Every millimeter travelled is filled with
yet another unexpected find, a new smell, a new flavor, a new sound. This is Borneo in a nutshell, an
astounding diversity of people, languages and cultures that make every step
feel like you have defied the conventional notions of space and time.
 |
| Drops of Life |
The next boat to Kapit leaves in a couple
of hours, sparing me enough time to fill up on sweet coffee and Chinese
doughnuts. The boat is packed to
the gills with food, fuel, tools and provisions to be brought upriver to those
who lack access to the apparent convenience and comfort of modern living. Dark gray clouds march down the Batang
Rejang, the longest river in Malaysia dubbed the “Amazon of Borneo”. As drops of life engulf our vessel we
embark on our three-hour tour.
Upon reaching Kapit the vibrations begin
to soften and the mellow upriver vibes of the Orang Ulu, “remote people”, start
to be felt. Gazing into the river
a day and a night float by.
The mid-morning sun makes its way through
the clouds. Boats dance on the
pier, pirouetting closer and further to each other rhythmically. An instant after pushing off the dock
in Kapit the town vanishes into the dense green of the jungle. The roar of the engines drowns out the
symphony of the wild while its majestic players float by in plain sight;
vibrantly colored birds zoom by.
A couple of hours into the five-hour
journey, the Orang Ulu slowly trickle out into their riverside villages. Family
and friends greet returning travelers while lending a hand to shoulder the
loads of the city that they bring with them. With the heavy baggage of modernity strapped onto my
shoulders I step onto the concrete platform in the village of Belaga. Men and women beautifully decorated in
tribal ink, piercings and stretched earlobes watch attentively as an alien
steps onto their land. I
tentatively offer a smile, which is reciprocated by comforting smiles and
laughter. My anticipated anxiety
over a clash of cultures swiftly dissolves into the cool river breeze.
I climb up the steep stairs and walk
towards the small stretch of shops that comprises the heart of Belaga. I immediately notice some fellow
travelers that I had met in Kapit sitting in a kopi kedai (coffee shop) having
a late afternoon lunch in their muddy boots. They excitedly share tales of a morning trek into the jungle
and encounters with a nomadic tribe.
They invite me for an afternoon swim in nearby waterfall.
Just around the way is Daniel’s Corner
Guesthouse owned and operated by Mr. Daniel Levoh, a warm and welcoming retired
schoolteacher who has lived all of his life along the shores of the Batang
Rejang. He now spends his days
sharing his tales of simpler times with all of those willing to hear. Deeply proud of his cultural heritage,
he is always happy to bring foreigners to get a glimpse.
After the informal check-in protocol is
completed I blurt out the thought that has been invading my mind for the past
few weeks, “do you know where I can find red durians?” He responds with a prolonged deep
stare. It seemed like a simple
question at the time but I had yet to realize its profound implications. Mr. Daniel launches into a full
discourse on jungle fruit trees, plants and animals that are becoming more rare
by the minute. In fact, some of
these formerly common plants and animals haven’t been seen in years. Durio
dulcis, known as Belihó by the
Kayan and durian merah by Malays, belongs to the unfortunate fraternity
of those pushed to the brink of extinction by deforestation and habitat
loss. Deep red in color and
outstandingly sweet this fruit has become so hard to find that many locals are
unaware of its existence. “Also,
you are late” Mr. Daniel adds, “durian season is almost over.” Despite these somber facts there is no
time to sulk in despair, the waterfall awaits.
The waterfall is breathtaking and so are
the two gigantic hornbills that glide by as the sun gets lost in the jungle.
 |
| Mesmerized |
The village slowly comes to life. Accompanied by Mr. Daniel, I gingerly
stroll through the market filled with the colors and smells of the jungle. I buy some mesmerizing tampoi from a
tattooed lady. The price is so
cheap that I give her twice as much and still feel like it’s not a fair
deal.
Mr. Daniel runs into his usual morning
coffee crew comprised of old friends, village elders, tribal chiefs and a guy I
had met on the boat coming from Kapit.
After being introduced to the group as “the guy looking for Belihó” the
chatter begins. The younger men in
the group do not know that such thing exists, but the elders are waxing poetic,
childhood memories of treks into the jungle to find the mythical fruit. Mr. Daniel acts as a translator when
necessary since a lot of human communication transcends the limitations of
language and culture. When his
turn comes around, Mr. Daniel jumps into a full lecture on his life story,
blending in the recent history of the region, stories of his forefathers and
insights into the culture and the animistic beliefs of his people; the passion
for teaching has not retired from Mr. Daniel. Immersed in all of this information we take off on our
journey, the quest for Belihó.
A white veil of clouds diffuses the
bright rays of the mid-morning sun, sky blue seeps through the cracks as the
deep green jungle hugs us all into our small boat. Mr. Daniel mans the helm as Hussein signals directions from
the bow to avoid the logs and fishing traps set up in the muddy waters of the
river. Other vessels pushed by
motor and muscle glide through the main thread that weaves together a tapestry
of villages that lie along the banks of the Batang Rejang.
 |
| Hussein |
 |
| Pure Muscle |
An hour into our journey we make the
first stop at Long Liten, a recently built longhouse for the Kejaman people who
were forced to move from their ancestral lands to accommodate for the
construction of the Bakun Dam. The
dam, which started to operate in late 2010, was built to harness the strength
of the Rejang and generate electricity for the power-hungry city dwellers on
the coasts. In the process,
more than 11,000 people were displaced from their lands and a swath of virgin
forest roughly the size of Singapore (690 km2) now lay submerged
under water, including scores of Belihó trees.
 |
| Mr. Daniel in Long Liten |
Greed and power might have drowned the
lands of the Kejaman and the neighboring Kayan, Lahanan, and Kenyah but their
culture remains strong in their new dwellings. The building materials are all that have changed, the
essence of a sustainable community harmoniously co-existing with nature still
remains.
