Last year, I was in Breckenridge Colorado for niece Jill’s graduation party. Brother Gary and I skated out of one of the ceremonies to sit around the house trading travel stories and sipping wine with another guest. Randy was a clever mountain man with a boisterous flair. He made a small fortune developing land in the area and for many years and had set aside one month out of the year for a major adventure in far away places. Between the three us there was little left of the world we had not seen. As the evening continued our conversation became a bantering of abbreviated tales of good natured one-up-man-ship. We had much laughter and too much wine by the time Randy’s wife came to drag him home. He rose, sported a grin, pointed his finger at me, as if he were dealing a coup de grâce and said, “How about a dugout canoe ride upriver to the longhouses of the Iban people in Borneo?” I retorted with, “You mean the one outside of Kuching.” We all burst out laughing at our common ground. His wife grabbed him by the ear and took him home.
A few years before I booked a side-trip to Malaysia after a three week volunteer project in Vietnam. Short flights from Saigon to Kuala Lumpur to Kuching put me in the Sarawak portion of Borneo. I was not expecting such a modern city so a four star hotel was welcome for cleansing and refreshment after Vietnam. At dinner that night I met a German couple who planned a trip to see the Iban saying there was an extra seat if I wanted to go. My thoughts of seeing orangutans in the wild had subsided and this seemed more attainable.
Early the next morning our party of four took a three hour van ride to a river. Indeed there were four slats in a long canoe with an outboard motor, a man at the helm, and a pole-lady sitting forward. The motor took us most of the way before the river narrowed and the lady with the pole pushed us another mile or so in the shallow water. The helmsman was constantly bailing water in the after-end of the canoe. Indeed this remote village was quite authentic and our intrusion was welcome for supplemental income. The stilted longhouse was elevated about 15 feet above the rainforest floor and extended over one hundred yards. Construction was axe-hewn timber tied together with natural fiber. The roofing was corrugated steel. This domicile consisted of a series of individual ‘apartments’ with lofted sleeping quarters. Meeting rooms and common ground areas were central. I would guess there to be one hundred people residing. We were quartered on the opposite side of the river in a less elevated four room dwelling. Our helmsman now guide, provided a cooler with box-lunches and bottled water for our overnight stay.
A bit touristy but interesting as an old tattooed Iban warrior gave a blowgun demonstration in his Hornbill headdress. We were free to wander about the longhouse to see the crafty residents weaving baskets and cloth. That evening there was more showiness with dancing and local dress for their four guests. I would have felt duped under similar circumstances but here the Iban were able to lead their traditional life in this remote village while earning a little cash on the side. The importance of traditional art, costumes, and agriculture was being passed on to their children. I trust the one shrunken head had been around for a few generations.
I woke at dawn in this misty rainforest and bathed in the river along side the locals.
A few years before I booked a side-trip to Malaysia after a three week volunteer project in Vietnam. Short flights from Saigon to Kuala Lumpur to Kuching put me in the Sarawak portion of Borneo. I was not expecting such a modern city so a four star hotel was welcome for cleansing and refreshment after Vietnam. At dinner that night I met a German couple who planned a trip to see the Iban saying there was an extra seat if I wanted to go. My thoughts of seeing orangutans in the wild had subsided and this seemed more attainable.Early the next morning our party of four took a three hour van ride to a river. Indeed there were four slats in a long canoe with an outboard motor, a man at the helm, and a pole-lady sitting forward. The motor took us most of the way before the river narrowed and the lady with the pole pushed us another mile or so in the shallow water. The helmsman was constantly bailing water in the after-end of the canoe. Indeed this remote village was quite authentic and our intrusion was welcome for supplemental income. The stilted longhouse was elevated about 15 feet above the rainforest floor and extended over one hundred yards. Construction was axe-hewn timber tied together with natural fiber. The roofing was corrugated steel. This domicile consisted of a series of individual ‘apartments’ with lofted sleeping quarters. Meeting rooms and common ground areas were central. I would guess there to be one hundred people residing. We were quartered on the opposite side of the river in a less elevated four room dwelling. Our helmsman now guide, provided a cooler with box-lunches and bottled water for our overnight stay.
A bit touristy but interesting as an old tattooed Iban warrior gave a blowgun demonstration in his Hornbill headdress. We were free to wander about the longhouse to see the crafty residents weaving baskets and cloth. That evening there was more showiness with dancing and local dress for their four guests. I would have felt duped under similar circumstances but here the Iban were able to lead their traditional life in this remote village while earning a little cash on the side. The importance of traditional art, costumes, and agriculture was being passed on to their children. I trust the one shrunken head had been around for a few generations.I woke at dawn in this misty rainforest and bathed in the river along side the locals.
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