So you feel a little strange at cocktail parties. Your friends jabber on about mutual funds, car leases and football games. You, on the other hand, want to discuss the pros and cons of female circumcision, the relative merits of Chinese- vs. Bulgarian-made AK-47s, the quality of polo played at Chitral vs. Gilgit, or even the archaeological merits of Nemrut Dagi. Your friends think you are talking about a new rock group and then slowly fade to the opposite corner. Seems like you need to find the right social circle. Well, take heart. There are actually clubs for adventurers. Obviously, these groups have their share of toupee-wearing, bring-'em-back-alive bullshitters, but you can probably find someone who can engage you in a spirited discussion about which side of the Rift Valley their ancestors came from in Swahili.
Adventurers are lone wolves, social misfits or even outcasts. Misunderstood by their friends and inept in their mundane existence, they tend to travel alone, romanticize the esoteric and only later realize that they are trendsetters. Occasionally, by choice or by circumstance, we find ourselves in the company of other adventurers, huddled in bomb shelters, squeezed into native huts or killing time in Central American jails. For a brief shining moment, we have found an equal, only to be dumped back into the real world, where most people think we're crazy.
The reality is that danger creates a special fellowship. You'll find instant camaraderie whether you are sitting around a small fire drinking bad cognac and discussing politics as the sun rises in an Asian jungle, or shivering in a mountain hut in Pakistan while arguing about the firing rates of automatic weapons. These serendipitous friendships under adversity create bonds and memories. It is not surprising that these adventurers would seek to re-create the boisterous warm feelings that many of them had around foreign campfires. Back in the real world, we do long for those clear, crisp moments when minds met and the world made sense.
Keep in mind that I believe in the words of Marx (Groucho, that is): "I would never join a club that would have me as member." But if you like wildlife and animals of the social kind, you may want to check out an adventure club in your neighborhood. There tends to be a liberal sprinkling of windy Baron Munchausen's complete with pencil mustaches and Faustian guts, as well as honest-to-goodness adventurers. In any case, the clubs can be an excellent way to learn about the world of adventure and the quixotic people that make it tick.
Be forewarned that each club has a unique personality. Many of the clubs demand that you earn your spurs before joining, some have a prepubescent abhorrence of females, and others are more businesslike and adopt the patina of adventure only as a decorating trend. Obviously, geographic proximity will dictate your choice, so it is up to you to inspect and decide. My personal favorites? I prefer the less arthritic and gravitate toward the scientific. The Royal Geographical Society is probably the best blend of historical and dynamic. There is a constant list of presentations and events that lean toward the scientific. If you prefer hanging out with aging astronauts or port-soaked big-game hunters, the American clubs may appeal to you. If you would like to cultivate a wider social circle, the foreign clubs may be ideal. If you would like to trade witticisms | la Oscar Wilde, then maybe the Savage Club is for you. In any case, here are descriptions of clubs designed for fellowship among the adventurous.
These are clubs where kindred souls can gather to swap tall tales and compare adventures. The Adventurer's Club originated in New York in 1912 and was the brainchild of a group of 34 men, among whom were soldiers, sailors, hunters, trappers, explorers, travelers, journalists, authors and scientists. Their goal was to promote the exchange and dissemination of knowledge in the areas of exploration, geography and natural history, as well as provide a social center for adventurous types. Today, these antique clubs have a hard time attracting the new breed of ecosensitive, bungy-jumping rock and rollers. The average age is 50 plus, but some young people are still attracted by the club's aura of history and tradition.
The concept of manly men surrounded by dusty trophies in creaky surroundings has kept these clubs alive and active. Within their confines, you can make such butch toasts as "To every lost trail, lost cause and lost comrade" or "To adventure, the shadow of every red-blooded man" without fear of ridicule. The original New York club spawned similar clubs in Chicago (1913), Los Angeles (1921), Copenhagen (1937) and Honolulu (1955). Although the Chicago club will boast they predate the New York club, they are essentially cut from the same cloth-superannuated boys clubs where members can proudly display their trophies and tell tales of adventures past.
Here, members can attend or give weekly presentations of their most recent exploits. Presentations cannot cover subjects that are controversial, religious or political in nature. (That puts DP fans out of the running.) If you have just come out of the jungle and are looking for a little female companionship, you are definitely in the wrong place. The club is very politically incorrect in its very male membership but does hold Ladies Nights "occasionally."
To be eligible for active membership, you must prove you are a real adventurer, not just someone with tattoos and a devil-may-care smirk. You must show "competent proof" of having:
The clubs generally offer active memberships, associate memberships and consular memberships, with fees based on how much money you are willing to contribute.
Membership to any level provides for visiting membership in the other Adventurer Clubs as well as the Savage Club in London and the Explorers Club of New York.
714 S. Dearborn
Chicago, Illinois 60605
(312) 291-0810The Chicago club was started by journalist (Major) W. Robert Foran. He and a group of adventurers, big-game hunters and military men used to meet informally until 1911, when during a boozy meeting they decided to form a club and even came up with the motto "a hearth and home for those who have left the beaten path and made for adventure." It might have something to do with Foran having just returned from one of Teddy Roosevelt's big-game expeditions in Africa and feeling like he needed a permanent watering hole. In any case, the strangely nomadic club has occupied eight locations in its 83-year history. A real bitch, considering what a pain it is to move those shrunken heads, mounted trophies, stuffed bears, weapons, photos and other bric-a-brac that adorn the club.
