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--An American Living Abroad
Exchange rate: $1 = about 9,000 Rupiahs
April 8, 2003
Borneo! Since childhood, whenever I’d heard Borneo, my mind has instantly filled with
vivid images of deep dark jungles, headhunters with blowguns loaded with poison darts, cannibals, and most of all:
The Wild Man of Borneo! Did I think I’d ever actually get there? Not a chance! But here I was on Star Airlines
flight 361, flying over the Java Sea, headed towards the fulfillment of another life-long fantasy. I would have
nine days there.
The world’s third-largest island, after Greenland and New Guinea, Borneo is comprised of the Malaysian states of
Sarawak and Sabah, the tiny oil-rich sultanate of Brunei, and in the southern two-thirds of the island: the region
of Indonesian known as Kalimantan. The latter has 20% of Indonesia’s territory (bigger than France), yet only 5%
of its population of 210,000,000 – most of whom live in coastal cities that thrive on the oil and timber industries.
After my plane touched down in Balikpapan, I caught a bus north to Samarinda, and then a second bus west, arriving
in Kota Bangun around dusk amid a furious thunderstorm – almost exactly twelve hours after departing from my home
in Malang. Kota Bangun is a scruffy little town perched on the banks of the lower Mahakam River. Rivers are the
primary highways of Kalimantan, and the Sungai Mahakam is the biggest and busiest. Draining into the Makasar Strait
at Samarinda, riverboats journey on it 523 km upstream, and if conditions are right, smaller crafts thread their
way even farther, deep into the remote interior. I would spend three-and-a-half days on or near it.
After a restful night at the basic but adequate Penmapan Muzirat, I spent considerable time the next morning in
sustained and brutal bargaining, negotiating a ride upriver on a “ces” - a narrow motorized canoe I would charter
on two consecutive days. Patiently competing boatmen against each other, I finally managed to get the initial asking
price of 300,000R down to 185,000R, and I was soon on my way to Tanjung Isuy.
The typical ces is about six meters long, less than a meter wide and is mostly covered by a wooden roof. It’s powered
by an outboard motor which sounds a lot like a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, and has a long propeller shaft angling
out of the rear at a 45-degree angle. I crawled in, tossed my backpack on the floor, and stretched out to savor
the journey as we skimmed along the river surface.
This section of the Mahakam is massive, sometimes hundreds of meters wide, and our tiny boat passed enormous barges
and riverboats, various smaller boats, plus logs and other miscellaneous flotsam floating towards the sea. Here
and there along the mangrove-jammed shore were scanty villages or isolated residences, all drab unpainted shacks
atop platforms on stilts. But no matter how rundown the clusters of dwellings were, there was always an impressive
mosque, topped by its glittering dome. Waterfowl were plentiful, especially the white, long-legged ibis.
After about two peaceful hours, we veered off the main river and navigated through shallow wetlands, the pathways
sometimes so narrow reeds and grass brushed both sides of our craft. It was then that I fully grasped how brilliantly
the ces is designed and operated. Drafting but a few inches of water, we could go pretty much anywhere, even if
our way was partially blocked by thick vegetation or even half submerged logs. If we encountered such an obstacle,
the boatman would gun the motor, shooting over or through it, simultaneously lifting the propeller out of harm’s
way, sometimes scattering hordes of startled waterfowl screaming discontent at our sudden intrusion.
It was brilliant!
About three hours after leaving Kota Bangun, we pulled up to the dock in Tanjung Isuy – we’d entered Dayak territory.
Dayaks are the indigenous people of Kalimantan, and actually Dayak is what others call them – they prefer to use
their tribal name, in this case: Banuaq. Of some two hundred distinct Dayak tribes, virtually all of them had been
river dwelling headhunters until recent times. From as early as the 16th Century, they started retreating inland
as the result of the arrival of Islamic and Chinese trading settlements. Then the Dutch and British moved in, creating
plantations for rubber and coffee crops, plus copra oil, produced from coconut. During the 20th Century the encroachment
of corporations “harvesting” oil, minerals and timber have heavily damaged their homeland, pushing them even farther
inland. Pressure from the corrupt government in Jakarta, increased development, and intense Christian missionary
work have also all taken its toll on their culture. Mining and logging have decimated their formerly pristine environment.
