Long Way Around Borneo

Finally Visiting Kalimantan

This was my third visit to the island of Borneo, and I felt it would be a shame to have come here three times without ever setting foot in the island’s largest region—Indonesian Kalimantan. So on this trip, I made sure to include it as part of our itinerary.

Unfortunately, traveling between the different parts of Borneo isn’t easy. There are no direct flights connecting Malaysian Borneo or Brunei in the north to Kalimantan in the south. The only option is to fly off the island entirely—to Java—before connecting back.

In our case, we had to fly to Surabaya, one of Indonesia’s major cities on Java, where we spent the night in an airport hotel before catching an early morning flight to Samarinda. From there, our Kalimantan adventure would finally begin.

The Road to Kutai

Through the Heart of Kalimantan

Once in Samarinda, we met our driver and began the long, grueling five-hour journey to Kutai National Park—a drive that should only take about two hours if not for the chaotic traffic. The narrow, hilly road was clogged with slow-moving trucks, motorbikes, and kamikaze drivers eager to overtake anything in their path, sometimes coming terrifyingly close to head-on collisions.

Fortunately, our driver was cautious and steady—something we were deeply grateful for as we weaved through the madness. Along the way, we passed through small villages, roadside markets, agricultural fields, and endless stretches of palm oil plantations—the economic backbone of Kalimantan and, sadly, the leading cause of deforestation across the island.

One thing that caught my attention were the many tower-like brick buildings with narrow slits along the sides. I later learned these were used to raise swiftlet birds, whose nests are harvested for the famous bird’s nest soup—a delicacy in China. Back in Mulu, I had heard that locals no longer risk their lives scaling cave walls to collect these nests because prices have plummeted. Now I understood why—modern swiftlet farms have replaced the dangerous climbs.

Journey Up the Sangatta River

Into Crocodile Country

By late afternoon, we arrived at the Sangatta River, the gateway to Kutai National Park. As soon as we reached the riverbank, we spotted a large crocodile basking on the muddy shore, completely still, its eyes half-submerged in the water.

We boarded a narrow wooden boat and began the journey upriver, gliding slowly into the rainforest. The water was dark and murky, and before long we spotted another crocodile—this one slipping silently beneath the surface as our boat approached.

Our guide explained that crocodiles in the Sangatta can reach lengths of up to eighteen feet and are known to occasionally attack humans. It was a chilling reminder of how wild and untamed this region remains. Along the shore, we also saw several monitor lizards sunning themselves among the roots and reeds, their long tails flicking lazily as we passed.

The Edge of the Forest

A Rough Landing in Kutai

By evening, we finally reached our guesthouse for the night—an aging wooden structure raised on stilts above the ground, creaking slightly with every step. The floors were uneven, the boards weathered and soft in places, and the narrow staircase leading up to the rooms looked like something out of an obstacle course. The steps were steep, far apart, and slick from humidity—one wrong move could send you tumbling straight into the mud below.

Sure enough, as we were unloading from the boat, Richard missed a step and went down hard, slamming his shin against one of the stairs. Within minutes, his leg had swelled to the size of a golf ball. We dug into our first-aid kit and patched him up as best we could—some antiseptic, bandages, and a few painkillers later, and he was ready to go again.

Into the Jungle

Despite the rough start, spirits were high. The air buzzed with the sounds of frogs and cicadas, and a light mist drifted over the treetops as dusk settled in. Once Richard was patched up, we met our ranger guide at the edge of the forest and set off on our first walk into the jungle, flashlights in hand.

The goal was clear: to spot wildlife, and hopefully, to finally see a wild orangutan in its natural habitat. The forest ahead loomed dark and dense, full of promise—and perhaps a few surprises waiting in the canopy above.

The Flying Snake

A Surprise on the Walkway

On our last day in Kutai, as we made our way up the wooden walkway toward the guesthouse, we encountered yet another reminder that in Borneo, the jungle is never far away.

There, stretched lazily across the path, was a slender green snake, its scales shining like polished jade in the afternoon light. Our ranger identified it as mildly venomous, though not aggressive. Curious, I gently nudged it with a stick to encourage it off the walkway—and to my astonishment, it didn’t just slither away.

