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Ohonganamanyawa, the Togutil people. The people of the forest.
To go far is above all to go beyond oneself…
North of
Exhilaration.
For several hours I have been regularly closing my eyes so that to remain as close as possible to those aphrodisiac pictures; moments that give rise to the paradise inside me.
Maluku Utara, my paradise.
Soft, warm and muggy is the wind this morning. Hot, it sticks to the skin and brings from the jungle the silence that comes before the storm. At the same time, strong enough to guide and tear up the veil of the morning on the smoking cones of Volcanoes. Everywhere. Laid on the water like baskets turned upside down on the table. Still too shy, the sun plays hide-and-seek with puffy like donkey’s paunch clouds. The locks of the sky are ready to open at any moment now.
However some lights, cleverer and brighter than others are marking out with beacons the soft progress of our outrigger canoe. Rolling on the train of our coming meetings, the canoe evolves on the grey-blue with the elegance of a water skimmer on the surface of a lake.
The carved tree trunk moves forward, pitches, rolls. We are living, we are watching in slow motion.
Mystical tranquility disrupted by the rowdy motor of our ship is striking.
The sea turns white. It is raining. The curtain of rain around us provides us with an intimacy without equal. I am pulling out a pink umbrella of the boat man to protect our most important possessions.
The view must be unusual from above – as if a big mushroom has suddenly grown on the outrigger canoe. Our colors must intrusively contrast with this universe of jungle and sea.
It takes us nearly two hours and a half to get from Daru to the volcanic coast of Subaem, a modest small town situated on the central west side of the eastern part of Halmahera.
‘It’s time for us to arrive… it was nearly unbearable’ Isabelle says to me. ‘Yeah! Our bottoms were on fire sitting on that stuff!’ delicately adds Morgann.
Hidden under the shelter of the only tarpaulin of the outrigger canoe, my three dear ones have been sitting packed on the only plank of the ship… right over the motor. Paralyzed by the lack of space and movement. The canoe hadn’t covered a sea mile when the bottoms were already red.
‘You want me to show you how fried I am?’ proposes my daughter. ‘No, no, it’s OK, honey, I believe you…’ I answer half-smiling.
Without surprise we discover Subaem, a young completely lost place. Though it is one of the few places mentioned on our map.
Just like in a far-west village, it seems built up in a hurry. Out of bits and pieces. Not even a hamlet a couple of years ago, it softly grew up into a big village.
‘Wood and ore rush’ explains Udhien, our Indonesian friend who came to
Natural resources of Halmahera attract more and more people; most of them are Javanese and
In the afternoon we get to the Barokah, the only family hotel of Subaem. An adjacent Rumah makan (family restaurant), a home stay has six small rooms where the comfort is as high as its minimal price. Our arrival is sensational; people are taken aback, fascinated and motionless.
After the traditional “Dari mana” (Where are you from?), they quickly pass to the reason of our arrival. We take a seat by their side on the terrace of the family hotel.
‘Saya bukan scientific. Saya mau bertemu orang Togutil. No, I am not a scientist. I am here on vacation with my family to meet the Togutil people.’ ‘Orang Outans? The forest people?’ ‘Ya. Yes.’
Udhien, who was gone for a little moment, is back to the discussion explaining our motivations to our interlocutors - the local authorities. Switching English to his native language, Udhien breaks all the linguistic barriers and creates a clear link between each of our interrogative bridges.
He explains them that he is a professional guide, but most importantly he has a passion for tribal people. That he had just cut short his tour with a group from
He adds that in those ten days he would like us to comprehend how important is to protect the Togutil way of life. First by introducing us the settled Togutil, then by showing us the permanent complex built for them by the government, and finally by organizing our meeting with Ohonganamanyawa (the “free” Togutil), the people of the forest.
The chronology of the meetings is important – he wants us to apprehend it step by step. To make us perceive crescendo the existential fragility of the ethnic group. Not only to create for us a beautiful and simple summer souvenir, he tells me, but rather to get a message heard though my journals. He is convinced that this is a concrete way for me to participate in a memory for that disappearing people.
‘You will have to write, Yann. To remember them; and especially to allow me to witness, to scream out their existence through you…’ While his words are still echoing in me, I promise him to materialize those coming and future meetings on the paper… although I know that my testimony will remain voiceless.
Optimism. Naivety. Wonderful Udhien. What an incredible personality.
