Chapter One

At Last, Borneo-bound

It must have been relief that I was feeling that day as I boarded my Jakarta-bound flight. At that time, the act of drowsily walking down the tarmac to my bulk row window seat, in my mind, represented the culmination of what had proven to be the most challenging period of time in my life. Admittedly, there was a little swagger to my step for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I had just accomplished something that I felt I could be proud of and build upon. Secondly, I had already taken a sleeping pill to get me through the horrifically long and cramped flight and I was literally staggering down the aisle. Perhaps stumbling is a more accurate description. Though I had some prior experience in Borneo, in retrospect, there was no way I could have known all of the new challenges and experiences that awaited me at the destination end of my round trip ticket. Truth be told, I am fairly certain that I did not care what happened to me beyond that painfully long exercise in sanity restraint and anger management also know as “flying the friendly skies.”

In the months leading up to my departure, I had been interning with Orangutan Foundation International in Los Angeles and San Diego, working closely with Conservation Director Debra Erickson in preparation for the task at hand. The stated purpose of my internship was to publish and distribute pertinent information relating to training and conducting of field work in Tanjung Puting National Park in Central Borneo, Indonesia. As I had already been to the area once before in 2000 with a study group, I could provide the group of volunteer field workers with semi-informed, first hand experience about subjects ranging from climate and environmental descriptions, to cultural and religious practices. I was responsible for compiling all the necessary information to create a training manual which would facilitate the weekend training session for fifteen volunteers who were to carry out the field work. The training included technical instructions, such as operating the hand-held Global Positioning System device that would be used to gather accurate environmental data. Additionally and equally important, were the lessons on social etiquette. These included various obscene gestures that an uninformed Westerner could inadvertently make by simply handling any food item with their left hand, or wearing inappropriate attire in a culture where women dress very modestly. For instance, tank tops, which most American women would argue are perfect for the hot and humid climate of Borneo, would be considered highly offensive and provocative.

Despite the fact that I needed to stay up the entire night prior to the training weekend in order to finish the manual, the training went off without a hitch. After all was said and done, all the volunteers felt well informed and ready to tackle the task which laid, at that point in time, only in their imaginations. They were at least vaguely familiar with the workings of squat toilets and some of the other hygienic luxuries our field work would be lacking. To ensure that the volunteers were well versed in what to expect, Dr. Biruté Mary Galdikas briefed the group on everything from environmental indicators to political and cultural subtleties. Galdikas, one of my own personal heroes, has more than thirty years of experience in the heart of the rainforests of Borneo from which to speak. Along with Jane Goodall and Diane Fossey, Dr. Galdikas was commissioned by famous Anthropologist Louis Leakey to study and document ape behavior. Galdikas, fresh out of UCLA graduate school, ventured off into Tanjung Puting with little experience outside a textbook, to study orangutans. Upon arrival in Borneo, Dr. Galdikas, established Camp Leakey on the banks of the Sekonyer river. Since that time, Camp Leakey has become one of the last remaining untouched orangutan habitats, and has essentially become the epicenter of orangutan research. Since leaving sunny California, Galdikas has not only become a leading expert in orangutan behavior, but more importantly she has become a steward and ambassador for a species that is severely threatened. In addition to fighting tooth and nail to save the last remnants of viable habitat, Galdikas has championed a program of rehabilitating ex-captive orangutans for their re release into the wild. In Borneo, there still exists the practice of killing crop-raiding mother orangutans. The frightened offspring is pried from their mother’s dead body and sold or kept as a pet. These orphans end up without adequate care and are dropped off in droves at the orangutan care center. Fortunately however, orangutan orphans find sanctuary at the care center where they are literally taught how to be orangutans, a process that naturally would occur over the course of seven years under the mother’s watchful eye. It is my belief that without adequate conservation efforts and programs like this to ensure population numbers, the orangutan species as a whole could come to an abrupt end in the very near future.

The purpose of the field work and most obvious reason for dragging fifteen volunteers into the heart of Borneo was simply to collect data. With the use of hand-held G.P.S. devices, volunteers were able to hike through predetermined focus areas to assess the degree to which orangutan habitat had been disturbed and log that data with satellite precision. The data is used to classify satellite imagery of Tanjung Puting in order to obtain a more accurate understanding of the Park’s condition. In addition to providing insight into the Park’s health, the data will help Orangutan Foundation International and other like-minded groups formulate plans for future conservation efforts.

Chapter Two

Roots

Dr. Galdikas’ account solidified the volunteers resolve to make a difference. The group was comprised of ten women and five men, with specialties ranging from entomology, rainforest ecology, and GIS\GPS systems analysis to being a complete hack like yours truly. In reflecting upon the group’s success, it is obvious that a great deal of our accomplishments are directly related to the group’s ratio being largely that of the female gender. That is not to say that the men were not completely indispensable, but it is my opinion that women make the best activists. The vast accomplishments of women in conservation, though vastly under reported, speak for themselves. A recent example is Kenyan Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Wangari Maathai who received the prestigious award “for her contribution to sustainable development, democracy and peace.” Maathai is the first African woman to win the Nobel Prize and the first person to win for work in environmental conservation. For the last 30 years she has quietly worked to empower impoverished women and, in doing so, has planted in excess of 30 million trees all over Africa.

The common thread that linked all of the volunteers was a profound sense of responsibility to help protect the Earth and the belief that everyone in their own small way is capable of making a difference. It may sound corny and sentimental, but when faced with such overwhelming odds, it takes believers and optimists to keep the fight going. In addition to these common characteristics, I believe that each individual had some conviction or motive for venturing to a place most people only vaguely know exists.

The path that led me to get involved in this project started innocently enough in the early months of 2000. Chronologically, I was twenty years old; emotionally, I suspect that I was far younger, but all the same I was like most twenty-somethings: eager but lazy, ambitious yet skeptical, and of course, without a clue as to what I wanted to do with my life. The altogether uncertainty of life left me with a stabbing sense of anxiety much like that of someone realizing that they waited a bit too long to begin searching for an available port-o-pottie. Rather than contemplating how I would explain that soiling myself was really not that big of a deal, I consciously motivated myself to become proactive and take some risks in order to figure out my life. My idea was that if I combined all (or most) of the things that I’m passionate about, I would be able to figure out a profession that I could tolerate on a daily basis. As someone with an extremely short attention span, the idea of going to the same monotonous job day after day seemed beyond dreadful. Perhaps it was youthful arrogance or simply laziness, but regardless, I knew that I needed to find something with which I could fall in love.

The list of things I knew I would hate was way too long to elaborate, so instead I narrowed my interests down to four core “things” that I knew beyond doubt I could be passionate about: wildlife, art\photography, travel, and writing. The first three are fairly obvious, but I somehow had to incorporate writing, as it was basically the only marketable skill I felt I had to offer. I figured that the best way to merge my interests was to become a photo journalist. Now all I needed was some sort of litmus test, some way of seeing whether I was cut out for this sort of thing.

Just about anyone interested in the nature will tell you that at least part of his or her interest can be rooted in their childhood appreciation of all living things. I am no different, and I will undoubtedly continue to shamelessly resurrect that aspect of my childhood in order to find happiness in my adult life. Growing up, my interest the natural world began to focus on evolution, and in particular, the evolution of primates (you can see where this is leading). In reality the process was nowhere nearly this linear, but nonetheless I somehow decided that I needed to go to Borneo. This step was not only to test myself, but to make as much of a contribution to the well-being of the orangutan species as I possibly could. After searching out Orangutan Foundation International on the internet, I decided to go with a study group to Tanjung Puting to observe, photograph, and learn about orangutans and the other thousands of species that find sanctuary in the National Park. I readied myself with all the necessary information about orangutan behavior, the history of the park, and the challenges the park faced in the future. I was, beyond a reasonable explanation, intrigued by all the excitement Tanjung Puting had to offer.

Chapter Three
Gunnar

Never before had I been so far from home and so out of my element, and yet somehow, I felt like I had been waiting for this my whole existence. Each day I was faced with new challenges and opportunities to learn about myself. The trip was exactly what I needed to help me begin to realize what I would do with my life. That is until I got home and my world pretty much came crashing down. What seemed important to me changed drastically. Within hours of stepping back on American soil, I was informed that one of my best friends had finally lost his long and hard-fought battle with cancer. Gunner had endured countless bouts of chemotherapy and two twelve-plus hour surgeries, yet somehow he still remained unfazed in spirit and personality. He never so much as uttered a word of complaint and always seemed to have a huge smile spanning his entire face. In my mind the guy was invincible, so when I left for Borneo, it was not a particularly tough goodbye. I just knew I would see him again. He, more so than any of my other friends, was so excited for me and supported me completely. Though he would have never in a million years wanted me to come home, the realization that I missed out on being with Gunnar in his dying days continues to haunt me to this day. My grieving continues to feel incomplete. In some respects I appreciate that I do not have any closure because it keeps Gunnar alive in my mind, and though it would be easier to let go, I will happily keep his memory and the surrounding emotions only a breath away. It is for this reason that in the summer of 2004, I again found myself en-route to the mosquito-ridden swamp forests of Tanjung Puting. I felt that since I could not be there for Gunnar as he passed from this life, I absolutely had to return; I felt a certain sense of obligation to follow through with my promise to do whatever I could within my power to work for a change and a better future for the orangutan.

It was with this conviction that I packed up my things and set off to begin my internship in San Diego, without so much as a couch to sleep on. Over the course of the next few months I would grow adept at living out of the trunk of my car, surfing from couch to couch, and resurrecting old friendships and family ties for favors. I would be lying if I said there were no complications or sleepless nights, but I knew that if I could just make it through the office-end of this internship, the field work would be much more simple, and, in my mind, rewarding. I was right about the rewarding nature of field work and the sense of accomplishment that I would attain, but I could not have been more wrong about the simplicity of the field work. In fact, my work in the field would prove to be the most physically and mentally challenging months of my short life.

Chapter Four

The Joys of Travel

DISCLAIMER: The problem with retrospective pieces, such as the one you are currently reading, is that inevitably many of the subtleties will be lost. Memories will be tainted by subsequent experiences, and therefore, the account will be somewhat skewed. The following is my attempt to relay my experiences in Indonesian Borneo based on journal entries and emails written to friends and family. No animals or family members were injured in the making of this recreation.

