Dan & Gabriel | Borneo Bound 🦧

I rolled over and moaned. The damp sheet tangled around my waist. I hadn’t slept. Not really. 4:52 AM on the clock. Outside, the Borneo jungle was already alive with the familiar hoots of gibbons in the canopy. I stretched out fully, letting out a long yawn.

I swung my legs out of bed, my bare feet hitting the timber floorboards of the hut. I stood up, rubbed my face and put on some shorts.

Gabriel arrived at 10:00 AM.

I had five hours to kill. Plenty of time to do all the morning chores around the wildlife reserve. Probably could do them all twice.

The gas ring flared with a blue hiss, smelling of sulfur and butane. I dumped two spoonfuls of cheap instant coffee into a mug.

Waiting for the boil, my eyes drifted down to the blurred ink on my forearm: a sixteen-year-old’s dare that stuck for a decade. I had the monkey covering its eyes. See no evil. Marc had the other one, the one with hands clamped over his ears. We were sixteen and best friends since pre-school, with our parents constantly calling us little monkeys.

Now, ten years later, I was the coordinator of a wildlife reserve, spending my days among monkeys, while Marc was the head of sales for some fancy corporate firm back home.

“He’s not a kid anymore, Dan,” Marc’s voice echoed in my head. Marc’s younger brother Gabriel wanted to take a gap year after graduating from high school.

The kettle whistled. I poured the water and stirred the coffee while staring into the jungle, where the trees and undergrowth were buzzing with life. I looked at the texts back and forth between Marc and me. To help Gabriel explore some options for the gap year, Marc had asked me to send him some pictures of the Borneo reserve and me working with the animals. He had shown them to Gabriel, who loved animals and had always been an outdoorsy kid. The images had sparked something in Gabriel and he wanted to come over.

“Of course, he’s welcome. I’ll look out for him.” Those words had slipped out easily.

By six o’clock, I was out in the feeding station, greeted by the loud chatter of the macaques. One of the younger males had been badly injured in a tropical storm two weeks before, so I checked his stitches thoroughly first, murmuring to him to keep him calm.

Next came the prep. I chopped massive piles of papayas and bananas. The heavy iron of the machete bit into the cutting block. I forced myself to focus so I didn’t accidentally chop off my fingers. Flies buzzed around my ears, drawn to the sticky juice gluing my knuckles together.

I moved down to the enclosures, taking in the familiar smell of sour animal musk and the sharp sting of monkey urine.

By the time I was hose-washing the concrete floors of the main enclosures, I let my mind wander. I hadn’t seen Gabriel in three years, not since I packed up and moved to Borneo. In my mind, he was still the gangly sixteen-year-old with braces and spiky hair.

Once the chores were finally done, I went back to the hut, grabbed my phone and keys and got into the jeep.

I checked Gabriel’s flight status. My thumb left a greasy smudge right over his face on the glass. A city boy. Crisp shirt, bright eyes. I caught my own wild jungle hair in the reflection in the dark edge of the screen.

I shoved the phone away and twisted the ignition. The jeep was an old wreck and the engine sputtered as it always did. I hoped it would hold together for the ninety-minute drive to Sandakan Airport and back.

As I drove, the scenery shifted from the deep jungle to a more open landscape. The heat radiated through the jeep’s rusted floorboards, roasting the soles of my sandals. My palms were sweaty on the steering wheel. What the hell am I going to do with a nineteen-year-old city kid if he passes out from heat exhaustion on day one?

Every time a nasty pothole slammed the jeep down onto its axle, the weight of my promise to Marc pressed as heavily in my chest.

By the time I pulled into the airport lot - an hour early - my mind was scrambled and my shirt was glued to my spine. I cut the engine, pulled out my phone and stared at Gabriel’s face on the screen for the tenth time this morning.

I pushed through the glass doors into the arrivals hall, hit by a sudden wall of refrigerated air. My sandals squeaked against the polished floor as I paced up and down.

My phone buzzed with a text from Marc:

“Good luck with the little monkey!”

At that moment, high on the wall, the flight board gave a cascading clatter as the yellow tiles flipped over, clicking into place next to Gabriel’s flight number. The text blinked: LANDED.

The tires hit the tarmac at Sandakan Airport, followed by a long taxi toward the terminal gate. When the seatbelt sign finally pinged off, I jumped up, relieved to get out of the cramped seat.

Setting foot on Borneo soil was an attack on my entire sensory system.

Before we even reached the terminal my shirt was soaked.

The immigration hall was a labyrinth of roped queues. I joined the back of the line and looking around, I instantly regretted every single outfit choice I'd made for this trip. My white Nikes looked absurd against the stained concrete. They were practically screaming 'clueless tourist.'

The line gave a sudden jerk forward when Marc texted.

“Dan’s picking you up. Do whatever he says! Don’t drive him crazy.”

