The three days I spent in the longhouse were some of the quietest of my life. Nothing ruptured the surface of those days, no voices raised, no sharp lights, no blood emotions.

The seven people in the house made up four groups: an old man, an old woman, a late middle aged couple and a slightly younger couple with the baby. I think the older couple may have been the parents of the mother of the baby.
I spent the vast majority of my time in the longhouse in my hammock reading. I rose at seven am, once light had filtered through my room. A couple of the men would have already left to tend the small hillside plot that grew much of the longhouse's vegetables. The headman, Butak, the only one there speaking very limited English, each morning headed off with a friend to "chop down a tree". The mornings I read, ate meals with the old woman who was more or less assigned to look after me, and... well, then time simply passed. The nights came early: the ruai (communal hall) had only windows at one side, and we had no electricity. After sunset, the only lights were the weak oil candlesticks that each family set up - four wavering flames spaced out through the vast expanse of the dark ruai. Typically, they would not combine for a late night banter, rather each group sat outside their family room, chatting quietly. Butak would sit by himself, sometimes tuning a radio; the younger couple playing with their daughter.

Activity in the house was an unpredictable mixture of communal and private. The families weaved for their own use or commerce, collected firewood alone; but shared both the cooking and preparation of rice. When the sun shone, Butak and the women would sift and spread rice husks on the great balcony of the house.
As far as I could tell, no one told anyone else what to do - people spent their time as they felt like, working harshly in the mornings, then taking the afternoons and evenings slowly and easily. The couple next door to me, the late middle agers, the wife did some periodic weaving of baskets from rattan (a vine), the husband, after his return from their vegetable plots, slowly whittled a handle for a knife. Butak would sometimes take up an old project, he smoothed out a long plank of wood with the strikes of a machete. He was planning to build a new longboat - was it my imagination, or did he and I both silently comprehend that this was a project he would never finish? Although he was strong enough to hike through the forest and help his friend chainsaw down a big tree, at sixty eight, he was clearly frail in a way his jungle fitness couldn't help. In the few conversations he and I had, he was openly mournful about how the mighty past had become the fingertip present. Two years ago, he said wistfully, twenty British tourists had come to visit the longhouse - there had been drinking, a big meal, everyone up and trying out the traditional longhouse dances. "Sorry I didn't bring more friends", I could only say.

While the longhousers were friendly, they weren't warm towards me, and weren't interested in breaking up the patterns of their time to show me things. It was hard, being among such quiet people, spending most of one's time in the communal hall, little outside my head to focus on. I think two things kept me sane.
The first was the baby of the house. She added so much life and merriment to everyone's existence, I cowered before thinking what it must have been like before she was born. The Ibans were awkward around our language barrier, they didn't like engaging with me directly, but loved getting the shy little girl to interact with me - she was our bridge.

They taught her to call me "Akka!", they pushed her to say it every time she saw me. "Akka means uncle", explained Butak. "Should I call you Akka?", I asked him. "Call me Apai", he urged, "it means father". "Apai", I repeated to him, and the glow of his smile was incredible.
The little girl's parents sent her to toddle over to me and shake my hand, she would hide inside a room and watch me through the ajar door. Her obvious, but slowly lessening fear bonded everybody.

The second thing holding back madness was that I had brought a small supply of my own food. Although I didn't especially like the longhouse's food, that wasn't the real problem. The problem was that it seemed to be the same few things at every meal, four times a day - what their simple agriculture and fish traps could produce. Slowly the tastes became more and more repulsive. Little fish from the river, a soft root of something (palm shoot?), ground up jungle ferns, and a dubious blackened and deeply salty pork lumps dish. I found myself just increasing the proportion of rice to everything else on my plate as the meals accumulated - by the last day I was only taking a spoonful of each dish to my enormous pile of rice. I think they could sense my increasing unhappiness at meal times, and I think these were perhaps my least favourite times of the day. But adding one "dish" (ie a tin of something) of my own to each meal kept things ok.

