spleen-rupturing discomfort.
At 8:15 a.m. the day of departure, The Gibbon Experience orientation room is filling up, and I’m getting worried. It’s not the idea of being driven into the jungle that unnerves me, it’s the question of which of the fifty or so Gibbon chasers gathered in Huay Xai are going to be my constant companions for the next three days.
At 8:15 a.m. the day of departure, The Gibbon Experience orientation room is filling up, and I’m getting worried. It’s not the idea of being driven into the jungle that unnerves me, it’s the question of which of the fifty or so Gibbon chasers gathered in Huay Xai are going to be my constant companions for the next three days.
I see a few women, and a couple of kids. But there seems to
be an excessive amount of testosterone surging around the room. A loud group of
Dutch kids the size of redwood trees are laughing and slapping at each other, occasionally
knocking off a backward ball cap. Two guys to the left of me are having a
conversation in Arabic. Behind me I hear German. The guy to my right is with a group of
fourteen male friends, traveling around Asia together after being discharged
from the Israeli army.
A Gibbon Experience employee has to shout over the car-crash
of guttural languages to announce that a short safety video will now be shown,
before we pile into the trucks and head off into the jungle. No one seems to be
paying any attention. In a few hours we will all be suspended from a wire,
flying at 60 miles per hour hundreds of feet off the ground. Maybe this is
something you learn how to do as an Israeli paratrooper. Personally I’d
appreciate a couple of pointers to avoid accidentally killing myself.
“You step into your safety harness like this,” says the smiling
demonstration lady on the safety video. “Like
you are stepping into a diaper.”
The Israeli guys understandably look each other like they
must not have heard correctly. My thought is, if you have any first-hand
experience wearing a diaper, this probably isn’t the trip for you.
“Attach the line like
this,” demonstration lady continues. “Not like this.” A big red circle with a line through it flashes on the
screen. “Like this is very dangerous.”
Like what? Like what
is very dangerous? I can’t hear because the
loud German dad sitting behind me is still translating “diaper” for his
10-year-old daughter. By the time he shuts up we’re already on the closing
credits.
The video ends and the lights come up. “Any questions?” the
employee asks. I’d ask if they could go over that “very dangerous” part again,
but nobody wants to be that guy. “No
questions? Okay, everyone in the truck!”
* * *
While there are fifty people headed out into the jungle at
the same time, thankfully not everyone is going to the same place. There is a relatively
quick two-day tour, which promises more hiking with a higher degree of
difficulty. Something, say, for your recently discharged military personnel on
the go.
A waterfall tour is offered that
goes farther into the jungle, also at the price of additional hiking. And then there is the three-day “Classic
Tour,” which promises less hiking, more tree house sitting, and (in theory) more
chances to meet up with a gibbon.
Less hiking, more sitting. Sign me up for the lazy man’s
gibbon tour.
By the time we split up there are about twenty two of us on
the three-day classic tour, packed into three trucks and headed for the Nam Kam
Forest. If you want to know how to get to the Nam Kam Forest, drive northeast
out of Huay Xai on a twisty road for an hour and a half, stop at a little
roadside shack that sells ice cream bars and whiskey with scorpions in the
bottle, head downhill on a dirt road, drive through (not over, but literally through) a small river, and follow the canyon-sized,
bone-jarring ruts for another hour, until you reach a small collection of
shacks with naked children playing in the creek.
We’re not there yet. This is only where we get out of truck,
and start hiking.
The hike starts out promisingly flat, albeit through a sun-baked
rice field. It’s close to 100 degrees, and everyone is carrying a pack. By the
time we reach the shade of the forest everyone is drenched in sweat. Now the
serious hiking begins.
I know it’s impossible, but the hike seems to be straight
uphill going, as well as coming back. Up over some rocks, up under some bamboo,
up around some fallen trees. If this is
the easy program, I imagine the Israeli army guys on the two-day hike must be
dropping like flies.
Another forty five minutes to an hour of uphill hiking, and
we’re still not there yet. Now it’s time for the zip line.
