Into the Heart of Borneo

Tuesday 7 September 1999 – Wednesday 22 September 1999                                     

We had high hopes of catching a glimpse of traditional life in Borneo, but we knew it wouldn't be easy.  As in so many parts of the world, the native traditions are melting away from one generation to the next.  Old-timers may well have been merry headhunters in their youth, and most adults can remember when their tribes began to settle in villages and abandon their communal longhouses; but today's youth are largely addicted to satellite TV!  We knew our best chance to peer back in time would be to get to the most remote area we could, and in Borneo this means travel upriver, beyond the rapids and into the mountains of the far interior, where logging roads do not yet lead.  Perhaps the best river to make this attempt, because it's rapids are so daunting and it's upper reaches so isolated, is the Mahakam.

Our flight to Samarinda, capital of East Kalimantan and gateway to the Mahakam, brought new meaning to the concept of baggage allowance:  for the first time in our lives, we were asked to place our backpacks and ourselves on the scales!  Fortunately, our initial concerns proved unfounded and we did not have to join our bags in the cargo hold.  And we knew this was nothing compared to the transportation challenges to come:  at certain times of the year, the Mahakam River is un-navigable, either being too treacherous during the rainy season, when the rapids are ferocious, or too low in the dry season.  Even if we hit it at the right time of year, we knew it could still be either too hard to find a guide who would take us, or prohibitively expensive.  With hindsight, however, it was to prove to be worth every uncomfortable night’s sleep, every inedible meal, every bath in the river, and (possibly) every leech.

In Samarinda, we checked into a hotel and relished the opportunity to take our first hot shower in a while.  We also had the luxury of CNN, which brought us up to date with what was happening around the world.  The main headlines were filled with events right on our doorstep in East Timor, and with governments warning their citizens not to travel to Indonesia, we found hotels almost deserted and 30-50% discounts available for the asking.  It was not until the Australian forces moved into East Timor that we, as westerners, were to face any kind of antagonism although our guide, Rustam, was ever vigilant once we were under his protection.

Dr Rustam, as he has been referred to in various guidebooks, was the person most responsible for making our visit to Indonesia a life-highlight.   He had crossed Borneo overland, by boat and on foot, no less than three times, and had obviously inspired confidence in all his tourists based on the glowing reports given by each.  Two days after meeting him, we were off.

That evening we motored into Tanjung Isuy.  The main street is a tributary of the Mahakam, and is surrounded by houses, the odd mosque and occasional side “streets” along each bank.  The cemetery, just inches above the water table at the end of the wet season, is the highest point in town and even here, bodies apparently have to be anchored down to prevent them bobbing to the surface after burial (all the anchors held during our brief stay).  Tanjung Isuy can be a somewhat touristy place, being the furthest upriver most tourists care to travel, but since we were the only foreigners in town at the time, we luckily avoided the ritual welcome dance staged by locals during the high season (for a price, of course) in an attempt to give visitors a freshly-packaged taste of Dayak culture. 

Instead, we heard that a genuine funeral ceremony was taking place in a nearby village that night, to which we were delighted to be invited.  It was a mesmerising evening.  Having been heralded as guests of honor, we were requested to seat ourselves next to the village headman along one side of the longhouse, and felt exceptionally conspicuous as he stood up to address the village.  Luckily for us, one of the younger villagers spoke some English and once the food was served, he came to join us, inviting us to ask questions about what we saw and translating for the people around him.  He explained to us the rituals that were taking place that evening.  Dayaks believe that the human body has two souls, one that stays with the dead corpse until the flesh is decomposed, the other that remains in the area of the village until the necessary rituals are performed that will help send the soul on its dangerous journey to the Land of the Dead.  

