Shallow Breath (26 page)
I
t takes Pete three days to get from Western Australia to the orang-utan release centre in Sumatra. First he has a brief stop in Denpasar, before he flies on to Jakarta. As the plane circles to land, he surveys the city’s hazy panorama of concrete towers with ambivalence, grateful for the bed he’s booked in a nearby guesthouse. The last time he’d been through Jakarta, he and his boss had spent the night sleeping outside Berani’s container in the airport’s cargo hold.
The five-minute trip to the guesthouse takes forty minutes, since the cars are at a crawl. When he reaches his room, he finds the walls are painted luminous green, which makes it easy to shut his eyes. The next day he grabs the breakfast box of water and bread rolls that has been left at his door, and is at Terminal 2 early, eager to get on his short Garuda flight to Jambi. To his dismay, as he searches for his departure gate, he sees a stacked display of shark fins among the items for sale at a convenience store in the lobby. And once he gets in the air, his excitement
about returning to the rainforest is marred by the view of an endless plain of acacia and palm oil plantations – there is no hiding the scale of destruction from up here.
At Jambi, he finds out the supply truck will not leave for the release station until the next day. That evening, in another small guesthouse, he eats nasi padang and tries to call Desi. It’s probably the last chance he’ll have to speak to her for a while, since there’s no mobile signal available in the jungle without a long hike, and he’s disappointed when there’s no answer. He sleeps fitfully, waking soon after dawn to get ready for the journey. Only once they set off into the rainforest does he realise that he’s always had an English-speaking companion before. His Indonesian is patchy; he will have a lot to learn if he moves here.
As always, the journey over the deep, muddy tracks is painstakingly slow and bumpy. It is worse than being at sea, and Pete struggles to contain his nausea, despite having taken tablets in preparation. He’s on the lookout for wildlife, but the dense vegetation is hiding its treasures today. Nevertheless, it is a good run – no breakdowns or blowouts, and they get across the river without water seeping into the car.
He arrives at the station in late afternoon. After saying hello and a grateful thank you to the manager, he gets to watch the last hour of jungle school – the orphaned and abandoned young orang-utans who are busy training for their release into the forest. The confident ones show off their brachial skills along ropes and branches, while others hover by their carers, observing. But they all scurry across once cups of milk are produced, drinking greedily after their exertions.
The orang-utan babies are adorable without exception, with their huge, innocent brown eyes and their playful nature, but Pete is all too aware that this has been their curse as much as
a blessing. When their mothers are shot down from trees and killed, these youngsters are carried away to be living dolls, the status symbols of the wealthy. Half the babies here have background stories like this, while the rest are victims of habitat destruction.
In the evening, Pete chats to a group of devoted German scientists who have spent years putting their money and expertise into the project. Then one of the trackers comes across to tell him he can accompany their group tomorrow. Soon after, he decides he’ll head for bed.
He endures another night of broken sleep, this time because of a cacophony of forest musicians, an array of feathered choristers following an entire orchestra of insects. When the first pure rays of morning light shine through the small windows, and the gibbons begin to sing, he is already getting dressed. His clothes are damp from the humidity, and will doubtless remain that way until he leaves.
There is a deep level of peacefulness to plodding behind the trackers, day after day, despite the insects that pester and bite, the sweat that drips into his eyes and the sore neck he gets from craning up towards the trees, searching for glimpses of orange fur. Pete cannot entirely pin it down, but perhaps it comes from a sense of purpose. He is in awe of the skill with which the two trackers can negotiate pathways within the deep forest without ever getting lost. They are from the local Talang Mamak tribe, another victim of logging and forest degradation, whose traditional pastimes have been replaced by new occupations such as this. While these trackers are keen to locate certain orang-utans to check on their welfare, they are keeping a lookout for all one hundred and thirty in the release zone. Pete’s eyes are searching for just one.
And yet, day after day, there is no sign of Berani. Pete is
despondent by the end of day five, as the trackers radio in before indicating that they should turn around and head back. It is late afternoon, and broken patches of yellow sunshine stream through the forest canopy. A rabble of pretty butterflies dance around the low-lying grass and stop to gorge on the mud, while the men have to take winding, circuitous trails to avoid stepping on them. The trackers stop to study what could be cat prints, talking rapidly between themselves, while Pete gets the feeling that there are eyes on him. He peers into the canopy again, hoping to find Berani, and instead spies a brightly coloured wrinkled hornbill watching silently from a nearby branch.
What would Desi make of this
? he wonders, as he gives the hornbill a playful salute. How he longs to show her this beautiful hidden world, before it is too late.
As he follows, the men begin talking into the two-way more often, and he notices them eyeing him with more interest. They are almost back at the camp when they both fall behind, and he comes out into the clearing first. Across the way, he sees the jungle school assembled again, a troupe of little apes hanging suspended from a horizontal rope, swaying like washing out to dry.
