SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2000
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 14, 2000
Treasures of Kalimantan lakes
By Francesca Eldridge
The 650km Mahakam River stretches from the Muller Range in central Kalimantan to the coastal town of Samarinda. As we approach Samarinda from Balikpapan, a bridge looms, and for the first time we see the mighty, wide Mahakam. Other than it's sheer breadth, it's not particularly inspiring at first sight. Littered with rusting boats piled high with logs, I know the real treasures of the Mahakam are to be found upriver.
Split fish drying, Tanjung Isuy. Photos: Francesca Eldridge
Dilapidated charm, Muara Muntai.
Mother and child, Tanjung Isuy.
Mancong longhouse.Kota Bangun means 'wake up town'. The name seems incongruous with the somnolent air that hangs over the dusty, riverside shops and houses. A two-hour, sometimes bumpy drive from Samarinda, Kota Bangun is where our journey begins. Over a lunch of chicken, rice, and sweet ice tea, I ask Junaid, our quiet guide, what Mahakam means. There are several translations, he tells me, one being 'The Great River'.
We bounce down a rickety jetty, and hoist our packs into the canopied long boat. Junaid, the boat driver, my Mother and myself. The only white people we've seen since arriving in Kalimantan is each other, and it shall remain thus for the next three days.
Our first destination is Muara Muntai, a Kuntai settlement. Junaid takes us across Lakes Semayang and Melintang, two of three large, shallow lakes in the lower Mahakam drainage area. At times the boat plows straight through a cluster of the abundant water hyacinth. Here and there, fishing traps protrude from the smooth surface, which winks beneath the overhead sun.
Heading down a slim tributary, birds explode suddenly from the high green banks. Taking the twists and turns gently, the boat driver is aware of approaching fishermen and families. As they pass by, some look absolutely delighted at our presence, others gape in surprise.
Muara Muntai means 'delta tributary'. Hence, it is situated at the delta of a tributary linking the lakes to the Mahakam. I'm amazed by the 'streets' of Muara Muntai, all of which are wooden boardwalks, giving the illusion the village is built entirely on water. Junaid leads us to Nita Wardana, the two storey guesthouse on the main boardwalk. It's late afternoon, and the sounds of water being scooped up, splashing off concrete and skin, reverberate in the air. It's bath time.
There are many shops close to the guesthouse. Women in busily patterned sarongs sit amidst bananas going brown in the sun, fire engine, red chillies, limes, pineapples, tapioca, onions, and whole dried fish. The wide, watchful eyes of children gaze from behind mothers' legs. We are welcomed by smiles, nods, and numerous greetings of 'Hello Misses!'.
Babies are bathed on verandahs, old men sit, repairing nets, or simply just observing the rhythm of village life. Motorbikes and mopeds roar up and down, rattling over the boards. Mum muses that Muara Muntai reminds her of Newhaven, the ramshackle, wooden town in 'Popeye'. We're puzzled by what appears to be wet clay, smeared on the faces of the local women. A do-it-yourself sun block? Junaid later explains it's rice paste, which the women paint on before bed, to make their skin pale.
We come across two young boys playing chess on a wooden bench. To our amazement, a tame, baby Fish Eagle sits between them. Plonking himself on the board, the Fish Eagle suddenly scatters the pieces. Captured to be kept as a pet, his name is Pharaoh. Still covered in downy feathers, Pharoah has yet to learn to fly.
Later, after a dinner of rice and catfish, I observe the night activity from the balcony at Nita Wardana. A lone, tiny bat flits above the roof tops, laughter and the quiet strumming of a guitar fill the air. Motorbikes cruise, teenage boys flick cigarettes into the potted bougainvillea. An elderly Muslim man looks on from a half lit doorway.
At 7:30 a.m. we farewell a wide awake and bustling Muara Muntai. Today we will travel to Tanjung Isuy, a Benuaq settlement. Junaid doesn't mention the interesting detour we'll take on the way.
