Borneo: Hello, Where are You Going? (cont.)

“Penan” she said simply; and after setting us on the right track, she returned to her fields to continue harvesting the last of her precious crop.

After retracing our steps and traversing more slushy fields, irrigational channels and more barricades, we stopped on a bridge over an unexpected lotus pond with huge blooms. The flowers were the shade of candy, and we watched many colorful, diving dragonflies- mesmerized. Here I asked myself; why do I live in the big city? Why do I strive, driven by illusions, and deny myself such wealth? And after feeling suitably chastised, I stumbled after the others and hopped the next buffalo blockade.

The spongy tufts of turf were amazing to walk over—imagine the surface of bubbly chocolate that feels like elastic. On the far left of this incredibly lush, lumpy green meadow, a herd of water buffalo, forty strong, stared dopily at our intrusion and chewed cud. Having in the past been charged by a variety of large mammals in foreign lands, I forwent the photograph.

My companions discussed which path to take at the edge of the jungle; one lead ahead through more pasture, and then entered jungle; the other descended into jungle thicket and stream. Our self-appointed leader guided us down confidently to what can only be described as a mud hole, but there was no turning back. We squelched, pulled and teetered our way slowly, avoiding the deep water-filled hoof tracks.  After crossing a double-slung bamboo bridge, we thankfully scrambled up a steep, scratchy thicket and arrived back upon the pasture- fifty feet from our initial descent.

Back on track, we balanced, tightrope style, over a thirty-foot ridge above a mud stream.  After crossing and scaling the bank, we were surprised by another small pasture, surrounded entirely by jungle.  As I looked around, I heard a child laugh, and two shy little faces with distinct Penan features poked out from trees and looked at me.

“This way!” I called out, and we followed the children into the jungle across another bridge, from which we could see signs of the hidden hamlet. More children giggled as we scaled a steep bank, losing shoes along the way. Finally we entered a small clearing with five-high dwellings, open fires and countless children who stared curiously at us.

A handsome Penan woman smiled down from her home and waved, cordially inviting us in. We followed the children up the five-foot, lightly notched bamboo ladder onto a square, sturdy platform where we were welcomed inside by our petite host. We shook hands (which is the socially correct method of greeting in this part of the world), and Rose introduced herself.

We sat before her on a skillfully made rattan mat and eyed the beautifully woven baskets with unique tribal design suspended from the ceiling. We handed Rose a packet of local crackers, which she opened immediately and handed a stack to each of the children in the doorway. They smiled brightly and began eating them immediately.

The Penan, Kelabits and other indigenous inhabitants of Bario had been “discovered” by a member of the British paratroop regiment who had literally dropped in on top of them during the Second World War. At that time, the fierce Kelabits were headhunters, but have since become devout Christian.  Early on, they had very shrewdly understood the importance of education, and consequentially they remained wealthy. They understood the necessity to lay formal claim to their land so that the government of Malaysia didn’t swallow it up for their rubber and palm oil plantations.

As a result, the Kelabits still hold large areas of Borneo that has been preserved according to their traditional ways of life and remain virgin jungle. However, the uneducated and largely illiterate Penans were hit two-fold; being nomads, they lost rights to jungle that had hosted and fed them for thousands of years.  Now they face new challenges as the jungle is fast disappearing. They are at the lowest rung of the ladder and the poorest tribal group.

A nude infant crawled into Rose’s lap and snuggled against her breast as she handed us baskets for inspection. Our hands reached for them eagerly touching the smoothed tight weave.  We admired the ancient, pigmented tribal design contrasting against the raw jungle rattan.  Having paid for our baskets we said our goodbyes and proceeded to scale down the bamboo ladder.

We followed a group of children back to Bario Asal. I considered Rose, this gentle, petite woman, felt the peace of her energy and compared this with my own life, remembering her surroundings: a small shack with two pots and a few mats, four semi-clothed children, all under the age of five; and I wondered for a long time:

Could it be that they are actually happy? Does this happiness feed their bellies and their souls? Are they happy to be removed from Western influence? Or was it the quiet splendor of the jungle and being in touch with nature? Are they simple people with simple ways who understand that possessions are meaningless and that the earth cannot be bought and sold?

My head started to hurt; and I settled upon an amalgamation of the points above and returned home to North America, where I rushed back to enjoy my stereo, and central heating, then eagerly hopped into my car to develop rolls of film when a small voice inside my head asked,

“Hello, where are you going?”

It’s a much bigger question than I had first imagined.

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