I awoke to the captain’s resonating “ding” that let passengers know that they were about to make the descent toward Jakarta International. Due to my semi-sedated state, I slowly regained consciousness like a long dormant volcano awakening to spew lava and ash. Needless to say, I was less than jovial, having just been startled awake by that “ding” which continued to reverberate throughout my cranium. To fully understand my frame of mind, you should realize that I despise flying. You name it, I’ve probably complained about it. Whether it is the bacterial Deathstar being brewed in the recycled air that is pumped throughout the cabin or the cheery woman next to you that must use the bathroom every ten minutes, I am most assuredly not amused. My numerous grievances are far too many to list, but largely relate to the feeling of being cramped. The space allocated to each passenger must be the work of an extremely sadistic mind. Granted, I’m not exactly huge, but at 6' 4" I’m not dainty either. Generally speaking, I am completely unaware of my dimensions in relation to space. If wearing a baseball hat, I often underestimate my height from the bill of my hat and the top of my head, and therefore fairly regularly bonk my head into everything from hanging lamps to tree branches. When flying, I am extremely aware, with great clarity, what a space-taking oaf I am, and I tend to get a little bitter about the whole affair. On this particular flight however, maybe it was the sleeping pills, but I could hardly be bothered. I easily brushed aside the woman with the irrationally small bladder and could even laugh about the portly man who was completely hogging the arm rest. Not even the sub-five-foot-tall woman who was reclining her seat into the comfort of my bony knees could put me off. I knew that this trip was going to be what I made of it, and my attitude was going to be the deciding factor. Despite nearly decapitating a few innocent bystanders with my bulky and numerous “carry-on” bags, I made it off the plane with my sanity still intact.

As there is no such thing as a direct international flight to Borneo, we had to spend the night in Jakarta before catching a flight across the Java Sea to our ultimate destination. This layover required that we shack up in a hotel to regroup and catch up on some sleep. This was not just your average hotel; we were put up in a luxurious 5-star hotel to wait out the night. To me this seemed like an unnecessary embellishment for someone who had just spent the last few months happily sleeping on couches and floors. I offered little resistance however upon learning that the night was going to cost roughly the same as the roach-infested motel where I had laid my head to rest on my first Californian night. I would like to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the extravagance, but instead of living it up, I spent the entire time sleeping. Literally. Whether it was a hangover from my healthy dosage of sedatives or just the opportunity to sleep in a real bed, I cannot be sure, but regardless I slept like a petrified log.

The idea behind staying in such a nice establishment was for the relative safety that it supposedly could provide. There were, after all, inherent risks for Americans traveling in a Muslim country. Over the course of the last four years, Americans have become increasingly terrified of the world around themselves, and have come to equate the words “Islam” and “terrorism.” It seemed like every time I told someone where I was going, they responded with some concern for my safety. Call it naivety, but for whatever reason I chose not to believe the hype and decided to come to my own conclusions. Media reports and warnings from the State Department would have had you believe that Indonesians were thirsting for American blood and that the separatist movement in Aceh was spilling onto the streets throughout the archipelago nation. For this reason, volunteers were at least partially concerned with their safety and wanted to hedge their bets. A large, luxurious, and might I add, fortified hotel seemed like the ticket. And besides, how many excuses do you need to stay in a relatively inexpensive 5 -star hotel? However, recently, a similar hotel in Egypt was reduced to rubble by Islamic militants who targeted vacationing Israelis. This proves not only that our actions and concerns could have been in vain, but also that tragedy can strike anywhere. Therefore, living in fear and expecting the worst is futile. For the most part, the American people seem to be imprisoned by an overwhelming amount of fear. I say this, not as a bastion of bravery or pillar of courage, but rather as a human being with real feelings and the luxury of retrospective clarity. After all, hindsight is 20\20, right?

Chapter Five

The Welcoming Committee

With all the bells and whistles of Western life still in my rear view, I was eager to board the ex-Soviet airliner which, if all my finger-crossing worked, would carry me to Borneo and its resident orangutans. The flight over was far too cramped and turbulent to relive, but let’s just say that when I was greeted by the sweet humid air rushing in the cabin doors upon landing, I was tempted to kiss the ground and do a little Irish jig.

Shortly after arrival, we were rounded up, packed like sardines into minivans, and began making our way to what would become home. Home-base or the launching pad, call it what you will, but that little house was about the most welcoming site imaginable after a few days in the field. This home of ours was a small but more than adequate rental house ($1,000 A YEAR) in the middle of a typical neighborhood. The neighbors were about as friendly as possible and were, for the most part, delighted by the prospect of seeing a bunch of Westerners running around like headless fowl. Most, particularly the children, were elated by the opportunity to practice their English and try their hand at humor which seemed to transcend both culture and language.

After arranging our backpacks and bags into neat piles on the floor, the group rushed out the door to catch the last remaining minutes of sunlight in the forest to go over field work methodologies and examples of the various different habitat types. Group members piled into boats and were sped upriver to Camp Leakey where they would get excellent insight into rainforest ecology. As the boat approached the long, dock-like boardwalk that serves as Camp’s creaky wooden portal, group members became aware of our welcoming committee. At the end of the dock stood Siswe and Uranus, two ex-captive orangutans that find refuge and some extra food in Camp.

Siswe, the resident flirt, is about as cute as can be and absolutely hams it up for the cameras. She is, however, not to be trusted. Siswe relishes in the opportunity of relieving unsuspecting Camp visitors of anything she may find tasty or may look nice strewn across the forest canopy; and she does so with great frequency. First she lures you in with her docile, almost cuddly nature, until your eye wanders just long enough for her to get her mitts on your things. In appearance, Uranus stands in stark contrast to Siswe’s benign demeanor.

Uranus is a full-grown dominant male who demands respect. You know within seconds of seeing of this Incredible Hulk-like creature that he could easily relieve you of the burden of having four working appendages. Fortunately for us, orangutans are not known for unprovoked violence, and the two were happy to sit and pose as we all feverishly snapped photographs. The obscenely large toothy grins, common to all volunteers, served as a reminder why I was there in the first place. Again I was overcome with emotions and a thorough feeling of belonging and happiness. We finished up our “rainforests for dummies” training session and began devising a plan of attack for our first day in the field.

Chapter Six

Baptism by Forest

“In the silent and ancient shade, the fallen trunks, the moist, rough carpet of decay; the endless limited vegetable views, growth upon growth, of trees and vines and ferns glossy on top but hooked barbarously beneath; the annual manifestations, there and gone or heard or only suspected– all these convey a sense of a life-force, or life-forces, apart from man, greater than him, inconsiderate of him and amid which he upholds himself by his will and skill.”

-W.R. Geddes on the forests of Borneo

The first day was relatively easy as we all collected our bearings and began adjusting to life in Borneo. The work was no piece of cake, but I felt confident that I would be able to handle anything thrown my way. It was not until talk of a 15-20 mile hike began to surface that I became a bit apprehensive. I did not fully start panicking until I was informed that my specialty would best suit this particular hike. As I had little technical expertise to dispense, my job evolved into documenting the work of the group and gathering indisputable evidence of the various types of environmental disturbances through the lens of my brand-new digital camcorder. It was no small feat, but my naivety and arrogance gave me the confidence to at least try. Though I had my doubts, I agreed to take on this monster hike, as my pride would not permit otherwise. I cannot say whether it is a guy thing, mindless American machismo, or just an overindulged sense of self-respect, but regardless, there was something within me that overwhelmed rational thought and made me attempt something that I truly feared I could not accomplish.

The following is the first email I wrote to friends and family describing my initial impressions and the hike, that in my mind, will always live in infamy.

Sent: Sunday, June 6, 2004

Subject: Mosquitoes-79: Rob-5

Selamat Pagi everyone,

Something happened to me yesterday. As I bear witness to some of the most horrific environmental destruction, a very profound thought occurred to me. With the acknowledged risk of sounding pretentious, I’ll say it as matter-of-factly (sp?) as possible.

There is no longer any doubt in my mind that environmental conservation is the defining moral issue of our time. “Wait a minute there Rob,” you’re thinking to yourself, “what about the war?” Hear me out before you pass judgement because the two are very connected. While war is, particularly at the moment, an extremely pressing issue, you must ask yourself, why are we fighting for seemingly fictitious reasons in Iraq? The answer is simple, it’s because of a failure to conserve resources, in this case, oil. Would we have reason to catalyze major cultural strife and untold death and destruction for years to come if it were not for our desperate dependence on oil? Hold on now and bear with me, my point is fast approaching. We must, with haste, transform our culture and, more importantly, our politics to be geared toward conservation of resources and the environment in general. We are currently waging war, with the tax payer penny, for the (self-proclaimed) right to consume oil (unofficially, of course). Had there been a precedent set 10-20-30 years ago to illustrate the need for conservation, we could have enacted regulations for mile-per-gallon requirements that would have made us far less dependent on oil imports. We now have that precedent, so it should be obvious to everyone that simple acts of conservation will spare us from war, famine, and tragedy in the future . . . just food for thought.

Now that I’ve stepped off the pulpit, I thought I’d tell you all about a few experiences I’ve had of late. Yesterday morning began with a little visit from our good friend Montezuma. Who knew he had cronies in Indonesia? As delightful as that was, my day got much hairier.

Soon after prying myself from our lovely squat john, we embarked on what would become the most physically demanding adventure that I have ever personally experienced. To say that we went on a 15-mile hike through severely degraded tropical heath forest is not totally accurate. More precisely, it was a 15-mile trudge, or better yet, a death march.

First of all, you have to realize that the entire time I have been here, I’ve been sweating like a sinner in church, like a neo-conservative under oath . . . pick your favorite analogy. Add an obstacle course of fallen logs, buttress roots, and knee-to-thigh deep mud to the mix, and you’ve got one exhausted honkey Irishman. I don’t so much feel like reliving the gruesome details at this particular moment (you’ll have to wait for the video for that). Let’s just say that by the time I reached our destination, which I find myself lucky to have accomplished, I proceeded to cramp-up like an AAU referee (inside joke, sorry), and ralph my guts up as if I drank an entire bottle of tequila chased down with a liter of Carlos Rossi. Needless to say, I got my skinny, fish-belly-white ass handed to me in heaps. And heaps. Sorry for the vulgarity, but I know of no other way to put it more succinctly. Would I do it all over again? Bet your arse, or as my Dad would happily sing to you, “you can bet your bottom dollar . . . ,” just not so much in the next few days.

Life is funny like that, sometimes the most beautiful and rewarding experiences are a result of the most brutish ugliness. This is an experience that I will truly never forget and will probably bore alls-of-yous to tears retelling for years to come. Today I am stronger and wiser than I was yesterday, and that is all I can ask for in life.

Lastly, I thought that I would publicly admit that I was wrong. Joey, if this message reaches you, and I pray it does, you were right, boy were you right! What I wouldn’t give for a few pairs of whitey-tighties, or better yet, some superman roos right about now. On that nauseating and imagery-laden thought, I am going to sign off. I love you all and carry each of you in my thoughts.

