The Plantation (24 page)

‘Yes, I am. You’ve been upriver many times before I assume?’

‘Yes. I’ve been studying traditional culture for some time. I speak several dialects but I am most comfortable with Iban,’ said Chitra.

‘We met Chitra in Melbourne when she was studying there, so we’ve kept in touch,’ added Matthew. ‘Okay, let’s load up.’

In the busyness of balancing their backpacks and gear in the narrow boat, Julie hadn’t had much of a chance to ask Chitra any more questions. Chitra looked graceful and languid, and totally at home in the rough-hewn dugout. Julie, however, initially clung to its sides, afraid they could all easily tip into the river. But once they were underway, the breeze in her face, the last of the river villages no longer visible and no more river traffic, she felt she was at last experiencing the real and unspoiled jungle scenery she’d previously imagined, and she began to enjoy the trip.

The jungle came straight down to both sides of the river, impossibly thick, not an inch to place a foot or even a toe.

‘Are there crocodiles in here?’ she shouted above the engine to Matthew.

‘And worse,’ he called back.

But conversation was too difficult, so Julie sat and watched Barry film the scenery. They were going too fast to see any wildlife, though birds rose from the treetops as they passed and, at one point, the old man stopped the engine and as everyone turned back to look at him in alarm, he pointed and Barry raised his camera to his eye.

Swooping above them flew a pair of hornbills, unmistakable with their bright red casques on their long, curved beaks. Two dark silhouettes trailing long tail feathers, they hooted as they dipped and soared, suddenly breaking into what Julie thought to be wild, hysterical laughter, a dominating and arrogant sound.

She looked back at the boatman who was gesturing to the boy at the front. He waved his fingers above his head. Julie looked puzzled and she glanced at Matthew and David, but it was Chitra who explained.

‘They used to hunt hornbills for the tail feathers to put in their headdresses. One species was hunted for the casque on their beak, which was hard and a golden colour. Years ago it was carved into objects and known as gold ivory. Very highly prized as a lucky omen by the Chinese. Even more so than precious jade,’ she added.

‘You know a lot. How come you studied the Iban?’ asked Julie as the engine started up again.

‘I grew up in Sarawak. My father worked in the Civil Service. My mother trained in India as a doctor but nursed in Melbourne, and met my father there, and came back here to live. She started working as a medical officer and helped establish clinics up-country for the village people. My father still works in the state administration.’

‘And you work at the uni?’ asked Julie.

‘Yes, I’m a teacher. Translating is a sideline,’ said Chitra. ‘I enjoy the opportunity to get out into the remote parts of the country.’

The engine spluttered and restarted, and they turned their attention back to the river. By now the water was flowing faster, but it was clear and the river was narrower. Soon the water seemed to boil and boulders jutted at its surface, making sharp stepping stones across the river. At one point the bottom of the dugout crunched over rocks. Ayum cut the motor and tipped the propeller up out of the water as Ngali pulled out a long stout pole from under the seats and began poling them forward.

David and Matthew also reached down for two more poles and they stood to punt the heavy dugout forward, while Barry filmed the exercise. When the boat flopped into a deep pool, Ayum revved the engine to life and they darted forward, just passing over the rocks, which now foamed with white-tailed froth.

Two more punting attempts finally found them jammed between two rocks, unable to move. Chitra, translating Ayum’s commands, had them all step out of the dugout, and, stumbling and sliding, they pushed it over the slimy rocks and through the rapids. When there was smooth, deep water ahead of them, they scrambled back into their craft and surged forward once again.

‘There’s no way ahead!’ exclaimed Julie some time later as the engine stopped below a small waterfall tumbling over the rocks. ‘What now?’

‘Portage,’ sighed Matthew.

‘We carry everything around the waterfall,’ said David, hoisting his backpack.

‘And then what?’ wondered Julie.

‘There’s another dugout waiting for us to go upstream,’ said Chitra, stepping daintily into knee-deep water, mindless of her expensive boots.

