Despite occupying just a fraction of Borneo, Sabah’s ancient rainforest and endemic wildlife make it a living nature documentary of epic proportions

Words Lyn Hughes

“Oh, there’s an orangutan.” I’d been in Sabah, the jungle state in the far north of Malaysian Borneo, for less than two hours. It was barely 30 minutes since I’d checked in at my first hotel in Sepilok and there, in a tree facing my balcony, was a large and hairy ginger shape. In fact, there was another in the next tree along. The two wild orangutans were just going about their business, one casually sitting, the other pulling on branches and eating. It was an apt introduction to a destination where some of the wildest sights you could ever hope to see often linger just outside your bedroom.

I’d wanted to visit Borneo for decades, ever since I’d seen it on David Attenborough’s acclaimed documentaries, yet somehow it had never happened. I must admit that I’d been concerned whether I’d left it too late. Would Sabah still be full of the weird and wonderful wildlife that had caught my imagination back then? So, to have my first sighting of a critically endangered Borneo orangutan happen so fast felt serendipitous. 

The rainforest facing the MY Nature Resort hotel was to yield more surprises, as guests were invited to congregate just before 6pm to watch the resident red giant flying squirrels. As we munched on banana fritters, manager Edmundo explained that there is a species of giant cicada that starts singing at 6pm; this is the sign for the squirrels to emerge from their holes and nest boxes in the trees. But the cicadas were late that evening, and dusk was well and truly falling when they finally burst into a cacophony of sound.

As if on cue, a red head popped gamely out of a nest box. The squirrel scampered up the tree to the top and then launched itself off into space, gliding effortlessly for around a hundred metres or so to another tree. A full moon was rising, and we all turned to each other and hugged, a little emotional at the magic of it all. 

Sepilok is famous around the world for its Orangutan Rehabilitation Centre, which I visited the next morning. Established 60 years ago, it rescues orphaned, displaced and injured orangutans, some of which have previously been taken as babies for the pet trade, their mothers killed in the process. It was a joy to watch young orphans play and to know their futures were secured.

Across from the orangutan centre lies the lesser known Bornean Sun Bear Conservation Centre. Founder Dr Wong Siew Te showed me around, explaining how the plight of the sun bear, the world’s smallest species of bear (about the size of a large dog), was just as serious as that of the orangutan, but that their situation was simply not as widely known.

“Sun bears were not a priority species,” said Wong. “So, to change that, I had to do something myself.” The threats are much the same as for orangutans: a lack of habitat is taking its toll and poaching is a problem, with babies often taken for the pet trade. But they also face an added danger: the Chinese love of bear-paw soup. Just recently, a Chinese tourist had been caught offering a lot of money for someone to put on a banquet for them that included this soup.

The centre is home to over 40 bears, and seeing them up close was eye-opening. Some stood on their hind legs in that characteristic pose that makes them look like a child in a bear suit. But for all the good being done here, I still longed to get out in the wild.

The playboy of the eastern world

Between the two conservation centres and the nearby Rainforest Discovery Centre, I had already learned so much about Sabah’s wildlife. To see it for myself, out in the wilderness, it was time to visit the region’s longest river, Kinabatangan, a mecca for wildlife lovers.

My first lodge, Abai, was only accessible by water, and twice-daily excursions revealed crocodiles, otters, macaques and birdlife galore. I grew rather fond of the large and colourful stork-billed kingfishers, while another highlight was seeing a pair of rhinoceros hornbills.

I was particularly keen to see a certain primate I had glimpsed many times on nature documentaries, and which generally lives along rivers or on the coast. As we put-putted along the water, scanning the trees to the left and right of us, it wasn’t long before guide Junior suddenly pointed with a triumphant cry of “There!”.

The male proboscis monkey perched languidly in the crook of a tree, sitting as a human might, one leg stretched straight along the branch, the other bent at the knee. With its huge nose, velvety-looking pantaloons and pot belly, it looked like a character in a medieval play. 