Very sincerely,

Rob McFarland

Chapter Seven

The Importance of Perspective

As you can see by my assessment of the environmental politics at work in Indonesia and their relation to American politics, I think politically and have a healthy appetite for exploring the causal relationship between things. As you travel around the world and gather insight into other cultures, I think it is crucial (particularly as an American), to absorb the political situations that you encounter and try to put them in some context that is understandable. The context in which I attempt to frame the political world as I begin to understand it, is in relation to American politics and policies. I try to understand the political, economic, and cultural consequences of American foreign policy in places like Indonesia. For instance, I am still trying to understand the wisdom of U.S. policy that is seemingly discriminatory toward Muslims in Indonesia. The U.S., with U.N. backing, supported the Christian separatist movement that led to the creation of East Timor, while supporting the suppression of Muslim separatists in Aceh. This contradictory policy has not gone unnoticed in the Islamic world and has further inflamed Muslim resentment of U.S. foreign policy. Truth be told, the U.S. cannot cede to every country, cause, or club that picks up a gun in opposition to its policies. However, rather than painting every Islamic cause with the same stroke, we should try to address the problems at the root of the discontent. If nothing else, we must at least be consistent and fair handed, or we risk losing all respect and credibility in the Muslim world.

A misconception amongst many Americans and Westerners alike, is that Muslims hate our core values, resent the freedom of our society, and seek to kill us with impunity. In fact, this could not be farther from the truth. Any Muslim animosity toward America is a direct result of American foreign policy in the Islamic world. Muslim scholars worldwide have agreed that there are near-universal grievances with American policy. They argue that it is not core civilizational differences that are perpetuating the escalating tension between Islam and the West, but rather the tension is a result of the policies themselves. American policy is seen as discriminatory toward Muslims because the U.S., through arms deals and military support, ensures the survival of regimes that are often the most brutal and heavy handed. Muslims often consider these apostate regimes and regard them as hangovers from colonial rule. American policy is believed to classify Muslims who take up arms in defense of their faith or homeland as “terrorists” or “insurgents” rather than “freedom fighters” or “soldiers.” American policy is perceived as being interested only in reaping the wealth from resources in Muslim countries and not in the well-being of those countries’ people. The list of grievances goes on and gets more and more specific, particularly with regard to the U.S. military presence on the Arabian peninsula and American support of Israel. Correctly or incorrectly, this suggests that there exists a fundamental sense of unity among all Muslims. Devout followers of the Islamic faith share a profound concern for the plight of Muslims the world over. This perception of American foreign policy throughout the Islamic world is unifying Muslims in defense of their religion against what they consider to be an attack on their faith. This unity and devotion should not be seen by U.S. policy makers as a threat, but rather as an example for which to strive. Policy driven toward the promotion of reconciliation, unity and mutual empowerment is not only prudent, but it is grossly more feasible than trying to put a military clamp down on those aspiring for freedom and equality.

It was through many heartfelt conversations during my travels that I became privy to this information first hand. I believe that the same sort of awareness can be achieved on a societal level if the barriers to dialogue and mutual cultural exchange are broken down. For too long our society has been on a one-way street in terms of cultural transmission. Starting with colonialism and now with globalization, the West, as a civilization, has been all too willing to force feed aspects of our society and culture, and yet remains unwilling to incorporate tenets of other civilizations into the emerging global culture.

Chapter Eight

The Day After

Journal Entry #one, June 6, 2004

Today was about as different from yesterday as it can get. Through a strange series of events, I was deeply touched by the Indonesian culture. I hardly slept last night, which is fairly surprising considering how hellish yesterday was. I laid in bed and listened to the Muslim call to prayer that happens several times throughout the day, beginning at about 4:30 or 5:00 a.m. Honestly, when you first hear the call booming from loud speakers placed atop each Mosque, it sounds fairly obnoxious, particularly if you are still in bed. However the more I listened, the more rhythm and cadences I perceived. The calls serve as a reminder of the great presence that faith is afforded, and after hearing it with regularity, I’ve come to respect how truly faithful the majority of Muslims are and, with this better understanding, my appreciation for their devotion to faith has grown. Faith is an undeniably powerful part in the lives of the people surrounding our study area.

After the prayers and much contemplation about religion and faith, I wearily drug my body out of bed. People outside had begun to stir, so I went out to enjoy the pleasant morning temperature and was soon accompanied by a female volunteer. To my horror she was wearing a sarong tied just above her breasts, leaving her arms, shoulders, and upper torso exposed. Being “just a kid,” I bit my tongue until she made a comment about the men and children gawking in her general direction as she brushed her hair and applied her makeup. Makeup in the field? Yeah I know what you’re thinking but to each their own.

Mistakenly she thought there was some sexual element to the neighbor’s steely looks and commented that she considered it “an invasion of her privacy.” Resisting the urge to unleash fury on this woman, I calmly explained that we were not in the States and that “when in Indonesia . . . ” She did not understand the offense she had unknowingly created. It actually turned out to be a good thing because I went over to a group of neighbors to try to apologize. Not a scenario I was really excited about subjecting myself to, as even in situations where everyone speaks English, I feel a twang of anxiety. Somehow I bottled up my apprehension and crossed the street to try to mime my way through an apology. After some tremendously entertaining body language, I retreated to get my Indonesian\English dictionary, or “Frank” as I call him. When I came back, we worked out the apology and they assured me that they understood that this woman did not intend to be offensive. Perhaps the openness with which I was greeted was a result of being highly regarded. The local culture is highly stratified, and most people assume that any foreigner who could travel across the world must be rich and therefore deserving of respect. For whatever reason, I kind of resented this assumption and went to great lengths to prove that I was just as much of a blundering fool as the next guy and certainly not deserving of undue respect. My tattoos sparked lots of conversation and seemed to be widely accepted. Somehow the conversation transformed from looking up Indonesian words in Frank, to me leading an English reading lesson with about 10-12 eager children. This was by far the most rewarding social situation I’ve ever had. Period. Remember this feeling Rob!!!!!!! Until next time.

Chapter Nine

Mosquitoes, Rainstorms, and the Magnificent Night Sky

That fateful hike dramatized in the previous email became popularly known as “The Death March” for reasons I explore in later emails. In the day’s following, the work was fairly light and I made a partial recovery before we were off again for another few days in the field. This time we were to travel just about all day upriver and camp out on the boat for a few nights. The storm clouds did not bode well for what was shaping up to be an S.S. Minnow-like adventure. The only thing keeping me from going crazy with thoughts of swimming in the crocodile-infested river was my faith in our local crew, for whom my respect was growing exponentially by the day. These men are literally masters of navigating and interpreting the rainforest. In addition to their thorough knowledge and understanding of the complex forest ecology, they were Michael Jordan-like in skillfully walking the same route in which I would fall head over heels numerous times. Where I would find myself thigh deep in shoe-stealing mud, I would see them skillfully jumping from dry spot to dry spot without so much as cracking a branch or breaking a sweat. I also had no fear of starving, a luxury I would not say that I had if I were responsible for rustling up the grub. These guys who could hike all day in the sweltering jungle heat without tiring or griping at all, could also cook up some pretty mean rice dishes. Every meal, including breakfast, was essentially white rice, eggs in one form or another, and a delicious stir-fried vegetable dish to be mixed with the rice. Occasionally, the dishes included tofu, fish, or chicken parts from recently decapitated chicken. Yes, for the first time in my life, I bore witness to a chicken being relieved of its head. Truly an image that will be burned in my psyche forever. Comforted by the knowledge that I had a better than average chance of surviving the next few days, but still hobbled from “The Death March,” I boarded the boat and began what would become a highlight of my trip.

Sent: Wednesday, June 9, 2004

Subject: Hull oh

Greetings everyone,

The mosquitoes have now taken an insurmountable lead in our death match showdown. Last night I got back from three days in the field in which we camped on a kletok (large river boat). It absolutely pissed rain on us throughout most of the days and nights. It was rad. Filming in the forest is rather tricky, but I’m sure I’ve captured enough to show anyone who’s interested in how this neck of the world looks. I have to apologize for the little political rant in my last email, I don’t pretend to have all the answers, it’s just that everything seems so black and white when it is right in front of your face. It is really hard not to get depressed. We are (preliminarily) estimating that between 50-60% of the National Park has been decimated by fires, illegal logging, and the intrusion of agriculture. Tanjung Puting is home to the largest population of orangutans left in the world (between 5,000-7,000), so the future is looking a little bleak. Later today, I leave for the Aspai gold mine, which four years ago, looked like a lunar landscape. It is totally devastated, and never coming back. I guess you don’t have to come to Indonesia to see environmental destruction, just look in our own back yards. I can’t help but feel a little hypocritical trying to get the Indonesians to recognize the necessity for conservation when our forests are disappearing at an increasing rate. Adding to the hypocrisy is the fact that American companies enjoy the largest profit margins from the felling of the tropical rainforest.

All of your emails have totally lifted my spirits. It becomes more obvious to me daily how important it is to surround yourself with quality people, and I feel very blessed to have such an outstanding cast of family and friends. No matter how trivial you may think your words to be, I seriously relish your emails, and as cheesy as it sounds, they give me a little extra strength to keep going one swampy footstep at a time. Thanks again for everything.

Sincerely,

rob

I have few memories that I will look back upon with more fondness than camping on the kletok, lying on my back under the most incredible display of the solar system, all the while counterattacking the incessant mosquito onslaught. Those few days were extremely challenging as I battled to regain my health and appetite. Often I had to silence the critic in the back of my mind telling me that I was going to fail, that I was too weak, that I should just quit now. Despite my ailing health and weakening attitude, the feeling of accomplishment that flowed throughout my exhausted body each night after conquering another day in the field kept me going physically and in spirit. By the time we returned from our river voyage, I was hungering for more, and was anxious to start the next round in the field, but first I had to return to Aspai.

Chapter Ten
Return to the Moon

The Aspai gold mine is a place that I am sure I will never forget. Visually speaking, Aspai is one of the most saddening and scary sites you could hope did not exist. To begin with, the area oozes toxicity and pollution, and is no place for an adult to live, let alone children and infants. The practice of gold mining is to be blamed for this destruction, not the unfortunate people that supply the work force and live in its shanty town.

Unlike the gold nuggets American settlers dreamed of during their migration West for the California gold rush, the gold found in and around Tanjung Puting comes in the form of sand-like gold particles. These fans of alluvial gold are found in the sediment surrounding rivers. Miners dredge up this sediment and filter it through a series of mats until there is a small payload of extremely fine sand and gold particles. The waste product, which constitutes the vast majority of the drudged-up sediment, is dumped directly back into the river system. This in turn, chokes the water with sand and mud. As a result the water takes on a muddy hue that stands in stark contrast to the black waters that naturally flow through Tanjung Puting. In addition to deforestation and sedimentary pollution, these mines also poison local flora and fauna with toxic mercury.

