ENTRY for THE SAMWAW AWARD, CLASS TWO
The Travel Article
1198 words DEEP IN THE RAIN FOREST 27.3.99
The logging pickup truck deposited us on a deserted pontoon wharf, just upstream of a giant wooden pier for logging boats on the Balui river. We were on holiday, backpacking in Sarawak, Borneo. Men in small boats came over. 'Down stream to Belaga for a hundred ringgits', they offered. We negotiated hard. One by one they turned away. Had we overdone it this time? It was beginning to look as though we'd have to sleep on the pontoon. 'I just can't imagine my parents travelling like you', said Mane, our American companion, a little younger than our children. Out of the blue, a torpedo shaped express boat pulled in. Immediately it berthed I jumped on. Anything was preferable to being left behind.
'Where do you want to go?', asked Liwan, peering from the flight deck.
'Anywhere', I replied.
'You can come to my longhouse.'
'Where's that?'
'Two hours upstream.'
'OK, I said, relishing the idea of going further into territory forbidden to tourists.
This was not the large impersonal torpedo boat of the coastal reaches. Instead of dead pan expressions and kung-fu movies, there was the blare of disco music. When we went below we were welcomed with a cheer. Everyone on board was in high spirits, returning from a rare day out in town. Some even wore head-feathers. 'These are real Red Indians', said Mane excitedly. When I went over to inspect a basket of fat grubs an old man sought to impress by eating one alive. Although he grimaced for effect I knew that they consider sago worms a delicacy.
But the real excitement was outside so we clambered from the narrow deck onto the roof, to join the lads, the luggage, and the Guinness. All around was the green rain forest, wilder than anything we had yet encountered, even in Sarawak. The high powered boat fought its way up the fast flowing muddy river, winding round rocks, pitching in rapids, engines roaring whenever the propeller came out of the water. We passed the occasional longhouse or burial ground, marked by a decorated wooden cenotaph.
Beautiful brown women, their faces shaded by large vividly coloured straw coolie sunhats, came to meet the boat at each longhouse stop. Men returning home drunk were slung over a friend's shoulder and carried up steep, notched log, ladders to longhouses high above the river.
'This is the terminus', said Liwan as he beckoned us up to his longhouse, and into his home. He was thirtyish, of small wiry build with jet black hair and tattooed hands, now wearing a clean light blue and white rugby jersey. His wife Cynthia, rather younger, a decorative band round her hair, in a loose white blouse and a floral skirt, was sitting cross legged on the floor with her sister for company. Like Liwan she spoke excellent English, no-one else at that longhouse understood. She was preparing betel nut chews for them, from nut, leaf, and a chalk like powder. 'Like to try', she said as we sat
down, then warned us off, fearing ferocious headaches.
Unlike most longhouses this one was built with about twenty bilek bilek (rooms) on either side of the central verandah or ruai, a sort of pedestrian precinct. More lived in than Coronation Street, but not a hive of communal activity like that at the Iban longhouse where we stayed earlier. Liwan, Cynthia, and their two young children lived at one end of the block. Thus they had a private end of terrace balcony, overlooking the rain forest, which was used for drying clothes. Directly opposite was the headman's room. 'We'll introduce you to him, because he's the only one with a toilet'. The ultimate status symbol. Nothing but a proper seat above a hole in the floor, and a big drop to the ground far beneath. Yet somehow it felt better than peeing off the balcony, the only obvious alternative, or looking for the purpose designed hole in the wooden floor to squat over.
Cynthia came from a Kenyah longhouse, another two hours upstream.
'Will you take us there tomorrow? we asked Liwan.
'Yes, you can stay you can stay overnight with her parents, then make your way to the Rajang river by logging truck. But you will have give me money to buy petrol'
Unfortunately it poured with rain all night, so he was unwilling to risk the final dangerous rapids in the suddenly swollen river, but suggested a round trip upstream. As we left two similar boats set out to hunt for wild boar, a few men with a pack of dogs and wooden spears in long narrow open boats propelled by powerful outboard engines.