“They’re known as the playboy of Borneo,” I’d been told, due to groups consisting of a large-nosed male with a harem of females. Or perhaps, I wondered, it’s because of the male’s bright-red penis, which is permanently erect. Less flatteringly, they are also called orang belanda (meaning Dutchman) because the locals saw a resemblance to the sunburnt Dutch colonists that used to live on the island. 

Back at Abai, I recalled that the resort was situated opposite an Indigenous river community, the Orang Sungai. I took a boat across to have lunch in one of their homes. The house was built on stilts overlooking the river, and the host’s grandchildren had arrived back from school and were playing along the riverbank.

“It is said that the river people never get attacked by crocodiles,” recounted Junior. “I’ve seen children splashing in the water here with a crocodile nearby and they were just left alone.”

Moving further upriver, I stayed at another lodge, this time in the growing village of Sukau. I was initially flummoxed by the pleasant but loud sound of tweeting birds both day and night, then a Swiftlet House was pointed out to me on the opposite bank of the river. These man-made buildings are erected to attract swiftlets to nest in them; the goal is to harvest their edible nests, which are much prized by the Chinese. It appears to be a sustainable industry: the birds won’t return if their nests are taken before they raise a brood, and if it is done early enough in the season, the birds have time to rebuild in order to lay their eggs.

From here we headed out in search of proboscis monkeys again, taking a boat into the Mananggul tributary of the Kinabatangan River. As we turned into it, undisturbed forest unfolded on every side.

Junior pointed to a now-abandoned lodge: “That’s where David Attenborough stayed when he was filming here.” It transpired that Junior had worked on several documentaries, initially as a porter on 1995’s The Private Life of Plants. “Sir David inspired me to think about nature; I’ve been 30 years now in nature guiding.” 

We stopped next to see a family of pig-tailed macaques, which were sitting on a large patch of invasive water hyacinth, pulling out the roots to eat. It was like watching a soap opera as dozens of small dramas played out in front of us: some stole from their neighbours, others flirted, while the young ones, oblivious to it all, just played. 

Boats from other lodges began crowding round, so we headed further along the river, passing under a rope bridge.

“That’s for the orangutans to cross,” explained Junior. “They can’t swim but they will use a bridge.” A little further on, we came across a group of proboscis monkeys. They were making their way resolutely through the trees on the riverside. Junior was checking his watch and looking in the distance because unlike orangutans, proboscis monkeys can swim.

“Just ahead is a crossing where most filmed sequences of proboscis monkeys jumping into the water are shot,” said Junior, “but it’s late in the day for them to do it.”

We sat and waited at a respectful distance with the engine off. “That’s the matriarch,” he nodded, gesturing to a large female.” She’ll decide whether they cross or not.”

The cautious leader made her way to a tree right next to the known crossing point and seemed to ponder her next move for a moment. But then she turned away, the rest of the group following her. As even Attenborough must have found, not every encounter makes the showreel.  

Ghosts of the forest

The most surprising sight along the Kinabatangan appeared the next morning. We’d heard that a solo male elephant had been seen near the river the day before, but the odds were against us spotting it. As Junior said: “It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Ever the optimist, I was scouring the banks when a shout went up from him: “In the river!” Up ahead, the pachyderm was swimming across the water in plain view, its trunk acting as a snorkel. We drew a bit closer, then turned off the engine and bobbed around, quietly watching. After a few minutes, it reached the opposite bank and clambered out, then was swallowed up by the dense vegetation. We burst into applause, as did the occupants of another boat which had been lucky enough to witness the sight.

Borneo’s elephants are the biggest mammals found in these jungles, but as with the sun bears, they are also the littlest of their family, some 20% smaller than any other Asian pachyderm. Consequently, they are often known as pygmy elephants.

