The people of the forrest

In June 2011, a friend and I decided to visit Sumatra to learn more about the myth of the Orang Pendek—a creature many have described through history but no one has ever filmed or photographed. It sits in the same shadowy menagerie as Bigfoot and the Yeti. Orang Pendek is said to be a small humanoid, about 80 centimeters tall, hairy like an ape but walking upright like a human—remarkably similar to Homo floresiensis, whose remains were found in a cave on the island of Flores.

Our second purpose was to visit some of the last people living deep in the jungle: the Orang Rimba, also known as Suku Anak Dalam—“children of the inner (forest).” This is their story.

The Orang Rimba

The Orang Rimba live primarily in Jambi Province on Sumatra. They once kept strict taboos against contact with the outside world. When Norwegian anthropologist Øyvind Sandbukt conducted fieldwork among them in the Bukit Duabelas area some 30 years ago, it took him months just to establish contact. Many things associated with the outside world were taboo; protecting women and children from outsiders was especially important.

Much has changed in two or three decades. Massive deforestation in Jambi has pushed the Orang Rimba into frequent contact with the outside world. In many places there’s simply no forest left to hide in. With this pressure has come cultural change: many old taboos have loosened, and some traditions are no longer practiced. The picture varies by group—some remain more closed, others more open.

Although they now have contact with outsiders and are administratively classified as Muslims, the Orang Rimba largely maintain their original belief system. You won’t find much orthodox Islam in their day-to-day life. Indonesia requires all citizens, including Indigenous peoples, to register under one of five major religions; animist beliefs are not recognized, so the “Muslim” label is more bureaucratic than spiritual.

The Orang Rimba are matriarchal. Their primary deity is a female tiger spirit, with other goddesses represented by other animals. Inheritance passes from mother to daughter, though men act as day-to-day leaders—directors, if you will. They traditionally avoid washing with soap, one reason many groups shun close contact with outsiders; they believe such contact can bring spiritual pollution and attract harmful forces. And frankly, they’re not entirely wrong—outside contact has rarely benefited Indigenous peoples. On the other hand, some allies are essential. A local organization called Sekolah Rimba (“Jungle School”) has been educating and supporting the Orang Rimba and other tribes. They’ve taught about the threats surrounding them and helped organize meetings with Indonesia’s Forestry Ministry. The ministry subsequently declared the Orang Rimba’s area a national park—good news on paper.

But reality is complicated. Smallholders still plant oil palms to supplement meager incomes, and even the chief of the village we visited had a small rubber plot. If many follow, plantation companies will argue the Orang Rimba are no longer “primitive,” pointing to local precedents for rubber and palm. One day, in court, the big players may well win on that technicality. So even when things look promising on the surface, the long game may still erode one of the last stretches of Sumatran jungle inhabited by its original people. It’s hard to see with the naked eye, and harder to stop—unless small farmers are given viable alternatives. But are there enough?

Before Sumatra, we had visited the Dani in Papua, and tribes on Sumba, Flores, and Java. We had a sense of what might await us—and hoped to learn from this elusive forest people.

Getting In

We planned the trip well in advance and found a local fixer who had helped others search for both Orang Pendek and the Orang Rimba.

Late on a Wednesday morning we flew from Jakarta (on Java) to Padang, a larger coastal city on Sumatra. From there it was an eight-hour drive to Kerinci, in Kerinci National Park. We arrived late afternoon and slept in—well, let’s call it a “hotel”—the sort you see in films set in sweaty tropics: hot, musty, and malfunctioning. I kept my clothes on; it felt marginally more comfortable and possibly more protective against whatever crawled out after dark. We survived.

Next day brought another four-hour drive to Bangko in Jambi Province, the nearest large town to our destination. We picked up a couple of extra people (our guide neglected to mention them), did some shopping, and headed out for another four hours. He also hadn’t told us about that. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll still make it into the forest today—just add a four-hour hike and we’ll be there before nightfall!” I was not delighted. I asked about transport to save time. “Yes, yes, we can get four motorbikes—one to one and a half hours only, but it will cost extra.” At this point we’d already spent a small fortune. Fine—arrange the bikes.

By afternoon we reached a small town and stopped at a house belonging to Sekolah Rimba. Our guide said one of their people should accompany us—they knew the community we were visiting. Fair enough. We met a young woman and her husband who had just returned from a day’s hike in the jungle—leeches clinging, utterly exhausted but very friendly. They had no intention of going anywhere. “You can go in on your own,” they said.

“Great. The sun’s dropping—let’s move.” But where were the bikes? There were no bikes. Our guide had simply assumed some would be available and checked nothing. Now I was genuinely annoyed. The school’s kind young woman said she could find one bike now and would try for a second as soon as possible. A young man arrived, I climbed on behind him, and off we went—trusting my travel partner would follow soon.

