Cruising the Wild: My River Safari Adventure in Tanjung Puting’s Orangutan Sanctuary
The moment our wooden klotok boat pulled away from the Kumai dock, I felt that familiar mix of excitement and “what have I gotten myself into?” that marks the beginning of any worthwhile adventure. The air hung heavy with humidity as we set off down the Sekonyer River, the murky brown waters stretching ahead like a winding path into Borneo’s heart. I’d spent months planning this trip to Tanjung Puting National Park, driven by a documentary I’d stumbled across late one night during a particularly bad bout of insomnia.
Related Post: The Unique Funeral Traditions and Architecture of Tana Toraja
There was something about those orange-haired apes that had stuck with me. Maybe it was their eyes – too knowing, too human – or perhaps it was simply the realization that I’d reached my thirties without seeing one of our closest relatives in the wild. Whatever it was, here I was, perched on the edge of a traditional Indonesian boat with three days of jungle ahead and a backpack that I was already questioning. Did I bring enough bug spray? Would my camera survive the humidity? Would I survive the humidity?
“First time to Borneo?” asked Denny, our guide, a stocky Indonesian man with a perpetual half-smile. When I nodded, he laughed. “By tomorrow, you’ll either love it or be counting the hours until you leave.”
Great. Nothing like setting expectations.
The boat’s engine hummed beneath us as we pushed deeper into the park, the shoreline transforming from scattered villages to dense, impenetrable green. I couldn’t help but think I looked ridiculous in my brand-new “adventure” clothes, still stiff with their tags removed just days ago. By the end of this trip, I’d either look like Tarzan or a sweat-drenched tourist who’d made a terrible mistake. Probably the latter.
But as the late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, painting golden streaks across the water, I felt that first tingle of magic. Something special was waiting upriver. I just had to embrace whatever came – mosquitoes, heat rash, and all.
The River Life: Living on a Klotok
Nobody tells you that your floating home will become your entire world when you’re deep in the Borneo rainforest. Our klotok – essentially a two-story wooden boat with a flat bottom – was basic but surprisingly comfortable. The upper deck was converted each night into our sleeping area, with thin mattresses laid out under mosquito nets that billowed in the gentle river breeze.
The first morning, I woke at dawn to find myself cocooned in white netting with the pink-orange glow of sunrise filtering through. For about ten seconds, it was magical – until I tried to move and discovered that sleeping on what’s essentially a wooden plank had transformed my back into a geography lesson of knots and tension points. So much for the romantic notion of river life I’d built up in my head.
“Coffee?” Pak Udin, our cook, appeared with a steaming mug just as I was attempting to stand upright without wincing. The boat hit a small wave at that exact moment, and half the coffee ended up splashing across my last clean t-shirt. Udin didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
“Maybe sit first, then drink,” he suggested, handing me a rag. Over the three days, Udin would become my favorite person on the boat, conjuring up incredible meals from a kitchen space smaller than my bathroom sink at home. How he managed to create nasi goreng, grilled fish, and fresh vegetable dishes from that tiny galley kitchen still amazes me.
The days quickly fell into a gentle rhythm – cruising in the early mornings and late afternoons when wildlife was most active, docking at feeding stations to see orangutans, and drifting during the hottest part of the day. I learned to embrace river time, where schedules dissolved and the only constants were meals and the changing light.
What surprised me most was how the river itself became a character in our journey. Sometimes placid and reflective, sometimes churning with recent rain, it carried us deeper into the park while revealing glimpses of life along its banks. We’d spot proboscis monkeys with their absurd noses lounging in trees, hornbills swooping overhead, and once – causing me to nearly drop my camera overboard – what I thought was a log suddenly blinked and revealed itself as a crocodile.
“Is that… should we be worried about that?” I asked Denny, pointing at the reptile that was now sliding into the water.
He shrugged. “Only if you plan to swim.”
I did not, in fact, plan to swim after that.
The Sounds of the Jungle at Night
Nothing could have prepared me for the jungle symphony that begins when darkness falls. My first night on the klotok, I lay awake for hours, equal parts mesmerized and unnerved by the cacophony surrounding us.
The cicadas created a constant background buzz that rose and fell in waves. Frogs joined with their croaking chorus, while mysterious splashes from the river kept me wondering what was lurking just feet away from where I lay. Most dramatic were the gibbons, whose haunting calls echoed through the forest like something from another world.