Figuratively I am staggered. And after the translation the authorities remain silent as well.
Tomorrow’s meeting will surely be unforgettable. For Isabelle and for me. Especially for our kids.
We stay there talking for a good hour around a nice cup of “kopi” before going to the mandi to refresh ourselves. Udhien is gone again for two hours and then comes back upset. In this region of
‘Is it too far for a moped?’ I ask him. ‘No. We need one or maximum two hours of driving to get to the foot of the mountains. But we are five. You will have to charter four mopeds,’ he answers annoyed.
My eyes smiling and my reassuring hand on his shoulder, I remind him that the most important for us is to be here. With him. Never mind the rest.
We are back to our pads early, at around 9 PM, for tomorrow looks like being a long, tiring but inevitably exceptional day.
On the road, I give an unknown strength to the evening. Alone in front of my travel journal with the intimate darkness helping me to find the words. The right ones. The words allowing me to bind the situations of the day to the emotional effect they have produced.
Noises, smells, tastes, pictures, emotions. Everything must become a word. That’s when begins a difficult task to synthesize my trip universe, to pick up a sentence punctuating the strong feeling. Poor journal. I tear it up, I underline, I cross out, I scribble in… My journal is back to rest only when I get an intimate confirmation of my feelings.
‘All right, good night…’
DAY 2
We wake up at the dawn. The day promises to be just as beautiful as the caressing light. After several pisang goring (banana fritters) and a tonic kopi kosong we gather our belongings. We load our bags with water, then with some supplies and we leave the family hotel of Barokah on foot. We take the only and unique asphalted road of Subaem, a country road.
A road offering multiple possibilities of going astray. Every twenty meters[*] there are other perpendicular roads leading towards the mountains. We follow the main road for at least half an hour before turning right on a side road. The atmosphere immediately turns humid, shut by the plant cover and the green roof of the trees solid like the columns of a Greek temple.
A quarter an hour goes by.
The first houses appear in front of us as if by magic, after a turn of the road we have taken. Smoke is going up form the roofs made of palm, the place is inhabited. Obviously, the huts are rustic, built in a heap of modern and plant fragments. In spite of the welcoming smiles, we approach shyly. I internalize stricto sensu some sadness and unease in front of such insecurity.
They are here. Sitting. They are waiting.
One family, three men and two women. No, three women. The chief’s spouse. The patriarch invites me to meet her inside the hut. My children and Isa prefer to stay outside.
Hugging her knees she is laying curled up next to the fireplace. I approach as fast as my eyes are getting used to the darkness. She slightly turns her head and I make out her smile, yet the atmosphere suggests me the worst.
She is shivering, abundantly sweating and coughing. Malaria, explains Udhien. Miserable hygienic conditions are seen on every sensitive part of her skin. Her face, her eyes and her lips are blistered… I feel like moving back and surely my body shows it as well but I try and make the good impression. I am her only mirror.
She gets up with an incredible effort and shows me her house. She proposes me a loaf of sago palm bread where flies are hiding. I thank her and get out a little after coming in. I don’t know what to think, I only have the impression that I have become a powerless traveler. I share my embarrassment with Udhien and again he finds the right words.
‘Do not take a new look on yourself, Yann. Do not stop at the illness or the misery. See the man. Leave your first impressions where they are. Now your heart is reacting and that’s a good sign. The heart is the first door of the spirit. Wait and then you will grab the essential. You know they are happy and honored that a family came from
Suddenly millions of translucent needles riddle the roof of the forest. The chief immediately waves us to come and take shelter in the second hut. And as the rain is in favor of the exchanges, I try to understand the reason of their settlement.
As we were approaching my curious eye hasn’t noticed any health center, any comforting energy, any kitchen garden, any slash-and-burn cultivation… Nothing. Nothing at all.
It is true that there are many ways to conceptualize the world but here not a single argument can explain me the migration towards that so-called best life.
‘Have you ever lived in the jungle?’ I ask the chief naïvely. ‘Of course, but it has been a long time ago’ his answer makes his family laugh.
I add awkwardly:
‘Why did you leave the forest?’
The man remains silent for a while thinking. He looks confused, as if he doesn’t know how to explain me the reasons of their arrival to the Subaem area. He smiles at me and remains silent. His silence may be intentional or caused by a memory loss, but I do understand it. My question is totally stupid at its origin: a life can not be reduced to an answer especially when it is about such an experience. May be he didn’t choose that settled existence.