In order to extract the gold particles from the fine sand, mercury is added to the payload. The mercury binds only to the gold particles, creating what is called the amalgam. The amalgam is separated and heated over an open flame. This allows the mercury to be cooked off in the form of vapor. This vapor is then inhaled by the unfortunate soul whose job it is to cook the amalgam. Any waste product, which is typically still rich in inorganic mercury, is dumped directly back into the water system. This has truly disastrous effects on both the environment and it’s inhabitants. The human health toll is astronomical. Communities that rely on the river for fish are the first to feel the effects of this type of environmental destruction. The mining communities suffer as well. This practice is only profitable enough to perpetuate poverty and the shanty towns that accompany this type of mine. The health of mine inhabitants is undeniably affected for the worse. For example, the amalgam cook typically does not live more than a year or two after taking the job.

Alluvial gold mining is yet another unsustainable practice found in the areas surrounding Tanjung Puting. Not only does it create toxic pollution and river choking sediment, but its very nature demands expansion. The mines create a barren landscape, devoid of a future. These lunar-looking areas have virtually no chance for ecological succession and will almost certainly never be economically viable, and yet, their expansion continues.

I am so thankful that I got out of the boat and met the people of Aspai, rather than just passing by and passing judgement. I am quite sure that I have never been so pleasantly surprised in my life. I was shocked by the sheer humanity and life that each individual exuded despite their lackluster surroundings. Honestly, I felt a bone trembling shudder resonate throughout my body when our boat hit a log just outside Aspai and our driver began to speculate about staying the night in the village. Though it made me feel rather shallow, it did make me realize that this was these people’s home. They did not get to leave and go to a rental house in town. And yet, somehow, these people could emit joy in its purest form with a mere flash of their face-spanning smiles.

My “in” with the people of Aspai were my cameras. With my digital dummy box, I could snap a photo and instantly show my subject his or her image. This simple act seemingly brought an unending amount of laughter, smiles, and material to joke about for years to come. I can only speculate as to all the jokes that my oafish appearance inspired. Those guys are probably still cracking up. I came to discover that a little self-deprecation helped win friends, so I was happy to oblige. I was constantly ripping on myself for being such a prolific sweater and often likened that trait to that of a pig. They seemed to adore this particular angle and I was therefore given a suitable nickname, Pak Babi (pronounced Bobby). This was, of course, the funniest thing since Pee-Wee Herman, and I loved the fact that I could bring any of the guides to tear-producing fits of laughter by merely uttering “Babi.” To understand the hilarity of this joke, you have to know the context. To begin with, the moniker Pak or Bopak, means something comparable to mister or sir, and implies respect afforded to older or more respected men. The implied sarcasm of calling me Pak was enough to get some chuckles, but couple that with “Babi” and it’s all over. As I had so often been referring to myself as sweating like a pig, I had to know the Indonesian word for pig so I could crack the same joke but with a new twist. I eagerly consulted “Frank” and was delighted that it was a word I could remember, “Babi.” I could hardly wait to try it out on some of my more receptive audiences, but I had to wait for the perfect moment. Somehow, I choked during my delivery, and sensing that I was bombing, I aborted mission, but in doing so I somehow muttered, “I am Pak Babi.” The fact that I had called myself Mr. Pig was not going to die with the moment, so I embraced my piggishness and added it to my arsenal of surefire jokes that could get a laugh and diffuse tension.

Chapter Eleven

More to Chew On

Journal Entry #two, June 12 (maybe), 2004

I’m still in Borneo, and have no clue as to what the date is or even what day of the week it is for that matter. I had yet another experience that is weighing heavily on my mind. Today I went over to the cook’s house to get the key to Debra’s rental house in Pangkalan Bun. The cook’s house was absolutely tiny. One of the only features of the simple house was a picture of Osama bin Laden on what looked like a campaign ad. It made me think, “Do these people hate Americans? Do they know what Osama means to Americans?” The answer came to me suddenly and was shockingly simple. No. No, they don’t hate Americans, and no, they don’t condone the senseless murder of innocent civilians. Osama bin Laden, to these people and people like them all over the world, represents someone fighting for the little guy. He represents the slight chance that they will one day have more control over their daily lives. To them, he represents the opposite of oppression. He represents hope. No matter how misguided this may be, the fact of the matter is, it’s the truth. What happened to America? How, in the eye of Muslims the world over, did we come to represent the oppressor and not the beacon of hope? When did we quit fighting for the little guy and start fighting for our lives? We are like an injured dog, biting anything we presume to be a threat . . . Anyway, that’s all for now. Until later.

Chapter Twelve

Did I Mention the Heat?

I have, so far, resisted the temptation to try to explain just how intensely hot and humid the weather is in Borneo, for fear of failing to adequately describe its sweltering cruelty. Admittedly, my appraisal may have just a twinge of bias; I am, after all, the great sweating pig man. Never at any point throughout the entire trip would I say that my body acclimatized to the weather. I would lay awake at night, sweating, in a sheet-like sleeping bag, with only enough clothing to keep me with at least some sort of barrier from the multitude of mosquitoes that sought to ravage my already bite-riddled body. A mosquito-net pup tent is a luxury I would not experience until the latter half of my trip. Day or night, I virtually never stopped sweating. For obvious reasons, I do not believe that the Irish geneticists spent much time developing a cooling system for tropical climates. Lacking adaptations favorable to the climate, I felt like a polar bear at a Miami zoo. By some estimates, I probably smelled like one’s unkept cage as well.

Sent: Sunday, June 13, 2004

Subject: Never a dry footstep

The mosquitoes have now overrun my last fortified position and are launching repeated attacks on my face, and I’m fairly certain at least one has taken up permanent residence in my ear. Soon, I may have to concede defeat.

Anyway . . . I just got back from another few days of field work. This time we went to the Southern most point of Tanjung Puting. What we found there could not have sucked any more. To begin with, you have to understand that the entire park was at one time a logging concession, which left only a few remaining areas of pristine primary growth forest. The “good” news is that Suharto (former dictator of Indonesia) protected the park in the 70's after the concession had received a prime cut (selective logging of only the most valuable trees). The protected status meant that no more trees were to be removed and no settlements were to be erected within the park boundaries. Despite the protected status the Park has been the host to a multitude of different illegal activities.

Since most Indonesians have absolutely no avenues to economic prosperity, many are forced to partake in illegal activities to support their families. I truly cannot blame them for this, but the effects of some of these practices are horrifying and largely unsustainable. The last few days I spent mucking my way in knee deep mud through fish pond farm after fish pond farm, all within park borders. As I said, any activity like this is supposed to be illegal. And rightfully so, you should see the carnage. It was like a forest graveyard. In order to create these ponds, every last bit of vegetation is cleared and burnt. Next, they drain water from the mangrove swamps into a series of channels that form shallow ponds.

The ponds are used for a few years until they are no longer productive, leaving a barren landscape that is almost incapable of healthy succession. In short, ‘stumps and mud’ span as far as the eye can see. The good news is that there are ample pristine mosquito and mud crab habitats.

Luckily I will be spending tonight and tomorrow at Camp Leakey which is one of the last pristine areas of the park. We will get to see lots of ex-captive orangutans roaming freely in the surrounding forests. This will be a nice contrast to the destruction I’ve witnessed as of late.

Anyway, despite all my bitching, I truly am having the time of my life. Sometimes, as I’m lying in my sweat-soaked sleeping bag, it’s hard to remember how much fun I’m having, but it doesn’t take much to remind me. I almost always have a big excrement consuming grin on my face, and I’m eating up this experience like a fat lady in a buffet line. Thanks again for all your emails. Look forward to hearing from you all. Later.

Sincerely,

rob

As in many developing nations throughout Southeast Asia, Indonesia adopted the practice of raising prawn and fish as a means toward economic development. Unfortunately, just as in many of the regional nations, this practice has led to environmental destruction and many unintended ecological consequences. Coastlines and mangrove forests, like those I tramped through on Tanjung Puting’s southern tip, have been irreversibly damaged by this industry that is neither profitable nor sustainable.

Mangrove forests are naturally very rich in organic nutrients and are ideal breeding grounds for prawn fry. Prawn farmers dig shallow ponds and construct embankments in order to trap prawn larvae. To keep the pond’s water fresh, the farmer uses a sluice gate to channel water in and out of the ponds, which releases the de-oxygenated and excrement-rich water into surrounding waterways. This exploitation of ground water along with the indiscriminate use of chemicals and antibiotics leads to pollution choked waterways and provides a breeding ground for a myriad of bacteria, viruses, and protozoans. This not only affects the local environment and human population but also introduces wild prawn populations to epidemic-level diseases to which they have no immunity.

Not only is the practice of prawn farming detrimental to mangrove and rainforest ecology throughout Southeast Asia, it is also unsustainable. In virtually every country that has employed this practice, there is an inverse relationship between the expansion of farmed land and the levels of prawn production. Farms are typically abandoned after only a few relatively productive years, thus leaving in their wake an unproductive, polluted, mud-choked scab of land where once stood a thriving mangrove forest.

Admittedly, the fish ponds took a bit of the wind out of my sails. The destruction seemed so thorough and absolute. I was immensely happy to be getting out of there when I was informed that we would not be making the long journey home that night but rather we were going to be camping on a beach. Compared to the muck of the ponds, this beach was the next closest thing to nirvana. After throwing an initial pity party for myself, I remembered that I would, in fact, live to see the morning, and the beach was not so bad after all. I let go of my frustration, and as I laid there in the sand, I made the decision to make the best of every situation and quit sweating the small stuff (figuratively of course). This seems like it should be quite self-evident, but I believe it is impossible at times to see beyond our immediate personal experiences. During times like these, with little effort and without much thought, mountains can easily be made of molehills. I relaxed and immediately felt a rush of tranquility and the sense of satisfaction I had first experienced while sleeping atop the kletok under the star-cluttered night sky. I began to appreciate the small things I had been taking for granted by wasting my time thinking of everything I was lacking. It was soon after this that Ryan, my closest friend among the group, revealed to me one of the coolest things I have ever personally witnessed. With each passing wave that seemed to melt into the beach, in rode a multitude of bioluminescent organisms. The casual observer would think that these tiny waves were cresting, but upon closer inspection you notice that the crest is actually millions of organisms glowing a pale white color. You then realize that with every footstep you send these organisms fluttering their jelly-filled bodies in every direction. I had to rub my eyes a few times to make sure that someone had not slipped something into my jungle juice. This was just another painfully obvious reminder that one’s appreciation for the simple things in life is what truly makes that person rich and complete. Regardless of my newfound complacency, I was happy to be done with the ponds and on my way to Camp Leakey.