“That’s normal, right?” I whispered to Denny, who was reading by flashlight nearby.
“What? The noise? Of course. The jungle never sleeps.”
Related Post: The Symbol of Unity at Jakarta’s Istiqlal Mosque
Well, neither did I that first night. I lay there, mosquito net creating a ghostly canopy above me, listening to the rustling, chirping, hooting orchestra and wondering what each sound represented. Was that crash a branch falling or some large animal moving through the understory? Was that hoot a bird or something else entirely?
By the third night, though, the jungle sounds had become almost comforting – a wild lullaby that made the rare moments of silence feel more alarming than the noise. I’m not sure if I actually grew to love it or just became too exhausted to stay awake, but either way, I found myself sleeping soundly beneath the stars, the gentle rocking of the boat and the night chorus carrying me into dreams.
The best part of river life was the forced disconnection. With no cell service and no electricity beyond what the boat’s generator provided for a few hours each evening, I found myself actually looking at the world around me rather than at a screen. I started noticing things – the way sunlight created patterns on the water, how the air smelled different before rain, the changing colors of the river itself. It’s amazing what you see when there’s nothing else competing for your attention.
Meeting the Orangutans: A Heart-Stopping Encounter
Nothing quite prepares you for your first wild orangutan sighting. We’d docked at Camp Leakey, the oldest and most famous of the park’s rehabilitation centers, and hiked a short distance to a feeding platform where rangers leave fruit for semi-wild orangutans. I was busy swatting mosquitoes and adjusting my camera when Denny grabbed my arm.
“Look up,” he whispered.
And there she was – a female orangutan with rust-colored fur, swinging effortlessly through the canopy with a baby clinging to her chest. She moved with such grace that it made me painfully aware of how clumsy humans are by comparison. I stood frozen, suddenly forgetting about the mosquitoes feasting on my exposed skin.
When she reached the platform, she sat with a casual confidence, selecting bananas with deliberate care while her baby explored the limited range allowed by its mother’s watchful eye. I couldn’t stop staring at their faces – so expressive, so thoughtful, so eerily familiar.
I’m not typically an emotional person (just ask my ex), but watching that mother and child, I felt something catch in my throat. There was an unexpected intimacy to the moment, a recognition that felt almost intrusive. These weren’t just animals – they were people of a different kind, with their own society and relationships that long predated our brief human interference.
“She’s a regular,” Denny explained quietly. “About 15 years old. The baby is her second.”
I nodded, unable to form words as I watched the infant tumble playfully around its mother. Later that afternoon, we encountered a massive male with prominent cheek pads – a dominant male in his prime. Unlike the female’s graceful approach, he announced his arrival by shaking branches and making the smaller trees sway dramatically. Pure testosterone on display.
“Show-off,” Denny muttered, and I had to stifle a laugh. The parallel to certain human males I’ve dated wasn’t lost on me.
What struck me most was how unbothered they seemed by our presence. The orangutans acknowledged us with brief, assessing glances before returning to the more important business of eating or grooming. We were clearly not the most interesting thing in their world, which felt both humbling and right.
But I couldn’t shake a nagging discomfort. Was our presence – however respectful we tried to be – an intrusion? These feeding stations exist because the orangutans’ natural habitat has shrunk so dramatically that they need supplemental food. We were essentially watching the consequences of our species’ destructive habits, packaged as an ecotourism experience.
I mentioned this to Denny as we walked back to the boat.
“It’s complicated,” he admitted. “Without tourism money, there would be less protection for the park. But yes, better if they never needed our help at all.”
I didn’t have an answer then, and honestly, I still don’t. I just know that meeting those orange-haired relatives changed something in me – a shift in perspective that’s hard to articulate but impossible to forget.
The Jungle’s Hidden Challenges (and Surprises)
Let me set the record straight about rainforest adventures: they’re called “rain” forests for a reason. Despite visiting during what was supposedly the “drier” season, I found myself in a near-constant state of dampness. Not the pleasant dewy kind, but the everything-you-own-now-smells-like-mildew kind.
The heat and humidity tag-teamed to ensure I was perpetually sweating, even when doing absolutely nothing. My clothes clung to me like needy exes, and my hair abandoned any pretense of style, instead opting for what I can only describe as “electrocuted poodle chic.” I gave up on makeup after day one, when my carefully applied mascara migrated south to create raccoon eyes within twenty minutes.