It launched itself into the air, flattening its body and gliding gracefully into the nearby trees. I stood frozen, half amazed, half disbelieving, as it disappeared into the canopy.

A moment later, to everyone’s surprise, the same snake somehow reappeared—gliding right back down onto the boardwalk as if to remind us who really owned the place. The ranger laughed and explained that it was a Gliding Paradise Tree Snake, known for its ability to leap from branch to branch and literally “fly” through the air.

Into the Wild

Searching for Wildlife in Kutai

Over the course of the afternoon, evening, and the following day, we joined several ranger-led hikes through the forest. Each trek offered something new—breathtaking glimpses of wildlife high in the canopy, colorful insects hiding in the undergrowth, and the occasional snake gliding silently across the trail.

Sadly, the closest I came to seeing a sun bear was a set of deep claw marks carved into the bark of a towering tree—fresh enough to remind us that they were still out there, even if we wouldn’t cross paths.

The Last Refuge

The old-growth forests of Kutai are extraordinary—dense, humid, and alive with energy. They represent one of the last remaining refuges for thousands of wild orangutans, but our guide explained that our timing might not be ideal. The orangutans were following the fruit elsewhere in the park, and sightings had been scarce in recent days.

Even without them, walking beneath the cathedral-like canopy of Kutai was unforgettable. Every root, vine, and call from the treetops felt like a reminder of how ancient and vital this ecosystem still is.

Echoes of Encroachment

Every so often, the illusion of wilderness broke. In the distance, across the river, I could faintly hear the grinding rumble of heavy machinery. When I asked our guide about it, he explained that the noise came from a massive open-pit coal mine just outside the park’s boundary—something I later confirmed on Google Earth.

Because of the mine’s expansion, he said, the ranger station itself might soon have to be relocated. It was a sobering reminder of how fragile these protected areas can be. Encroachment like this is all too common in Indonesia—wild sanctuaries slowly squeezed by industry, even as they struggle to preserve what little remains of the natural world.

Night in the Jungle

A Rainforest Alive with Light and Sound

That night, Wes and I set off into the jungle with our ranger for what would become one of my favorite rainforest night hikes—if not the best I’ve ever done. The air was thick and humid, and the forest around us pulsed with life. The sounds were almost overwhelming: frogs croaking, cicadas droning, and unseen creatures rustling in the leaves all around us.

Everywhere we looked, the beam of our flashlights caught movement—camouflaged insects, venomous centipedes, and brilliantly patterned reptiles blending perfectly with the forest floor. Each step revealed something extraordinary hiding in plain sight.

We also commonly encountered sleeping birds perched just at head height on branches along the trail. Because they were in such a deep sleep, we could approach incredibly close—close enough to see the tiny movements of their feathers rising and falling with each breath. Even when they seemed to wake slightly, they stayed motionless, frozen in that half-dreaming state unique to birds in the forest night.

The Glowing Tarantula

The highlight of the night came when our ranger stopped beside a small burrow lined with a delicate web. He tapped gently on the silk strands with his stick, and within seconds, a massive tarantula emerged from the hole. Its body shimmered faintly with a purple bioluminescent glow, reflecting eerily in the flashlight’s beam.

The spider lunged at the stick, then froze, suspended at the edge of its burrow—its thick, furred legs gleaming softly in the dark. It was both mesmerizing and unnerving, one of those moments that perfectly captures the raw beauty and strangeness of the rainforest at night.

We stood there in silence, just a few feet away, admiring this glowing guardian of the jungle before it retreated back into its pit. Encounters like that are why I love wild places like Borneo—because even in the darkness, the forest never stops reminding you that it’s very much alive.

Close Encounter on the Boardwalk

The Snake in the Swamp

As we crossed a swamp on an old, half-rotted boardwalk, our ranger guide suddenly froze. Just a few feet ahead of him, stretched across the planks, was an enormous eight-foot-long snake, coiled and motionless. For a moment, everyone stopped breathing.

Then, with a sudden flash of movement, the snake lifted its head, spreading a narrow hood like a cobra and staring straight at us with large, intelligent eyes. Our ranger nearly had a heart attack, and the rest of us weren’t far behind. Within seconds, the snake darted off the boardwalk and vanished into the thick undergrowth—but not before giving us one last, unnerving glance.

