At first, I was just responding to my ‘duty’. I’d been told to take a walk every day to reduce the likelihood of more trouble with my right hip; it had been paining me at night. So, I’d put on my walking shoes. Having seen some nice flowers in the woods near my house on previous walks, I decided to bring my camera, but….what to put it in? I had no pockets; an American backpack seemed like overkill. I was cogitating about this when I chanced by a door on which were festooned a variety of Kenyah Dayak artefacts, including some small basket backpacks (banyat) made of hand woven rattan strips. Ah-hah! Exactly the thing. The first one, covered in beadwork, had shoulder straps too short and was a bit heavy anyway. So I retrieved a more normal, everyday one—black and tan in color with geometric designs. The Kenyah use these little banyats to carry their betelnut paraphernalia, among other things.
I strapped it on, and as I made my way along the road toward the protected woods where I intended to walk, my mind and being turned to an earlier time. The light weight of the nearly empty banyat turned back the clock. The closer I got to the woods, the more I felt as though I headed toward a Kalimantan forest. I passed over a wooden walkway onto a simple forest path, full of mud and somewhat overgrown with plants bending in from each side. Despite the temperate flora, as I walked along the muddy path, I was transported back to Borneo, to the many times I had walked single file with people who would eventually become my relatives, on our way to the family’s rice field. As before, I danced around the edges of the path to avoid puddles and mud.
Eventually I came out of the flat land, and reached a cool, clear stream. A very nice bridge, a meter wide and flat, crossed the stream. In Kalimantan, the ‘bridge’ would have been a log, perhaps 30 cm in diameter. As I made my way up the steep opposite bank of the stream, I again remembered the need for good balance. Steps had not been built, but there were boards placed vertically a reasonable pace apart to simulate steps; In Kalimantan, small logs would have performed the same function. As I neared the top of the bank, I looked down on a slender tree that had fallen across the river—it would have made a perfect Kenyah ‘bridge’!
At the top of the bank, the main path through the woods began. I remembered the cool beneath the trees, and experienced that here as well. Each time I’ve taken this walk in Etna, New York, the plants have changed. Last time, there were many small yellow flowers along the path; this time, there were taller pink and purple ones. There were pine cones in various shapes littering the forest floor, and needles that snapped under my feet. The forest floor was cleaner than in Kalimantan. But in both places, I looked with suspicion at the plants brushing my legs: here I worried about ticks; there, leaches. I heard an animal crashing through the brush, and wondered if it might be a black bear, though a deer was more likely. There, I would have wondered about a Malaysian sun bear or a wild pig—but there, I would not have been alone. Others would have been with me, wielding bush knives to clear the path. Forays into the woods alone were severely frowned on by the Kenyah. I was chastised whenever I attempted it. Too many things could go wrong.
Carrying on through the woods, I circled round to another part of the bank I’d climbed. A swamp full of wild yellow irises greeted my eyes. I tried to remember what flowers I’d seen in Borneo’s forests. Surely there were flowers, but I only remember them around houses in the village, not in the forest. When I lived there though, I was even more botanically ignorant than I am now. One of my more experienced colleagues was appalled in 1979, that I couldn’t tell cassava from papaya, banana from pineapple. Now, after years in the tropics, I know more tropical plants than temperate ones (though I remain botanically challenged).
As I came full circle and descended the sloping pseudo-steps, I remembered again the excellent balance needed for life in Borneo. People my age were unlikely to venture out; balance deteriorates with age. I could imagine the change in the weight of my banyat, as it would now have been full of foods for supper or wood for the fire. And again I could imagine us all moving along single file, tired, sweaty, hot, ready for our cool, early evening dip in the river.
But the trail ended and I came out onto the American highway I had to traverse to get back home. Although cooler than Borneo, it was still a hot day. As I maneuvered along the street, trying to stay in the shade, I remembered the words of the above-mentioned colleague quoting a song: ‘only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun’. Home again, my walk dutifully performed, I felt blessed to have relived a fascinating part of my life.