Related Post: The Cultural Fusion of Jakarta’s Glodok Chinatown
Then there was the day of the great orangutan drought. We’d cruised for hours to reach a remote feeding station, enduring a sudden downpour that soaked us despite the boat’s canopy. I’d packed my good camera in three plastic bags and still somehow managed to get moisture in the lens. We waited at the platform for two hours, the sun now beating down mercilessly, turning the recent rain into steam that rose from the forest floor.
Not a single orangutan appeared.
“Sometimes they find enough fruit in the forest and don’t need to come,” Denny explained, though I could tell he was disappointed too. “Nature doesn’t perform on schedule.”
I tried not to show my frustration, but after the long, wet journey, the empty platform felt like a personal affront. It was a stark reminder that wildlife tourism comes with zero guarantees – these weren’t actors in a theme park but wild creatures with their own agendas.
Bugs, Leeches, and Other Unwelcome Guests
If there’s one thing I wasn’t mentally prepared for, it was the sheer variety of creatures that viewed me as either a food source or an interesting landing pad. The mosquitoes were expected – I’d practically bathed in repellent – but they turned out to be just the opening act in a full-on bug extravaganza.
There were ants that somehow found their way into sealed containers. Flying things that defied identification but excelled at finding their way into my ears. And most memorably, the leech that attached itself to my ankle during a short forest walk.
I only noticed it when we returned to the boat and Denny pointed to my sock, which now featured a growing red stain. What followed was what I can only describe as my debut performance of “The Leech Removal Dance” – a series of horrified shrieks and hopping movements that provided the boat crew with what was clearly the entertainment highlight of their month.
“Hold still!” Denny kept saying between barely suppressed laughs as he tried to apply salt to the leech.
“Easy for you to say!” I shot back. “You don’t have a VAMPIRE SLUG drinking from your leg!”
Once removed, the leech was disappointingly small compared to the outsized panic it had caused. The crew found this hilarious, of course. Pak Udin later presented me with dinner and a small hand-drawn award for “Most Dramatic Leech Reaction 2023.” I kept it.
The Unexpected Kindness of Strangers
For all the physical discomforts, what I remember most vividly are the moments of connection that happened along the way. There was the elderly Dutch couple on another boat who shared their precious supply of decent coffee when they overheard me lamenting my caffeine withdrawal. The Australian photographer who loaned me his spare lens after mine got fogged up. The local children who raced alongside our boat when we passed their riverside village, waving and showing off by doing flips into the water.
But it was our boat crew who truly made the experience. On the final evening, as we anchored mid-river for the night, a massive thunderstorm rolled in. The rain hammered down with tropical intensity, and despite the canopy, our sleeping area was getting drenched from the sideways rain.
Without a word, Pak Udin gave up his small private sleeping space below deck, insisting I take it while he somehow found a dry corner in the galley. When I protested, he simply said, “You are guest. I am home.”
That simple statement – “I am home” – struck me deeply. This river was his home, this forest his backyard. While I was just passing through, taking photos and collecting experiences, he was sharing his world with me.
The next morning, he taught me how to make proper Indonesian coffee and laughed good-naturedly at my clumsy attempts to repeat the Bahasa phrases he taught me. That connection – across language barriers and cultural differences – meant more to me than any wildlife sighting, spectacular as they were.
Sitting there on the boat, drinking too-strong coffee as the morning mist rose from the river, I found myself questioning why I’d filled my apartment back home with so much stuff when this simple existence felt so complete. Of course, that philosophical moment was promptly interrupted by a monkey attempting to steal my coffee mug – the jungle always keeps you humble.
Beyond Orangutans: The Bigger Picture of Tanjung Puting
It wasn’t until our final day, as we began the journey back downriver, that I really grasped the precarious situation facing Tanjung Puting. The transition from protected forest to developed areas isn’t gradual – it’s a stark line where dense jungle suddenly gives way to palm oil plantations stretching to the horizon.
“Ten years ago, this was all forest,” Denny told me, gesturing to a massive plantation we were passing. “Now, the park is an island.”
