In 1942 my great-grandfather, Dirk Huisken was captured by the Japanese in Sumatra. As a prisoner of war he became part of what has come to be known as the Pekanbaru Death Railway – 220kms of rail through the most impossibly rugged and mountainous terrain. Dirk, along with 1000’s of Allied soldiers and civilians and well over 100,000 press-ganged Javanese labourers died while building the railway line, which ironically, was completed on the day Japan surrendered and and was never used.
Embarking on a day in the jungle my western arrogance thought it knew roughly what it would be like - after all, Google shows us the photos and multiple trip advisor reviews describe the experience well. That experience, however, can't be penned, or captured in a photograph. The feeling, the smell, the sound of the jungle - it's unlike anything you can ever imagine.
Deep in the jungle, surrounded by nothing but trees that seem to reach far in to the sky, vines, countless plants, mosses, insects and the most amazing animals truly living in their natural habitat, evoked an emotion I've not felt before. Excitement, mixed with love, compassion and anger towards our own race who have single handedly destroyed so much of this.
Passing through the village we watch the long tailed macaques enjoy some morning play and picked up water and supplies for the day. The locals all smiled and practiced their English with us as they did every day that we wondered through the village. Ari and Juli exchanged friendly remarks with them as we headed off.
We began our trek up a steep climb, feeling tiny in the vast 2,000,000 acres of wild jungle.
From the air Sumatra seemed divided by rivers. Driving through Medan, it looked as though the city was also. The monsoon had cleared the air of smoke but had also overflowed the gutters and tipped the rivers from their banks.
It was dark by the time we cleared customs. Driving from the airport our taxi driver nosed the cab into a puddle that widened at first into a stream and then into a rush of dirty water that stretched for blocks. Traffic slowed around us and, in the red reflection of tail lights, a diesel slick rainbow. A man with jeans rolled to his knees smiled and waved as he pushed his stalled motorbike through the water while children played and an old man squatted, smoking, watching the flood flow past his house. Our taxi driver adjusted the radio and the water lapped the bottom of the car.
We moved slowly through the flood in first gear, like a dinghy, the tinny sound of the water and the slap of waves beneath our feet. At our hotel we laughingly mentioned the flood and the staff smiled politely, waiting for the joke.
In the morning light Medan looked dirty, the air thick with car horns and a grey humid haze. Our guide, Omar arrived, dressed for a far colder climate – "I'm allergic to air-conditioning," he said apologetically – a large camera around his neck. We began our tour by posing with Omar for the first of many photos. We posed at the post office, the Sultan's residence and on the front steps of a house once owned by a Chinese philanthropist. At a Sikh temple we put on headscarves and posed next to the altar, careful not to turn our backs on the house of god. We visited the university, a high school and a private library owned by a granddaughter of the Sultan.