Only 200 adventurous posteriors can be warmed by the clubhouse's fire at any one time. Both men and women (since 1989) are invited to an "exploratory visit." Membership is open to men and women. You simply write a letter to the president or drop off your application at the club.
The Chicago club prides itself on not having relaxed its membership standards and provides a rough but incomplete list of what they consider adventurous activities.
The list of adventurous pursuits that would qualify one for membership starts with "travel to remote areas not readily accessible by tour guides" and continues with hunting, fishing, photography (in remote areas) white-water rafting, ballooning, underwater activities, extended stays in remote areas and environmental testing, and winds up with archaeologists, treasure hunters and astronauts.
The board of directors will look for the element of risk to life and limb and prefers that your adventure be far from home and off the beaten path. They are open to new interpretations of adventure, so those four days you spent blindfolded, drunk, condomless and in heat in a Thai whorehouse may possibly qualify you for membership.
Once you have been initiated, you get to do silly, adventurous, manly things like "worship Wahoo," the household god, by donating to the baksheesh bowl (a charitable fund used for members in need), carry club flags to far-off places and then bring them back, and enjoy the hospitality of the Long Table, the lubricated fellowship at the "sign of the whale bar," and the general adventurous ambience of swapping yarns amongst the formaldehyde, rust and dust of an adventurer's club.
2433 North Broadway
Los Angeles, CA 90086-2541
(213) 223-3948The Adventurer's Club of Los Angeles meets in downtown L.A. every Thursday evening. The spacious club boasts trophies that would dignify many museums. Members and guests gather at 6 p.m. in the club's dining room and engage in sprightly conversations over dinner. At 8 p.m. they convene in the central meeting hall where a featured speaker recalls his exploits in adventure, exploration, arts and science. Most of the presentations contain "off-the-record" and "behind-the-scenes" stories not covered in commercial presentations. Controversial and religious subjects are not presented in the weekly assemblies, and the "manly men" deign to hold Ladies Nights about six times a year. The hand of good fellowship is extended to visiting members of the Savage Club of London, the Explorer's Club of New York, the Adventurer's Club of Chicago, the Adventurer's Club of Copenhagen, the Adventurer's Club of Moscow and the Adventurer's Club of Honolulu.
706 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, California 90015A somewhat aging male-only and nomadic club of 200 male members, who recently voted down accepting women members 95 to 5. Unlike the grand New York Adventurer's Club, the L.A. club has kept its trophies and bric-a-brac in storage for years. The membership is diverse, and the meetings have included entertaining presentations by interesting people, such as Will Rogers, who spoke on the eve of his departure on his round-the-world journey. He died two weeks later, when the plane he was riding in, piloted by Wiley Post, crashed in Alaska. Dues are $150 per year; members pay for their meals.
46 East 70th Street
New York, NY 10021
(212) 628-8383, FAX: (212) 288-4449This club is 90 years old and a popular hangout for media types. The Explorer's Club was formed in 1904 by Henry Collins Walsh, when he invited a group of buds to create a club "to encourage explorers in their work by evincing interest and sympathy and especially by bringing them in the bonds of good fellowship."
The nonprofit club began in 1905, and the founding members consisted of an Indian fighter, museum curator, Arctic explorer, mountaineer, archaeologist, war correspondent and hunter.
What makes the Explorer's Club a must is the fascinating decor created by 90 years of collecting trophies and junk from around the world. The six-story 1910 town house with its magnificent library is an "in" site for parties in New York.
For those who do not live in New York, there are 27 regional chapters, seven of them in other countries (Australia, Britain, India, Norway, Poland and Western Europe).
The club likes to lend out numbered flags, so that you can take them to some godforsaken place on some harebrained quest, and then throw a party when you return the dilapidated piece of cloth.
They sponsor some expeditions, award medals (the Explorer's Medal) and provide local support to scientific and educational programs, all based on merit. The club publishes a quarterly journal and a newsletter and offers a 25,000-item library, a 500-item map room and historical archives.
Membership includes 3000 men and women, with 500 of them outside the New York area.
As with most of these clubs, to join the Explorers Club of New York, you have to have some type of experience in being "adventurous." Driving a cab in Harlem probably won't impress them, nor will big-game hunting trips, extensive travel without a scientific purpose or photography in remote parts of the world. But if you provide sponsoring letters, fill out the application form and fork over the hefty membership fee, your chances are good.
You can be a "fellow" if your exploits are published, or try for regular membership if you are modest about your exploits. In any case, it will depend on what the membership committee and the Board of Directors say.
Also available are student memberships (16-24 years of age, over 24 if you are pursuing a graduate degree), and corporate memberships.
1 Whitehall Place
London, England SW1A 2HD
(071) 930 8118The Savage Club is one of the more unusual clubs for adventurers. It was founded in 1857 by a group of "merry fellows" at the Crown Tavern. Their quaint logo features a Plains Indian, but the club members do not know how the club and the members became known as "Savages." Some say it was a dead poet or a poverty-stricken journalist; others say it was a sick joke since the club consists mostly of men of the arts. The Savages are writers, doctors, lawyers, actors, musicians and artists. They welcome "solitary men or irrelevant characters, kind or quirky ones" and those who have "packed their accolades (but not their psyches) in their knapsacks and pursued in common cause the Savage fellowship."
