Borneo's Hunters & Gatherers
The Penan - Borneo's Hunters & Gatherers
Story & Photos by Andy Rain / Nick Rain
Ten years ago the indigenous people of Sarawak, the Malaysian state on the island of Borneo made a courageous stand against logging companies that threatened to destroy their forests.
Reports of harassment and detentions of local and foreign environmentalists made headlines across the globe. Evocative photographs showed women and children standing beside old men holding blow-pipes blockading roads with the army being sent in to disperse them. Laws were introduced to prevent protests against deforestation, with 2 year jail sentences being given to violators. A war of words began between the Penan, a tribe of hunters and gatherers, local environmental groups and the Malaysian government. The Penan, who had always stressed the importance of maintaining their traditional way of life, while other tribes such as the Kayan and Iban began working for the timber companies, were at the forefront of this struggle. The people of Long Luteng, a remote Penan village up the Patah River who know only life deep within the forest, were unready for such change and so made a bold steps to protect their lands. They set out demarcating their hunting grounds armed with red paint taken on loan from the logging companies. They cut ‘PX’ into the bark of trees. P is for Penan and X means do not cut.
Logging was having severe effects on forest life, the natural habitat of the Sarawak’s wildlife was being destroyed, animals fled from the noise of chain saws, trucks and bulldozers to more remote havens. Hunting became more difficult for the tribe, with hunters having to walk much further to catch their ever scarcer prey. ‘Tagem’, an invaluable toxin extracted from the Tagem tree that renders the Penan’s blow darts deadly and rattan, a type of cane used for traditional baskets and mats was also becoming scarce.
Long Luteng would often hold heated meetings about the ‘company’, to try to put a stop to the logging that threatened their way of life. The thought of infiltrating logging camps late at night, destroying company vehicles by lacing the gas tanks with sugar, burning bridges and instilling fear in loggers with blowpipes came to mind. But the Penan did not want direct confrontation. They are a peaceful people so resorted to walk for days to join in blockades of timber roads with other Penan villages. While covering their story we became involved in their plight, to us it was a conflict between right and wrong. At times we thought of dropping out, throwing our passports in the river and committing ourselves to a life in the forest in order to help. But instead decided to take the fight to Japan, by bringing the Penan’s story to the Japanese breakfast table. The Japanese countryside is one of the most unspoiled in the world. 90% of Sarawak’s timber was shipped to Japan, by Japanese owned timber cartels, such as the Tokyo based trading company, Marubeni. Ironically we had to support ourselves by assembling wooden frames of Sarawak’s wood on construction sites in Tokyo.
On our first trip to Borneo in ‘88 we were caught without permits in a restricted area and subsequently labeled journalists and sympathizers of the Penan’s anti-logging protests.
Our next trip another six months later was our first to Long Luteng, the Village of Fire, a small Penan settlement of approximately 200 people. Unlike the Kayan and Iban who have become familiar with outsiders, the Penan were deer like, shy timid people. There hair wild and matted, some men wore loin cloths, others shorts, T-shirt’s that looked old and dirty with holes around the seams, they looked like one big family. Young children peered at us from behind the thighs of their parents. The chief was unmistakable. His name was AnyiSiat. His hair was Amazonian like, cut straight across his forehead, large cat fangs pierced the top of his ears, like the horns of a bull. Beaded bracelets adorned his neck and forearms. His face was weathered with time. He hugged us firmly, bringing forward his sons, Wan, his eldest whose body was small and frail, his face warm, nervous, understanding. Tangan, the second born, a burly, charismatic figure with a broad, almost threatening face. They took us in with open arms.
There was a peaceful air about the place. Plenty of space separated each family. Vegetables grew wild throughout the village. A small school overlooked the settlement and a makeshift church was situated in the center. Each family went off into the forest to gather sago from time to time. Taken from the sago palm, sago is the Penan’s staple diet.
During the nights the village rested. Huts glowed red from the fires that cooked the evening meal. Talk and laughter of the days events could be heard from other huts. Children moved around freely, sleeping where they wanted. If a hunter had luck during the day meat from the carcass would be cut up and shared between each household. On such occasions there was always a lively atmosphere. Sometimes in the mornings if a monkey had been caught the day earlier, the kids would love to crack open the skull and suck out the brains after slowly cooking it on the fire. This was a favorite for many. But nothing created the same kind of excitement in the village, as did the arrival of a hunter with a wild boar strapped to his back. Screams of ‘babui’, ‘babui’ could be heard, with people running to see the size of the pig. The months past, and so too the years. The Berlin Wall came down and brave young students were shot in Tianamen Square, and we didn’t here a word about it.
One Sunday, Iko, Wan’s eldest son, a polite well spoken 19 year old approached as we washed in the Patah. He wore black pants, a white shirt and a black tie. The village was preparing for church. The Penan had converted to Christianity when the missionaries arrived in the early 1900’s, however many Penan still retain their animistic beliefs, believing in their dreams and the sounds of the revered great Hornbill of Sarawak.