We cross Lake Jempang, then zigzag for hours along a tributary choked with hyacinth. Fishermen stand in the waist deep water, their long boats anchored to drowned branches. As the waterway becomes narrower, we are crowded by the wizened, intertwined roots of trees, trees which seem to know secrets. Azure Kingfishers gleam in the sunlight, swooping low, keeping just ahead of the boat, leading us deeper into the gnarled forest.
Around midday we reach Kampong Mancong, a small village perched on muddy, ochre banks. We glide slowly between the outhouses at the waters edge. Outside the small, cupboard-like wooden structures, built on table sized platforms, women sit, washing themselves, their children, or scrubbing clothes against the boards. The boat negotiates a turn, passing under a decaying bridge. I look to the right, and find myself almost face to face with an old woman, naked from the waist up. She is soaping her arms vigorously, a half smoked cigarette dangling from her lips.
We climb steep, ladder-like steps up the bank, then follow Junaid along a boardwalk. A man shaping parang handles nods and smiles. And then it comes into my view. Amongst coconut and banana palms, two immense storeys of weathered timber, elaborate banisters stretching along the verandah. A row of fierce, carved guardians standing atop pillars, in silent warrior stance. Rising up like a vision, it is the 300-year-old Kampong Mancong longhouse.
The longhouse was restored in 1987. However, only two families still actually live in the longhouse. Inside, it is cool and semi dark, the air heavy with history, and musky wood-scent. Buffalo skulls adorn the walls. The serene Headman produces a visitors book, and I'm stuck for a word to describe the experience. I write 'Wonderful', which seems so inadequate, and shake his hand. Taking photos outside, I wish for more time to simply sit and absorb the stillness, within which the eternal past echoes.
Mesmerised, not wanting to leave, we clamber into the boat. Heading back the way we came, the Kingfishers, with their comical, surprised expressions and long beaks, guide us on to Tanjung Isuy. Around mid afternoon we arrive, and Junaid leads us down a dusty, narrow street. Dogs and chickens roam, the familiar 'Hello Misses!' rings out. We enter a charming longhouse that serves as a guesthouse and craft centre.
Jostling for our attention, local women show us their wares - woven baskets, vegetable fibre mats and wall hangings, parangs, drums, beaded jewellery, carvings and more. Taken aback, not quite in the mood for bargaining, I assure the women I'll return later.
After a satisfying lunch of fresh, succulent river prawns, we go for a stroll. Tanjung Isuy feels more rural, with enormous rice paddies meandering down to the waters edge. A long, skinny bridge crosses the padi, leading to a dilapidated, tree shaded area of the village. Children play amongst the hut-like houses, while parents look on from small verandahs. Fortunately, we speak basic Malay, which is similar to Indonesian, and are able to introduce ourselves.
We return to the jetty, which offers a sprawling panorama of boats, and smaller houses built on the water. Down below, split fish drying in the sun are crowded onto several wooden decks. It's incredibly hot, so I step gingerly down a ramp to paddle for a bit. Tiny fish swim about my feet.
An English speaking local approaches, and begins to chat. Soon, a group of us are exchanging our worlds, sitting and talking the afternoon away.
Just sitting seems to be the thing to do, when not fishing, washing, or weaving. In the tranquil blue above, an enormous Fish Eagle soars on the thermals, circling and dipping. I wonder if he's eyeing the dried fish. A young mother helps her daughter into a longboat, then, sitting crossed legged on the prow, begins to row - left, right, left.
Our cheery, belching boat driver joins us for dinner. Tomorrow we'll begin our return journey to Kota Bangun, this time via the river. Back at the longhouse, I deal with a rogue mosquito inside my net. My wide awake brain struggles to comprehend the simplicity of Mahakam life.
The river is everything to these people. It is their food source, water source, and main highway. It serves as an ablution and recreation facility. It is their home in every sense of the word.
And in the moments in between, the people seem content to simply be.
~ Mahakam journeys can be arranged through -
Borneo Tour and Travel, Telephone: 62542-741-486, 736-258, 736-042 Fax: 62542-743-056 Samarinda, Kalimantan. (ask for Irma Diansari).
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