The club has rules which must be obeyed. No guests may buy drinks, no one may enter the bar with an overcoat (the penalty is a round for all present), tipping is forbidden, and any member is encouraged to expostulate at the drop of a hat. The accent here is on being somewhat eccentric and entertaining.
The posh Savage Club is famous for holding on to two cases of bourbon requested by writer Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain). When asked if he wanted to take the liquor with him, Clemens requested that the club hold on to it until his return. When a prewar visitor informed them that Clemens had been dead for quite some time, they said they were bound by duty to honor his wishes and to hold on to it until his return. The clubhouse and Clemens' liquor were destroyed during a WWII air raid, ending what could have been a long running joke. Why is the Savage Club a great adventurer's club? Well, there is a bald-pated dullness when surrounded by people of the same persuasion. How many big-game-hunting stories or eating-grubs-with-the-pygmy stories can you endure? The mix of intellectuals at the Savage Club encourages lively discourse and a chance to find an appreciative audience.
Joining is not as difficult as it may seem. The club welcomes applications from "gentlemen over 18 connected professionally with literature, art, music, drama, science or law in their creative and interpretive aspects, and to such other gentlemen as are deemed to have contributed to one or more of these disciplines." Attainment in hobbies, pursuits and other interests go a long way to impress the qualifications subcommittee. Two sponsors (both must be "Savages") are required to nominate a candidate. They must write a lengthy letter explaining why the candidate will make a great Savage. A resume, or curriculum vitae, along with a month-long probationary period are required.
1 Kensington Gore
London SW7 2AR
(011 71) 581 2057,
FAX: (011 71) 584-4447Not technically a "club" but a vital social and scientific institution. The RGS was founded in 1830, with the goal of advancing geographical science and the "improvement and diffusion of geographical knowledge." The London-based society takes its mandate seriously, and although most Americans will remember the great expeditions of Sir Richard Burton and John Hanning Speke to discover the source of the Nile, few may know that they continue to send adventurous men to the far corners of the world.
Their focus today is a little more politically correct, centering on a range of environmental issues. The RGS welcomes any member regardless of nationality, etc. The only trick is you have to be nominated by other members and seconded by another if you wish to be a Fellow. The 12,000 or so members typically have academic qualifications or expedition experience or are widely traveled. It is somewhat difficult to be nominated as a Fellow (30 pounds per year-most are graduates and work in geographical professions), but there are also Associate Members (24 pounds), Educational Corporate Members (60 pounds) and Corporate Members (200 pounds).
Once you are a member, you can subscribe to the 164-year-old Geographical Journal, the largest circulation of any British academic journal. The rather staid and colorless journal is published three times a year and contains original research papers and important articles on geography. The monthly Geographical Magazine is more colorful and deals with more contemporary issues. There is also a newsletter that keeps members aware of upcoming events and activities in the RGS.
The RGS is headquartered in Lowther Lodge, a Victorian-era brick building across the street from Hyde Park and close to major museums. From the outside, statues of Shackleton and Livingstone peer around the corner from their niches in the walls. Inside, you find the exact kind of casual bric-a-brac you would expect to find in a house that has been storing other people's stuff for more than 150 years. Stuffed penguins are crammed in stairwells, portraits of the great explorers glare down on you, and there are more maps and books than you could possibly read in a lifetime. The library holds more than 150,000 books, periodicals and reference materials; the Map Room is stacked floor to ceiling with over 850,000 maps, globes and atlases. The Picture library has an excellent but somewhat confused selection of period photographs. The Archives holds the crown jewels of the RGS, the personal papers, diaries and observations of the world's great explorers. The RGS continues to sponsor expeditions and organize major field research programs.
There is also an excellent Expedition Advisory Center that is invaluable for anyone considering traveling the hard way or desiring to meet up with other like-minded people. The 15-year-old EAC is open to all and has assisted more than 500 expeditionary teams in providing training and advice to primarily university-level groups. Their impressive publications assist adventurers with tips on everything from the fund raising phase to gaining a publication contract for expeditions.
On the social side, activities surround the ongoing lecture program. RGS holds regular lectures on subjects as diverse as screening adventure films to nuts-and-bolts presentations on geomorphology. There is daily lunch, cocktails are served before and after lectures, and events can be held at the Society's headquarters.
Royal Geographical Society
1 Kensington Gore
London SW7 2AR
(011 71) 581 2057,
FAX: (011 71) 584-4447Not a club or even a place where more than five people can sit down at one time. The EAC's home is in a crowded set of offices about the Royal Geographic Society's headquarters in London. They do a yeoman's job of singlehandedly running the only support group for expedition planning.
The Centre provides information, training and, most importantly, encouragement for anyone planning an expedition overseas. Their cumulative knowledge and vast contacts can help you decide what type of flashlight works best underwater, the best place to buy snake venom antidote, or even if there are other equally eager folks who want to join on. Nobody at the center writes checks for great ideas or does any work for you, but they can point you in the right direction and show you how and why expeditions are funded.