Seeing me deep into my internal dialogue, Udhien decides to give me a couple of elements related to the path of those former hunter-gatherers.
‘They can be called Kusuri, Papua, Asmat or Togutil but all of these nomadic Indonesians have the same path. Old transmigration policies and the land-owning right played and are still playing a very important part in their settlement. Our government rents the feeding lands of these people to privately owned companies and other investors. At the same time modern laws voted by this very government say that native communities have the traditional rights and are the landowners of these forests. Without the forest their survival is impossible. But the natives do not know it all. And their ignorance is leading them to their loss.’
‘And the biggest problem in
‘And the people you see now are from those complexes.’
This meeting with the Togutil promises to be more worrying than what I have imagined from both sentimental and intellectual points of view. I already know that it won’t be limited to beautiful pictures…
We smile thanking them for those rich minutes, we nod to express our gratitude - our exchange ends up at the same time as the rain. I am leaving feeling confused yet convinced in the rightfulness of my interpretation. Those settled Togutils are consuming themselves in despair knowing that they are sentenced to wait for a miracle… that will never come.
They are still there. In their miserable huts. Just the same as we left them this summer. With their burden on the back. With the same kindness and the same filth.
They are weary. Sitting. And they keep waiting.
It takes us a very little time to stop and charter four mopeds, the only vehicles around there. The next part of the adventure is at some twenty minutes from here, but we are already apprehending it. Udhien had said the tough word “human park”. What are we doing here? Are we at our place?
I am scared. Really scared. Even my legs feel weak.
Totally unexpected a couple of days ago, this coming meeting is off to be a true revolt of our minds, an intimate confrontation. Loïck and Morgann are still too young to accurately appreciate the complexity of that distant reality; but I know that inside their strong mind the order of things will never be the same as yesterday. They will catch the true issue of their vacation reading this journal when they’ll grow older; they will realize that we are not the center of this world - source of extraordinary and disturbing moments. They will carry inside them a part of the truth of the Togutil.
Each of us gets on a moped behind the driver with no safety helmet, of course. The kids get together on the last 125. The ride is sinuous, incredible and fantastic. The sky turned into a beautiful blue sentence punctuated here and there with white clouds. It fringes splendidly with the green meadow of paddy fields.
Soon the road turns into the mud furrows sculpted by the wood-truck wheels. The driver’s task becomes more dangerous, risky and dirty… At the bend in the well-shaped loop the back of my bike slaloms and skids on a wave of wet ground… The front wheel turns poorly and comes to a halt in the mud… Rémy Julienne* wouldn’t do it better – without a net I am making a brilliant grand circle. Splash!!! Fortunately my rucksack and the mud carpet cushion the fall… I escape unharmed – no scratch, only splashes.
‘Apa kabar?’ ‘Kabar baik, termah kasih’
We go on and continue our journey on the twisted road cut deep into the hillside. When a tiny river bordered with solid trees and frail bushes decides to block us. Skirting around is not the Indonesian way to do it – my driver doesn’t doubt a second. Our backwash caresses my calves covered with old layers of mud and it starts trickling like the mascara from the crying eye.
‘It makes you a beautiful leg’ makes fun of me my dearest wife. ‘Oh, that’s nothing, aim at my backside.’ ‘Ah!! It looks like you…’ ‘OK, OK, I already got it’
Once the river is crossed we appear on the complex situated under the shelter of big trees. We stop opposite to an unusual protestant church. The complex looks like a huge soulless checkerboard built in the setting that every tour operator sells. The phenomenal aspect of this moving environment is made by its clean, square and attractive side. Its postcard side. The mountains at the horizon, the village lulled by the song of the river hidden in an inextricable jungle where there is no other path… It looks like a Huelgoat* or an Asian Brocéliande* inhabited by ancient spirits and unhappy elves… It is a beautiful place. But the legends or, rather, the secrets are hidden in the other side of the picture, in the heart of these people.
Our irruption sparks of some amazement as well as some stress. Some children step back. We are the first bule (white people) they see, but it is also the first village of this kind that we discover. How to face it. Let us be ourselves. Anyways we have no other part to play but the simplicity.