We left town into the forest on a decent dirt road. At a large iron gate we waited for a gatekeeper to open up—for a fee, of course, as most favors in Indonesia require. We carried on to another gate; no one in sight. Fortunately it wasn’t locked. Beyond, the road changed character—steep, slippery hills with swampy stretches in between. I dismounted on climbs and when the bike bogged in mud at the bottom. Otherwise we made progress.

A splitting headache took hold, but there was no time for self-pity. I clung to the back of the bike and hoped for the best.

At last my rider stopped, parked the bike, and we continued on foot along a narrow, wet, animal-like track. We reached a stream crossed by a large log. He padded over easily. I wasn’t up for it, so I slid down the bank and waded across—soaking my shoes but staying upright. I clawed up the far bank, pushed through dense vegetation, hyper-alert for anything with too many legs interested in my soft, foreign skin.

We walked on until he suddenly stopped and began calling out—something like, “Hello! We are friends!” (Or so I imagined.) A woman’s voice answered. Soon I could make out “houses,” or at least structures clearly made by human hands. We stepped into a clearing and saw people—sitting under the houses, inside them, and wandering about. My rider approached an older man wearing only a loincloth—long hair, bearded, late forties. A jungle hippie, if you like.

The Chief

They spoke briefly. Through the fog of my headache my imagination tried to fill the gaps: “We have enough food for a month. Don’t worry about the police; the foreigner will vanish in the Sumatran jungle.” Nonsense, of course—but the mind wanders. My rider told the chief I wanted to stay. The chief nodded. I tried to get my rider to fetch my travel companion. He nodded back—clearly without understanding. And then he left.

So there we were—me, the chief, and a couple dozen curious faces, all staring. Head pounding, I sat on the ladder of one house to collect myself. A young man motioned for me to follow him—into the jungle. Not a chance. I returned to my ladder, my one fixed point in a spinning world, and decided to stay put if I had to sit there all night.

We stared at one another. One of me; twenty of them. One stare; twenty back. This would not do. I needed to soften the moment and show some good will. What’s the universal language? A smile, yes—but what else?

All the men crowded in and settled around the edges, quietly watching my every move. The teacher said her goodbyes and vanished into the night.

I unrolled my self-inflating mattress to a chorus of wide eyes as it puffed itself up. Backpack against the wall, sleeping bag unfurled—some comfort at last.

Then the door opened—my guide, with two others. Surprise, but a welcome one. He explained that my friend had refused to come in after dark. They had walked three to four hours to reach the village and were soaked and caked in mud—absolute wrecks.

They cooked on a small gas stove. I was too sick to eat and could hardly sit up. I forced down a bottle of water to tame the headache and fill the stomach. It was a relief not to be alone. Soon I slid into the sleeping bag and drifted off.

I woke now and then to murmurs around me—oddly comforting. In the middle of the night the rain began, then intensified to a metallic roar on the tin roof like nothing I’d heard. I had to plug my ears. I checked my watch—not for the time but the barometer—lower than I’d ever seen. Maybe that explained the skull-splitting pain: a deep low-pressure system. By morning the rain eased, the air cleared, and so did my suffering.

(For the record: I carry a watch with compass, barometer, altimeter—the works. Handy when you wander into the unknown.)

Morning in the Village

At daybreak I stepped out into a beautiful, silvered jungle—mist lifting, leaves dripping, a few villagers moving between houses. Thin smoke curled from roofs where cooking fires lit the day.

The chief reappeared, now in his finest: shorts, sandals, an army-style shirt, and an Indiana Jones hat like mine. He looked splendid. We smiled at each other: understood friends. I gestured for photos; he nodded. I showed him the results on the tiny screen. “Bagus,” he said—Indonesian for “good.” I photographed others too, passing the camera around. The screen soon wore fingerprints from the Orang Rimba, mingling with those of the Dani, the Baduy, the bushmen, the people of the garbage dumps—every community I’ve shown pictures to. It’s always a joy. They enjoy it. I enjoy it. And both sides feel, in a quiet way, that we share the same human ground.

Eventually my companions emerged and took their turn with the camera. We lingered, but my ride out—two muddy hours by motorbike to the iron gate—beckoned, followed by a twelve-hour drive to Padang, a flight to Jakarta, then Singapore, then Johannesburg, and finally my flat in Pretoria. Time to leave.

A young man waved for me to pack. I sang one last song for the children, thanked the chief for his hospitality, and handed him a little money for the community. He smiled; I smiled.

The young man led me through the forest to his bike. After the night’s deluge, the track was a treacherous stew, and we fought our way to the main road, filthy but triumphant.

Aftermath

The rest scarcely matters. I met the Orang Rimba. I took photographs and some video. And I left with a resolve: to help Indigenous tribes find tools to defend their rights—to persuade governments that people and culture matter more than endless logging and the money it brings.

A month later I was appointed Director of African–Asian Development for The Peoples of the World Foundation—an organization dedicated to supporting Indigenous peoples.