There is an annual program of meetings that brings seasoned pros together with fresh-faced explorers. In November there is an expedition planning seminar that generates enough enthusiasm to send anyone to the North Pole. For Americans the major source of help is the list of publications that pack years of solid experience into a bookshelf of manuals.
The Centre keeps a list of people who are interested in joining expeditions (people with medical and multidisciplinary scientific skills are most in demand; photographers and folks who just are looking for something to keep them busy are the least in demand).
If you would like to get the latest prices and listings, just send a fax to the address above and request a list of publications (you can use your credit card and there is a discount of 10 percent if you order more than 3 to 9 copies of the same publication, 25 percent if you order more than 10 of the same one).
There are books on fund-raising for expeditions, joining an expedition, writing expedition reports, reference sources, expedition field techniques on collecting and studying everything from meteors to reptiles to people and handbooks on expeditions to polar, tropical, desert, underwater, underground and rain forest sites, and their expedition yearbooks detail the various expeditions the EAC has assisted or kept track of.
Seeking out the last wild places for this book was not as easy as simply picking a green spot on the map. I spent a long time looking for areas in Borneo that could be future ecological and cultural highlights. Our goal was to publicize threatened and significant areas in Borneo that are important not only to the region, but to the world. One area needed no discussion: a perfectly balanced environment, untouched by man, home to a diverse array of species and biosystems... and in danger of becoming a coal mine.
"Ever heard of the Maliau?" Jon Rees asked. "No." "The Lost World, the last wild place in Borneo." "Really? Tell me more." The phone line between Malaysia and Los Angeles gave its characteristic echo as our voices sped up to satellites and down again, bridging the thousands of miles between us.
"There have only been four expeditions into the Maliau, three scientific and one I did just for the hell of it. Now a surveyor is there mapping coal seams. I think it's the right time for the world to find out about the Maliau Basin."
We talked at length about what was needed to get in and out of the basin. On my topographical aviation map, the Maliau looks like a giant volcanic basin. It is not. The Maliau Basin is a sedimentary formation of eroded sandstone and mudstone. The steep cliffs surrounding the basin, one of the features that has earned it the name, "Lost World," make it almost inaccessible. The only way in, at the lower end, is guarded by a series of impressive waterfalls and gorges.
The Maliau Basin is unique in that it is an area that has lain unvisited and untouched since the dawn of time. Now the area is getting serious attention from logging companies, coal mining and oil drilling interests.
Maliau means "murky" in the Murut language which is a good description of its past and possibly of its future.
In 1947, a pilot flying from the west coast of British North Borneo to Tawau experienced a rude shock when he narrowly avoided colliding with a wall of steep cliffs emerging from the misty jungle. This minor incident is the first recorded mention of the Maliau Basin. The "Lost World" was recorded in the Borneo Bulletin-and then quietly slipped back into obscurity.
The nearest Dusun villagers lived only four days away, but their belief that a fierce dragon inhabited Lake Limunsut at the base of the cliffs didn't encourage exploration. Muruts along Sungai Sapulut were known to have reached the lower basin, calling it the "Mountain of Stairs" in reference to the many waterfalls and limestone ledges.
The first Western attempt to enter the "Lost World" was in 1976 during a forest service expedition to Lake Limunsut. They tried in vain to scale the escarpment but were forced to turn back just forty feet from the upper edge.
Four years later, the Sabah Museum mounted an expedition to penetrate this remote area. The expedition ran out of supplies, was felled by malaria, and had to give up before they could conquer the escarpment.
In 1982, they managed a brief reconnaissance by helicopter, landing on a gravel bar near the falls.This preliminary mission was designed to lay the groundwork for a more intensive expedition a year later. They were greeted by animals that had never seen man before: a docile 22 foot, 400 pound python, mildly curious bearded pigs and a kijang, deer. In all, this brief foray into the wilderness posed more questions than it answered.
Finally, in April-May of 1988, a 43 man expedition spent three weeks in the Maliau unlocking its secrets. What they found was impressive. The 390 square kilometer basin covers an area of 25 kilometers across and is protected by an encircling escarpment that climbs up to 1500 meters. The highest point is Gunung Lotung, estimated to be 1900 meters high, but it has yet to be properly surveyed.
This expedition identified 47 species of mammals, including rhino, proboscis monkey and clouded leopard; 175 species of birds, including the Bulwer's Pheasant (once thought extinct in Sabah); and 450 species of plants, many of them rare species.Their scientific finds and increased understanding of this absolutely untouched region led them to declare it a conservation area. But, along with the numerous rare plants and unusual ecosystems, the expedition also discovered significant coal seams.
There had also been a more adventurous and less scientific foray into the Maliau. Jon Rees walked in from Sapulut with three other Americans, a New Zealander and a Brit. They had heard there was a place no one had ever been, so they hiked through solid jungle from Sapulut for three days, plunged down into the Maliau River, walked along the ridge trail for five days, spent time in the central area and then devised a curious way to exit the basin. They had carried in canisters of two chemicals, used in boat building to create a buoyant foam. They also carried in two presewn plastic socks sewn in the shape of a Hobie cat.
The group tried to create hulls by hanging the socks in a tree, mixing the chemicals and pouring the chemical mixture into the socks. However, instead of a light, crisp vessel, they got two soggy bananas. The foam did not expand to its full volume, due either to altitude, heat, humidity or to all three. Nonetheless, they made a platform with roughly hewn crossbars and an old tennis net, tied sticks to the sawed-off blades of paddles, and proceeded to float down the Kuamut for 10 days to get out.