‘Okay.’ Julie stepped gingerly out, too, turning back to pick up her backpack. But the old man stopped her and as Ngali dragged the bow of the dugout towards the bank, he took Julie’s arm to steady her and they inched together over the slippery stones to a large dry rock. Silently he handed her the backpack and returned to help his son manoeuvre the dugout closer to the bank.

All the gear was piled onto the large flat rock and, with Ngali leading, everyone carried their bags and the extra equipment and headed along a small track over the rise. The path was merely a foot wide, it led around a bend and back down to the river again. The sun was now beating down and Julie felt hot and sweaty. In front of her, Chitra walked easily, looking cool and comfortable, despite her waterlogged boots. As they waited at the river, the two boatmen made a return trip to the dugout and came back carrying the motor and petrol jerry can.

‘Where’s the taxi?’ joked David.

Chitra spoke to the boatmen, who nodded their heads and sat down on the grass to smoke.

‘Someone will be here soon,’ she said. ‘That could mean minutes or hours.’

Everyone opened their water bottles and shared a packet of biscuits.

‘The water looks calm, could we swim?’ asked Julie.

Matthew shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t. You never know what might be in there.’

Ayum cocked his head. ‘Coming.’

‘A boat is coming? Yes, I hear it,’ said Julie.

They waited as the engine noise grew louder and, around a bend in the river, came another canoe manned by an Iban who looked older than Ayum. Even at some distance Julie saw that it was smaller than their original dugout and lower in the water, giving her the impression that it could be leaky.

She was right, and by the time everything had been loaded and they were all seated, the gunwale was only inches from the water. Julie held on tight, her fingertips trailing in the river.

‘No more changes,’ said David cheerfully.

‘Have you noticed how the boats get leakier each time we change over?’ said Matthew.

‘Oh, no,’ sighed Julie.

‘The river is very low at this time of year, so boats can’t get all the way up. In the monsoon season you don’t have to stop at all,’ said Chitra.

‘Bit of a pain to go to the shop for bread,’ commented Barry.

‘Well, you asked for remote, traditional, picturesque,’ David reminded him.

The dugout was now travelling close to the bank when, suddenly, there was a shriek, and a group of monkeys swung through the trees, chattering and calling. Then, for the first time, Julie saw human activity as they passed two Iban men tending their fishing nets, and, around the next corner of the river, she saw her first longhouse tucked among the trees. It was a long, intricate wooden and thatched building. Julie was surprised by its length. Dugouts and small praus were pulled up on the bank beneath it.

‘There’s a white flag. What does that mean?’

‘No visitors. Hospitality along the river is a given, once you observe the protocol and are formally invited by the headman. But a white flag means there is something wrong, an illness, a death or that there is some ceremony taking place,’ said Chitra. ‘Just as well this is not where we’re staying.’

Julie gazed at the shadowy, intricate structure up on its high stilts. ‘Exciting. It’s such a different existence, isn’t it?’ she said to Chitra.

Chitra glanced at her over her shoulder. ‘It is. And it’s disappearing. Changing. This is why it’s important that the existing family structures and customs are documented, while we still can. I think it’s a shame what’s happening in some areas. You’ll see.’

Julie sat back marvelling at the peaceful scene as they chugged along the narrow river. Thick jungle on either side looked as though a green curtain had parted and they were entering a sparkling stage, where butterflies darted. For the first time since she’d been in Malaysia, Julie realised that the sky she could see was blue.

‘Blue sky. How clear and blue it is. I was getting used to seeing a yellow haze every day,’ she said.

David threw her a look. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

‘It’s worse than the smog on a bad day in LA,’ added Chitra.

‘Ask anyone in Malaysia why it’s so hazy and they’ll say it’s due to Indonesians burning the jungle in their country,’ said David.

‘But that’s only partly true. It’s caused by the expansion of palm oil plantations in both countries in areas of peat land,’ added Matthew.

‘Why? What’s the connection?’ asked Julie.

