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Jungle Ducks                             and           Invisible Fishers

Moko dipped his paddle one last time as our tiny dugout sampan glided into the flooded grass beside the Way Kanan River, in Sumatra. We had followed this monsoon-swollen waterway through equatorial swampforests in Way Kambas National Park, in search of the rarely seen White-winged Wood Duck Cairina scatulata. [I 69.9s] But Ranger Moko had his mind on other wildlife as he sniffed the heavy tropical air. "I smell elephant" he whispered apprehensively as we stood ankle deep between the dark river and the darker forest. Way Kambas National Park, one of Indonesia's premier reserves, protects 120 000ha of coastal lowland rainforest and swamp forest at Sumatra's southeastern extremity, together with a host of endangered rainforest fauna: the Wood Duck, Tapia, Sunbear, Siamang, Rhino, Clouded Leopard, Sumatran Tiger and others. As a rookie from Australia, I expected a tiger to pounce on me from behind every tree, but Moko was much more fearful of the wild elephants. Eager to learn some jungle lore, I asked what elephant smelled like. "You know. Like a circus" Moko said somewhat condescendingly. Ask a stupid question...

Search for the Jungle Duck We waded through dense green sedges and purple flowered Melastoma shrubland as we searched for wood duck habitat. Cairina is an unusual duck of rainforests, roosting in lofty primary-growth trees, and feeding mainly by night in flooded grassy backswamps and jungle floodrunners. Little wonder the bird is so difficult to detect in its threatened habitat, despite its large size and bold black and white plumage. We came to a circular opening in the flooded forest, bright green with the wet season growth of sedges. It looked like a sports oval, but it was deep with acidic peat-stained floodwaters, and we were the only spectactors. Moko had seen the ducks here last season. [I 64.1s] We settled down for a long wait. Coucals called from the wetland's margins, long-tailed macaques fussed nearby, and once a shy Rusa deer emerged timidly on the opposite side. I was busy scanning the sedge with binoculars when Moko spotted the ducks flying above. Unmistakable; the two large birds honked loudly and their wings showed clear flashes of white despite the failing light of evening. We watched them land on a massive horizontal branch high in the forest canopy. It was an incongruous sight - ducks in jungle trees. I was eager to observe their behaviour but Moko was less keen on finding elephants between us and the sampan with darkness falling, so we left the ducks to their swamp forest. We had done well - few birders have laid eyes on Cairina in the wild. But I needed more. Tomorrow we would build a hide for photography.

 
 

Dik Moko, fellow ranger Mas Hadi, and I, set off next morning with nothing more than a ball of twine and a couple of bush knives to build the hide. (Bahasa Indonesia's universal title Pak is often replaced with Dik from the local language here, while the title Mas (gold) is reserved for older, more respected men. Mas Hadi, friendly and obliging, never gave me the impression of authority, but some time later I saw him boarding the patrol vessel in full uniform, with a semi-automatic rifle in one hand and a revolver on his hip. [I 72.21s] When I queried Moko about the firepower, he simply replied "We have a small problem with poachers" - a typically Indonesian under-statement.) Mr Wayne's House Within an hour I slipped into my new "rumar Pak Wayne" - Mr Wayne's house - on the edge of the swamp. It was a blind fit for a king, expertly thatched with Alang grass Imperata and beautifully camourflaged with shrubbery, complete with royal purple Melastoma flowers. Now it was my turn. I had promised Moko a photograph of bebek hutan - the jungle duck! As my companions wished me good luck, and promised to paddle back for me in the evening, I began to feel very alone and vulnerable. Nothing could see inside my little thatched hut, but what if an elephant decided to browse on it? And could the tigers smell me? I was the sitting duck!