This secondary ritual takes place once the body has been buried in an urn or coffin and left to decompose for a period of several months or even longer.  The bones are then exhumed and prepared for a huge ceremony involving the entire village that may last for weeks and involve the slaughter of several water buffalo.  Given the cost of such rituals nowadays, joint ceremonies are held involving several families.  This renowned second burial ceremony is practiced only amongst two of the many Dayak tribes in Borneo,

We had arrived the day after the slaughter of the water buffalo and were to share in eating them that night.  After the formal address by the headman and then dinner, several dances were to take place, first  by the men, then by the women.  The skulls of the deceased were removed from their shrine (which was surrounded by burning cigarettes to ward off evil spirits, as well as gifts from villagers intended to placate them) and slung over the shoulders of the men in brightly coloured cloth.  Decked out in turbans and other elements of traditional dress, the ritual dances took place accompanied by song.  We both took our turn in helping the spirits on their journey to Dayak heaven, hoping that all our incorrect foot movements would not send them off in the wrong direction!

The entire ritual was held in the village longhouse, a massive structure build of hand-hewn wooden planks suspended on stilts.  Historically, longhouses could reach anything up to a kilometre (half-mile) in length, and housed anything from a few families to an entire village of several hundred people.  They were raised on posts to provide protection against attack, and such communal dwelling provided an environment for continuous, informal contact and harmonious social relations among villagers.  Sadly, after Indonesia’s independence, the new government set about trying to create a unified Indonesian identity, and Dayaks were encouraged to abandon their longhouses for more “normal”, single-family dwellings.  Interestingly, however, in the past two decades, the government has become more sensitive to (and even proud of) the country’s cultural diversity and development funds are now being used to rebuild many of the longhouses that had previously been  abandoned.  Although some people still live in longhouses in the most remote parts of Kalimantan, for the most part Dayaks have now become used to separate homes and use their longhouses as meeting houses although they are still decorated in the true Dayak style.  

One wonderful memory of that evening was a conversation we managed to have with one of the village elders through the younger fellow who spoke English, asking him about the changes he had seen in his village during his lifetime.  He lamented the fact that people now lived separate lives in separate houses, and wished they could return to the longhouse to live together under one roof.  Electricity for him was a mixed blessing:  artificial light was the best thing to come along in a generation, but television was corrupting the young. 

This experience really whetted our appetite to learn more about Dayak ways, and the next day we continued our journey bright and early.  After a couple days of travel by various forms of rickety watercraft, we noticed a distinct change in the scenery:  sheer limestone cliffs and tropical rainforest overhanging the rocks, all against a backdrop of clear blue sky.  It is in this region, near the town of Long Iram, that the lucrative business of searching for the Chinese delicacy of birds’ nests starts, and the villages become noticeably more traditional.  By nightfall, we arrived at Long Bagun and after washing at the river bank, accompanied by a curious crowd of onlookers, we ate yet another unappetizing meal of rice and fish before settling down for the night in the living room of a local Dayak family.

The next morning, thanks to an incredible storm during the night, the water level of the river had risen sufficiently that we were able to find yet another long boat (very large motorized canoes, and the only form of transportation capable of navigating the rapids) to take us further into the interior.  Our travelling companions by this time included:  several Chinese men, who were on a business trip in search of as many birds’ nests as they could find to take back to China; a young couple with two small children who were going back to their village at Tiong Ohang to visit family; and several young men we later learned were in the military.  A hefty cargo of four enormous oil drums were removed to fit everyone and their luggage on board, and it was with some trepidation that we set off for a long, uncomfortable journey through the rapids.  We did, however, provide light entertainment throughout the day as the people on board watched us trying to eat rice with our fingers (obviously the wrong way), and wriggle fruitlessly in an attempt to find space to put our oversized legs.  Sadly, we were to pass a number of logging camps en route to our next stopover and saw for ourselves the total devastation caused by loggers across vast areas of the rainforest.

After a scorching hot day and over nine hours of travel, we were glad when dusk fell, thinking we would surely be stopping somewhere before night fall.  During the course of the day, we had had to unload the boat three times and hike across the rocks at the waters edge, while the boat negotiated the more treacherous rapids which cut off the villages of the Upper Mahakam for much of the year.  With no pit stops or toilet breaks, there was more than one discomfort on our minds and as dusk fell, a hard rain started to fall, stinging us as we sped upriver.  Even in the pitch black of night, we continued on our journey, shuddering at the thought of what we might hit at that speed in the dark, but the Dayak spirits were merciful and we arrived at Data Dawai, thankful to be in one piece and never so happy to be able to take a cold water mandi (sponge bath) and sit down to yet another meal of rice and fish.

