Rediscovering an old frontier: Sarawak, Borneo

‘There are three tracks on the map but you want to take the green trail not the red one. The red one is dangerous and there is a lot of ups and downs. Don’t take the red one. The green one, it’s only a kilometre, quite easy’ he said. ‘Walk slowly, take your time and make sure to look 5 metres ahead when you are walking’ 

‘Yeah, ok, for branches and stuff?’

‘Uh, yeah… but also, I have seen cobra there before’ he paused. ‘Spitting cobra.’ I laughed. 

‘No, really’ he iterated. ‘Twice.’ With those words he left us alone in the jungle. 

Forest floor

When I was eight there was a series of collectable magazines specialising in biospheres around the world. One of those, first issue is 50p with a free ring binder deals. The first issue was the letter A. Amazon, anaconda, awesome. The second was B for Borneo. A distant green land I had never seen captivated me. I sat for hours gazing at the pictures of flawless jungle and the cuddly furries that made it their home. The band of land between the tropics concealed by an emerald canopy, home to millions of species fabricated by colour and noise, that gave me the travel bug. The magazine’s centre page was devoted to the King of the Swingers, the orang utan. A sulky orange mama gazed dreamily from underneath the staples, holding her tufty goblin baby close to her bosom. I wanted to hold one and tell her that I would single handedly save the rainforests.

As I aged my dreams of hugging every orang utan slowly dissipated. The idea of forking out £3000 to ‘volunteer’ for 2 weeks at an orang utan sanctuary were unjustifiable. What happened to solid virtue and good ethics? Why were these no longer adequate currency? I chased information but each ecotravel company was as disheartening as the last. The Q&A sections gave standard answers on fees. The £3000 would ensure that you would be accommodated in standard dormitory housing and fed two (not three) meals daily. Not including activities (tree hugging deserves R&R), no transfers (from accessible airports to inaccessible jungle locations), no innoculations, no (expensive) flights nor insurance (dengue fever, anyone?). Good intentions are worth nothing if they cannot be properly costed. 

The bejewelled belt of the Earth had to wait. It was only this year when my partner and I decided to embark on a South East Asia bender that my love reared a new head. Having spent enough time in Malaysian cities we flew from the high rise shopping malls of Kuala Lumpur to Kuching, the city of cats. The anticipation which engulfed me became the root of my partner’s irritation as I jittered in my seat peering gleefully down at the ground. A thick chocolate river drew a long winding path through viridian sugar hills. Like Augustus Galoop, I was ready to dive in. 

Sunset over the Sarawak River, Kuching

We were dumped on Lebuh ‘Carpenter’ in central Kuching with a guesthouse name and number. Wrong Place it was called. I quickly found the name to be a misnomer. The guesthouse had been crafted from recycled items. A giant wok and an old oil drum had been remastered as a sink. All of the signs and the cafe menus were written on the back of cut up cardboard boxes. Old corrugated iron felt a new lease of life as a shower cubicle. Environmental awareness and conservation weren’t just words, they were real. 

We organised a driver to take us to Semenggoh Orang Utan Sanctuary the next day. Our driver picked us up and we exchanged formalities. His name was Eric and he had grown up in the forests of central Sarawak. Quickly the conversation turned toward the environment. I asked if the government set aside much money for conservation and environmental efforts. 

‘Well, not Malaya, no, but Sarawak is autonomous. We are different. We even have our own immigration. The state of Sarawak spends a lot of money to look after the forest’ our well informed driver told us. ‘Many people want us to plant palm because it makes money, and because you know palm trees oxidise the air more than other trees… But we will not because one, the roots do not go deep enough. It may cause landslides one day. And two,’ he emphasised this, ‘the forest is our home.’ Eric explained the process of logging in Sarawak to me. All loggers must have a license, and for every tree felled, another 40 saplings are planted. 

‘But’ he added, ‘the government has stopped issuing licenses. A way of reducing.’ 

‘But then… will you not have problems with illegal logging?’ I asked.

‘Oh… oh yes’ he replied gravely. I had struck a nerve. ‘But, that happens everywhere’. The difference in Sarawak being that the government is trusted. The government works with the people of the forests to clamp down on illegal activity. 

Sanctuary feeding time

The orang utan sanctuary came and went. It was thrilling to see these great ginger mammals bashing coconuts on tree trunks and peeling bananas. The sedate chewing and mellow swinging of the orange men is incredibly rewarding. But it was Eric who had the greatest effect on me. He was no regular driver, he was in fact a park ranger as I later discovered. His love of the forest was bred with respect. Having grown up among the trees he understood the dangers as well as the beauty lurking between the branches. What to protect, how and why. Eric instilled in me a dignified respect for the forest.

No hugs please

Sarawak doesn’t need any more naive tree huggers than Scotland does. Our basic beliefs are often unfounded and, for the most part, ecotravel is bollocks. Whatever of that £3000 which isn’t spent on ludicrous administration is unlikely to be devoted to grassroots protection of the environment. Someone out their has a rather large pocket. If you really want to save the planet, go and see it with your own eyes and ask the locals what you can do to help. 

We emerged from the jungle trail and found ourselves in the carpark of a jungle style garden centre. A man was spraying the hot dusty concrete with water. He saw us clambering free from the forest and winked. We stood, waiting for Eric who said he would meet us there. We waited twenty minutes, baking our pale skin under the Bornean sun. He finally arrived. 