Chapter Thirteen

The Showdown

My nostalgic feelings toward Camp Leakey are something that, in all likelihood, will never cease to be. At a moment’s notice, I can instantly dredge up a spectrum of memories ranging from unforgettable to unbelievable. I instantly recall the sweetly pungent odor of the forest, the sticky humidity of the air, and the sounds of a symphony of insects punctuated by chirping birds and the unique vocalizations of Tanjung Puting’s other ape, the agile gibbon.

One memory from Camp Leakey that I find myself retelling at just about every family gathering, and basically every time I speak of my interaction with orangutans, involves a very special adult female orangutan named “Unyuk.” I would say that this story spans the memory spectrum in terms of being both unforgettable and unbelievable.

There are a few questions that I can almost guarantee will be posed whenever the subject of my time in Camp Leakey is broached. In addition to the security question I mentioned earlier, another surefire question is, “Well, how close did you actually get to those things?” With some amount of pride, I report the following story that occurred during my initial visit to Camp.

One of the many reasons I chose Borneo, and specifically Camp Leakey, as a destination was in large part because of its remoteness, and its departure from the tourist trail. It was therefore with great horror that I met a group of unapologetic tourists who had come to Camp as a stop on their sail-around-the-world trip. These people, decked out in white, from their brimmed hats to their penny-loafers, thoroughly infuriated me. Though I was a glorified tourist myself, the mere presence of these people was enough to leave me feeling defeated. They, with their yachts, represented everything that I had been trying to avoid. It was with this superior and self-righteous attitude that myself and two British girls, Katie and Vicki, took off on an alternate route to the orangutan feeding. The feeding was the ultimate destination for these yuppie caricatures who tiptoed through the forest, careful not to soil their fancy clothing.

At Camp, and at other stations throughout Tanjung Puting, local ex-captive orangutans are fed bananas and milk to supplement their diets. These feedings occur once a day, and serve as the perfect opportunity to see several orangutans in a somewhat natural setting. Katie, Vicki, and I, having been spared all the sailors’ questions, arrived at the feeding station before the group, and began to wait for the locals to start crashing through the canopy. As the camp guide led the group of photo-seeking tourists to the station, he periodically made a deep and echo-inducing whooping sound that served as a dinner bell, calling all orangutans to the table.

As the three of us sat patiently at the station, the whooping sounds still far off in the distance, we became aware that one of the resident orangutans was closing in on our position. It was soon clear that our visitor was Unyuk, an aggressive and bi-cultural (both Orangutan and human culture) adult female whose fear of humans was slim to none. It also soon became abundantly clear that Unyuk, was in fact, heading directly my way. It was then that I realized that her eyes were directly fixated upon my backpack. With little doubt as to her intentions, I picked up a rather large stick to wield in my defense. This is a threat that I had seen carried out by Camp staff on a number of occasions, always with great success. Not this time however, Unyuk had different plans in mind as she set a course for a showdown with a sweat-dripping, stick-brandishing rookie with a bagful of goodies.

She might as well have just started laughing at me. She easily called my bluff about thrashing her with my stick. Without so much as a moment hesitation, Unyuk walked directly up to me and grabbed onto the stick, that for the moment, remained firmly in my viselike grip. I tried to thwart her advances by keeping the stick between us and engaging her in some good old fashion tug-of-war. I held my ground until I could feel her hand-like foot tighten around my ankle. Then came the other foot, and with living shackles attached to my legs, instantly I knew that I was no match for her incredible strength.

Before I knew what had hit me, Unyuk had effortlessly vanquished my front line of defense, and in doing so, had pulled herself onto my back. She grabbed my backpack with both hands and pulled with all her strength as she pushed into my lower back with her legs. I struggled to liberate myself from the grip of this powerful primate, who at that very moment, was absolutely pummeling me into submission. Soon enough though, I knew my efforts were in vain, and I relinquished my backpack to the brazen orange-haired bandit.

Unyuk, delighted by her victory, shuffled down the path with my pack in tow. Not wanting her to take my things into the canopy, all I could do is stand and watch as she plundered my belongings. With little or no thought at all, she clicked open two clips and unraveled the drawstring that served as the only fortification between my essentials and the marauding primate. The first item to emerge from the backpack was my 35mm camera bag that happened to contain all the photos I had taken over the last month, and of course, my camera. The three clips that comprised the bag’s security system were like child’s play for Unyuk, and before I knew it, my camera lay in the muddy leaf litter. Next, she began tasting everything in the camera bag including residual oil remover that was then smeared all over her arms as if it were fine Swiss moisturizer. She bit through rolls of film like they were bananas and reveled in unraveling the film she found in them. Having found nothing to eat in the camera bag, next she was on to my sun screen, bug spray, and disinfectant, all of which were tasted and then applied to her forearms. I must admit that I smirked at her obvious distaste for the foul-smelling insect repellent. My moment of spite quickly turned to concern about the effects of the Deet-laden chemical. Probably having plundered many a pack, I think she knew to be weary of the chemicals and therefore lived on to carry out future acts of piracy.

By this time, my things were strewn across the forest floor and all the damage that could be done was basically over. Just as Unyuk seemed to be growing bored with her assault, the Camp guide who had been leading the sailors, emerged into the clearing from the path. Noticing what had just happened, he took off running toward Unyuk, who in turn hastily retreated into the forest canopy, but not before snatching an extra shirt from the bottom of my backpack.

The tourists, already the targets of my resentment, spent the next half-hour or so laughing hysterically as Unyuk tried to put on my shirt. She easily slipped both arms through their proper holes, but could not, despite her best efforts, get her head to fit through its designated hole. Despite my bitterness toward the penny-loafer crowd, I too found the situation unbearably hilarious and was rolling around in the leaf litter, emitting belly-rumbling bouts of laughter. That is, once I realized that my camera would live to see another day. After all, I had no one to blame but myself, not even Unyuk. What I did not know at the time was that each day the food is carried to the feeding in a backpack not all that different from the one Unyuk had just rifled through. I cannot be certain however, whether Unyuk mistakenly thought my pack contained food or whether she simply reveled in the opportunity to have a little fun at my expense. Regardless of what was going through her mind, she left me with a memory I will certainly never forget. After all, how many people can say they were mugged by a member of an endangered species?

Sent: Monday, June 14, 2004

Subject: McSquito

Apa Kabar? Everything here is swell. I just got back from Camp Leakey and have a day off before we head back out for six more days in the field. Camp was awesome and is truly my favorite place on Earth. The rest of the group went on a hike to a guard post, but I stayed in Camp to film the resident orangutans. In addition to the usual suspects, a troop of wild pigs meandered through Camp along with a 5-foot long monitor lizard. Very cool and somewhat surreal. It was a perfect break from the group who has a tendency to be a bit anal retentive. It is an absolute joke to see some of these people get all worked up about being on time and sticking to a regimented schedule similar to the one they lead at home. You have to understand that absolutely nothing in Borneo happens on time, so it is utterly ridiculous to get worked up over the timing of things. It’s actually quite nice to just accept that things are not going to happen on time and sit back and enjoy the casual pace of things. It’s just too freaking hot to be concerned with whether you leave at 4:00 or 4:30, but you’d be surprised by how many people are constantly chomping at the bit.

I just got the best news ever. At Camp, I struck up a conversation with a BBC film crew that is making a documentary about the life story of Kusasi, the resident dominant male. After chatting it up for a while, I worked up the nerve to ask them if there was any chance that I could shadow them as they filmed. To my surprise, they were welcoming and are allowing me to follow them around for the last week that I am in Borneo.

I think it is important to report that my face hurts from having a grin plastered across it at all times. I don’t want it to end, and I would consider living here if I wouldn’t miss you all too much. Anyway, I gotta go. Not surprisingly I am being hurried out of here to go wait for something that has no chance of happening on time. Some people just never learn. I love and miss you all. Keep the emails coming. Oh, and by the way, happy belated Ronald Reagan day. Laughable.

Selamat tingal,

rob

As it turned out, I ended up spending the following five days with the BBC crew rather than waiting until my last week. I was more than elated to get to work with an actual crew to see how it’s really done. In preparation for this rare opportunity, I greedily stowed plenty of granola bars, energy bars, candy bars, and other sorts of dirt-tasting health bars into a zip-loc and shoved them into my pack, a decision I would grow to regret. I packed up my camera equipment and the necessary clothing and I was off like a bad hair piece. The days with the film crew were long and frankly, pretty boring, but nonetheless I was getting valuable insight into wildlife film making and the life it demands. I learned tons about my camera and became aware of how little I actually knew about photography and film making. What I appreciated most was hanging out at dinner and talking over tea and the occasional heaven-sent Coca-Cola about everything from football hooligans (“crazed soccer fans” in American-speak) to the war in Iraq.

For whatever reason I began to feel really isolated and sunk back into an old habit of retreating into the depths of my mind and festering in there for long periods of time, sometimes to the point of paralysis. The following journal entry illustrates some of my ups and downs and my daily battle with depression and insecurity.

Chapter Fourteen

Who am I Kidding?

Journal Entry #three, June 17, 2004

Here I sit, only able to see because of candle light and the dying flicker of my headlamp. I am forced to contemplate my life. I am the only English-speaking person for miles. I cannot help but feel that my literal isolation is the perfect metaphor for my life in general. I, like most I assume, have good times and bad but overall have a deeply rooted feeling of being unfulfilled, incomplete, and altogether lost. I cannot pinpoint the root cause of my despair, but in searching I just seem to uncover more and more negative thoughts. Why? I constantly wonder. I have all the blessings anyone in their right mind could possibly hope for, and yet even the thought of being so ungrateful and unsatisfied only escalates my frustration. I will say this for myself, I am growing. I am learning from myself with each great mishap and success alike. I am growing to love myself more and more, but it is not easy to silence the voice inside that is constantly reminding me of my short comings. In the long run, I know it will all turn out fine, despite my best efforts to sabotage myself. I must work extra hard to become comfortable in my own skin. I know that in all likelihood, I will probably have regrets in life, but I have to make a strenuous effort to not let them bog me down and use them as an excuse for my misery. Happiness is going to be a choice for me, so I have to constantly remind myself that I choose to be happy.

This trip, just as in my life, has had some serious ups and downs. Now happens to be a low point, but to put things in perspective, I could be doing a lot worse. I will remember this trip for the rest of my life, so right now, I am choosing to continue making the best of things. I have everything to look forward to, and due to my isolation, I have to live beyond the moment and realize that I will feel better tomorrow.