We stopped at prosperous looking Long Liko for lunch with the headman, admired his trophy cabinet, and tried on the elaborate ceremonial helmet and feathers from the Emperor Hornbill, the emblem of Sarawak. In front of the longhouse the cocoa crop was drying in the sun, to the rear was a pond where fish were farmed, and a caged wild boar which had been caught as a piglet. A boar's head was being barbecued. Then a middle aged woman with a large jug challenged Mane and I to a drinking contest, no sipping, down in one. As we left a large party had gathered in her room, she could afford to throw a party on the proceeds of selling us one jug of tuak! With not a little difficulty we negotiated the stairway down to the boat.
On the way back we stopped at a Penan longhouse. This was an attempt by the government to force this nomadic forest dwelling tribe to settle in a house. The initial impression was of poverty, squalor, graffiti and lack the normal warm welcome. Housework was an alien concept to people who had lived with nature. But the kids were as brave as hunters should be, they didn't run away and hide, they just sat and stared us right in the eye. Soon Mane had them singing along, 'One little, two little, three little Indians'. The young girls started performing graceful dances and inviting Joan to take her turn in the competition. We took tea with the young teacher, in her well kept quarters, and learnt how she had been drafted here by the government for two years. It was sad to reflect on how official government policy was ruining the lives of such a brave and resourceful native people. The rain forest had become too valuable, it had to be reclaimed from its long-standing owners.
Liwan shouted as we exited a rapid. Disoriented for a second, I saw a stick poking high out of the water and thought it marked a dangerous rock. Liwan turned rapidly, nearly capsizing, and seized the stick. We came to alongside a wild boar with a wooden spear stuck in its flank. It had escaped its attackers, presumably the hunters from our longhouse, only to drown in the river. We hauled it on board. It was still warm. Finders was keepers. Liwan butchered it on the floor with the help of a deaf and dumb man. Cynthia cooked some for our supper. It was more appetising than sago worm.
The Travel Article
1198 words DEEP IN THE RAIN FOREST 27.3.99
The logging pickup truck deposited us on a deserted pontoon wharf, just upstream of a giant wooden pier for logging boats on the Balui river. We were on holiday, backpacking in Sarawak, Borneo. Men in small boats came over. 'Down stream to Belaga for a hundred ringgits', they offered. We negotiated hard. One by one they turned away. Had we overdone it this time? It was beginning to look as though we'd have to sleep on the pontoon. 'I just can't imagine my parents travelling like you', said Mane, our American companion, a little younger than our children. Out of the blue, a torpedo shaped express boat pulled in. Immediately it berthed I jumped on. Anything was preferable to being left behind.
'Where do you want to go?', asked Liwan, peering from the flight deck.
'Anywhere', I replied.
'You can come to my longhouse.'
'Where's that?'
'Two hours upstream.'
'OK, I said, relishing the idea of going further into territory forbidden to tourists.
This was not the large impersonal torpedo boat of the coastal reaches. Instead of dead pan expressions and kung-fu movies, there was the blare of disco music. When we went below we were welcomed with a cheer. Everyone on board was in high spirits, returning from a rare day out in town. Some even wore head-feathers. 'These are real Red Indians', said Mane excitedly. When I went over to inspect a basket of fat grubs an old man sought to impress by eating one alive. Although he grimaced for effect I knew that they consider sago worms a delicacy.
But the real excitement was outside so we clambered from the narrow deck onto the roof, to join the lads, the luggage, and the Guinness. All around was the green rain forest, wilder than anything we had yet encountered, even in Sarawak. The high powered boat fought its way up the fast flowing muddy river, winding round rocks, pitching in rapids, engines roaring whenever the propeller came out of the water. We passed the occasional longhouse or burial ground, marked by a decorated wooden cenotaph.