‘Well,’ explained Chitra, ‘there is a great demand for palm oil, especially in Europe, because the canola crops there, which used to supply the food industry, are now used for biofuels, so food and cosmetic interests have switched to palm oil. As a result, the Malaysian and Indonesian governments have released hundreds of thousands of hectares in Sarawak and Kalimantan to grow it.’

‘And when they clear the forests by burning them to create these palm oil plantations, it causes the air pollution,’ said Julie.

‘Sort of,’ said David. ‘Fires are set to clear the land, but the land is actually vast areas of peat, you know, carbon that was laid down thousands of years ago. When the destructive fires get out of control, the peat is set alight, too, and it just keeps burning because there is so much of it.’

‘You mean the peat stays burning?’ asked Julie. ‘That won’t do much for levels of carbon in the atmosphere, will it?’

‘No, you’re right, you should look at the satellite pictures. If the peat fires continue as they have been, they will certainly be responsible for helping to raise the earth’s temperature. It’s pretty scary,’ said Chitra.

Barry switched off his camera and held out his hand, rubbing his fingers together. ‘Money. There’ll be someone making money from all this. Big companies, rich men. They blame the indigenous people for their slash-and-burn agriculture methods. That’s rubbish.’

Chitra spoke to Ngali who answered vehemently and she translated, ‘He says the Iban system of moving on to clear a new patch of jungle to grow food every few years has been happening for thousands of years and there are strict rules they’ve always observed. They are not responsible for the wholesale land clearances.’

Julie was silent. This rampant destruction seemed such a contrast to the ordered, well-run, responsible approach at Utopia
,
where the workers were cared for, sustainable practices were advocated, science and technology were used to develop better methods of harvesting, chemical spraying was avoided, and palm oil was marketed as a sustainably produced food ingredient. But she kept quiet.

Suddenly there was a lot more activity as Ayum nosed the dugout into the small landing between a channel of rocks, formed into a rough semicircle.

‘That’s one of the bathing and washing spaces for the villagers,’ said Chitra.

Through the jungle trees and cultivated bananas and fruit trees, Julie saw the longhouse. Then she saw the access to it from the river: a long, narrow log ladder with notches in it, barely enough for a toehold, was followed by a woven, swinging pathway bridge and then, finally, a goat track.

‘I’ll never get up there. Even without gear,’ she said to David as they pulled their belongings out of the dugout.

‘Yes, you will. Come on, we’ll help you.’

Children came scampering down to meet them, bare feet barely touching the fragile looking steps and swaying bridge. They stared shyly at the Europeans but once Chitra spoke to them, they clustered around her bursting with questions.

‘Here comes Tuai Rumah, the chief. He’s the headman of the longhouse, and he will issue our formal invitation,’ said David. ‘He’s also known as James and he speaks some English. His son, Charles, is quite well educated, but I don’t know if he’s here. There’ll be a bedara, a welcome ceremony, later.’

Julie tried to absorb everything. She followed Chitra, carrying her backpack but when she came to the narrow ladder, she stopped.

‘Barefoot is easiest. Turn your feet sideways and go up like a crab. Hold onto the bamboo railings. Someone will bring your gear,’ Chitra told Julie.

Cautiously, Julie managed to scramble up the long ladder. She was followed by two little girls who just walked up it without hanging on, carrying Julie’s backpack between them.

Two bare-breasted women in sarongs waiting at the woven cane bridge were full of welcoming smiles and giggles. The older woman with her dry breasts like deflated balloons, long looped earlobes and missing teeth had bright black button eyes that were full of mischief and fun. The other woman, a baby tied to her back by a length of red cloth, was sweet faced and took Julie’s hand as she stepped onto the swinging bridge.

The longhouse was surrounded by bananas, jack fruit and durian trees, and a garden plot. A rice field could be seen further up a hill. Under and around the raised long-house were dogs, chickens and pigs. Several notched logs led up onto the long open verandah, or tanju as Chitra called it. Here washing hung, large looms with half- completed woven rattan mats leaned against the wall, a bitch lay feeding a litter of puppies and children played while families gathered to watch the visitors.