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Welcome to the Jungle
Mon 24/03/08
After a long bus ride, we arrive at Batang Ai (Big River) accompanied by our host and guide, Francis. We are met by members of the Iban tribe, and loaded into longboats for the trip down the river to our new home. These are my drunken, scribbled notes on the trip. Welcome to the Jungle. The boat is speeding along, away from civilization and deep, deep into the heart of the darkness. The air whistles by and my head spins. The sun shines down, and the dark green water stares up at us. My stomach feels empty. There is something inside that eats away, chewing and biting, hollowing me out like a virus. I feel like I am missing something. Part of me has fallen off and is floating away down the river, back where I have come from, screaming at the past.
I have been away from home a while now, but it’s not homesickness I’m feeling. Maybe it’s moving from place to place, from person to person, relationship to relationship. Just as you become attached to somewhere or something, it disappears. It hovers on the horizon, and then it’s
gone. First, India sank from view. Then, it was 'Nam. Now, the animals of Taiping are a memory, and a week from now, this place, too. The world is a spin dryer, and I'm whirling around inside, head banging and ears bleeding.
Time is a vicious fuck. An enemy with no mercy. When you battle through life and arrive at something amazing, you want to savour it, but time won’t allow it. All the views, all the spectacle, the drinking and the dancing and the laughter - you live it in the moment and it dissolves before you, piece by piece. I need time to give me a break and let me sit for a while and drink it all in; sipping, slowly - no more down in one.
I feel selfish for wanting more, though. I’ve seen so much, but I’m asking the world to stop turning and let me stare at its arse a while. So many of the people I’ve met in the last few months will never leave their village, never mind their country. I should be grateful just to have dropped from the womb and opened my eyes.
The jungle opens up
and yawns. It’s tired of my complaints. The thick, tall trees wrap around the river and the noise of a thousand living things rings out. They all see us coming.
It would be easy just to lean over the side of the boat and plunge into the water. Just let it wash me away and go wherever it takes me; a new home, amongst the trees. Start all over again, like a baby, crawling through the mud. A few wild weeks out in the sun would wipe my mind clean and flush my memories away with the current. Live like a true native. Hell, I already know how to shit in bushes. I'll learn how to make fire, and live off bugs and sweet berries. Whenever white folk float by and stray too close to the banks, I'll charge out, angry and naked, and pepper them with spears and arrows.
Jenny is sitting next to me in the longboat. She asks me what I’m thinking. I lie, and tell her “nothing”. Better to listen than to spit out my jumbled thoughts of jungle madness. Loneliness is the theme tune playing in the background. I hate it, but you
need to choose the right tool for every situation. Sometimes, in a group full of virtual strangers, you feel alone even when you’re always in their company. Nobody really knows you. They don’t know who you really are, and there isn’t time for them to find out. You have to put up a cardboard cutout of yourself - a store dummy that sits in the shop window and never changes its expression.
It’s hard to walk around with a fixed grin, like a fucking idiot. You establish your role in the group and you have to stick with it. There isn’t the time for deviation - people won’t tolerate it. You drop down a few octaves, and you get set adrift. Right now, I'd like a little time alone. Too many new faces have fucked with my karma and I need to regroup and take stock. Shit, all I probably need is a couple of hours alone in a dark with some good pornography, and I'd be right as rain, back in the game and happy to mix it up.
The daylight melts away and night fills my eyes.
The engine dies, and the boat picks its way slowly through a log jam. There is a stillness in the air. It seems as though the rainforest is waiting to explode at any moment. As we wind through the knots of the river, our Iban guide shines a spotlight across the water, catching swarms of insects, birds and bats in the glare.
After an hour or so, we arrive at the guesthouse, which rises up out of the bank of the river. We climb the wooden steps and lay down our bags. One of the Iban, Angune, greets me warmly. He shakes my hand and places a tribal hat on my head. I guess I’m the chief now. Head of the clan. Build me a throne and send in the clowns.
Francis explains a few things to us, and cooks dinner. Disappointedly, there will be no rice wine tonight. There are beers, and I have one.
First night in the jungle - eat, drink, sleep.
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