by Evan Antin
Mother Nature had other plans. Minutes after I closed my eyes, I heard animals chattering outside—animals that sounded like monkeys. The bickering dialogue they were having got closer, until I was sure that whatever was out there was right on top of the hut. I crept toward the steps and peered out. A pair of mischievous macaques sat just outside the A-frame, holding our dinner plates up to their faces. One stayed hard at the task while the other gazed back at me with an apathetic expression that seemed to say, “Yeah, yeah. I’m licking your plate. You got a problem with that?”
Adorable, appalling, and an unforgettable lesson about taking better care to return our dishes to the secure food-prep building immediately after eating.
Sleep vs. Snake Is a No-Brainer
In a place like Komodo Island, any adventurer might meet something fascinating on a night walk—even just strolling to the kitchen. Before making the very short trek with the plates (after the macaques were done with them), I strapped on a headlamp (the best way to have both light and free hands). From the path, I swung my head back and forth along the ground and up and down in the trees, partly watching to make sure I didn’t have an unexpected face-to-face with a dragon, partly looking for what else might be awake. My light skimmed over the slats of the rangers’ quarters, which I knew might be prime perches for nocturnal animals, including snakes. I caught a glint of something unexpected and swung the light straight back to pinpoint the creature that had caught my eye. Jackpot!
Up on the roof, gazing back toward the light, was a gorgeous seven-foot Timor python. These thin, agile pythons have a stunning brown pattern on their tops and fronts, but not on their bellies or lower halves. They love to climb, and they’re usually tolerant of handling. I knew this snake would be safe to hold, but I was equally confident that the rangers in the hut probably didn’t want it directly above them, navigating the gaps in the roof, while they slept. They heard me muttering to myself as I calculated the angle to the roof and tried to figure out what I could grab to steady myself, and they good-naturedly came out to shine another light so I could capture and relocate the snake.
I tightened my laces and scaled the side of the hut till I was standing on the ledge of the roof’s frame. Balancing on the narrow side of a decades-old two-by-four, I extended my stance to reach for the snake. I was two feet away, then one foot, and finally just inches. I was trying to stretch just a hair farther when SNAP—the board fractured under my boots. It plummeted, with me on it, ten feet to the floor of the hut.
I’d like to say I always land on my feet, but I’d be lying. This night, though, my first thought as I touched down was How the hell am I still standing? I was at the center of a huge pile of debris, and a cloud of fifty-year-old dust was raining down around me. But my body was upright. I tipped my head down to scan for damage by the light of the headlamp. No obvious fractures or puncture wounds. Two feet, two knees, two hands, and everything else seemingly still in its rightful place. I leaned back, craning my neck to see if the python was still there, only of course it had slipped off into the night.
Outside, Tim and the rangers hadn’t been able to tell what was going on. They’d heard the snap, and then a thud. When I opened the door of the hut and walked out, half a dozen pairs of eyes blinked back at me. As soon as everyone saw that I was unharmed, they burst out laughing. Tim asked, “Dude, what happened?”
Yeah, I fell through the roof. An instant replay would have shown me with my eyes wide, mouth open, and arms whirring before the resounding thump of my landing. Steve Irwin meets Wile E. Coyote. I’d find a deep bruise on my inner left biceps the next day and an even bigger one on my left thigh—both so bad they looked like they might have been inflicted with a baseball bat. Those bruises were nothing, though, compared to the potential wounds I’d narrowly missed: a bone fracture or a body full of puncture wounds from rust-covered, tetanus-infected nails would have seriously compromised my Indonesia itinerary. I figured I’d take the bruises without complaint.
I should have headed straight to bed after that, only I was stewing about how close I’d been to the python. Every time I get super close to catching something and it slips away at the last minute, I grow ten times as motivated to find a new creature. I get obsessed. I can’t think of anything else. I was wide awake, wired, frustrated, excited—anything but tired.