We greet a small group of surprised seated in front of a shack. One of them smiles at us, slowly stands up and moves towards us. Words spread in the distance, our presence is noticed. A bunch of kids, women and men gather to see us. Not everyone is smiling, and it’s normal. We were not expecting a reception of those old days in the archipelago of Gura here. Life only taught them to be suspicious towards foreigners. But they are not distant either. Minutes go by. Lips start smiling. Thanks to our kids, once again.
Attracted to the young kids since her early childhood, Morgann develops an incredible sense of relationship. With one smile she creates links that we could not make with words.
All the children of the village are here. Their eyes examine us, some of them, curious come to touch Margann’s arms and envious cheeks. They laugh but do not talk a lot.
By reckoning and by invitation of a man with a moustache we come into the first shack of the village. Roughly built, it offers its roof as the only comfort. The floor made of trodden earth, the interior reminds me our family tent: a modest common room, three rabbit hutches situated on the width by way of bedrooms. A misery camping.
Five chairs are brought for us and put in front of our host with moustache. Many dozens of curious are surrounding the house now. There is no lock and we are being watched from every crack in the wall planks. Equal number of curious and skeptical people comes into the room. As if for a group photograph, kids sit themselves on the ground while adults stand behind them.
We are sitting here in the middle of all these people. As eyes are windows into our thoughts, I am reading in their glances thousands of questions. An inquiry is in every eye.
Who are you, what are you doing here, why did you come….
I turn my head and decipher in my wife’s pupils a huge “What are we doing here?”
An embarrassment shows its face as the dialogue starts. It’s MY unease, then our unease. I am lethargic, paralyzed at the thought that I wouldn’t be able to satisfy any of their expectations.
I feel really stupid. I am ashamed.
If during our past meetings I felt some emotional storms, today I was feeling a sort of an intellectual tidal wave. This emotional wave was so strong that it razed to the ground my unlimited thirst for discovery.
Very well, I am shattered. But I have no right, I can no longer foster that false hope that I am unconsciously arousing.
With my addiction to meetings and our passion of traveling we only saw at that moment tears, desperate glances and humanitarian expectations that we will never be able to fulfill… I got it wrong. Why did we come. We are not equipped and qualified enough to undertake such an expedition.
It is hard for me and for Isabelle to describe the intensity of the show. Yes, the show, the term is tough. Strong. How is it possible to call it otherwise than us being the audience at a movie, the end of which we won’t be able to change?
To see for the sake of seeing. To meet for the sake of meeting… This western vision of a traveler doesn’t have to be limited at the egocentric and individualistic urge. Meeting also means taking the risk of changing the obviousness of the other person’s life.
To go to this part of
When we leave this place, we are not really the same.
Udhien informs me that it would be advisable for us to return to Subaem for lunch because we will need as much time as possible to find in the forest the Ohonganamanyawa people.
The lunch is difficult and the appetite is not in the menu. How can we manage to eat after this morning.
We do not linger and soon are back on our path. We turn off to the right after the bridge spanning the river Dodaga.
The path leads straight towards the mountains; and paddy fields surround us from both sides. The same landscape for at least forty minutes. The path changes into a gaping artery as we are approaching the mountain jungle. These green giants from the edge of the world start getting lacerated, disemboweled by the power saws and the motorized monsters.
A big slash allowing mining and easier transportation to some trucks operating over it. We don’t see any of those death’s devices.
We are climbing. Without stop. The path follows the difference in altitude. In a final spurt of effort I like to think that the jungle defends itself. Armed with their roots surviving giants furrows the ground, pierce and dig the path with their claws. If those cut downs and voracious mining have a direct negative impact on the fragile balance of these ecosystems, I guess they are just as destroying for the people living nearby.
We are climbing again. Sometimes we even need to get down from the powerless moped and push it forward so that to continue the ascent. The landscape changes impressively as we get higher. In some places organic tunnels ruffled with a transverse vegetal nave tower up from the stony path. Once passed by, they open at humid arches torn somewhere to show the verdant panoramas. What a fantastic atmosphere. Rivers wind, lulled by the songs of the jungle, whitish smoke of the few houses escapes from the green mantle while the cockatoos take flight as we pass by.
After fifty minutes of climbing, the path goes down to the plain veined with rivers and watercourses. We drive hesitantly for about half-an-hour before making a terminus in front of improbable foliage.
The adventure starts here. On this path of roots and mud.