Three days in the longhouse was definitely enough, both I think for them and for me. On the last morning, I waited in my hammock for the barking for the longhouse dogs to announce my friends' return. Belansai appeared at midday: he said Cayce and the others were eating lunch in the nearby rangers' station. I walked over, blinking in the too bright sunlight. I hugged Cayce, she wanted to know how it had been, but talking was difficult. The sheer noise of her team walking briskly about and cooking was too disorientating for me - I had become used to the tomb. Cayce looked at me in concern, "You look... spaced out". I assured her this was the most activity and sensory input I'd experienced in three days, and needed an adjustment period.

We went back to the longhouse after lunch. There was a slightly awkward money discussion, and a misunderstood moment that left the whole thing feeling a bit mercenary. I bought a big rattan mat from the couple that had looked after me and gave them a small tip. But once the money stuff had been resolved, I think the appreciation that both the Ibans and I had for our three day meeting started welling up. The old woman, who had previously been asking for more money, suddenly rushed into her room and came back with a rattan black and white patterned fan as a gift for me. The mum of the house brought the pretty toddler up to me; I picked her out of her mother's arms and held her close to my face. She only started crying in panic after a few seconds in my arms, which I saw as progress to be proud of. Butak came up to me, and was damply mournful to say goodbye. He raised his arms up to rest on my shoulders: "You called me "Apai", I was so happy. You called me father, I will call you son".

--

This whole way of living is one that is dying. The seven inhabitants of the house all had relatives that had long moved out - they alone chose to stay. Most Ibans of this area now are either leaving for the towns, or living in longhouses near the dam, where there are jobs and better access to the modern economy. I once had commented to Nyanggau how old the seven people in the longhouse were; he looked at me with a smile that wasn't quite bitter: "No young people are staying; even in the longhouse by the dam we visited, how many young people did you see"?
The fondest memory of my time in Batang Ai was being alongside the rainforest Ibans (both the days with Cayce's team and living with the longhousers) in their element. Their mastery at surviving in an environment that would kill me in short order, their strength and fitness - I saw men in their forties and fifties with physiques that teenage male models would dream about (possibly with the exception of the many missing teeth most longhouse Ibans have). A thirty six year old Iban hunter, living in a nearby, even more deserted longhouse, tried to explain to me: "In the city, you can buy, do anything, you just need lots of money. But here, you don't need money, you can"... His voice trailed off as his English couldn't stretch to explain all the ways the rainforest fed and sheltered the Iban people.

I don't think my longhouse will remain populated for much longer. The couple with the baby will want her to go to the school near the dam; Cayce and I imagine they will have to leave for a house closer to it in a few years. And of the four that might remain, two are very old.

--

Leaving the forest. On the lake by the dam, lies the hotel where most visitors to Batang Ai stay: the Hilton Batang Ai. Cayce had looked at it wistfully on our arrival (she passed it every trip to Batang Ai but had never stayed there). I immediately promised to treat her to a night in the hotel, as a very small thank you for making this incredible experience possible. So, after the longboat had dropped off Nyanggau, Belansai and Beginda, Steward dropped us off at the lakeside dock of the Hilton. I still wonder if we were the first people ever to show up at the hotel unannounced, on our own transportation (it is only reachable by boat). Either way, the security guard near the dock was stunned into silence as Cayce and I tramped uphill towards him. Eventually he just radioed back for advice, then pointed us off towards reception. A room with a hot shower, a restaurant with a menu, The Bodyguard showing as the evening film, it was a good way to refresh from the rainforest, before our return to the city.

--

Cayce's car carried us back towards Kuching, past the police checkpoints and the weighed down timber lorries. I have grown really fond of Cayce in my time here in Borneo, a great friend to have discovered. I only had a few more days left in Sarawak, my ticket back to KL was approaching. Although I was highly keen about the near future (my parents are taking a holiday to come and visit me in KL!), I mused how our speeding car was taking this friendship closer and closer to the point where it would part. It was a sad thought, floating underneath our happy conversations on that four hour drive. But, I consoled myself, perhaps with true friends, there are no real goodbyes - the friendship doesn't ebb with distance. She and I promised to play lots of chess over the internet.
It will be a sad goodbye to Sarawak.

--

Well, I hoped you liked my stories from Batang Ai. Best wishes, and thanks to everyone for reading and leaving comments. You can read Cayce's telling of the trip on her blog: caycep.blogspot.com.

Daniel, 2 August 2004, Kuching