Penan of Borneo

Based on the life of Bruno Manser here represented as the fictional character Ernest Masters who lives with the nomadic Penan of Borneo for six years.  He defends their sacred lands against the encroaching lumber companies.  

 When Ernest Master first came into contact with the Penan he was a man

seeking solace. A man with a troubled heart who was at odds with his

own life, not just his personal life, his upbringing, his strict family life,

perhaps the loss of his mother at an early age was also a factor. His

rambling search had eventually and fortuitously brought him to the far side

of the world, to the most remote part of the planet, in order to find peace

with the Penan in the equatorial rainforests. He was away from the

madding crowds, the hustle of mainstream life, the competition, greed and

avarice he despised in the commercialism that had become normalized in

the West. He knew not all people felt like he did and he knew he had so

much to be satisfied with in his life when he looked around the sorry state

of the world. He knew on one level he was one of the fortunate few but at

the same time sought to do better for himself and for others.

Well living with the Penan over time. He found that as he adapted to their

ways, learned their language and habits, it became a natural and easy

thing to do. He felt happy and it was a sustained happiness for one of the

first times in his life. For this he was eternally grateful and he attributed

this state of mind to his present environment and life with the Penan.

Ernest had studied various indigenous tribes in an academic sense before

setting out to Borneo and had learned certain lessons about their

behaviour that now living with them he could match the realities with his

readings. Often he had read what early explorers, often missionaries, or

soldiers from World War ll, even early Dutch explorers had written about

the various native groups who lived in Borneo. Some of the writings he

was discovering were quite accurate while some were anecdotal and

wildly missed the mark in terms of any degree of accuracy.

What he did observe for himself first hand and recorded in his own

journals was that the Penan are actually a kind and gentle people. Their

culture was based on sharing and was not competitive in nature. Food,

tools, materials were always unconditionally shared within the community

which usually consisted of nomadic units of about 25 to 40 members.

They did not hoard or value material possessions above what was

utilitarian for basic comfort and survival. There success was often

measured in their generosity to others and not in accumulation of wealth.

In a nomadic society accumulation made no sense as one had to travel

light and be mobile and flexible.Penan took care of their own, if someone was injured or old they were

cared for regardless of circumstances. Kinship and family operated as

their natural social net and support system. They were solidly self-

sufficient. They did do some trading on occasion with coastal tribes for

things they could not produce for themselves. Before colonialism this was

conducted on a barter system without the need for cash. Status within the

community was based on knowledge and the ability to hunt, navigate and

provide and make things, not to accumulate wealth. Status was ingrained

in virtue and skill not superficial wealth as Ernest frequently made the

comparison to capitalism.

The Penan were an egalitarian society likely because they were organized

into smaller units because of their nomadic life style. The larger and more

complex a society becomes, regardless of their culture, becomes less

egalitarian, less democratic with more of a defined hierarchy as they grow

in size. Ernest again made the comparison to the West and its insatiable

appetite for all things and seemed to circle around the locus of points as

to the nature of his malcontent and why Penan life was more natural on so

many levels. One society was based on equality and the other was not.

One was sustainable if left alone and the other would burn itself out in the

short term if not reined in. Wealth concentrates over time. Power follows

the wealth, while in the so called ignorant pagan world the values are such

that society is prioritized, wealth does not accumulate, power does not

corrupt and their is a certain spiritual purity that separates the systems.

In the Penan tradition nothing was written down. It was a culture of

strong oral traditions. All of their laws, mores, histories, folklore, and

songs were all interwoven with singing and story telling. People could

remember the most minute of details of a hunt or of a journey. A good

story teller or singer could enlighten or entertain for days at a time with

details of hunts, travels and domestic lore of any kind.

In the evening, when the meal was done, everyone having with practiced

skill scaled, without using hands as their was no railing, the slippery

notched pole leading to the porch outside of the longhouse there to share

evening stories, often in the form of song. Gathereed in the darkness

above the insect chatter and the crackling of a fire. Stories covered an

array of topics spoken at a leisurely pace unfolding slowly, often building

up a momentum as was integral to the content of the story to be told.They were of recent births, funerals and marriages, departures and

arrivals. At any point in the story that is of particular import the teller may

backtrack his narration and retell the same events in a slightly different

mode in order to capitalize on its popularity and savour the moments to

the full. Perhaps this was done to fix the story and its plot line in the

tellers head for perpetuity.