Their total time in the country was 27 days longer than any other outsider before them. During their foray they came across all the major mammals of Borneo except the rhino, and discovered "Jalan Babi," the curious highway used by pigs to enter the Maliau. The profusion of coniferous and oak trees attracts the pigs in impressive numbers every year.
Because of the area's inaccessibility, various expeditions had passed the Maliau Basin by, or skirted its perimeter. The Maliau has a curious history of being discovered and then undiscovered. The purpose of our trip was to bring this area to the attention of the world and by so doing provide incentive for the government of Sabah and Malaysia to preserve the touristic and environmental importance of this region.
Mention the Maliau in Sabah, and the name Tony Lamb always seems to come up. Tony is a dedicated scientist, whose fascination and experience with the Maliau Basin made him the perfect choice for our expedition. Tony was in charge of the Tenom Research Center, now retired, and his special interest is in the identification, propagation, and domestication of tropical fruits. He also has a vast knowledge of local insects, birds and mammals. His knowledge of the orchids and plants is encyclopedic. Only accurate identification of the multitude of trees prompts him to defer to a tree expert.
Tony was born in Ceylon, (now Sri Lanka) and grew up on a tea plantation during the British colonial period. Being educated in England and spending many years in Malaysia, another former British colony, may explain his genteel and pleasant nature.
The helicopter descended: white, clean and gleaming. We waited; brown, mud-dirty and disheveled, from our previous adventure in Batu Punggul. Once on board and aloft, the complexities of the jungle intermingled into a rich, green blanket. The heavy heat became an icy coolness as the Bell 206 gained altitude.
From above the miles and miles of jungle carpet, the ground was unbroken, except by a few large rivers that had cut the dirt right down to the sandstone. Here, there was diversity, but also a monotony of endless green: a carpet of color every few miles from a flowering tree, subtle shades of green, blending from dark brownish green to light green and even yellowish green. If the helicopter went down in this canopy, we would never be found.
Off in the distance we saw the crisp shape of a continent rising above an ocean of mist. The sharp outline of the steep cliffs cut an exact shoreline in this cloud as if it were an island.
We asked the pilot to take us higher to get a better idea of the shape of this vast island within an island. It looked like an elephant track in hard dirt that has been washed by rain. The basin also could be described as a crown shape that rises in the north to a tiara-like configuration and slopes down on each side to where rivers have cut a series of jagged canyons through which they spill like wax from a candle. The Maliau is an important drainage basin that creates the Sungai Maliau, which tumbles down to create the Maliau Falls, then drains into the Kuamut, which links up with the Kinabatangan.
The area is so vast that we flew long and hard before we found the chain of rapids and waterfalls spilling out of the basin seen by so few people. The drainage of the entire 25 kilometer-wide basin made a most impressive showing. As the pilot dived and maneuvered between the steep cliffs, the ground turned from a smooth carpet to individual giants. What had looked like strewn pebbles were house-sized boulders. What had looked like rapids, were 20-30 foot waterfalls that cascaded into basin after basin. An extraordinary sight.
We were thankful that we did not have to walk in. The only ground access in is a full day hike from the nearest timber camp on the Tawau Keningau timber road. The downside to this method is a very steep and dangerous cliff ascent late in the day or early the next morning. For those pressed for time, a helicopter can be chartered from KK or Sandakan. It will not be cheap.
We decided to drop our gear at a helipad first, then have the pilot drop us off at the highest helipad. We would then walk down to the base camp from where we would explore the basin. The first day would be an ambitious, but easy, walk of about 8 kilometers through dense jungle. That was our plan. Things did not quite turn out that way. We were in the "Lost World," subject to its whims and desires.
The pilot tapped his gauge, alerting us to his low fuel. We broke out of our aerial reverie and began to search for the helipad. Crude helipads had been hacked out of the dense jungle to let the research and survey teams in. Our goal was to pick the most remote site and then walk along the ridge to the confluence of the two good sized rivers.
The helicopter touched down. We leaped out and immediately sank up to our chests in moss. Shocked by the lack of solid footing, we realized that the firm peat forest floor was an illusion. The stumps of the trees poked through three to four feet of moss and leaf litter before rooting in the thin hard bedrock.
We labored like horses in deep snow to get the gear away from the rotor wash. As the chopper lifted back into the bright sunlight, we had a chance to record our first impressions of the Maliau Basin.
It was cool near the rim. The altitude and humidity created an agreeable atmosphere. There was moss everywhere. The curious lack of soil and depth of the moss was typical of a peat forest. The trees were not the typical lowland dipterocarps. Here, there were conifers. Big conifers.
It was a discomforting feeling to descend from the clear, piercing blue sky into the dark grasps of the jungle. The trees towered above us. The contours of the basin, which had seemed gentle and caressing, were now wickedly steep and forbidding. Instead of seeing clearly in 360 degrees, we were now confined to staring at patches of sky through 60-100 foot trees.
Our weight restrictions and the distance we needed to fly to get to the Maliau dictated that we make two trips. Our solution was to send Jon back with the pilot to help find the helipad.
