Days 82-83, October 7-8 In the morning we take a longboat (captained by a man named Yaya) to the Penan village of Long Iman, stopping off first at a riverside general store to buy some presents. We are joined by the Swiss woman, Mary, we had met earlier. Though we certainly don’t mind the extra company, it is unclear why she decided to come along. She seems to be more than a tourist, a researcher perhaps, but she coyly dodges any questions about her line of work or motivations. We realize that tourists may be required to have a permit to enter this area, but none of the locals seem to care so we don’t worry about it. When we arrive at the village we meet our host. Tinggang Ding is one of the elders, a generation that, when they pass away, will take many of the old ways with them. The younger generation prefers Western clothes, baseball caps and tennis shoes; Tinggang’s only concession to modern fashion is a faded a pair of shorts, quite often his only attire. He wears a thick collection of black rattan bracelets above his calves, a beaded charm necklace and has the simple bowl-style haircut once favored by the Penan. He has a serene and gracious demeanor, simple yet wise, and though we are strangers, we feel at home. He shows us a picture of himself and a friend with their blowpipes. On the wall of the family room there is also a poster for the Royal Mulu Resort with Tinggang’s picture. Mary pulls us aside and in a low whisper finally tells us her real reason for being in the area: she is a volunteer for Bruno Manser. The very mention of his name is cause for excitement around here. Manser first came to live with the Penans in 1984, hoping to discern “the essence of our humanity,” from some of the last nomadic jungle people on Earth. However, as loggers in the interior started the wide-scale destruction of the forests of the interior, some of the Penan and other indigenous groups, disillusioned with the government’s failure to respond to their plight, began peaceful blockades. However, the Penan are traditionally a passive people and Manser eventually became involved to help them organize roadblocks and teach them some simple monkey-wrenching tricks. The government of Sarawak labeled him public enemy number one and started an intensive campaign to capture him, but he eluded all their efforts. We had read that Manser had fled Sarawak in 1990 after six years of living with the Penan. We assumed he was working on the behalf of the Penan back in Europe. Now, Mary tells us that Manser still sneaks into Sarawak via Indonesian Borneo, traveling alone across the central mountain range for weeks and surviving on jungle fruits and plants. He made such a trip earlier in the year but his organization—the Bruno Manser Foundation—has not heard from him for months (they use a secret and convoluted chain of people to communicate). There are rumors the army ambushed and killed him. Mary has come to the Mulu area to
find out if anyone knows anything. She has told us all this because she
says support for the Penan in the States is weak and she thought we
might be able to help in some way. After arranging for a meeting in a
quiet spot with some of the village men—the longhouse has ears—Mary
soon leaves. I don’t mean to trivialize the seriousness of the Penan
cause, but this whole cloak and dagger approach is terribly exciting,
perhaps the closest I will ever come to being a secret agent. Bruno
Manser has become a larger than life figure to us as we read about
Borneo, and now here we are meeting someone who works for him, only one
step away from the man himself. We are now alone with the Penan. They have for centuries lived in a symbiotic relationship with nature and come to possess a comprehensive knowledge of the forest plants and their many uses. The Penan were once all nomadic, traveling from one area of sago trees to the next as they harvested the pulp to make a special type of flour, then leaving the area to let the trees recover. They built simple structures at their temporary camps and fished and hunted along the way, particularly for wild boar. However, because of the encroachment of modernity, they are now divided into three groups: fully settled Penan who live in longhouses, semi-nomadic Penan who just use the longhouse as a base of operations, and fully nomadic Penan. Of the latter group, there are only about 300 families—eight bands— left, mostly in Eastern Sarawak. The Penan are recognized by the other indigenous people of Borneo as the true masters of the jungle, but they nevertheless also tend to view them as primitive and inferior. Meanwhile, the Malaysian (and Indonesian) government is embarrassed to still have nomads roaming around its jungles. According to Borneo: Change and Development, “Recent Sarawak state government policy toward the Penan has been one of attempting to bring them into the mainstream of development. Longhouses have been built in efforts to persuade them to settle down, agriculture has been promoted, medical services have been extended to their areas and the children have been encouraged to attend school.” However, the Penan complain (and rightfully so, it seems) that they are not consulted in this matter and that the land they are moved to is often of poor quality and the new lifestyle results in poverty, malnutrition and dependence. The government’s Penan development fund often invests in projects that are useless in the eyes of the people. The old life was hard (unlike the romantic image many people have), but at least they were free. As Bruno Manser himself writes in his book, Voices from the Rainforest: “Whether the alienating effect of missions trade and schools on the culture should be regarded as positive or negative is a question that can only be answered by the natives themselves. If change comes about as the result of the people’s own wishes and initiatives, it may well be a healthy expression of life itself and of dynamic possibilities for change. But unfortunately, this very often not the case. Most ethnic minorities lose their autonomy in the course of their involvement with projects that treat them like children. Under the cloak of “development aid” and the “elimination of poverty,” officials from the outside suddenly take control of land and resources. The exploitation of land and resources for private interests and for the world market results in the breakdown of the native’s economic system, and at the same time, in their cultural genocide.” Though issues of land rights and
