My encounter with a Bornean tribe and other misadventures

Dee extolled the virtues of the coming walk to Camp 5.

“You’ll want to make sure everything’s sealed so it doesn’t get wet when you’re pushing the boat.”

The fun didn’t end there. The boat pushing would end in an 8km slog through a leech-infested jungle.

“The leeches from the ground are just your normal ones, but watch out for the canopy. Tiger leeches, you’ll know them by the light stripe on their backs, they sting a bit. Don’t try to pick them off when they’re drinking or you’ll bleed uncontrollably.”

Not only had I signed up for this, I had signed up for it of my own accord, without anyone’s urging but my own. Borneo. The name evokes lush rainforests and exotic wildlife, a land where the wild things are free to roam, but perhaps most importantly, a place I’d never been with my husband. He'd just asked for a divorce.

Of course I know that wherever I go I take myself with me. But traveling, that temporary immersion in a life unlike your own, allows for pondering of the age-old conundrum, if I were on a reality TV show, would it be that hard to pretend I’m well mannered? Or perhaps more to the point, it provides a chance to feel liked by strangers when your real life has grown cold.

How much farther out could I get? Nestled to the south of the Philippines and north of Java, Borneo is the world’s third largest island, comprising Indonesia to the south, Malaysia to the north and the tiny, oil-rich sultanate of Brunei on the NE coast. The island features a fantastic array of wildlife. In just 25 acres of land more than 700 species of trees have been found to co-exist, more than the total diversity of North American forests. It is home to orangutans, flying squirrels and the world’s smallest deer, as well as some 10,000 insect species. I’d always thought of myself as a pet person, so it sounded like heaven. Before the leech talk anyway.

The first destination was the Gunung Mulu National Park. To get there we spent the better part of a day in a boat, stopping at various ports along the way. While this might not be your idea of a thrill-ride, as a way of getting around it was just my speed. Much of Borneo's terrain is impassable except by longboat, low, narrow canoes built from a single tree. Having been trapped on poor roads in cars with even poorer shock absorbers, while fearing for my life from oncoming traffic or vertiginous drops, it was a pleasure to glide smoothly down the river while reading or marveling at giant stands of bamboo or just staring into space contemplating my failed marriage. While you can reach Mulu by air, you'd miss these markets and people and daydreams along the way. It's the journey, right?

Our group—yes, my new status as single again compelled me to sign up for a group tour—stayed in dormitory style housing at Mulu. Should I admit here that I went out and bought condoms specifically for this trip? Actually, that I made a friend buy me condoms for this trip? That I was disappointed to discover the group consisted of, including the tour leader, six women? That I think God was trying to tell me something?

Other than the lack of prospects, Mulu was a delightful place. Trails spiraled out from the base in every direction, well-marked and loaded with didactic signs. For us it was just a stopping place on the march to Camp 5.

Our aim at Camp 5 was to climb the Pinnacles Trail, a six-hour hike that pushed the tour's physical rating to a five, the highest. Though only 2.4km long, it rises 1200m with the last section near vertical. The first hour was torture. The jungles crowded out any possible view, leaving just the relentless uphill climb. I considered turning back when I passed a couple taking a breather. She looked apoplectic, he looked apologetic. I knew I could be her, that somehow, in the context of my relationship, I'd been quicker to give up. Quicker to blame. I pushed on.


It was well worth it as I neared the top and began to glimpse patches of sky. The end view is the pinnacles themselves, otherworldly stony outcroppings that top a nearby peak. But the feeling that I'd accomplished this something, little though it may have been, left me triumphant.

Back at Mulu, the helpful park manager explained how the pinnacles were formed, something to do with limestone, water and shifting tectonic plates. Likewise, these geologic tendencies produce spectacular caves, and Mulu is home to the world's most extensive cave system, boasting the world's largest cave chamber. We explored several, and while I can appreciate the magnitude of time represented by stalactites and stalagmites, I can’t say they do much for me. Then came the sunset show. Yes, Virginia, there is a bat cave. Deer Cave is home to some 12 different species of bat, and each night at sunset anywhere from 2.5 to 3.5 million of them come swirling out of its interior. I shot more photos of this creepy spectacle than anything else I saw. Bats terrify me, so ingrained in my psyche like a leech, so flying rodent, so upside down. There was power in watching from a safe distance as the bats spilled from the cave, in search of food that was not me.

Next up was our much ballyhooed visit to the Iban longhouse. The culture shock was extreme. As we pulled into the dock, conveniently labeled "Skandis," the caterwauling of hundreds of chickens greeted our ears. I wondered what daybreak must be like. I looked up the hill to the longhouse and couldn't help but wonder if the ramshackle structure could withstand our group's combined weight. Built on the banks of Borneo's rivers, longhouses sit on stilts. Much of the building material at Skandis looks salvaged. Foul animal stench permeated the air. It was to be our home for the next two days.

