Kath’s Jungle Diary: ‘I emerged to the sound of cicadas and hornbills’

HOME FOR THE NEXT MONTH: Kath after arriving at Cikananga Wildlife Centre

Kath Roe, a veterinary nurse from Beverley, is on a month-long internship at a wildlife rescue centre in Indonesia. She is writing about her experiences exclusively for The Hull Story

I’ve been on a journey. Normally I hate that expression but in this case I feel it’s warranted.

Six months ago, chatting to a student veterinary nurse about where the job can take you, I came across a website advertising opportunities to work with wildlife in Indonesia.

The British Veterinary Nurse qualification is well respected and sought after in many countries and working abroad was something I had planned to do in my far distant youth. Life, relationships, pets, a lack of time and money; something always got in the way.

There was a form. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ I thought. ‘If not now, when?’ I filled in the form. Six months later a 57-year-old veterinary nurse with minimal travel experience, whose favourite weather is snow, finds herself on a month-long internship at the Cikananga Wildlife Rescue Centre in the foothills of West Java. No one is more surprised than me!

Preparation was long, complicated (by my standards) and not cheap. Vaccines for typhoid, hepatitis, rabies (three shots, and not the fun kind), a TB test, renewed passport, very specific travel insurance, currency, visa, flights, new glasses, wellies. I had lists within lists. Eventually everything was sorted. But it’s all fun and games until somebody starts a war.

Two weeks before departure all Qatar flights were grounded and a stopover in Doha was most unlikely. I waited a week to see if things improved – they did not. So, new flights, Thai and Turkish at twice the price, which was nice. All was well, apart from the abject terror of course.

So many things scared me: travelling that far, particularly alone, navigating Bangkok airport for my connecting flight, having to get a SIM card on arrival in Jakarta (I know I’m not the only person over 50 who breaks out in a cold sweat at that one!) What if my luggage got lost? Or my passport? Or me? What if I was trafficked? (Although where they would traffic a flustered, sweating, menopausal Yorkshire woman  is beyond me).  

STUNNING: An evening view of Kath’s new office

As is often the case, the anticipation was much worse than the reality. Rocking a sexy combo of flight socks and Crocs I boarded the plane at Heathrow. I did feel it was appropriate to sing Whenever I Feel Afraid from The King and I (favourite musical bar Dirty Dancing) quietly to myself on arrival at Bangkok; after all, Mrs Anna did that when the her boat docked in what was then Siam.

But, no need. A lovely lady with a very long list directed passengers to their next gate, pointing helpfully, so I whistled a happy-ish tune as I trundled along with my hand luggage. By the time I was through security I’d moved onto Chess – one night in Bangkok and the world’s your oyster, apparently.

Jakarta immigration were, in comparison, stern and intimidating, but once navigated (by 12.30pm local time, nearly 24 hours after leaving the UK) I emerged into a steamy world of smiley, happy people who couldn’t do enough to help.

I clearly looked dazed and confused pausing outside the terminal in the 33-degree oven, as I was approached several times by helpful people. Did I need a taxi? (I did not). Or a sim card? ( I did, and the smiling staff took my phone, gave me water and sorted everything out as I perspired gently over my suitcase!).

I had booked a hotel in the airport for the night, and was to be picked up the following morning by a driver from the centre, and bravely boarded the free Skytrain to the next terminal. I foolishly paused again and immediately a small wrinkled man appeared like Mr Ben’s shopkeeper. His response to “Jakarta Hotel?” Was to grab my suitcase (nearly the same size as him) and trot off pointing vaguely. I followed, asking if he worked there. He nodded. Thirty seconds later, with the hotel in sight; I wrestled my luggage from him and said thank you. I heard “you have money?” I don’t think he worked there.

The room was large, clean and comfortable with welcome air-conditioning that I cranked up (or is it down? I never know) to 16 degrees. I forced myself to leave the room for a little wander up and down the terminal lined with small shops, purchased some water and, oh joy, Japanese seaweed flavoured crisps (the future!).

Then, feeling whiter than I’ve ever felt in my life, I retreated to the relative coolness of my room and the bed, also large, clean and comfortable. Despite being awake for over 36 hours, sleep was elusive. I finally nodded off around 6am and made it to breakfast by the skin of my teeth. Swiftly bypassing the spicy fried rice and chicken porridge (yes, you heard that right), I fuelled up on melon slices and strong black coffee.

I’VE MADE IT: Kath settles in to her new surroundings

My driver was punctual, waving a scrap of paper with my name on (enough to convince me I wasn’t being trafficked) but I can’t for the life of me remember his, which is rude I know,  but just walking to the car park made me sweat and I got distracted by the spectacular driving going on around me. One rule – don’t hit anything.

The main mode of transport in Indonesia is the moped. As we left the motorways of Jakarta and the roads became more rural, they swarmed around our Toyota (with inadequate air-conditioning, but you can’t have everything) overtaking, undertaking, sometimes on the road,  sometimes off it. Helmets, no helmets, flip-flops, shorts, girls in hijabs, sometimes entire families, small children eating snacks in between parents.

All diced with death giving a cheery toot to let others know that they too might be about to die. The roads grew narrower, sometimes disappearing completely due to regular landslides, yet miraculously, and with a refreshingly blatant disregard for road safety, everyone seems to navigate their way around each other.

Heading south, the population of small towns and villages we passed through can be gauged by the number of vehicles on the road. Everywhere the streets are lined with stalls; everyone is selling something. After Sukabumi, the nearest city to the Wildlife Centre, I knew were only an hour away.

Tin shacks clung perilously to the edge of steep hills covered with rice fields, tropical trees, huge ferns  and every shade of green you can  imagine (and some you can’t). Small pens packed with chickens joined the party. With the help of Google translate I managed to tell the man whose name begins with ‘H’ that he was an excellent driver. Never a nervous passenger, I found the whole experience quite marvellous.

Four hours after leaving Jakarta we rattled up a final steep, rocky track and through the rusty (it’s the humidity!) gates of the Cikananga centre. I emerged from the back seat to the sound of cicadas and something I later learned was the honking of the hornbills. We’re not in Kansas anymore.

Like I said, I’ve been on a journey.