SAN DIEGO — The most frequent question asked of me back when I mentioned that my wife and I were departing for a two week tour of Borneo was: “Where is it?” We heard this so often, I reached the conclusion that the only reason God gave us war was to learn geography. The second question asked was; “Why?” The answer to the second question is easy. “Because it is there!” When you’ve traveled to as many countries as my spouse and I have, the journeys tend to be to more remote and esoteric location’s in our quest to experience as much of the lands and cultures of our shrinking globe as possible.
Borneo is the third largest island in the world, after Greenland and New Guinea. Portions of the island are owned by two nations. The eastern two-thirds belongs to Indonesia, and is mostly jungle with forestry being the main industry. The northwestern third of the island, the part we visited, is a part of Malaysia. It is sixty-seven percent jungle. The largest Malaysian portion is called Sarawak. Within Sarawak sits the tiny, fabulously wealthy independent, kingdom of Brunei. It sits above a huge lake of oil, the only known deposit on the entire island. North of Sarawak, still within Malaysian territory, is the state of Sabah.
Before the trip, my vision of Borneo was of a green land of unending jungle, primitive villages, with brown skin indigenous people scurrying about bare footed on dirt paths, carrying daily food in baskets on their head. However a surprise awaited me. When our airplane landed in Kuching, the “City of the Cats”(it is the only metropolis in the world with a cat museum), we found a vibrant bustling, modern, sophisticated spread-out urban community, with a population of half a million and the greatest seafood I’ve ever tasted. The only other tourists we met on the trip were a few stylishly dressed Italians with noisy spoiled children, and one proper, quiet, reserved Japanese group. I wonder how many of them knew that their ancestors at the very end of World War Two slaughtered twenty-seven hundred Australian and British prisoners here? The prisoners suffered a forced march of one hundred miles through the jungle. Only five escaped and survived. It was as infamous as the Philippine Bataan death-march, but not so well publicized
Malaysia is a Muslim country. Don’t even try to enter with an Israeli passport! A good percentage of the women wear a single colored scarf around their heads and necks for modesty. I don’t understand how they tolerate it in the Equatorial heat, but I became quite fond of the habit as a fashion statement. I liked how it framed the face, particularly the pretty ladies. The few wahines I saw draped floor to ceiling in black burkas I found mysterious, like covered statues at an unveiling. I figured they had to be ten degrees hotter than we infidels, unless they had battery-operated fans hidden inside the garb. Only middle-eastern tourist women visiting with their families wore these body tents. I wondered how they ate in public with their faces completely covered except for cut outs for their eyes? I finally solved the mystery. I copped a forbidden peek in a restaurant and saw the answer. They bend over and slightly lift the veil part of the garment that covers the lips and mouth. Then they take a bite of food, and immediately drop the veil back in place. I found this bizarre, archaic behavior an anachronism of a backward-looking culture.
At the beginning of the tour, we took a mile-long walk through the jungle which I thought was a killer. We climbed over slippery moss, covered rocks, exposed tree roots, and muddy sinkholes. I kept my eyes focused on the ground to avoid a misstep that could propel me off the steep precipice to the rocks and tree limbs below. Early on during the trek, I experienced a mild sense of panic, recalling my Costa Rican jungle experience, ten years before, when I had my first heart attack. There was only one thing that really annoyed me though. Our native guide, a woman who led us on this difficult jaunt, wore a long polka dot dress, stylish open toed shoes, and carried a large patent leather purse, designed to be taken on a Macy’s shopping trip, comfortably draped over a fore arm. At the end of the hike she emerged relaxed, without a glow of perspiration. The rest of us were hyperventilating, wearing ventilated clothing that was thoroughly soaked by the effort.
At another jungle location on a mountain, there was another walk-vertical this time. Carole wisely stayed below while I climbed almost three thousand feet up a rough dirt path. At the top I had to traverse three, one hundred foot long precarious steel cable suspension bridges one hundred and forty feet above ground. Each bridge had a single two-inch thick, eight-inch wide board to walk on. The sky-high bridges bounced uncomfortably with every step. I gripped the cables tightly, moved forward gingerly, and heard myself laughing out loud to cover up my fear. I’ve always been able to generate courage for these precarious situations by saying to myself, “Oh well, there have been many ordinary people like myself who have done this before me.”
When we drove back down the mountain it started pouring. The wind blew with increasing ferocity as we descended. It was a full-blown cyclone. Halfway down, the guide insisted on a scheduled visit to an environmental museum in a remote area in the forest. Inside the museum, he dutifully lectured us regarding the flora and fauna in the area. I listened to his talk with one ear, and the pounding rain, thunderous lightening, and howling wind with the other. At the conclusion of his lecture he wanted us to take a forty-five minute walk in the roaring mess outside. We rebelled against this insanity, and climbed back into the minivan. Resuming our journey, we were buffeted around the road like a boxer being pummeled. At times it was impossible for the wipers to remove the accumulating liquid on the windshield. Sheets of water ran like a fast flowing river across the road, and we sloshed through puddles that could have been three inches or three feet deep, we couldn’t tell.
Two hours later, the storm over and the white gone from our knuckles, we arrived safely back at the hotel. It had suffered some damage from the storm too. Roof tiles from several buildings had flown off into the swimming pools. The wide open Hindenburg-hanger of a lobby was saved from disaster to its open-air-bar. Lounging customers with an intense interest in its inventory, helped haul the Jack Daniels and thirty-year old Scotch to safety.
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Ira Spector is a freelance writer based in San Diego.