Mother Nature must have taken pity on me, because in the couple hundred steps between the site of the crash and my own hut, my headlamp caught a second glint of something unusual a few feet above eye level. I leaned in and spied—a green tree pit viper! It was like the answer to a prayer.
I’ve always had a huge crush on Southeast Asia’s vibrant green vipers, so I had yet another reptile fit on the spot. Bruised ego, dusty face, and blackened knees aside, I was not going to let another chance pass me by.
Yet again some of the rangers gathered as audience and light crew. Tim manned a camera, determined to catch my next disaster if it came to that. The rangers were considerably less amused that I was going after this snake—knowing that it was far more dangerous than the beautiful python on the roof. The viper was less than ten feet from the ground, coiled over a branch. Grimacing a little at the soreness starting in my legs, I made my way up the tree—and it held. I reached out with my snake hook and gently eased the viper to the ground, following quickly so I could grab her for relocation rather than risk her taking up residence in one of the huts. She was a little snappy for a minute or two, but she quickly mellowed.
What followed was documented in videos and pictures, a session I will never forget. The rangers started out guarded and afraid for me, but by the end of the encounter, I was teaching an impromptu snake-hooking lesson, showing them how to safely (for both person and viper) capture a snake without touching it with their hands. It was a skill they seemed to appreciate, as they often needed to relocate snakes for tourists’ safety.
After relocating the viper away from the huts, I was definitely content to call it a night. Despite the heat, the tiny size and off-putting odor of the mattress, and the excitement of the day, in the end it was yet another native creature that had kept me awake a little longer.
The last thing I remember that night was the pitter-patter of little rat feet—Right. Across. My. Back. For a minute my mind zoomed, trying to formulate a plan to bring this invasion to a stop. But in the end, I knew there was zero chance of sealing up that structure, and I was too tired to let a few rats keep me awake. I fell asleep thinking of dragons and snakes, jungles and tree climbing.
A Spitter
After a couple days of tracking dragons and getting to know the rangers, there was only one creature left on my Komodo Island wish list: the spitting cobra. The species on Komodo is the Javan spitting cobra, and like all spitters, it aims to propel its deadly venom directly into the eyes of its targets. To improve their lethality, these cobras have evolved with a small opening at the front of the fang rather than at the bottom. So when the snake contracts the muscles surrounding its venom glands, venom is forced forward, onto potential threats, instead of downward (typically into soft tissue when we’re talking about snakebites). Of course, spitting cobras can still bite and readily inject venom the “old-fashioned” way, but why bite when you can cause the same amount of damage from a safe distance? The venom has an immediate effect on the cornea, resulting in intense pain and possible blindness. That’s why it’s absolutely necessary to wear protective eyewear when working with spitting cobras. I prefer a transparent pair of woodworking glasses because they have good coverage over my eyes but don’t impair my vision with any tinting.
One man’s luck is another’s misfortune, and when the rangers found a mature, three-foot spitter close to the kitchen, I had a hard time tamping down my enthusiasm. Somebody was going to have to relocate that snake away from one of the most heavily trafficked locations on the island.
I was the first (and only) volunteer. I wanted to do it for a lot of reasons, starting with the fact that everything about this sna
ke fascinated me: its fierce attitude, its unique cocktail of venom, its highly adapted delivery system, its quiet power (even when it was just curled up in a quiet corner). I’ve always jumped at every opportunity to interact with intimidating animals, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to see those moments not just for the satisfaction they give me but also for the chances they create to share information. Maybe it was too much to hope that somebody would come around to admiring the spitting cobra as much as I did; although if I could foster even a little respect and understanding, I was on the job.
After our shared adventure with the tree viper, the rangers didn’t hesitate to guide me to the site: a five-foot hollowed-out log. Hollow logs are common havens for cobras because they offer protection, some temperature moderation, and even occasional food opportunities when rodents live inside or nearby. I was excited, but respectful. I cautiously picked up the log from one end (using the tip of my snake hook just in case the adorable little cobra head was waiting to strike), slowly turned it sideways, and gently shook it in hopes that the snake would show itself. It was like winning the lottery when a gorgeous, slim, deadly cobra answered my knock and came slithering out.