We’ve been forcing our way through the bracken and other euphorbia for two hours now. We are living through a remake of our trek in
All I needed then was for one of my Smurfs to complain:
‘Dad, those brown things sting!! I am fed up with it; are the Togutil still far?’ ‘Yes, my little Smurf… far… very far…’
What a terrible Gargamel* I am. My Morgann was expecting an answer of the big Smurf… and not that of the sickly daddy. I could have told her that those herbs look like datura, the plant with toxic and thorny fruits. She is ten and she is spending her summer vacation here, at the end of the world. She doesn’t know where she is going. Nor does she know what is ahead. Just like me.
I turn to look back. Loïck and Isa are copper-colored, I am scorched, but they keep going calmly. Without a word. It is rough for them as well, yet they are brave. They are unshakable in their effort.
How many women would accept to come here. How many sons would agree to come here. I only know them. And they are mine. I am proud of my clan.
We wander, we flounder, we move forward, we trudge. But we observe.
Manioc, mango, pine-apples, papaya, sweet potatoes, bananas, coconuts, spiders, mosquitoes, snakes… Sic!
Udhien’s machete opens the way for us for half-an-hour now. We are moving slowly and it makes the red ants happy. Our trousers are infested with them and our calves are being persecuted. We are being eaten alive up to the knee.
My little Smurf is calling for the second time. In a more severe tone.
‘It is not by cursing that we will find them quicker. Look at your watch, and when the hour hand will be on 8, we will be close.’ ‘Yeah… say rather on 28!’ ‘How many hours are there in a day, Morgann?’ ‘Too much.’
I love it when she is moaning. She looks more and more like her mother… please don’t hit me, don’t hit me…
We cross a little river and we have to take off our shoes and roll up our trousers.
‘Selamat Tinggal ants (good bye)!!’ jubilantly says Morgann watching the red nuisances staggering in the current.
I distinguish Loïck’s laughter among the surrounding sounds and the noise of an approaching waterfall; I turn to find the reason of his fit of the giggles.
Cherry on the cake.
Isabelle who decided to compete with Morgan in the competition “she can be relied upon to put her foot in it” would have to keep her shoes on. The result is immediate. The muddy slit of the current caught one of her shoes. Like a wading bird folding up its foot, my wife is doubled up with laughter.
With muddy feet and socks we continue our adventurous walking.
As we move further the strength and the power of water grow louder. As if we were at high altitude, the landscape changes with every step. The changes of the ground are the most impressing. The plant carpet varies over a hundred meters. In some places it is difficult to walk, especially where those land-water-lily-like succulents grow. There the ground is limp and it clings by kilos to the sole of our shoes.
We are approaching the waterfall. Judging by the sound it seems exceptional.
And so it is. I have never seen such a high one. Its beauty brings tears to my eyes.
A hundred meters of turbulence in the middle of the jungle. Dozens and dozens of levels, each of them made of one or several natural pools. The effect is deafening of wonder. Sprays bounce in turmoil to feed the sumptuous jungle lying at the foot of the waterfall.
‘Can we take a swim, dad?’
It is 3 PM and night will come in three hours. But we are also on vacation and the day has been hard.
I haven’t even had time to agree as my two budding travelers paddle in their underwear in the first translucent pool. We follow them.
We get our breath back here for nearly an hour. We wear our foul-smelling things again feeling clean in spite of all.
‘We are going to climb up the river Dodaga, Yann. The Ohonganamanyawa live in the jungle but never too far from the water. And if they did not move since the last week, we are not very far’ reveals Udhien to me. ‘You really have come here last week?’ ‘Yes. They are moving constantly. I wanted to locate the family to spare your children a longer walk that I had to do years ago, and to ask them whether they were favorable to meet you.’ ‘Does it mean that you stopped your work for one more week for us? And that family, did you find them?’ ‘Yes, but that’s nothing. You are friends of mine. I have walked for three days to find their trail.’
I am astonished by his kindness. My eyes are shining.
‘And what did they tell you about our presence?’ ‘We wouldn’t be here had they shown any reluctance. On the contrary, they are happy that a French family is interested by their everyday life.’ So we follow Dodaga that surprises by its forms. Sometimes powerful and narrow, sometimes large and clear. The nature is beautiful. Simple. Magical. The water concentrates life.
At the bend in one of its waves a house appears in front of us as if by alchemy. We approach lost in an emotional labyrinth. Morgann goes first as a confident nosy.
