Written by Eddie LeShure – The is the second part of a three part series and was written in April 2003. Exchange rate: $1 = about 9,000 Rupiahs.
After spending a pleasant night in my naked-light bulb hotel (Radmat Abadi for 25,000R), I headed off at 8:30 the next morning to Eheng. My form of transport was a brand new (fewer than 600 miles on the odometer) Lexis SUV, but my driver spoke nary a word of English, and my cost: a hefty 250,000R for a half day, the best deal I could wrangle. Eheng is a Banuaq community and when we pulled up to the longhouse an hour later I discovered that the planets were all aligned and the gods were smiling on me that day. I was to experience a traditional ceremony signifying and celebrating a change in community leadership – a rare and major event, and it was just beginning.
About two dozen young women in magnificent costumes were dancing in a circle. Their sarongs and jackets were brightly multi-colored and matching, and each had a long purple scarf draped around her neck. Ornate pillbox hats rested on their heads and they were all decked out in beads and jewelry that jingled when they moved and sparkled in the intense sunlight. Tightly laced on their feet were Nikes, Reeboks and the like. Most of the young ladies were breathtakingly beautiful!
There was a stage erected, a few simple benches put out and a row of folding chairs set up – all covered by a tarpaulin. Locals sat here and there, smoking cigarettes and conversing. Three musicians huddled on the ground, two of them playing drums which bore a strong resemblance to congas and the third striking an instrument that was not unlike what I’ve seen in gamelan orchestras, one with bells of different pitches which he played with two long mallets. To this syncopated rhythm, the dancers swayed, hopped and chanted. It was mesmerizing. The costumes and even the dance evoked memories for me of the Navajo people of Arizona – two native cultures, separated by half a globe – so much alike. And the longhouse itself, home to 32 families, appeared identical to those utilized for centuries in the past by the Iroquois Nation of the Eastern United States.
Soon after arriving, I met Petrus, a thirty-two-year-old man with pretty good English who is studying law in Samarinda. He’d returned home for the special occasion and graciously took it upon himself to make me feel as welcome as possible and show me around. Regarding his pursuit of a degree in law, he commented frankly, “Others are taking our land from us. How can we stop them if they know the law and we don’t?”
He invited me into his home. The longhouse was at least fifty yards long, made from ironwood, and was perched about six feet above the ground via numerous sturdy stilts. The stairways were made by carving notches into tree trunks and were guarded by totem pole type posts displaying fierce images – designed to protect these highly animistic people from evil forces. Inside was a hallway running the entire length of the building on one side, with buffalo heads mounted on posts and over the doorways of individual living quarters. Various ceremonial items and other community property hung from the walls or were stored on racks suspended from the ceiling. A Britney Spears poster was tacked up on the wall. Dogs and chickens scurried past me, children leaned out the windows watching the goings on, and mothers unselfconsciously breastfed their infants and toddlers.
Near the doorway to where his family lived, a frail old woman sat cross-legged on the floor, only her lower half covered by a sarong, her breasts hanging flat against her chest like Cocker Spaniel ears. “She’s my grandmother. She’s 82, deaf, nearly blind and she’ll die soon,” Petrus stated matter-of-factly. Past the entryway (mind your head!) was a sizable room, shared by four families – rattan mats stacked up in the corner to sleep on and personal effects stored here and there. In the next room was the kitchen, a simple wood fireplace in the corner for cooking.
I inquired about what they ate. “Chickens, pigs, vegetables and occasionally we can kill a deer in the forest with a gun or a trap. We used to eat monkeys once in a while, but they’re gone now.” I asked him if there were any tigers around. “We never see them, but we’ve heard them a few times. They’re no problem for us.” And what about the Black Hornbill, a large, highly sacred bird which Dayak people believe transport their souls after death? “Very rare these days!”
Outside, a few shiny new vehicles pulled up with dignitaries from the government and other Banuaq villages. Two lines formed to receive them, gifts were exchanged, and speeches would be made later. But I was on a time limit with my driver and needed to depart. “Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Petrus offered. My heart ached to do it, but all my gear was back in Melak. I also knew that I needed to leave later that day by riverboat. So I bid farewell and was then driven to nearby Benung and another Babuaq longhouse I’d also planned on visiting that day.