‘You took the wrong trail!’ he exclaimed.

‘What?! But that was the only tail we could see!’ 

Eric paused. He looked at me through the mirror.

‘Sometimes, it is hard to see the right way…’

The Perfect Dialogue

Recently I have kept bumping shoulders with the idea of the Perfect. Rarely does a word become so important to me for an entire week. It began at a strangely Fitzgeraldian dinner party. An ensemble of mainly expatriate dwellers of Paris trickled together to celebrate the laziness of Sundays. Well, not so lazy for the brilliant hostess of course whose culinary skills were a definite testament to the hours spent in the kitchen. I was introduced piece by piece to the party. One of them had his hair slicked back in a quiff, and was wearing a striking black and white dress suit. Generally my palate cannot really handle the obnoxious, yet the drawling managed to ignite my interest. An interest which was very nearly revoked when he called me 'kid', but I let it slip since I couldn't remember his name.

'So, what are you doing in Paris?' he finally asked. I always find this difficult to answer. The simple answer is that I am an English teacher but that occupation only costs a fraction of my time with my mind boggling 13 hour work load. As I sit writing about my travels, occasionally editing photographs which I have taken and munching unenthusiastically on day twelve of the pastry challenge, I know I'm not just here to teach. Of course, I don't want to impose my neurosis on my new acquaintance straight away, so I reply simply, 'I'm a hobo.' Strictly speaking, this is not a lie . I don't have a permanent address, nor have I since July this year. I currently live on my friend's sofa. In the bedroom he rents, from the true contract wielding occupants of the apartment. My companion's reason was a little more noble. He had arrived lately to edit his doctorate research paper and was currently occupying the lucky position awaiting results.
'Why Paris?' I asked.
'Why not?' he reminded me. 'Paris is perfect.'

Generally I would treat a statement like that with caution and dismay. But I had faith in the intelligence of the gentleman and so I didn't immediately shit on his response. But when I asked him to explain what he meant, he couldn't. At very least, didn't. He stated that Paris is perfect according to the Cartesian notion of perfection. I felt a little cheated then, and I wonder now if the reality is that he was not keen to dissect the city he loves. I am beginning to love living in Paris, as I always learn to do, in the final moments before leaving a place. Yet I would never describe the city as being perfect. It has millions of facets, of which thousands are brilliant. Paris has an enviable good to bad ratio. But I could never give in to sentiment and state outright that it is perfect.

Some friends came to visit me from Russia this week. I met a crazy trio in Yekaterinburg and I had been looking forward to the Parisian leg of their Europe trip ever since. When I finally found them, I asked one how he felt about Paris. Quickly, the previous Sunday's comment reared its head. Soon we found ourselves debating the existence and definition of the Perfect, and then swiftly rearranged the statement into the much more satisfactory question; 'is Paris ideal?'

My friend is not disappointed with Paris exactly yet it seems he is underwhelmed by it. He gazes at Paris with eyes I recognise, eyes I wore once too. Paris is mismatched with the expectation he had developed from celluloid.

The next day, on meeting them after their trip to the Louvre, I reiterated the question. Paris was no better for him on the second day. In fact a little worsened by their visit to the Louvre. (They tell me the organisation of the museum is horrible. I was worried before, and rather comforted now to know this) I felt a little sad that, even as a tourist, my friend was not enjoying Paris to a great degree. I said that there were some brilliant things I wanted to show him but he replied honestly that he didn't want my view of Paris. He wanted to discover Paris for himself. I respect that. In fact, I was pleased. I wouldn't have to drag him on mundane excursions to the three most scenic spots of Paris. (There's not even a list, unlike in Japan.)

So instead we hung out with a few beers in Rue Moufftard. Rue Moufftard is a tiny cache of students and pubs hidden behind blocks of tenament buildings, and lit by rows of dazzling fairy lights. Any former student of the University of Glasgow is automatically subject to a tiny wrench to the heart as a memory of Ashton Lane ignites. I was rather impressed with Rue Moufftard, I have been missing oak panel display cabinets displaying emptied whisky bottles. We drank, and nibbled goat saussison, and departed at 2am, less sober than sober.On our dander back to Chatelet along the boulevards of Paris, we jumped the railing, nearly falling into the Seine, into the grounds of the Notre Dame. We drank rosé from the bottle with two Parisian girls we met under the Christmas tree after shouting at them, "ISN'T IT JOYOUS?!" My friend and I exchanged performances. He recited Russian poetry. I love the Slavic languages, the jittery consonantal sound completely opposes the slow balanced melody we have with English. I reciprocated, by song. I have a bad cold at the moment so I chose to rasp my way through Stand By Me. My friend fell silent. When he finally remembered to say something, he announced that it was perfect.

A place in itself cannot be ideal, at least not for me. I need to build interactions which build memories, these souvenirs alone are worthy of being ideal. I will remember Paris as being a beautiful city undoubtedly, but that is irrelevant. The beauty lies with those people I met here, and the things we did when we dandered down the boulevards of Paris.

Today I made Sunday dinner to thank the flatmates of the place I have been living in for the last month. A good old roast chicken, roasties with a raspberry bakewell tart for dessert. From scratch. That was a brave choice, baking pastry for French people.

And afterwords, my friends told me that it was perfect.

Perhaps I agree.