There is some debate as to whether they have descended from introduced elephants or whether, as DNA suggests, they are their own distinct subspecies. Certainly, it is not just their size that is different; they also have larger ears and longer tails, and are often described as “rounded”. Worryingly, they are now also considered severely endangered, and it is thought that their numbers may be as low as a thousand, with most of them found in Sabah. I now understood why the guides at the lodge had been so excited at the news of a sighting.

However, I was to get an even closer look at Borneo’s largest mammal on my way into Deramakot Forest Reserve later that day. Driving along the gravel entrance road, which was with thick vegetation on each side, we came across large piles of dung. My new guide, Hamid, jumped out of the car.

“Elephant dung,” he announced excitedly. “And it’s fresh!” We drove a bit further on for safety reasons, then got out of the vehicle, our senses alert.

We heard the crunch of branches breaking and the occasional trumpet and low rumble. They were so close now that we could even smell them. “They know we’re here,” said Hamid as we cautiously stood next to our 4WD, ready to make a getaway if needed.

For a few minutes, all we could see was the occasional sway of branches and bushes. But then a senior female came out of the forest on the other side of the road, took a curious look at us and presumably signalled to a few others that it was OK to cross. Three mature and three young elephants came slowly down the road towards us, ears flapping against the insects, then peeled off into the undergrowth, melting into the greenery to join the ones we could already hear.

The encounter was all the better for being completely unexpected. Perhaps even less expected was the curious drawing of a dancing man that I had spotted on the information board on the way into Deramakot Forest Reserve.

On a break from our wildlife watching, I asked Hamid what it meant; he explained that the figure was Michael Jackson. On seeing my puzzled look, he continued: “The people here believe in ghosts, and there have been cases of ghosts seen along the road. So the forest decided to add something to the sign. And, well, Michael Jackson…”

Going green

In just a few days I had been lucky enough to see all of Borneo’s ‘Big 5’ species: orangutan, proboscis monkey, pygmy elephant, rhinoceros hornbill and estuarine crocodile. Now, I was keen to seek out some of the lesser-known mammals.

Deramakot is a managed forest that practises what is known as ‘reduced impact logging’, ensuring that its wildlife still thrives. It is gathering a reputation as one of the best places to see Borneo’s array of nocturnal creatures, including the clouded leopard. I knew the odds of seeing one were not stacked in my favour – there is around a one-in-ten chance, if that – but I crossed my fingers in hope.

Each evening, I headed out on night drives willing one to appear. We saw several palm civets – long and slender animals that look like a cross between a mongoose and a cat – but none of the reserve’s actual five species of feline. One highlight was a tiny mouse deer, frozen in our vehicle’s headlights. It was so exquisite that it was hard to believe it was real. A daytime drive also produced one very rare sighting: a binturong, sometimes called a bearcat (though also not a cat), snoozing in a tree. It is the largest of the civets found here, and apparently has a scent similar to popcorn; sadly, it was too high up to get a whiff.

There was a drive of several hours to my next stop, Utan Rainforest Lodge. It was a rather dispiriting journey, as we passed endless oil palm plantations. Throughout my trip, guides, conservationists and other locals had brought up the subject of oil palms without me asking, and my driver on this occasion was no exception, telling me how he used to work on one but he much preferred being a driver. Like everyone I spoke to, he stressed that no more forest is being lost to palm oil, though his concern was more for the economic risk of relying on a monoculture than its environmental impact.

“There is so much competition now from other countries that the price will drop. And what if they get a disease?” he fretted.  

At the Rainforest Discovery Centre in Sepilok, I had been told that the plantations were built on land that was already deforested. This was echoed by Silvia Alsisto, the district manager for Kinabatangan at the Sabah Wildlife Department, who explained: “If you go back 50 or 60 years, there was logging, then coffee and rubber estates. It’s those former estates that are now growing palm oil.” 

The best news is that the protection of Sabah’s forests is now part of government policy, with a cap having been put on the total area of palm oil plantations since 2019, while Malaysia is one of more than 100 countries to have pledged to halt deforestation by 2030.