When we arrived in Benung, I was guided through their longhouse too, but it was the cemetery there that I’d primarily come to see. I’d been told by a man I’d spoken with that morning at a warung (food stall) that after the Dayak people have been buried for some time, many are dug up and housed in specially made crypts above ground. Among these I silently strolled. Most of them were brightly painted, had ornate carvings on them, and were raised to about eye level by sturdy posts. The wooden containers often had gaps between the slats through which I could peer in and see corpses shrouded in cloth. Inside each, resting next to the bodies, were usually some of each person’s personal possessions. Hmmm…a bowl with kitchen utensils – a woman I presume? This was her legacy? The cemetery was eerily quiet and a bit spooky, immersed in a heavily wooded area, and after about ten minutes there I was more than ready to depart.
I felt that day that I’d been especially privileged. I’d seen so much already on my trip, and at the end of my fourth day in East Kalimantan and the drive back I was ready to head back down the Sungai Mahakam, the lengthy river system I’d ventured up via narrow motorized canoes. I’d be returning to coastal Samarinda by riverboat, an overnight journey of fifteen hours. My fare: 55,000R.
These riverboats are sizable ships with two levels for transporting passengers, the upper level specifically designed for sleeping. Running along most of its length are two elevated platforms, separated by a narrow aisle. Once you find your assigned, numbered spot, there’s a cushion to lie on and a hatch below your feet for stowing your gear. I secured a place by a porthole with a good view outside. In the stern was a primitive kitchen area for drinks and simple meals, plus three toilets: enclosed compartments with diamond-shaped holes in the floor and a hose for washing yourself.
As our boat pulled away from the dock around 4:30 pm, I immediately heard a splash and a huge commotion. I peered out of my porthole and spotted a young lad flailing around in the water where he’d fallen in. My immediate thought was that most Indonesians cannot swim, and as I watched him floundering away and heard hysterical screaming coming from below I knew I might be obligated to dive in and save him – since I just might be the only bloke on the boat who could swim. Never mind that I’ve never had training for such a task.
I was pulling out my wallet to stash it in a dry place and thinking of where to put my glasses, when another man scrambled out and hung from the side of the boat. While clinging with one hand, he reached a long arm out and was able to grasp the desperate, outreached hand of the terrified, choking boy and pull him to safety. I was not to be the hero of the day that day, which suited me just fine, thank you very much!
Things quickly settled down so I relaxed and did some sightseeing. After dark, I read, wrote in my journal, and chatted with my neighbors, mostly businessmen, though there were a few students and a couple of families making the journey down river. A few Muslims prayed, the women donning their special shawls. Here and there lights dotted the shoreline – it was peaceful and most enjoyable and I thought of how infinitely better traveling by boat and train are to bouncing along the highway in a bus or being cramped up in an airplane.
Dawn brought the boat’s occupants to life, and after my morning’s ablutions I witnessed nature’s awakening. This stretch of the Mahakam near Tenggarang is slightly hilly, and as the sun rose, streams of light burst through the striated clouds that hovered over them. Mist lay over the thick jungle and out of this shroud of pastel hues raced seabirds, chattering and squawking, darting every which way or skimming over the murky surface. A few boats floated by. Here and there along the shoreline were perched rustic buildings and overhanging trees that dared to resist plunging into the rapidly flowing water. It was a scene bursting with tropical ambiance and I felt fully part of it, as if I were living in a Joseph Conrad novel.
The closer we got to the vast delta of Samarinda, the more I saw ponderous barges and bustling sawmills, evidence of the logging industry that thrives here. At 9 am we docked and I managed to quickly find a taxi containing the most shamelessly crooked taxi driver I have ever met. (I do seem to have a knack for this!) I wanted to head north to Bontang, and to get there I needed to get to the Lempake bus terminal north of the city. My Lonely Planet Guide was pretty vague on just how far it was, and when I was quoted 6,000R for the ride I reckoned it might be a little steep. But I didn’t really know, so after confirming the cost I climbed in. I was to discover much later in my trip that I should have paid 1,200R, but wait – the story gets far better than that.
When we got to Lempake about twenty minutes later I was told to pay not 6,000R, but rather 60,000R! It seems that no matter how hard one tries, this type of “misunderstanding” happens far too often, and it doesn’t seem to matter what one does to clarify the cost. It’s all about screwing the tourist, it seems. What I normally do in this situation is 1) try to reason with these scumbags, and failing that, 2) just give them what is fair and tell them to buzz off! But here I was smack dab in the middle of a crowded bus station in a very sticky situation.