We flew into helipad four and set up camp at the base of the hill, lugging our gear and crashing through the dense brush like drunk elephants.
We were just five minutes down the trail and suddenly Tony asked us to stop. It appeared he had already made a discovery. He pointed to a thimble-sized plant that closely resembled a cross between an alien spaceship and a Victorian light standard. He collected the second finding ever of a small saprophytic plant; Thysmia aescananthus. The tiny plant is nestled under the roots of a tree and would have been easily crushed. Tony mentioned in a casual manner that the first time this plant was found was in exactly this same spot on an earlier expedition. The uniqueness and fragility of this area began to sink in.
Tony explained that we were in unique coniferous forest dominated by huge Agathus (related to the New Zealand cowrie pines), dacridiums and podocarpus trees, mixed with oaks and casserinas as it mixes with the lower hill dipterocarp forest.
This was truly pristine forest. There was no evidence of fire. There have been no natural calamities. There are no people to disturb the forest and there is no wind. Nothing to disturb the test tube-like conditions for creating new species. The only major trauma is the life cycle of the giant trees as they grow, die, and then crash into the forest, unheard and unseen, creating a gaping hole in the canopy for their offspring to fill.
We began our trek to the rim and then down along the edge to our rendezvous at a preagreed base camp. For navigation we had a compass and a crude map.
The size of the Maliau is overwhelming. Like most wilderness areas, there is a mixture of monotony and surprise: smooth skinned gum trees, disrobed and red in the normally green jungle; streams that run with tea-colored water; pitcher plants that festoon trees like Christmas decorations. As we increased in altitude the trees became stunted, the moss became thicker and the forest wetter.
We could tell when we were close to the rim because we hit a green wall of moss. There is a distinct rim forest that lives in the constant wash of the mist and fog that pours over the rim. The trees are twisted and gnarled with their roots raised as if to keep their feet dry. The moss is constantly wet. Walking through the almost impenetrable maze of roots and branches drenches you as they squish their burden of water. It is chilly. It is also silent. There does not appear to be any life along the rim.
Another surprise was that the spectacular view we thought would greet us, did not exist. The dense growth at the rim blocked any chance to get a clear view of the surrounding jungle. We were floating in a "sea of mist" that stretched as far as the eye could see. "Sea" is an appropriate description because the mist bobs and ebbs like an ocean. It hits the cliffs, curls up and then floats above the trees, spraying a fine cool mist over the trees and moss.
I pushed out to get a view over the ledge and had a gut wrenching revelation. When the mist cleared for a few seconds, I saw below me over a thousand feet of sheer cliff. More correctly, "behind" me was over a thousand feet of sheer cliff. I had learned another intriguing fact about the rim forest. The roots of the trees grew far out over the cliffs. Covered with moss and detritus and being continually moist, the roots support more plants and trees, encouraging the process to repeat itself. I should have learned my lesson when we leaped off the helicopter into a mossy trap. Wiser, I gently returned to the safety of the cliff five feet behind me.
Tony and I, realizing that the day was getting late and that we had a long hike ahead of us, made haste along the rim. From the air, the rim looks like a smooth, clean edge sloping softly to a basin. Toiling antlike on the ground, it is a wonderland of ravines, cliffs, gullies and inaccessible smaller cliffs. In some places, water too impatient to flow into the central basin, has sliced through the edge of the precipice, creating a magical series of waterfalls and ledges ending in one last leap of escarpment. The water never hits the ground, dissipating into mist and drops of moisture.
We made our way through alleys of 20 feet high, five feet wide and 60 feet long slabs of sandstone. We clambered up the root-bound cliffs and slid down the other side. We passed the remains of a camp. This was the first evidence of man after the helipad-further evidence of the search for coal. In the coming days we would come upon holes dug to measure the depth of soft black coal. They had picked a most impressive spot: water had carved a notch in the cliff face providing a picture window view of the top of the mist sea.
Soon the path flattened out. Instead of the steep climbing and tumbling, we were dodging, ducking and twisting around the chaotic moss forest. I couldn't help but think of British Columbia or the Olympic National Park in Washington. It was cool, green and refreshing when we were moving at a clip. We took a short breather. As soon as we stopped, the chill attacked.
We pressed on. Tony vaguely remembered there is a quicker route further down the rim. I chose to travel along the rim in my quest for a photograph that would capture the congested wet moss forest and the ocean of fog that gave us tantalizing peeks, but never the full picture.
The game path was now marked with survey sticks and occasionally flagging tape. We had been walking for a full day without food or water. Luckily, we were travelling light and the cool wet rim had made water abundantly unnecessary.
Tony's muttering, normally an ongoing description of plant life and other information, turned to concern. He didn't remember that ridge. We should be higher up. It was getting rather late.
Our crude maps showed we were still quite a long way from the helipad and eventual base camp where our gear was stored. Looking back, I could see the profile of the cliff that matched the map. The problem was, I was looking up at the ridge and it was behind me.
We continued. We were losing altitude at an alarming rate. It was getting darker. Now Tony and I were sure something was wrong. The map showed a smaller plateau below the cliff edge. We had been mindlessly following a game trail that we assumed would follow the ridge. Instead, we had found a way out of the basin and down the cliff.