They’ve been tricked, lied to and sometimes brutally slaughtered in droves by the military (sound familiar?). Now,
just like most native peoples in the world, their way of life has been dramatically altered forever.
But the Dayak have not given up without a fight! When massive transmigration schemes have brought in busload upon
uncountable busload of willing workers from Sulawesi, Madura and Java, Dayaks have frequently swept into the settlement
areas with unbridled vengeance, usually leaving behind hundreds of decapitated corpses! This has happened even
recently, and there are still men who proudly wear the special tatoo signifying that they’ve personally taken a
head, if not many. They are deeply spiritual people, but not to be messed with!
If you go to Tanjung Isuy, by all means stay at the Taman Jamrot Lamin, a converted Manuaq longhouse where I got
a clean, comfortable room (with mosquito net) and shared mandi (primitive bathroom) for 20,000R. Having arrived
shortly after noon, I spent the duration of the day wandering around the town and surrounding area, occasionally
interacting with amiable locals.
There were very few people I met in Kalimantan who spoke English, and during this trip my Indonesian improved by
leaps and bounds. There’s nothing better than acute necessity for dramatically spiking one’s learning curve! I
actually became fairly conversant while there.
Breakfast, lunch or dinner, I usually ate in local warungs (food stalls), and my meals there were always the same:
tempeh or tofu, vegetables, noodles with chili, all stir-fried in a wok and served over rice. The cost was normally
about 5,000R (only $.60!), and, strangely enough, I never got bored with the food on my trip.
That night, as I was nearing my lodging, the town’s power generator went down and I stood in the dirt road in absolute
pitch-black darkness. A few moments later, a hand gently touched my elbow and a soft voice asked, “Kemanakah?”
(literally: “where to”, but used to ask, “Where are you going?”). When I responded, I was led down the road by
a man whose face I never saw, until I spotted a few candles glowing in the doorway of my accommodation. As quickly
and as quietly as he’d appeared, my “guide” vaporized into the night.
The next morning, I climbed into another ces, this time owned and operated by a young man named Surni who I’d met
the prior day at the dock upon arriving. For 100,000R he would take me farther upriver to Melak. Already jammed
into the vessel were a couple of cardboard boxes, a suitcase and a Honda – plus two men. They kindly and insistently
offered me the prime seat mid-ship. As we pulled away from the dock, an older woman wrapped in a sarong urgently
beckoned Surni to an adjacent platform. Once there, a man (presumably her husband) stepped forth and what ensued
was a profusely tearful farewell to one of the young men in the boat, the three of them sobbing a bucket-full.
I even got a little misty.
As we initiated our three-hour journey to Melak, every cell in my being was filled with exhilaration! The sky was
a deep lucid blue and a gentle breeze stirred the vividly green grass of the marsh. The air was clean, I was well
rested and content, and I was on the road... uh, rather... on the water again.
And the day would prove to be epic!
First we passed through additional marshland, but we then darted into a tiny tributary that snaked through immensely
thick jungle. The vegetation was forbiddingly dense and mysterious-looking. Magnificent flowers exploded out of
verdant undergrowth. Beside me and above me were towering trees, draped with tangled vines, threatening to hide
venomous snakes which might suddenly drop into our slowly moving boat. I made a mental note of where my Swiss Army
Knife was packed. And when I thought things just couldn’t get any better, we came upon a pair of proboscis monkeys
clinging to low-hanging branches, barely over the water. The proboscis are characterized by unusually long, pink
snouts that give them a uniquely strange and silly appearance. The Indonesians call them “belanda” – meaning “white
man”. They wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat, but not before I got a good look at them.