The ranger laughed nervously and explained that it was a rat snake, non-venomous but a master mimic that imitates a cobra’s display to ward off predators. It was a remarkable sight—one of those brief, adrenaline-filled moments that remind you just how alive and unpredictable the rainforest can be.

A Restless Night in the Jungle

Falling Asleep to the Sounds of Borneo

After the night hike, I returned to my room in the jungle guesthouse—a small, weathered space raised on stilts above the forest floor. It was hot and humid, and my only relief came from a small battery-powered neck fan that hummed quietly beside me. The window shutters were open to the night air, but surprisingly, the insects weren’t bad.

I drifted off to sleep listening to the sounds of the rainforest—frogs calling, insects buzzing, and the distant rumble of a thunderstorm rolling somewhere deep in the jungle. It was the kind of restless, tropical night that seeps into your dreams and stays with you long after you leave.

The Morning Search

Hoping for a Wild Orangutan

At first light, we woke to the smell of coffee and the damp scent of the forest. By 6 a.m., we were back on the trail, joined by our ranger, with one goal in mind: to see a wild orangutan.

Inside the guesthouse, the old logbook was filled with entries from past travelers describing their encounters—orangutans feeding in the trees above camp, mothers carrying babies, even one peering curiously through a window. Reading through those pages gave us hope that today would be our day.

But the place had clearly seen better times. There were few recent entries, and the crumbling condition of the guesthouse reflected the park’s dwindling number of visitors. Still, we were here for one reason—and we set off determined to find what we came for.

The Long Hike

Desperation in the Canopy

We hiked for hours through the steamy forest, following the ranger along narrow trails draped in vines. We saw macaques leaping between branches, colorful birds darting overhead, and the occasional rustle of something unseen—but no orangutans.

I had planned to stay two nights in Kutai to increase our chances, but with our international flight leaving the next afternoon, the thought of another long, exhausting five-hour drive on travel day convinced us to head back early. We decided to return to Samarinda that evening and spend the night near the airport to rest before our flights.

Still, as we packed up our gear and looked once more toward the forest, disappointment began to set in. We had come all this way into one of Borneo’s last strongholds for wild orangutans—and so far, we had come up empty.

The Last Chance

Splitting Up the Search

By late morning, with time running out, the rangers decided to change tactics. They would split into teams and move separately through the jungle, hoping to cover more ground. If one of them spotted an orangutan, they’d radio back so we could rush to the location while the other ranger kept track of the animal.

Our cook gave us a spark of hope when she mentioned she had seen a young male by the river just a few days earlier. That was all we needed to hang onto a bit of optimism. While the rangers vanished into the forest, we stayed behind at camp, showered off the sweat and mud, packed our bags, and waited—ready to board the boat back to Samarinda at any moment.

The Call

A Last-Second Miracle

Hours passed. Just when it seemed we’d have to leave empty-handed, our guide’s phone rang. A ranger had found one—an orangutan, not far from camp, maybe ten minutes away.

We grabbed our gear and raced up the trail, hearts pounding, sweat pouring down our faces in the late-morning heat. And then, there he was: a large male orangutan, high in a tree about a hundred feet above us, calmly eating fruit and keeping a watchful eye on the commotion below.

Every few minutes he’d glance down, then resume eating as if we were just another group of curious forest animals. At one point he even tried to pee on us from above—a move the rangers found hilarious and insisted was his way of asserting dominance. Otherwise, he seemed completely unbothered by our presence.

The Perfect Ending

Saying Goodbye to Borneo

We stood there for nearly half an hour, mesmerized, watching him move gracefully through the branches, his long orange hair glowing in the filtered sunlight. After all the heat, the leeches, the long drives, and the near-misses, we had finally found what we came for—the wild Bornean orangutan.

It felt like the perfect conclusion to our journey through Borneo’s wild heart—from the vast underground worlds of Mulu to the steamy jungles of Kutai. With huge smiles and a sense of relief, we returned to camp, boarded our boat down the Sangatta River, and made our way back to Samarinda for one final night before flying home the next day.

As the sun set over the river, I couldn’t help but think how fitting it was that Borneo made us work for that moment. The island doesn’t give up its treasures easily—but when it does, they’re unforgettable.