He cut right to the chase, immediately posturing up, hood out, ready to spit or strike. You rang?
He was magnificent, a flat-out stunning snake, the perfect combination of beauty and grace, aggression and confidence. I shifted a bit to one side and his head followed, the hood angled toward me, his look imperious—like a king disturbed from his nap.
I set the log aside, checked that my glasses were positioned securely, and gripped my snake hook. I was about to wrangle my first cobra. I’d been dying just to see one, but this guy needed to be moved, so I would have the chance to touch him and to make an educational video about this amazing species—one I put on YouTube shortly after my trip.
Tim was firing away on my camera and at the ready with the camcorder. I created some distance from the cobra by steadying it at the end of the hook, all the while explaining to the camera some of my favorite cobra adaptations and features—most of all, the way their teeth are perfectly designed to spit venom, hard and fast and accurate, into the eyes of their prey. Just as I was going into detail on how cobra venom essentially paralyzes the nervous system and inhibits your ability to breathe … splat! The little bugger spat right onto my face. I could feel droplets of venom along my upper lip and nose. Holy crap.
I set both hook and cobra on the ground and backed off a little. I knew that technically I had nothing to fear—the venom was harmless on my skin, where it couldn’t be absorbed. That said, the deadly compound on my face was centimeters from my eyes. On the inside, I was freaking out—not because I was scared, but because I was stoked. A cobra had just spit on me. I flashed back to seeing Steve Irwin blocking his eyes with a backpack when he was working with these cobras. I’m aware that getting fired up at the idea of having cobra venom on your face is absurd; nevertheless, I felt like I’d been initiated into some exclusive club for obsessive reptile enthusiasts.
No matter what I was feeling, I knew I needed to settle down. The rangers were watching, and I’d been giving them advice on how to handle the island’s venomous species. I couldn’t show fear or excitement in that moment. So I slowly wiped the venom off my nose and upper lip with the front of my shirt. Then I rinsed my face with water, all the while thinking, Just stay cool.
Trying to project calm, I stepped back toward the hook and glanced up at Tim and the rangers. They looked back at me in horror. Like I’d taken that shot straight in the eye. Like I might fall down and die.
I cleared my throat and reached for my hook, and that’s when Tim had had enough. He shook his head and leveled a loud, clear warning my way: “Dude! We are done.”
This from my most loyal and least complaining accomplice and cameraman, my best friend since childhood, the guy who’d spent two days filming me running alongside Komodo dragons without complaint.
I respected his comfort level, so I bagged the snake without further narration and moved it to a remote area of the island. The cobra had had enough, too, or he wouldn’t have spit at me in the first place.
For the record, relocating that snake—and the dozens of others I’ve moved in my life—was done in his best interest. The truth is, a snake like that near a tourist footpath and building in a national park was a potential danger and also a potential target. The short-term stress he endured while I relocated him was a small price to pay for his continued freedom. Relocation can have risks of its own, but in this case, I was confident it was the best option for the circumstances.
I left Komodo Island feeling a unique sense of accomplishment. There are few places in the world where any combination of planning and luck could have handed me so many incredibly close, personal experiences in such a short time. I’ve spent days—even weeks—trekking scores of miles through jungle and come away empty-handed. But Komodo is so rich in wildlife, it turned out to be a can’t-miss trip.
People of the Forest
Getting around Indonesia involves significant geographic, logistic, and linguistic barriers as you make your way between islands, so Tim and I frequently had to choose between sacrificing money or time to get from one point to the next. We decided to splurge on a flight rather than take the long bus-then-boat trek to the island of Borneo.