“Do you want to see the baby die”, Iko asked us. A young infant lay in the strong arms of Tangan, family members sat around weeping and praying. She was terribly weak, momentarily gasping for air. We worked all day to save her but she slipped away that afternoon. Over the years we had come to respect the harshness of the rain forest. Although once a month a flying doctor pays visits, sickness and disease would frequently plague the village, threatening the lives of a tribe who are cut off from basic health care.
We too had our health problems, mostly fevers and infections that got out of control but confrontation with the ‘company’ worried us more. On one occasion we traveled down river to Marudi, a trading post on the Baram River, with Wan, Iko and the kids.We had stocked up on supplies. While waiting for transport in Long Tamalaa Chinese company worker drove up to where we were waiting and demanded to see our passports. His pock marked face, mirrored shades and wide tall frame carried with it confrontation. “ Where are your permits ”. We showed him our visas. Permits were rarely given out to journalists, if at all. We played ignorant pretending to be tourists. “You need a permit to enter this area”, he shouted.“OK, we’ll take the next express boat back to Marudi to get our permits”, we lied.“There are no more boats today. I think better you swim back”. he threatened. “I know you bastards, you come here to make trouble for us. This is my land, not yours”. Following us to the ridge he threw fast blows to our faces. An express boat rounded the river bend far below and sensing our chance to get away we flew ourselves down the steep incline leaving the Penan and supplies behind.
After eight visits from our first in ‘88 the culmination of events, the army incident, many close shaves with the logging company, sickness, we had been lucky but knew some day things may come to a head. That day came in May of ‘93 in Miri at the Thai Foa Inn. The manager of the hotel explained that the special branch of Miri’s police department had come to the hotel asking questions.“They know of your visits to Luteng. They have a file on you, they even know what cafe you drink in”, he made clear.Moreover the days headline in the Borneo post read, Foreigners caught supporting Penan cause will be severely punished” We knew we could get back to Luteng and return without too many problems but how many times would it take before we were caught? We would give it time so jumped on the next flight to Bangkok.
............................................................................................
Time went by and five quick years past. Personal relationships and assignments in Rwanda, Yugoslavia and Afghanistan filled them. The thought of returning to Borneo had crossed our minds many times. Would the village be the same? Would the men still be hunting wild boar, monkey, deer or had they begun working for the logging companies? How much damage had been done? Do the women and children still wash and play in the murky waters of the Patah. Would AnyiSiat still be alive? How would the people react to our return? We had to go back to Long Luteng to see how the people and the forest were coping.
In December of ‘98 we arrived back in Miri, the seedy oil town on Sarawak’s northern coast, where we had arrived a decade before. We retraced our old steps, traveling up the Baram River and then deep into the jungle. The Asian economic crisis hit the region in the summer of ‘97. The market price of timber dropped drastically. Once thriving timber companies had become empty ghost camps, rundown living quarters have been reclaimed by the forest. Many men lost their jobs and have now been forced to look further a field for new work in distant towns such as Miri, Sibu and Kuching. Those who have stayed on now tend rice farms and cling to the hope that one day the company will return.
Meeting Tangan and Wan’s families again was like we’d never been away. Tangan hadn’t changed but Ping his eldest daughter was now a maturing twenty year old with two children. AntyiSiat now sees only a blur. We shook hands and briefly explained why we had spent so long away. Our once dormant Penan language now flowed freely.
The years had brought change to Long Luteng. The whole village moved across to the western side of the settlement in 1993 after the Patah River flooded, taking out many of the huts situated along the eastern bank. The huts now are bunched together with only a few meters separating them. There is a central walkway with Tangan’s two storey hut in the middle. It has a small porch where his family and others can sit. Each hut has its own government sponsored tap with clean running water. People now wash themselves from large water drums outside each house. The small beach by the river where women and children bathed is seldom visited now. Everybody was pleased to see us again and expressed their relief that we hadn’t died, like everyone had thought.
Although the village has more convenience each family seems more isolated within the village from previous years, as if their ideology of living as a tribe who shared what little they had was breaking apart. The logging company that reaped havoc to their hunting grounds in the early 90’s has moved on but food and money still dictate the pace of life in the village. Finding enough food to eat on a daily basis is the pressing reality of a hand to mouth existence. It is not often that a wild boar, bear or deer is brought back to the village. Many of Long Luteng’s hunters have become reliant on rifles and buckshot instead of learning to use blow pipes to hunt with. But when the buckshot runs out they lack the will to hunt with traditional weapons. Also a general apathy has overtaken the younger generation, they see little value in the time consuming practice of hunting. Every house has a lock on its doors and the windows are protected with iron grills. Vegetable gardens and papaya trees are fenced off. Things go missing in the night. In the past most possessions were communal property. The ambiance of a glowing fire and the sounds of the forest over the evening meal has been replaced by the constant buzz of generators.