Wow, I can’t believe that I am writing about my life when I should be relaying all the truly amazing things that I’ve seen and done as of late. Maybe this should serve as a reminder, that I all too often focus on the negative. Sometimes I think I’m more comfortable being miserable, considering all the time and energy I spend dwelling on some of life’s woes.

So here’s what has been happening. We just finished the first two weeks of field work and said goodbye to three volunteers and welcomed four new ones. The first half, although not without problems, was overall a great success. I have been able to maintain a positive attitude (for me anyway). I got to shadow a film crew, and learned a great deal. And now I am here, writing by my dwindling light sources, trying to repress my growling stomach. The rats made off with a bag of food (granola bars, etc.) leaving me with nothing but white hot rage and thirst for revenge on those rodent robbers. Anyway, that’s it for now. Until later.

Chapter Fifteen

Figurative and Literal Isolation

I do apologize for the self-help pep talk that I gave myself in this last journal entry. I’m sorry you had to hear that, but I could honestly care less. I know I’m not perfect and I do not pretend to be. I would be lying if I said I portrayed myself to the world with the same honesty I present myself in personal journals. Nobody is that honest. We all want to present ourselves in the best light possible. With that in mind, the following is an email pertaining to the same time as described in the previous journal entry.

Sent: Sunday, June 20, 2004

Subject: hello meester

Greetings everyone,

Well I just got back from my latest excursion, and I’m happy to report that I haven’t totally succumbed to the mosquito onslaught. I did however survive one of the rather nasty fevers that are all too common here in the tropics. Hallucinations and the whole nine yards, it was fabulous. No complaints though, it all comes with the territory. My time with the BBC crew was short, but nonetheless very informative and invaluable. If nothing else, I made a few friends with whom I can hopefully stay in touch. They had to leave Camp toward the end of my stay to restock their supplies, which left me as the only English speaker for miles and miles. It was quite hilarious. I imagined a hidden camera capturing me miming my points and using extremely bastardized Indonesian. It’s amazing the combinations you can come up with when you know all of 10 words. I basically had to bury myself in my Indonesian\English dictionary (Frank). Truthfully, that isn’t always that helpful though. On the last bit of field work, I accidentally thanked a man for his hostility rather than his hospitality. Needless to say, that went over really well. I guess it pays to look in your dictionary only when there is sufficient light. It all turned out well and we all got a good laugh out of my blunder. I will say this about the Indonesians, they love to laugh, so a smile and a sense of humor can get you a long way. They are the most friendly and accepting people that I’ve encountered in my limited travels. At times it is a little intimidating to walk down the street while everyone is pointing and laughing at you (and shouting “hullo meester”), but most people I encountered just wanted to be acknowledged with a smile and a “hullo.” I’ve found that most are dying for the opportunity to practice their English.

Anyway, so there I was at Camp, hardly able to communicate with anyone, when I realized that despite all the differences between people (i.e., language, culture, etc.) that basically we are all the same and there is some level of unspoken connection between us all. Somehow though, the tiny differences that separate us, speak the loudest, and all that we have in common is lost in translation, quite literally.

Anyway . . . now that I’m sure all of your eyes are glazing over, I’ll wrap this up. Again, I’d just like to thank everyone for writing to me and keeping me in your thoughts. I hope all is well in everyone’s lives, and I will be thinking of you all. Later.

Luego,

rob

Chapter Sixteen

The Dayak

Undoubtedly, a significant reason I was drawn to Borneo in particular was the mystique of the Dayak people. Prior to both trips I compiled bits of information pertaining to the Dayak people. My understanding was probably equivalent to that of someone studying Anthropology in preparation for their Jeopardy appearance. That is, the trivial, and in most cases, outdated facts about a culture somewhat lost. I knew in some detail, about the Dayak’s history of headhunting, as it is probably the most frequently reported aspect of their culture. I also took notice of the Dayak tradition of tattooing as I personally have an affinity for skin art. Other than that, I knew very little of traditional Dayak life, and even less about how the traditions have survived in contemporary times. In some respects, I am thankful that I had a semi-clean slate going in as I feel that my appraisal is less biased. Rather than risk being a complete armchair anthropologist, I will relate my experience with the Dayak people to that of W.R. Geddes, who more than fifty years ago documented his experience with the Dayak of Sarawak in his classic ethnography Nine Dayak Nights. Additionally I will include my email correspondence with my Anthropology professor, to whom I made a fledgling attempt to describe my cultural experiences.

In order to get to the iceberg’s base of understanding Dayak culture, you must understand that the number of ethnic groups that fall under the Dayak banner are, by some estimates, in the hundreds. These groups are all similar in their dependence on rice cultivation and shared religious beliefs, but differ in terms of language and culture as much or more than the American Indian tribes did from one another. In my estimation, which is admittedly from very little interaction, the modern Dayak can be best understood by the sum of all the outside influences that have been incorporated into Dayak culture to fit the needs of living in Borneo. The Dayak has a long history of contact with foreigners and incorporation of goods and practices beginning with Malay and Chinese traders and continuing through World Wars, colonialism and the missionaries that followed. In fact, it was a foreigner, the White Raja, who officially put an end to the practice of headhunting and is credited with bringing peace to Borneo. The first story I became aware of regarding Western contact with traditionally living Dayak people was that of Thomas Harrison. Harrison, a British Commando in World War II, bravely parachuted into the heart of Borneo and organized a guerilla force of Dayak warriors to push back the Japanese who were raiding villages and capitalizing on the region’s wealth in oil. Harrison’s men pushed the Japanese out of Borneo with spine chilling ambushes in which Japanese soldiers were shot with poison darts and decapitated. This practice, though probably not likely to be accepted by the Geneva Convention, highlights the Dayak nature, not for blood thirsty violence but for a rational and collective use of force only when threatened.

In the 1950's, Geddes describes the Dayaks as practicing an animistic religion involving the appeasement of ancestral spirits. “The Dayaks believe, some clearly and some obscurely, that every object, but particularly those growing or usable or capable of changing in any way, has in it a kind of force (Geddes, xxiv).” He described their religious ceremonies as social gatherings that serve two purposes. The main purpose for Dayak ceremony was to heal the sick and cleanse the village of vile spirits. The evil spirits at the root of sickness and disease were ceremoniously denounced with the strength of communal resonance. This ceremony also served as an offering to the spirits who presided over the health and productivity of that year’s rice paddy. “With especial tenderness they consider the vital force of the paddy itself, nursing it with ritual from the time it is seed until it is bowing down with ripened ears, and storing the harvested grain in semi-sacred bins–but always with something like half-belief, as insurance rather than as necessity (Geddes, xxvi).” The second purpose was to bring villagers together in a social setting to promote unity, social cohesion, and the transmission of cultural values to younger generations. The Dayak people made little distinction between religion and everyday life, and all the day’s events were generally interpreted in the religious context. Religion served as the basis for how life was understood, as it provided explanations about things like why a person may suddenly fall sick and die.

As I mentioned, religion and healing were highly intertwined. Those who practiced medicine and those who practiced religion were typically one and the same. Both acted as a conduit to the spirits and could act to remedy whatever illness had been inflicted by evil spirits. Often there were women villagers who were very effective herbalists who gave out natural remedies to supplement the spiritual healing (Geddes, xiv). This type of natural medicine was in large part unrecognizable to me save for one flowering plant that I was told, if chewed into a paste and applied to a cut, acted as a disinfectant. The modern Dayak, as with most Indonesians, rely on a more Western approach to medicine. Vaccines via injection have become common place although most cannot afford regular medical treatment. As a result of more accessible healthcare and judging from the large family sizes typical in Borneo, the infant mortality rate has been drastically reduced since Geddes’ time with the Dayak.

I would be so bold as to say that what has happened to traditional religions around the world can be considered nothing short of an assault. Essentially since the beginning of contact with the outside world, missionaries have been working busily to discredit traditional religions and marginalize them with Western logic and rationale. “The apostles of Christianity feel justified in making such an attack. We shall pass over the fact that they strike the first blows with the weapons of rationalism (Geddes, xv).” Mainstream religion has all but replaced traditional religions in places like Borneo. Islam in particular has taken firm root throughout Indonesia, comprising over 88% of the country’s population. Most Dayak today are largely Muslim or Catholic. And again, this is from my extremely limited experience, I do not pretend to speak for all Dayak throughout the third largest island in the world.

One thing that has remained unchanged about the Dayak and all people in Indonesia for that matter, is the total and utter dependence on rice. Rice continues to be a staple and is therefore still highly revered. I suspect that even ardent Muslims and Catholics still ask the paddy spirits for a successful harvest. Quite literally, from the beginnings of their lives on this planet, Dayak are utterly dependent on rice. “They need it, for the Dayak baby, on the very first day of its birth, is started on rice, masticated first by its mother and taken along with her milk (Geddes, 40).”

Agriculture in general has remained essential to both Dayak and Indonesian life. Unfortunately, the practice of shifting cultivation still continues as well today. “Every June each village family will clear one or two new fields, covering together an area of from two to four acres. The tangled growth on the chosen area is cut down, and burnt when it is dry. The seed is put in, the plants tended, and the harvest gathered. Thereafter, a few fields, or parts of fields, may be used for a year or two longer as sugar-cane or cassava gardens, but most of the clearings will be given up, for ten years or so, to the lush, wild overwhelming weeds. The farmer is glad to see these weeds take possession quickly, for if they do not, and only choking lalang grass springs up instead, he knows that he can never farm in that place again (Geddes, 8).” This practice is, of course, not very ecologically sound, but in comparison to the damage wreaked by the permanence of palm oil plantations, it is rather benign. The encroachment of palm oil plantation into protected areas such as Tanjung Puting is seen as the single biggest threat to the future of the orangutan, a species that is highly revered in Dayak lore. “[T]he Land Dayak say that the ape is a descended man. The orangutan, they say, spring from a man who, becoming ashamed at some misdeed in the village, ran away into the jungle. He stayed there so long that he took on the form of an orangutan, and his children were like him. The wife, on this theory, is the missing link (Geddes, 12).” This explains the meaning of the word orangutan. In Bahasa, “Orang” means person\man, and the word “hutan” means forest, and together mean “man of the forest.”

One aspect of Dayak life that has remained basically unchanged in the last fifty years is the total dependence on the rivers that flow throughout the forest for everything from fish for eating to access to the outside world. Anywhere you want to go is typically done in a boat of some sort. Though the types of boats have changed with the availability of outboard motors, the act of using rivers as the main means for transportation has remained unchanged.