logging effect all indigenous people of Sarawak’s interior, the Penan
are probably the hardest hit. Because of their nomadic past, they have a
more difficult time than other groups in filing claims under the 1958
Land Act. “Penans often receive no compensation because their
customary rights are not recognized, and even when their burial sites,
crops or farmland are damaged they may receive nothing,” reports Borneo:
Change and Development. Sago trees, the Penan’s main staple, are
not recognized as are fruit trees for land rights claims, while the
utilization of forest products is not considered by the government to be
evidence of land tenure (Stranger in the Forest). Meanwhile, sago
palms, rattan and other jungle products used by the Penan are killed by
indiscriminate and careless logging. The Penan say: “...we see with
sorrow logging companies entering our country. In these areas, where
timber is already extracted, there is no more life for us nomadic
people. Our natural resources like wild fruit trees, sago palms, wood
trees for blowpipe dart poison and other needs will fall. Animals like
wild boar, our daily food, and deer will flee. Rivers will be polluted
and quickly over-fished. In a likewise destroyed jungle it will be
difficult to get the daily food, for us now or our children and
grandchildren later on” (through Sahabat Alam Malaysia, 1989). It is not surprising then that
the Penan were among the first of the indigenous groups to put up
resistance to an unresponsive government and the logging companies. But
instead of a unified stand, arguments and divisions ensued both among
the Penan and with other local people. At the heart of this controversy
was the locals’ dilemma, put forth by a local Kelabit: “You can’t
stand up to the company. We have no medicine, no money, no airplane.
We’re better off demanding a little compensation while the company
works” (Manser). Some Penan (elders mainly)
accepted government bribes to denounce the blockades. Other indigenous
groups did likewise. At one point some of the Penan said of a Kayan
community: “Many of them are angry with us because they found work
cutting timber last year and become unemployed again as a result of our
protest. Also, they get commissions from the companies which they
don’t share with us” (Manser). So though the blockades go on (though
the public doesn’t hear of them because of the government’s news
blackout), they seem (sadly) not to have succeeded. Many of the
blockaders were arrested and jailed, while their villages, no longer the
holders of self-determination and autonomy, sank deeper into poverty and
misery. Before Mary left, she told us
that we should speak with a man named Mutang and ask to see his
“book.” We are soon sitting on the floor of his family’s common
room, talking to this man about the problems facing the Penan. Heavy
logging in the area began in 1971 and still continues, though all the
big trees are already gone. The logging company agreed to give the
longhouse RM150 a month (a ringgit a person), but they don’t always
pay. When Mutang brought a letter from the district officer requesting
that the company give his community two drums of petrol per month, they
would not comply. Things have changed dramatically since the days when a
young Mutang went on hunting trips with his grandfather that lasted up
to one month. The people of Long Iman have
complained to the government that the logging companies, having already
felled all the large trees, are continuing to encroach on their land.
Despite more than 15 years of both domestic and international protest,
the Penan’s situation had not improved. “Nothing has changed. The
government still lets them cut down our trees,” he says. Mutang pulls out a map showing
the borders of what the Penan of the area consider to be their land. It
is based on his grandfather’s verbal descriptions and includes all of
nearby Mulu National Park, only created in 1974. The British colonial
government told the Penan this was their land, but never gave them the
title on paper, thus (inadvertently?) later facilitating the alienation
of Penan land by the Sarawak government. “Without access to the land
we will starve,” Mutang says. The government claims that the
Penan and other local indigenous groups can still hunt in the park for
food, but this doesn’t seem to be the case. Mutang shows us a book on
Sarawak national park policies that the government gives to longhouses;
it shows pictures of animal carcasses with the corresponding fine for
“poaching” in big bold letters. Though the smaller print says that
these fines are for selling the meat, the Penan think they will also get
in trouble for consuming it themselves. There seems to be confusion and
a lack of dialogue from the government; yet again showing the irony of
Mulu National Park. The act of creating and maintaining the park has
allowed the government to make claims that it is eco-friendly, while at
the same time it allows the area around it to be logged in an
unsustainable manner. They then blame the loss of animals not on
decreasing habitat, but on poaching by the locals. The state seems to be
trying to continue this façade with its efforts to have the park
awarded world heritage status by UNESCO, a huge PR move. Mutang then shows us is his “book.”