Occasionally we passed dugout canoes with locals checking their fish traps or collecting plants for cooking. At
times we encountered fallen trees, barely submerged or partially blocking our path - but Surni expertly skimmed
over or zipped around them, being ever so careful as he maneuvered. Damaging, or worse yet, snapping off our prop
where we were would be no laughing matter! On one occasion, a huge deadfall lay in our path and he gunned the motor
once again to slide over it. Damn - stuck!
First, Surni vigorously pushed with his oar as the rest of us tugged at the tree limbs, but we barely budged. Then,
the other three lads climbed out, and while balancing themselves precariously, huffed and puffed, pushed and pulled
– meanwhile insisting that I stay put in the boat. But it soon became clear to me (if not to them) that we were
doomed to remain exactly where we were as long as my 84 kilos. (185 lbs.) were still in that boat. These Indonesians
might be wiry little dudes, but they’re still really little dudes - without a whole lot of ass in their pants!
So I lumbered out (first stashing my wallet in my pack!) and somehow managed to find a foothold on the slippery
branches, while at the same time recalling that crocodiles inhabited these waters. But I thought, “If this is the
way I reach the end of the road… well, what a way to go!”
It was a sticky situation, as not only did we have to shove the ces out, but also athletically leap on to the boat
once we’d done so. But no worries. Lightened by my absence, with my additional ass pushing and pulling on it, the
boat was soon freed, and we all performed our niftiest acrobatic maneuvers to board. We were quickly on our way,
each of us laughing hysterically. I was tempted to initiate them in the “high five” ritual, but resisted the urge
– they certainly didn’t need any further cultural contamination!
After about an hour of weaving through the jungle, we came back to the main channel at a community called Muarapahn,
where we paused for a while at a dockside toko (shop) to celebrate our male bonding with hot tea and cookies.
Weepy Boy arranged a photo session, one snapshot of me with each of my diminutive buddies. From there, we settled
back and rode onwards – Surni and I chatting over the roar of the engine – the other two guys nestled down for
a snooze. To my left I watched a soaring Brahming Kite, a raptor with a four-meter wide wingspan that looks remarkably
similar to the Bald Eagle of the western U.S and Canada. I also viewed several animals hanging from horizontal
tree limbs, as if asleep. Unfortunately, Surni was unaware of what they were called in English and I failed to
jot down what he said in Indonesian. From a distance they sure looked to me like sloths, I was later told by a
Forest Ranger they “might be” gibbons, but I’m still not sure what the hell they were.
At 12:30 pm we reached Melak, and I was invited by Surni to join him while he visited his family. We entered the
local market, and at one stall we carefully stepped past the wares and entered a back room behind the family business.
This is where a family of four lived. Mom, dad and their two children slept on rattan mats on the floor; personal
belongings hung from the walls or were neatly stacked in the corners, and the “kitchen” at one end of the room
consisted of a small gas burner. It was clean and cozy. There was an adjoining room that probably had some kind
of toilet arrangement that undoubtedly emptied directly into the river.
Surni and I joined the family on the floor and we were all served a simple but delicious meal of veggies and rice,
along with grilled fish, no doubt a former denizen of the waters that flowed past us. In Indonesia it’s impolite
to talk while eating, but after we’d finished, my hosts being more than curious about me, asked me the usual questions:
where I was from, where I’d been, where I was going, how old I was, and about any possible family. As usual, they
were surprised that I was traveling alone and were absolutely shocked that a man of my age was unmarried. Usually
when I tell people here that I don’t have a wife, they say something like, “That’s too bad!” and cannot fathom
how I get through day-to-day life without one. If I’m speaking with men only, they then automatically assume I
regularly utilize the services of prostitutes and probably don’t believe me when I tell them that I never do.
I spent the balance of the day roaming around – first up a hill and out of town where I found a comfy and serene
spot on a promontory overlooking the rolling river and the canopy of trees that spread out as far as I could see.
