John, my Indonesian guide, holds up a hand and whispers, "listen."

I pause mid-step, pull a couple of wriggling leeches off my legs and tune my ears to the cacophony of jungle noises: the "whomp, whomp" of a hornbill as its wings cut the air; the hysterical laughter of macaque monkeys; the machine gun ratter of a woodpecker; the ubiquitous screeching of cicadas.

I'm hoping he's heard the much-anticipated "thud" that could lead us to today's prey: the orangutan.

Over the last several hours, John has been telling me how to scout an orangutan through the dense foliage of Gunung Leuser National Park in Indonesia's remote Aceh province. Their mating call sounds a little like the hornbill, but an accompanying "thud" followed by a strong whiff of manure is a dead giveaway.

Perhaps, I think, he's heard one of the larger animals — a sun bear or rhino — more common to this landscape. Or even a gun-toting rebel who until a peace deal last year had fought the government from bases deep within this jungle.

"What is it?" I ask.

He turns, his face serious. "It's a tiger, sleeping."

I whack him with a Jurassic-sized leaf. This has been a running joke since I asked John several hours ago to listen to a noise I said "sounded like a tiger sleeping." It was in fact the throaty bubbling of an underground spring, but to 27-year-old John, it was hilarious.

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JANE IN THE JUNGLE

Aceh is not the most obvious place for a vacation. A decades-long civil war, its remote location at the tip of Sumatra island, and a devastating tsunami two years ago have kept it off the itinerary all but the most hardy, or foolhardy, of travelers.

But with the signing of a peace deal last August between the Free Aceh Movement and the Indonesian government, several towns previously under martial law were reopened, and the tourists have started to trickle back in.

The park is a world in itself, a UNESCO World Heritage Site encompassing 2.3 million acres, about twice the size of the state of Delaware. Within it lies beach, swamp, tropical rainforest, alpine highlands, an encyclopedic collection of about 700 animal species and plants, including the world's largest — and possibly smelliest — flower, the Rafflesia.

Unfortunately, my orangutan sighting was limited to a few flashes of orange swinging through the trees. But I saw dozens of cheeky-faced Thomas Leaf monkeys and the more aggressive macaques; learned how to ford a rushing river by hopping on the back of my guide; spent a few hours luxuriating in the bath-like waters of a hot spring; "discovered" an unusual four-winged beetle and witnessed a huge amount of illegal logging.

These mini-adventures, however, barely scratched the surface of what Ketambe has to offer.

Two days and two nights trekking into the jungle's interior and you'll see bears, possibly tigers and some of the other big cats. A five-day rafting trip down the powerful Alas River and a 200 yard trek up the bank will put you in wild elephant territory. Hardy trekkers can tackle the 2,100-mile Mount Gunung.

Most of this was unavailable while I was there, simply because there weren't enough people.

In the week I'd been staying at the Wisma Sadata, one of six or seven guesthouses in Ketambe, I saw five other tourists, most just passing though on their way down from Pulau Weh, an idyllic island paradise off the northern tip of Sumatra.

But it's an improvement. A few months earlier, and there were as few as five a month.

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BACK TO BASICS

To get to Ketambe from Medan, northern Sumatra's capital, you can take a 45-minute flight to the market town of Kutacane and then hop in a pickup for the hour or so more to Ketambe. Or you can do as I did, and spend seven hours crushed in the front seat of a minivan swerving around tiny mountain roads accompanied by thumping Indonesian rock ballads and the pungent smell of clove cigarettes.

Ketambe is a small village of about 500 people. A smattering of wooden huts falls on both sides of the asphalt road that runs through it.

Some of the guesthouses are set back in the jungle, and often monkeys will sneak down to steal bananas. Others face the Alas River.

Accommodations are basic. The cheapest, around 10,000 rupiah ($1) a night, are simply a mattress on the floor, while at the deluxe end, for about $4 a night, you get crisp clean sheets, a mosquito net and an inside toilet. None of them, at the time of writing, has a shower. You splash yourself with water that has dripped from a tap into a large plastic bucket, as the Indonesians do. When it rains, the water is often brown.

Ayuni, an ebullient mother of five who runs the Wisma Sadata, has big plans for when tourist numbers pick up. As well as a shower for each hut, she's hoping to offer "cultural tours."

On the back of her motorbike, we whizz into the nearby brick-making village where I watch a water buffalo churn mud with its hooves and girls as young as 12 pack it into wooden frames that are left in the sun to dry.

On the side of the road, amid the papaya trees and coconut palms, we stop to chat with a farmer harvesting his fast-growing patchouli plants, before heading off to a homemade still where piles of drying leaves are boiled up, resulting in a rich aromatic oil sold overseas to aromatherapy buffs, for shampoos and even toothpaste.

With time, she hopes there will be tourists to see it.

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Cassandra Biggs is an editor on the AP's Asia desk.

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