We discussed our situation. We could turn back, but we didn't know exactly where we went off the ridge and down onto this lower plateau. Since the path winds and curves tree by tree there would be no sure way of knowing where the path diverged, if it diverged at all. Plus, it was getting dark. Being lost in unexplored jungle at night with sheer cliffs was not a welcome feeling.
We decided to go forward because it would take us closer to our rendezvous. We would then cut in towards the cliff face as we got to the end of this minor plateau. There might be a way up, similar to the way we were fooled into coming down.
We continued losing height until we were in the depths of a black swamp. Trees blocked the light as our feet were sucked into the dark ooze. We were tired. It was late and the swamp was a depressing place to spend the night. Noxious gases were released as we struggled to pull our feet free. A blue oily film floated on the surface of the mosquito infested slime.
We decided that the swamp was the last place we wanted to spend our first evening in the Maliau. We could see the cliffs looming above us. We made a bold decision. We would push up the cliffs since the path we were taking went deeper and deeper into the lowland jungle.
Tony was tired. He had been helicoptered in from his comfortable desk job and he was now sitting in a dark swamp, about to cliff climb with a stranger, at night, in one of the most remote jungles in the world.
I was concerned about him. He had twenty years on me, but he was the one who suggested that we haul ourselves up the cliff. All he asked was that we have a good rest before we attempted the ascent. I gave him what little water I had, knowing it would be the last of our water for some time.
The sun had set, but there was still a dull light that illuminated our climb. The first section up was through tight brush and razor-sharp roatan. It was demanding, but doable.
We hit the first ledge. Using cracks in the rock, we pulled ourselves up. We hit our second ledge. Once again there were enough crevices to gain a purchase. Then we hit the wall-sheer cliff that ended in a green cornice of tangled, moss-covered roots. Momentarily set back, we explored the base of the cliff for a way up. We were drenched by the constant fall of water from the moss forest high above us. We had followed a narrow game trail along the base. We could spend the night here in the overhang below the face, but the sight of our quest, after working so hard, drove us on.
We had no ropes, no climbing gear, so it would be tough going. Office building-size chunks of cliff had fallen off and blocked our way on the side. Occasionally there was a collapsed section but they ended up in sheer overhangs. Finally, we found what we were looking for: a section of the cliff that had fallen away leaving a crack that enabled us to get tantalizingly close to the green overhang-more importantly, a large tree root that gave us something that would allow us to hike up the clean, cliff face.
I climbed up to see if it was possible. I pointed out to Tony that once we were over, we could not come back down. We could find another cliff face just as high, if not higher, beyond this climb. Tony told me to go first. We could barely see in the dusk. We were soaked with sweat, hungry and thirsty after our climb. We didn't know if we had the energy to make this climb.
I began to climb. I fell back, a handful of moss and dirt clutched in each hand. I burrowed my hands to find something solid. I began to climb slowly and nervously. A slight tug or pressure could bring down tons of rock and trees on top of me.
As I gained in height, the chance of going back down seemed dimmer and dimmer, making each upward move that much more desperate. My muscles were shaking with exertion as I reached the cornice. What looked like a green ledge was now a four foot overhang covered in slippery moss and elastic roots. For awhile I was baffled. I could not get a grip on anything to move myself back and then over. I could not go down, sideways or up. My muscles were turning weak and my mouth was dry. I locked my legs around the dangling roots and jammed my hand into the deep moss. Still nothing to hold onto. If there was nothing to hold onto, maybe I could use that to my advantage. Desperately, I began to burrow through the roots and moss with my bare hands. I almost laughed with the sight I must have presented as I broke through the dirt and moss to finally find a tangle of solid roots above. My strength was drained as I wedged my arm in like a stick and threw my leg up to avoid falling back to the rocks below.
Catching my breath, I found myself in the cloud forest of the rim. I crawled the remaining fifty feet under roots and over moss to discover that we were back on the rim.
Covered in dirt and my clothes dripping, I weakly made my way to the ridge. I yelled to Tony we had made it. I searched for a creeper or vine to help Tony up.
I tore off a creeper and dangled it down for Tony to tie his pack to. Tony said, "Don't worry. I'll come up with my pack." He began to climb using the vine for support. When he reached the green wall that I had to burrow through, he used the vine to crawl over. As he tried to lift his leg up for the final push, he paused, looked at me and then fell back down. It all happened in slow motion. I almost laughed as Tony calmly looked at me as he slowly shrank in size and fell to the rocks below. When he hit, back first, I don't think he even blinked. No screams, yells, or grunts. He just lay there calmly, eyes wide open. I assumed he was dead.
Now I was faced with a decision. Go down and apply first aid (or last rites) or climb up and go for help to carry him to the helipad. Thankfully, before I had time to decide which action to take, Tony quietly said, "I think I hurt myself." Surprised he was alive, I asked if he needed assistance.
"No, just let me lie here awhile."
He had fallen a sickening distance. Later we discovered what had saved his life. He had fallen in the crevice of two large moss covered rocks. In the crevice, the moss was almost three feet thick. Twelve inches either way, he would have had only two inches of moss to cushion the impact.
He rested for quite a while. This time, I hauled his pack up and then used the vine to take him all the way up. It was dark now. We shivered with cold as the temperature dropped and the sweat from our exertion chilled us. It looked like rain.