One old story frequently told about Ahan, a legendary cook who was

unmarried, beautiful, graceful, strong and highly desired, in short the ideal

woman from the Penan perspective. As the story goes she was so

talented and clever that her pot of rice cooked before the smoke from the

fire had risen 12 feet. Only ten grains of rice in her pot proved sufficient to

feed ten men. Ahan was desired by all men for many reasons, culinary

was but one. When one story teller/singer finished another would start to

make a continuum of narration. The next song had a beautiful melodic

and resonating quality interspersed with distinct pauses to mark the

stanza breaks. It was a sentimental song that caused every one listening

to lay quietly drifting off into their own memories and interpretations of the

story. At songs end there was silence and a pause before the next one

began.

Another song was dedicated to those that went away to coastal towns to

w0rk and left the village for months at a time. The song was for those

wives left behind waiting for the return of their husband back to village life.

The song is sung for comfort over the time a loved one is absent. As the

nomadic life style was gradually changing due to outside influences more

Penan were settling in permanent villages. The song spoke to the migrant

husbands who left for jobs. Such songs also let everyone know that one

was thinking of his wife and she was missed.

Eventually, everyone would fall asleep or wandered off to their area of the

longhouse until morning depending on the amount of arak that had been

consumed or the direction the festivities had taken as dancing was also

central to the Penan social scene, a simple yet complex people.

Village life was a flow of simple rituals based on survival and hard labour.

The women pounding their rice with five foot long hardwood poles while

the men cut timber and collected rattan in the jungle. Behind the scenes

always quiet talks and conversations in muted tones and yet so much

more, not that there was a constant joy in the work it was more matter offact, an efficient perfection over time to get a job done, always with

contentment and no matter the simplicity always resulting in another story

to tell. The culture was based on long silences, hard work and intense

times of celebration and communication through song, dance and story

telling. The Penan like to drink their anak, party, dance, sing and story tell

long into the night and early morning. They knew how to balance work

and play.

“Hunting was an almost daily occurrence.” Ernest had written in his

journal. Pa Ubang and I were washing our clothes in the river one late

afternoon when we heard the echoing howling of the two hunting dogs.

They were trained to the sound and movement of game, especially that of

wild boar.

Pa Ubang responded instinctually and rapidly placing a spear in my hand

and shouting out to the hunting dogs at the same time, so they knew we

were coming to the hunt. Ubang disappeared into the forest before I even

had a sense of the weight of the spear in my hand. I hesitated

momentarily before chasing off towards the howling dogs and the hunt.

I thought I would get quickly lost and lose Ubang or perhaps run right into

the centre of the hunt, ether way it might not go well for me. Ubang kept

calling to the dogs giving me a signal to hone in on and a trail to follow.

Branches slapped in my face and thorns slashed at my angles, at least the

leeches had no opportunity to attach as I ran madly forward. Suddenly, a

flash of movement caught my eye as Pa Ubang accelerated in front of me

and then out of sight leaving me again on my own.

I broke into a clearing . The dogs were holding a large deer with a huge

rack of antlers temporarily at bay. Insanely, I thought Pa grabbed the deer

by the neck and brought it down in a bold wrestling move that defied

reality. The deer shook him off and rapidly rose to his feet fully

aggravated, agitated and ready for fight or flight. My hope was on flight

when Pa Ubang speared the deer into its shoulder enough to change flight

to fight.

The flurry that followed brought Pa Bang to the ground allowing the deer

to gore his leg badly. He lay their exposed and totally vulnerable. I stood

there as if in a trance spear at the ready doing nothing. Eventually, I

realized I was doing nothing and was useless. Reality started for me inslow motion. I felt detached from the hunt as if in a dream . I felt my

hands tighten on the spear. I saw Ubang prone on the ground and in pain.

I saw the deer prepared for another attack. Without further thought I

secured my hands on the shaft of the spear and I rammed it as hard as

possible into the deer’s side. Hooves flashed by my face and the huge

crazed animal went down in a heart beat, his own, and lay dead at my

feet. The dogs backed off. Ubang stared at me in wonder. I was just

trying to catch my breath.

I had never in my life killed an animal in such a way and went from feeling

god-like, to trembling, in an instant. I removed the spear as best I could

Ubang was bleeding and needed my attention. He told me he was fine

and that I had made the kill. It was a glorious day…

Ernest had stopped tracking time in any traditional way as it was rendered

a meaningless gesture in the Garden of Eden. Initially he had meticulously

kept his journals and recorded his every thought, the details of Penan life

and how he was being absorbed daily into its enticing thread. Now the

journals, after several years, were more terse a little sparse on details as

their relevance seem to decline. They had still served as a type of life line

to the outside world, a line that he relied on less and less as time moved

on. He lost the concept of days, weeks, months. Now he thought in

migrational patterns, animal movements, sago ripening, seasonal growth

patterns, not found on the Gregorian calendar.