The rain was still falling hard the following day, but after only three or four hours, we arrived at Tiong Ohang, the furthest upriver we could get by long boat.  Dripping wet and miserable, we disembarked and checked into a local losmen (hostel), relieved at the sight of relative civilization.  It didn’t take us long to realise we were now in real Dayak country, however, as we saw for the first time women with distended earlobes wearing anything up to 100 hoop earrings.  Men and women alike had the tell-tale red stains of betel nut on their teeth, and the dirt pathways were riddled with red betel nut spit.  We were greeted with wariness, and for the most part people kept their distance but were inquisitive to see two white faces in their village.  Once the rain stopped, we ventured out to visit some of the local villagers and were welcomed into one home to sit and chat with the family while Eric plucked up the courage to chew his first betel nut:  a small parcel consisting of a betel nut, a sticky lime paste, and a leaf of marijuana carefully wrapped up.  This is popped into the mouth to be chewed slowly over the course of an hour or more.  The nut causes you to salivate excessively and turns your mouth (and spit) scarlet red.  Whilst in somebody’s house, you discreetly spit into a communal spittoon, but if out on the street, you simply use the pathway underfoot!  According to Eric, the result is a mellow buzz and a nasty aftertaste (he'll stick with his pipe).

Almost all Dayaks here are subsistence farmers, and disappear into the forest for days at a time to clear patches of land with slash and burn techniques in order to cultivate the dry rice which forms their basic livelihood.  Poor acidic soils, steep slopes and continuous erosion often result in poor yields and they rely heavily on whatever meat they can catch, which they hunt down in the jungle with the help of dogs and spear-tipped blowguns.  Our first hand experience of hunting in the jungle with the professionals was to come in Long Apari, the last and most remote village on the Mahakam.  Our two-day stay in the village fully justified the arduous journey, yielding remarkable insights into the lives of these distinctive people.

We reached the village by motor canoe from Tiong Ohang and stayed with one of the villagers, sleeping on rattan mats on the bare wooden floor, washing in the river and eating yet more rice and dried fish.  Farangs (foreigners) were a novelty among the village people and our arrival created an enormous stir.  Children fled in terror, having never seen a white person and believing us to be evil spirits, while the elders kept their distance and enquired of Rustam why we could possibly be interested in visiting their village.  Concerned that the children were so scared of little old us, we decided to visit the school the following morning and try to befriend them.  While Pippa taught them English, Eric gave them a maths lesson and by the end of the morning, they all agreed to pose for photographs. 

Meanwhile, we were invited by the elder boys to go hunting with them, an opportunity we would not have missed for the world.  They had never taken a woman hunting with them, so they were a little wary of Pippa’s delight in joining the hunt party, but perhaps her bizarre haircut helped our cause.  We all climbed aboard a canoe, complete with a large pack of dogs, and headed off into the jungle.  What humiliation!  As these barefoot hunters effortlessly jumped from rock to bank, scooted over fallen tree trunks and skirted thorn trees, we stumbled through the rivers, slid on the mud banks, ripped our shirts and still couldn’t keep up!  Sadly, the hunt was called off due to heavy rain before we managed to track down any boar (apparently they can’t hear the dogs above the sound of the rain), so we returned to the village, empty-handed but invigorated by our jungle adventure.  

All too soon it was time to head back to Samarinda, and we reluctantly packed our bags to leave.  In the two days we had been there, the children had begun to view us as a source of hilarity, unable to control a canoe on the river, struggling to walk up slippery mud banks and decked out in bizarre footwear.  But as we left, they came running out of the school building to the river bank to wave us goodbye; it seemed we had finally made some new friends.