Later I walked in the opposite direction along the river, past the typical mixed bag of shops, warungs and ramshackle
houses one finds in most places here. There was activity of one kind or another all along the river. For these
people, the Mahakam is the perpetual centerpiece of their lives: they travel on it, they obtain some of their food
and apparently their drinking water from it, they bathe daily in it, and their WCs hover over it. In one location,
I observed (within a five meter parameter): a man changing the oil in his motorbike, another man gutting and plucking
a chicken, a young boy washing his hair, and a woman brushing her teeth.
To say I was a focus of curiosity and attention is to put it very mildly. The community was surely buzzing about
“the bule (white foreigner) in town”.
Greetings constantly rang out as I strolled along, and when I stopped for some hot tea, people gathered to gawk
and query. Pulling out my journal and pen elicited an even larger mob of onlookers, huddled around me, peering
intently at what I was scribbling, as if they could actually make any sense out of it! There was no rest from it!
“Mister, can I practice my English with you?”
“Sure, why not, most of the other 209,999,999 Indonesians already have!”
What is always foremost on people’s minds here is where I’m from. Two days before I left on this trip, the war
in Iraq began, and with local satellite dishes bringing in images on TV of buildings burning in Baghdad, children
lying in hospital beds or graves being dug, hostile feelings towards the United States and George W. Bush were
running high – as you might expect. Sometimes the question was a direct, “Are you American?”
In my situation, there could only be one sane response, "Bukan American, saya Canadian.” (“Not American, I’m
Canadian”).
They would then usually say, “Saya tidak suka Bush!” (I don’t like Bush!), or something along those lines.
My response was usually, “Saya tidak suka Bush dan saya tidak suka perang!” (I don’t like Bush and I don’t like
war!”). Not only did that endear me to them, but it’s absolutely the truth!
If you haven’t noticed, anti-American sentiment around the globe is at an all-time high right now, thanks to Bush’s
disregard for international law and world-wide public opinion. Most people in the world don’t at all buy into the
U.S. government’s story justifying why they’ve invaded a sovereign nation, and a whole lot of them are plenty pissed
off about it – especially in countries with large Muslim populations! Later on my trip, as I wearily stepped off
of a bus in one city I was abruptly greeted by, “Are you American? If so, fuck you!” Is it any wonder I would want
to impersonate a Canuck? And I make absolutely no apologies to anyone about having done so, especially since where
I was traveling, I could’ve easily been rubbed out and disposed of without a trace. And the simple truth is that
although I carry a U.S. passport and enjoy certain privileges as a result of that, these days I am far from being
a “proud American”. Saya tidak suka Bush dan saya tidak suka perang!
In addition to idle rambling, I did arrange transportation for the next day. So after spending a pleasant night
in my naked-lightbulb hotel (Radmat Abadi – 25,000R), I headed off at 8:30 the next morning to Eheng. My form of
transport was a brand new (less than 1000 km on the odometer!) Lexis SUV, but my driver spoke nary a word of English,
and my cost: a hefty 250,000R for a half day, the best deal I could wrangle. Eheng is a Banuaq community, and when
we pulled up to the longhouse an hour later I discovered that the planets were all aligned and the gods were smiling
on me that day! I was to experience a traditional ceremony signifying and celebrating a change in community leadership
– a rare and major event! It was just beginning.
About two-dozen young women in magnificent costumes were dancing in a circle. Their sarongs and jackets were brightly
multi colored and matching, and each had a long purple scarf draped around her neck. Ornate pillbox hats rested
on their heads, and they were all decked out in beads and jewelry that jingled when they moved and sparkled in
the intense sunlight. Tightly laced on their feet were Nikes, Reeboks and the like. Most of the young ladies were
breathtakingly beautiful!