Another societal quality that has persevered all these years is the Dayak sense of humor and humility. “The humor is ironic, with an edge not bitter but deflating. It debunks the proud and reduces the great (Geddes, 5).” In a society and culture that places a high value on selflessness and social cohesion, humility is a virtue that strengthens the whole. Humor, aimed at taking the swelling out of one’s head, serves a very specific purpose. Careful teasing brings everybody back down to the same playing field. As everyone is theoretically equal, humor serves to ensure modesty in all villagers, regardless of their relative success and contribution to society. I came to appreciate this quality of my Indonesian hosts as it seemed like there was never an inappropriate time to joke or exchange a knowing smirk.

Chapter Seventeen

First Crack

Sent: Monday, June 28, 2004

Subject: Cultural Observations

Dr. Keller,

Despite your warning, I was unable to get any books on the Dayak prior to my trip here to Borneo, so I’ve gone in completely cold. Compounding my problems is the fact that I have had extremely limited access to Dr. Galdikas, as we are busy fighting to stop plans for a corporate sponsored palm oil plantation that would surround the entire Eastern border of Tanjung Puting National Park. Not only would this eliminate any hope of a wildlife corridor in and out of the park, but the plan extends about two and half kilometers into the park’s boundaries. It is an ongoing battle with attacks coming from all sides. If it’s not illegal logging, it’s gold mining, or worse yet, agricultural “development.” Granted that we have been mapping the endangered areas, but as a preliminary estimate, I would say that only about 30-35% of the park remains in relative health.

It is beyond depressing at times. We are fighting, not to stop people from developing their land, but for a way of managing that development in such a way that is sustainable. At the current rate of resource extraction, the people of Kalimantan will be no better off in the future as they are presently. You cannot deny a population the right to try to better their condition, but our hope is that we can influence the situation in a way that betterment does not come at the expense of the environment and future generations of Indonesians.

Despite having little information and few interviews from which to draw, I have extracted a few basic observations about the cultural composition of Kalimantan Tengah (Central Borneo). This region is primarily inhabited by two main cultural groups, the Dayak and the Melayu. As with the vast majority of other Indonesians, both groups mostly practice Islam. The Indonesian government only recognizes five major religions; Islam (88%), Protestant (5%), Catholic (3%), Hindu (2%), and Buddhist (1%). However, many groups, like the Dayak, practice a hybrid of traditional Animistic beliefs with any of the five major religions, most commonly Islam. A notable exception is the Melayu who practice a very fundamental form of Islam. Even in tiny villages deep in the forest’s of Tanjung Puting, you can hear the Islamic call to prayer beaming from the local Mosque’s loud speakers several times a day.

The practice of Animistic beliefs should not be overstated as the vast majority of the Dayak people I encountered were monotheistic and unfamiliar with traditional religions. On our last round of field work we were accompanied by a Dayak village headman, who I had imagined would have some insight into traditional beliefs. When I asked him, through a translator, if he would explain to me the Dayak story of creation, he happily explained, at length, the Koranic version of creation that sounded an awful lot like the one I was taught in Sunday school. After some further prodding he said that he was unfamiliar with any Dayak creation story other than what can be found in the Koran. I was extremely saddened by this apparent culture loss, until I asked him to explain the significance of the decorations on his machete. The blade’s sheath was decorated with deer hides and hooves, neither of which were culturally significant other than that they implied hunting. The blade itself had been forged locally, and the handle was carved from wood into the shape of a bird’s head. From the top of the bird’s head shot a lock of black hair. When I asked about the significance of the lock of hair, the headman’s eyes brightened and he proudly replied, “Madura.” He then went on to tell a story that will make sense after a bit of background information.

A problem throughout many Indonesian islands, particularly Java, is overpopulation. The government’s solution has been to relocate large amounts of people to more sparsely populated areas like Kalimantan to farm and make a better life for themselves. This has been a major stumbling point in my cultural observations because many of the people I’ve encountered are transmigrants from the islands of Java, Flores, Sulawesi, and Madura to name a few. Often times this cultural transmission has had horrifying consequences, and the story I am about to tell is certainly no exception. Before I get started though, I must begin with a disclaimer that many of the details were lost in translation, but overall the story has been verified independently on several occasions.

Over the course of the last few decades, thousands of Madurese have been relocated to Kalimantan for the reason previously mentioned. Despite having left their island behind, they did not leave the cultural practices and attitudes that had grown and been nurtured there. Unfortunately, they had never heard of the Western concept of “when in Rome...,” and to put it in Americana vernacular, “they acted like they owned the place.” Needless to say, this did not go over well with the local people who have a heritage and an affinity to the land that these new-comers were so blatantly disrespecting.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came roughly two years ago (2002???) when a Dayak girl was impregnated by a Madurese boy. Ordinarily this would not have been a problem except that when the boy was confronted and instructed that he must marry this girl and help raise the child, the boy refused and paid no respect to the Dayak community’s wishes. The girl’s family and village elders continued to pressure this boy and his family to no avail. The feud progressed until the girl was found dead with her womb removed. Word of this spread from Dayak village to village like wildfire, and a council of leaders was called to decide what had to be done. The answer was simple, the Madurese had to be killed. All of them.

A Dayak commander, widely believed to be capable of extremely powerful black magic, performed a ceremony that called upon Dayaks from all around to come fight by casting a spell upon them. Sure enough, Dayak warriors were summoned and arrived for battle. The warriors were described as being in a possessed state in which they could smell a Madurese from miles away and recognize them as having the faces of monkeys and horns like a deer.

What ensued was a bloodbath. The Dayaks proceeded to go from house to house killing every Madurese man, woman and child by lopping off their heads, leaving the streets strewn with headless corpses. These warriors were said to be under such strong magic that their flesh was impervious to police bullets and were incapable of being burned by fire. The warriors set fire to every Madurese house, leaving all other people and their belongings undisturbed. The Dayak’s vendetta was toward the Madurese, and therefore they did not harm a hair on anyone else, even the police who made a futile effort to stop the rampage. Once the score had been settled, the spell was lifted from the warriors and they returned to their everyday lives. This is where our village headman friend got the lock of hair to decorate his machete. It was very hard to imagine this man to be capable of such carnage as I did and still do regard him to be the salt of the Earth. This type of activity is not even slightly typical of contemporary Dayak culture. In pre-colonial days and only sporadically thereafter, decapitation was the hallmark of Dayak warfare. This practice has all but ceased to exist except in extremely rare circumstances such as the one just mentioned. I find this story to be interesting because the magic aspect is basically universally accepted as the truth, even by the most ardent monotheists with whom I’ve spoken. I suspect that more traditional beliefs occur in the undercurrent and surface when they suit a specific purpose. I also imagine that there is some hesitancy to talk about such beliefs with a Westerner who they’ve known only a short period of time.

In conclusion, what this has cemented in my mind is that cultures cannot be judged based on the standards of one’s own. All too often we have attempted to use Western culture, and more specifically, American culture as the Rosetta stone for deciphering what is right and just in cultures throughout the world. Until this practice is curtailed, we will never truly discover the meaning of justice, and cultural harmony will always be just out of reach.

Anyway, Dr. Keller, you gave me the freedom to explore my cultural experiences and I took the liberty of trying to relate those experiences of what is going on in both the micro and macro levels of this focus area. I’m hoping that this is at least partially what you are looking for, but in the case that I was way off, I’d be happy to rewrite this altogether. I will have limited access to the internet, but please write me back as soon as possible. Again, I want to thank you for giving me so much freedom to figure things out on my own and not be bogged down with too many specifics. Hope all is well in your neck of the woods, and I look forward to hearing from you soon. Thanks again.

Sincerely,

Rob McFarland

Chapter Eighteen

Where Rumors Meet Fact

It is impossible to confirm whether the alleged provocation for the Dayak-led violence is accurate or not, but regardless, the story illustrates the recent feud that has developed between the Dayak and the Madurese. According to Human Rights Watch, this is a conflict that has come to a slow boil and is a threat to peace in Central Borneo. “Outbreaks between Dayak and Madurese have been common in recent years, particularly in West Kalimantan (HRW, 01),” and have in large-part left the Madurese displaced and in fear for their lives.

In an article published in 2001, Human Rights Watch describes the provocation for similar violence as being the result of a political dispute, and in another case, as a result of gambling. It is therefore not difficult to imagine a flare-up resulting from the pregnant girl’s murder. The Dayak allege that “Madurese have systematically taken their land and that Madurese culture is antithetical to their own (HRW, 01).” The catalyst for such violence is generally arbitrary as the real reason is rooted in a history of cultural differences and alleged improprieties.

As it turns out, the observations that I could make, were relatively accurate, but in hind-sight, there is so much I missed and failed to explore. For instance, I failed to probe very deeply into our headman’s official position. Our host and leader, Pak Mardin, who for lack of a better term, we referred to as a headman or chief. Far from the anthropologically accepted use of these terms, the man was, nonetheless, a strong and valued leader. The traditional Dayak headman, as described in Nine Dayak Nights, was appointed by consent, and had only enough power to lead as the people afforded him. The headman had little or no power to coerce as “he leads only when people agree to be led (Geddes, 21).” The headman was generally chosen for his wisdom, fairness, and generosity and was the person that best represented the interest of the villagers. The headman was given the power to call meetings to discuss everything from work debits and credits to the proposed sites for future farming. However, the headman did not have the authority to preside over these meeting, rather his only hope of affecting the outcome was with carefully chosen words uttered at precisely the right moment.

Pak Mardin certainly exemplified the virtues of a Dayak leader. In addition to leading us through the rainforest with skill and precision, he also invited us to his house to sip sweet tea and talk of the Park’s future. Several of the older and more respected men met with us in Pak Mardin’s house, and despite the translation problem, they expressed their concerns about the palm oil plantation very succinctly.

The role of Pak Mardin in his village will remain only speculative, but judging from some of the posters decorating his wall, he served as his community’s ambassador to the global village. That is, he served as his village’s mouthpiece and activist in dealing with Non-Governmental Organization such as O.F.I., World Education Inc., Global Forest Watch, and the Environmental Investigative Agency to name a few. His house was partially decorated with posters and flyers from several of these organizations, giving evidence to their work in the area over the last quarter century.

