The Plantation - Di Morrissey [72]
‘Come and crouch beside me. She won’t mind.’
Hardly daring to breathe, Julie moved slowly beside Angie. The elderly mother waddled forward, grasped the banana and carefully peeled it before eating it.
Angie handed Julie some peanuts she’d been carrying in her pocket. ‘Hold them out in the palm of your hand.’
Julie did so, and to her delight, a wrinkled leathery hand flashed out and picked up several of the nuts. Booma chewed them, spat them into her hand and held the mushy nuts over her shoulder for the baby to eat. It was a leisurely procedure and when the nuts were gone the baby climbed around to the front of its mother and stared expectantly at Julie.
‘I’d love to stroke her,’ whispered Julie.
‘Sometimes she’ll let me touch her. But Booma’s protective of her babies when they are so little.’
Slowly Angie reached forward, holding open her hand. The old mother took no notice, but the little one, obviously hoping that there might be nuts on offer, grabbed her fingers and as Angie lifted her hand the baby clung on, its small tail wrapping around her arm.
As Angie held the baby under the watchful eye of its mother, Julie tenderly stroked its back and head. The baby looked at her with large round eyes and for an instant Julie felt she was looking at a human baby with its trusting eyes, clinging touch and pursed lips.
But, quickly, Booma leaned forward and retrieved her infant, holding it possessively to her chest. Then, to Julie’s joy, the old mother leaned down and tenderly kissed the top of her baby’s head, a gesture that seemed so familiar. And with that, Booma ran rapidly in a loping gait across the clearing, one arm dangling, the other holding her baby and was swiftly up a tree and gone from sight.
‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ said Julie, awestruck.
Angie straightened up. ‘I never cease to wonder at these creatures. They, and chimps, are our closest biological relatives and they have their own personalities, habits and idiosyncrasies.’
The two women headed back to the parking lot.
‘Thank you, Angie. When you actually meet orangutans, you can understand why people are so passionate about protecting them. They are the most beautiful animals. You do feel a kindred attachment to them.’
‘I’m glad it all worked out. It doesn’t always. Let me know when you’re back from your trip upriver,’ said Angie. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you into town.’
The river was wide and broad, fast flowing. The dugout canoe, a hollowed log with a few planks nailed along the sides, had a powerful outboard motor attached to its stern, propelling it through the thick water. Because the dugout was so narrow, they sat one behind the other with barely a hand span free on either side of their seats. The group had driven from Kuching at dawn, stopping in a small village where one of Rajah Brooke’s forts, now converted into the village post office, still stood above the river. They’d been met by the two boatmen, father and son, who led them down to the river where the dugout waited.
Now one of the boatmen, perched in the bow, kept a watch for floating debris, rocks and shallow channels. Ngali was a young Iban who took his role very seriously. Occasionally he flicked an arm left or right to indicate that the ripples on the surface meant shallows or rocks ahead. Ayum, the old man at the tiller in the stern, took the appropriate evasive action.
Lined up, single file, behind the bowman, sat Barry with his camera ready, then Matthew, then David and behind him their Iban interpreter, and then Julie. The Iban boatmen were from a longhouse that Matthew and David had visited before and its headman had agreed to let them return.
Julie had been surprised when she met Matthew and David’s interpreter. Chitra was a tall, elegantly beautiful Malaysian Indian in her twenties. Dressed in jeans and a pale-blue shirt, a designer belt showing off her narrow waist, a Nike cap perched over her thick dark hair, which fell in a braid over one shoulder,