Mornings began with a hush of mist among the trees, the air fragrant with

rich resins and thick wood smoke. He would rise with the Penan men to

follow the numerous trails. He learned to read the trails and markers, the

narrow breathing paths of packed earth the forest seemed to close behind

him as he moved. They moved as water, noiseless but constant, every

step guided by generations of memory. Ernest learned to read the moss

on bark, the markings carved into the base of a tree to indicate direction,

the lay of a broken branch or twig, the faint scuff of a boar’s hoof.

Everything once subtle and invisible became to his attention his awareness

was profound, like growing from child to adult all over again, this time in

the natural world.

Food was always a communal act. Essential sago was beaten from palm

trunks, its flour roasted into flat warm cakes. Wild fruits hung heavy in the

season; sometimes as hunters they returned with a porcupine or a slowLoris, offered to the elders first. The meat smoked and shared equally, as

was the way. The women wrapped in cloth patterned like the forest floor,

worked beside the men, not behind them. There was no rush here, no

counting of hours, only rhythm of hunger, weather, the river, the ripening of

fruits.

It was within these rhythms that he first noticed Lian. She was not the

chief’s daughter, nor the most outspoken, yet her eyes, dark as soil after

Monsoon rain, held an imperative watchfulness that matched his own. At

first she regarded him as one would a half-tamed bird, with curiosity and

caution. He in turn was careful, understanding that affection here was not

declared in words but in actions. Carrying the heavier end of the sago log,

repairing the thatch above the sleeping place when a storm tore it loose,

offering her the best cut of meat after a hunt.

When, after only months with the tribe, Ernest was proving his worth and

his character. The chief referred to him as “Anak Kami”- our son- at the

communal fire, Ernest felt the truth of it the depth of his acceptance the

first time he was included in tribal stories in the form of song. His own

language was shifting over time, his stride was matching theirs, his hands

always smelled of earth and smoke. He belonged here in a way he had

never belonged anywhere.

It was during the wet season when the rivers swelled and the cicadas

screamed into the dusk that Lian sat beside him one evening, close

enough for their knees to touch. She said nothing, only silently placed her

hand, warm, and sure on his. That was all. Certain things are universal.

From then on they walked the trails together, shared the night fire, and in

time, the woven walls of a home they built with their own hands.

Their romance was not the rush of city romance but the slow, steady

merging of two lives shaped by the same forest. She taught him the story

songs, those sung to newborns and children, the chants to ward of evil. In

turn he told her stories of far away places where the trees grew in rows

and water came in pipes. She laughed at the absurdity of it all. They grew

together.

Years later, Ernest would struggle to explain, never justify, his relationship

to outsiders. What was it that bound them together with such power.

Words like love or partnership seem too small, too trivial . It was more likethe joining of two rivers when tributaries come together to make

something greater, something stronger. Different in course, origin and

direction, but indistinguishable once joined.

Nights in the forest were never silent. Even when the wind was silent in the

canopy there was the rustle of creatures unseen in the leaves, in the

undergrowth, the soft lap of water against the shoreline as it gently erodes

the bank, the far off whoop of a hornbill. Yet when Ernest lay next to Lian,

the noise receded to insignificance, to a distant hum, as if the forest itself

was respecting the small circle of warmth they made.

Her hair smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the crushed aromatic leaves

she used to wash it in the clear cold river. When she spoke in the dark, her

voice was low and unhurried, each word resonated with the weight of the

world he was still learning to understand. She was his guide and he the

eager follower. Sometimes she would place his hand over hers while she

described the constellations as her people knew them not as mere points

of light but the stories that surrounded them strung out across the sky.

They learned each other’s silences. When she wanted closeness, she

would lean against him as they squatted by the fire. When he sought her,

it was enough to reach out across the woven mat in the night, fingers

brushing until she intertwined them, tightly. There was no need for grand

declarations or gestures of any kind, only the quiet certainly of presence,

of two lives that had chosen to intertwine.

When the rains came heavy and they were forced to sped more time in

their shelter, at times for days, they moved around each other in eloquence

as if their bodies were in constant conversation and communion. He

working at mending and repairing tools and weapons. She at weaving

rattan there they would spend their day in contentment and laughter,

sharing stories and the kind of closeness that made the damp walls and

dripping roof vanish from their thoughts.

In time Ernest realized he no longer thought of Lian as someone he loved

in the forest. She was the forest to him. Wild and gentle, whole, complete

and pure, mysterious and sustaining unending in her depth. He had never

in his life felt this way. Not even close. In her eyes, he saw his own

reflection, not as a visitor or an outsider, but as a simple man who had

finally found his place in the world.And so as the days and months moved forward and on into years Ernest

the hunter, the story teller was embedded into the village life with Lian. He

wore loin cloth. He carried a rattan pack, a parang at his side with all of

the embellishments of a Penan. He spoke their language. The only thing

that stood him apart were his height and his eye glasses. He was otherwise a Penan.