sink deeper into the anarchy I first identified from above, from outside. I’ve come to crave these rare places that are off the grid; they can thrust one into the epiphany zone. Ironically, it is TV, that most “on-the-grid” medium, that now brings me to this state.
Urban Borneo thrives with the cultural and spiritual diversity of all of Southeast Asia, but the upriver longhouses, though no longer offering the display of bare breasts and bloodletting a broadcaster might hope for, can be a reservoir of traditional spiritual beliefs—a reservoir spiced with baseball caps, T-shirts, and, not so infrequently, film crews.
Malaysia’s official religion is Islam, but zealous missionaries and North Borneo’s status as a former British colony make Christianity widespread. Yet here in the interior of Sarawak, the rules of the West and the rules of the East are handily trumped by the rules of the Jungle—and animism is operative. Unlike Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, and other doctrines of the world, Kaharinga—Iban animism—does not distinguish between this life and the hereafter, between the religious and the secular. Religion is everyday life. Animism, quite sensibly, is more interested in the here and now and the supremacy of nature. Natural phenomena, as well as things animate and inanimate, are all said to possess a soul.
To the upriver Iban’s traditional eye, the steamy, humid atmosphere is thick with
antu
(spirits) and
petara
(gods). The spirits and the people work in concert. (A quid pro quo of sorts: We give you offerings, you help the rice crops grow.) The spirits hold the upper hand, to be sure, and their behavior can run the range from benevolent to capricious.
Our small procession of overloaded canoes sputters up toward the traditional Rumah Bala Lasong longhouse, where Vanessa and Martin have arranged for us to spend the night with Iban tribal members.
Martin grew up in a longhouse and, partly due to his excellent English, has landed a coveted job in the world of tourism. I am quizzing him about the surrounding area.
“What are the biggest hazards?” I ask.
“A few leeches, sometimes a snake. Only drink the bottled water,” he responds casually, offering a whitewashed version of reality. In fact, I know there are tens of thousands of species in this national “park” (a misleading term that implies the jungle is somehow under the control of humans) and some of them, particularly the cold-blooded ones, could be a problem.
Put a frothing rabid dog in my path, and I respond with the calm of Atticus Finch. Bring on a mama grizzly, and I am as sharp as her claws slicing through the flesh of a wild king salmon. But show me a cold-blooded, slithering critter and I turn into an irrational, mute, quivering . . . appendix.
Indulging a strange habit of dashing toward what I fear, I press Martin on the snake issue. Vanessa has told me there are twenty-five kinds of snakes in this part of Borneo, many of them poisonous.
“Yes,” Martin admits, “there’s the
Python reticulatus;
the Javanese reed snake,
Calamaria borneensis;
the red-headed krait,
Bungarus flaviceps;
the banded Malayan coral snake,
Maticora intestinalis;
the cobra,
Naja naja;
and the—”
I hold up my hand to stop the recitation.
“You had me at
python,
” I say.
My phobic (that’s phobic,
not
phallic) response to snakes irks me. I can’t stand having an irrational fear that plays right into the hands of Freudian pundits.
We move through the hours at double the river’s slow pace: outboard time. The rhythm is in marked contrast to my time in Cuba, when we were constantly racing from one diva to the next. Here, we tinker with equipment, apply sunscreen, and get to know one another with banal small talk, as if it were the first day at camp.
What tribe are you in? How many languages do you speak? How much tape stock do we have? Where do we pee?
After hours of collective ruminating, we round a bend and, out of nowhere,
Urban Borneo thrives with the cultural and spiritual diversity of all of Southeast Asia, but the upriver longhouses, though no longer offering the display of bare breasts and bloodletting a broadcaster might hope for, can be a reservoir of traditional spiritual beliefs—a reservoir spiced with baseball caps, T-shirts, and, not so infrequently, film crews.
Malaysia’s official religion is Islam, but zealous missionaries and North Borneo’s status as a former British colony make Christianity widespread. Yet here in the interior of Sarawak, the rules of the West and the rules of the East are handily trumped by the rules of the Jungle—and animism is operative. Unlike Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, Christianity, and other doctrines of the world, Kaharinga—Iban animism—does not distinguish between this life and the hereafter, between the religious and the secular. Religion is everyday life. Animism, quite sensibly, is more interested in the here and now and the supremacy of nature. Natural phenomena, as well as things animate and inanimate, are all said to possess a soul.
To the upriver Iban’s traditional eye, the steamy, humid atmosphere is thick with
antu
(spirits) and
petara
(gods). The spirits and the people work in concert. (A quid pro quo of sorts: We give you offerings, you help the rice crops grow.) The spirits hold the upper hand, to be sure, and their behavior can run the range from benevolent to capricious.
Our small procession of overloaded canoes sputters up toward the traditional Rumah Bala Lasong longhouse, where Vanessa and Martin have arranged for us to spend the night with Iban tribal members.
Martin grew up in a longhouse and, partly due to his excellent English, has landed a coveted job in the world of tourism. I am quizzing him about the surrounding area.
“What are the biggest hazards?” I ask.
“A few leeches, sometimes a snake. Only drink the bottled water,” he responds casually, offering a whitewashed version of reality. In fact, I know there are tens of thousands of species in this national “park” (a misleading term that implies the jungle is somehow under the control of humans) and some of them, particularly the cold-blooded ones, could be a problem.
Put a frothing rabid dog in my path, and I respond with the calm of Atticus Finch. Bring on a mama grizzly, and I am as sharp as her claws slicing through the flesh of a wild king salmon. But show me a cold-blooded, slithering critter and I turn into an irrational, mute, quivering . . . appendix.
Indulging a strange habit of dashing toward what I fear, I press Martin on the snake issue. Vanessa has told me there are twenty-five kinds of snakes in this part of Borneo, many of them poisonous.
“Yes,” Martin admits, “there’s the
Python reticulatus;
the Javanese reed snake,
Calamaria borneensis;
the red-headed krait,
Bungarus flaviceps;
the banded Malayan coral snake,
Maticora intestinalis;
the cobra,
Naja naja;
and the—”
I hold up my hand to stop the recitation.
“You had me at
python,
” I say.
My phobic (that’s phobic,
not
phallic) response to snakes irks me. I can’t stand having an irrational fear that plays right into the hands of Freudian pundits.
We move through the hours at double the river’s slow pace: outboard time. The rhythm is in marked contrast to my time in Cuba, when we were constantly racing from one diva to the next. Here, we tinker with equipment, apply sunscreen, and get to know one another with banal small talk, as if it were the first day at camp.
What tribe are you in? How many languages do you speak? How much tape stock do we have? Where do we pee?
After hours of collective ruminating, we round a bend and, out of nowhere,
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