We have been spotted. A dozen of black almond-shaped eyes are fixing us.
Amazement. Surprise. Interaction. May be they were not expecting us today.
An old man in loincloth stands up and comes towards us while the rest of the family remains sheltered by the patriarch.
Udhien comes to get in touch with him.
After a brief word exchange, the eldest Ohonganamanyawa, the Father, waves his hand inviting us to come closer to his traditional hut. We offer the presents that Udhien advised us to bring: cigarettes and a thin cord.
Strictly plan-built, the house is organized in two very distinct parts. The largest is below the smallest which is for sleeping. The floor is covered with plaited organic mats. We are invited to sit down on the biggest duck-boards next to the local chief and a bunch of men. Only the oldest are half naked; the youngest have adopted western habits. A cultural identity in the middle of mutation.
The hours before the sun set are shy, awkward, nebulous, rich, smiling. Superbly astounding.
It is a day from another time. Between the tradition and the modernity.
DAY 3.
I left my travel journal resting for the last couple of days. Because of the lack of time and because i was trying to spontaneously write down our roving impressions once back o Ternate. I also would like to underline the fact that the only aim of this journal is to recount our trip, to re-transcribe the snapshot of the community’s way of life. There is no concept, theory or study of the characters or social and cultural codes.
This is just a simple travel journal.
The first day we woke up very early. And despite the tiredness of the previous day, the night did not bring our strength back. To be honest, we slept terribly. Not due to the lack of comfort, because we are OK with sleeping on the ground. But because of the abominable heat. Camping tents made of polyester are infernal. The temperature gets to the top in the middle of the night. And there is no way to open the cloth to relieve our bodies: spiders, huge millipedes, scolopendria or snakes would be really pleased.
The parental house borders and overhands a winding branch of the river Dodaga. Before going to the hunting class, we opt for a wash in the river. As a caring father I ask Udhien whether we risk sharing the bath with crocodiles or some other just as pleasant animals in the tributary. Our friend never misses the opportunity to have lost of fun, he laughs at me…Told about my awkward question the hunters Gerson, Adi and Subuh join udhien's laughter.
The Ohonganamanyawa or the forest people live as a family. There is no village as such, no grouping of houses. One house - one family. Each house is isolated from the neighboring by several hundreds of meters.
Alerted by the forest spirits, the neighbors of our hosts come to see us before our tracking and ask Udhien whether we want to come and see where they live. We promise them to go there tomorrow at the afternoon.
My watch shows 5 o’clock. We are going to the depth of the forest.
Their muscles bulging, with long assegais and a machete in the hand, three hunters walk resolutely and give us the rhythm. Adi, who doesn’t smile a lot, seems to have more character and confidence than the other two. With the inscrutable face he is in charge. The cord we brought yesterday is on his shoulder. He is the one who decides which path to follow.
Gerson and Subuh are following the leader turning around every now and then to warn us against the traps of the nature. The jungle is beautiful. With its verdant abysses and colorful birds the big green could take its place in any imaginative world. But its beauty can be treacherous; the danger can be hidden under each leaf. Snakes are numerous here and their bite is often lethal. The hunters are amused seeing our reaction at their recommendations. They tell Udhien this is the first time they see western people.
Their enthusiasm towards us is a unique opportunity. It favors our exchanges and enriches our ignorance. The walk becomes a pedagogical tool.
Gerson turns around and talks to me. Udhien translates:
‘The forest belongs to their ancestors. He tells me that they can find all that they need for living and treating diseases. But only men can hunt there. Only men can take life; women give it.’
Seeing our interest Subuh gives us a lesson of herbal medicine indicating with his finger and the edge of his spear. He illustrates with gesture the way of using the plant and the body parts that this particular plant has to cure.
‘This one relieves the stomach-ache when soaked; once grinded the bark of this tree soothes the tooth-ache…’ ‘Subuh is the community wizard’ adds Udhien. ‘Wizard means shaman?’ ‘Yes, in a way. Subuh is the symbolic mediation link between the humans and the spirits of nature living in the ‘I thought only the eldest could be shamans. So, they are animists…’ ‘Subuh is the community shaman’s son.’
I am amazed. It is very hard to realize where we are and with who.
To move in this jungle is not easy. Plants are hostile, everything cuts and pricks. The slightest slip on the ten-centimeter-jam* covering the ground and the hand willing to cling to something will be covered in the biggest needles available!