I found a hollow tree large enough to hold two people in moderate comfort. Lining it with fern fronds, it made a passable bivouac for the night. Tony's pack held a cornucopia of treasures: a tin of sardines, one can of orange juice, newspaper, plastic bags-and eureka!-a pack of matches.
After planting Tony in his fern bower, I set about building a fire to dry our clothes and to provide some heat. It was not easy to create fire with wood that has been continuously wet.
After a few false starts and with the last of the dry newspaper, the fire reluctantly smoked to life. It is almost perverse to say we spent quite an enjoyable evening with a roaring fire on the edge of the cliff inside a fern-lined hollow tree. It is hard to describe the pleasures of relative existence. I say "relative" because we might have had to spend the night in the swamp. We might have had no matches, no food, and Tony could be dead.
The rain came down in polite periods, allowing us to dry out in front of the fire. Each onset was heralded by gentle showers before the deluge.
Tony became consumed by thirst, so I set off to find water, using the large plastic bags Tony brought to collect plant samples. At night the confused tangle of trees turned into a nightmare of dead ends, pits, and the ever present cliff face.
I tried walking down to where the water eventually gathers in small streams before joining the rivers that flow everywhere in the Maliau Basin. In the blackness I realized that by going down and then coming back up, it would be impossible to know if I should go left or right to return to our camp, despite the light from the roaring fire, which disappeared within 20 feet. I yelled to see if sound travels. The thick moss absorbed all sound. I wisely decided to follow the edge.
I walked for about a mile in the dark along the rim in search of water and almost fell into an open pit. Open is not a good description because it was full of brown water. I kneeled down and drank my fill from the gritty stagnant water. I kindly did not tell Tony where I found the water.
The morning dawned cold and wet. The fire was still smoldering. The sun skittered across the top of the mist, creating a strange sunrise. I climbed out on an overhanging limb to take a picture. The trees grew out and over still blocking a clear view of the golden ocean below. I still couldn't capture the sense of being on the edge of a lost world. I was barred in by the jungle.
As we warmed up in the sunlight, Tony took stock of his damage. His leg had been twisted in the fall. His back had been bruised by landing on his pack. He could walk, but in great pain. We made our way slowly to the base camp. At every steep descent or ascent, Tony's condition worsened. But he still stopped to point out rare plants and unusual species. We also passed signs of people-traps set by the logging camp workers for deer, pigs and rhino. A single rhino horn can be worth a year's wages. Poachers dig large pits near the wallows and come back once a month to check on their luck.
We met up later that day with Coskun and Jon. They had spent a cold and wet night listening to civets fighting with rats. They looked tired and haggard.
In my pack, I had the foresight to bring a bottle of cognac. After our first meal and a celebratory toast, we set up camp for the next week. We spent the following days exploring the basin and the highways of water that led down to the great waterfalls below. Walking in the cool water on the flat sandstone bottom was pleasant.
The rivers run reddish brown from the tannin that leaches from the podsol, or heath forest. Podsol (a Russian word) forests have poor acidic soils and leaves full of tannin. The constant percolation of the water creates the tea-colored stain in it.
The foam in the water is caused by saponins in the leaf matter. This creates the impression that the water is dirty and full of detergents. The truth is, this is pure water collected from rain, which drains into the Kuamut river. If coal mining is allowed to affect the natural water retention and drainage, not only would there be flash floods, but sulphur from the coal would pollute the water downriver.
There is a considerable amount of coal in the Maliau Basin. Borneo is cursed with low sulphur coal and oil; the finest available. It runs in shallow seams about four to seven feet thick, close to the surface. Initial estimates of income to be derived from this coal are significant. The unknown factor is that coal sells very cheaply in the Third World and the discovery in Kalimantan of the world's purest coal casts a shadow over the feasibility of the Maliau being an efficient source of coal.
Thankfully, the Maliau is identified by the Sabah Foundation, the state owned timber concession, as an area for preservation. Scientists like Tony Lamb and others have identified many rare species in the unique eco and biosystem of the Maliau. Also, the world famous international expedition, the Camel Trophy, will attempt to walk into the Maliau Basin, focusing much needed attention on the area.
One morning the Iban workers and the surveyor from the coal company stopped by our base camp. We were aware of their presence but had never run into them before. They were surveying the area's coal seams, and the orange flagging tape was sprouting like wild flowers. We carried the scars on our shins from hitting the punji-like stakes they leave when they clear the survey trails, or rentuses.
We chatted with Tony Voon, the head surveyor. He is a pleasant Chinese man who is an old hand in the Maliau. He has worked on and off surveying coal for the Kuching-based Broken Hill Coal Company for the last six years. He has surveyed the 40 kilometer rim path and most of the basin. Like the few people who have made it into the "Lost World," he has come to love the Maliau, despite the long term implications of his work. The poignancy of this dilemma was highlighted when he came by one morning with a bright magenta orchid; a rare Dendrobium Aegle. His find was the second known plant of its type on earth. The delicate plant he held in his hand had been found only once before and that was in Borneo. The man who had discovered the first of its species was Tony Lamb, who found it first in Gunung Alab in 1991.
I found it hard to understand how two people with such dissimilar goals could share in such a similar joy of discovery. If the Maliau is not protected soon, it will surely become the "Lost World."
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