Beautiful brown women, their faces shaded by large vividly coloured straw coolie sunhats, came to meet the boat at each longhouse stop. Men returning home drunk were slung over a friend's shoulder and carried up steep, notched log, ladders to longhouses high above the river.
'This is the terminus', said Liwan as he beckoned us up to his longhouse, and into his home. He was thirtyish, of small wiry build with jet black hair and tattooed hands, now wearing a clean light blue and white rugby jersey. His wife Cynthia, rather younger, a decorative band round her hair, in a loose white blouse and a floral skirt, was sitting cross legged on the floor with her sister for company. Like Liwan she spoke excellent English, no-one else at that longhouse understood. She was preparing betel nut chews for them, from nut, leaf, and a chalk like powder. 'Like to try', she said as we sat
down, then warned us off, fearing ferocious headaches.
Unlike most longhouses this one was built with about twenty bilek bilek (rooms) on either side of the central verandah or ruai, a sort of pedestrian precinct. More lived in than Coronation Street, but not a hive of communal activity like that at the Iban longhouse where we stayed earlier. Liwan, Cynthia, and their two young children lived at one end of the block. Thus they had a private end of terrace balcony, overlooking the rain forest, which was used for drying clothes. Directly opposite was the headman's room. 'We'll introduce you to him, because he's the only one with a toilet'. The ultimate status symbol. Nothing but a proper seat above a hole in the floor, and a big drop to the ground far beneath. Yet somehow it felt better than peeing off the balcony, the only obvious alternative, or looking for the purpose designed hole in the wooden floor to squat over.
Cynthia came from a Kenyah longhouse, another two hours upstream.
'Will you take us there tomorrow? we asked Liwan.
'Yes, you can stay you can stay overnight with her parents, then make your way to the Rajang river by logging truck. But you will have give me money to buy petrol'
Unfortunately it poured with rain all night, so he was unwilling to risk the final dangerous rapids in the suddenly swollen river, but suggested a round trip upstream. As we left two similar boats set out to hunt for wild boar, a few men with a pack of dogs and wooden spears in long narrow open boats propelled by powerful outboard engines.
We stopped at prosperous looking Long Liko for lunch with the headman, admired his trophy cabinet, and tried on the elaborate ceremonial helmet and feathers from the Emperor Hornbill, the emblem of Sarawak. In front of the longhouse the cocoa crop was drying in the sun, to the rear was a pond where fish were farmed, and a caged wild boar which had been caught as a piglet. A boar's head was being barbecued. Then a middle aged woman with a large jug challenged Mane and I to a drinking contest, no sipping, down in one. As we left a large party had gathered in her room, she could afford to throw a party on the proceeds of selling us one jug of tuak! With not a little difficulty we negotiated the stairway down to the boat.
On the way back we stopped at a Penan longhouse. This was an attempt by the government to force this nomadic forest dwelling tribe to settle in a house. The initial impression was of poverty, squalor, graffiti and lack the normal warm welcome. Housework was an alien concept to people who had lived with nature. But the kids were as brave as hunters should be, they didn't run away and hide, they just sat and stared us right in the eye. Soon Mane had them singing along, 'One little, two little, three little Indians'. The young girls started performing graceful dances and inviting Joan to take her turn in the competition. We took tea with the young teacher, in her well kept quarters, and learnt how she had been drafted here by the government for two years. It was sad to reflect on how official government policy was ruining the lives of such a brave and resourceful native people. The rain forest had become too valuable, it had to be reclaimed from its long-standing owners.
Liwan shouted as we exited a rapid. Disoriented for a second, I saw a stick poking high out of the water and thought it marked a dangerous rock. Liwan turned rapidly, nearly capsizing, and seized the stick. We came to alongside a wild boar with a wooden spear stuck in its flank. It had escaped its attackers, presumably the hunters from our longhouse, only to drown in the river. We hauled it on board. It was still warm. Finders was keepers. Liwan butchered it on the floor with the help of a deaf and dumb man. Cynthia cooked some for our supper. It was more appetising than sago worm.
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