Longhouses are communal living spaces
where everyone in the village lives under one roof. Each family has its own separate room, kitchen, bathroom, a
small apartment of sorts, but life revolves around the contiguous common area
in the front. This is the space
for shared activities, which foster social interactions and tighten the bond of
those living in the longhouse, making it more of an extended family than a
village.
 |
| Longhouse Kitchen |
As we walk through this never-ending
front porch of sorts called ruai, we
shake hands, say hello and give gifts to the kids and elderly, candy and red
tobacco, respectively. The far end
is lively, men are fixing and cleaning fishing nets and the women are deeply
engaged in vibrant conversation.
Our intrusion inadvertently lowers the volume for an instant but as soon
as Mr. Daniel talks his way into the circle we are invited into the cacophony. An older lady beautifully decorated
with intricate patterns of ink on her arms and legs asks us to come closer and
join her. She prepares some betel
nut and tobacco for chewing while also rolling a tobacco fatty for each one of
us. A bit dizzy from the deluge of
stimulants I am mesmerized by her tattoos and by an older lady oozing tradition
and life to my right.
 |
| Rollin' a Fatty |
 |
| Tribal Ink |
 |
| Tribal Ink 2 |
 |
| Beauty |
We say our goodbyes and slowly walk back
to our boat, along the way walking by altars with smooth round rocks that
protect the village from evil spirits.
Smoothly sailing up the river, we make our way to Long Mejawah a Kayan
longhouse where we will have lunch later on. We drop off some rice and veggies we got in the morning
market for them to prepare while we go check out the Bakun Dam, only a few
kilometers upriver.
The steady river current
intensifies. The subtle vibrations
of the breeze, the birds and even the rumbling of the engine are drowned out by
a thunderous roar of thousands of liters of pristine water from the heavens
being pushed through the concrete belly of this man-made monstrosity. Death and destruction rain down in a
never-ending mist. All life around
it has been consumed, not only in the flooded area behind the dam but everything
in, around and in front of it as well. A full day travelling up the river of
life, only to be encountered by a wall of death at the end.
 |
| Wall of Death |
Heavy-hearted and full of pain I snap a
few pictures through the mist. We
walk around for a while attempting to get closer, but I have no space to feel
or experience anything else. All
that I can think of is: How can we do this? How can we destroy something so beautiful? I’m pretty sure that the people
watching their flat-screens and charging their smartphones in the
air-conditioned apartments in the cities on the coast are not thinking of this
at all, but I can’t think of anything else.
Back in Long Mejawah tea and biscuits
greet us as we unwind in the ruai.
The sense of family, tradition and community that permeates the air
dissipates some of the feelings of pain and anger that still linger
inside. I make my way through the
door and into the room where lunch is served, family style and on the
floor. Rice, wild jungle ferns
known as midin, freshly caught river
fish in a coconut broth, river snails in a blazingly spicy chili sauce and macaque. I skip the monkey but dig into
everything else which is delicious.
I am told that if I come back tomorrow they will be serving a freshly
slaughtered iguana, which I am invited to see in the back, bloody, headless and
tailless. Mr. Daniel gets dibs on
the tail, supposedly a very strong aphrodisiac. “Jungle Viagra” says Mr. Daniel as he shows me a plastic bag
full of reptile.
 |
| Men at Work |
 |
| Candy with Grandma |
We start our journey down river towards
Long Segaham, the Kejaman longhouse where my encounter with Belihó awaits. We reach Long Segaham and ask a
gentleman that has been working on his boat since we passed by him on our way
upriver a few hours ago. Mr.
Daniel engages him in conversation.
After a brief exchange the man leaves. Mr. Daniel tells us that he will get a person who knows
where the tree is, but it likely has no fruit. The place can only be reached on
a smaller boat because it is up a smaller tributary of the river, which is a
bit more shallow and full of fishing traps. The tree is somewhere in the jungle amongst other fruit
trees planted there years ago by a beloved village chief. I am beyond excited since what he is
talking about is a pulau buah, a
fruit island within the jungle, which is a sustainable farming approach
practiced by the people of Borneo for hundreds if not thousands of years.
The cool air of the late afternoon cuts
into my sun burnt skin. I still
hold on to a thin thread of hope that there will at least be one red durian waiting
there for me, but the journey has been so exhilarating and revealing that the
destination is almost an afterthought.
I marvel at how far we are willing to go to experience the exotic, at my
determination to get there and at the uniqueness of this moment, zooming
through the jungle looking for fruit.
I get goose bumps.
The boat slows down and turns into a
small clearing in the jungle along the river. My new friend signals that this is the place. I jump into knee-deep mud, camera in
hand and a gleam in my eye. We
plod through the mud and into the wild.
Chempadaks, rambutans, tampoi belimbing, I am immersed in the exquisite
delicacies of the jungle; there are fruit trees all around me. I follow my guide up a short but steep
slope and he stops in front of a giant buttressed monument of tree. I look at the ground and see lots of
fruit, all rotten, but the long skinny spinterns with hints of red still in
them are telling me a story.
Cool moist mud pushes in between my
toes. I take a deep breath and
marvel at the massive tree. I look
up, I get closer, I put my hand on its bark and connect to something larger. I am here with you right now. I found you Belihó.
 |
| Belihó |
Thanks designed for sharing such a nice thinking, paragraph is pleasant, thats why i have read it completely facebook sign in
ReplyDelete