I stared at the screen, a sudden panic hit me. What if I did drive him crazy? Dan was an absolute legend back home: Marc’s cool, adventurous best friend who went out to the other end of the world to rescue animals while I was still figuring out my life.

My backpack finally skidded onto the carousel, scuffed and battered. Another text popped up.

“Check your backpack! I put a little present inside. Marc 🐒”

I smiled at the emoji and wiped the sweat from my brow. I had to find Dan.

When I pushed through the sliding doors, there was Dan, pacing back and forth at the far end of the arrivals hall. All serious. Until he spotted me. The gravity left his face, splitting into a massive smile.

He was in shorts and a washed-out tank top, filled out in a way I didn’t remember. The jungle had turned his skin a deep, sun-baked caramel.

Then came the absolute peak cringe.

I extended my hand for a professional handshake just as he went in for a full-on hug. We collided awkwardly, my jaw skimming his stubbly cheek and my palm trapped between our chests.

“Welcome to Borneo,” he laughed. “Let me take that.”

He grabbed my backpack and threw a casual arm over my shoulder, steering me toward the exit with an easy confidence that I desperately wished I had.

I let myself be guided, praying he couldn't feel my heart pounding out of my chest.

The jeep was parked just outside. Dan hoisted my backpack into the trunk with effortless ease. He hopped into the driver’s seat and we set off toward the reserve.

The hot exhaust of the city transitioned into the heavy smells of the jungle. Big leaves slapped against the frame of the jeep. The thing had no doors, no windows, just a rusted overhead bar to brace yourself. Without a windshield, the wind hit my face like a hair dryer blowing at full blast.

Dan navigated the rough terrain one-handed, as relaxed as if he were riding a fancy lawn-mower in some LA backyard. He seemed completely unfazed by the noise of the jeep engine and the oppressive heat. His thigh muscles flexed against the fabric of his shorts, working the pedals.

Was the chassis supposed to scream like that?

My teeth rattled with every impact. Holy shit, a branch just missed my face. Is he lowkey trying to kill us? I held onto the roll bar for dear life, the metal burning into my palms.

Every time he threw the jeep into third, his shoulder threw hard into mine. A sudden dip. Another gear change. Then a deep rut that sent me sliding right against his side. He didn’t flinch, just tightened his grip on the wheel and drove even faster. God, don’t let me throw up in his jeep.

“So, what do you think?” he screamed above the noise of the engine. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

Why are you driving like a maniac? I wanted to ask, but I nodded, eyes wide.

“Wait until you see the river. You’ll love it.” He gripped the steering wheel with both hands to take a sharp turn, sending the jeep splashing through a massive puddle.

After what seemed like forever, bouncing around in that tin can of a jeep, we finally pulled up to a clearing.

A hut sat half-hidden in a giant tree, its weathered wood blending with the dense foliage.

Dan cut the engine.

I unfolded my long legs from the car. Stepping out, my Nikes slipped on a patch of wet leaves, caking the white canvas in Borneo mud. I caught myself just in time and glanced at Dan to see if he’d noticed. But he was already at the back, hoisting my backpack out of the trunk.

“Follow me.” He marched up the steps of the hut.

I followed close behind him onto a wooden porch. There was a small table, two flimsy chairs and a simple bucket rigged to some bamboo poles tied together with thick rope. No walls. No door. Just open air.

Dan pushed through colorful strings of plastic beads that hung across the entrance of what was the main room. There wasn't even a real front door. It was giving retro-hippie, but like, in the middle of nowhere. Only a curtain of beads separated us from the wild.

“Make yourself at home,” he said smiling and dropped my backpack in the corner.

Through the wide gaps between the rough timber floorboards, I saw the dark jungle floor below. Right in the center of the bamboo walls there was a single wooden frame. One mattress. Two pillows. A thin sheet.

Literally zero personal space. Nowhere else to sleep.

Dan cleared a small space for my stuff on one of the crude wooden planks before he casually pulled his tank top over his head, tossing it onto the bed.

“I’m taking a rinse in our fancy bathroom,” he said with a wink, flashing a quick smile before stepping back out onto the porch.

As I began to unpack, I found a small box wedged between my shirts and ironed boxers. Inside, on a folded card in Marc’s handwriting: For good luck.

Beneath it, coiled in tissue paper, a thin silver necklace with a small monkey pendant.

I held the silver monkey by its chain, letting it dangle in the humid air. It had one tiny hand pressed over its mouth. Speak no evil.

I stared at the little figure, my thumb brushing the metal, my mind flushed with thoughts of back home.

Outside, the water from the bucket shower suddenly stopped rattling onto the porch floor.

What happens when the water stops?

Find out in Chapter 3. Sign up now to get the next chapter delivered straight to your inbox. Every story is completely free to read and all accompanying artwork is original, created entirely by me.