The tangle of roots, lianas, leaves and trunks is discouraging by their impenetrable aspect. We start having a hard time.
They are barefooted. Calm. Same rhythm.
Adi slows down and then stops. The traps will be put here because he noticed the wild boar’s tracks. We are happy.
In three moves he shows his peers the places where traps must be made.
Here is another lecture. As if for the big chief’s recipe, the trap ingredients are cut, minced, sliced, barded, put together, tied up, trussed…
It is a great art. The Ohonganamanyawa are artists. Craftsmen of the life.
We do not understand all the tricks of the sophisticated system, so Adi sets of one of his traps. Kids ask for more, as if it was a dessert. The four of us are filled with wonder and flabbergasted by their ingenuity. Every wild boar that will pass here will get out with a stake in its paunch.
Eyes never lie; they feel proud.
The afternoon started a while ago and we turn back to the Father’s cabaret. The remaining hours of light are dedicated to our relaxation in the river Dodaga.
Later before the night a promising storm appears, such a heavy cast-iron. And in perfect harmony the concert of multicolored batrachians sings the rain.
We put our ponchos on and take advantage of the dusk resting. Doing nothing. Being here.
DAY 4
If the jungle requires sweat and effort from the one who ventures there during the day, the night gives absolutely no respite. It could have been pleasant without that crazy and senseless rooster – my eardrums are still crowing. Four o’clock is early. And the short-haul hops of Morgann in the tent, it’s too much for me.
I get up.
The wind dropped and Dodaga ripples. I get into the water. It is cool. Revitalizing.
Far away the osprey takes off. The start stopped like canon bullet. Its load disappears in the blaze . The fish rather curious than worried whirl around and swim in line… oh! an eel.
Oh God, how good it feels near the water.
Dekelu, a ten-year-old, comes at six to get some water. She is surprised to see me swimming. The glance of this little girl tells more than words. She is frowning, her face betrays problems, hardship She seems to me sadly beautiful.
May be she is afraid to see me. Then I smile at her. Her face lights up. I am lit.
The village wakes up. At the other side of the river two Ohonganamanyawa are making their makeshift canoe. The men sail on a simple arrangement of light bamboo and fibrous branches with the help of a pole. I am filled with the sensation of living in the original world. I let the time fly with bliss.
Udhien and Gerson join me on the promontory dominating the meander.
‘Paggi Yann’ (Hello) ‘Paggi’ ‘Gerson tells me that soon we should check on the traps’ ‘OK, I’ll go and wake up my team’
Some cookies and sandwich loafs by way of breakfast and we are back to the yesterday’s path. Morgann would rather pamper the dog with Dekelu and she let it be known. Sweet moaner.
The night downpour made the jungle even slimier than yesterday. It emits smells unknown before. Sauna aromas but peppery – it tickles the nose.
Adi asks us to keep the absolute silence after the stream we are crossing. He explains:
‘The wild boar is a night animal and it is afraid of people. Approaching people makes it flee. The sound of our footsteps makes it panic… especially if it is hurt. An attack of a wild animal can be violent and dangerous for us.’
Suddenly I realize that this beat has nothing of exotic or amusing. The danger is real. But the Ohonganamanyawa are formidable and considerate warriors. Nothing is left unexpected. With them we feel safe.
To face a possible attack the three men cut of large bamboo two-men-size-long spears. The excitement is at its height when we are crossing the last swamp. The heart beats at a hundred per hour, such a drum in the chest.
Today the tribe will have no meat. But the trap went off. The one made by Adi. The hunters talk and agree to put again and adjust their mechanisms.
‘Was it a wild boar that set the system in motion?’ I ask. ‘No, it was a smaller and lighter animal. We must adjust the lift on the ground. The setting off was too sensible’ answers Subuh. ‘I have seen a bow with arrows near the altar in the Father’s house; you do not hunt with it?’ ‘Seldom in the jungle, because an arrow shot in the forest is often lost. Hunting a big animal with the bow is difficult. The injuries caused by an arrow are not very deep, so we cover the tips with lethal sap. The problem is that the animal doesn’t die immediately and we often loose its track.’
We had only heard it in Ushuaia[†] nature. I am loyal to Hulot’s TV shows, but said by Gerson the comments have a different taste.
‘They are disappointed for not being able to show you the fruit of their hunt. They would like you to stay longer’ announces Udhien. |