The situation is also more complex than it first appears, as Junior was eager to explain to me: “If everyone boycotted palm oil, people would lose their jobs and go back to hunting.” I thought of my weekly grocery shop and how I avoided anything with it in.

Silvia stressed: “The important thing now is to ensure palm oil is produced sustainably and without harming wildlife.” She told me about the Malaysian Sustainable Palm Oil (MSPO) Certification Scheme and how a lot of her own work with plantations and communities was about reducing animal-human conflict. “We Malaysians care about our wildlife, so it’s about finding solutions that work for everyone.”

Right place, right time

One positive thing that I discovered was how the fringes of the plantations were great places to spot certain wildlife. Utan Rainforest Lodge had only just opened and was situated where a plantation meets the rainforest. A night drive produced a leopard cat sighting within five minutes, and then another and another. The size of a large domestic cat, these creatures are omnivorous and highly effective at controlling rats in the plantations. 

A nocturnal walk the following evening produced another new spot: a moonrat. Technically not a rat at all, it is actually related to the hedgehog, and did indeed look like one – except with fur instead of spines. White in colour, it seemed to be sniffing the air with its long snout before scurrying off. Moonrats are said to exude a peculiar and pungent smell – something similar to burnt coffee. I sniffed the air expectantly but can’t pretend that I smelled anything other than the usual rich and earthy forest smells typical of the sultry nights here.

The lodge lies near to the mouth of the Segama River. We explored its mangroves, estuary and quiet backwaters by boat, sometimes passing a community of Sama Bajau, also known as ‘Sea Nomads’, but otherwise seeing no other people. Neither was there any sign of the Irrawaddy dolphins sometimes spotted here, though we enjoyed sightings of flying foxes. The night’s journey also turned into a natural light show: trees twinkled with fireflies in the dark, the sky overhead was heavy with stars and bioluminescence streaked the water in our wake. 

After experiencing a range of habitats, it was now time to encounter truly ancient rainforest. Borneo Rainforest Lodge is located in the heart of Danum Valley Conservation Area, one of the most pristine places in Borneo and home to virgin rainforest that is 130 million years old. The Lodge has only been here 30 years, but the orangutans within the vicinity have been studied extensively. A wall in the reception area displays their mugshots and details as if they were famous. Nevertheless, I still wasn’t prepared for the opening few minutes of my first guided walk there to be so eventful. 

My guide Calixtus paused on the boardwalk, raising a hand, so I stopped too.

“I can smell them,” he said.

I was puzzled: ”Smell what?” He stepped off the boardwalk and slowly walked along while scanning the trees.

“Orangutans; there,” he pointed up into the adjoining fig trees where two ginger shapes were languidly moving. “That’s Kate,” said Calixtus, “named after Kate Middleton; the other is a young male called Kai. They go around together but are just friends.”

Over the next couple of days, I was to have several more orangutan sightings, and realised with a shock that I could now recognise their smell before I saw them too. But there was so much more to see here. Just as memorable was my immersion in the rainforest, senses alive to every movement, sound and scent. My face dripped with the humidity, and leech socks were tied around my calves, yet it was exhilarating to walk among the trees – some true giants – while following the tracks of pygmy elephants, or freezing still when watching a secretive argus pheasant, or peering into leaves to admire tiny frogs. 

On one walk, we came across a troop of red leaf monkeys racing though the trees and occasionally scampering across the forest floor. They had reddish-ginger coats, fluffy heads and dark faces, and their acrobatic feats had us mesmerised until they eventually moved on and out of sight. It really was like being in the Attenborough documentaries I had watched as a teenager. All it needed was that familiar voiceover.

Yes, the wildlife and ecosystem here does face challenges, but enough people care about both – and ecotourism plays its part, too – that I left with hope for the future. More than anything, I felt privileged to have experienced somewhere so special in real life rather than on a TV screen.