I settled in for another long wait, taking comfort in the tragic fact that Sumatran tigers were indeed very rare. In five years at the park, Moko had only seen the tail end of one loping off into the jungle. Still, those cousins in the Sunderbans that sneak up on crouched villagers from behind.... [I 68.14s] I decided there was nothing for it but to forget about tigers and elephants, and watch the Sumatran wilderness go about its day. Birds sang. Years of birdwatching in Australia gave me no advantage with these strange new species. Insects buzzed. A tiny vermillion mite kept me entertained for twenty minutes as it made its way across the hide wall inches from my face. I was sorry to see it go, but it had its own life to live. Thunder rolled, and a typically hit-and-run equatorial downpour deluged the swamp. The thatched roof kept me and my camera dry for ten minutes, but eventually the torrent seeped through, and I draped a plastic ground sheet over my head. MAD WILDLIFE PHOTOGRAPHER TRAMPLED BY WILD ELEPHANTS WHILE HUDDLED UNDER PLASTIC SHEET IN TINY THATCHED HUT IN SUMATRAN SWAMP IN POURING RAIN. It's times like this I wonder why I do things like this. But a clear photograph of the White-winged Wood Duck in its natural habitat would be something of a scoop. Surveys conducted by the World Wide Fund for Nature estimated only a few hundred individuals in the wild, scattered in the fragments of unlogged lowland swamp forests throughout its formerly wide range from Assam through Indo-China to Java. The Wildfowl Trust is conducting a captive breeding programme at Slimbridge (UK), in conjunction with the Singapore Zoological Gardens. Perhaps captive breeding is Cairina's only long term hope, as with many species of wildlife on the brink through habitat loss.

 
 

My 500th cursery peer through the peep-hole shattered my musings. The search image of white head among green sedge suddenly clicked with reality. Cairina was watching me watching it watching me. So much for Moko's lavish camourflage! My hand slowly rose to the camera, while a suspicious jungle duck weighed the risk from this new thing in its habitat against the cost - in energy and lost foraging time - of flight. It relaxed, but I didn't. That dark monsoon raincloud made my shutter speed dangerously slow for a sharp picture. Gradually the ducks, presumably a pair, dabbled their way to within range. Intense concentration followed: focussing in the dim light, timing the exposures for the instants of suspended animation. Then the film was spent. As I reached for a replacement the rain returned in a silver-grey shroud. Like a magician's cloak it came and went, and the birds were gone. I returned for three more days, but never bettered that first encounter. [I 12.3s]

 
 

The Case of the Invisible Village I got to know and love Way Kambas. Hikes with Moko and the others, and solo ramblings, produced many special moments: crouching at the base of a tree in which a troupe of Siamang gibbons howled their deafening chorus; seeing jewel-like Fairy Bluebirds lit by a shaft of morning sunlight; watching from a drifting sampan as a lovely Wood Squirrel scurried along a branch arching over the river, or as monkeys swam across - running the gauntlet of crocadiles; chancing upon the strange form of a Masked Finfoot, half-way between a duck and a grebe, sinking low in the dark water, and the stunning colours of a Red-billed Kingfisher above; sharing evening meals with the rangers, to the beat of the monsoon rains on the ranger-station roof; and just immersing myself in the busy stillness of the tropical rainforest, where every tiny detail is a revelation, once you tune in. I joined a klotok or outboard-powered long boat on one of the regular patrols downstream to the river mouth, and was surprised to find a thriving fishing village in the national park. The local fisherfolk had been moved on by the government when the park was reserved, but had returned. Fishing these coastal waters for tiny sprats was all they knew. Officially they don't exist, and the rangers turn a blind eye. While we sampled fresh fish and sweet black tea at a beach-side stall, ranger Awan quipped mischievously "This village, these people, they are invisible." [I 68.1s] "..these people, they are invisible."

The villagers keep a weather eye on strangers entering the park by boat, and provide welcome fresh supplies for the rangers. Nature and heritage conservation embraces, indeed needs, the local people in many parts of the world. [I 37.1s] It seems that there is less and less room for the wood duck, the tiger, and the local fisherfolk in our world. But the elephant survives! At the reserve entrance there is a training centre for problem elephants (a euphemism for animals which have lost their habitat and destroy the cash crops now occupying the land). They are trained as beasts of burden either for logging or for joyrides by the constant stream of eager tourists from Jakarta. Demeaning work for the king of the jungle? Long live the elephants of Way Kambas, even if most spend their days amusing tourists. May there always be the fear of wild elephant in we who stray into the real Way Kambas.   Text and pictures copyright Wayne Lawler/Ecopix. Available for publication, pease enquire.