3. Borneo To be Wild...?
Trip Start
Aug 10, 2004
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3
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Trip End
Nov 10, 2004
Banjarmasin, Borneo, Indonesia
Friday, November 12, 2004
"Mandi!" the little old man spluttered out through a smiling, toothless mouth, with a rubbing gesture up and down his body. He had just returned from the bathroom.
Had I been green to Indonesia, I would have naively assumed that a pretty young lady by that name was offering her services in the bathroom and I might have been tempted to seek a smile as big as his.
But my "command" of the language told me that he was suggesting I have a shower, having spent enough time (25 hours) sitting down to have left a permanent impression of my buttocks on my seat. But my odour blended beautifully with my surroundings, so I didn't want to rock the boat.
Being a VIP guest on the ferry had already afforded me some very special privileges:
1. Watching 25 hours of Borneo-style MTV, with local female singers gyrating their hips on-screen to the point of almost dehinging their booties.
2. Spending enough time in the company of cockroaches to be able to locate their nest inside the arm of a chair close by me.
3. Selecting the upper pieces of meat from a lunch tray which the cockroaches had already begun to infiltrate from the bottom.
4. Waking up in the dark to that special tingling feeling pattering across your skin, indicating that you are not alone in your chair (and nobody likes to be alone)...
Yes, VIP is the certainly the way to travel in Indonesia. Borneo beckoned. The jetty was in sight...
An indigenous welcome...
"What is it?" I ask innocently. "I don't know," shrugs the owner of the homestay. "It comes from the jungle." That seemed a very acceptable explanation as I downed my tasty beverage. When in Rome...
Time ebbs. Dilated pupils. Feeling of well-being. Sounds familiar. An hour passes hazily. An invitation with a selection of local DJs and scholars to a secret room. A complicated chemical contraption lies in wait.
"What is it?" I ask, (almost as innocently as the first time). "We call it Chukung—it means canoe, named after the way you smoke it." Again, a very acceptable explanation, as I inhale deeply. When in Rome...
A feeling of very well being; I belong here.
No more questions—too high to care. Within hours of my arrival, my long-standing policy of When In Rome... led me into a near-sleepless world of digital music creation and clubbing as a VIP (i.e. western) guest, in a 7-nights-a-week dance culture that would unexpectedly inspire (an albeit brief) return to wicked ways of old.
Forest People...
Landing on my feet, with a 6am start, unshowered and straight from the niteclub, I headed into the back of beyond with a couple of friendly German girls, the only other westerners in town, not-so-fresh from 6 scary weeks living with a dayak professor-cum-warrior in the interior, conducting research on the burning forests.
"What do you mean an orang-utan took it?"
After a day of motoring upriver, deep into Tanjung Puting, we arrived at Kalimantan's only orang-utan sanctuary. But within a couple of hours of my being there, I was aggrieved to find that an orang-utan (roughly translated as forest person) had swooped on my unattended camera.
While the description on the police report could have read...
The suspect is 1.5 metres tall,
with shoe size 75;
an 8-foot arm-span;
a bit of an all-over ginger hair problem
- and lives in a nest... ...I have my doubts.
My first encounter with the real orang-utans was with Princess—one of the locals—as she strolled along the pathway, her baby dangling from her side...Veronika freezes as her water bottle is snatched from her grasp. Princess examines us, then calmly unscrewing the bottle-top, takes a swig and swishes the water round in her mouth...
Dangling baby waits anxiously. Mammy assesses the water quality. "It won't kill ya," is her verdict (without the words). Lower lip protrudes for Baby to slurp from. We look on, spellbound.
One more swig, and off she waddles along the path, leaving us shaking our heads in awe of her intelligence. Give her a visa and a job in an Irish restaurant and you'd be amazed at the improvement in service.
Borneo Belly...
Return to Kumai. Struck down with a nasty dose of the Rota virus, courtesy of the pineapples in which I'd overindulged. Not knowing whether to use the bathroom or puke, I found I could do neither as I collapsed on the pier and was carried semi-conscious to the nearest doctor.
Tests carried out. Medicine despatched. "He'll need a receipt for all the medication and the doctor's bill, to claim back on insurance," explains Andy at great pains to the doc. I eventually receive them thankfully. The bill comes to 3 euros.
Still in recovery the following day, I make the mistake of taking a journey on what can only be described as the undisputed, most pot-holed road in the world. I fight to hold whatever contents need to be held inside until each pitstop.
Sampit: A Lesson Learned.
I had an hour to explore this town of some 50,000 (all-Dayak) indigenous people and went walking. Now, as it transpires there's a wee reason why only Dayaks live there. A little digging showed the statistical facts to be true, but it's a story I was asked to relay by a local "as a lesson to others." What the lesson might actually be is a scary thought...
As it happens there was "a bit of a tiff" between the Dayak people (indigenous to Borneo) and the blow-ins from Madura in February 2001.
Feeling increasingly persecuted and unwelcome in their own land, the Dayaks retreat to the mountains to consult with their ancestors. Twenty-three great warrior ancestors are awakened, 23 of the Dayaks become possessed with their souls. A 200-strong army is formed. Blood is on the menu as they descend on the villages.
Wearied by an incessant attack strategy of the possessed, the Madura people did not sleep for a week —when Dayak day warriors rested, night warriors took to the streets.
Resurrecting "ancestral practices," the bodies of the Madura victims were mutilated and beheaded by means of the Mindau sword. Within the week, the official death toll rose to over 500, with thousands unaccounted for (the Dayaks claim to have killed 11,000) and with an estimated 50,000 Madurese evacuated from the area.
Contradicting some of the "facts" of the Dayak story, the Indonesian government reasoned that two men were the masterminds of the attack, one of them the Professor-Cum-Warrior Head of the Forestry Board in Palangkaraya, who spoke locally of how warriors brought him the hearts of the slaughtered Madura people as gifts. And if other people were not careful "the same could happen to them." Charming fellow.
Walking the streets of Sampit does nothing for the nerves. You sense a madness in the wild eyes of the people that turns your blood cold. How much of the story is true? How many of the locals have killed and mutilated? I wonder as I wander...
Probably best to wait in the bus...
Uncle Travelling Al