* * *
No, of course I’ve never been on a zip line, and the proffered
five-minute safety video has done nothing to convince me that I’m in any way prepared.
Still, how hard can it be? You get hooked to a wire, you jump off of a tower.
So simple a gibbon could do it.
Unless you do it wrong, and a big red circle with a line
through it flashes over your life.
Our guide hands me a tangle of belts, straps and clips that
is supposed to be my safety harness. It looks a bowl of pad see ew noodles I
ate in Thailand three days ago. I slowly untangle the straps until they fall
into a pattern I could plausibly identify as diaper shaped.
No one is helping in any official capacity, and it occurs to
me that this is the zip line equivalent of packing your own parachute. Put on
your own damn safety harness. If you put it on wrong, you have no one to blame
but yourself, do you? Didn’t you watch the safety video?
I step into my diaper/harness, pull a strap here, tighten a
buckle there, and as best I can secure my crotch area for a flight over the
jungle.
* * *
The initial zip line run is a complete leap of faith, in the
same way I imagine it would be to bungee jump, or dive off a cliff in a flying
squirrel costume.
It’s high. It’s long. The other end where you will theoretically
land is nowhere in sight. One part of my brain tells me this doesn’t look like
it could possibly work. Another part says that if there had been a rash of
tourists plunging to their deaths from zip lines in northern Laos, I would have
heard of it by now.
“Not necessarily,” the first part of my brain replies. “You
saw how far the drive out here was. They could just roll up the bodies in
banana leaves and no one would find out for years.”
“Shut up. We’re already in the diaper harness. People are
watching. We’re doing this.”
I clip my harness to the zip line and step off the platform.
In a split second the wire starts to hum, the ground below disappears, and I
improbably find myself hundreds of feet above a jungle in Laos, sailing along
like a flying squirrel.
* * *
I end up lucking out with my three-day jungle
companions. The Israeli paratroopers
have wandered away on their own Bataan Death March. The Dutch teenagers are off
in another tree house, presumably snapping each other with towels. Back at Tree
House 7, my tree house mates and I are killing time after a day of jungle
zipping playing Dave’s Gin (taught by yours truly), waiting for our guide to
zip in with some food, and trying to figure out what the deal is with the bees.
Ah, the bees.
Forget man-eating tigers, poisonous snakes, or
malaria-infected mosquitos. The biggest hazard to living in the jungle in Laos,
improbably, turns out to the small swarm of bees inhabiting the tree house
bathroom.
The “bathroom” is not an actual room, but an open platform
located at the bottom level the tree house, directly across from the zip-line
entrance. The bathroom facilities consist of a sink, a shower, and a squat
toilet, all complete with a stunning panoramic view of the jungle. Because
there is no actual “room” there is no actual “door,” either, just a cloth
curtain that more or less blocks the view if someone happens to unexpectedly zip
into the tree house while you’re in the bathroom, you know, brushing your
teeth.
So here’s the thing about a squat toilet, located in a
jungle, 100 feet in the air. The Laotians are not big believers in toilet
paper; my impression is that they find the concept kind of disgusting. (And
let’s be honest: they do have a point.) Instead, what you find in lieu of
toilet paper – here and elsewhere in the country –is a spray hose.
All right, then. A little tough to get the hang of, but
okay, I’m on board. We are after all in a tree house in Laos, not the Ritz
Carlton at Half Moon Bay.
The problem we discover is that the spray hose, by necessity,
has water in it. And for reasons I will let an entomologist explain, bees in
the jungle really like water. They seem to be particularly fond of water that
comes out of a squat toilet spray hose.
Which prompts the question, each time the need arises: how
badly to I really have to go to the
bathroom? Badly enough to risk being stung by a swarm of bees? You know, when
you put it that way, maybe not. Maybe I’ll hang on, and just explode when I
return to civilization. I think that sounds like a reasonable plan.
It’s as if the folks at the Ritz Carlton ran a few volts
through the toilet seat, just to make things interesting.
This is the price you pay to hang with the gibbons.
