We were assigned a 40-page chapter to read about the Orang Asli people before meeting them. Basically they are composed of several indigenous groups on peninsular Malaysia that used to live on the coasts. As settlers, mainly Asian, moved in and claimed the land, they were continually pushed into the interior of the country if they chose not to assimilate. Depending in the time in history, they were either neglected, targeted, or taken advantage of in instances of communist and ant-communist movements in the country.
Presently, they are semi-nomadic groups of people who speak several different languages, and whose beliefs are animistic and nature-centered. Most of the kids don’t go to school and very few of them use electricity or plumbing. Their integration into the Malaysian economy is very limited—usually they sell their tools, arts, and crafts to tourists in exchange for money to buy petrol (gasoline) for their wooden motor boats. Occasionally an indigenous young person goes to school and college, but it is rare that they return to live amongst their people. By international standards, they meet the definition of poverty. Within the Malaysian government, there is an Indigenous People’s Council that is composed completely of Malays—not one indigenous person. In the name of protecting and providing services for these groups of people, the government continually attempts to set up schools for their children. They get significant indifference and even push-back because the schools will teach them the Bahasa Malay language and Islamacize them, causing their language and religion to die off as they assimilate. Furthermore, children who spend all day at school are not seen as immediately productive for the family to eat each day. Integration seems to be the least popular choice within the government.
As with most destinations in the jungle, we took a relaxing boat ride to the settlement. We were told that different groups set up at a location separated, but reasonably close to where tourists would be. They only stay for a few months at a time. They sell their goods to us and go back deeper into the jungle to live more naturally. Other than purchasing their goods, it was recommended (by Malaysians) that we bring cigarettes for the men and candy for the children as gifts (I guess the women don’t deserve gifts). From the beginning, a couple of people in our group objected to the idea of gifting cigarettes—such a deadly and disgusting vice. I have to admit, I initially thought that it was slightly pretentious of us to judge this exchange ritual that has been suggested by actual Malaysians.
When we stepped off of the boat, there was another group of white people sitting at the benches watching a blow dart demonstration. Their cackling and applause made it evident that there were thoroughly entertained. This was juxtaposed to our somber group milling about mentally comparing what we had read and discussed with what we were seeing. I was self-conscious about being the only dark-skinned tourist in sight. How different was I to the rest of the group? Did they notice our similar hair texture & skin tone (I was only slightly darker than most of the people there)? Did they care? Had African or other African American tourists ever visited them? While I was going through this in all of my mind, we were being told to hand out the candy to the children. These were not the jubilant 7-year-olds that I remember from my travel in Senegal. They were teenagers with that “screw your candy” look on their faces. I was too embarrassed to reach into my pocket or approach them. Some people in our group felt the same way. Meanwhile, other people were photographing them as if they were animals. I was growing very uncomfortable. I walked off and pretended to admire their houses made mostly out of bamboo and giant palm leaves.
When it was our turn to get the speaking part of the tour, I turned on my attentive/not-disturbed listening face. The Malay guy who drove our boat was all of a sudden our tour guide. He discussed their nomadic way of life, how they live in the moment, and are not planners for the future. He pointed out that there was not much of a mosquito problem because smoke was constantly burning in the settlement. We were taught that their temporary raised-houses with spaced-out bamboo floor planks were perfect for staying warm at night and cool during the day. Children are immediately given dangerous tools and the responsibilities that go with them. He shared an anecdote about why blow darts were a smarter alternative to guns for hunting, since they don’t make enough noise to alert other animals that they are the next victim. This was a well-planned segue to the blow dart demonstration. It was cool. An old indigenous man and two teenage boys created blow darts (poisonous and non-poisonous) using all natural materials, while our guide was speaking. Then the old man blew a few at a target with impressive aim. Though we were impressed, no one clapped or made any hoopla over it. A few of us tried ourselves. Professor Heng asked our guide to ask one of the boys how old he was. In a different language (not Bahasa Malay or English), he replied that he did not know. It seemed a bit too “cute” not to have been planned.
To close out, our guide explained that these indigenous peoples did not have a problem with us visiting their settlement, taking photos, and purchasing their goods. Their only policy is that we accompanies by a (pre-approved???) guide to tell their story on their terms. Our guide ensured us that he is very well-trusted by them. I found it a bit queer that there was never any direct translation between the elder of the village and our guide—no speech or greeting. A lot of us left the settlement uneasy about the experience. “A picture is worth 1000 words, if told correctly.”
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