Related Post: The Tribal Cultures and Festivals of Papua’s Baliem Valley
From the boat, you could literally see the battle line between conservation and development – a fragile boundary that seems to be constantly pushed and tested. The contrast was jarring: one side teeming with biodiversity, the other a monoculture designed for maximum profit.
I’m still conflicted about tourism’s role here. On one hand, our presence brings money that helps protect what remains. The rangers we met were passionate, underpaid, and fighting an uphill battle against poaching and encroachment. Tourism dollars help fund their work and provide alternative livelihoods for local communities who might otherwise turn to logging or plantation work.
On the other hand, each boat on the river adds pressure to an already stressed ecosystem. More visitors mean more infrastructure, more waste, more disruption. I’d like to believe I was part of the solution rather than the problem, but honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s both.
Beyond the orangutans, the park revealed its diversity in unexpected ways. We spotted a clouded leopard slinking along a distant bank at dusk – a sighting so rare that Denny got more excited than I’d seen him all trip. Troops of proboscis monkeys with their ridiculous noses provided comic relief, while hornbills with their prehistoric-looking casques soared overhead like creatures from another time.
One afternoon, we drifted silently around a river bend and surprised a family of pygmy elephants drinking at the water’s edge. They regarded us briefly before melting back into the forest with surprising stealth for such large animals. “Very lucky,” Denny whispered. “They are becoming rare here.”
As we passed a small fishing village, a young boy waved enthusiastically from a wooden dock. Something about his carefree joy reminded me of summers at my grandparents’ lake house in Michigan – that universal childhood delight in simple pleasures. I waved back, wondering what his life was like in this remote corner of Indonesia, and whether this forest would still exist when he grew up.
That’s the question that haunts me still: Will places like Tanjung Puting survive the next decades? The orangutans, with their seven-year reproductive cycle and reliance on intact forest, don’t have the luxury of adapting quickly to a changing world. They need us to make different choices – about consumption, about development, about what we value.
I don’t have answers, just a growing conviction that these places matter in ways we’re only beginning to understand.
Final Thoughts: A Journey That Changed Me
On our last night on the klotok, I stayed up late, not wanting to miss a moment of the experience I’d soon be leaving behind. The stars were ridiculous – the kind of star-packed sky you forget exists when you live in a city. The jungle chorus was in full swing, and somewhere in the darkness, creatures were going about their mysterious lives just as they had for millions of years before humans showed up.
I came to Borneo for orangutans but found myself changed by the entire experience – the river, the forest, the people. Something shifts when you spend days without cell service, when your world shrinks to the confines of a wooden boat and the visible shoreline, when your concerns become immediate and tangible rather than abstract and digital.
I’d love to tell you I returned home and immediately transformed into an environmental activist, but the truth is messier. I did make some changes – I check for palm oil in products now and try to avoid it when possible, I donate to orangutan conservation efforts, I bore my friends with too many stories about Borneo. But I also slipped back into many of my old habits, the urgency fading as it does when you’re removed from something.
That’s the challenge, isn’t it? Holding onto the clarity you find in places like Tanjung Puting once you’re back in the noise of everyday life.
What stays with me most vividly is a moment on the second day. We’d stopped at a small tributary, and I was sitting quietly on the front of the boat when a wild orangutan appeared on a branch overhanging the water. It wasn’t near a feeding station or on any tourist route – just a chance encounter. We looked at each other for what felt like minutes but was probably seconds before she continued on her way, swinging effortlessly through the canopy.
No one else on the boat saw her. It was a private exchange between two primates whose evolutionary paths had diverged millions of years ago only to briefly reconnect on a river in Borneo. I didn’t even take a photo – partly because it happened too quickly, but mostly because some moments aren’t meant to be captured, just experienced.
I hope to go back someday, though I worry about what I might find. Will the park boundaries hold against the pressure of development? Will there still be wild orangutans swinging through unbroken canopy? I don’t know. I just know that having witnessed it once, I can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.
If you’re considering a similar journey, do it. Pack more bug spray than you think you need, bring quick-dry everything, and prepare for both discomfort and wonder in equal measure. The klotok experience is basic but magical – there are fancier options available now, but I think the simplicity is part of the point.
And when you’re drifting down that brown river with the jungle pressing in from both sides, put the camera down occasionally. Some memories are better kept in your heart than on your memory card.
Just watch out for the leeches. I still have nightmares about those little suckers.
About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.