We were treated immediately to a bath. In the river. To do that we had to change out of our clothes under a sarong, keeping the sarong in place while we bathed in waters thick with bacteria, only to struggle back into our stinking duds, still keeping that sarong in place. Then it was time for afternoon tea. Then another bath. I was in desperate need of a shower.

Finally it was time to present our “gifts,” staples, really, that we’d bought at the Indian market in Kuching’s labyrinthine commercial district—onions and garlic and dried fish, toothpaste and dish soap and tobacco. This awkward moment, accompanied by a smattering of applause from the 13 families gathered there to divvy up the goods, was followed by an uncomfortable drinking game.

Many of the longhouses have come to cater to tourists, offering beds and satellite TV. Not so with ours. As is the custom, we were to sleep on mats on the covered porch, or ruai, that fronts the individual units and runs the length of the longhouse. This experience is undoubtedly mitigated for many by the evening's entertainment of sampling tuak, the potent local rice wine, followed by traditional music and dancing into the wee hours. But ours was not a big drinking group. The disappointment was palpable among the group of young men who had mysteriously appeared at tuak time. The ritual goes, one for me, one for you.

As we settled onto our mats for the night, I pulled out my New Yorker and was confronted by a resort ad featuring a scented strip. I laid still, inhaling alternating wafts of “Green Tea” and Eau de Cur, thinking longingly of the 5-star Hilton Ban Ai just 20km downstream. I was almost willing to take my chances floating there, now that the chickens had been joined by the shrieks of mating cats.

We spent the better part of the next day lounging by the river, vigorously applying DEET. I remembered my friend Kathy’s advice, that “everything turns out fine in the end, so if it’s not fine now, you’re not at the end yet.”

Being nowhere near the end, I caught up with Unsa, the chief, to find out more about the families living at Skandis. He explained that the many children running around were the villager’s grandchildren. It made the whole operation appear to be an elaborate exit strategy. Though he planned to be around another 20 years or so, Unsa wasn't sure if his son would want the job he'd inherited from his father in the mid-1970s at the tender age of 24.

"Many don't know how to grow rice, they don't know how to check the rubber tree, they don't know how to plant pepper," he said, listing the daily activities of the longhouse. "Some of them like it, some of them don't. Most of them don’t like it. Maybe this is gone in the future.”

The grandchildren, meanwhile, were deliriously happy. Safe and cared for by a large extended family, they ran about during the day alternately playing in the river and bothering their grandparents. Though some rarely see their parents, I can think of far crueler forms of daycare. That's not to say the country life doesn't have its drawbacks. In addition to the aforementioned and constant howling from the coops, diseases like leptospirosis, dengue fever and malaria take their toll. Then there's the sheer boredom of life with just a few hours of electricity each day—hours used by Unsa to pipe in some of the World Cup games.

The children made Unsa very happy, and yet did not provide any more certainty about the future than my own, offspring-less marriage had. Maybe it wasn’t the same, I didn’t have to change any diapers after all, but I took the chance to feel the joy reflected in children’s faces and claim some of it for myself. In my memory, the stench abated, a kind of peace took over, and I enjoyed my remaining time.

Unintentionally I'd saved the best for last. From Kuching, some of us headed for the cultural village, others to tour the city and still others for the Internet café. I headed off solo to Bako National Forest, just 37 kms and another boat ride away from Kuching. This sandstone peninsula is one of Sarawak's smallest national parks yet is host to seven distinct ecosystem and some of the world's rarest and most unusual flora and fauna, from insect eating pitcher plants to proboscis monkeys. Wave erosion has carved out sandy beaches, dramatic cliffs and seastacks. The jungle path seemed snatched from The Hobbit—gnarled roots lined the path where impossible ferns grew to enormous heights. I emerged from the rainforest to find a bizarre, moon-like surface. Back at the base I encountered a Bornean wild boar rifling through the garbage.

This was a journey of many firsts, strikingly, the first time I didn't find myself fantasizing about building a life in the place I was visiting. No, this was about finding my own way through mistakes, like setting off to Bako in jeans and flip flops, and bad behavior, like the fit I had over a $7 phone bill; and getting to the other side in one piece. And yet. Despite realizing I would be voted off “Survivor” in the first episode, or saved to sacrifice in the crucial final challenges, it was the first time in a long time there was no one to blame for any of it besides myself. Unsa said to me, “The lifestyle nowadays always changes.” I have to change, too.