We started in northeast Borneo’s Wehea Forest, a gorgeous protected landscape and one of the best clouded leopard research areas in the world. Tourists rarely make their way to this area because it’s so inaccessible, but Tim and I didn’t mind the hardship. We hitchhiked rides with semi-trucks heading to a local coal excavation (one of the biggest in Southeast Asia). The wildlife was rich at Wehea, including a mother-son orangutan family that fed in the fig tree above our wooden bungalow. The forest was pristine, too, but we could stay for only a few days. We wanted to see more orangutans, and we were across the island from what’s probably the best place in the world to watch them close-up: Tanjung Puting National Park. The park is home to proboscis monkeys, long-tailed macaques, gibbons, and, at a place called Camp Leakey, the epicenter of the world of orangutan protection.
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The camp was founded in 1971 and is home to the longest continuous study of a wild mammal by one principal investigator in history. Dr. Birute Galdikas has been working there for the past forty years to help the world understand and protect orangutans. She is a legend in wildlife conservation, and I had my fingers crossed that I might even meet her during my visit.
The orangutans are desperately in need of her protection. More than half of the planet’s orangutan population has been wiped out in the last hundred years, killed for bushmeat, in service of the illegal pet trade (killing mothers to take babies), and most of all by logging operations for the palm oil industry. Orangutans are considered nothing more than agricultural pests by workers as they move into territories the apes have lived in for hundreds of years. Most of the world’s orangutans live in Borneo (the rest live in Sumatra), and without protection they could one day be a species we only remember, not one that exists.
The word orangutan means “person of the forest” in Malay, and if you spend any time observing them, it’s easy to see how these highly intelligent and sensitive animals earned their name through their similarity to humans.
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For decades, Dr. Galdikas and her team have been rescuing and relocating orangutans from the pet trade and rehabbing them. After a quarantine period, these animals are released into vast tracts of protected lands, where they are free to roam (or leave) as they please. Most, especially the females, choose to hang around and even raise their babies close to this place they consider home. Since many of them have lived as captives, camp staff members and volunteers regularly stock feeding stations to make sure they won’t go hungry in the wild. The feeding stations are what I came to see—the orangutans are semi-habituated to people and will come out of the trees and in from the forest to help themselves to fre
sh fruit (just bananas when I was there) and milk on their own terms.
As Tim and I set out with a guide to visit the feeding stations, we weren’t sure what to expect. It’s one thing to read about a magical orangutan forest somewhere in Borneo, but it’s something else to be there, peering up into the trees, waiting for a sighting. The first thing we learned is that the preserve is huge and the feeding stations are distant from one another, so it often takes a boat ride and a long hike to get from one to the next. Our plan was to visit one each day. We slept on our guide’s boat at night to make sure we could hit the ground running each morning.
The first feeding station didn’t disappoint. Just a few yards in front of us, a large female sat perched in a tree beside the station, looking everywhere but at us. I tossed a banana in her direction, hoping to get her attention, and this girl caught it in her palm without ever once looking at me. It was an astoundingly impressive demonstration of superior peripheral vision, not to mention eye-hand coordination.
When it was time to trek back to our boat, we stepped onto the wooden walkway we’d followed to get to the feeding station. Vegetation grew high and thick on both sides. As we walked back the way we’d come, I looked up to see a burly male orangutan peering onto the walkway ahead. There was no mistaking his gender—he had the wide cheek pads (flanges) males develop as they mature and was far larger than the female we’d just encountered at the feeding station. Our guide put up a hand to halt us, saying, “We wait.”
So we did. When the big guy moved away from the path, we continued. Minutes later we heard a rustling behind us and turned around to see him again, clearly watching us.
I was a little freaked out by this apparent stalking. Of all the animals I’ve worked with and species I’ve gotten to know, few intimidate me the way primates can. Despite all our similarities, they seem the least predictable creatures. Orangutans have a reputation for quiet intelligence, for calm, for a lack of aggression. That said, they are wild animals who will fight with effective brutality when they feel the need to defend, and the average orangutan is easily several times stronger than the average man.