One of the German scientists comes across to him and points up into the trees. ‘There,’ he says.
Pete gazes up to see a big, sleek orang-utan sitting on a branch some way above. They must have released another adult from quarantine.
The German scientist is laughing at him. ‘Berani!’ he says, pointing again.
And Pete, shocked, takes another look.
He hadn’t recognised him because Berani is so much bigger, and a perfect picture of health. His coat had been a dull orange in the dry heat of the zoo, but here, in the intense humidity, it
has become a lustrous deep red. As Pete watches, his long-lost orang-utan stoically surveys them all, chewing on a small green jambu fruit.
‘He must have heard you were here and come to visit,’ the German scientist laughs, as Pete steps forward. Berani has noticed him and is coming slowly down from the tree, but Pete hastens across to climb a nearby observation post, not wanting Berani to come to the ground for him. As he climbs up, someone in the background cries ‘
Hati-hati!
’– ‘Be careful!’ – but Pete ignores them. Rather than approaching Berani, he sits waiting at the top, as the orang-utan ambles closer, until finally he is greeted by what can only be described as a hairy, smelly ape embrace.
‘H
ow dare you! This is my decision. You have no right to come here and tell me what to do.’
Maya is trembling, incandescent with fury. Fifteen minutes ago she had been dozing in the hotel room, conserving her strength for the long night ahead. Then Kate had walked in, with her mother and Jackson. While she regarded them, incredulous, they explained why they had come.
Kate puts a finger to her lips. ‘Keep your voice down.’
Maya sits down hard on the bed, tucking her hands underneath her. Desi goes to sit next to her. ‘Let me do this for you. This is serious, Maya. You could get hurt.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’
Jackson paces opposite. ‘I think you’re all crazy. I vote we go home right now.’
Maya jumps up, attempting to escape her growing claustrophobia. She goes across to Kate’s laptop. ‘Can I borrow this?’
Kate shrugs. ‘Go ahead.’
Maya leans over, finding the image she wants, unplugs the laptop and brings it across. ‘See this,’ she says, gesturing to the picture on display. It is a tightly packed group of dolphins, huddled together. ‘This is a few weeks ago, when a captured group got close to the mouth of the Cove. See the tiny baby in the centre of them? And this.’ She flicks to another photo, of two fishermen in a small boat. Blue tarp has been laid haphazardly across the centre, but has drifted back to reveal a pile of dolphin bodies. One fisherman is dragging an adult by the tail, a knife in his other hand. ‘This is half an hour after the first photo. If you watch the video, half of them are still moving here. What they endured is unimaginable – not one was spared. You know, they kill the mothers first, so it’s easier to get to the babies. I’ve seen footage of their tiny tails dancing up and down in a sea of blood. Now I know about it, there’s no going back. I will not stand by and do nothing. If I do, I’m no better than them.’ She points to the fishermen in the picture.
Jackson jumps up and moves over to the window. ‘I get that it’s horrific, Maya, but there are other ways.’
‘People are trying all sorts of things,’ Kate agrees. ‘But this is our contribution.’
Jackson gives an angry growl of frustration and turns his back on them.
‘Tell me the whole plan,’ Desi says, still staring at the screen.
Jackson immediately comes to kneel down in front of Desi. ‘Please don’t do this,’ he begs. ‘Haven’t you been through enough?’
‘Jackson, we each have to live by our own decisions. If you don’t want to get involved, fine. But I can’t turn away either. I want to help.’
‘Right.’ He throws his hands up in despair and walks towards
the door. ‘I’ll wait in the lobby for an hour, in case you change your mind, and then I’m gone.’
The door slams behind him.
‘Desi, we’ve got enough people,’ Kate says softly. ‘The more we have, the more risk there is of being caught.’
‘Fair enough,’ Desi says, ‘but show me anyway. A fresh pair of eyes might help you make sure you’ve thought of everything.’
‘Can you show her?’ Kate asks Maya. ‘I want to have a word with Jackson.’
As soon as Maya nods, Kate is gone.
‘So have you finished trying to talk me out of it?’ Maya asks as she pulls the laptop across.
Desi sighs. ‘I’m scared for you – but also extremely proud of you.’ She pulls her daughter close. ‘If you change your mind, I’ll take your place right up until the last minute.’
‘I won’t change my mind,’ Maya says, a clear edge of steel in her voice. ‘But I’m really sorry I’ve given you such a hard time lately.’
‘What I did was wrong, and it affected your life too. You had every right to be angry.’
‘Well, I’m not angry any more.’
‘Good.’
Maya is about to say something else when the door opens, and a tall man with long, shaggy blonde hair walks in. He stops uncertainly when he sees Desi sitting there.
‘Don’t worry,’ Maya says quickly. ‘This is my mother, Desi. She’s here to help.’ When he doesn’t speak, Maya looks towards Desi. ‘This is Carl. He’s planned the entire raid.’ She turns back. ‘How did you get on?’