There’d been a stage erected, a few simple benches laid out, and a row of folding chairs set up – all covered by
a tarpaulin. Locals sat here and there, smoking cigarettes and conversing. Three musicians huddled on the ground,
two of them playing drums which bore a strong resemblance to congas, and the third striking an instrument that
was not unlike what I’ve seen in gamelan orchestras, one with bells of different pitches which he played with two
long mallets. To this syncopated rhythm, the dancers swayed, hopped and chanted. It was mesmerizing! The costumes
and even the dance evoked memories for me of the Navajo people of Arizona – two native cultures, separated by half
a globe – so much alike! And the longhouse itself, home to 32 families, appeared identical to those utilized for
centuries in the past by the Iroquois Nation of the Eastern United States.
Soon after arriving, I met Petrus, a thirty-two-year-old man with pretty good English who’s studying law in Samarinda.
He’d returned home for the special occasion and graciously took it upon himself to make me feel as welcome as possible
and show me around. Regarding his pursuit of a degree in law, he commented frankly, “Others are taking our land
from us. How can we stop them if they know the law and we don’t?”
He invited me into his home. The longhouse was at least fifty meters long, made from ironwood, and was perched
about two meters above the ground via numerous sturdy stilts. The stairways were made by carving notches into tree
trunks, and were guarded by totem pole type posts displaying fierce images - designed to protect these highly animistic
people from evil forces.
Inside was a hallway running the entire length of the building on one side, with buffalo heads mounted on posts
and over the doorways of individual living quarters. Various ceremonial items and other community property hung
from the walls or were stored on racks suspended from the ceiling. A Britney Spears poster was tacked up on the
wall. Dogs and chickens scurried past me, children leaned out the windows watching the goings on, and mothers unselfconsciously
breastfed their infants and toddlers.
Near the doorway to where his family lived, a frail old woman sat cross-legged on the floor, only her lower half
covered by a sarong, her breasts hanging flat against her chest like Cocker Spaniel ears. “She’s my grandmother.
She’s 82, deaf, nearly blind and she’ll die soon,” Petrus stated matter-of-factly. Past the entryway (mind your
head!) was a sizable room, shared by four families – rattan mats stacked up in the corner to sleep on and personal
effects stored here and there. In the next room was the kitchen, a simple wood fireplace in the corner for cooking.
I inquired about what they ate. “Chickens, pigs, vegetables and occasionally we can kill a deer in the forest with
a gun or a trap. We used to eat monkeys once in a while, but they’re gone now.” I asked him if there were any tigers
around. “We never see them, but we have heard them a few times. They’re no problem for us.” And what about the
Black Hornbill, a large, highly sacred bird which Dayak people believe carry their soul after death? “Very rare
these days.”
Outside, a few shiny new vehicles pulled up with dignitaries from the government and other Banuaq villages. Two
lines formed to receive them, gifts were exchanged, and speeches would be made later. But I was on a time limit
with my driver and needed to depart. “Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Petrus offered. My heart ached to do it,
but all my gear was back in Melak. I also knew that I needed to leave later that day by riverboat. So I bid farewell,
and was then driven to nearby Benung and another Babuaq longhouse I’d also planned on visiting that day.
When we arrived in Benung, I was guided through their longhouse too, but it was the cemetery there that I’d primarily
come to see. I’d been told by a man I’d spoken with that morning at a warung that after the Dayak people have been
buried for some time, many are dug up and housed in specially made crypts above ground. Among these I silently
strolled. Most of them were brightly painted, had ornate carvings on them, and were raised to about eye level by
sturdy posts. The wooden containers often had gaps between the slats through which I could peer in and see corpses
shrouded in cloth. Inside each, resting next to the bodies, were usually some of each person’s personal possessions.
Hmmm... a bowl with kitchen utensils – a woman I presume? This was her legacy? The cemetery was eerily quiet and
a bit spooky, immersed in a heavily wooded area, and after about ten minutes there I was more than ready to depart.
I felt that day that I’d been especially privileged. I’d seen so much already on my trip, and later I would leave
Melak via an overnight riverboat to Samarinda. Looming ahead: the jungle of Kutai National Park and my search –
in the wild – for the elusive Wild Man of Borneo!
Stay tuned for that,
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Salamat tinggal,