Thanks to the war then raging in Iraq, no doubt there was plenty of anti-Western sentiment present, and as we discussed the matter he displayed what appeared to me to be an unusually high degree of agitation, attracting extra attention to us. I noticed quite a few of the locals intensely staring at me. This guy knew exactly what he was doing – he had me by the short and curlies! I paid the 60,000R, choosing to not risk having the locals crawling on me like ants on a jelly donut.
I then paid 12,500R for a seat on a very crowded bus to Bontang, my backpack in my lap for most of the ride. Along the road were many banana plantations, the jungle having been ruthlessly slashed and burned to make way for Kalimantan’s biggest cash crop. At one point we passed the equator.
This leg of my Borneo trip was highlighted by my meeting Nur’ainy, a delightful young lady who sat next to me and eventually started talking with me. A twenty-five-year-old student in Samarinda on her way home for a few days, she was Muslim and dressed accordingly: jilbab (shawl) over her head and her arms and legs fully covered. Her English was good enough for us to have a pleasant conversation and before the three-hour ride was over she invited me to visit her family’s home.
Soon afterwards, I was seated cross-legged on the floor of her modest but comfortable house being “watered and fed” in grand fashion, surrounded by family. This kind of Indonesian hospitality was becoming commonplace on my travels, highpoints I treasured dearly each time they occurred. And it got better. Soon several of us piled into a shiny new SUV and I was given a guided tour of the town.
Home to two very successful Indonesian-owned corporations (ammonia production and natural gas), Bontang is a city that I didn’t think could exist in this country, and clearly shows just what money can do here. First of all, Bontang is remarkably clean. Usually in Indonesian cities, trash scattered everywhere is the norm. As in most “third world” countries, people haven’t grasped yet what to do with non-organic materials and waste disposal is not a priority. But this place was so pristine it was like driving through a Canadian city.
We went down modern streets past huge parks, beautifully manicured gardens, lakes, massive swimming pools, a modern football stadium, sports complexes, golf courses, swanky hotels – it was surreal. It could have been Scottsdale, Arizona or West Palm Beach, Florida! At the harbor there was an immaculate beach, playground and picnic area, and the bay itself had vividly blue water and nary a piece of trash floating in it.
We paused at an impressive school to meet Nur’ainy’s sister, and later at a beauty parlor to meet her aunt. I seemed to be on display and was wishing I had bathed, shaved and put on a clean shirt that morning. Finally we rolled into the office of Balai Taman Nasional Kutai, the forestry office for the park I wanted to visit – and – hopefully see an orang-utan in the wild. Although I knew where I wanted to get to, once again Lonely Planet was virtually worthless. But thanks to Nur’ainy and her family I was now in the right place, wading through the bureaucracy placed in the way of getting a permit for the park.
It was at this point that I was not only tangled up in red tape, but also a lie. You may recall from Part #1 how I was telling everyone I was Canadian to keep from getting beaten up by any local less than thrilled with American foreign policy. As I was getting better acquainted with Nur’ainy, I knew it was safe to tell her the truth, but just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Consequently I had gotten more and more deeply immersed into my B.S. story. “Where in Canada am I from? Er…uh…Toronto.” Now I needed to get a copy of my Residency Permit (showing my U.S. citizenship) and she offered to zip off to a copy shop and get one for me, so I was exposed. But when I stuttered my True Confession, she smiled and shrugged it off, “Hey, that’s ok…no problem!”
I felt like a big time schmuck!
(To be continued………)
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Eddie LeShure is an insight meditation teacher and substance abuse counselor whose primary passion is bringing mindfulness practice into the realms of addiction recovery, trauma relief, and self-care. He teaches and leads groups in various treatment and recovery settings, as well as in series classes, workshops, retreats, conferences and conventions.
Eddie began meditating in the early ‘80s, regularly teaches at Asheville Insight Meditation, is a NAMI Family Support Group Facilitator, and is co-founder of A Mindful Emergence, LLC (amindfulemergence.com).
These days, Eddie’s writing centers around his teaching and presentations, but in the past it was quite different. He chronicled and displayed his adventures around the world for several years under the banner, “On the Road With Fast Eddie,” and in more recent times numerous articles on the local jazz scene were published in Rapid River Arts & Culture as “WNC Jazz Profiles.”
Eddie is now co-authoring a manual for treatment centers which focuses on integrating mindfulness practices with stages of addiction recovery.