The village, from which Pak Mardin hailed, was only vaguely like that described as a traditional Dayak village. To begin with, these modern Dayak no longer live in traditional longhouses. Longhouses, which as their name implies, were huge stilted structures comprised of many conjoined living spaces and several shared areas. “The whole structure is raised about sixteen feet off the ground on hardwood piles, and is roofed over in part by sago-palm leaf and in part by hardwood shingles. Two hundred and fifty people live in it (Geddes, 28).” This type of communal living helped perpetuate the work-for-trade economy. Villagers exchanged days worth of labor in each others fields in order to split up the intense amount of work that it takes to grow and harvest rice. Women typically have, and continue to bear a far larger share of the work load. In addition to their work in the field, women were expected to fulfill domestic chores and child rearing. The extra work did not go unnoticed. “It is some compensation for the harder work of the young women that the largest share of personal expenditure on the household budget tends to go to them, in the way of sarongs and articles of adornment (Geddes, 41).” Judging from the hard work and long hours in the lives of the women I encountered, there seemed to be little separation between work and life. Often times I would emerge from a long hike at Camp Leakey to discover the women staff members hand-washing their clothes in the river, all the while laughing joyfully. Despite not living in traditional longhouse, communities seemed to be comprised in similar ways. That is, not strictly by kinship, but in a way that is more thorough and provides an inclusive sense of communal unity. “They need not be a formally organized community because they are a community by situation–a crowd united by common interests, by belief in a common fate, by mutual need, and by many diverse ties of blood and friendship and debt and credit (Geddes, 32).” Dayak individuals have an intense bond with the society as a whole. That bond is reflected by their seemingly haphazard kinship system that includes members that are sometimes barely related (by our standards) if at all. Distinguishing themselves into rigid familial bloodlines would be problematic for the Dayak as it “could only divide, when the need is to unite (Geddes, 33).” I think that a lesson can be learned from this, especially in light of the world’s political climate that is constantly fracturing people into ever-narrowing fragments of isolation, when the desperate need is for all to be united.

As I mentioned, save for the occasional outbreak, headhunting is a practice that no longer exists in Borneo. Prior to the peace brought to Borneo by the White Raja, headhunting existed not for the enjoyment of such savagery, but rather for cultural purposes. The heads reaped from headhunting trips were “expressive of the personal combats which the little Dayak wars never go beyond, the heads were made into especially powerful symbols of village unity by being treated as the objects of grand village triumphs, and into symbols of supernatural support by their presentation to the gods (Geddes, 52).” In addition to the message a headless corpse sent to potential enemies, the practice of headhunting had strong religious implications. After a successful battle was waged, warriors and villagers alike, offered the heads to the spirits in grandiose ceremonies. The heads represented the struggle for life in the environment in which they lived–“a place of ever present danger demanding vigilance, and perhaps struggle for survival (Geddess, 57).” The pure cost of throwing such a festivity made an unprovoked hunt extremely unlikely and acted as a deterrent for unnecessary violence. By some accounts, tattooing in Dayak culture arose as a symbolic act that successful headhunters would undergo to mark their accomplishments and pay tribute to the spirits. Others argue that tattoos were not reserved for hunters or even men for that matter, and therefore served as symbols to represent significant events and were meant to be interpreted in the same way books are read. The truth, like most things in life, is probably somewhere in the middle, though the rationale for my own tattoos leans toward the latter, so I’m obviously a bit partial.

The fear of other headhunters also served as a strong social control that ensured that villagers would not stray too far from home, but also defined bravery in those who did. That same fear ensured that villagers would act in accordance to the wishes of spirits that could potentially lead a wandering band of headhunters in their direction. The importance of spiritual harmony cannot be understated. Dayaks strive to appease the spiritual force at work in the world with desirable behavior and the occasional sacrifice, much in the same way that Westerners strive to act in accordance to a moral standard (theoretically anyway). The sacrifice in the latter case however, typically is in the form of money, a more fitting offering considering the god-like status money has achieved in our society.

Chapter Nineteen

No Smooth Sailing

I was anxious to get back out in the field after my time with the BBC crew. The solitude afforded by Camp had given me ample time to set up shop in my psyche and do some serious analysis. Needless to say, by the end of my few days there, I was thoroughly sick of myself, and ready to divert my attention to something else. The East side of the park and its many problems was going to be just the thing I needed.

Sent: Sunday, June 27, 2004

Subject: Psychosomatic mosquito bites

Hello everyone,

I’ll cut to the chase and spare you the formalities. Yesterday we returned from five days in the field on the Eastern border of Tanjung Puting. First of all, the transportation to and from was about as fun as getting a root canal while having a catheter removed (though I cannot personally attest to the joy of either, you get the point). To begin the journey (or end it, depending on which direction you are traveling) we took a car ride on a road resembling how I imagine the Baghdad Interstate to appear. This road had more craters, divots, cracks, ruts, and canyon-sized holes that you can imagine. Adding to the delightfulness of the drive was thousands of mopeds, trucks, bicycles, chickens and stray dogs all jockeying for the least treacherous route through the war zone of a road. After that we had two more boat rides both of which were roughly two hours a piece and equally grueling. I’ll spare you the details for now. The only reason I’ve whined so much thus far is that the transportation was by far the least upsetting aspect of this excursion, and I thought I’d soften you up.

It’s really hard not to get emotionally involved in your work when everything you see is absolutely catastrophic. I’m sure many of you can relate. We spent three days mapping the line of what will soon be an absolutely gigantic corporate-sponsored palm oil plantation that cuts into the park by roughly two and half kilometers, and spans almost the entire eastern border. If the plan, which we are fighting to stop, goes through, it will not only have devastating effects on orangutan populations, but all other species in and around the park will suffer as well, humans included. The rivers will become polluted with pesticides and sediment, which will ruin fish populations and in turn destroy the local communities that rely on fish to supplement their meager diets of rice, noodles, and the occasional egg. We also came to discover that nearly every square foot of usable land, as far as the eye could see, had been logged, burned, farmed, and left for fallow. Truth be told, there were some extremely small and sporadic islands of secondary trees dotting the landscape, but other than that, most had virtually been mowed down to make room for agricultural plots. I almost forgot to mention that all this destruction is within the “protected” area. I can only imagine what areas outside the park look like. I apologize for painting such a bleak picture, but it is truly depressing, and worst of all, there are no good solutions about what can be done.

It is a very humbling experience to say the least. It makes you feel very small and powerless. On that same note though, you can’t just give up and quit, you have to keep fighting even if in your lifetime you don’t change a single mind or land a single punch. All you can do is stick your middle finger in your opponent’s face and continue to throw haymaker after haymaker.

Overall, I cannot complain about a single aspect of this entire trip (a few gripes but no complaints). Just like as in everyday life, this trip has had good times and bad, forgettable and unforgettable moments, and an array of unexplainable emotions and feelings. The low-light, I’ll admit, happened on my rain forest baptism, the hike of hikes, the death march, if you will. I described it in a previous email, but if I remember correctly, I withheld the gory details. The worst part, by far, happened about three quarters of the way into the 15 mile hike. I was carrying my camera pack, heavy in itself, but also loaded down with several bottles of water. I was completely exhausted physically and mentally when my upper back and shoulders began to violently cramp. With each cramp, my non-surgically repaired shoulder, was jerked out of socket, giving me the sensation of being stabbed in the neck every few seconds for about 3 or 4 miles. Surprisingly though my repaired shoulder didn’t budge an inch, so I can’t whine too much. The highlight, without a doubt was all the different local people I met during field work. I spent as much time as possible just hanging out and commiserating. Now that I’ve been here for nearly a month, I walk down the street and people step out of their houses to yell “hullo meester Rob.” Most come out to chat despite the language barrier. I absolutely adore the local people and will miss them more than anything. I don’t want to leave. I’ve already come to the conclusion that this chapter in my life is nowhere near complete. It’s just a matter of time (and money) until I return.

Well, tomorrow my trip and internship culminate with another visit to Camp Leakey. After that it’s off to Bangkok via Jakarta for a month of tramping around Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos. Though nothing could touch the Borneo leg of my trip, I am looking forward to doing a bit of beach laying and other touristy activities. Now that I’m positive that no one could possibly still be reading this, I’ll wrap it up. Thanks again everyone who wrote to me and helped me maintain my sanity. Hope to hear from you all soon.

Sincerely,

Rob McFarland

The time I spent in the Dayak village and the forest on the Park’s East side was perhaps the most insightful experience I gained in the month of field work. Right before my eyes were the effects of the global economics that I had only all-to-recently theorized about in my Senior Capstone class on Globalization. These people were of the most marginalized by the big players in the global economy. For instance, the land for the corporate-sponsored plantation was bought from the villagers whose only true wealth is in their land. The sums these people were paid for their ancestral lands, amount to pennies on the dollar compared to the dollars that will be rolling into the corporate headquarters in Jakarta or Kula Lampur.

Chapter 20

Crash

After finishing the last round of field work, I began to come down. Just like a heroin junky coming down off his last fix, I was coming down off what had easily been the most exciting few months in recent memory. Those last few days seem like an absolute blur, and it is at this point where my memories become clouded with mind-numbing nostalgia. One of the clearest most distinct memories of those dying days pertains to the boat ride home from our last visit to Camp Leakey. As we raced down the river that night, obliging group members enjoyed a cool beer and shared a kind word. Some exchanged hugs and promises for future correspondence. I cannot say exactly what I was feeling at that very moment, but I suspect it resembled something like unabashed joy.

Sent: Tuesday, July 6, 2004

Subject: The Last Installment

Yes, as the subject of this email implies, this will be the last of my bulk mailings that have, for the last month or so, been clogging your inboxes and boring you to tears (and a collective “thank god” is heard around the country). Now, as a lowly tourist, without aim or a sense of purpose, I figure that any further romanticizing about my experiences would be all too common and fall upon deaf ears. You see, unlike the last leg of my trip, I am among thousands of tourists, all funneling our way down a path that has been beaten to a pulp. Each of us with our own fantasy of experiencing something new, something unique, something that can be packaged up nicely and fit within the frames of our cameras. I don’t mean to sound jaded or cynical, but coming from such a remote location to Bangkok has left me a little disillusioned, and as I mentioned, without a sense of purpose or clarity.

I feel almost as if I’m just going through the motions. I get the feeling that I’ve already lived my life and my daily experiences are just memories that I am recalling from a nursing home bed sometime in the future. I have to remind myself that I am not reading a story but rather creating one with each minute of my life. I keep reminding myself of a thought that occurred to me years ago and has somehow stuck with me ever since. It’s almost become my mantra. Say it with me now, “each passing second is the oldest I’ve ever been.” And again, “each passing second is the oldest (and most wise) I’ve ever been.”

Anyways...Bangkok is an amazingly large and Westernized city that toes the line between tradition and modernity. Without question though, it leans more towards the latter, despite being rich in tradition and culture. Tonight I am taking an overnight bus ride to Koh Tao, an island in the Gulf of Thailand that is regarded as having the best diving in the country. I’m planning to dive it up and do tons of beach laying. I plan on returning a freckly-shade of red. Anyways, I’d just like to thank you all again for being such a receptive audience, and though I won’t be writing anymore group emails, I would love to hear from you all very soon.

Best Wishes,

Rob McFarland