The village was preparing for a hunting trip. That night talk spread from hut to hut that Tangan would lead the trip to Bah Kahot, ( the Kahot River), a five to six hour walk. While the mist still lingered the next morning, people began gathering their bits and pieces. Men counted their buckshot, placing them in handmade belts, long knives hung around their waste. They stood with gun in hand, fishing nets in their baskets waiting for the women to get ready. The women filled “kivus”, large rattan baskets with kettles, pots and essential supplies of salt, sago, and boiled water. Then the trail began. The steep forest slopes took the breath from everyone. Now and again groups would stop to rest. Words of “sigup”, “sigup”, (tobacco) would frequently come from the men as we walked. Young children lay across the backs of their mothers and grand mothers. Dogs ran in between.
The steady footing which had held us in good stead years before had now been reduced to an arduous step. Razor sharp vines got caught on our skin. The steep slopes took the wind out of us, we were badly out of shape. Across streams and through deeper rivers the trail led to red crudely cut logging roads. Here it was dry and hot. We found the roads more a relief than the obstacles that the forest always threw at us. But for the Penan, it was a desert, suffocating, with no canopy to protect them.
We had walked all day hoping to come across something for the evening meal but had no luck. Then suddenly a large black animal, not more than twenty meters up ahead crossed our path. It plodded slowly, without a care in the world. By the time it reached the middle of the track it was evident it was a black sun bear. The animal soon become aware of us, scurrying across the road, it scrambled up the bank and disappeared into the forest.
By now, Wan was running in pursuit frantically loading his shot gun at the same time. Following his hunters instinct, instead of chasing the bear up into the forest, he continued along the road, around the bend and out of sight, trying to cut the animal off. “Boom”, the sound of Wan’s gun rattled the forest. We rounded the corner and saw Wan at the crest of the road standing over the bear. Caught entirely in the moment of the kill, he withdrew his long knife from the bears heart, punching his fist high into the air, screaming, “yoooooh”.
On the Sunday prior to our departure, we walked around Long Luteng after morning church service asking every family to come down to the river for their family portrait. Most agreed to be there within 30 minutes. We waited over an hour, then slowly bit by bit the children came, then their mothers and fathers and finally their mothers and fathers. We made no speculation on what to wear, we left it up to them. The young kids came in what they had slept in the night before or what they had been wearing for days. The women came in clothes that are never seen in the forest, clean T shirts, skirts, colorful pants and new sarongs, their faces made up with lip stick, foundation and mascara. Wan turned up wearing a 60’s style paisley shirt and what looked like a London bus drivers hat. We wondered where the hell he’d found it. Tangan arrived in a black suit, white shirt and a grey blue tie that hung outside his jacket. AnyiSiat father to them all came as he always had, with his large cat teeth protruding from his ears. He too wore an exclusive one of a kind pyscadelic paisley shirt. Taman Nuh, AnyiSiat’s brother wore a red and blue loin cloth and a traditional Penan rattan hat. He proudly carried his ‘kelaput’, blowpipe. He was one of few that came looking as we knew him five years before. In others change had come to them in the shape of consumer items. They in their own odd way have become fashion concious.
It is December the 17th 1998 our last day in Luteng. Ten years ago on the same date we arrived in Borneo for the first time. We had know idea that a decade would pass and we’d be back here in this remote little village. We are sat in the church writing notes lent against a small wooden alter, a faded picture of Jesus hangs on the wall. Rows of empty wooden benches fill the church. It is a good excuse to escape the hordes of children. The rain is pouring down.
Iko opens the door, cames in and sits down.
“Listen to me”, he started. “I want to tell you. When you went back before, five years ago. The manager of the logging company came to our a village. He gave Tangan 8,000 ringit ,($2,000) to cut the forest near our village. The money wasn’t shared between each family. He put it in his own pocket. Another time. The manager came again and gave 4000 ringit but we only saw 3000”.
We thought of the days during the early 90’s we spent following Tangan and other men in the forest as they painted ‘P X’ into the bark of trees. We weren’t suprised at what Iko had told us. Times change and with them people. Only six men have left the village to work for the company, a pale comarison to other Penan villages who have embraced change. They now eat rice, watch TV and drive Toyota land cruisers.
Tangan’s generation may be the last of Borneo’s traditional hunters and gatherers. It will take time, but the younger generation are adapting to a new world that simply won’t go away. Logging has made sure of that. Nevertheless, while the economies of Asia are still recovering from their worst recession in decades the people of Long Luteng and their forests have been given a much needed reprieve from excessive logging of their lands.The Penan have seen what money can bring, at the same time though, many still realize what it can take away.
“I worked in a shop in Marudi, when you were away, all day from 7 in the morning to 5 at night ”, Iko told us one night. “I had no time to relax, just to eat some rice with a little meat in a restaurant or to buy vegetables in the market I had to pay a lot of money. I had to pay for a room every month. I think its good to have work, to make some money but I’m not sure what is best. Here in the forest we can eat for free, make the house for free. But if my daughter gets sick what do I do”.
end
.