In 1990, Mutang and two other locals, one a fellow Penan and one a
Kelabit, went on a world tour with Bruno Manser and some other
international activists to raise awareness about the destruction of the
rainforest and the plight of Sarawak’s indigenous people. Voices
for the Borneo Rainforest took in 13 countries and 25 cities in
seven weeks and resulted in several governments agreeing to help stop
the deforestation; Al Gore, then a senator from Tennessee, drafted a
piece of legislation on the matter. But despite being well received,
nothing really happened. Individual politicians gave their support, but
many claimed their institutions could not do anything for political
reasons. Since that time, the area the delegation recommended be set
aside for a Penan forest reserve has been logged. After talking to Mutang and some
of the elders for awhile, Tinggang and a young guy take us out into the
“yard” for some blowpipe practice. Many of the indigenous groups of
Borneo use the blowpipe, but once again the Penan are reputed to be the
most skilled. I had heard earlier in the trip that many indigenous
groups no longer use this weapon, but the men at Long Iman tell me they
still use them because shotgun shells are prohibitively expensive. I am
the first one to go: holding the wooden blowpipe with two hands, I put
my mouth up to the hold and sight the barrel with one eye. Then “thup.”
The dart lands well off the mark. The men give some pointers and on my
next two tries I hit the target that had been pinned to the tree. I then
try to shoot a durian (a fruit), high up in the tree, and only miss by a
foot. Todd also manages to hit the target—who knew we are crack shots? For dinner we get our first taste
of sago. Harvested from the sago palm, the flour is later mixed with
water to form a rather tasteless goo that can be described as a cross
between rubber cement and paste. We are given three-pronged wooden forks
and shown how to stick it in the goo, twirl it around until a wad of
sago stuck, dip it in pork juices and then plop it in out mouths.
(Before the Penan harvested the sago from the forest, but now the people
of Long Iman must buy the majority from the general store; we had
brought some as one of our gifts.) We are also served water spinach and
several different pork dishes, the other backbone of Penan cuisine. After dinner it is arts and
crafts time. While the women weave baskets, Tinggang puts the finishing
touches on two bamboo dart containers and then carves darts and dart
tips (out of sago branches) for our holsters. He does not tip any of
them with poison made from the tajem tree, though. This is probably a
wise move. The next morning we wake to tasty surprise—fresh Penan donuts for breakfast. Mutang and Tinggang then take us for a hike to go see the logging in the area. Mutang wears cheap plastic soccer cleats, but Tinggang hikes in the old manner—barefoot. We cross a bridge over a small canyon formed by a single log and are soon sloshing through a swamp. Todd and I had equipped ourselves the night before with black rattan loops (just like the ones Tinggang wore) just above both calves; the Penan say they ward off snake bites. I now wear a beaded necklace that affords protection against malevolent spirits. Along the way, Mutang shows us
what different plants and trees are used for. We discover that there are
many different species of sago: one for making the bodies of darts,
another for making the tips, yet another for cleaning blowpipes and so
on. We see a hardwood tree where chunks had been hacked out for the
blowpipes themselves. Many of the plants have medicinal value; one is
for headaches, one to pacify crying children, one for stopping a cough.
This last one has leaves that, to me, look exactly like another plant
that is deadly poisonous. Mutang has no trouble discerning the two and,
to demonstrate, shoves a handful of cough-drop leaves in his mouth. I
then do likewise and soon find I am still alive. Eventually we come to a small
waterfall and walk over it with the help of a log that had been lain
down diagonally. We come out onto a mud-caked logging road, one of the
many red scars that can be seen all over the forests of Borneo, and walk
to an overlook. “The government has told the
outside world that they have given us land, but they continue to kill
our forests,” Mutang says. Logging is usually done carelessly and as a
result kills the fruit trees that feed the wild boar and the sago palms
the Penan rely upon. Run-off from logging areas clouds the rivers and is
tainted with machine oil and petrol, which kill the fish. There is a small pile of logs
nearby and Mutang put his palm up to the ends of some of them. Logging
companies used to only be able to take trees larger than 60cm in
diameter, but that has since been reduced to 45cm. Still, it is quite
clear these are below even that limit. We walk back to the longhouse via
one of the logging roads. The sun beats down relentlessly and there is
no shade, a far cry from the jungle we had come through and quite an
unnatural state. The Penan have traditionally hated walking in the
direct sunlight. When we get back to the longhouse,
we are invited to play a game called tackraw. It is a cross between
volleyball and soccer, with a ball that is between four and five inches
in width that must be kicked or headbutted over a lowered net—no
hands. After a warm-up, we can manage to get the ball over and I am able
to easily spike the ball with my head. The crowd cheers. Then the game
becomes locals-only and things get serious: a blur of flip-kicks and
blocks with players swinging their legs crazily, yet gracefully, into
the air. Yeah, no problem. |