* * *
After the first day or so the Tree House Seven become
seasoned zip line veterans, grading each other’s landings like Russian judges
at the Olympics. Come in too fast, you risk slamming into a tree. Come in too
slow and you sputter to a stop way out on the wire, forcing you to pull hand
over hand the rest of the way in, upside down like a spider monkey.
The spider monkey crawl is extremely humiliating, not to mention
the high humidity, upper-body workout you really didn’t sign up for. Much better to hit the
tree. Better still to glide in for the perfect two-point landing.
There has been a lot of hiking, a lot of laughing, a lot of
sweating, and a lot of zipping about the jungle. But not, unfortunately, a lot
of sightings of actual gibbons.
On the day we first hear the gibbons sing, the guide points
to a broccoli-shaped tree, about 200 yards in the distance. I squint and see
some branches moving. Those can’t possibly be the gibbons. The siren-like noise
I’m hearing sounds like it’s coming from a public address system on the roof of
the tree house.
Someone hands me a pair of binoculars, and I look back at the
broccoli tree. Sure enough, there they are: long armed black silhouettes,
swinging back and forth on branches, and singing as they go.
* * *
About ten years ago, I went on a whale watching boat trip up
the St. Lawrence River in Quebec, Canada. After the tour boat had taken our
money and pushed off the dock, the guides immediately started hedging their
bets to tamp down any inflated expectations about actually seeing any whales on the whale watching boat trip.
“You know, zee humback and zee minke whales can be very
shy,” our adorable French-Canadian whale guide announced to the boat through a
portable microphone. “Sometimes we will not zee deese whales for many days.”
Many days, huh? Oh well. For fifty bucks, I guess you still
get a nice boat ride.
Yet despite the disclaimers, within a half hour a monstrous
tail fin flipped out of the water, less than fifty feet from the port side of
the boat. Geysers erupted out of blowholes on the starboard. People ran from
side to side, yelling and pointing cameras. Against all odds we had somehow hit
the minke whale mother load. Our guide began babbling in barely intelligible
Franglish, like Celine Dion had just won the Mega Millions jackpot.
“We never zee such tings like this,” she choked out, on the
verge of tears. “We are really, really, really, very rotten spoiled.”
* * *
I think about the minke whale explosion as I sit in Laos watching
the swinging silhouettes through the binoculars. No, the gibbons are not
exactly hanging out with us in the tree house. But I can see them, albeit from a distance. And I damn sure can hear
them.
So maybe we are only mildly rotten spoiled. But still.
There are less than 2,000 of these long-armed,
branch-swinging, monogamous, musically inclined primates left on the planet.
And I’m one of a handful of people on Earth that will ever be close enough in a
forest to hear them sing.
I have to think that alone is worth the price of the boat
ride.
* * *
We’ve spent three days in the jungle, hiking and zipping and
spotting the occasional gibbon in the distance. The prospect of the trip back
is disheartening, because after a bone-jarring hour over a rutted dirt road,
followed by a drive through a river, a stop at the ice cream/scorpion whiskey
store, and an hour and a half drive on a twisty Laotian highway, we’ll be back
in grungy Huay Xai, instead of on our way to meet the gibbons.
We stuff the Tree House Seven into the back of a single tuk
tuk, along with our back packs, and (for reasons never fully explained) several
bags of rice. There are liters of Beer Lao to lessen the pain of leaving, and a
satisfaction of knowing that, even if we do nothing else the rest of our lives,
at least we’ve done this.
“I have the feeling that in ten years time this road will be
paved,” Paul says, holding a bottle of beer as our tuk-tuk bounces us back
toward semi-civilization. “There will be a big neon sign at the turn off,
pointing the tourists toward the ticket booth at the entrance to Gibbon Land.”
He might be right. Personally I could do without the hoards
of tourists, the neon signs, and even the paved road. But I do hope that in ten
years’ time the gibbons will be still here. Singing their bizarre car-alarm siren songs,
and swinging in their broccoli trees, hundreds of yards from the tree house.