Carl goes across to the other bed and lies down. ‘He’s nervous, but ready.’
‘You don’t think he’ll back out?’
‘No. He hates what those fishermen are doing. But he’s incredibly brave. We’ll at least get some sympathetic media attention. He’ll probably get shunned.’
‘We’re talking about the skipper of the boat,’ Maya explains to Desi. ‘He’s a local sympathiser. We call him Isamu. It’s not his real name – only Carl knows his true identity. Carl’s worked really hard to find him. There are sympathisers here, but they’re mostly intimidated into silence, so Isamu is extremely brave. We were intending to go out last night but the weather was too rough. Tonight’s expected to be calmer.’
‘So tell me the plan.’
Carl sits cross-legged on the bed. He is watching Desi as Maya begins to talk, and she can tell he is still wary.
‘This entire hotel complex is built into the cliff – there’s only one way of getting down to the sea. First you have to go up to the roof here, and through the gardens. Right at the end, hidden in the trees, a small path leads down to the water on the ocean side. Isamu’s boat will be waiting there with the scuba tanks and cutting equipment ready. Once we’ve got across the mouth of Kii-Katsuura’s harbour, we can travel around the peninsula and into the next inlet, which is where the Dolphin Resort pens are located. It will still be dark, and the boat will travel parallel to the rocks, so we’ll be pretty well hidden. We’ll pause in one of the small bays, and that’s where we’ll enter the water. Then we’ll descend immediately and fin across to the pens. We each have two pens to cut – Carl’s taking the two on the furthest side, while Kate and I will work together on the other group of four. Originally, we were going to return to the boat, but there’s been a change of plan. When we’ve finished, we’ll swim over to the far side, and run for Carl’s car. We’ll try to get away before they’ve realised what’s happened.’
‘Meanwhile,’ Carl adds, ‘Isamu will drive the boat out into open water.’
Maya nods. ‘That’s right. Kate and Carl discovered that, when other groups have cut the nets, it’s been difficult to get the dolphins to leave. No one’s certain why, but there’s a consensus they need to be driven out. We can’t do that, so we’re trying something different … Isamu will lead them out. It’s Kate’s idea. Apparently my dad used to tell this story about a whale in America that got to safety the same way.’
‘Humphrey,’ Desi says. ‘I heard that story too.’
‘That’s the one. Kate’s sourced the equipment. Isamu will play dolphin calls under the water to encourage them to follow.’
‘A benevolent Pied Piper,’ Desi says, studying the map again. ‘So how confident are you?’ She looks towards Carl.
‘We’re pretty sure we’ll reach the pens, but after that there’ll be some luck involved. We have to stay hidden. We have to successfully cut the holes. And the dolphins have to choose to leave. But this’ll give them the best shot. It would be too cruel and traumatic to bang things behind them and drive them out, after what they’ve been through already.’
‘You’ve mentioned all these pens,’ Desi says, studying the map and pointing to those that form the perimeter. ‘But what about this big one in the middle?’
Maya looks despondent. ‘Those dolphins are tame. They’ve been there for too long. The consensus is that they’re too used to handouts. They wouldn’t survive at sea any more.’
Desi seems thoughtful. ‘You’re probably right. You remember the Atlantis stories I used to tell you? Those dolphins had trouble in the wild after people spent a million dollars and a year’s worth of training trying to help them readjust. Once you’ve interfered with nature, it can be difficult to go back.’ Her eyes return to the map, and she frowns. She runs her finger south
across the land until it reaches the next inlet. ‘What are these here? Are they dolphin pens too?’
‘They are, but they’re in Taiji harbour,’ Maya explains. ‘The dolphins there are still wild. They’ve only just been captured and haven’t yet been sold on. There are quite a few rebels in those ones, refusing to feed and the rest of it. But it’s heavily guarded.’ She points to a car park on the opposite side of the water to the pens. ‘A police van sits there’ – her finger moves slightly to the left – ‘and that’s where the dolphin fishermen gather in the morning, deciding whether it’s a good day to go out to sea and kill more. All those people have a clear view of the harbour pens. They’ve been deemed too risky to attempt – that’s why we’re only doing the ones further north, at Dolphin Resort.’
Desi continues to study the plans for a moment, then looks up at both of them.
‘How long do you think it will take for the alert to go up at Dolphin Resort?’
Carl is obviously intrigued. ‘The trainers come out not long after first light. They’ll see they’re gone straight away.’
‘And what do you think the police and those fishermen are going to do when they find out there’s been an assault on Dolphin Resort?’ she asks. Without waiting for an answer she continues, ‘Isn’t it likely that they’ll all converge over there? And if they leave, surely there’s a window of opportunity that seems too good to miss. Why don’t I try to cut the harbour pens too?’