Uncharted and mostly untouched Borneo is simply breathtaking 

In search of that elusive earthly paradise, uncharted by Google, unmapped by GPS and unchronicled by Lonely Planet, I had zeroed in on the jungles of Indonesian Borneo; inaccessible to all but the most persistent and hardy traveller. So five of us, a group which included two teenagers, set out in pursuit of our Holy Grail, a remote, primordial speck on our denselypopulated planet. Armed with water-purifying tablets, insect repellent masks, knee-length leech-resistant boots, kerosene lanterns, bedrolls, knives and ropes, we set out on our exploratory voyage fancying ourselves modern-day Marco Polos. The chance to spot orangutans in their habitat and not in corralled conservation centres was an added attraction. Borneo—or Kalimantan as it is known locally—is a large island straddling the Equator. It is shared by three countries; Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei. While Malaysia has burnt down most of its rainforests for palm oil plantations or manicured, accessible tourist spots for dollar-laden tourists, Indonesia, happily, has left nature relatively alone. So there are still pristine rainforests left, though timber and palm oil traders are advancing relentlessly upon them. Pontianak, an hour’s flight from Jakarta, was our first pit-stop. Pontianak’s claim to fame is that it sits bang on the Equator, straddling two hemispheres. And that it trades palm oil to food processing firms that take care of the trans fat content in all those unhealthy fried foods we so relish. It also fancies itself a techno-savvy ‘cyber city’, as a board at the airport informed us. Interestingly, our plane steward could not figure out why a bunch of loony Indians would wish to visit Pontianak when the drop-dead gorgeous Borobudur and languorous Bali beckoned tourists by the droves. No, he hadn’t heard of either Ketapang or Kubang Hill, and didn’t think much of them either. “You are taking all this trouble to see orangutans?” he asked us incredulously. After a night’s halt, we made our way to the jetty on Kapuas River to catch a boat to Ketapang at the edge of the rainforest. If you think over-crowding and filth are endemic to India, think again. Bedlam prevailed at the jetty packed with cargo, scooters, luggage and a mass of humanity. For locals, this is the only transport available to visit villages scattered on the island. Eventually, we managed to get the right boat and flashing ingratiating smiles and our foreign identities, we managed to gatecrash into the captain’s cabin. After seven hours of slicing through the mangrovelined Kapuas, we reached Ketapang, a village on the edge of the rainforest. Our hotel, built with indigenous materials and hoisted on stilts to take care of flooding at high-tide, was a haven. The next day, we hired a guide-cum-cook, stocked up on rations and rode the dirt track winding its way to the edge of the forest. From the moment you enter the forest, you become aware of the decibel level in a rainforest. There is a cacophony of bird calls, insect buzzes, and powerful, screeching winds. More than once, we stopped when we heard something like gunfire, which our guide informed us was rainforest thunder! We carefully picked our way up the forest floor, sodden with metre-high foliage and logs covered with fluorescent toadstools, underneath which lurked all manner of strange creatures. Vines draped themselves around solid tree trunks, and sometimes a lazy serpent as well. As the forest floor grew steeper, we had to pause more frequently for breath, marvelling at the porter-cum-cook who, armed with most of the gear and sporting nothing more than worn chappals skipped lightly up the path. At several places, our ascent was only made possible by knotted ropes tied to trees, by which we would haul ourselves, and our packs, up. Sometimes, the ropes would snap, hurling us down. It was only with the help of our trusty guide that we managed to reach the camp—weary, covered in mud, scarred but exhilarated. When you read camp, don’t let your imagination run wild with visions of resort-style facilities. All we had was a wooden shack raised on poles. It sported a sloping roof, but no walls; leaving visitors at the mercy of the rain, wind and insects. There was no bedding nor toilets; all we could do was sprawl on the planks or huddle together in the middle to escape the spray of the incessant rains. But to our weary bodies, this was paradise. Our porter-cum-cook miraculously managed to convert all the soggy groceries into a delectable meal that would have been the envy of a starred Michelin chef. From the camp, we set out to explore the rich and diverse rainforest—for a worm’s-eye view, literally! The canopy was so high, and the trees so dense, that sunlight hardly filtered through. Chlorophyll of every hue filled our eyes. A cornucopia of insects flaunted their fluorescent poison, warning visitors. Some had small but impressive horns or hooks. Snakes came in varying sizes, as avian fauna of incredible variety, including the gorgeously plumed hornbill with its helicopter-like whir as flew overhead. Gibbons and macaques and proboscis monkeys were all around. Much to our dismay, the ever-elusive orangutan was nowhere to be seen; our guide informed us (as we tromped through the jungle making as much noise as a herd of wild bison) that unless we quickly learnt to trek quietly, we might never get to see one. We did not get to see the simian, but we did spot mushy durian peels and swaying branches. Our guide though, seemed to spot them in glorious detail. So as to not lose face, we nodded sagely, craned our necks and pointed our lenses at swinging branches. The leeches on the ground were delighted by our distraction. They latched on to the unlikeliest parts of our anatomy. Since a leech-bite doesn't hurt, we discovered the bites only when we reached camp. If you happen to plan a trip around the Durian fruiting season, your walks will be enlivened by raucous simians and avians, as they fight over choice pickings. Our next pit-stop was Kubang Hill, draped in misshapen mangroves so scary in their contortions that I was reminded of Noddy’s jungles. We took a canoe with an outboard motor and sailed through Kapuas from the village of Teluk Melano which was festooned with swallows’ nests—a delicacy and a dollar-spinner for the villagers. We shifted to smaller canoes paddled by local boys and went into tiny creeks, darkened by overhanging vegetation, while monster roots blocked our path. The jungle unfolded in all its glory: banks resounded with all sorts of calls, funny-shaped fruits hung from branches and butterflies of brilliant colours fluttered around and settled on our arms. Kubang Hill is another kind of water-logged obstacle race. You don’t know what you’re stepping on until your toes are lacerated by thorny stumps. There are leeches galore and since you’re wading barefoot, they have a field day. (I picked at least four from between my toes.) We sat on fallen logs to have our picnic of goreng wrapped in a leaf. And suddenly, there appeared the silent old man of the forest, his languorous limbs clinging to a pandanna leaf and his child-like eyes scrutinising us warily. Before I could mount my 400 mm lens, the orangutan vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. But, no complaints there. The evening was crowned by a memorable boat ride back to Sukadana, through a gorgeous evening sky—all of 360 degrees— glowing with the surreal and splendid hues of the setting sun.